Last year I deleted a bunch of files on my laptop because I was running out of hard drive memory. Among the apps deleted was whatever allowed the computer to recognize my camera, and hence download photos. So for months I’ve not been able to transfer pictures from my camera to my computer, but last week I got the hard drive upgraded and they also restored all the initial applications, including iPhoto. This is one of the pictures I retrieved.

This was taken the morning last August when we went to see the Women Impressionists: Berthe Morisot, Mary Cassatt, Eva Gonzalès, Marie Bracquemond exhibition at the Legion of Honor. We were early so we drove around the area for a bit and walked down to this area, China Beach.  I post the picture for two reasons; this is San Francisco in high summer and it was as chilly that morning as it looks, and also to wonder just what the value of that house is and what must it be like to live there with that view?

Another, more specific query is “golden retriever cocker spaniel mix in portland oregon”.  Crikey.  “Stick this in your fuse box” has turned up twice, and “kitchen sponge syndrome” eight times.  “When was jebus born” is in there only once, as is “liz phair ipod engraving”.

The second most popular phrase, however, is “roxanne dunning”.  Roxanne is the fabulous artist responsible for the picture of the fishes that graces this site.  She is currently working on a painting for myself and Mrs The Fyd; a detail of the work-in-process can be seen here.  It may not be seemly to publicise that we are to be the recipients of such great creative largesse, but a mitigating purpose is that there are pictures of some of Roxanne’s other work there, and I think everybody should go admire them.

Another accomplishment: finishing the play-through in Mass Effect.  This is one of the few games I’ve enjoyed so thoroughly.  Sure, there are a few rote elements, but the payoff is double-plus good, and the SFnal setting is satisfyingly detailed.

Just after the power was restored something outside exploded, probably a streetlamp.  This deeply frightened Boris, who hates fireworks and probably expected the barrage to continue all night.  He lay on the sofa, a cowering and very flat dog, only his mournful brown eyes moving as we mocked him.  It took some petting and the lure of a bouncing racquet ball to get him to forget the recent horror and get back to being his useful pushy self.  Thankfully, because when there are exploding fireworks in the area, there’s no way he’s going outside and I always worry his bladder will burst during the night.

On the Grande Boissière campus that I attended is a large and attractive Greek amphitheatre, called, selon la façon subtile des européens, the “Greek Theatre”.  Normally this was used as a hang-out by students eating lunch, plotting coups, pulling hair, sharing needles; I especially remember endless games of soccer played on the floor of the theatre, using tennis balls, and the mouths of the stairs as goals.  It is a trick to kick a tennis ball with force and accuracy.  Adapting myself to this particular version of the game undoubtedly ruined my skills for the larger, internationally-recognized version of footy.

On the occasion of this solemn and unprecedented assembly, the pompous ass who was the headmaster told us that Indira Gandhi had that day been assassinated, and as she had attended the school decades before, we were to have a minute of silence.  Now this was hardly the most tenuous of links, but it still smacked of self-aggrandizement.  Benazir Bhutto probably deserves some moments of silence herself, and hopefully those who devote a few thoughts to her life and death today do so not just because of institutional attachments.

I have a heavy bag and a speed bag set up in the basement.  It’s useful exercise to punch things that won’t hit back.  Yesterday evening I was rat-a-tatting on the speed bag when the internal bladder popped.  Reactions: ‘bladder’ is a funny word; I flinched and ducked like I was having a flashback to the ‘Nam; I was quietly satisfied that my manos de piedra had reduced a flimsy bit of Chinese-sourced rubber to a status of a discarded party favor.

Heather Armstrong is one of my favorite writers on the intertubes.  Not only is she funny, but brave and honest.  These seem traits shared by her husband, who writes about Heather’s depression and how it affects their life together.  It’s all worth reading, but a certain passage is worth me repeating:

To the people out there who denigrate mental health awareness and treatment, I say this: You aren’t helping. You are making it worse. Stop being an arrogant know-it-all. You aren’t right. You are wrong. If someone tells you they need help, your opinion means less than that of professionals. Stop being ignorant. Stop being obstinate. Stop insisting that your loved one, partner, child or co-worker “get over it”.

Indeed.

 In other news, the other evening the dogs completely ignored a dead rat we passed on the sidewalk.  I am glad for so many reasons.  As much as I enjoy playing tug-of-war with Vinnie, I would have to draw the line at the carcass.  In the past we have come across dead squirrels, ranging in squishiness from ‘man-hole cover flat’ to ‘looks alive like it just fell off the power line’.  Despite their, especially Boris’, obssession for chasing live squirrels, we have safely passed each of these dead specimens.  Once Vinnie sniffed at a dead crow, but that’s as close as they’ve come to necrophagy.  What would happen if we came across a dead person?  I’m reading Philip Roth’s Everyman right now, and there’s a scene where the main character, in his youth during World War II, sees the corpse of a German submariner washed up in the surf of the Jersey shore.  Not specific to my circumstances, but worth noting as an example of a good writer weaving history into the complexity of a character’s past.

Speaking of baking, Mrs The Fyd seems to be trying to kill me.  One of the items she and her mother produced yesterday is an almond-toffee confection.  I sampled this late last night and almost fell to gruffling the entire batch.  My wife has hardened her heart against me and wishes to harden my arteries against me.

In other news, the Ducks have picked up a second first-place vote from another coach.  My guess is it’s Dennis Erickson’s.  Will Mike Stoops vote likewise in two weeks, should the Ducks win in the desert?  Will Karl Dorrell still be eligible to vote in three weeks’ time?

Speaking of voting, today is that day for our civic duty.  Or rather the day the votes are counted, considering that with Oregon’s vote-by-mail system the first Tuesday in November no longer signifies the search and march to one’s local polling station.  Since Mrs The Fyd and I only got around to filling out our ballots on Sunday, I’ll be walking a few blocks from the office to drop them off at the place established for the tardy, so it’ll almost feel traditional. 

Even when we voted in person, we still had to fill in the ballots with a pen.  I’ve never used an election machine, so the “pulling the lever” for a party meme eludes me.  I am ever more cut off from the shared experiences of the polity.

Thankfully this election’s ballot measures are principally house-keeping measures and so I won’t feel much further alienated from the attitudes of a significant swath of the electorate.  There’s no vile proposition this year to whisk away rights from an entire class of citizens.   Looking ahead, I wonder if I will be able to stomach one of the presidential candidates next year; three years ago I could not abide either party’s man and voted for a friend instead.  At least I know this time for sure who I won’t be voting for: the fellow whose initials are RP and whose devotees scan the intertubes for any mention of whom and then proceed to fill the most humble blogs with the good news of their Savior.

Claudius, who is one of our less intelligent cats, did not observe the adage about not disturbing sleeping dogs.  Being myself less intelligent than Claudius, I attempted to rescue him from the ensuing fray.  For my efforts I received this reward:

The lesson learned: Do not get between a moose and its quarter.