“She would be half a planet away, floating in a turquoise sea, dancing by moonlight to flamenco guitar.” ― Janet Fitch, White Oleander
I try to avoid buying stuff that isn’t necessary. I try to avoid impulse purchases. Sometimes I can’t help myself.
For a long time I’ve been looking for a certain color of fountain pen ink. Years ago, A friend gave me a sample once of Caran d’Ache Caribbean Sea. It was the color I was looking for, as close as I had seen. It’s the greenish turquoise color that a shallow, clear, tropical sea can get, from a certain angle. Here’s a photo that shows the color I was looking for:
Greenish Turquoise
Unfortunately, before I could buy a whole bottle, Caran d’Ache discontinued the ink. That was several years ago and since that time I have been looking for a replacement – and have tried a few. There are a lot of turquoise inks out there – but most tend toward the blue end of the spectrum. The closest so far were a couple of Diamine inks… Marine and Steel Blue.
The other day, I was surfing the net, looking at inks, when I discovered the Pilot had come out with three new colors of their Iroshizuku ink line. Iroshizuku inks are wonderful, and come in an amazing bottle – but are pretty damn pricey. But one of the three new inks was a greenish turquoise… that looked like exactly what I was looking for… and I couldn’t resist. A few clicks on the internet and a bottle of sui-gyoku iroshizuku ink was on the way to my house.
I like it. It’s the greenish turquoise I’ve been looking for. It still doesn’t quite have the luminosity of a tropical ocean… but I don’t think that’s possible in a dye mix that designed to be spread on paper. So I guess my quest for that-certain-color has been slaked for a little while.
I keep an ink journal with swatches and writing samples (done with a dip pen) of the inks I have in my inventory. Here’s a photo of the page with the sui-gyoku.
“Don’t you just love it when you come back from the bathroom and find your food waiting for you?” — Mia, Pulp Fiction
My Morning Coffee
I woke up looking forward to my morning coffee even more than I usually do (If that is possible – does a heroin addict look forward to certain fixes more?) because I would drink it in my swag Pulp Fiction coffee cup.
Most mornings I make a double strength coffee in my Aeropress , dilute it with hot water, and put it in a vacuum container (either a thermos or, as today, in a Contigo insulated cup that fits in my bicycle water bottle holder). I like that because I can pour it into a real cup a bit at a time and control the drinking temperature.
So, the question is, did it taste better in the swag cup?
Sure did, I mean this is some serious gourmet shit.
The path of the righteous man is beset on all sides By the inequities of the selfish and the tyranny of evil men Blessed is he who, in the name of charity and good will Shepherds the weak through the valley of darkness For he is truly his brother’s keeper and the finder of lost children And I will strike down upon thee With great vengeance and furious anger Those who attempt to poison and destroy my brothers And you will know my name is the Lord When I lay my vengeance upon thee
—-Eziekiel 25 17, Pulp Fiction
Swag from the Alamo Drafthouse Pulp Fiction Party
Tonight Candy and I had tickets to a Pulp Fiction Party at the Richardson Alamo Drafthouse.
I haven’t seen Pulp Fiction in a theater for a long, long time – it was time to see it again.
There were a few things that made this showing a “Party.” An employee came out in a bathrobe with a coffee mug before the showing and gave an enthusiastic and F-Bomb filled introduction. They had a Jackrabbit Slim twist contest – I was disappointed that no couple showed up dressed as Mia and Vincent. The winner received a genuine Bad Mother Fucker wallet.
Coolest of all, everyone received some swag – A Serious Gourmet Shit coffee mug, a pack of candy cigarettes, and a Zed Keychain (Zed’s Dead, baby). Now I have a place to keep my chopper keys.
“Certainly in the topsy turvy world of rock and roll, having a good solid piece of wood in your hand is quite often useful.”
― Ian Faith, Spinal Tap
Wood grown into the fence.
Solid Piece of Wood
“This plan of yours, Shelly, is getting too damn complicated,” Mabel said as she gazed with her two friends at the maze of scribbled papers now almost covering the kitchen table.
“Uh, Shel, not only that, but where did you get this Cab? It’s delicious,” said Alice as she sipped her third glass, stared at the liquid, then took a full gulp.
“Alice, you won’t believe it, but it’s from Aldi. It’s dirt cheap but mostly drinkable. And Mabel, I know it’s complicated, but that bastard Craig is not going to get away with this and it will take a careful plan to pull it off.”
