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  • Nothing Gets Done When I Have a Big Stack of New Library Books

    A person should never, ever visit the library on a Thursday, not if they want to have any kind of a productive weekend.

    Reading spot out back.

    I had Big Plans for last weekend. I was going to burn some paint off the woodwork in the bathroom. Mulch down the few garden beds still exposed to the burning drought-sun. Maybe clean the house. Mow the dry, brown vegetation patch that used to be the lawn. Watch a movie. Knit. Ride bikes. All kinds of things.

    Reading spot out front.

    Instead I read. Two romance novels, a couple of period mysteries, a fantasy novel, some modern literature, and a little bit of history.  I read on the sofa with my feet propped on the dog-worn ottoman. Read in the back yard on my new vintage-style woven-strap lounger. Perched with a book at the kitchen table – just for a moment was the intent but I creaked when I finally stood up. I read in bed. At my desk. On the front porch. On the back deck while burgers grilled. I may have spoken to the Spouse and the Dogs once or twice. I know I fed the fish and the cat because they are still alive. Otherwise, it was the books.

    If I happened to be in a place where I absolutely could not read, like say, when I was driving the car out to the Clarence antique/flea markets to find something to make into a bathroom vanity (failure – we accidently bought a beautiful piece of furniture we can’t bear to cut holes into) – if I couldn’t be reading, I thought about the stack waiting for me back at the house.

    Library book stash table. Custom built for the purpose by Funk Brothers Furniture.

    See, I have a small greed problem at the library that results in nice, tall, interesting stacks of books on the table at home. They let me check out 50 books at a time in the city library and I figure, why waste the opportunity? The Spouse and I meet at the café in the heart of the Central Library and have a nice lunch. After, he heads back to work and I, my full stomach, and empty book sack hit the stacks in this order: mystery, fiction, sci-fi. I break to check for things on the computer. Then, new fiction, new non-fiction, biography. They are all in the front of the building. I head to the back. Gardening. Knitting. Animals. History. Women explorers. All explorers. Sometimes, I trudge all the way back up to the front if I forget to pick up my stuff on hold. Finally, home with the heavy sack of book-goodness. I resist the urge to page through the top one at red lights. Mostly.

    When I visit the library on a Monday, Tuesday, or Wednesday I can be rational. I am In Control of the Reading. But a Thursday is so close to Friday (T.G.I.F.) that I simply settle in. Surrender to the stack. Wallow in the inky stink of well-thumbed library books. I like to flick the pages as I read. I like to prop the spines on my stomach as I lounge. I like to carry a small stack subset from place to place when I am nearing the end of one and know I’ll need another.

    It is Thursday again. I am down to the last picks of the stuff from last week. A cozy-mystery in a long running series that I find annoying and compelling. A new Victorian-era mystery. Book two of a sci-fi series. A book about beekeeping. Some literature thing I yanked off the new book rack that I’ll probably like. The trick is to Stay Away from the library today.  I would really like to get something done this weekend.

  • Why Teenagers in Beater Cars Always Speed

    The Spouse and I were ripping down the QEW (Queen Elizabeth Way) from Niagara On The Lake in Canada to the Peace Bridge border crossing. Our bellies were full of British style pub food from the Angel Inn and the Mini Cooper S was enjoying running at higher rpms for a little while. The speed limit on the QEW is 100kph – about 62 miles an hour. Normal highway pace. Rarely have I seen anyone moving so slowly.

    Traffic was pretty light. It was midday and the Canadian rush to the U.S. for cheaper mall shopping was over. The Spouse had the Mini cruising in the right lane without obstructions. Every now and again a massive BMW or Mercedes would blow past in a blur of color and grace. We’ve seen this phenomenon in Europe too, and have long speculated that other countries must offer a Speeding Pass to the owners of luxury performance cars. I am always jealous when the tail end of a Beautiful Car disappears ahead of us.

    I noticed that the Spouse was intently watching the rear and side mirrors. Usually this signals the arrival of something spectacular: A Boss 302. A Ferrari, Aston Martin, or Bugatti perhaps. I glanced behind us and saw what looked like a red brick lumbering down the QEW passing lane.

    The Spouse stoically watched it pass us: an ancient, rusted, teen-filled, bald-tired, exhaust belching beater.  “Pour it on Mercury Topaz,” he said, “gotta stay ahead of the breakdown.”

  • Worm Bin Chronicles: Inception

    WideEyedSpouse says, “We are not having a worm bin in the kitchen.”

    WideEyedFunk answers, “Mm hmm.”

