Thursday, July 31, 2008
PLOG VACAY
For the month of August, Clebilicious is following the French tradition and shutting down. While I'm tanning and not thinking of new posts, you can catch up on Cleb Classics with the new "Best of Clebilicious" feature. Je vous verra en Septembre!
Friday, July 25, 2008
Backyard Report
Late July. The summer crops are ripening and the pullets are growing up fast. They consider the LaFuma recliner an adequate, if not excellent, perch.
Winona prefers the table, while I prefer not to have it crapped on. She's gradually developing the spectacular laced feather pattern of her breed. Knowing she's going to be pretty, she gets away with being kind of a bitch. Remarkable to realize she had developed this personality about three days out of the egg. (See The New Babies Are Here, Smallest Boss That You Seen Thus Far.)
W: Still the smallest boss; X: "Cheek feathers are not a crime." (Click to enlarge Ximena, if you dare.)
Ximena, meanwhile, has these cheek feathers that won't quit. Her very own chickie godmother says she can't look Ximena in the face. (Doing so can cause a cuteness brain freeze.) And the mutton chops don't lie; she is as sweet as she looks.
Pesto, baby. Thank you, climate change! With all the quiet-panic-inducing hot weather, I finally have some f'real basil. It's rich green and floppy-leafed from growing quickly and well.
A rare siting. The Carmela cat in her natural habitat. Her bro Paulie is way overexposed because he's always calling the paps, saying wink, wink, I'm going to be drinking out of the water garden around noon, that sort of thing. My little angel Mela is terribly shy and doesn't normally like to be plogged about.
I might be the only Oaklander hoarding this much straw, but I'm totally okay with that. Obtaining it is a bitch and using it is such a pleasure, so this six-month supply soothes me greatly. And anyway, I love to fetishize straw.
Monday, July 21, 2008
Goodkitties
Presenting Paulie, doing his Ray Liotta Goodfellas voiceover:
As far back as I can remember, I always wanted to be a pet cat.
I came from barn cats. They worked for a living. Sleeping outside, staking out mice. They were scrawny and had bad fur. What kind of life is that? Wasn't for me. No way.
So you show up as a kitten. You're a plush toy, irresistible. Once they sign on, it's kibbles for life. You break a leg, they go into debt to fix it. That's the deal.
Bad day at work? Fuck you, feed me. Don't like my litter box etiquette? Fuck you, feed me. Still asleep? Fuck you, feed me. All out of kibbles and the store's closed? Fuck you, feed me. There's canned tooney at SuperLongs all night.
They screw it up, they get their calves bitten. That's how it works.
It's not even really about the kibbles. What I love is the life. I need a sunbath, there are twenty sleeping spots around the yard just waiting. I can stare at birds all goddamn day if I want to. And if I get stuck in a tree, guess who has to haul out the ladder. If the litterbox isn't fresh, I leave a little reminder on the floor nearby. I want shiatsu, I get shiatsu. It's all mine for the taking.
More weird Walnuts posts:
My Cat Is a Narcissist, But I Love Him
Obama and My Gay Cat
Walnuts v. Walnuts
Important Notice (Call Him Molly Pecans)
As far back as I can remember, I always wanted to be a pet cat.
I came from barn cats. They worked for a living. Sleeping outside, staking out mice. They were scrawny and had bad fur. What kind of life is that? Wasn't for me. No way.
So you show up as a kitten. You're a plush toy, irresistible. Once they sign on, it's kibbles for life. You break a leg, they go into debt to fix it. That's the deal.
Bad day at work? Fuck you, feed me. Don't like my litter box etiquette? Fuck you, feed me. Still asleep? Fuck you, feed me. All out of kibbles and the store's closed? Fuck you, feed me. There's canned tooney at SuperLongs all night.
They screw it up, they get their calves bitten. That's how it works.
It's not even really about the kibbles. What I love is the life. I need a sunbath, there are twenty sleeping spots around the yard just waiting. I can stare at birds all goddamn day if I want to. And if I get stuck in a tree, guess who has to haul out the ladder. If the litterbox isn't fresh, I leave a little reminder on the floor nearby. I want shiatsu, I get shiatsu. It's all mine for the taking.
More weird Walnuts posts:
My Cat Is a Narcissist, But I Love Him
Obama and My Gay Cat
Walnuts v. Walnuts
Important Notice (Call Him Molly Pecans)
Friday, July 18, 2008
Five Things That Are So Wrong, But I Like Them
5. Coffee
No redeeming value. It can't be good for health; in fact, it totally seems like the next commonplace habit that we just aren't yet aware is a death sentence. It doesn't, objectively, taste good. (Its tasting good to us surely stems from positive addict associations.) And what a damn waste of money, all those Peet's lattes. For shame, brokeass Clebbie. But, oh, how I love to carry them and coddle them and nurse them through the day as they get old and cold and I never mind.
