This morning, I wrote an obituary and contacted a probate lawyer, so that’s where I’m at. I did post a video that I’d mostly written last week, and this morning I’m going to spend some quiet time feeding the spiders.
I’m also actively avoiding human contact, but that’s mostly normal for me.
My sisters have been gathering photos for a memorial service next week. Here’s Mom in the 1950s with her beau:
And the last photo I have of her, looking dignified and a bit tired:
When I think about my childhood, I founder on the fact that memory is not linear, it’s not complete, and most of what remember is a wash of general feelings and confabulations anchored by brief, vivid flashes of specific moments that are lit up by unforgettable events. I was fortunate that much of that vague blur of background events was made up of kindness and love, of a stable and affectionate home, but that also means that the specific memories are scarce and hard to salvage from the general wave of goodness, and are difficult to place in a clear sequence, unless they’re attached to a recorded historical event.
One such memory is from March of 1964. I was seven, attending Kent Elementary, and I was alone, walking across the playground, which was conveniently across the street from my house. I was alone because I had no friends; we had moved to a new house and a new school, which was a common event, since my parents were struggling economically, and we moved roughly once a year, as they tried to simultaneously move out of the poor places they were trapped in and build a stable home for their family. That’s part of the background noise of my childhood memories, trying to remember which house we were living in when some more interesting thing happened. My memory warehouse is built of one rental after another, creating a ramshackle sequence that stitches events together.
The bright moment that illuminates this one memory is the Great Alaskan Earthquake of 1964. I was walking, alone, when suddenly my legs were swept out from under me, and I was on my knees wondering why I was still wobbling and how the earth beneath me wasn’t stable anymore. I looked up at the school and saw a crack had formed in its south wall. I looked to the right at my house, and saw a few bricks fall from the chimney. That was all — this was near Seattle, far from the epicenter — so damage was light, and maybe the worst of it for me was the abrupt loss of certainty. Not even the Earth could be trusted.
That house, though…
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You’ve got a few hours left to make it! I just got back from the event at the Morris hockey rink.
Dancing, music, fancy headdresses, tacos, kids running around with balloon animals and facepaint, drums, drums, drums. It ends at 10, so get here fast.
Marisa Simonetti is a candidate in Edina, Minnesota running for the Hennepin County board. She is supposedly a real estate agent, but her license has been revoked, and she’s been accused of “fraudulent, deceptive and dishonest practices” — she’s been engaged in some shenanigans where she rents homes via AirB&B and then turns around and rents them to others. But worst of all, Simonetti is cruel to spiders.
Hennepin County Board candidate Marisa Simonetti said Thursday that none of the things that have recently landed her in headlines, including tossing a live tarantula at a tenant and allegations of fraud, are in conflict with her campaign themes of family values and being tough on crime.
The tarantula was rescued by the police and seems to be OK.
You will be shocked to learn that she is the Republican candidate for county office.
This might be a better idea than a gun.
It comes in a pack of two, so one for the front door and one for the back.
Best of all, it would be totally honest advertising.
No, just no. I know that language evolves, but sometimes it degenerates in confusing ways. Would you believe “rawdogging” has acquired a new meaning? I know what it used to mean, but now it’s something very different, entirely harmless, and actually rather effete.
A 26-year-old Londoner named West (who asked to use only his first name) went viral in May when he posted about his decision to forgo any entertainment and pass a seven-hour trip watching the flight map. “Anyone else bareback flights?” he asked in the caption.
The concept—referred to in a vivid and perhaps unfortunate parlance as “rawdogging,” “flying raw,” and “bareback”—resonated with many in the comments on West’s TikTok page, @WestWasHere. “Yup, from London to Miami this week…pure bareback no food or water,” one wrote. “I swear barebacking flights make it go quicker,” another added.
“I’ve got DMs on Instagram like, ‘Bro, you need to teach us how to bareback flights,’” West tells GQ.
This has got to be a joke. You need to be taught how to sit quietly doing nothing on a flight?
But West and others have also come to see rawdogging flights as a kind of challenge, like the Tough Mudder or No Nut November, the goal being to see how fully participants can deprive themselves of creature comforts, up to and including free snack and drinks and even bathroom visits. A true rawdogger takes no indulgences.
Wait…I usually take the cheapest flight I can get, with few entertainment options, and since the pandemic I don’t take my mask off for the entire flight. I’m a rawdogger now? I thought I just wanted to avoid catching a disease.
I lied. We weren’t on a spider-hunting trip this weekend. We were visiting our granddaughter and delivering a bicycle. She took to it enthusiastically, and was pedaling all over her neighborhood with us chasing after.
“We” meaning the crotchety, rickety old grandparents, because Iliana’s mom is still recovering. Skatje has some titanium screws holding her tibia together and her patella is somehow secured in position, and there’s an awesome long vertical scar over her shin, so she can’t keep up. We contributed by bringing her daughter a rapid transport device and turning her loose. She was busy biking all over their apartment when we didn’t take her outside and point her at a sidewalk. I know, grandparents are just the worst.
Then we had to make the long drive back home — 7 hours each way! — and I got my usual reward. I got to stand around awkwardly while Grandma got all the hugs and sad farewells, because I’m the homely, repulsive, off-putting, superfluous male, the danger-even-if-not-a-stranger guy. At least I get to console myself with spiders.
Iliana was a natural, though. She’s going to bicycling across country to visit us (or at least, grandma) someday. When she’s 18, she said. She’s 5½ right now, she explained, so she can’t go that far, yet.
Second question: would this ad be any more trustworthy if it were readable?
But it’s what you have to do when the old hole fills up with sewage! Dig a new one, start filling it up.
Although, we are missing a critical step: we should shovel some lime into the old one and cover it up with dirt, rather than leaving it open and reeking.