“We won’t be able to do this ourselves,” Mabel said.
“We have to keep it secret,” said Shelly. “We will put the plan in motion and people will help us without even knowing they are.”
“Hey, pour me another glass,” said Alice.”I can’t believe this is from Aldi.”
“What if it doesn’t work?” said Mabel.
“It’ll work. That rat bastard Craig is into so much stuff, stealing money, dealing drugs, lying, cheating and everything else. We know that better than anyone because he did all that and more to all three of us.”
“Hey, the bottle’s empty,” was Alice’s only answer. “How late is Aldi open?”
The rack held nine Cricket bats at one time, all held vertically. Craig had one, so there were eight left. He could feel the blood running down his leg as he stared into the dim glow from the store’s emergency lighting system. Water dripped from the suspended ceiling in a dozen spots and something electrical was buzzing. The wet floor must be shorting out some sort of extension cords because Craig felt an occasional shock from his one bare foot soaking in the damp. He tried to stand on the foot that still had an insulating shoe, but that was the leg he was cut on and he’d wince at the pain from the extra weight.
Craig had no idea who had jumped him after luring him down to this third rate sporting goods store. He ran his list of enemies through his head – drug deals gone bad, real estate scams left in tatters, plenty of women left with broken hearts and negative bank accounts – and realized it was too long to recall. He had borrowed the money to buy the failing shop, specializing in European sports equipment (no wonder it was going broke), spent a quarter of the loan, then declared bankruptcy and was ready to turn the now-worthless real estate back to the bank – pocketing the balance. Someone had called him down to the store, and he would never have come, but she sounded sexy and desperate – and Craig had always been able to deal sexy and desperate to his advantage. Instead, this.
There was a crash from the darkness off to his right and Craig held the solid chunk of British wood as firmly as he could. He couldn’t imagine what kind of game was played with this damn thing, but it was all he had. Whimpering in pain and fear, he limped off in the quietest direction he could find.
Paul walked down the sidewalk on his way home from working a double shift when he came across the shattered windows of the sporting goods store. The glass across the sidewalk looked fresh and smashed out from the inside. He knew he should have kept going, gone home to get a good night’s sleep, but he had always been curious so he stepped through the broken threshold. He immediately stumbled into the rack of Cricket bats, knocked over. Looking down, he saw there were five in a jumble on the floor. He picked one up, feeling its firm strength. He swung it a bit and liked it’s balance and heft.
He had played baseball for decades and still had the shoulder muscles and fast-twitch nerves to move a heavy piece of wood through the air at high speed and pin-point accuracy. The feeling made him smile. Paul heard a noise off to his left and, swinging the Cricket bat back and forth with both hands, strode off to find out what it was.
“Listen, if somebody gave me the choice right now, of to never see you again or to marry you, alright, I would marry you, alright. And maybe that’s a lot of romantic bullshit, but people have gotten married for a lot less.”
— Jesse, Before Sunrise
Bachman Lake, Dallas, Texas, after sunrise
1995 was not so long ago – what? twenty seven years? That may seem a long time ago to you, but it doesn’t to me.
Even in 1995 it was hard to see odd, independent, or foreign films. It was before streaming, before really diverse rental options, and sort of after the death of repertory cinema. Also, I had two small kids at this time – so I was not able to go out searching for unique cinema.
I was still watching movie review shows at the time (I have since quit, too many spoilers). I remember seeing a review, probably on Siskel and Ebert, of a movie called Before Sunrise starring July Delpy and Ethan Hawke. It sounded unique and interesting and I wanted to see it, but never was able to pull it off. It apparently was a conversation movie – sort of like My Dinner With Andre – except with a young couple meeting and spending one single night (before sunrise) in Europe walking around and talking to each other.
Over the years I read that a sequel was made… and then a sequel to the sequel.
A few days ago I noticed that there was a set of three movies on The Criterion Channel titled The Before Trilogy. It was the Before Sunrise and its two sequels – Before Sunset and Before Midnight. I’m not a big TV bingeing person, but I decided to watch the three movies one day after another. I had to skip one day because I felt like shit and couldn’t even get up the energy to watch a damn movie streaming on The Criterion Channel. I realized that the two sequels were both made exactly nine years apart from each other.
