I considered filling the spaces between the photos with a bunch of rock-related puns, but even I cringed at the possibility.
So instead I'm just posting photos of some really extraordinary rocks we saw at the Smithsonian last week.
Isn't that gneiss?
Sorry. That one just slipped through.
Let's see -- there were pretty houses...
and carbohydrate-loaded animals...
and a scary-looking thing that mixed chocolate...
and luxury hotels...
and kids dwelling in gigantic trees.
Have you figured it out yet? Here are some more clues:
These things climbed halfway to the stars.
We crossed this one breezy afternoon.
And we left these there.
Posted this just about two years ago. Occasionally I get nostalgic. And by the way -- how is it that someone as fabulously intoxicating as Johnny Depp has a goofy name like "Johnny"?
Dear Man Who Sat With Me And My Boys For Breakfast On The Train:
The motivation for this letter has almost nothing to do with your profuse ear and nose hair, although really -- could ya visit the barber once a month? Seriously, dude, I've seen my father get haircuts. I know barbers can get rid of all that volunteer hair in your ears and your nose and on your eyebrows and neck... and by the way, that combover suggestive of a Dairy Queen vanilla soft serve sundae?
Not working and not fooling anybody. Please do yourself your dining companions a favor: see a barber.
Well, okay, maybe not that one. Still, a haircut once a month couldn't hurt, and might make you a little more comfortable with yourself and a little less abusive to strangers.
Anyway.
Dear Mr. Person Whose Name I Don't Know And Would Try Really Hard To Forget If I Did Know It:
I know it can be awkward to be seated with complete strangers on a train. Heck, it was awkward for us too. Still, it's more comfortable and tolerable for all involved if conversation not be dominated by any one particular person at the table (not naming names here because I never even learned yours, but ...). Further, the rules of etiquette recommend that, even if you maintain the personal opinion that a private school education is somehow inferior to an education from a public school, you might want to consider keeping that opinion to yourself when holding a conversation with children who attend private schools. And their mother/aunt.
Finally, and please forgive me if I'm overreaching here, but it seems to me that it might be easier to maintain positive relationships if you don't attempt to stump a 6th grader and a 7th grader with obscure geography and history questions and then triumphantly declare that their education is "deficient" when they don't glibly call up the answers to your questions. Just a guess here.
Hey, thanks for listening, and in case you were unable to hear what I said because of the jungle inside your ears, remember: your local barber can work wonders for less than $20.
Have a nice day.
Bringing the mountain to Mohammad
My son Robespierre would live at camp all year if he could, not just because he enjoys the experience, but also because most of his true friends attend camp with him but live in other cities. The eight weeks he spends at camp every summer make up the only extended time he gets to be with his real friends. In addition, camp has a gentler, less confrontational ambiance; Robey can choose to participate only in activities that make him look and feel worthwhile.
Robey's rarely had a full dance card at home. Parties and events often seem to happen without him. Part of his problem is that he frequently prostrates himself before the social incasts who close ranks on anyone who's not them. On the other hand, he ignores kids who do want to be his friends out of seeming solidarity with Groucho Marx: ("I wouldn't want to belong to any club that would have me as a member"). It doesn't help either that some of the top drawer kids not only push him aside, but also say thoughtless things to him. When he mentioned on Facebook that he'd read The DaVinci* Code in one day, one of his classmates, a top of the heaper, responded that Robey needed to get a life.
If I could have reached through Facebook and grabbed that boy around the throat, I might have.
But something has happened.
When Robey was invited to a camp friend's Bar Mitzvah in Chicago last year, I resolved that if he was invited to something, even if it was out of town, he was going to attend. So I drove him to Chicago, where Cupcake and I stayed in a hotel and visited with cousins and Robey spent the weekend at his friend's home.
A month later he was invited to another Bar Mitzvah and this time I put him on a plane; the family picked him up and housed him for the weekend, and raved about what a great kid he is.
