Troubled Youth: It Wouldn't be Summer without 'Em

For the second summer in a row, I've been troubled by rock throwing hoodlums. This time, they pelted the Manhattan bound Bronx express bus I was riding last night, startling all three people on board and leaving a huge spider web like crack on the window. That won't spoil my fond memories of Quiconque's BBQ.

The other troubled youth I encountered recently was covered in feathers. I saw it on the sidewalk underneath a magnolia on the way to work this morning. At first, I thought, well, another dead baby bird tough luck, but then I looked at the critter closely. It was blinking. The corners of it's mouth were yellow and swollen. I'd heard somewhere that if you touched a baby bird, its parents would reject it. I couldn't imagine how the parents could help the baby back to the nest even if they wanted it back. Then I imagined rats nibbling on it. That settled it. This guy needed my help.

After consulting with some neighbors, I decided to wrap it in a paper towel and a bandana, take it with me to the campus and eventually drop it at the Vet school. It turns out that the Vet school is not authorized to treat wildlife, but they gave me a few reference numbers. I also searched the internet and found many useful facts, for example, birds do not reject their young just because a human has touched them. Meanwhile, my critter was chirping it's head off in the front pocket of my backpack. I was beginning to regret taking the bird off the sidewalk.


Finally, I got through to the good people of Tristate Bird. The woman on the phone said that what I had was not a sick baby but a "teen" sparrow in an awkward learning-to-fly phase. Its fledgling mouth was yellow and swollen by design so that its parents can see it better while feeding. She helped me to ID the breed (House or English Sparrow) and confirmed that the best thing to do was return it to the wilds of West Philly.

I took the teen bird back to the block where I'd abducted him about an hour before, lifting him out of the box using the bandana, much like zoos lift whales out of the water. I released him in the grass under the magnolia tree. A few adult sparrows perched nearby, which I took as a good sign, so I backed away.

Another wildlife rescue woman returned my call. She advised me to check the bird's belly for fullness, but hopefully teen bird will have moved away from where I found him by the time I return to his neighborhood.
So good luck, you crazy teen bird, wherever you are. Stay away from cats and humans, no matter what our intentions may be.

Tool Usage

Today I learned that I'm not the only person my age who doesn't know what's a curse word anymore. That was the other inappropriate topic I discussed with my office mates this afternoon.

Consider these words and sentences: bitch, dork, boobs, schmucky, That sucks. What a tool. We're screwed. Don't touch my nuts. Bite me.

Then there are the new tricky combo terms that seem like cursing even though they contain pretty safe words, such as "butt wipe"; words who's profanity seem somehow lessened when combined with safer words, as in "man boobs"; and nasty British expressions that seem shagadelicly tame to us.

Ever since someone said "penis breath" in E.T., the definition of foul language has dissolved.

Orifice Politics or I Want to Hear Some Buts

It's difficult to watch the "back and forth" scenes in Me and You and Everyone We Know without wanting to talk about them the next day, even if the only people to talk to are my office mates and my aunt. I stopped myself from describing MaYaEWK to my aunt last night, but this afternoon my desire to share overcame my sense of appropriate workplace talk. Granted, my sense of the appropriate can be very liberal, but it's not as liberal as The Corporation.(I'm practicing transitions here, so bear with me.)

I finally saw that non-fiction movie last week and I was dying to discuss it with someone kind of conservative but not stupid. The only person who came to mind was this young Wall Street Journal fan(can you imagine?) who works in my office, so I asked him to watch The Corp. and blab with me about it later. (Unfortunately, the kid I really wanted to talk to--an adorable American International Relations/Business student with family ties to the Middle East who got misty talking about risk management-- had graduated in the spring). The WJS kid agreed until he saw that Michael Moore and Noam Chomsky were in the film. That rumpled lefty combination was a deal breaker.

Disappointed by the movie snub, I couldn't resist asking the WJS kid what he thought of Chomsky. I had to get something out of him. It was inappropriate, I know, but what's the fun of being surrounded by students if you can't get one of those infuriating exciting college political discussions out of them--the kind I can't have as an adult because I don't hold my tongue or make small talk, and so have no conservative friends? Since I abandonned open-mindedness, even hanging out with libertarians is a challenge. (Those of you who witnessed my interaction with "The Freeman" in Papertrix's parlor know what I'm talking about. Sorry, Trix.)

