Thursday, September 29, 2005

Bebere gemit quod scriptores de NYT balatri sunt.

Vulgate, and not just because of the racy bits.

-gratias a Marcus for the best laugh of my day.
La Nuque à la Lune I

Last week at the Korean market in Union, I bought myself a new teacup. Originally wanted the set of sumo wrestler teacups, but decided on a blue porcelain one with a little bunny leaping into the moon instead.

Ordinarily I don't go for cute, but there was something so enigmatic about the sleek little rabbit springing forward while looking back as if being pursued. Adding to the mystery was the new noren curtain up at the local sushi place. Instead of the usual samurai or Mount Fuji scene, my new little friend (familiar?) depicted leaping up to the moon.

"...The Japanese make out the shape of a rabbit in the moon's dark markings. Known as the Jade Rabbit, the Rabbit in the Moon appears as Monkey's companion here. A white rabbit was associated with the moon very early in Japanese folklore. Tales of the white rabbit who loses and regains his skin...relate to the waning and waxing of the moon, itself an analogy for death and rebirth..."

(Interesting about the rabbit being tied in with the cycle of death and rebirth.)

Found this charming print, which is part of Yoshitoshi's 100 Aspects of the Moon, on a really very neat site devoted to reproductions of Japanese woodcuts. (Oh, for a bit more pocket money.)
La Nuque à la Lune II

The man in the moon is my man
He never say nothing so I know he understands
He's the brother I never had -
The husband I'd never want
He's everything to everyone -
He's famous
He's the man in the moon

-a very cute and catchy tune from back when I was a kid. And people wonder why we girls have a hard time settling down. Who all could fit this guy's shoes?
This troubles me.

A few months ago, a friend of mine contacted me to tell me that her little one born about eight weeks prematurely had passed away in intensive care. One of the questions she asked was why hers had to die when she saw in the news that another preemie in the US (this one was something like 11 weeks early) got to live. What could I tell her? God's will? Small comfort that is. Especially since she really wants kids, but like many of my Dutch friends/acquaintances, keeps miscarrying.

Instead of being a vanguard in the area of euthanasia, I think that Groningen might do better to work towards saving lives and improving the quality of life of their patients. Maybe things would be different, then. I'm sorry if this sounds horribly uncharitable, but it seems that priorities are way off here.
Saw this coming.

Roberts was confirmed by quite a margin it seems:

78 yeas = 55 Republicans, 22 Democrats, 1 Independent.
22 neas = 22 Democrats.

Guess how the two senators from my fair state voted? (snort)

Get a load of those winds out there. They've got to be gale force, they're whipping around so much stuff. Sounds like the Angel of effing Death trying to get in or something. Sheesh.
Decided last night to take a walk to Davis for some hot chocolate (don't you love when the weather shifts from ice cream to hot chocolate?). On Broadway near Ball, had the walk obstructed by some fool on a bike who decided that he liked me or something. Though I'll be damned before I let this show, I do get uncomfortable when someone blatantly checks me out. Especially while they're clucking their tongue against teeth, grinning lasciviously and making comments about my figure. Managed to slink by him, as he did move aside a bit (and only because my walking partner was male, I'm sure).

A bit further along, the guy on the bicycle flew between us. We watched him swerve back and forth on the sidewalk, barely missing other pedestrians. Suddenly, he crossed the street (stopping traffic), so he could continue harassing people on the opposite side.

"That guy was checking you out."
"I know. That's why I was trying to speed up and avoid eye contact."
"Bev, I wanted to hit him. He really made me mad."
"Hey, it's okay. It's part of being a girl and I'm used to it. He did make me uncomfortable though, and I was glad that you were there. I think you kept him from trying anything funny. I think he was a stoned asshole."
"Or just poorly socialized."
"Well, yes. I wonder about the stoned though, because even assholes can keep it toned down unless they're hopped up."

Usually this stuff rolls off my back pretty easily, but this guy particularly annoyed me. I am actually glad that Pablo was along with me, as I really wasn't in the mood for escalation of the confrontation. Probably would have ended up with someone hurt from a stick in their front wheel or something. Just because I'm a girl doesn't mean that I'm weak or afraid of calling attention to myself.
Poor Rudolph.
At least the Danish Air Force is doing right by Santa, though.

Wednesday, September 28, 2005

How 'bout them apples?

Fell in love with them at first sight. Also saw an opportunity to both spruce up the site a bit and to mess with Photoshop (not a realm of expertise) some.

Am not so sure how I feel about the light green, but it seemed to show up best without clashing too much with the yellow greens/reds of the fruit. I really prefer a script font to anything else.

Any comments or constructive criticism will be gratefully received.
To the happy few.

A C, an E-flat, and a G go into a bar. The bartender says: "Sorry, but we don't serve minors." So, the E-flat leaves, and the C and the G have an open fifth between them. After a few drinks, the fifth is diminished: the G is out flat. An F comes in and tries to augment the situation, but is not sharp enough. A D comes into the bar and heads straight for the bathroom saying, "Excuse me. I'll just be a second." An A comes into the bar, but the bartender is not convinced that this relative of C is not a minor. Then the bartender notices a B-flat hiding at the end of the bar and exclaims: "Get out now! You're the seventh minor I've found in this bar tonight." The E-flat, not easily deflated, comes back to the bar the next
night in a 3-piece suit with nicely shined shoes. The bartender (who used to have a nice corporate job until his company downsized) says: "You're looking sharp tonight, come on in! This could be a major development." This proves to be the case, as the E-flat takes off the suit and everything else, and stands there au naturel. Eventually, the C sobers up, and realizes in horror that he's under a rest. The C is brought to trial, is found guilty of contributing to the diminution of a minor, and is sentenced to 10 years of DS without Coda at an upscale correctional facility. On appeal, however, the C is found innocent of any wrongdoing, even accidental, and that all accusations to the contrary are bassless. The bartender decides, however, that since he's only had tenor so patrons, the soprano out in the bathroom, and everything has become alto much treble, he needs a rest -- and closes the bar.

I loved this! It brought to mind those silly Doctor Demento songs about lobotomies and wet dreams in gulfstreams...grazie tanto, Annamaria!
Aah, mammaries...

Ann Althouse discusses the new Maidenform ad campaign and how it differs from the old one. Being a collector of the old ads myself, I do have to say that the new ones aren't nearly as interesting.

There's also a lively and actually very informative discussion going on in the comments section regarding bras, whether or not to go braless, etc. At the risk of sounding like a teenaged boy - "check her out."
Aah, memories.

