Yesterday the dogs and I walked past a dilapidated house.  What made this one interesting was the equally dilapidated doghouse in the corner of the front yard, like a statement on the whole:

The house looked uninhabited, so I could hope that no dog had to endure living out in that yard.

Today we came across a house in a far nicer neighborhood.  This houseowner has got the wrong kind of neighbors:

That deck formerly had a fantastic view through that arch.  Now their neighbor downslope is building a house that will obliterate almost all of that view.  I suspect that the occupants of these houses will not be having each over for many backyard barbecues.

Walking a few yards down that street brings us that lost view:

I’m feeling unsafely optimistic.  If I were bi-polar I would guess I was entering a manic phase.  Instead I’ll attribute the mood to currently listening to Ash’s Meltdown, which surely deserves the credit.

There’s also the circumstance that last week we had our triennial snowstorm.  Several inches fell, the city endured (though with the normal embarassing panic and post-mortem cringing at our lameness when it snows).  The dogs frolicked, I trudged to the busstop and didn’t particularly mind that the normal half-hour bus ride took almost two hours (and was particularly happy that walking on the sidewalk did not see my once slip and plant my face), our neighbor serendipitously shoveled our sidewalk (thanks Keith!) though it was our snow shovel he borrowed so he could shovel his own walk anyway (thanks Dempseys!) and the walk with the dogs that evening was particularly and eerily beautiful with the fog-shrouded streetlights reflecting off the snow so that everything seemed to glow and it was so quiet.  And now it’s all melted and the freezing weather has turned into something almost balmy.  So perhaps a false spring has me fooled.

Yesterday we finished putting together an armoire.  As I said two weeks ago, after the first, abortive, attempt to assemble this devil (attempt frustrated because of crappily-rendered diagrams that caused me to ruin a dozen vital dowels that needed to be re-ordered), while wiping the blood and sweat from my brow, if Mrs wants any more furniture assembled she can have her next husband help her.

All of which means that I am well aware I have little to complain about in my life.  There are folks putting up with a lot of pain and suffering in the world, not that I necessarily want those people putting their coats in my armoire.  Life is bittersweet, and coincidentally I just listened to the song “Bittersweet” by the Hoodoo Gurus.  Even more coincidentally I noticed in my planner that next Monday is Anniversary Day in New Zealand.  What a wonderful socialist conceit, consolidating everyone’s wedding anniversary on one day, so as to spare the blushes of innumerable husbands, as well as destroying any ounce of individual meaning the messy bourgeois scattering of dates once had.  Which means suffering is, to stretch a term, fungible.

Confession: Since the beginning of the year I have been organizing my day using the Ankh-Morpork Post Office Handbook Discworld Diary 2007.  Other evidence of anorakness: my iPod and cell phone both have names based on artificial intelligences from Iain M. Banks’ Culture novels, and the icon for the hard drive on my iBook is of the One Ring.

The mitigating circumstance is that, so far, I have been faithfully attending to the completion of the scrawled lists of my daily planning.  Let’s hope my devotion doesn’t descend into the fitful constancy of years past.  And don’t get me started on the cult of the Franklin-Covey planners.  And especially don’t get me started on the Franklin Electronic Baseball Encyclopedia, of which I bought the 1992 version and which product line they dropped in 1993.  Such a useful reference to have at hand while watching baseball on TV (though with a firm boundary of usefulness of stats before 1992 only), so much less cumbersome than the dead-tree version.  Such a geek.

Last night I attended two concerts. First Mrs and I went to see local heroes Pink Martini. This was a private gig as part of the celebrations of the 100th anniversary of the company I work for. Special guest star: Carol Channing, I kid not.

After that was over I headed over to the Roseland to see the Melvins. I’ve been listening to the band for almost 20 years and finally I have seen them live. It was a moving occasion.

We have had electric toothbrushes for years and when they break down the effort expended to push the bristles across our teeth wearies us so and results are poor.  The blessed replacement arrived yesterday and finally do our teeth feel clean again.

After having to go into work for the morning, this afternoon I sold some CDs and plowed some of the proceeds into these purchases:

Devo, Q: Are We Not Men? A: We Are Devo!
Kruder & Dorfmeister, G-Stoned
The Vandals, Fear of a Punk Planet
Hoodoo Gurus, Mars Needs Guitars
Napalm Death, Smear Campaign
Cypress Hill, IV
2 Live Crew, The Real One

Then I got the car oil changed and found out I need a new battery. Since we’re driving up to Seattle tomorrow, for lunch at Ivar’s and to visit the Pacific Science Center’s exhibit of the Dead Sea Scrolls, prudence dictated I fork over the cash.

The novel word count is going backwards, but that is because I am currently reading over the draft, making notes on additions/changes necessary to make the final story complete. I naturally catch much to revise in this fashion, usually revision by excision.

Working in finance is thankless and dull, much like a coalmine without the black lung and cave-ins.  Our misery is unrelenting, save for the yearly grace of receiving Christmas cards from investment bankers one has never heard of nor done business with nor ever will.  But if there is a God in heaven or Dominik Hasek in goal or Johnny Cash on the hi-fi, then why in the hell don’t these bankers send cash?

So with Christmas cheer imparted to me, via a fiduciary osmosis, from the slick cards of capital carnivores of the East Coast, I wish a happy holiday to alla internets, especially that part reaching to our Roxanne in Canada.

A residential alarm user permit from the Portland Police requires an annual fee.  I am writing out that check and noticed that our checks have printed on them the image of a cartoon pig.  I had this done when ordering checks as a joke between me and Mrs.  I hope this doesn’t guarantee police non-response if our house ever is burgled.

For Christmas I have arranged for Mrs and myself to get matching “Team Dempsey” tattoos.  She will be so surprised.

The dogs’ hides won’t show tattoos well; we will have the logo branded on their rumps.

I have commissioned wee decals of the family logo that I will affix to the flanks of the fish.

It would be disrespectful to affix any token to the cats.  Instead they will each wear a bell sounding a different tone.  Five cats gives us a pentatonic I can use to compose a family anthem.

If chance arranges the cats’ movements to sound out said tune (preferably while cats are being chased by dogs) then indeed we should know that the amiable aspect of Providence smiles upon Team Dempsey’s fortunes and our prospects in upcoming competitions are favorable.