The second movie was better than the first. It was about the stripping away of a person’s facade – and the first movie was about getting around a person’s facade – although the facades were very strong with those two. The second movie was much more complicated with more at stake – mostly because the characters were nine years older and forced to be more serious and introspective and their choices were more important with more at stake.
I’m afraid that I was disappointed in the third film. It was well made – but I felt it was a re-hash of the same sort of arguments every long-term married couple has on a regular basis. Maybe an important subject – but not entertaining to watch. It could be seen as the answer to the more interesting second chapter, but again, not worth the nine years’ wait.
It’s been more than nine years now since Before Midnight was made. There has been talk of a sequel, but the three Linklater and the two stars seem to have run out of ideas.
I’m old. I remember 1980 very well. This feels exactly like it did then – and that is not a good thing. The big difference is in 1980 I was 23 years old, had no responsibilities, and all I had to do was be able to buy a pack of ramen noodles and I could get through the day. That’s not true now.
I’ve been following the story of LA’s 6th street viaduct – at over half a billion dollars it felt a bit overpriced – but it’s a cool attempt at alternate transportation – I love the bike and pedestrian lanes and the views of downtown. There was a lot of excitement when it opened. But it has turned out to be a nightmare.
The type and amount of exercise you should do changes as you age. To ensure that you are doing the right type of exercise for your age, follow this simple guide.
I am old. Still, I keep up, more of less. But I agree with this author – I hate when restaurants give you a QR code rather than a menu. It’s hard to order off a phone – they don’t always work (my work phone blocked QR codes, for example). Sure, use one for long lists like beer or wine, but give me a piece of paper.
“I wasn’t aware that words could hold so much. I didn’t know a sentence could be so full.” ― Delia Owens, Where the Crawdads Sing
When you pick a mudbug up – he’ll spread his claws out and try to look as big and as mean as he can. He still looks delicious – no matter how hard he tries.
After my bike ride I took a shower and got ready to go. Candy wanted to go see a movie – Where the Crawdads Sing. She had read the book (I hadn’t, still fighting my way through Zola’s La Terre – need to finish the sucker) and had really liked it. We don’t go to a lot of movie’s anymore and when we do we always go to the Alamo Drafthouse – except for today. Crawdads wasn’t showing at either of the two Alamo theaters on our side of the vast Metroplex, so we went to another theater near where I used to work (when I was still gainfully employed).
The theater was good – the reclining seats were very comfortable. We went to the one o’clock showing – and there were only a handful of folks there.
I actually kinda liked the movie. It had some flaws – the protagonist was a little too polished and glib to be believable as a “Marsh Girl” – I had the ending figured out a good five minutes into the film – but the acting was effective and the scenery gorgeous. It’s hard for me to judge, I’m still suffering from a Everything Everywhere All At Once hangover – every movie pales in the memory of that work of genius.
It’s kind of funny – on Tuesdays the early show was only six dollars to get in – a real bargain. But a popcorn and diet soda were more than twenty bucks.
“A withered maple leaf has left its branch and is falling to the ground; its movements resemble those of a butterfly in flight. Isn’t it strange? The saddest and deadest of things is yet so like the gayest and most vital of creatures?”
― Ivan Turgenev, Fathers and Sons
Caterpillar
Monarchs
After work Craig drove over to the health club and had a good, tough workout. It was a gorgeous day and he felt like staying outside for awhile so he drove across Sunnyvale to Lake Ray Hubbard and a little park at the end of Barnes Bridge road. He had been there before… often, really… this is the place with the two wooden crosses.
The two crosses were still there. He was glad to see that someone had repaired Jason Farmer’s cross. From the look of how it was done, it might be the same people working on the other cross.
Michelle Lemay Self’s cross was still kept up with a little plot of plastic flowers. The white wood was covered with messages written in what looked like black magic marker.
There was a little line drawn about eighteen inches up from the ground. It was labeled, “Austin’s height when She left him.”
At about three feet there is another line. “Austin’s height, 7/9/98, 2 1/2 years old.”
I Love U always Your Husband Chris Self
Nearby, in crude but legible hand,
I love you MOMA Austin 7/19/98
Along one side was a longer, more ominous message.
For those of U that come and see this 1 and Lonely cross I hope u all have took the time and understand are pain & are loss. This 1 man I’d Love too c out here 1 sunny summer day. So I can end his sorry LIFE, AND then be on my happy way to go & tell my loving wife that he has finally paid. u know who u are I’m coming soon. Gregg
The park was as poorly-developed as always. Some run down playground equipment and an arc of shoddy grass, a bit of woods along the shore of the lake. Craig walked on down a path away from the parking lot.