I'll always remember the annoying foreign student in my theory of personality course who could go on quite easily for 10-15 minutes a stretch. Knew what dissociation was in theory but gained an intimate, practical knowhow that semester thanks to her.
Open-ended wonder.

A fun little thing we'd always like to do in Maine is sit on the wharf at night and kick up the bioluminescence. Pretty though it is, it always sort of freaked me out for some reason (to know that bacteria are creating it and that the sea is so chock-full of life and light?).

The Milky Sea phenomenon is apparently created by a different creature from the ones we like to play with summers. I'm having a hard time wrapping my mind around a patch of glowing ocean so massive that you can see it via satellite.
Paging Monsieur Verne...

Okay folks, absolutely no room for calamari jokes here. All I can really say is that this is so gosh darned cool. Look at that thing. 26' long. Wow.

Tuesday, September 27, 2005

Aah, the memories.

"Hmm? Why're you calling me so late? Who's dead?"
"Ummm, Bev?"
"What's wrong? You know I gotta get up early."
"I guess I woke you up. I guess you didn't see the TV then."
"No? Why?"
"I just saw you on MTV. You looked REALLY pissed off."


I thought that they were Emerson students out on Charles filming (sigh) yet.another.student.documentary, so when they turned the camera my way, I gave them the nastiest look possible. Turns out that the sourpuss ended up in a montage someplace during season six. My brother caught it one night, recorded it another, and still brings it up to embarass me in front of family/boyfriends. Little does he know that I have no shame.
The Satin Dress

Needle, needle, dip and dart,
Thrusting up and down,
Where's the man could ease a heart
Like a satin gown?

See the stitches curve and crawl
Round the cunning seams-
Patterns thin and sweet and small
As a lady's dreams.

Wantons go in bright brocade;
Brides in organdie;
Gingham's for the plighted maid;
Satin's for the free!

Wool's to line a miser's chest;
Crepe's to calm the old;
Velvet hides an empty breast
Satin's for the bold!

Lawn is for a bishop's yoke;
Linen's for a nun;
Satin is for wiser folk-
Would the dress were done!

Satin glows in candlelight-
Satin's for the proud!
They will say who watch at night,
"What a fine shroud!"

Dorothy Parker


Am working with wool in between keystrokes, so perhaps I should follow Dorothy's lead and be a bit less generous towards others. As it currently stands, I feel that I've been giving of myself too freely and am very close to being depleted.

Monday, September 26, 2005

What's the difference between existential angst and depression?

Why did Zarathustra feel so alone?
Was Joan of Arc a paranoid schizophrenic?
Were they divine revelations or heat mirages that formed the cornerstones of western religion?

If I go asking my colleagues any of this stuff will they recommend a course of talk therapy and/or antidepressants?
One thing that's nice about the cats is that they're never feeling fat or unphotogenic.

They won't, however, sit near one another for long. I think that this is a pretty good compromise, though.

Got some additions to the Historical Cat Series. I'm willing to bet that el Senor Cohen did not see this during his visit to the Prado:

As for this, well, what can we say except that Sir Winston just doesn't get one:

Yes, this is a symbolic arrangment. Hal is not a cat person at all, but doesn't seem to mind Mamasan. He does however harbor a fair bit of antipathy towards the fluffy cat, hence her getting to sit on Papa Stalin's lap. (And that's pretty mild compared to some of the other images I've received of her.)
Nappy's home again. She's safe and sound, though a fair bit emotionally jarred. What to do when you're still in crisis mode after the crisis is for all intents and purposes over?
The latest Recipe Carnival (#58 - wow) is up, thanks to that wry guy Triticale.
Ten jars of grape jam!

All of which sealed and jelled properly...I'm so pleased!
Also found a new source of both healthy crabapples and wild grapes (in proliferation, too. Wow.) Am not saying where, as I am pretty certain that this is going to be the Next Big Craze after people get tired of making artisanal bread machine breads and fun fur scarves. A girl's got to protect her sources, after all.

Then again, maybe there's not too much to worry about - maybe foraging won't catch on. Noted two community gardens in the vincity that seemed to be all but abandoned despite their incredible yields.
This week's Monday Morning Flower was a blaze of purple that we mistook at first for loosestrife.

I wonder what aster honey tastes like?

Hal thinks that this is going to be the next big yuppie degustation craze now that they've gotten wine, beer, coffee and tea down and someone's published a book on it.

(By the way, did I ever mention that Hal kept bees when he was growing up? Even got a merit badge for it. He also had pet geese instead of the standard dog or cat. He's so cool.)
He's also a lot more of a curmudgeon and an eccentric than I am. Just not so cranky. I think it's because he gets way more sleep than I do and takes in a bit less caffeine. (Yes, I'm off the wagon again.)
Oh, how the 'unknown unknowns' are starting to rear their ugly heads. At the moment, it seems as though there were two rather major, time sensitive projects that someone neglected to mention before she left. One's done (only after my having to rework four times). One to go.

It really amazes me that communication could be so bad. I mean, why not just articulate one's requirements clearly enough (for they do know what they want/need and it's not like they haven't asked anyone for this data before) so that I don't have to keep redoing things until they're "right enough?" They had an archive. Why not send an old report for me to reproduce with current data? Geesh.

Gonna be one heck of a week.

Saturday, September 24, 2005

"Don't Panic!"

-What my fortune cookie from dinner advised me.

Since this is such good counsel, I may well start listening more to what the cookies have to tell me. Couldn't be anything worse than what, say, my parents, my shrink, my bosses, my teachers have ever offered up. Much cheaper than the schooling and the headshrinkage too.

Friday, September 23, 2005

He took 'em himself!

As I'd mentioned earlier, Pablo's been divesting his memory card of old images. Here are some from last year's trip to Hawaii which came to me under the title of "Haleakala Flora:"

Silversword or `Ahinahina (which I believe means “gray-haired”)


Its relative na`ena`e, classed in a different genus, though they are like enough to hybridize sometimes.

These are related to sunflowers and evolved like the nene from North American organisms that somehow got blown very far away once.
It's never too early to be thinking of Christmas.

I know what a couple little kids may be getting in their stockings this year.
I fear that this is going to be a big deal in the next election, judging by how much collateral from both sides I've received in the mail the past couple weeks.

