The phrase “second chance” occurs four times in this article.  How many second chances did Vick ever give any of those dogs he tortured to death?

Nancy Rommelmann writes about tragedy with great skill, in this piece that explores where the latter exploits the former.  Do read it.

I may have offended Asparagus, our most gregarious cat.  I’ve no doubt I’ll be held accountable for this, but hot jasus if it’s been 106 that day there’s going to be a reaction if you insist on plopping your fat furry body right up next to mine when I go to bed.  That reaction might end up with you bouncing off the floor.

The newspaper predicts a high of 107 today.  Asparagus, you’ve been warned.

Earlier this month I visited San Francisco with my father for a couple of days.  Among other things we visited the De Young museum.  There I was struck by this photograph, and on inspection, recognized the name of the artist, Imogen Cunningham.  Not because I have any especial knowledge of 20th century female American photographers, but because in googling my first name she pops up in the results because she named her first son Gryffyd.  A younger son was called Padraic, and since this was my older brother’s name, this was apparently my mother’s inspiration.  I’ll have to verify it.  You’d think the history of our naming would be a minor bit of family lore, but it has not become so established.  I pointed out the picture to my father and related the information about Imogen’s sons, but her name and story and likely influence on my mother were not familiar to him; he offered no alternative, however.

When I was gathering the links above, I came across a reference to Imogen having been born here in Portland.  I don’t think I knew that before.

Selected Short Stories William Faulkner

Watchmen Allan Moore & Dave Gibbons

Topics in Contemporary Mathematics Ignacio Bello et al

Shadow Divers Robert Kurson

The Assassins Joyce Carol Oates

The Darkest Evening of the Year Dean Koontz

The Lost Spy: An American in Stalin’s Secret Service Andrew Meier

The Fortress of Solitude Jonathan Lethem

The Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire, Volume III Edward Gibbon

Broken Angels Richard K Morgan

Western Civilization: Volume II: Since 1500 Jackson J Spielvogel

Further to yesterday’s post, yes, every man’s death diminisheth me and I have no personal animus for the man.  But just now I finished listening to Social Distortion’s “Somewhere Between Heaven and Hell” and it occurred to me that every song on that album is filled with infinitely more energy and emotion than anything I’ve ever heard from Michael Jackson, and the fact that the latter has sold millions is a terrible indictment public musical consumption.  And I say this as a man who has, under the influence, gleefully danced to “ABC”.

In tenth grade, my friend Aykut and I gave a presentation on heavy metal to our French class.  I don’t recall much beyond us posing in our jeans jackets with the patches of various bands, thumbs hooked in our bullet belts, boom box playing a few select tunes.  I do remember someone asking what we thought of Michael Jackson, and us replying that we couldn’t stand him and would beat him up if we saw him on the street.  I can’t recall the French phrases we used, but they seemed to shock our interlocutor.  Back then such partisanship seemed appropriate; one of the local French stations had a monthly heavy metal video show, and once when it was pre-empted because of the murder of Marvin Gaye, I was full of puerile resentment.

I’ve learned a few things since tenth grade; among them to not wish harm on others because of differing musical tastes.  I still don’t have much appreciation of Jackson as a musician, and who knows whether or not he was a pedophile.  I feel largely indifferent to today’s news.

Mrs The Fyd seems to be coming down with a cold.  Is it the swine flu?  She did cook a pork dish for dinner last night, and last week she made tacos.

I was looking for a phone number on the Safeway Pharmacy website, and noticed that they have a blog.  I hesitate to investigate this phenomenon further.

Something I leap at with alacrity, however, is the amazing satellite photo o’ the day from NASA.

I am a middling-t0-late adopter of technology, but I recognize a fucking waste of time when I see one.  So I’ve opened up a Twitter account as ‘thefyd’.  Though I’m sure the feeds are full of absolute inanities and glories of the mundane, I hope to surpass (or more accurately, to underachieve with regard to the goal) that standard with occasional posts about the irritations experienced by the quotidian bus passenger.  Among other things.