Spitball Army

I either (1) snatched the handbill off of a counter somewhere on or near the campus, (2) took it down off a wall, (3) she (my sister, not Linda) scored it for me, or (4) I just “appropriated” it. I had the “hots” for Linda beginning around this time and on through into college, and it was no secret, so I am putting my money on Number 3.

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There was a large attic vent perched right up on the crest of the roof. It dated back many decades, perhaps even back to the ’20s or ’30s (the house was built in 1925). There is only one other house with such a vent on its roof on my block. Now it is the sole house with that artifact, as I had the roofing company take it down (it was not functioning).

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I read the e-mail message completely, rather than deleting it immediately, as it was obviously not spam. I have been receiving e-mails for some other Fred for years, and they rarely have been of much consequence. This day I was feeling frisky, so I decided to have a little fun.

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The Orchestra Rocks;
celery;
interactive journalism

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It was rooted in the corner of a corner lot, dwarfing the Spanish-style bungalow next to it. Its branches extended high and far out over the street in all directions, safely out of danger from the automobile traffic below, and sheltering the pedestrians and others, like me, on bicycles. I would slow my pedaling to marvel at this tree whenever I rode up the hill to Laurel Road, and would slow my coasting when I returned on the downhill route to Laguna Street. The tree’s age and size seemed to engender respect automatically. I called it “Old Man Tree.”

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This is a tape that reflected the pushmi-pullyu part of my brain that, at the time, couldn’t decide if it was into songwriters, oldies, classical or blues. That’s pretty representative of my brain all of the time.

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When I got up, slightly past 6, I went directly to the kitchen and put the coffee on. One look out the window and I could see that the landscape had changed in just 60 minutes. I grabbed my camera and walked out onto the front porch.

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– My favorite writing instrument is an L.C. Smith manual typewriter with glass keys that is in perfect working order, sits atop a desk in my office, and rarely gets used.

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Making a list such as this is a really simple activity, really. In fact, if one is able to separate the really personal and intimate details about oneself from the mix, there are hundreds or thousands of fascinating bits of minutiae that can populate a “25 Things” list many times over.

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The clickety-clack of the rear claws of one of my cats running down the hallway into the bedroom to find the source of the thud…

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