Flashback

This was my favorite poem in high school. I keep it tucked away in a mental pocket, along with Jabberwocky, a couple of Ogden Nashes, and a few random stanzas of Robert Frost (hats off to fourth grade). Whose woods these are, etc.

I could chalk it up to adolescent angst—and truly, one of the things that makes me happiest is that I never have to go to high school again—but now and then I dig it out, and it still resonates.

a total stranger one black day
knocked living the hell out of me—

who found forgiveness hard because
my(as it happened)self he was

—but now that fiend and i are such
immortal friends the other's each

(e.e. cummings)

Limited stature

Aren't people just the darnedest things? May it please the court:

1. Dwarves zipped into suitcases who steal stuff (“We are looking at our records to identify criminals of limited stature.”)
2. Little wedding ring coffins for sale (“Give a dead marriage its proper, final resting place.”)
3. Foreskin's Lament (Enough said.)

Thanks—or maybe a friendly anvil to the head—to Shmosh and Miss Mobtown for sharing these tidbits. I know my day is brighter now, not to mention my faith in humankind.

Niche hobby

There was a guy on my BART train this morning with little round glasses, a tall poofy hat, and a long red beard. He looked like a hybrid of Papa Smurf and a hobbit, minus 20 years and plus a few feet.

But this is San Francisco—we have much weirder people to watch than that, so I didn't pay much attention to him. When we reached my stop, I inched over to the exit and wound up standing next to him for those 10 or so seconds when the train slows down to align with the black door marks on the platform.

He was reading a book called, for real, Hand Puppets. It was open to two pages of line-drawn cartoon diagrams about how to design and build hand puppets from scratch.

There's no real moral to this story, but you have to admit it's kind of awesome. And if you wanted to name your first kid Hobbit Hand-Puppet Guy in memoriam, I'd fully support that choice.

Adrenalin

I only have a few memories of going skiing as a kid, but they're potent.

I remember the J-bar on the bunny hill at Mt. Tom, and the slight feeling of panic at the top, right before the lift released, when I wondered if I'd make it off this time without falling over.

I remember squeezing in just a few more icy runs in the pouring rain with my friend Danielle, when the slopes were empty and we were the only ones stupid enough to brave the weather. The fog was so thick that it felt like riding up into Narnia or a Led Zeppelin song.

And I remember the last time I went, with Stephi and her parents at Mt. Snow, taking a jump too fast and whacking into a tree hard enough to get knocked out for a minute or two, then getting up and zooming to the bottom with an aching brain, thinking, "Maybe I shouldn't pay this much to do something scary." The sinking sensation when confidence melts into mild paranoia.

That was it until yesterday, when I strapped on some sturdy, well-worn rentals and gave Heavenly a try. Now I'm only sorry it took me 14 years to rediscover that skiing is freaking fantastic.

You get all bundled up in gloves and hats and long underwear and a puffy coat and new shades because you couldn't find yours at home, and you pay people to let you stand on two carefully curved, slippery strips in giant boots that feel like chunks of lead. Then you point downhill and go, and somehow your legs remember the necessary motions to turn and aim and keep control, and even kick up some satisfying swooshes of powder when you make a sharp stop.

I think the adrenalin actually starts when your boots click in just so. Then there's a little rush in the lift, just about the only time you can get up that high in open air, nothing between you and the sky and the mountains but a thin metal safety bar, if anybody remembers to pull it down. Then another one when you get a little push from behind sliding off the seat at the top.

Then another when you realize there's only one way to the bottom, and the reason you pay for it is that nothing else feels like moving that fast propelled only by your own body and gravity and whatever nature decided to throw down that day.

Swoosh.

Germs 1, Ergonomics 1

I have a sore throat and cold thing going on, just in time for our ski trip to Tahoe. It's making me grumpy and tired.

But there's always a silver lining: Staples delivered my new footrest today. It's amazing what a difference it makes—a chunky gray piece of plastic that reminds me to sit upright and not cross my legs while I'm glued to my chair. For an inanimate object, it's very persuasive. I also discovered a way to rotate the keyboard tray so it tucks underneath my desk. Since I don't use it, it's just been getting in the way and hitting me in the thighs. No longer!

In other pleasing news, a glimpse into the sudsy woods of ktopia.

Now I'm going to bed. Yeah, it's 9:15. What about it?

Brand-new year, same bad habits

Here are some of the things that happened in the past month that I haven't written about yet:

1. Jews to the Movies
2. 1920s walnut desk
3. Canteen 2
4. Mom's visit (but I did post a few pictures)
5. The return to Djerassi
6. ktopia!

I'm still semi-jetlagged and trying to get the February issue of the magazine out the door in three days instead of five. But I'll be back soon, wordier than ever. Triple sevens on that, baby.