All the lakes in North Texas were threatening to dry up with the summer’s drought. The recent deluge had helped, but the lake was still down. Instead of these little cliffs of mud-rock along the shore, there was a thin ribbon of sand which used to be lake bottom. Craig sat along this poor man’s beach and watched the gold sunset sky, the hazy distant opposite shore with its expensive homes and developments. A lone sailboat fought against the waves, a flock of white seabirds dove for fish.
The wind was blowing stoutly and that was enough to build waves from across the big lake. They came rolling in, miniature breakers. With a bit of imagination Craig felt it was like being at the ocean. It even smelt a little like the sea, mostly because of a mat of drying and rotting seaweed.
He walked on down the curl of the park ’til the stretch of public property ended in a steel barrier and “No Trespassing” signs. Away from the water was a thick grove of trees and a path. Craig walked back into a little grotto, his legs brushing away the night’s spider webs, nobody had been there all day. He looked up into the trees, still illuminated by the afterglow of the set sun and saw motion. The trees were full of Monarch Butterflies.
It was a beautiful sight. The green and yellow trees, orange sky, red and black flapping wings. The branches were lousy with them, many came fluttering down, disturbed by his approach. They flew in a cloud around him, close enough to reach out and touch.
They must have been stopping over on their annual migration. It was an unexpected treat, a special pleasure, to have them decorate this remote speck of shabby forest.
Craig needed to get home so I walked back to my car. The return drive was slow and fun, he was stuck behind a peloton, maybe thirty riders. A local club was finishing up a ride, trying to get back before dark. He especially liked slowing down on the uphills, watching them all come out of the saddle, black shorts and colorful jerseys, pumping legs and bobbing helmets.
It had been a long, tough enough day that Craig was content to sit in the bucket seat and steer, listen to a tape, let them all do all the work for once.
“Are you happy wearing clothes that don’t give you pleasure? Do you feel joy when surrounded by piles of unread books that don’t touch your heart? Do you think that owning accessories you know you’ll never use will ever bring you happiness? The answer to these questions should be no. Now imagine yourself living in a space that contains only things that spark joy. Isn’t this the lifestyle you dream of?” ― Marie Kondo, The Life-Changing Magic of Tidying Up: The Japanese Art of Decluttering and Organizing
Little Free Library near my house. They were generous at the start of COVID.
One of my goals, now that I am no longer gainfully employed, is to straighten up, organize, and de-clutter my little piece of the world (a couple of rooms and part of a garage). I am not a hoarder, but I am on the edge and can keep too much valuable stuff. One of my biggest weaknesses over the decades has been books.
It spiraled out of control when we lived in Mesquite. Our house had a long and wide hallway – wide enough to line with bookshelves. One of my favorite pastimes was to go to Half-Price (a chain of local used books stores) and buy books from the clearance rack. I filled those shelves. The kids referred to it as my “library.” Unfortunately that arrangement concealed the sheer number of tomes involved – until we moved to Richardson. The movers charged us an extra 500 bucks… “I’ve never seen so many books in my life,” the guy said.
So I was put on a diet – two full-sized and one half-sized bookcase. If I want a new book, I have to get rid of one. Of course, then the Kindle came along and my appetite for actual books waned somewhat. I might have a “library” as big as the one in my hallway back in Mesquite – but it’s all digital and doesn’t actually take up any real space – and gigabytes are plentiful and cheap.
But still, I am trying to reduce, eliminate, and de-clutter – and there are still too many books. It’s funny, but to this day, I can’t throw books away. I probably should do that, with some good books, just to teach myself that the world won’t end. But there are other options.
I have a routine now. We have a little table by the front door where we put the mail when we bring it in. I keep a few books there – ones I’ve selected that I have read, or have on my Kindle, or suspect I will die before I get to it. Every time I go for a bike ride in the ‘hood I grab a book and drop it off at a Little Free Library.
It is shocking how many of those things are out there. You don’t really notice them from a car – but from a bicycle they are impossible not to spot. I have yet gone to the same one twice – though I will soon.
The only problem is that nobody is picking up the books I leave. They are all good books, but usually a tad on the difficult side. Most people seem to be looking for children’s books, cookbooks, mysteries, or thrillers.
Bill Chance 