chessandlena.com

Redneck Ramadan.

Once again, my own damn fault that I can't sleep at 4:30 in the stinking morning. Turkish coffee and diet Dr Pepper after 10 pm... way to go, genius.

So what do you do when you can't sleep in the middle of the night? Apprehend fugitive bail jumpers in a Trans Am Look up weird shit on Wikipedia, of course!

Tonight's entry: the History of Deep Creek Lake.

No real commentary on this particular subject this time. I have a personal history with this place that has its own points; and the whole area, not just the lake itself, offers a depth and breadth of interest that is more than worthy of investigation... but mostly, you should just come here and relax sometime.

Oh, and I saw a mouse run from under the kitchen cabinets to under the living room sofa at was almost ludicrous speed. I'm going to call him Problem. Until he goes away, that is.

14 years ago, June 14, 1996, a national day of mourning and remembrance dawned on Tallinn, Estonia. Flags were lined in black, with black ribbons streaming from the mastheads. The day honors those Estonians who were forcibly removed from Estonia in 1941 under the Soviet regime. In short, a day of solemnity, a day of quiet reflection, perhaps of tears from those who were alive that day, perhaps of grim determination and watchfulness from others.

It also is the day Lena and I were married. In Tallinn, with national flags lined in black. A day of solemnity indeed.

Fourteen years, baby. Whooda thunkit?

Gary Coleman died today, as I'm sure everyone will hear about soon if they haven't already.

Good bye, Gary. We loved you as our goofy but uber-cool younger brother. And I would have loved to see you become Governor of California. Godspeed.

Okay, this time it's all my freakin' fault. I drank about a liter of diet coke from 9 to 11 pm. Stupid, stupid, stupid. So here I am, awake at 4:30.

So what do you do when you can't sleep in the middle of the night? Practice forging Ernest Borgnine's autograph Look up weird shit on Wikipedia, of course!

Tonight's entry: the Hanseatic League.

The Hanseatic League was an alliance of cities and guilds along the coasts of the North and Baltic Seas, toward the end of the Middle Ages. You can read "alliance" as "monopoly" and you're about as correct either way. One of the most intriguing aspects of the League is its structure. While rather fluid in terms of its membership, it managed to control and protect trade routes for decades, even centuries.

It's also intriguing as a model of trade, and because of its rise and fall, and, as ever, because I've been to some of these places. And the name still hearkens to past glory in Estonia; Hansabank (now DBA as Swedbank... ugh) is a large regional bank in the Baltic founded as the Soviet Union collapsed in the early 90's, and I've seen others (though I can't bloody well remember them right now).

A final thought on the League is that it, like most or all such ventures, is ephemeral. Eventually, people get pissed at a monopoly... eventually, some other way comes about. Interesting things to consider for American economic hegemony and our tenuous financial situation these days. A little scary, too. After all, as a middle-aged white man, no one fears change more than I.

So apparently, Mark Twain left instruction in his will that his autobiography, written in the last several years of his life, not be published until 100 years after his death.

Well. Guess what.

We scattered our Mom's ashes this weekend. There is a place in my hometown, across from a small school, where a stand of sycamores, maples, and oaks tower over a small creek. In tops of the trees (maybe only the sycamores-- it was hard to tell) is a collection of Great Blue Heron nests-- a rookery. Mom would go there and watch the herons as they flew around, nesting, feeding. The school parking lot is perfect-- an unobstructed and close view to the treetops, not much traffic, and easy access for a person with not a lot of mobility.

How do you approach something like this? We'd already had her funeral. Anything that needed to be said, had been said... except that we still missed her terribly. No one really wanted any prayers, poems, speeches, or talking beyond just the five of us: simple, informal, raw, a little irreverent, and sad, but good. And right. So we took turns, each one spreading some ashes as they saw fit, some in the creek, some on the bank, some both, some scattered to the wind. I'm sure we all cried a little, but I wasn't paying too much attention to that. I know I cried. And I know it still won't be the last time.

Some of us had been to the Rookery with Mom before-- I'd been there with her at least twice-- but some had not. But I think the ones that hadn't saw pretty quickly why the place was special to her. Herons in flight look like something prehistoric; something ancient. A pterodactyl, maybe. You could even call them majestic. Whatever you think about them, they are entrancing. And there were so many.

We watched the Herons for a while. I was hoping to experience some great wash of meaning, or relief, or... hell, I don't know. The air was clean and chilly, the sky bright but blank. I listened to the water trickling over the rocks, backed by the continuing sounds of cars in the distance. On the way back to the car, I saw a bright yellow chickadee in the scrub trees near the parking lot. He bounced around his tree for just a few seconds, then tore off up the creek.

Ultimately, it's not too hard to write some symbolism into that: a bright yellow spot of unbridled happiness and curiosity against a stark backdrop of blank, yet majestic grey and brown... but I don't think I will. Instead, I'll just think of my Mom, and remember that she loved it all.

I think I'll be back to the Rookery from time to time. Miss you, Mom. Love you.

Bunny Lingus.

These blocks of text appeared in my spam folder as an attempt to defeat Bayesian filters. Gmail handled it easily, of course, but damn, man. This is practically a spammish cry for help.

lattimer apostrophic disrate changing jacketed bargainer decorating deadening elephantiasis hemialgia cartwright commutates Abyssinia Boatwright evulsion fetishising animators circumstancing implacental intimidate drudging breakfront Chang cholic baguette haplessly

changan ghettoizations berio befoh ectotropic dumping harmonica chatters jasmine halibuts dewars conservatising complicacy infuriately kudu jeepable Belgravia disenfranchisement adhesives jabbering interdenominational brooklet departmentalism accommodating catgut argue Fess homophony chaptering hyaloplasm brides demagnetizables hyperpyrexia ambiguousness degree effusion faradise AC bureaucrats conversationises horal illust intestate focussable flip colloquial grotesquely larynges disliking intima Hadamard Ionicise

hinshelwood falsifier aluminisation crazes dramaturgical ente anachronic acriflavine deurne hillocky conformational jettisonable hypotonic despoilment games averred ballcarrier Knightsbridge exhibit cornel emotionalisations inhaler folksongs banderillero denaturalise gardenize

credulous entrusts fraud educationist chequer diplomatize chocolate fitting coachmen asserting Irishizes choryza bray graze faithlessly asafetida Karamazov carbylamine chuted bromine gutter inhibiting dingbat hypercatalectic basseterre adhesional

harken hemophilic gurglet bole ganglion composes fraternal eclampsia illustratively cottonseed feud indecipherable

...either that, or the aliens are trying to tell me something.

I'm always interested in quantum physics. I'm not saying I actually comprehend all the minutiae and ramifications thereof, but I like twisting my head into the proper shape to get around the concepts.

Well, introducing the quantum drum, brought to you by researchers at Cal.

I'd like to take this opportunity to segue into a good name for a band:
Schroedinger and the Live Dead Cats.