I do not know if this is just a southern thing or if it is a suburbia thing, or if it is a cultural thing but I would like to get every ones opinion on "the wave". What is "the wave"? The wave is what you do when you are driving or walking and you wave at a unknowing and unrelated person driving or walking pass you. Okay, It is not an all out how you doing wave but it is nonetheless an "hey there person on the road that I don't know but i am nice so I am speaking to you wave". Now its not that I have a problem with "the wave" but what happens when the wave is not returned or worst is returned with the "stank eye"? Does it even matter? Well from my perspective it does. I believe that if a person gives you "the wave" it is only right that you return the courtesy. Now I have visited cities in the Northern part of the U.S. and I think they have figured out this problem for themselves. THEY JUST DON'T DO IT! That's right there is no waving so there are no hurt feelings. Nobody speaks, nods their head, gives the hello eye contact, or wave as you pass by. Now this works for places up north but in the south it is part of the cultural fabric to wave, speak, nod your head, or sometimes all of the above in some sequence.

Well I did my social or should I say southern dilegence today and I gave a person walking by "the wave" but I did not so much as get a nod in return. Instead I got the "stank eye". You know the look that asks why did you wave at me and never do it again. I thought I was just doing my part to keep the wheels of peace and balance on the earth spinning but I was mistaken today. Could it be that I am all wrong on this wave thing? Maybe people really don't like to wave in the first place but they tolerate it from southerners. I don't know the answer but I believe that from now on I will play it safe and wait for the initial wave before I display my wave in a public manner. This will at least ensure I am on the good side of the "return wave" because the last thing anyone wants these days is to feel like their generous southern wave has been returned with a notorious "stank eye". I obviously need to venture up north a lot more were there is not so much pressure to be nice to people you don't even know. This is just my perspective on "the wave". What does everyone else think?

• Lark, the Offal: saying congrats before the wedding is just asking for the ice sculpture to land on someone. [reference to Over Her Dead Body]

Lindsay: You're only like. a year and five days older than me. or something
Lindsay: wait. two years
Lindsay: ...
Lindsay: fuck math.
Lindsay: anyway.

Uncle Iroh: ; He jumped back up, facing Zuko this time. ; IF I HATED YOU
Uncle Iroh: I would totally pee in your soup.
Uncle Iroh: So.
Uncle Iroh: Quiet.

Lark, the Offal I bet in the license agreement [for WoW] it says that you agree to sell your soul to Blizzard for a minimum of two years.
Lark, the Offal But no one reads that, so people hit "I accept" and never know.

Lark, the Offal Jack's a vampire.
Lark, the Offal He could be a bat.
Lark, the Offal <_<;
Lark, the Offal That's a mammal.
Lark, the Offal >_>;
Jack Faust.: I can not!
Lark, the Offal XD

Jack Faust.: ; He searched his pocket.
Jack Faust.: ; took out a brick.
Jack Faust.: ; held it out.
Jack Faust.: >_____>;
Sukiko: That's not a mammal!
Jack Faust.: This is a cat.
Jack Faust.: Wtf are you talking about.
Jack Faust.: Watch.
Sukiko: A brick?
Sukiko: =\
Jack Faust.: ; dropped the brick
Sukiko: I told you.
Sukiko: I dun' want a cat.
Jack Faust.: c'mere whiskers.
Jack Faust.: ; it lay there.
Jack Faust.: lazy fucker.
Jack Faust.: >____>;
Sukiko: -Her tail flicked behind her.-
Jack Faust.: ; kicked the brick.
Jack Faust.: ; several times.
Jack Faust.: CMONWHISKERS.
Jack Faust.: See?
Jack Faust.: A cat.
Jack Faust.: .___.;
Sukiko: I dun' want a cat!
Jack Faust.: ; the brick lie there, broken a little.
Sukiko: .-.
Lark, the Offal o_o
Lark, the Offal Poor brick.
Jack Faust.: It's a cat, Lark.
Jack Faust.: >___>;'
Jack Faust.: I have a parrot.
Lark, the Offal <_< is the parrot a brick too?