I have my opinions on the matter, but don't think that they should have to be aired for a municipal election. Especially when this matter was decided months back by our mayor and aldermen. They were chosen fairly and squarely in the last elections, and regardless of whether or not they were whom I voted for, I respect their authority.

I guess, however, that some people just can't take "no" for an answer. It's too bad that we have to keep rehashing this tired out, pointless, expensive, totally inappropriate issue for municipal government issue because of a group of stubborn, ideologically driven people feel the need to make a political statement a la Harvard in the 80s. Economic divestiture tends, like boycotting, to have minimal punitive effect against who it's being levied against. I can't really see this as doing much beyond hurting the city's retirees who will be depending on their pension returns and wasting taxpayers' money that could have been used elsewhere.

-via Universal Hub
Help! I'm trapped in a Cryogenics Lab and I Can't Get Out!

Recently have had absolutely no luck dressing for the office. Yesterday I dressed for fall. The air conditioning was off and my little cube area felt like the black hole of Calcutta. Today? I dressed for the warmer climes and came into an office where the thermostat was set at fifty degrees. Here I sit, shivering in my short skirt and shawl, drinking down hot tea and broth both like they're going out of style.

At least I don't risk falling asleep at the monitor, anyway. Now to avoid catching cold-.
"Oh Yeah?"


Hooray for Pavel for finally clearing the images off his memory card! (Only took a year).

Thursday, September 22, 2005

The staff of a very busy life

Lately, have been so out of control busy, si debordée du travail that I've actually been forgetting to eat. Last week a friend of mine, worried about my keeping my strength up, showed up with a loaf of this along with a few other goodies:

Stick To Your Ribs Soda Bread

5/4 cups milk
3 cups flour (God will like you better if you use
whole wheat flour.)
2 teaspoons NaCl
1 teaspoon NaHCO3

What you do with them (fyi, I typically double the
recipe. I have also quadrupled it. That’s
about the limit. Trebling the recipe does not work so
well for me. I seem to favor powers of 2,
but octupling the recipe seems to be impractical.):

oven @ 450 F

Put the ingredients in a bowl (I actually throw in the
dry ingredients first, but I listed the
ingredients that way because I like the 5-4-3-2-1

Grease a pan or cookie sheet or something.

Mix evenly the ingredients in the bowl. I start the
mixing off with a spoon, then I switch to my
fingers, then my whole hand, gooshing it all up into a
stiff dough.

Put your dough on that thing I told you to grease. I
make 1 round loaf out of the amounts of ingredients I

Oven time 10 minutes.

Lower temperature to 350 F.

Oven time 35 minutes.

I slice the bread with a heavy, smooth-edged knife. I
refrigerate the loaf first.

My gift loaf was devoured in no time. It seems to go particularly well with goat cheese, homemade jam and a nice, dry white wine. I haven't tried making it yet. When I do, though, I'm going to see how well it freezes for just in case.

Wednesday, September 21, 2005

I think we're staying in town again this weekend.

(mille et un remerciements à Mme Chumworth.)
Karen's away for the next week - off to Abilene to get some riding in. I'll miss her, but I'm glad she's taking time off. It's been over a year since she's taken a proper vacation (no one to blame but herself), and it's been very difficult to get directive, clarity or even sometimes coherence. I'm very fond of her (if I worked with anyone else, I'd have left years ago), but worry about her a lot.

Was wondering if she'd even make it out of here, what with Rita bearing down hard and all. Abilene's pretty high and dry and most likely out of the storm's path. I did get to thinking about other friends who are more in harm's way, though. Nappy's heading for the hills, and I don't blame her. Hopefully things will be okay.
Chicago, we feel your pain.

We lost our institution to the Macy's invasive species in the mid 90s. Old habits being what they are here, many still just call the upstart by its predecessor's name.

Tuesday, September 20, 2005

I don't like dreaming about work. It's just like working, but off the clock and at home.

I really don't need to be having dreams of biblical knowledge of colleagues, either. It makes it that much more difficult to keep a straight face during department meetings.

Guess the best thing to come of yesterday morning's subconscious indignity was that I found it so upsetting that I woke myself up in time to hear what sounded like people casing the house. Got myself out of bed, turned on all the lights, made noise, scared whoever was outside at the side of the house away.
Modern Air-Guitar Alternatives.









"Uhh, what about Air-Pogrom?" - Hal, in reference to one of the more memorable (as in so absurd we'd like to forget it) scenes in this decidedly not a good first date film.
Hal hits a wall.

"Bev, I sat there and tried to listen to the Komitas again. I keep trying to give it a chance, but I just can't warm up to it. This is a poor transfer of a 1912 wax cylinder recording of him singing in Armenian and it's all distorted. It's just too obscure for me."
Deadlines? What deadlines?

One pill makes you larger
And one pill makes you small
And the ones that mother gives you
Don't do anything at all
Go ask Alice
When she's ten feet tall

And if you go chasing rabbits
And you know you're going to fall
Tell 'em a hookah smoking caterpillar
Has given you the call
Call Alice
When she was just small

When men on the chessboard
Get up and tell you where to go
And you've just had some kind of mushroom
And your mind is moving low
Go ask Alice
I think she'll know

When logic and proportion
Have fallen sloppy dead
And the White Knight is talking backwards
And the Red Queen's "off with her head!"
Remember what the dormouse said:
"Feed your head
Feed your head
Feed your head"

It's not that I no longer hurt. I still do, and a fair bit at that. Just don't give a flying fig about it anymore is all. (snort)
Just looked at the calendar - I've been at my job for four years and two months this week. You know what that means? Another 10 months until I'm vested in my pension!


I used to laugh at people who had their calendars marked and who would tick the days off until their anniversary. Oh, the irony!

My sleep was interrupted last night by an awful spasm of pain going through my lower right back. That set of muscles was feeling weak throughout the previous day, so I was trying to stretch them a bit. Guess I didn't do enough. Or maybe too much? God, I'd not felt one of these in years.

I'd love nothing more than to stay home and lie in bed with a hot towel around me. That's not in the cards today, though, so I'll trudge on in with my buckweat pillow, my aleve and calendula rub. Will move very slowly so as not to disturb the still shaky-twitchy muscles and possibly knock the wind out of me. Will try not to grimace too much, as that draws questions.