4. Thinking Hot Girls Are Cool People
See Kardashian, Kim. I make this mistake every time.
3. Automated Exercise
While the virtuous sport, jog, bike and hike to their way to heaven, I tread toward eternal damnation. How invigorating and pure to enjoy the out of doors while exercising! But in practice the only way I get a decent workout is by plugging my body into enough mechanisms that the workout feels to be happening to me.
2. Driving
Wicked indeed!
1. Countdowny Lists
Why must all things be in a countdowny list format? Why so culturally obsessed with ranking and measuring? Can't two news stories be equally important, (Keith Olbermann)? Can't two celebrities be equally hot in divergent ways? Don't some white people like some things with different degrees of intensity than other white people like those same things? (Dogged refusal to link to that last.) I thought I hated countdowny lists. Having made one myself, apparently I don't.
No redeeming value. It can't be good for health; in fact, it totally seems like the next commonplace habit that we just aren't yet aware is a death sentence. It doesn't, objectively, taste good. (Its tasting good to us surely stems from positive addict associations.) And what a damn waste of money, all those Peet's lattes. For shame, brokeass Clebbie. But, oh, how I love to carry them and coddle them and nurse them through the day as they get old and cold and I never mind.
4. Thinking Hot Girls Are Cool People
See Kardashian, Kim. I make this mistake every time.
3. Automated Exercise
While the virtuous sport, jog, bike and hike to their way to heaven, I tread toward eternal damnation. How invigorating and pure to enjoy the out of doors while exercising! But in practice the only way I get a decent workout is by plugging my body into enough mechanisms that the workout feels to be happening to me.
2. Driving
Wicked indeed!
1. Countdowny Lists
Why must all things be in a countdowny list format? Why so culturally obsessed with ranking and measuring? Can't two news stories be equally important, (Keith Olbermann)? Can't two celebrities be equally hot in divergent ways? Don't some white people like some things with different degrees of intensity than other white people like those same things? (Dogged refusal to link to that last.) I thought I hated countdowny lists. Having made one myself, apparently I don't.
Wednesday, July 16, 2008
Fogies Exchange Pound
Gold's Gym, Grand Avenue
9:36pm Tuesday 7/15
Two white men over sixty-five approach one another in the cardio area. Hands outstretch, some fumbling ensues and then--a pound! "Heh, fist bump?" says one, and the other nods. They go their separate ways.
I love Oakland. And thank you, Michelle.
Peculiar follow-up: In the ten-minute window between starting this post and publishing it, another unlikely pound took place right in front of my desk! Are you there, God? It's me, Clebbie.
9:36pm Tuesday 7/15
Two white men over sixty-five approach one another in the cardio area. Hands outstretch, some fumbling ensues and then--a pound! "Heh, fist bump?" says one, and the other nods. They go their separate ways.
I love Oakland. And thank you, Michelle.
Peculiar follow-up: In the ten-minute window between starting this post and publishing it, another unlikely pound took place right in front of my desk! Are you there, God? It's me, Clebbie.
Tuesday, July 15, 2008
Tevye Was Right
Bob Herbert's NYT column last week opened with a Fiddler on the Roof quote, which I appreciate, because I always appreciate when black people poach culture from us Jews. It all too often works the other way.
The quote from Tevye was this: “We haven’t got the man ... we had when we began.” And Herbert was referring to Obama.
Oh, how I'd prefer to pretend that Obama isn't blatantly lame-ing around these days.
I don't have cable this summer and was planning a nice vacay from thinking about the election. Overall, it was a sound plan. Most of what I see Anderson Cooper silently mouthing while I'm on the Precor I can deduce from the closed captions is pretty inane. The New Yorker cover, Jesse Jackson's "nuts" comments--it's interesting, but I won't feel uninformed not knowing it. (Were I Obama, I would have responded: Now I got the world swingin from my nuts/Damn it feels good to be a gangster.)
Anyway, much as I'd like to deny it, Herbert, and everyone else complaining about Obama's faith-based retroactive telecomm immunity Iraq backpedaling, has a point. Obama is disappointing us and I'd rather avoid it. I expect him to cool out again, and I'm just biding my time, hoping against any severe letdown.
It sounds fun to be a screw-you-lefties pragmatist, but my heart's not in it. I don't think Obama's is either.
The quote from Tevye was this: “We haven’t got the man ... we had when we began.” And Herbert was referring to Obama.