For Robey's Bar Mitzvah we invited nearly 20 camp friends, most of whom live out of town. Three of them drove in for the weekend and spent the night at our house; they were kind, polite, inclusive, and respectful. I'd never seen any group of kids react to my son the way these boys did. They were happy to be spending the weekend with Robey, and he was sincerely happy, relaxed and comfortable.
I saw that my son belongs to a nice group of nice kids who like him very much and treat him with respect.
I had a lot of time to myself this summer, as both kids were away for two months. I slept late, worked on my knitting, cleaned closets, gardened, had lunch and dinner with friends, and thought a lot about a lot of things. One of my pondering topics was how different Robey seems to be when surrounded by people who feed his soul. I resolved to do anything I possibly could to facilitate the process, even if I had to import a supply of boys month by month.
He's been invited to another camp friend's Bar Mitzvah in Chicago this month. Cupcake and I will drive him up and spend the weekend with her friends while he's with his.
In October I'm taking him to New York City for a long weekend as a belated birthday gift, where we'll spend some time with another friend who came into town for his Bar Mitzvah. Then in December, the New York friend will meet us in San Diego for a family vacation.
Yes it's a stretch, but it's worth it.
Just knowing that these events are on the calendar makes Robey feel more serene and balanced. He's dwelling much less on what his classmates are up to without him. He's even joined a couple after school groups without bothering to consider whether the activities have the kind of coolness quotient that might gain him points with the A-listers. I'm looking forward to watching him shine.
What's your most fulfilling way of going above and beyond?
*Really, Spellcheck? You've never heard the word DaVinci and you suggest Davidson as an alternative? If it weren't for Leonardo DaVinci, I suspect that you, Spellcheck, wouldn't even exist.
This was positively amazing. I myself have personally been remarkably uncool most of my life. My first concert was ... let me see ... Eagles? Beatles? Springsteen? No -- Beethoven's 9th at the symphony hall. I'm indisputably among the top ten in uncool. But look here -- Surprise! They have cool inside! Wonder if they take credit cards?
That's definitely Vladimir Lenin on top of that apartment building,
which happens to be called "Red Square."
Why Lenin stands on that particular building we weren't sure, until later in the day when the condo building next door caught fire, attracting dozens of very loud trucks and helicopters, and it became clear that Lenin's job was to point the way for the firefighters, kind of like a statuesque Bat Signal. Wonder if he moves around depending on where he might be needed next?
Candy!
Compass!
umm... Sign!
Pretty dress!
Miss Scarlett -- really
I went to college and law school in New Orleans, where many houses look as if they were decorated by a crazy person with a glue gun and a whole lot of jelly beans.
Like this:
and this:
and this:
This image and prior image from here.
One might think the city was planned by Emilio Pucci. Or, if you prefer, Hunter Thompson.
I live in the Midwest, where all the houses are brown. Or tan. Or white.
Although we did have one house in our neighborhood that was all pink: Pink mailbox. Pink shutters. Pink door. Pink gas meter. They were peculiar. Or they sold Mary Kay. Same thing.
We don't see candy colored houses where I live. We're somber. We're drab -- or dreary -- or dare I say -- colorless.
Israel.
Israel is not colorless by any means.
In all of Jerusalem, every building, by law, must be faced with a golden limestone referred to as "Jerusalem Stone." Every structure, even generic apartment blocks, blushes with golden and pinkish warmth:
The holy city of Safed (alternatively spelled Zefat, or Tsvat, or Zfat, or Newark) is the seat of Kabbalah, the school of thought concerned with Jewish mysticism. According to Kabbalah tradition, the color blue symbolizes Heaven; many buildings in Safed / Zefat / Tsvat / Tsfat / Paramus are ornamented inside and out with brilliant blue:
In Israel flowers can be yellow:
or white:
or purple:
Fruits can be purple too:
Spices can make you think of fireworks before you even taste them:
And clothing can make you want to facepalm until you pass out and awake with amnesia:
I kind of miss the audacity of brilliant colors.