Alyssa Kanzaki: .....
Alyssa Kanzaki: Lark
Alyssa Kanzaki: You need
Alyssa Kanzaki: To go back to your alien planet?
Lark, the Offal: I need to swap bodies with some--ouch.
Lark, the Offal: Ouch, Aly.

Lark, the Offal ZEBRAS ARE LAME.
Lark, the Offal THEY'RE STRIPED HORSES.
Lark, the Offal THAT GET EATEN.

Star Alchemist: I don't think he [my roommate] hates me.
Star Alchemist: I do his Econ homework for him.
Lark, the Offal Rofl
¤ Tsuruno Shinchou ¤: LOL

Star Alchemist: I can't believe that people really believe that God publishes a book.
Lark, the Offal "God's Publishing House: New York - Boston - Chicago"
Star Alchemist: Copyright = 0 BC.
¤ Tsuruno Shinchou ¤: LOL

Where to begin?

I first encountered the writing of A.M. Homes in 2002 in the Guardian summer fiction magazine. They included a story of hers called "It's Not Every Day a Fat Cat Brings You Flowers - Or, the True Story of an American Patriot" (which is still up on the Guardian site here ), and I was bowled over by it. The story, I now know, was written as an introduction to a book on the artist Carroll Dunham and is a near-perfect evocation of the feelings evoked by his work.

I decided I wanted to read more, so scoured the bookstores and found another story in "The Burned Children of America" (edited by Zadie Smith, and now sadly out of print), this one, "A Real Doll" is possibly her most well-known story, about a boy who is dating his sister's Barbie doll. Yup, you read that right. It also blew me away. So I decided I had to get hold of everything else too (book-nerdiness striking again...).

So...given that most people I encounter have only read "This Book Will Save Your Life" - here are some reasons to crack open her back catalogue (note the "some", if I covered all the fiction and non-fiction I'd be here for a day, and the wall of text would make peoples' eyes bleed).

"The Safety of Objects", her first short story collection, contains what is to me the best description ever of a mixed states manic episode in the story "Yours Truly".  According to a reviewer quoted on the inside cover, the story is actually about "finding self-love", and it could be that too, but like any reader I brought my own experience to the table when reading it, so I'm only capable of saying what it means to me, and not what it means in any definitive sense.

"Jack", her first novel, was written when she was 19, as a homework exercise - she didn't like the assignment and asked if she could just write a novel instead.  The book has never been out of print since, and deservedly so. That is the level of talent we're talking about here.

"Music For Torching" is my favourite modern novel. Period. So much so that I managed to get my mitts on a signed, first edition, first printing copy. There is something about the surreality of events, coupled with the realistic portrayal of a marriage in trouble (they're both to blame, neither of them has the desire or the  energy to try to fix things), it is both hilarious and heartbreaking, and despite all the weirdness manages to feel extremely real. The last line breaks my heart. Unlike some readers, I actually like Paul and Elaine, despite their many flaws, their blindness, wilfulness and idiocies - because these things make them flawed human beings, capable of inflicting unthinking hurt on oneanother while trying desperately to keep from feeling "stuck" in a world of their own making. There are Pauls and Elaines all around us.  To me, this book is an urgent call to take responsibilty for your own life, to stop simply letting things happen, take your gaze off your own navel and actually live in and with the world around you. It's a theme she revisits in "This Book Will Save Your Life", with (to my mind at least) less of a punch.

"Things You Should Know" is her most recent short story collection, and one that has proved (like everything else she has written) controversial. Some stories are cited as being purely written to provoke (as in to shock, not as in thought-provoking) and I couldn't disagree more. The stories are elegant, truthful, and are (as all the best short stories are) like onions, revealing another layer on each re-reading. I'm still haunted by "Georgica", possibly the saddest story I have ever read - about lack of trust, isolation, and a desperate need for connection.  The ending, to me at least, is ambiguous, and I have often wondered what will become of the titular character - I can't say many other writers have provoked that kind of musing after the fact.

To address the "controversial" tag - Homes tends to be shocking on the surface (unless you count "The End of Alice" which is thoroughly disturbing all the way through, but for a purpose, and remains the only book that left me so shocked on finishing it that I broke down in tears three days later (while cooking dinner) and bawled my eyes out for a solid hour. No exaggeration.) and yet her stories are wholly concerned with morality. How we live, how we respond to the world around us, who we are in public and in private and the gulf between who we are and who we would like to be.