I gave up being "open-minded" during a sophomore year dorm debate when this boy suggested that the lower social status of my people (that includes you,ladies) might be "natural," then countered my dismay at his arguments with a you-liberals-are-supposed-to-be-open-minded whine.

That doesn't mean that I want to swallow all of The Corporation's ideas without getting an intelligent response from other informed points of view. My head feels troubled when my guts say "yessiree" to an overtly political film. I want to hear some buts from people who aren't. The review in the Economist seemed promising until the author pulled out the old "Oh yeah, well, what do you want--North Korea?" thing.

I may be a communist by "Freeman" standards (I do play ultimate), but I would like to hear a credible defense for the Industrial Free World that goes beyond our mind-blowing array of mouth freshening products and personal wipes.

Speaking of politics, I wonder if I need to write a letter or sign any petitions regarding this guy. Is he a lesser evil or just a weevil? I don't like that glint in his eyes, but that's so closed-minded of me.

Je t'aime L'art nouveau

I just thought you'd like to know.

Where's His Match Dot Com Profile?

Good "news", ladies. A certain celebrity bachelor is looking for that someone special.

I Have Become Comfortably Frump

If you're a woman with big feet, small wages, and a lot on your mind, beware. You could become a frumpy shoe wearer. I know because it happened to me.

Somewhere along the line, I footwear fashion sense devolved into that of my seventh grade social studies teacher. At 13, I was very tall and interested in history, just like her, but I never would have seen those traits as a sentence to an adulthood of ugly footwear. I couldn't see myself, years later, standing in front of a class, sporting a pair of navy hush puppies below a calf length tartan skirt. Yet here I am at work today, not in hush puppies, but in a pair of k-mart flip flops. The other day, I WILLINGLY CHOSE to wear brown socks under my worn out black Mary Janes, and white athletic booties beneath my red ones.

Here, I retrace the events that lead to my current condition:

The Carter Years
By the time I reach 3rd grade, I can fit into my mom's heels. Age appropriate girls footwear starts to become scarce. Fortunately, it's the 70's in the upper Midwest, so it's tennis shoes and snowboots most of the year. I learn an important lesson when I willfully insist on getting a dreamy pair of Stride Rite red canvas low wedge espadrilles from Dayton's, even though they are too small, and wear them only once on a muddy and miserable field trip to a nature reserve.

The Reagan Years
Being tall("where's the flood?") and curvy("boom boom") prevents me from enjoying other missy sized junior high fashion trends, so I concentrate on shoes. The pointy-toed styles of the early eighties are especially flattering on "those boats" (mom's name for my feet). In eighth grade, I am well on my way to becoming a Midwestern Emelda Marcos until my feet grow beyond size 10, past the edge of "normal," into big & tall 11. (I now believe the combination of pointy shoes and growing feet lead to later foot troubles.)

I start hanging around with artsy, surplus store types who are into Doc Martens, Chuck Tailors, and those floppy black Chinese things that come in bins.

The Bush I Years
I move out east for college, where the styles are sexier. However, I notice that young men weren't exactly comfortable being shorter than, even if their date's shoes are hot.

My fashion sense basically stops with the 1992 edition of the J. Crew catalog.

By the time I finish school, I know that instead of browsing displays in shoe stores, I must simply go to the clerk, cross my fingers, and request to see everything they have in an 11. I return home to the land of snowmobile boots.

The Clinton Years
Shoes get clunky, chunky and funky. I move to the east coast, get rid of my car, and I find myself walking everywhere. Unlike the fashionistas in my new home, the Midwesterner in me refuses to walk in painful heels or spend precious rent money on pedicures.

One ray of hope: Al Gore's invention will eventually lead me to on-line shoe shopping.