Monday, September 19, 2005

Chloe was a neighbor girl who walked round in a trance. A lot like Sissy Spacek at that homecoming dance. Her father was religious, mother was too. She yearned to be a model. Had issues with food. Last I heard of Chloe someone saw her on TV preaching the power of hypnosis and aromatherapy. Darby was my sister's friend, a fashion paranoid. She wore a winter coat all summer long and made a lot of noise about conservites and demigods and how we all should be scared. We dropped LSD at Disneyland. She left me stranded there. I hitched back to the valley with a Dr. Leopold who sermonized computers have come to steal our souls. Ooh baby ooh baby. I bow down and pray to every woman I see. I bow down and pray to every woman I see. Bela served me coffee. She kept her biscuits warm. I never saw her even once out of her uniform. Kady had an ugly dog she swore would never bite. Followed that girl everywhere. Never left her side. She said, "baby baby baby, crawl out of our shell. I wanna show you something if you promise not to tell." Ooh baby ooh baby. Ooh baby ooh baby. I bow down and pray to every woman I see. Ain't no mother---gonna criticize me. I bow down and pray to every woman I see.

-Chuck Prophet


If you get the chance, see this man live. I saw him in Ellsworth, ME in August. The only live concerts I think might have depassed this one for me were Nina Simone and (maybe) Peter Gabriel.

Hal (as always) put it so well: "He's like the Velvet Underground. With them, the audiences would be small, but they'd leave the shows after having seen the light and start bands. This is what's happening with this guy."
Be, if you could do it all over again, what would you have done differently?

I'd have pushed harder on my mom, a very technically proficient but emotionally bereft pianist. She hated that instrument and would not allow us lessons. Rather than pussy foot around as I did (lessons en cachette) I would have devoted more of me to the piano rather than on my paths of least resistance (woodwinds then academics).

Would loved to have worked in, say, Warner Brothers Studios in the 40s or the 50s (especially under Carl Stalling) or on any of Quincy Jones's Big Band projects. What gives me so much joy to listen to now is their music, the music of Les Six (especially Poulenc and Milhaud), Alberto Ginastera, Jobim.


I'd not have been so panic-stricken a soprano as I am now. Mom used to pass out in the choir loft at church. I'm told I'm powerful and proficient and should work harder towards cultivating my solo voice. Instead, I sit in the back of the alto section where I feel I'm more needed and try to both project and blend.


I'd not have let her throw out drawings that other parents would have put on their fridges. She'd look at what I brought home from school, tell me that it didn't look like anything and toss it. My dad, though I saw little of him, tried to encourage me as much as he could. I remember him telling me one day to write on a big piece of butcher the words "I Can't Draw." I did. He told me to outline the letters in whatever color I liked. Then to draw a bunch of stars around that. Then some flowers. Outline the flowers. Make lightning-bolt-jagged outlines around all that. Shade in whatever I liked in whatever colors I liked. Sign it. He put that on his fridge.

When I was depressed, my dad found through extension school a drawing class for me to get me out of the house and to stimulate my brain. The instructor said that I had a lot going on. Said that I was very German Expressionist. Told me to get as large sheets of paper as possible to do my work on. Let me program the class music. She was a godsend, was better for me than therapy up to that point. I cherish the drawings. Here was someone who knew something telling me that my work had merit.


I'd have forced the Polish/German issue more. Bilinguals aren't "DPs" as they were known in her generation. (Bilingual/Bicultural means more than Black/white or Spanish/Anglo.) I'm native-fluent in a couple languages aside from English now. I wish they were my family's languages, though.


Just because I don't look goddamn Dravidian Ashkenazy like the rest of Joascha's side of the damn family doesn't mean I'm not beautiful. Just because I didn't start smoking to curb my appetite doesn't mean that I'm fat. Height, strength, curves and red hair are perfectly okay, damnit.


I'd have married the walloon when I had the chance. Not only for his Tintin collection, but for the fact that he understood me more than anyone has to this day - both in the emotional sense and in the sense that we could converse in a funny, mixed up creole of languages between us. His family approved of me, too.


Since where you went to school means more than how much you actually learned/absorbed, I wish I'd have sucked it up financially and gone to the Dior or Chanel school rather than the Donna Karan one that gave me the better deal. It fricking sucks to have to live in a culture where one is constantly outranked by people with a better pedigree , even if they aren't necessarily more intelligent (or even sentient in some cases). Class may not be everything, but it's pretty darn close to it in some places.

Eh bien, continuons.

A girl could do worse than spend some time getting back to her sources aux sources.
Oh - if the posting is sparse and flat sounding (it seems that way to me), it's because my mind's being occupied by other, more pressing things. Sorry. Hopefully I'll get my heart back into this at some point in the near future.

(Hal's Monday Morning Flower to me - another one from Arija's garden. I forget the name of it, though.)
You cahnt get theah from heah, deah.

Granted I'm not a native (having only lived here my adult life), but this is what I've always heard and this is how I refer to the big streets in Boston:

Mass Ave
Comm Ave
Huntington Ave or Avenue
Dot Ave (Dorchester Avenue)

Have heard both Shawmut Ave and Shawmut Avenue (the former more than the latter)

Cambridge Street, however, both in Camb and in Boston.

Never heard the Massachusetts Turnpike be called anything but the Mass Pike.


I think it depends on whether you're originally from here or if you're an import, rather than 'rhythm and meter.'
Some of Boston's Best and Brightest in Action Heah

I'm not even an equestrienne like Karen (who passed this article onto me), and I'm certain enough to wager on it that the plaintiff was drunk. Come on, now!

Sunday, September 18, 2005

I'll never be as eloquent on the "Crescent of Embrace" subject as Sisu,* as this is her domain. I am, however, going to in my own feeble way, try to pose some analogies based on what I've of this whole brouhaha:

Sometimes an ice cream cone is just an ice cream cone.

Just as an odalisque is just an odalisque (and not necessarily pornography).

And a crescent is just a crescent.

Based on this, I'm trying to remind myself that Zhdanovism died at the end of Stalin's rule and that PC is PC no matter whether you be left or right. Oh, and lest I forget, that the ends don't always justify the means regardless of whether are defending la patrie or fighting for the oppressed.


*or any subject. Heck, it's a good day when I'm even semi-coherent.
A little Mozart goes a long way in treating the Sunday Night Blues.

Mon ami de loin ne croira jamais quel opéra j'écoute à la radio ce soir.

Le hasard heureux est une chose merveilleuse, non?

Saturday, September 17, 2005

Gosh darnit, I have a lot of wool. So much that the room I decided to move it to is being renamed "the wool room."
Finally did it again: left my keys at work and left the spares in the house (where they belong, right?). Rather than walk back to work again, I decided to climb in through a window.

