look that up in your funk & wagnall's

It is as if expertise is no longer a virtue and that the expert is something virtually extinct. Instead of having to ask the creepy comic book shop guy when Aquaman joined the Justice League of America or the pierced chick at the vintage record store who wrote "Tell me why I don't like Mondays," we have pawned away our resources and too quickly turn to the internet, which has commercialized most of the trivia and advice that we are seeking and rent it back to us at a premium--only now with no guarantee for accuracy. One no longer asks a ninja, and even health care professionals are avoided unless one is given the response that they don't want. It's more than a bit sad that the devotee and the fanatic , the guru and whatever comes with the territory have become superfluous--not to mention treacherous.

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.