Oh, how I'd prefer to pretend that Obama isn't blatantly lame-ing around these days.
I don't have cable this summer and was planning a nice vacay from thinking about the election. Overall, it was a sound plan. Most of what I see Anderson Cooper silently mouthing while I'm on the Precor I can deduce from the closed captions is pretty inane. The New Yorker cover, Jesse Jackson's "nuts" comments--it's interesting, but I won't feel uninformed not knowing it. (Were I Obama, I would have responded: Now I got the world swingin from my nuts/Damn it feels good to be a gangster.)
Anyway, much as I'd like to deny it, Herbert, and everyone else complaining about Obama's faith-based retroactive telecomm immunity Iraq backpedaling, has a point. Obama is disappointing us and I'd rather avoid it. I expect him to cool out again, and I'm just biding my time, hoping against any severe letdown.
It sounds fun to be a screw-you-lefties pragmatist, but my heart's not in it. I don't think Obama's is either.
Tuesday, July 8, 2008
Emmer
I'm finally reading a Jane Austen book I should have read a long time ago, being a fan of Austen, and considering that this masterpiece literally has my name on it. (That last is an easy riddle, or what Austen would call a "charade".) If you need more hinting, Alicia Silverstone once my namesake played in a nineties film spinoff.
As is wont to happen, my brain is Austenified. My g-chat with Crim yesterday:
me Did you bicycle to work, or arrive by some other conveyance? Perhaps the autobus was selected, due to the heat, which has been unaccountable as well as uncomfortable.
Crim yeah took the bus
me Ah, a fortuitous development! as it increases the odds of my scheme, which seemed woefully long previous to this news.
Crim ?
me Should you have bicycled, I'd have feared my plan unattainable. Now its chances are revived, and likewise are my spirits.
Crim how long til you finish this fucking book
me This proposal, forthcoming in a moment, developed from my awareness of the frightful want in our larder. We shall be utterly without sustenance this evening if nothing is done.
Crim ...
me Briefly, then, I thought we ought visit Joe, the Trader. For supplies, naturally. My mind caught upon the notion that I could bring the carriage round to your place of employ--only if such a plan is agreeable to you of course--your disagreeableness to it cancelling any such possibility at once--and carry us both to his shop. My finances I do believe can bear the expense.
Crim yeah we can do tj's
c ya
As is wont to happen, my brain is Austenified. My g-chat with Crim yesterday:
me Did you bicycle to work, or arrive by some other conveyance? Perhaps the autobus was selected, due to the heat, which has been unaccountable as well as uncomfortable.
Crim yeah took the bus
me Ah, a fortuitous development! as it increases the odds of my scheme, which seemed woefully long previous to this news.
Crim ?
me Should you have bicycled, I'd have feared my plan unattainable. Now its chances are revived, and likewise are my spirits.
Crim how long til you finish this fucking book
me This proposal, forthcoming in a moment, developed from my awareness of the frightful want in our larder. We shall be utterly without sustenance this evening if nothing is done.
Crim ...
me Briefly, then, I thought we ought visit Joe, the Trader. For supplies, naturally. My mind caught upon the notion that I could bring the carriage round to your place of employ--only if such a plan is agreeable to you of course--your disagreeableness to it cancelling any such possibility at once--and carry us both to his shop. My finances I do believe can bear the expense.
Crim yeah we can do tj's
c ya
Thursday, July 3, 2008
I Am Not a Parasite
I heard Michael Pollan participating in a panel the other night. This post, however, is not about Michael Pollan and my sometime obsession therewith. So do keep reading.
MP was asked the old standby handwringing question about whether "traditional" media will die. He answered with a cool wave of the hand, saying the old, gray media institutions will remain necessary and adapt to the times, and I'd guess he's right about that.
In such discussions, blogs are the cool new kid in town. Alluring, but scary. Bloggie might let you hang out with him--or he might kick your ass just for fun.
But old media has nothing to fear, said MP. Blogs, he explained, are fundamentally parasitic. They don't report, they merely commentate. Nothing against commentating, that's all well and good. The point is blogs will always need solid media institutions for their raw material. The point is they are not a threat.
I know he's right about this, because it's the prevailing wisdom in media commentary circles and prevailing wisdom is never wrong. I've done my fair share of fact-checking for Columbia Journalism Review and am familiar with the old media panic arc: from freakout (We're all gonna die!) to recovery (No, wait, we are still needed, thankgod.) Recovery generally involves noting the inadequacies of new media outlets and deciding to both beat them and join them online.
It is indeed true that many blogs are the equivalent of the editorial page of a newspaper. (Nothing wrong with that, but they still need the news division, etc.) But I don't think it's giving blogs their due to think of them only as opedoparasites.