Tried the broken one first, but it was too high up and I couldn't find a ladder. Went around the house to what used to be my bedroom and got in relatively easily.

Was very happy that I didn't have to end up going to work. On the other hand, how easily I could get into my place with my lack of criminal mindset and all gave me a bit of pause. Good thing I have the neighbors I do - the sort who watch over the house and laugh at the spectacles I'll make of myself from time to time.

Friday, September 16, 2005

It seems that some days the flower of my femininity is more in bloom than others, and I have absolutely no control over it, gosh darnit. Am not feeling particularly attractive today but received a number honks and waves from strange men wearing b-i-g grins. On my way down Meh-fuh Street, one fellow in a truck rolled down his window and hollered "Ceeeeeeuuuuuuuttttttteeee!" after me. Rude? Maybe. I'm not easily offended, though.

Over by the McCondos being put up by the chop shops near the end of my commute, I think I heard the best line yet from a construction worker: "Miss - You can do my laundry any day!" I haven't a clue as to what that meant (some new slang?), but it certainly sounded like a compliment.
"Buying gas and dancing ''The Hustle'' with people who smelled like kerosene: That was the '70s."

-Dave Barry, in a classic column, puts the current fuel price "crisis" into historical perspective.
Drizzly days are bad hair days for Be.

Though I've largely made peace with myself in terms of body-image, I really could do without the Carrot Top look after my morning commutes on damp days.

A cold shower in Somerville is not at all like a cold shower in Deer Isle. I think the pilot light's out in my water heater. Darn. What's the likelihood of my ending up singeing my eyebrows or something if I try to relight the thing? Have never needed to do that before.

Thursday, September 15, 2005

Nine jars of peach jam, all of which are already spoken for...I should start selling jelly shares like some sell farm shares.

Although someone beat me to the wild grapes this last time around (how maddening to smell that Concord perfume, follow your nose and find that the only fruit left is thirty or forty feet up?), I did get a nice consolation prize of a few quarts of elderberries and a bag of feral pears. A trip to Cold Spring Orchard netted me six quarts of a glorious Concord variant called "Mars," a couple pints of a miniature plum that was sweeter than candy and a butternut squash.

Now that the weather's cooling down some, I can start cooking again. Between all these goodies, the several pints of pincherries and the crabapples, I'll have plenty to keep me off the streets.

The heavens have opened up, and we are finally getting some rain. It's about as dark as dusk out, and there's plenty of sound and fury to go with the downpour. We so needed a good, soaking storm like this.
The other night I dreamt that Hillary Clinton was going round my neighborhood looking to start a gospel choir. It seemed odd to me, as my neighborhood's demographics wouldn't strike me as the sort who'd be into that sort of thing, the Pentecostals all being happily served in their language-friendly churches, and the local Gospel Brunch having ended with the closure of the House of Blues some time back. Still, good Christian Soldier that Hillary was, she donned a dashiki, put a "Jesus Loves You" headband on and moved forth to try to save us poor, benighted urban professionals with music.

I sat on Raphaella's stoop and just watched. She seemed to do well with females of a certain age and class (white, Seven Sisters, no makeup sorts). Most of my neighbors seemed pretty skeptical, though, and I'm pretty sure I heard once or twice the term "tourist" spoken.

At about this time, I woke up to an awful sense of confusion. Ended up getting up a bit late from having stayed in bed too long trying to puzzle this one out.

Wednesday, September 14, 2005

I'm not usually into those "you know you're from ..." lists, but thought this one kind of cute. Enjoy!

Things to Know When You Move to Boston

Memorize these, Students:

1. In reality, very few people from South Boston are math geniuses.
However, to be safe, assume that everyone from Southie is smarter than you.

2. If you want to wear skin-tight black t-shirts out at night, you are required by Massachusetts State Law to contain at least three vowels in your last name.

3. Crosswalks and traffic lights are merely suggestions.

4. Harmlessly bumping into another guy in a crowded bar is tantamount in other regions of the country to sucker-punching someone's grandmother.

5. Steak tips are a local delicacy.

6. The speed of walking in Boston is equivalent to the speed of jogging in other areas of the country. Keep up the pace or you will be chop blocked.

7. From the months of April until October, 85% of Boston's population subsists almost entirely on iced coffees from Dunkin' Donuts.

8. If you are a girl between 18 and 21, Bronson Arroyo will be contacting you shortly.

9. You are not going to win an argument with any of the scalpers outside of Fenway. Just pay what they ask and be on your way.

10. There is no rational explanation for why there is always a line outside of Ned Devine's.

11. Catholic Memorial will win the Super 8.

12. The mayor can say whatever he wants but do not dare park in a space that someone has shoveled out and marked with a cone, chair, pool table or llama. You can write all the whiny letters to the Globe that you want but you are still going to end up with a busted windshield.

13. The guy pushing his son in the wheelchair in the Marathon is Dick Hoyt. He's 65 and could still kick your ass. Make a comment and someone next to you will save him the time.

14. Don't be gullible enough to think that everyone is Irish on St. Patrick's Day.

15. There are no exclusive bars or clubs in Boston. You may think you're hot shit because you're sitting in Saint but the chick next to you is a single mom from Revere and the guy on the other side of you is a house painter from Dorchester. Get over yourself.

16. If you hear one of these arguments happening in a bar, don't go near it. Walk the other way:

Red Sox-Yankees


Boston-New York

Boston-the world


Barstool Sports-Sports Illustrated

17. No one cares about where you are from.

18. Yes, the Green Line's B line is one of Dante's Levels of Hell. However, stop complaining because you should have rode on it a few years ago when it stopped approximately every 8 feet.

19. You are allowed to go to a Red Sox game without buying brand new Red Sox gear. You will be shocked to know that the majority of people going to Sox games are not outfitted in BoSox gear from head to toe. I only mention this because if you are sitting in front of me in a replica Curt Schilling jersey, Red Sox hat and you're quoting John Updike and then turn to someone and ask whose number 1 was retired, I am going to get you banned for yelling racial slurs at David Ortiz.

20. If you linger at all when crossing the street, you have forfeited your right of way.

21. Actually, even if you don't linger, you really don't the right of way when crossing the street.

22. If you don't want to hear World Champion Red Sox or Patriots fans complain, don't go to a sports bar. Because we will complain even though Boston is the undisputed sports capital of this country.

