Spitball Army

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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– 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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This year I pledged to make good on my internet yapping and mail Christmas cards, something I haven’t done for many, many years. It turned out to be a pleasantly satisfying experience.

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I also have a really soft spot for Cornershop’s “Good Shit,” if only for its unabashed positive vibe. “Good shit’s all around, good people / Don’t let it get you down, good people / Good shit’s all around, it’s all around.” Repeat. Repeat. And if four-letter words aren’t your thing, the song’s got a groovy cross-cultural shang-a-lang beat going on that I know you won’t be able to resist.

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One bittersweet discovery was a cardboard box of cassette tapes that must have been in the trunk of my car at one time. There was a Sting mix tape without even one Police song (huh!?!) and a Fats Waller mix tape (hooray for Fats!!), and four really mixed-up mix tapes titled “Fred FM,” volumes 1, 2, 4 and 6.

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During an overhaul of the basement this past weekend, I found a lot of junk. Most of it had been there for so long that it was irreparably damaged by moisture – moisture in the air, primarily, though there was some ground water damage on a few things. The majority of this stuff made its way into garbage bags and hit the road this morning when the trashmen made their rounds.

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