Simian Farmer

THE LIST

I wanted to have some place to sort all my posts.  A huge morass of virtual viscera, floating about all unconfined-like, is most unseemly.

Below are links to most of my posts - those that I think didn't suck - in a few categories.  Newest at the top of each header.  I still have some work to do linking the older ones.

My personal favourites are emboldenated.

CAVEAT: it's long.

Reference
newest: 31-Aug-2006
oldest:  29-Sep-2004

Red, white and biased

Why can't we all just get along, eh?

 

(Rambling post, and really rather inconclusive in the end.)

S - M - R - T

So the other night I was lounging and watching something inane on television.  Which is a bit of a tautology, but whatever.

I had just finished putting Declan to bed and my wife was in the nursery changing the effluence from our younger son's toxic waste factory.  Exposing his manly bits to the fresh air quite often elicits a scrunchy-faced squalling reaction from him, so we habitually end the process by re-dressing him in non puke-stained attire in his crib with the rotating classical music mobile churning hypnotically above his head.  Mozart, Beethoven and Bach reduced to infantile placation.

Amy, more than slightly obsessed with ensuring that Tavish is breathing at all times, has the receiving end of the baby monitor out in the living room cranked to 11 for those times when he isn't in plain sight or velcroed to her bosom.  I'd be more annoyed by it but for the fact that a snoozing baby breathing quietly in his crib creates delightful allusions to Darth Vader out in the living room.

Stretched out on the sofa while Amy was changing Tavish, I could hear all the goings-on in the nursery via the monitor.  It's amazing what a twenty dollar piece of technology can pick up and broadcast into the next room: the crinkle of the new diaper being strapped on, Amy's subdued baby voice, the clicking of the plastic bits on the mobile, the tinny classical fugues, Tavish blinking...

The music being transmitted out to me from the speaker atop the television seemed a little slow, like a 78 rpm vinyl LP getting flicked down and played at 45.  (Yes, I am just barely old enough to have those memories.)  A wee bit off.  My first thought at hearing that, and for which I would like to blame the relatively late hour and my general state of inanity-induced lethargy, was, Hmmm, sounds like it's about time to change the batteries in the baby monitor.

Amy laughed at me again a week after I related the anecdote to her because she finally clued in to the fact that we have the receiver plugged in behind the television.

Credit where due

Props to my peep, The Corpse in Question, for offering to improvulate the half-assed page banner I had uploaded for the month of April.

It is now fully-assed.

Rock on.

---

EDIT (11.30 am):
The comments to this post have turned into an unexpectedly interesting discussion sparked by earnest enquiry.  It amuses me to note that, based on geography, it makes the question asker a Texan Catalyst.

I should also note that I am easily amused.

Canis Familiaris (sentimentalicus)

I speak to my wife nearly every day while I'm at work.  It helps keep the relationship hot and steamy when we make sure to discuss the consistency of our boys' bowel movements and whether or not the living room furniture has acquired any more permanent stains in the past day.  (Those that just fade into the beige upholstery are a bonus and we never speak of them.)

This morning when Amy called, I was reminded that it's Easter weekend and she asked me what day I have off work.  (I don't work for the government, so unfortunately I don't get both Friday AND Monday off.)  It's Friday, I discovered after I checked my calendar.  These long weekends almost inevitably sneak up on me and it's a joy to realise, here on Wednesday, that tomorrow is Friday, from a work week perspective.

(Amy was enquiring since we want to go see some friends on the weekend and show off the new-ish boy.)

Talking to me from the kitchen, Amy then went on to note that our Boxer dog looked to be sitting contentedly in the middle of the back yard smoking a big, fat, blue cigar.  Turns out she got a hold of one of the pieces of sidewalk chalk I picked up for Dex on the last shopping trip and was nibbling on the end.

**As an aside, thinking about the sidewalk chalk, our elder son is showing an increasing proclivity for using his right hand in most things.  I still love him though, and now hold out hope that our second boy will exhibit slightly more sinister traits.**

I am becoming increasingly alarmed that what began as an odious tolerance for the Boxer has now morphed into a sort of resigned ambivalence and is showing signs of wending its way towards as yet unknown degrees of affection.