23. Every soft drink is a Coke.

24. Evacuation Day and Patriots Day are holidays that only Boston is cool enough to have. Remember to say a little prayer that you are fortunate enough to live somewhere that celebrates holidays by drinking Guinness and drinking Guinness while watching a Kenyan run.

25. If you aren't going 50+ mph on Storrow Drive, get over into the right lane and let some guys with testes get to where they are going.

26. Unless you are Lance Armstrong, don't try and outpeddle my car. I'm not necessarily going to run you down, put please recognize the fact that my SUV could crush you and your Schwinn.

27. Being a Ms. Barstool is roughly the academic equivalent of being a Rhodes Scholar.

28. The top four athletes in Boston history, in no particular order, are Bill Russell, Ted Williams, Bobby Orr and Larry Bird. Tom Brady is sitting just outside the top 4.

29. There are a few phrases that are guaranteed to get you punched in the face at any Boston bar:

"26 World Championships"

"Dude, I don't care if you are from Southie, what are you gonna do- fraction me to death?"

"Charlestown- isn't that where all the Yuppies live?"

"Peyton Manning is a better quarterback than Tom Brady."

"Fidelity Investments is loaded with douchebags."

"Hey, say park my car in Harvard Yard."

30. Just to let you know that sometimes even people from Boston get a little nervous, I had a Whitey Bulger line in there originally but took it out. Never know who you are going to run into on Broadway.

31. No one calls it Cape Cod. It's the Cape. Does it really need more clarification? If you are going to the Cape, where do you thinking you are headed? Cape Canaveral? The Cape of Good Hope?

32. Everyone in Boston between the ages of 25-40 has a New Kids on the Block story.

33. Take lefts on red onto one-way streets. I don't know for a fact that it is legal but it makes perfect sense to me.

34. Recognize the fact that just because you may outnumber a guy when the fight starts, chances are you won't when you get outside. You would be amazed at how quickly someone will get involved in a fight against you just because he and the guy you're fighting both played sports in the GBL.

35. Spring starts in Boston when the girls hit the BU Beach.

36. The best days of the year are when the Sox have a playoff game and the Pats are playing the same day.

37. There is honor and dignity inherent in trying to get a parking space. Obey the rules. Even if they are unwritten.

38. Best way to assimilate- buy me a drink
Perhaps I'm a blockhead to have not seen the symbolism right off. Perhaps I don't honor the dead or the gravity of the situation enough by preferring the architects' most organic-looking plan for the site where Flight 93 was downed. Honestly, I only saw an embracing arc of flame red, a semi-enclosed meditative site, a haven of sorts.


Is this a conspiracy on the part of the Heinz Foundation / the Angry Left / multi-culti artistic types to insult those who fell from the sky here on 9/11? Or is it just a semicircle of sugar maples? I'm inclined to believe the latter, simple girl that I am.

Keep giving 'em hell, Sissy. I'm rooting for you.

Tuesday, September 13, 2005

We tend to spend much more time with one side of Hal's family than the other. This weekend, since we were in the neighborhood, we decided to drop in on some of the cousins on his mom's side.

I'd met Sarma briefly years back, but never got to see her (or her place or her menagerie) since. Took a walk down to the Ware river, where people practice their fly fishing and played with her animals (three horses, a cat and a pitbull terrier named Jasper/Augustus/Piggy/Mama's Boy). It was nice to get reacquainted with her and to meet one of her brothers. (Didn't know that they made them taller or blonder than Hal, but apparently they do.)

Generally speaking, I'm not a fan of horses. When younger, I strayed too near a corral somewhere in Cluny (No - not this stud farm. The other one.) and a very upset someone decided to take her frustrations and anger out on me. As a result, I tend to give our equine friends a wide berth. After a bit of coaxing and assurances that these horses weren't out for blood, I started feeding them hands ful of clover and petting them like normal people would. The little one's called Lily. The big one's name is Old Yankee. I really grew to like him.

I love my cats; without them my life would be that much less interesting. I grew up with dogs, though, and there will always be a part of me that longs to have one (or two or three) again. Little Jasper has to be the sweetest-tempered, best behaved dog I've met yet. He could talk, sing, shake paws, play fetch. A particularly endearing thing he did was lie down on the ground with his head on my feet and look up at me as if to ask, "When are you going to start petting me? Would you please rub my belly?" I lost my heart to him with that one.

(Jasper in "piggy" mode.)

After our little adventure at the petting zoo, we had to make our way home. Since the house is about a mile up the road from the Quabbin Reservoir, we managed to talk Hal into taking me there for a look. I'd only just driven by it, so was glad to have the chance to actually get out and see it 'in person.' No pictures from that, unfortunately. We just wanted to walk across the dam (which, after 9/11, was closed to all traffic. It's a good part of Eastern MA/Boston's water supply, so pretty sensitive.) and be quiet a bit. Hal told me afterwards that, for some reason, while we were walking around the Quabbin, it hit him that we were doing so on September 11th. Such an odd feeling.

Lots of these little ones around lately, as it's time for them to be flying south (or going to wherever monarchs migrate). Again, Hal caught this one perched on a cosmo in his mom's garden.

My late-blooming Monday Morning Flower is another lovely dahlia from Arija's garden. We spent 9/11 in the woods of Western MA being quiet and communing with nature.
Over the weekend, my blog turned two. If I could have, I would have taken it out to MacDonalds for a Happy Meal and bought it a balloon.

Funny how time flies; that's all I really have to say. I'm kind of surprised that, even over a very hectic and a lot of times painful year, I still enjoy doing this. Perhaps it's because writing here seems to afford more dimensions than keeping a paper journal.

I'm not terribly interested in any of the gimmickier aspects available (podcasting and videoblogging come to mind). I love the fact that I'm able to get on board via my little $15/month dialup connection and type away on my beau bleu - the aqua iMac someone left curbside and Hal gave a home to. I enjoy a lot of what Blogger offers to us now and love the fact that it's still free. Cost being a major factor for me, I'm pleased that one still does not have to be rich or even middle-class-well-off (by Boston standards, anyway) to get on board, type, post.

Though I'm more invested in local (really local - like around my block local) issues and speaking in tongues, It's been wonderful to come into contact with others from who-knows-where. The feedback is enjoyable and often pretty edifying. I like that some folks keep coming back to visit and indulge my uhh...whimsy? (Can I really call me whimsical? Snort.) Though this little essay is and always has been all about me, mes amis de loin are the ones who make it all fun to come back to. I'm very thankful for them.

