Sunday

July 29, 2001

on foot

We went to bed pretty late. But we need a walk. I convince myself and the others in bed with me to get up around 7:15. Convincing SuRu is harder. She is not in a good mood about the heat. Finally she calls back to say go without her, hesitates again and decides to do it.

There are things you see and feel when you walk that you'd never see driving. You notice the litter (not bad in our neighborhood). You notice the dry grass in some yards and even feel it crunch under your feet if you have to go on the grass to dodge a car or bike. You have time to see the face of the woman in her bathrobe, smoking a cigarette and hand watering her grass. And the face of the man coming out to get his paper, tentative, wearing only shorts and flip flops. Looking angry or sore or hung over. Or all three at once. You get to see the dead sod in the park, apparently placed there by the parks people who then never watered it. You get to stop and look at all the take-ones for houses for sale and lease. Including one for an outrageous price that is quite close to the houses we call scary house and fortress. I think you see why in the picture.

No one ever said our own neighborhood didn't have a bit of a raw underbelly.

We do a simple ramble down into Rosedale and back, about two miles. We skip Upper Crust and come straight back. Somewhere Chalow picks up a bunch of burrs. In her footpads even. When she pulls up and starts limping, we have to all get down there and pull them out. "Ow," I say, pricking my fingers. "Ouch," says Forrest, "that hurts." We get them out of her footpads so she can walk comfortably. It is getting hot. Sweat is coming out from under my hat, dripping on my ears and collar. We stop for water a couple of times and the dogs seem thankful for it.

Home again, FFP cooks Migas and bacon and makes coffee while I try to get some burrs out, armed with a glove and a pet comb. "Ow," says Chalow, sliding away from me. FFP tries some more after breakfast.

I try to work on organizing my pictures on the computer. The problem is that just filing them in an appropriate folder is not really good enough. It would be nice to have thumbnail references and cross reference. The Canon software does fair but it is kind of weird. I use Dreamweaver with Fireworks to create thumbnails for some and set off organizing them and cross referencing them. I don't get far before I lose interest. Another short-lived filing attempt? Probably.

FFP goes to Central Market. Thankfully, he doesn't care if I go. I don't really care for grocery shopping. He gets some fruit and cheese for snacking during the TV this evening. A few people are coming over. Then he goes to Randall's for, as he says, 'regular groceries.'

I work on the backup and different WEB things all afternoon. Then we shower up and friends come over.

.

Several of our friends don't have HBO. So Sex in the City and Six Feet Under are new to them. We nibble cheese and fruit. Forrest bought a cake and Darla brought a cobbler. I eat too much cheese. And too many crackers. And I probably drink too much wine.

After the folks go home, I wash the porcelain snack and dessert plates and wine glasses and FFP puts things away. Not many people here (six plus us) so not much mess.

John lists some journals for our consideration. My list is here and it is pretty short. I've had to recently whack off a few who quit the game. But I feel very informed about the lives of John Bailey, Rob Rummel-Hudson, Steve and Coffee Bean Goddess. It is weird and wholesome all at the same time. In a reality TV kind of way. I wonder how many people remember The Loud Family? Now, that was reality TV. But with online diaries you can pick your own family to invade. Hmm...why would one fell icky about it from either end? Well, the reasons are obvious. Personally, I'd really like to see what goes on inside scary house and the fortress. Or maybe not. Do you think they have Internet access?

our neighborhood can be a little scary, too

"A pedestrian is a man in danger of his life; a walker is a man in possession of his soul ."

David McCord

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