    The Worm Bin. In the Kitchen.

    I bought Worms Eat My Garbage in June of 2009 and I don’t know why. The Spouse saw it sitting on the sofa and instantly, no pause for contemplation said: “We are not having a worm bin in the house.” I simply did not acknowledge that he spoke.

    Kiska Harbor and the 2009 camp.

    Several weeks later two colleagues and I were lounging around on Action Packers in our tiny weatherport on the shore of Kiska Harbor. Outside of the weatherport Kiska volcano loomed over us to the north (albeit invisibly because of the low clouds), the waters of the harbor ruffled in a stiff, rainy wind, and the Kiska Island Valor in the Pacific National Monument layered over the hills around us as far as the eye could see. My colleagues were on Kiska Island to map WWII features. I – along with Brian H. who wasn’t present for the worm talk – was there looking for much older Aleut occupations. Anyway, three of us were in the weatherport waiting for potatoes to boil and for the simple pleasure of being inside, sheltered from the vastiness of the western Aleutian Islands.

    The topic of worm bins came up. I can’t remember who brought it up. But it is exactly the sort of topic that might arise in one of our field camps. Debbie C. was deeply intrigued. Of course she had heard of them. I mentioned the book. Janis K. actually had a worm bin, had had it for years. Debbie and I leaned forward on our Action Packers as Janis described the formation and care of her worm bin. I think I took notes. I looked at Debbie and she looked at me – oh yeah, we were getting worm bins.

    I came out of the fieldwork that summer intent on having a worm bin. But as it turned out, the WideEyedHousehold was going to move 1,500 miles in a few short months. The Spouse said, “I am not moving a worm bin to New York.” I sort of heard him on that one. Besides, I figured they had worms back east.

    Time passed. The worm bin lingered in the back of my mind. We bought a house and I built a compost area but it didn’t satisfy. I needed a worm bin. And then the miracle happened. My neighbors across the street mentioned that they have a worm bin. In the kitchen. Have been running it for years – no trouble, no smells, just great. My heart pounded. I hardly dared to ask…my neighbor offered me some scoops of her worms. Oh yeah.

    I told the Spouse. He said, “We are not having a worm bin in the kitchen.” I said, “Um hmm.”

    Inside the bin. The wellspring of nightmare horrors.

    Three days later I dumped a bunch of junk out of a bin in the basment, drilled some holes in its lid and handles, and headed across the street for my worm scoops. Ever since, two months and counting, there’s been a worm bin in my kitchen. So far, the Spouse has only had one nightmare about it. Apparently in his dream he was reaching in to feed the worms and one leaped out of the nesting material and burrowed under his finger nail. I guess in the dream he managed to tourniquet his finger and the worm wiggled out, but his success in solving that small dream problem hasn’t made him like the worm bin any better.

    We’ll see how it goes. For now, there are several dozen? hundred? WideEyedWorms munching away on tender veg scraps in my kitchen. And one WideEyedSpouse who prefers not to think about it.

  • Wretched Chores Made Less Crappy: Weed Pulling Cocktails

    Dangerously weedy driveway cracks.

    The weeds in the driveway now hit the undercarriage of the WideEyedRides. I can hear them smacking the bumper and the bigger sticky-er ones make tiny scraping noises as I putt-putt up the drive. Brush fires are a concern when I park the hot engines over the verdant crack weeds. I can’t turn my face away any longer. It is time to weed the driveway.

    Years ago the Spouse and I developed a system for undertaking this wretched chore – which, you may note comes about ONLY during the smoking hottest sizzling portion of the summer.

    Our system does not include herbicide. Have a look at that image over there on the right. If I blasted those tall, healthy, nearly blooming weeds with herbicide what would I get? Tall, dead, yellow weeds, even more likely to catch on fire, that’s what. And I don’t want to hear anything about maybe taking care of this before it becomes a problem, prophylactic herbicide application, whatever. This happens every year and has in every house we’ve ever owned. The situation exists. And the solution includes gin. Lots of gin.

    The WideEyedHousehold Driveway Weed Remediation System:

    WideEyedSpouse’s preferred components.

    First wait until the worst of the blasting heat fades. Tonight that’ll be about 7:45. Then assemble the ice, gin, tonic, and cucumber/limes, and mix up a couple of weed pulling cocktails –leaving the ingredients easy to hand. The Spouse and I find it useful to gather the weeding paraphernalia at this point. Now take a few moments to assess the situation, look over the weeds, measure the length of the drive, wave to passing neighbors – and end the assessment phase when the ice cubes no longer float, but rattle emptily.

