our garden has begun to yield bounty. tomatoes o'plenty of varying lineage, kirby cukes, powerful peppers, and alllll the thai basil to shake a stick at. maryland is a fantastic place to grow tomatoes, they thrive moreso than any other locale i have sown seeds in. let this be a short photo essay of the glory from wince i witnessed this morning...
i love the star trek: next generation series. i really do. i am particularly fond of worf. he is focused on getting it done and has some great comic relief lines.
my pattern of behavior when amy is out of town is to head to the video store and saunter back with an armload of sci-fi movies. she doesn't share the love for this niche genre that i do, so i spare her the grief. the funny thing is, i don't regularly crave sci-fi when she is around-- it is only when she has to go away on business or the like. perhaps i have created a pavlovian response to amy-go-on-plane, spenser-get-outerspace-movies.
at any rate, bone was mighty kind in allowing me to borrow season one and two of star trek: tng. when i have completed the adventure, i'll mail the dvds back to him. i must say as that i have seen a good number of them in the past, but it is good to rewatch them, and in chronological order. you can more readily see the character development and the growth of the complexity of the plot line. in the back of my mind, i am considering an attempt of full-conversion of amy's point of view of the brilliant show. perhaps, if i select a pinnacle episode from this batch she won't be able to see anything but the glory that is embodied therein. transmission completed: stardate -317568.02.
i've lived in several neighborhoods here and there in my thirty some odd years, and have found that each neighborhood has its own protocol as to what is considered normal behavior. the city of baltimore, in itself, is quirky and unique. but even moreso are the odd working class mix of faces, however configured by the nature and nurture circumstance, here in hampden.
one of the area's finest is the one we know as "the urban pirate." he and his hairless head are always wandering alone along the neighborhood streets. once the temperature hits 55degrees, he is surely not wearing a shirt, but rather clutching it in his right hand as it beats time on his denimed leg with the left-right of his neanderthalithic gait. his skin is deeply darkened by his love for the sun and resembles a texture and orderliness somewhere between a bulldog and the ripples of a soft-serve ice cream cone. his heart, however contradictory from his appearance, is pure, i am certain. a misunderstood urban pirate.
the real purpose for this post was to be the title, the hampden doorbell. as within this riddled neighborhood, at any hour of the day, visitors to a home will simply roll up outside and toot-toot their horn for recognition of their arrival. now, yes, this happens in every neighborhood, i understand. but we are talking about every 45 minutes in hampden. seldom do you see drivers or passengers exit their vehicle to physically knock-knock on someone's door. a driver will honk-honk, sometimes up to 10 minutes awaiting a head to poke out of the sought-after's door. a local custom that i wish not to manifest. in the words of the urban pirate, "aarrrgghh."
a new neighbor moved in about a month ago. one afternoon, we exchanged names and chatted a bit. he brews beer and said that we were more than welcome to come over to sample some of his stock. this was intriguing, yet we haven't taken him up on the offer as of yet.
about a week later i saw him again in the backyard and he said "hi" and what i thought sounded like the name "Kyle." i dismissed this, thinking that i had simply misheard him. yet this evening, sure enough, "hey, Kyle."
do i look like a Kyle? i don't know if i mind it so much, but if we are to take our relationship further, i suppose that i'll have to correct him. Kyle, huh.
this happened a few years ago, when i operated the bicycle-powered curbside recycling service back in good ol' iowa. the guy that i took my aluminum cans and plastic bottles to, on a daily basis, called me "Vic" for about 5 months. i started to correct him one afternoon and he interrupted me, so i let it pass. i came to enjoy being called Vic. Vic was fun, Vic was a crazy cyclist who cruised about the town and loaded recyclable goods onto the back of two 8-foot long custom-built bicycle trailers. alas, the fun ended one day.
on a hot afternoon in july, the fellow stopped me and began conversation as we normally did, yet this time he interrupted himself and asked, "so why do they call you 'Vic,' anyway?" nobody had ever called me Vic except for this guy! i was caught in an alter-ego and squeaked out an "uh, i dunno." he accepted this answer (thankfully) and then asked what i would rather be called. i told him that it didn't matter at all to me.
a mutual acquaintance must have blown my Vic persona out of the water, i've always figured. for a short time afterwards, he always stumbled when he addressed me by name, as if he was trying on a pair of neoprene lederhosen two sizes too small and saying hello to his hollywood crush. Vic died on that sultry July afternoon. he was laid to rest and never to be spoken of again. although, his memory lives on.
oh, the error of judgment? i am typing away at this keyboard with burning hot habanero hands. they didn't burn right away after cutting the little lantern-shaped pepper, but the intensity of pain has continued to grow. ugh.
this is a shot from the 7th hole at brent baca disc golf course last thursday, bachelor party day.
bone and e. got married in the waning albuquerque sun on saturday evening. the ceremony was direct and to the point, and the celebration that ensued was fantastic. it was wonderful to be with friends old and new, and to have a front row seat for all the weekend action. i miss everyone already.
