76 trombones

Over the weekend, H and I went to a neighbouring town to attend an annual Stadtfest. The event lasted through the weekend and culminated with a grand, horse-drawn parade through the streets. The parade was a cavalcade of historic personages, mostly from the area, like Bavarian kings and queens, famous artisans and sculptors, dashing dukes and pre-imminient physicians. There were also throngs of people in traditional costume and historic outfits and energetic marching-bands. While watching, I had a minor revelation that hosting a parade could also be a real boon for our little street: we could charge a nominal entry fee, like they did, or take a percentage of concessions, and make a small fortune. Aside from the money, I got very excited about working out the logistics for, what the theme might be or what we could name it--the musically inclined down stairs neighbour could provide the entertainment, a jam session with African drums and piano--the Russian (Little Odessa) contingency across the street could represent with a small cultural demonstration. There's the old man with a rambunctious pony and the other old man with riding lawn-mowers, and I think I have already established that the old woman who tossed the scarecrow over her cabbages has a flair for design.

manufactured crisis

The German people are not as a whole insurance-junkies, as H was trying to convince me--or rather that he was not a fanatic himself. The Germans are not a particularly legitious people, either, though I think that their almost complete lack of sleazy lawyer advertisements and claim-jumping television offers, make them seem to take the matter more seriously. There is a plethora of insurance to be had to safeguard every aspect of one's health, property and legacy, all narrowly and precisely defined. Sometimes I feel that this multiplicity of underwriters must have very hyper-active imaginations, turning every benign instance into a chain-reaction of events that lead to freak-accidents, the overturning of empires. I am sure that agents thought up the butterfly-effect or the creationists' argument about the jalopy spontaneously formed when a tornado sweeps over a junk-yard. Still, there's much sense to having the extra protection that hopefully one will never need. H took the matter seriously as we were talking about options and the extra coverage, and he got a bit annoyed with me for missing the point, which I often do. Insurance beyond the ilk of the proletariat does not give one license to be a jerk: I can't put our trash in the neighbour's dustbin and feel immune from any repercussions because we're insured. I can't incite a turf war at the flea market, because we're insured--although the policy specifies it can cover loses or damages sustained in a side-business operation. The policy also explicitly covers damages done to hotel rooms or other rental property. I was really hung up with the idea that H and I could trash a hotel room like rock-stars and get away with it.

give me a bouncy C

Though I read "Even Cowgirls Get the Blues" in junior high, I still remember the fanfare and celebration that was made out of the 100th chapter. Most novels do not embrace that many chapters--even though most were qualified as little more than a couple of pages (a big deal was also made out of passages that were longer than the norm) and many just two paragraphs--sort of log a blog entry. This is my 100th posting. That's a milestone, of sorts. Many bloggers though have the bloody-mindedness, I think, to make it to one hundred chapters and far beyond, whether or not being prolific garners notice.

keening

Lately, H and I have been regularly patronizing the latest affiliate of a multi-national, multi-verse chain of home furnishing store that opened in a town close to home. We swept down on this local outlet for some quick and dirty shopping sprees. I just get a kick out of the whole store culture hanging off of it—the nomenclature and the mobbing and the hugeness of it all that makes one feel on a separate astral plane. I have heard that the founder of the company started with the cute names because of struggles with dyslexia and an inability to cope with numbers. When H and I next visit Sweden, I think we should speak a pidgin that’s entirely composed of the names home décor. Holmbo bestå vika kivsta ekarp Stockholm? Is it jibberish, sweded? I knew a waitress from there once who thought the Swedish Chef from the Muppetts was the funniest thing in creation. I wonder if it is at all intelligible. I wonder if my houseshoes, named Njuta, are in any way suggestive of houseshoes.