Fame Contest. Enter here to win fame, and a gift certificate!
Let's see -- where were we? Something about traveling, Italy, noses...
Ah yes -- nosebleeds on parade.
Cupcake's nose can erupt like Mount Etna if you just look at it; it's a special power she has that we try to devote only to good. So when my father hugged her and inadvertently touched her nose, the gushing recommenced.
This time the tag team included most of the family:
Cupcake and I slept until 1 p.m. the next day. Later she delivered personalized thank you letters to each family member, even my niece and nephew, who slept through the whole thing.
Their letter read somewhere along these lines:
Dear Stretch and Artypants: Thanks for nothing. Love, Cupcake.
We're leaving for a couple of weeks and internet will be intermittent, so I'm offering up some older posts I hope you'll enjoy. This one's from November, 2007.
I’d like to welcome today’s guest poster. He’s a retired executive who spends much of his days taking and teaching literature classes, playing chess with friends and grandchildren, and helping his daughter renovate a seriously intractable website. Allow me to introduce: Dad.
::::raucous applause and wolf whistles:::: Thank you. Thank you very much.
Two days of hard work finally paid off as I browsed through memories of our 2007 Mediterranean Cruise. After purging nearly 200 duplications (darn that crazy computer) I had 300 images to rotate, categorize and admire. What a pleasure it is to share great art, scenery, architecture and experiences with children and grandchildren. It’s one thing to see these sights through my own eyes, and something profound and completely different seeing them through the eyes of five kids ranging in age from 7 to 17. And what an unexpected surprise: 10 people traveling together, eating together, touring together, and no fistfights serious enough to warrant summoning local authorities.
I’m reminded again why pictures are so important, and how much fun it is to share. Even my wife, Our Lady Of Perpetual Ants In The Pants, enjoyed watching the photos in a slide show and savoring with me the memories of a wonderful vacation.
Still, there had to be some wrench in the ointment, or fly in the works, or whatever. My computer spewed spite, most likely because it had been infiltrated by the evil villain, My Pictures. In an effort to ease some of the pressure I broke out the stack of DVDs I’d bought so optimistically a year ago when my current computer was new. Such mischief it wrought! After approximately 15 interactive email conversations with a computer friend, I finally navigated around all the dastardly glitches and created my first-ever photo DVD. My friend gently explained that my mistake might have been instructing the computer to: “move the %*?$# pictures to the %*?$# disk, you idiot.”
In any case, despite the valuable learning experience of creating photo DVDs, I’m going to pack up my pictures—all 4 gigabytes and 3000+ images—and send them to FeeFiFoto where I can share them with all my friends. I might even put a picture of my intractable computer on a Photo Throw to cover it up the next time it defies me.
1. The boys got along better than best friends for most of our trip. They cooperated, split responsibilities, and took care of me and each other. Neither threw the other from the train.
2. Food in Flagstaff is expensive. The city is quaint and unassuming, as are the restaurants, until it comes to the bill.
3. You can play Monopoly in the car if you're very careful.
4. Staying up late to visit an observatory after dark is so totally worth it when you can look through a hundred-year-old telescope and see Saturn and its rings.
5. The Truman Library is worth the detour on the way to Kansas City. After having seen the Truman and Lincoln libraries I'm beginning to consider making pilgrimages to all the other presidential libraries.
6. Much of the train route through the American Southwest is strewn with automobile graveyards.
7. No matter how annoying they may be during daylight hours, tween boys are still adorable when they're sleeping.
8. Parts of Arizona can be very cold.
9. I do have the courage to climb a few yards down into the Grand Canyon; I need help climbing back up.
10. But I still freak out when the boys get too close to the edge.
11. If the weather is cool at night you can leave your leftover pizza on the windowsill and have it for breakfast in the morning.
12. People in funky little ski towns suck at giving coherent driving directions.
13. It is possible to survive a few days without WiFi.