The blog is its own written form; it's not a replacement for any existing thing. And many blogs don't leech from news organizations, but create their own raw material.
Tiny Farm Blog is built on original farm photography. Oakland Streets analyzes the byways of Oakland through the lens of urban planning theory. And this long-titled blog, created by a dear old chum of mine, reflects on swimming obscene distances. The raw material is life and the writers' own observations. Which, when you think about it, is pretty nice. And, really, not hurting anyone.
MP was asked the old standby handwringing question about whether "traditional" media will die. He answered with a cool wave of the hand, saying the old, gray media institutions will remain necessary and adapt to the times, and I'd guess he's right about that.
In such discussions, blogs are the cool new kid in town. Alluring, but scary. Bloggie might let you hang out with him--or he might kick your ass just for fun.
But old media has nothing to fear, said MP. Blogs, he explained, are fundamentally parasitic. They don't report, they merely commentate. Nothing against commentating, that's all well and good. The point is blogs will always need solid media institutions for their raw material. The point is they are not a threat.
I know he's right about this, because it's the prevailing wisdom in media commentary circles and prevailing wisdom is never wrong. I've done my fair share of fact-checking for Columbia Journalism Review and am familiar with the old media panic arc: from freakout (We're all gonna die!) to recovery (No, wait, we are still needed, thankgod.) Recovery generally involves noting the inadequacies of new media outlets and deciding to both beat them and join them online.
It is indeed true that many blogs are the equivalent of the editorial page of a newspaper. (Nothing wrong with that, but they still need the news division, etc.) But I don't think it's giving blogs their due to think of them only as opedoparasites.
The blog is its own written form; it's not a replacement for any existing thing. And many blogs don't leech from news organizations, but create their own raw material.
Tiny Farm Blog is built on original farm photography. Oakland Streets analyzes the byways of Oakland through the lens of urban planning theory. And this long-titled blog, created by a dear old chum of mine, reflects on swimming obscene distances. The raw material is life and the writers' own observations. Which, when you think about it, is pretty nice. And, really, not hurting anyone.
Tuesday, July 1, 2008
Another Henhouse Heartbreak
I went out this morning and found Camilla dead. She was killed by a raccoon. Feathers everywhere. I thought the coop was secure, but it wasn't.
Camilla deserves every bit as nice a eulogy as Hennessy got, but I don't have it in me to write another one so soon.
The irony is that she came near death a couple weeks ago because of an egg-laying problem and I fought hard and paid the vet a lot of money to keep her alive. I had the new little ones, Winona and Ximena, but it seemed too sad to lose all the originals so young and so suddenly. I had hoped for some flock continuity. Mais, c'est la vie. Or maybe the Yiddish is better: Man plan un Got lacht. Man plans and God laughs.
We buried her by the compost pile. She always loved pecking around in there. I care about my chickens, but they aren't straightforwardly pets and I haven't figured out where to draw certain lines. Having her oviduct surgically removed (a prospect we faced because of her reproductive illness) was an expense and an idea that made me uncomfortable. But throwing soil over her, keeping her in the backyard ecosystem, with the worms she would have enjoyed eating, felt right. I said kaddish.
I'm an avid reader of the plog Farmgirl Fare, and I'm reminded of the words of Farmgirl Susan when her sheep were being preyed on by coyotes: Sometimes farm life sucks.
You'll be missed, Camilla. Sorry I couldn't do better.
Camilla deserves every bit as nice a eulogy as Hennessy got, but I don't have it in me to write another one so soon.
The irony is that she came near death a couple weeks ago because of an egg-laying problem and I fought hard and paid the vet a lot of money to keep her alive. I had the new little ones, Winona and Ximena, but it seemed too sad to lose all the originals so young and so suddenly. I had hoped for some flock continuity. Mais, c'est la vie. Or maybe the Yiddish is better: Man plan un Got lacht. Man plans and God laughs.
We buried her by the compost pile. She always loved pecking around in there. I care about my chickens, but they aren't straightforwardly pets and I haven't figured out where to draw certain lines. Having her oviduct surgically removed (a prospect we faced because of her reproductive illness) was an expense and an idea that made me uncomfortable. But throwing soil over her, keeping her in the backyard ecosystem, with the worms she would have enjoyed eating, felt right. I said kaddish.
I'm an avid reader of the plog Farmgirl Fare, and I'm reminded of the words of Farmgirl Susan when her sheep were being preyed on by coyotes: Sometimes farm life sucks.
You'll be missed, Camilla. Sorry I couldn't do better.
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