Big themes, and none of them written in letters ten feet high. Rather, they depend on the reader's reactions, the reader's own morality - some things chime, some things clang - and that is a whole lot harder to do than hammering your point home with large brush-strokes (or literally hammering them into a wall as Elaine does with her dissatisfaction in "Music For Torching"). There are other moral hints in her books, characters that are bad to the bone are not given names (viz. "the date" in "Music for Torching" or "Chappy" (I prefer to think of him as "that bastard"),the paedophile in "The End of Alice), they are almost like faceless manifestations of the darkness in the world. There is immense power in the giving of a name, it allows the reader to conjure up a person to go with it, but Homes makes these characters darker still by witholding names from them.

There is also a preoccupation in her work with children, and the ways in which their parents let them down.  It should come as no great surprise to any thinking person that children are capable of cruelty ("The Whiz Kids"), curiosity ("Slumber Party") and taking on the sins of their parents ("Rockets Round the Moon") - but what is missing in the stories Homes writes is any sense of parental control. The parents seem incredibly naive or self-obsessed and are as incapable of actually seeing their children as they are of protecting them.  This is not such a stretch of the imagination - every parent thinks their child is wonderful, and special - but what she does so well is highlight the dangers in not paying attention (on many levels) to the real child as opposed to some idealised version.

All of the above make Homes a writer well worth reading. She is woefully under-read on this side of the Atlantic, and I cannot recommend her highly enough.

I should also add that a writer this good deserves a more eloquently written tribute, so please forgive my clumsiness and give her a read instead.

That is all.

En opinión de Ressler, se trataba de un varón que contaba con no más de cuarenta años, heterosexual (cada asesino mata al género que es objeto de su deseo), habitante del sórdido distrito de Whitechapel, escenario de los ataques (pues es sabido que conocía bien los vericuetos de huida que ofrecían sus callejones y pasadizos), perteneciente a la clase baja o media baja (un aristócrata o tan sólo un caballero de atuendo elegante paseándose por la zona del bajo mundo hubiera hecho sonar la alarma para los cientos de agentes y patrullas de vecinos que vigilaban cada esquina). En suma, un individuo capaz de esconderse entre la multitud de harapientos que el Londres victoriano toleraba merced a las dádivas otorgadas por las asociaciones de damas de caridad y los dones concedidos por la buena de Dios.

Una frenética mitología reemplaza, casi siempre, a la aburrida realidad de los hechos. Jack era muy probablemente un hombre común, de inteligencia algo menos que moderada, cuyas fáciles presas eran mujeres arrojadas al riesgo de la prostitución callejera por obra de la desesperación y de la indiferencia con que las décadas tardías del siglo XIX observaban la inequidad social. Cierta imaginación no exenta de respetuoso asombro lo convirtió en un asesino genial, quizás un artista del cuchillo. Es válida la aseveración del criminólogo Steven Egger: si un ser humano ha estado menos vivo -es decir, ha sido  invisible y hasta indeseable para la sociedad circundante, como lo son las prostitutas, los homosexuales, los drogadictos, los sin techo y los ancianos, entre otros- estará menos muerto una vez que algún émulo de Jack haya consumado su trabajo. Ese desprecio apenas velado hace del caso un reporte olvidado, estrecha la implícita alianza entre las despreocupadas autoridades y el matador, y amplía para éste la permanencia en depredadora libertad en su coto de caza.