    Ok, so it’ll be about 8pm by this point. Maybe a little later. About an hour of usable daylight left. Now you need to step into the kitchen to mix up another couple of weed pulling gin and tonics. Get your music – Elvis or Delta Blues are best here – and start with the weeding. You should be feeling pretty cheery as you move into your second weed puller cocktail. But here’s the key to this step: start at the end of the drive most visible to the general public and be thorough while you still have the will and ability to be so.

    WideEyedFunk’s weed pulling cocktail components.

    When the ice is alone in the glass again, return to the kitchen and mix new weed pullers with your muddy, weed stained hands. It’ll be moving on to 8:20, 8:30 by this point. Dusk really. This is when the really noticeable work happens. Crouching carefully, so as not to spill, yank out the really tall driveway weeds. They’re the ones causing the problem anyway.

    By 9pm it’ll be over and all will be tidy in the driveway – or let’s be honest here – it will be dark enough or your vision bleary enough to make it look tidy. Doesn’t matter. Effect is the same. Chore is done. Just FYI, it is tempting to mix another weed puller to sip on while appreciating the less weedy driveway for a little while but trust me, this is a Bad Idea. We’ll just leave it at that.

    Remember, don’t ever drink and drive. But by all means, drink and weed if necessary.

  • Who cleans up the ick?

    Maybe it is because I am from New Jersey. Maybe it’s because I read too many books of questionable topics.  But when I was standing in the sandwich shop on Niagara Falls Boulevard and saw the Eraser (www.erase-it.org) business card, I thought, Oh yeah, I need to put that card in my wallet. Because you just never really know. Discreet and professional biohazard remediation is EXACTLY what a person wants to have on speed dial. When you need it, you need it.. As I stood at the long counter of the sandwich shop waiting for my Philly cheesesteak (Buffalo interpretation) hoagy (Buffalo spelling. Inexplicable.), I thought of many reasons to call the Eraser:

    Vampire extermination. Ash and anciently rotting bio-ooze are left behind every time. Disgusting.

    Borg attack. Watch StarTrek Voyager on Netflix for a while. They just look smelly. Really, really smelly.

    Ghoul nesting. Ghouls drool. They prefer carrion. Even if you don’t mind them around, someone’s got to clean up sometimes. They’ll rot a house out otherwise.

    October 22nd Incidents. Ask the WideEyedDad what happens when you feed an old dog curry on October 21st.  He could have called the Eraser instead of using a pointy nail to clean the cracks in the hardwood flooring.

    Mob hit. Obvious. And, according to many, many novels, movies, and shows, most of us will have to deal with this eventually.

    Zombie attack. We all know they are gooey and splashy when they go.

    Ultimately I left the business card and simply programmed the number into my phone. The Eraser’s card was the most useful of the hundreds of banal real estate, lawn care, handy man, hair salon, whatever crap pinned to the board – who am I to deprive the rest of North Buffalo of the Eraser? Anyway, now you all know who to call too…tell him WideEyedFunk sent you.

  • Nice to see you. What books did you bring?

    Wide Eyed Funks visit one another every now and again, even though leaving the comforts and libraries of home is difficult for us. We are happy to see each other even if the joy of the family visit is tempered by the knowledge that a certain amount of reading time is going to be sacrificed for actual human interaction. It is, at best, bittersweet.

    We have developed a solution to the problem. And what I can’t decide is this: is our solution – mutually enacted, endlessly repeated –  conscious or unconscious?

    When a visit to or from a Funk household is impending, the book stack begins. What might the visitor like to read, what might be passed on to the host from the far-flung family collections? Once the visit begins, the discussions about “what have you been reading” are far more interesting than accomplishments, work activities, household life events, yah yah yah. That stuff comes and goes. The books, they linger. And, the best part, since everyone has new books to read, no one is left out when an entire room of Funks is lounging, reading, quiet. That’s the part I can’t figure out: do we bring books to keep other Funks quiet? Or is the happy quiet fortuitous? I suppose it makes no matter.

    This time a mixed stack of books came from one set of the Virginia Funks. A mixed stack will go home with them – some which originated with the New Jersey Funks.

    Snack. Beer. Book.

    To Virginia:

    Island of the Lost

    American Lion

    Honolulu

    Cold Mountain

    Moon Called

    The Good, the Bad, and the Undead

    Getting Stoned with Savages

    The Year 1000

    Soulless

    To Buffalo:

    Red Earth and Pouring Rain

    While I Was Gone

    One the Occasion of My Last Afternoon

    The Virgin Queen’s Daughter

     There’s more to say – there always is with books, but really, I’ve got some reading waiting for me. And yeah – maybe I need some snacks and a glass of wine too.

