Over the weekend, some of Lilly’s friends came over for a while, and she made dinner for them and her family as well.
Among other things, a savory concoction of Italian sausage – both spicy and mild – along with onions, bell peppers, and I forget what else.
Too bad this blog doesn’t have a smell feature. I guarantee you’d want some of this right now.
“Did I make this much noise when I turned 11?” Lilly asked on Friday evening, soon after Ann’s 11th birthday get-together and sleepover got under way.
“Yes, you did,” I answered. That was the year she and her friends talked about calling the spectre of Bloody Mary, but didn’t get around to trying.
Eleven times around the Sun for Ann. Still a child, but edging away from it. There were no efforts to call out Bloody Mary at Ann’s event. I wasn’t expected any. But there was a lot of electronic game-play and standard-issue giggling. Pizza and cake were served.
On Saturday evening, we watched Moneyball on DVD. Or at least Ann and I did; Yuriko was too tired for it, and Lilly was out with friends. I’d heard it was good, and it was. I didn’t know the history of the 2002 Oakland As, so the arc of the story – if not the substance of it – was new to me. I’m glad it wasn’t an underdog-goes-all-the-way story. Instead, it was an underdog-has-a-better-season-than-expected story. Using math.
I didn’t realize that Philip Seymour Hoffman was even in that movie until I read one of his obits this morning. He played the obstreperous manager Art Howe. While watching that character I thought, he looks familiar. But I couldn’t place him. I guess that’s the mark of a fine character actor. He can disappear into his character.
When I hear of something like the Tokyo Skytree, I react with a completely irrational thought: how could they wait to build it until it’s inconvenient for me to see it?
During Yuriko and Ann’s recent trip to Japan, they visited the Skytree, which is now the tallest structure in Japan, and the tallest TV/radio tower on Earth, completed only in 2012 and coming in at more than 2,000 feet. The Skytree itself is a broadcast tower and tourist attraction, but it’s also part of a mixed-use development that includes office space, convention and meeting facilities, a theater, parking garages and more. The Tobu Railroad and a consortium of broadcasters developed it.
The tower also gives Japanese web site designers a chance to describe the place in English: “The ‘town with a tower’ promises a lifestyle that is not uniform. The facilities are developed with the aim of producing a community brand transmitting new local values to the world by generously introducing facilities and functions that will manifest the charm of the shitamachi spirit and produce a synergy effect.
“Note: Shitamachi means traditional old town area with Edo atmosphere.”
The observation deck’s got quite a view, my wife and daughter tell me. And what do you see?
A slice of the vastness of greater Tokyo.
I’ve turned most of the tree decorating over to the next generation. I did put the tree in the stand and string on the lights, though. Lilly and Ann didn’t quite get all of the ornaments on the first or second day, but they’re mostly done.
Icicles will go on tonight, and a star on top. I put on the star.
This is the first time the tree’s been in the lower level of the house, for various reasons. One is to complement the new walls and floor. The dog showed some interest in the smell of the thing, for a while, but the novelty wore off, and she hasn’t destroyed any of the ornaments yet.
Back again around December 1. There are things to do and things to eat between now and then. This year we might not bother with a separate Thanksgiving dessert, because a fair amount of Lilly’s birthday cake is still around. I can’t resist a half sheet when the time comes, so it always takes a while to get through it all.
As for the main ingredients of the feast — or really, just a large meal, since it won’t be boisterous enough to rise to the level of a feast — it’ll be some variety of large bird. It will not be expertly prepared raw fish. We had that for Lilly’s birthday meal.
I’m pretty sure that isn’t what I ate when I turned 16. But those were slightly different times.
The picture doesn’t need much explanation, except to say that that’s me – I’m the large monkey in the see-no-evil pose – with my nephews Sam (speak no evil) and Dees (hear no evil). Since the picture was taken by my brother Jay, their father, in late August 1988, the boys have gone on to be grown men.
I’m wearing my Hog Heaven, Hog Hell t-shirt, which depicts a one-panel cartoon by Sam Hurt: pigs lolling around on clouds, pigs finding themselves on plates next to fried eggs. I think I got it in Austin that year. I’m not sure what happened to it – maybe I lost it in one of my moves since 1988.
Finally, a day worthy of the name summer, at least in the North. Sunny and nearly 90 F.
But regardless of the outside temps, summer’s a fine time for afternoon naps, especially if you stay up late to finish something, but don’t finish it, and then get up early the next day to finally finish it. Because it must be done.
After the task is complete, you recline on your comfy couch, not even for a real nap, but to rest your eyeballs (a phrase I learned from Festus Haggen). As lethargy takes over, a certain dog shows up on the couch and burrows her way in. You’re too tired to shoo her off. Another resident of the house, one of your offspring, takes a picture of the scene.
When it doubt, take a picture of a dog. Especially a photogenic one. Ann went on a spree of dog photo-taking recently. Included were some profiles.
Some closeups.
Many shots of the napping dog.
Of course, the dog isn’t always so peaceful. Ann also manged to catch her warding off imaginary enemies.
And greeting someone on the other side of the fence.
Her basset hound heritage is evident in this shot. The others seem to illustrate her lab side.
Got a postcard from my nephew Dees last week, the nephew who’s the drummer for Sons of Fathers. It describes the 12th Bonnaroo Music & Arts Festival earlier this month, in which the band participated. The photo on the right depicts the only known first-name Deeses of the world, together about this time last year, when Sons of Fathers played at FitzGerald’s in Berwyn, Ill., and I went out to see them. He’s the hale fellow with facial hair.
A little further in the past – 1991 – I found myself driving from Boston to Chicago during this time of year, and I stopped at Gettysburg National Military Park. I missed the 128th anniversary of the battle by a few days, and presumably whatever commemoration events they had. I thought of that when I was reminded by the newspaper today that the 150th anniversary of the battle is upon us, beginning tomorrow, of course.
There were some other visitors when I was there, but not too many. It was a hot day, fittingly, since it was a high-summer battle, which must have added to the misery. This image captures the summer conditions of the site pretty well, besides the 72nd Pennsylvania Infantry Monument, which has its own intricate history, and which was knocked over by high winds only last week.
Here’s another view of the Angle – the stone wall that Pickett’s men managed to reach (Lewis Addison Armistead’s men, but let’s not be too pedantic).
I haven’t seen one of these quarters yet, though I’ve been noticing a number of national park quarters in change lately.
I’ll say it again: Sunday was a crummy excuse of a day for early June, dank and cold. And it isn’t like we get to have a pleasant warm day in early December in return. Except that we did, and maybe this is Old Man Winter’s way of balancing things out (just because it’s June doesn’t mean that old man is idle).
Late in the afternoon on Sunday, everyone but me sacked out in the living room. Left to right: Ann, Lilly (can’t see her face, but note the pink-framed iPod next to her), the dog, Yuriko.
It was a lot like a pic I took on the cold May 31, 2012, except the floor was even more crowed this time around. Plus ça change doesn’t just apply to big-picture events or overarching social conditions, but quotidian moments too.