Entre la miríada de cosas que ignoro se halla el hecho de saber si en alguna otra parte del planeta, además de en la República Islámica de Irán, existe en la múltiple mente de la población (la casi exclusivamente masculina) gloriosa aprobación para con los crímenes de un asesino serial, en tanto su cosecha se limite a los campos habitados por las castas de parias detalladas más arriba. Fue durante la sequía del árido año 2000 que en los baldíos de Mashhad, una ciudad en el noreste de Irán, comenzaron a verse los cadáveres de empobrecidas mujeres envueltos de pies a cabeza en el obligatorio chador. En Julio del año siguiente fue arrestado Said Hanaei, un albañil, habitante de uno de los vecindarios menos favorecidos de Mashhad, veterano de la guerra que enfrentara a su país con Iraq durante la mayor parte de la década de los ochenta. Ese conflicto causó en el bando iraní la friolera de más de medio millón de muertos. Dado que la maternidad en el islamismo concebido por Irán es una función, no un derecho, la mayoría de las viudas son a su vez madres, a la sazón muy jóvenes. No es sencillo encontrar trabajo en una economía que discrimina malamente al sexo femenino y cuyos recursos están dirigidos a fabricar los medios para aplastar a Israel en lugar de producir infraestructura y bienes de consumo. Hanaei prometía una magra pero alentadora  compensación en metálico o en alimentos y atraía a las desdichadas mujeres a su casa, en donde  morían  estranguladas  luego de la  violación. Esta metodología envolvente le valió el mote de la araña de Mashhad.

Hanaei asesinó con éxito en dieciséis ocasiones. La decimoséptima vez, quizás en razón de su satisfecha soberbia, un descuido permitió escapar a la mujer, quien lo denunció a la policía, la que hasta entonces poco había hecho para dar con él. Hanaei fue juzgado y condenado a muerte a fines de 2001. La sentencia causó desmayo en los círculos clericales de Irán. En la docta opinión de los mullahs, Hanaei había llevado a cabo una cruzada contra el vicio, deshaciéndose de los elementos más dañinos para el delicado sentido de la moral islámica. La particular perspectiva del código penal iraní llama a los pecadores desperdicio de sangre y se alegra con su eliminación. Esta visión era compartida por vastos sectores del mundo varonil de Irán, y por el propio Hanaei, el que aseguraba contar con la aprobación de su dios en la comisión de los asesinatos, a los que denominaba, en su sencillo vocabulario, limpieza. Su hijo Ali, de catorce años, juró continuar la obra de su padre en cuanto le fuera posible. Los grupos paramilitares más duros (todos lo son en Irán), como Ansar-e Hizbollah (literalmente, los ayudantes del Partido de Dios), amenazaron con amotinarse si Hanaei era ejecutado. El periódico ultraconservador Jomhuri-e Islami (órgano oficioso del Estado islámico) protestó en un editorial que no era Said Hanaei quien debía afrontar el patíbulo, sino "las propiciadoras de la corrupción" y clamó por manifestaciones populares en favor del nuevo héroe de la república, las que no se hicieron esperar. Aun así, gobernaba en esos días a Irán el relativamente moderado Mohammad Khatami. Ansioso por mejorar las relaciones diplomáticas y comerciales con Occidente, y a despecho de las autoridades religiosas, presionó para que la sentencia se cumpliese y de ese modo evitar que Irán consolidase su imagen de país salvaje. No es inimaginable que esta señal de acercamiento a los valores occidentales acelerara su caída. Un gesto similar difícilmente tendría lugar en los actuales tiempos del obtuso Ahmadinejad.

Said Hanaei fue ahorcado el 8 de Abril de 2002 en presencia de los familiares de sus víctimas. Lo acompañó a la muerte, sin embargo, el aliento y la compasión de demasiados iraníes que sueñan con atar un lazo alrededor del cuello de la (según ellos) prostituida nación de Israel, entregada irredentamente a los brazos del Gran Satán, cómico nombre con el que usualmente se refieren a los Estados Unidos. No obstante, la orfandad absoluta en la que fueron sumidos los hijos de las vituperadas mujeres a las que Said Hanaei escarneció y mató no puede hallar, aun si lo quisiera, en toda la extensión de la Islámica República de Irán nada que se le antoje gracioso.

Hadrian Bagration

I took the above picture during a game of raspberries- it is obvious he won! LOL Here are 3 others I took on Sunday during a visit:

The highlight of the visit was when Jack held his arms out to me and lunged forward! My heart melted on the spot!! He brings so much joy to Joe and I!

I'll share the finished applique quilt tomorrow and also the next quilt I'm doing for a friend. Tonight is the monthly quilt guild meeting, so I also need to get my quilt show entries in order to turn in.

Hugs, from Carla

Dr. Jack Caton, chair and program director of the division of periodontology is the winner of the 2008 Ross Award for Excellence in Clinical Research.  The award is sponsored by the ADA through the ADA Foundation and Johnson & Johnson Consumer and Personal Products Worldwide.