  • Twenty things I could have bought with the $20 I lost yesterday.

    1. 2,000 pieces of penny candy. Two thousand.

    2. 20 minutes of satellite phone time to talk to the Spouse from the remote fieldwork location.

    Strawberry Shortcake Donut, with Angel Cream.

    3. 2 dozen Paula’s Donuts. That’s 24 items of pure deliciousness.

    4. Two tickets to a Buffalo Bisons game.

    5. 20 Mega Millions lottery tickets.

    6. A shovel.

    7. 6 bags of Family Size potato chips.

    8. Gas for a scenic drive to Olcott and back, with a stop at Reids Hot Dogs.

    9. A really big bale of toilet paper.

    10. Contact lens solution, pickles, potato chips and fair-trade coffee at Target: the intended purpose.

    A dog needs a good chair.

    11. A dog chair.

    12. A dog license renewal.

    13. A marriage license (17 years ago).

    14. 180 dukie bags for dog walks.

    15. 2 completely drinkable bottles of wine, or one wine-in-a-box (Equivalent of 4 bottles – stays fresh for a month. Just saying.).

    16. 2 6-packs of quality beer.

    17. Almost 3 months of Netflix.

    18. Approximately 60 showers, 8 dishwasher runs, 5-10 loads of hot water laundry (whites and dog beds) – in other words, a summer month gas bill.

    19. An emergency room copay. The Spouse got rollerblades for his birthday.

    20. 48 vegetable plants.

     If only I had used my wallet to house the $20. All of that could have been mine.

  • Ceiling Fan of Damocles

    The Ceiling Fan of Damocles

    For a solid year the ceiling fan dangled unbalanced and clearly crooked above the Spouse and me as we slept. We knew full well that failure was imminent with this fan – one among many coming problems in the house. We knew that buying a historic structure was going to be…tense. That we’d have moments of joyful accomplishment while living under the threat of crushing large scale repairs and near disasters. Since we moved into the place last year, the ceiling fan has been the physical embodiment of stuff we didn’t want to think about.

    This spring the fan waggled in an increasingly catastrophic rhythm. After 13 months of lying under a 52 inch, 30 pound whirling death trap – except for a few short weeks when we graciously permitted guests the use of the room and shared with them potential dismemberment, contusions, or electrocution – the Spouse gave destiny a shake up last weekend and had a look at the situation under the fan’s cowling.

    Hanging by a single near prehistoric screw thread.

    Two antique wood screws wedged the fan bracket into a splintered fragment of lathe. One fell out when the Spouse poked it with a screwdriver. The fan swung back and forth in ponderous arcs, suspended by one last turn of the second ancient screw. Oh, hey. It really was dangerous. Huh.

    The spouse sawed through attic floor boards for a while. He pawed old insulation, a lot of old insulation, out of the way. He found the old gas pipe. Defunct. Which is good. He found the splintered hunk of wood that had sort of been holding up the fan. Which wasn’t good. A proper bracket went in. The fan was wired properly. Mounted properly. Nine hours of effort and the fan is balanced and a lot safer than it was before. Our shoulders eased with this threat abated and the Spouse and I took turns flicking the fan on to watch it operate in a completely normal manner.

    “No problem,” he said, “We’ll just get at it from the attic.”

    But then I started to wonder, to where does the exhaust fan in the downstairs bathroom vent? And why is there no visible soil stack for that room? Now it’s the Bathroom of Damocles. But at least that probably won’t kill me in my sleep. Or at least not as dramatically.

    Hamish the Job Dog.

  • Peanuts, Beer, and Minor League Baseball on a Spring Evening

    The Buffalo Bisons beat the Columbus Clippers in a dramatic bottom of the 10th inning run from third as the Clipper’s catcher scrambled for a mis-pitched ball. The 1000 or so Buffalonians in the stadium hooted and whooped as they filed out of Coca-Cola Field into the gloaming twilight.

    We were at the game last night because the Spouse won the department lottery for the company’s baseball tickets. We fed the poochies, locked down the household, and set off to the Metro station. We walked past permanent Santa who watched us from above, and we descended level after level into the bowels of the creepily uncrowded Metro tunnel. I emptied my pockets for the $8 round trip ride for the both of us. Parking downtown was $5. But then, where’s the adventure in parking a car?  I do that every day one place or another.