Happy Birthday to the part of my personality known as Bebere. The past year leaves me with no real complaints. Still in all, I'm hoping for better this next go around.

Monday, September 12, 2005

"...Arachne filled her canvas with similar subjects, wonderfully well done, but strongly marking her presumption and impiety. Minerva could not forbear to admire, yet felt indignant at the insult. She struck the web with her shuttle and rent it in pieces; she then touched the forehead of Arachne and made her feel her guilt and shame. She could not endure it and went and hanged herself. Minerva pitied her as she saw her suspended by a rope. "Live," she said, "guilty woman! and that you may preserve the memory of this lesson, continue to hang, both you and your descendants, to all future times." She sprinkled her with the juices of aconite, and immediately her hair came off, and her nose and ears likewise. Her form shrank up, and her head grew smaller yet; her fingers cleaved to her side and served for legs. All the rest of her is body, out of which she spins her thread, often hanging suspended by it, in the same attitude as when Minerva touched her and transformed her into a spider.

-Bullfinch's Mythology, Chapter 14

Thank you, Sissy. Vous êtes trop gentille.

Friday, September 09, 2005

Fighting Fire With Fire.

At a party I attended recently, I actually heard someone say that if Romney wanted "these people" (code up here for "welfare recipients and looters") here, that he should've put them up in his own house instead of making the taxpayers pay for their housing. Would this be considered usage of the "chickenbeaver" device?

-via LGF


By the way, I've decided that I'm going to refer to all the finger-pointing, Monday night quarterbacking, racebaiting, etc that's been going on regarding Katrina Disaster Response (or lack thereof, depending on your point of view) as "blamethrowing."
They've arrived!

Personally, I'm glad to see Otis being put to good use, and that we up here can be helpful in some way. I wish our guests all the best, starting with a relatively mild winter...

Thursday, September 08, 2005

"Let's not make a common decency issue into a censorship issue. Nobody wants to wake up in the morning and see their dead uncle on the front page...That's just common decency."

So some media agencies and free speech watchdog groups are crying censorship at a request by FEMA officials to not photograph Katrina victims. This is rich. Why do we need to see images of bodies tied to trees and fences? What about survivors getting first information of the deaths of family and friends by seeing their bodies plastered on the front page of newspapers or broadcast on television? The media understand self censorship very well: if an image can be a tool to use against the current administration somehow, then it's all in the interest of the "public needing to know." If it doesn't fall into the former category, and may well help the cause of their adversaries, then they won't broadcast something because somehow the public's sensibilities need to be "protected."

This is why we had All Abu Ghraib All the Time when some members of US military were involved, but nothing when the video footage showed up of what Saddam's men (currently known as freedom fighters) were doing to political prisoners in that hellhole.

Pictures of the New Orleans dead have been circulating all over the web. I've had the unfortunate chance to happen upon some, and don't see at all how mainstreaming their diffusion could possibly help round out a narrative (unless you're Rotten dot com or Faces of Death or some other such outfit). It'd just be ghoulish, in poor taste and utterly lacking in respect for the dead and their families.
Another place to visit if you're not in the mood to pay $40 for a tank of gas in order to make the schlep up to Monadnock:

A couple weeks back, we packed up a lunch and headed off to the Sullivan Square T stop - little did we know that there would be work on the orange line tracks, and that that would entail an awfully wacky combination of detours. (Ended up taking us an hour longer to get to JP than under normal circumstances.)

No matter: it was more than worth the wait to have perhaps my last chance this year to nap under my favorite catalpa.

While I was dozing (Was so wiped out that weekend. Heck, I'm always wiped out nowadays), Hal kept himself out of trouble in his usual manner:

Lots of these guys around in all different colors. This one seemed to really take to the camera, though.

Believe it or not, this was a variety of orange. We found one on the ground, so opened it to take a taste. Not very flavorful, and the pulp was fluffier than the domesticated variety. Interesting, though.

I love how the light catches on the vines' tendrils.

I also love Hal's (snort)Walker Evans mode.

Since I was asleep, I wasn't able to follow him around and identify stuff. These look like hawkweed buds:

I haven't a clue as to where these buds came from, but they sure do look lovely in sepia tone, don't they?


The Arnold Arboretum is probably my favorite place in this godforsaken city. You know you're in an urban environment, but the skyscrapers and the people seem so far away, so harmless here.

Wednesday, September 07, 2005

On Monday morning I cleared the last of the peaches off of Raphaella's tree. Some were still hard, so left them on the counter to ripen up a bit more. Last night, gathered up as many small jars as I could find and washed them. Peeled and cut up the peaches, which by then were ripe enough.

Tonight, I'll sterilize the jars and make my jam.

Peach jam is one of my favorites, as it's usually the first fruit of the fall season and it's so simple. All I need to remember is a 3:4 sugar:fruit ratio with a bit of water to help it all cook down.


I've put a sheet under the pin cherry tree and have been collecting about a cup of fruit every morning and evening. I figure that after about a week of this, I'll have enough fruit to make some jelly. Since pin cherries don't have a ton of pectin, I may have to combine them with some apple peels and cores to make the juice. Will need to look that all up.


This weekend, I hope to get out west to find some wild grapes (best for making jelly) at Arija's. Also need to check on my little stand of crabapples on McGrath Highway. There seems to have been some sort of blight going around as a lot of the trees I usually collect from have had awfully eaten up leaves and hardly any fruit.


Since the lime marmalade I made last year was such a hit, I figured I'd make some more again this year, along with some lemon. That's a mental note, by the way, to go looking for lemons and limes on sale.
Though I've had more luck than usual actually getting to sleep, I've noticed that the change in seasons has been causing me to dream intensely again: short, strange, disturbing dreams that will wake me up in the early morning and leave me with a feeling of dread or sadness. A couple nights ago, I dreamt of rescuing a horribly abused dog, only to have the poor thing die on me. Over the weekend, I dreamt I had a lobster attached to my calf (my calves sometimes have spasms while I'm asleep. The brain tries to process this sensation and ends up throwing some awful image at me that wakes me up).

Last night, I dreamt that I was back at camp. This happy state was interrupted at about five in the morning when Mamasan decided he wanted to get closer to me, jumped on the pillow next to me, and brought me crashing back to the ugly reality of city life. The neighbors were awake and hollering away, so no chance of getting back to my own little Xanadu. Clutching the covers around me, I huddled in bed and listened resentfully to blasting salsa music and Spanish epithets until it was time to get up.