The full story, from the ADA News, may be found here.

Il y a des moments, des instants assez insolites dans la vie d'un homme, où on doit doit certainement regretter d'avoir fait une grosse connerie.
Il est clair pour beaucoup que le monde politique ne manque pas d'opportunistes, parmi bien sur toutes les femmes et les hommes respectables de ce milieu social assez spécial. Jack Lang aura prouver aujourd'hui qu'il est un grand politicien (ferme dans ses "convictions"), mais qu'il est prêt à tous pour obtenir un poste, où disons un reste d'os à mâcher...
Je n'irai pas jusqu'à réclamer que l'on le tonde, mais de la même manière que Fadela Amara crie haut et fort qu'elle n'a pas tourner sa veste, que Kouchner continue d'affirmer qu'il est de gauche, Lang aura démontrer sa connaissance en culture ... politicienne.
Saluons tout de même un bon côté chez Sarkozy, c'est cette capacité à nous débarrasser des vieux du PS, que l'on appelle communément les éléphants.
Allez, plus que Fabius, Hollande, etc. Mais bon, ne rêvons pas trop. Au PS, les papys font de la résistance face à l'envahisseur de moins de 30 ans.
"Le monde brûle pendant que nous regardons ailleurs" comme disait Jacques Chirac...

I'm happily cruising along 5th Street, relieved no cars are honking at me this time, when I realize I'm about to be at 5th & Lamar. Where the far left-hand lanes, in which I am pedaling along, become turn-only lanes. Nooooo! So rather than hop up onto the sidewalk, I just bike myself over into the straight lane. Sitting at the light, a little red bike with a rookie atop, amongst SUVs, trucks, and the occasional Civic, I feel a little terrified, like I'm inhaling a lot of smog, and pretty proud of myself. I'm a real commuter-biker now!

The light turns, I ramp up my pedals, and spin my way to the gym. No mishaps! I didn't get run over! Yay!

In other bike news, I finally stopped by Mellow Johnny's. Of course, it was just to check out the place and not to inquire about a bike, but I can't help but compare how the people at Jack & Adam's were super friendly, whereas at Mellow Johnny's it took them several minutes to even greet me and my friend. We browsed a bit, scoped out the locker rooms (um, they look like locker rooms!), then headed out, feeling a little bit unwelcome. This isn't to say that I wouldn't go back there if I started bike-commuting to an office downtown and needed a place to store my bike for $1 a day ($20 a month is way cheaper than gas), but I'm less excited about it than I was when it first opened.

Plus, something I'd love is to be able to bike downtown at night, and that's for sure not happening when they close at something like 7. I wonder if it'd be worth the cost to keep it open later?

Oh by the way, my name is Jason. If you do not know who I am, well, then you probably stumbled here by accident. Feel free to stay and visit as I learn to blog my life. There is no real goal for this blog other than cathartic release, smartass comments and generally interesting though eventually (already) patented ideas. So we'll figure it out as we go.

The big news recently (for me and my friends) has been the release of Dr. Horrible's Sing-Along Blog, the musical Internet mini-series by Joss Whedon. If you don't know who he is then I suggest Google or Wikipedia. I thought the show was great and the songs were amazing. I am Jonesing for the soundtrack. Jack is also obsessed with the music and is constantly singing all of the songs for which I expect my wife, Tracy, to beat me silly pretty soon as I have already caught her giving me the "I can't believe you taught him all those songs and he won't stop singing them" look a few times now.

All for now. -Jason s.b.f.

After we left IHOP, we took the car to get the oil changed. The place I go allows us to stay in the car so Jack and I played ball in the car.

Right next to the oil place is a car wash. Again, Jack and I stayed inside while the car took a bath. Jack was intrigued, scared, and excited throughout the process. We stepped out of the car and waited next to some cool toys as it got vacuumed. Once Jack figured out how to get the beads from one end to the other, he was focused in on the task of getting all the beads on one side and then alternating. Needless to say, he was not thrilled when I told him to say goodbye to the toys. He handled the departure well so I decided to see if they had that toy at Toys 'R' Us.