    The Buffalo Bisons mascot Buster and his son Chip wandered the stands – the Spouse high fived Chip. The Boy Robin tromped up and down the stadium stairs yelling “Snow Cones! Three dollars!” with relentless cheer and hope. I think he was selling the same couple of snow cones the whole evening. Like Batman’s true sidekick he remained stalwart in adversity, and his cape fluttered heroically in the wind, his eyes were sharp and clear behind his mask.

    “Cold Bud, Bud Light, Peanuts!” Alrighty. I got some peanuts and the Spouse got a can of Bud from the Conehead – “With this can the Conehead guarantee, if it’s warm, this beer’s on me…” The Spouse sipped – it wasn’t warm. And the peanuts were great, fresh, salty, flakey. When I was done with the bag the Spouse was covered with the red peanut skins caught by the evening breeze.

    We watched the fast game. We looked over at the General Mills Big G on their heritage cereal plant. Trucks heading to and coming from Canada roared past on the 190. The Spouse and I were featured on the big screen not once, but TWO times – the Delta Sonic Super Kiss Cam and the other time during a lull in the game. I know, right – how many times do you get to be on the screen in a professional league arena? TWO times in one game when you go to minor league. I think we are celebrities now. I could tell people on the train home wanted my autograph. Actually, the Spouse and I speculated that since the audience was sparse we ALL got a turn up there.

    A crazy old guy dressed in full Bisons regalia, including batting cap, which maybe was for his protection, shrieked incomprehensibles at the Clippers – he’d point at one coming to bat, run his finger across his throat, punch one fist into another, point at his belly button and then back the batter on deck. You know it was weird. But, it was unnerving the Clippers, we could all tell. So, we cheered our unconventional psychological weapon as the innings of no runs, no hits, all strike outs and walks marched on.

    The tension of the 10th inning was eased by a tiny blonde girl in the front of the stands. “Let’s go Bisons!” her little voice piped – we clap, clap…clap, clap, clapped in response. She called it again. We clapped. She looked transcendent with joy and it was on – she chanted, we clapped, over and over until her little voice rasped and she collapsed, exhausted, next to her dad. I think we transformed her life last night, and taught her the intoxicating power of controlling a crowd through performance. I hope she’s ok.

    Massive mosquitoes like small fighter planes arrived and menaced in the lights above us. They weren’t quite hungry enough to come down for dinner, but everyone was scared and looked up at the swarm pretty regularly. A new player for the Bisons stepped up  – his stats at all zeros. The crowd cheered him on, welcoming him to their club. He struck out I think, but I was busy watching the mosquito swarm.

    The Spouse and I have been to ball games in a lot of states. Big stadiums in PA, WI, and MN, little Wrigley where we saw a home run go through someone’s window across the street – and more. Last night’s game in the more empty than full stadium, with little contests, races, and swag give-aways between most innings, with young guys in ill-fitting uniforms trying real hard– was the best, fastest, and most cheerful game I’ve ever seen.  We’ll be back Bisons – because your baseball is fun baseball.

  • Street level synchronicity

    The spouse was driving us to Gramma Mora’s for carnitas and margaritas because sometimes life is just right. Ok, almost just right, because we were aiming for Suzy Q’s BBQ Shack but she decided not to open on Tuesday. Anyway, we hit a red light. I guess even on good days that can happen.

    The walking man on the traffic light post at Hertel and North Park tick, tick, ticked away the seconds of waiting. The spouse reached over and turned on the radio and music came on that had the same beat as the walking man. (Go on out to youtube in another browser window and start Basement Jaxx, Raindrops and it’ll be like you were there too, maybe in the back seat thinking your own thoughts…)

    I tapped my foot on the floor mat and watched an out of shape new mom dressed in yoga wear jiggle her way across the crosswalk – the smiling baby’s head visible in the carriage bobbed to the beat along with her mom’s footsteps. Weird, I thought, three or four things following the same rhythm.

    To the left, on the cross street, two fit youngish men walked a long-haired dachshund who was smiling as much as the baby. His tiny feet pattered in double time to the main beat and his owners swung their arms in synch. The dachshund stopped to sniff a lamp post and I looked to my right.

    A teen aged girl with a bouncy walk and bouncy blond pony tail strode past an old woman who was tapping one long, arthritis gnarled finger against the glass of the Stock Exchange vintage stuff shop. The tap, the bounce, they were in time with the rest of us at the intersection. The girl disappeared into a beauty shop. The old woman turned away and walked on.

    The light changed to green, the walking man flash, flash, flashed in the other direction, and the Spouse accelerated away from the moment.