The Bush II Years
For a brief, horrible time, I ,too, teach social studies to middle schoolers. Later, my bone spurs make walking more than 30 minutes extremely painful.(coincidence?) One podiatrist advises me to wear men's shoes for the rest of my life. My GP, a female, recommends that I get a second opinion. The second opinion doctor gets to cutting. After I recover from the surgery, my feel feel fantastic, but the 2 inch nightcrawler like scar doesn't make them any prettier, in spite of the bunion removal.

Today, I scour zappos and nordstrom.com, looking for big, stylish shoes that cost less than a day's pay and won't make me look like Ru Paul. I must avoid the poorly made and trendy, for each purchase is a serious investment. If I drove to work everyday, I wouldn't skimp on tires. So no fun flowers or fruit, polka-dotted Pucci or paisley, no sequins.

Those navy hush puppies are starting to look pretty good. Noooo!

Scientist sez Universe "Too Queer"

"Successive generations have come to terms with the increasing queerness of the Universe."

Cosmology Going on Seven

While riding in the back of a rental car this weekend, my nephew, Thing 1, shared his philosophy with me.

According to Thing 1, the galaxy holds all the worlds. Europe is a real place, even though it isn't a world. Dinosaurs didn't survive, but sharks did.

Thing 1 seems pretty comfortable with the universe, however, many questions remain. What is the difference between being brave and being stupid? How can motorcycle riding be stupid and cool at the same time? What is the stupidest thing in the world? How small is God, and how big? Did God make everything, or did managers? Then, there is THE question that has plagued the human race since the dawn of thought...

What is stronger, the thumb, forty-five tentacles, or the giant claw?

My money's on the tentacles.

Friend Weds at City Hall

A friend and former co-worker of mine just told me that she and her man --accompanied by a few family members-- took a subway to their city hall, got hitched, then went to a diner for brunch.

That's one of the most beautiful things I've ever heard.

Top Time Killers of the Fiscal Year So Far

10. Car Talk (I don't have a car), a Chef's Table and that awful Gardening show in between.
9. The Snooze Button
8. Exploring Hair Removal Options
7. Listening to relatives think out loud over the phone
6. Magnificent Bastard Research (I have access to transcripts of Russell Crowe's Hardball interview. Joy!)
5. Blogs
4. Flickr
3. Netflix (Watching Bad Netflix films that I would be too embarrassed to rent from a store. Raing Netflix DVD's and writing "my two cents.")
2. The Laundry
1. Wondering why I don't seem to accomplish much.

Kaiser Chiefs Were Wrong

Potty Balloon over Piggyback,
originally uploaded by ashyknees.

Some band that the kids are into opened Live 8 Philly with a song called "I Predict A Riot." It was a catchy little number, but it turned out to be far from the spirit of the day. I saw precious little consciousness raising about our role in Africa's troubles, but there was a great sense of collective fun. If only America could send around the world more of the fun we generate. (What an American thing to say!)

As long as I can scope out a couple of escape routes, I love crowds. I feel much more alive in a crowd. I draw energy from them. I can't pass by a marathon without being nearly moved to tears of joy.

Before I met up with friends, I followed some Lois Lane urges and asked a guy with a One beach ball how he got it, what time he had arrived, etc., When we parted I said, "Good for you!" like I was some roving morning talk show field reporter.

I only got to spend a few minutes with Shasta, but latter I met up with Yoko and Lipby. It was great navagating the throng with them.

Crazy 8

Looks like I'm going to Live 8. Why?

• It's free.
• I can walk there from my home, so if it sucks, I can just walk back.
• I actually enjoy crowds sometimes.
• Last time I wimped out on the chance to see an equally large free pop culture spectacle that was even closer to my home at the time, I could have kicked myself. And I am certainly not into Garth Brooks.
  
• Stevie Wonder.
• I don't feel like doing the laundry.
  

Things that are not motivating my decision:

• Understanding the needs of an entire continent
• Belief that my presence will sway the actions of G8 leaders in any way
• Bono's sunglasses
• A chance to watch Salma Hayek say stuff like "Let's give it up for Bon Jovi!"

Years ago, the commercialism of the televised Band Aid concert sank my teenaged heart. My 30 something heart is more immune to hype, so I think I can enjoy Live 8 for what it's worth.