We looked all over Toys 'R' Us and even asked an employee for help but they don’t carry the desired toy. Unfazed, we had fun discovering new toys. I wandered over to the clearance section and saw a guitar. Jack loves watching me play guitar for Bible study and always insists that he try his hand at it. When I showed him the guitar, it was love at first sight. He grabbed it out of my hands when I asked him if he would like it. He dragged it along to the checkout. And after I paid for it, he dragged it out the door and through the parking lot, stopping traffic as we went by.

When we got home, he was still dragging it as he rushed in to show Mommy. He was so excited! It was the reaction that I had hoped for with other presents I (we) had bought him in the past.

Well, he had fun all day long with his guitar. We even wrote a song and filmed it for your enjoyment.
It’s too early to put him in guitar lessons, but he plays his guitar every day and his love for his guitar puts a smile on our face. It’s amazing to think that he could be leading others in worship one day. We pray that God will direct his talents and excitement to bring glory to Him.

I wait for the time, it comes real slow.
I would rather hide, but you already know.
What lays in the dark, with a glare in my eye.
Staring close, as you sit and cry.
You hear me breath, as your tears fall down.
Waiting for me, to take care of your frown.
But I sit and watch, as you wipe them away.
You get on your knees, and begin your pray.
Your words are soft, and pure as can be.
But you know your words, are hard for me to see.
You look back, to make sure Im there.
But my look brings, a chill in the air.
You look away, and look into the sky.
You can tell, midnight has passed by.
You begin to stand up, and take in the fresh air.
You realize it was me that made you feel better, not the prayer.

Jake Alexander Cruse

Summer has not been the same this time around. The first half of last summer was so amazing. We were out at the beach/park/zoo almost every day. The second half I had a newborn and well, pretty much stayed in the air conditioning. If you know me at all you know I love summer. I have threatened to move to California, and just love being outside enjoying the weather. The crazy weather in the spring threw me a curve ball this year, and now I just can't get into it. I finally have been out a few times the last couple of weeks and feel like I am finally getting the most out of summer. (even though it is almost August)

We started a toddler playgroup at church and had a blast at our first meeting. Hopefully we can build some new friendships through that for me and the kids!

 Last Sunday we attended the church picnic and enjoyed the summer a little too much. Axel ended up with heat exhaustion and had a headache, fever and vomitting all night. Praise the Lord he is alright!

 I am fortunate to have an amazing sister who I can entrust my children too, and on Tuesday she took Miracle for me and I took Axel, Jack and Ella to Como Town. We really had a great time and already have another trip back planned.

[caption id="attachment_23" align="aligncenter" width="300" caption="Como town teacups"][/caption]

Besides the rides, we love checking out the baby orangutan and the butterfly tent. It is fun to watch the babies as the butterflies are going right past their heads. They get so excited when one is close enough for them to get a good look. It helps that the tent is shaped and colored like a monarch caterpillar as well.

[caption id="attachment_25" align="aligncenter" width="300" caption="The Butterfly Tent"][/caption]

So, has the summer been weird for anyone else? Or do I just need to get with the program? Any great ideas for a one, two and three year old?

I'm off to make a tutu:) 

And clean my house:(

Which Harry Potter Character Are You?

Which Lost Character Are You?

Nu stiu ce sa zic. Nu sunt atat de evil ca Draco dar nici atat de "ajutator" precum Jack.

All this nostalgia.

Listening to the King does it every time. And it doesn’t even matter that the places he takes you were never in yer own past – still, they sound nice. You find yourself yearning for cold wintry mornings – but then reality bites and it’s all very nice but also annoying from the daily-fuckin’-life perspective.

Look away,

Look away.

I guess it comes down to a lack of poetry or quality in peoples’ lives, or mine anyway. There’s a gut feeling I have that I must do something – and yet 'cause of repetition I can’t be arsed.

L’enfer, c'est la répétition – a guy once said, I’ll look up who it was later.

But it’s the truth. A lot of people seem to have no problem taking that for granted. That’s their problem. Or fortune, perhaps.

Ah but the dreams, man. They never stop.

I'm sorry.  This is boring, I know.  I will try to make something really fantastic and exciting for dinner.

Also, here's a puppy:

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