Needless to say, I'm not at my best today.

Tuesday, September 06, 2005

Rolling With the Punches

This weekend, Hal and I had initially made plans to hike Monadnock. After a bit of calculating (feeding the Kia Pet would have cost around $40 or so dollars), we decided to stay closer to home. Instead, spent a pleasant Saturday wandering around the Mystic. Sunday, had fun at Pablo's big barbecue bash. Yesterday, Pablo, his sister Anna (who was visiting from Salem), Hal and I visited the rather unimpressive brain exhibit at the Museum of Science.

All in all, very nice. We kept our fuel consumption down, thus saving it for someone else who might really 'need' it (or rather, want it more) and still managed to have fun. Imagine that.

This morning, Pablo sent me some thought-provoking commentary on 'profiteering' or 'price gouging' and its utility in a market-driven system. I found this quote particularly interesting:

...“Profiteering” strikes most of us as unsavory. But it depends on the context. After all, were we serious about criminalizing price gouging, we would throw every member of the National Association of Realtors behind bars. Although the markup on housing is far more dramatic than the markup on gasoline, we don’t seem to mind. Why? Because most of us getting gouged on Sunday afternoon at the open houses hope one day to do likewise. Apparently, Americans approve of gouging as long as they’re the ones doing the deed.

Especially after reading this article on a predicted slowdown of the housing price boom and who would get hurt from it (those at the bottom of the pyramid, of course).

I guess that it's all just a case of comedy being when you step on a banana peel and fall and tragedy being when I step on the banana peel and fall.

Friday, September 02, 2005

I want to keep calm, to hope for the best to come from the worst. For people to stop the bickering and the laying of blame. Then something like this comes along.

Shame on you, Mr. Robinson. Shame on you.
"They're spending their vacation in the woods with kerosene..."

-that's how one of Hal's coworkers described our yearly adventure in the woods. To each his or her own, but we really look forward to our time away from all the mediatisation and connectivity you have to deal with when you are "on the grid."

One fellow said that he couldn't imagine a day without television, as he grew up on that; it was his babysitter. A lot of my friends can't get over the no hot shower every day that we've all gotten accustomed to/societized into. To each his or her own, I guess. For us, it's just nice to not have constant accessibility (I don't own a cell phone, but email and the regular telephone make me easier to get a hold of than I like), to not have the constant hum of electricity about us, to have to work for some of what we take for granted in the city. "Being in the woods with kerosene" helps calm us down, make us more contemplative, sharpens our senses, makes us more liable to sit and talk things through, and helps the attention span.
I feel Iget so much more accomplished up there than I do here.

Disclaimer: the refrigerator is no longer a kerosene one, but electric. There is talk of getting another kerosene one from the Amish catalog, but they are rather pricey. We also use flashlights to get around in the dark.

Our main light source, however, is the Aladdin Lamp:

Aladdin lamps are pretty cool with their incandescent mantle made up of (I think) diatonaceous earth. When this gets a-glowing, it throws quite a lot of clean heat and light around. I actually prefer this to electric lighting - much less harsh.

Due to the nature of the technology, you have to start the lamps on a very low flame and warm them up. Often, we're wandering around a bit in the dark until the lamps are up to capacity. No matter, you do get used to it.

(Hal likes to play around with different lighting conditions - in the above image, he used a slow shutter speed and no flash to capture this image of me coming in from hauling water - yes, all of our water is brought in in buckets. Talk about an exercise in mindfulness! - I like the graininess of the image. It lends an impressionist feel.)

Julia manning the stove. That evening we had a nice little chicken stir fry over minute rice. The lamp is a Queen Anne, the stove (note the light from the burner below) is a Perfection. Perfections run on kerosene and are very clean-burning. Called "summer stoves" because they didn't throw off as much heat as wood stoves, they could be found in many "camps," like FDR's at Campobello. A really nifty feature on these is the little attachment (a box you place over one of the burners) in which you can bake a small cake or some muffins. I haven't actually baked anything on the Perfection yet, but it's on my list of things to try at some point.

While Julia cooks, Bob takes a moment out to ponder the Meaning of Life. Does this not look like a scene from a Bergman film?

After eating dinner and doing dishes, we usually head for the living room. Usually we sit and read or knit or work crossword puzzles by lamplight only. Sometimes, however, we need to kick up the heat a bit or burn some trash. On goes the fireplace, then:

After a couple days of driving rain, a lot needed to be dried out. Since we had no cats with us to lie in front of the fireplace, Julia's waterlogged slippers stood in quite nicely.

Thursday, September 01, 2005

One Stop Shopping

Ann finds an online copy of the Original Illustrated Catalog of Acme Products (hosted appropriately enough, as one commenter noted, by Road Runner).

Adam G at Universal Hub brings up something that I'm sure is in the back of many a Bostonian's mind - what if we were to be hit by a category 5 hurricane?

I wouldn't be surprised if there were a major flooding problem downtown and in the Back Bay area; it is all polder, after all. How would coastal neighborhoods like Eastie or Chelsea-by-the-Sea fare?

Myself, I live on top of a hill in Somerville, MA - a little ways from the shore and a bit above sea level (approx. 12 feet), so I don't really think much on the flooding. To be honest, with the nature of what we're built on and how most stuff here is not earthquake proof, I'm more worried about that than a coastal storm.

Still, there is much to think about regarding infrastructure, social fabric, disaster recovery. Would looting or rioting be a problem? How quickly could communications and utilities be brought back if we lost them? What about public health and sanitation? Heaven forbid we'd need to evacuate: how difficult would that be here?

Not pleasant things to think about, no.
Last night, I lay on my kitchen floor listening to Elizabeth Schwartzkopf's interpretation of Strauss's Four Last Songs. The music had envelopped me, but I was still aware of Katrina's avant-garde whooshing around the house like the angel of death or something.

No major thunderstorms yet, as was predicted for the next few days. In fact, it's clear and sunny out, albeit muggier than anything.

How lucky we are.


Today's the big day for us bloggers to raise funds for the Katrina relief effort. As I mentioned yesterday, I sent what I could to the Salvation Army. Glen Reynolds has a roundup of charitable organisations you could look into, and the Truth Laid Bear has set up a charity aggregator page. Here are the Technorati Tags for flood aid and Hurricane Katrina. Nick has some good advice on intelligent charitable giving; do take a look at it. Wise generosity is important.


To donate to the Salvation Army, click here or click the logo I put in the upper right hand corner of of this page. Thanks.