I'll keep this from my wife for as long as I can.  The dog still pisses with excitement all over the floor at the front entrance when company arrives and takes upwards of 15 minutes to calm down afterwards.  Affection may be a ways off yet.

Byte o' Life: Hometown Hoedown

Now THIS is why we watch Madagascar as much as we do: the end credits.

Our little family has literally spent upwards of half an hour skipping back to the beginning of the credits and letting our boy go wild.  Absolutely great idea before bed.  Boy oh boy, does he sleep!

You can tell, at the end here, that he's quite spent.  What's really neat is when we watch the playback on my camera, Dex starts to dance all over again; very meta.

You would be well advised to turn up your speakers now.  If they go to 11, do it.

(As an added bonus, note the sedentary Jack Russell.  Very rare.)

 

The penis mightier

Words are my weapon of choice. 

I had originally considered pistols at dawn, but a great, sucking chest wound is sartorially cumbersome. 

And functioning lightsabres are still, lamentably, scientifically impossible.

The awkward and inept flailings to which the English language is frequently subjected sometimes drives me near to grief at the thought that the tool most often used to communicate is wielded so poorly by so many.

Were language a household VCR, I imagine that those of most would still be blinking 12:00.

I especially love English (if I can get away with saying this, not speaking any other language with anything approaching fluency) since it lends itself better than any other to neologisms that can be readily adopted and easily understood.  If humans evolved as quickly as our language has done, we'd all be gods by now.  Or at least some sort of meta-deity capable of flicking his thumb to produce a flame and ignite his own farts at parties.

One of the ways I strive to appease my thirst as a philomath is via the utilisation and expansion of my vocabulary.  I write here to practise the application of what skills I already have, which I attempt to bolster with new learnings and a wider array of words at my disposal.  More bullets for the magasine so I can shoot my mouth off with increasing eloquence.  Or at least give the semblance of eloquence.  Semblaquence?

There's a balance, of course, between a well-chosen word that adds weight to an intended sentiment or just makes one sound like a fustian fop.  I'm still walking the fence and sometimes find that I've inadvertently (or intentionally) leapt liberally over to one side or the other, tucking my legs up and shouting, "Cannonball!" as I plummet.  So long as I clamber back up to a happy medium and keep on keepin' on, I figger I'm doing okay.

I subscribe to a word-a-day Email that builds my vocabulary with some less frequently used English gems.  I'm happy to say that I know most of them when they hit my inbox.  A product of being a voracious reader since Dick and Jane and Spot first sparked my literary esurience.  But those that are new to me, or which I can't quite use comfortably in context, are immediately saved for future reference and I'll surreptitiously slip another bullet into my bandolier.

I ignore the ones that I know will never find their way into a conversation or piece of writing - blanks, if you will - but the rest get stored away and reviewed regularly.  If I can slip 'quondam' into a conversation, there's no way that day's been a total write-off, no matter what else transpired.  Small things.

Just because I can, here's the list.  I add to it, on average, once or twice a week.

Late for April

If I had any sort of competence with photo-editing software, this month's banner would be a little better.

Still, I think the subject matter speaks for itself.

(My main reason for blocking out all but the two spawn for the banner was that the bulk of the rest of the photo consisted rather largely of my wife's cleavage, whereupon the infant was nestled.  Said expanse, which I enjoy immensely, is not for public consumption.)

The Joy of Sect

Interesting encounter this week.  A flurry of activity at the end of a busy work day as I pulled in the driveway; but things always only get busier just as soon as I get home of late. 

Amy had to get to a doctor's appointment, and since her car is in the shop getting The Mostest Bloody Expensive Transmission Repair In The Whole History Of The World Ever, I make a point to come home and watch the toddler at times like this.

She can't hardly wait

Amy's with the younger sprog at a doctor's appointment as I write this.  He's still got a wee smidge of the oral thrush we found a couple weeks ago and, as well, Amy wants to make sure that Tavish isn't going to pick up the cold I was carrying around until recently.

There were a number of topics she wanted to be sure got covered with the doctor at today's visit.  Below is a snapshot of the list she forgot to take with her.

Ain't that grand??