What's your preconceived notion of an Italian stereotype? Is it:


a) the sleek professional, never seen in anything but the finest tailored suits, hair slicked back, clean-shaven, cologne detectable from several feet away?


b) the soccer enthusiast, dressed in Fila, Addidas, Nike and Puma gear, still fashionable and clean, but sporting a three day beard and jumping around a bit like he's getting ready for a match?


c) the classic European dirtbag, the guy who looks like he hasn't showered in a week, and who knows how long it's been since he changed his clothes, the kind of guy you wouldn't let your daughter near?

Imagine Sheri's and my astoundment when we saw all three of these dudes walking nearly arm in arm at the mall last Saturday, speaking Italian to one another.

ps- I found each of these pictures by googling "Italian man, Italian sports fan, and Italian dirtbag," and each one surprisingly resembles one of the people we saw.

Do you remember the part in Star Wars where they're all sitting on the Millennium Falcon and Ben Kinobe has to sit down for a second because of a "great disturbance in the force," which turns out to be the ripple in the universe caused by the destruction of Alderan? (Nerd alert!)
Well call me crazy, and you'd probably be right, but I just haven't felt at all at peace with the world today. Things weren't going right in school, I was increasingly withdrawn and sullen all morning, and I couldn't really put my finger on why. At several moments it's almost like I really did have to pause, and sit down for a second to collect myself.
Then, whilst driving to The Home Depot to buy an old-school weed whacker for the lawn, I heard the terrible news: Cellist Mstislav Rostropovich, Slava to his friends, died in Moscow today at the age of 80. I could go on and on about why this Azerbaijan-born Russian is an icon in the celloing world, but I'll just let you follow the link and read for yourselves, and really, please do, because this is worth reading. Besides, if I attempted to repeat all the facts here, I'd probably get something wrong.
I'll just give you an idea: if you listen to his recordings (downloadable from the link above), one thing that you'll hear is his fierce breathing in the background. Lynn Harrell described the passion of Slava's playing as "a forest fire," and Yo Yo Ma remembers the incredible life force that was behind every performance.
Well, okay, enough weepy-weepy. I'm going to go find a way to be a better human being.

End Transmission.

Did you know that last week marked the beginning and end of two central literary genres? Last Friday marked the anniversary of the publishing of the first Detective novel, "Murders of the Rue Morgue" by Edgar Allen Poe. Go read it, or something, if you feel inclined to celebrate the occasion.
Last Wednesday, on the other hand, the inventor of Cliffs Notes died. To celebrate this occasion, I'm going to go out and read a classic, cover to cover.

Moby Dick?
Wuthering Heights?
To Kill a Mockingbird?
Hamlet?

Happy Day, Earth. Tomorrow, anyway.

More importantly, happy birthday to my real mom.
And, happy birthday to my blog, apparently. One year.

Fourthly, I have to run a correction. Sheri's birthday was actually the 18th, but I didn't post about it until the next day. So, in efforts to make reparations, Happy Birthday to my beautiful Eternal Companion. TQM, amorcito.

Anyway, last Saturday I had an interesting Earth Day experience. I spent the day in San Francisco at a TRADOS training seminar (nerdy translation software. If you haven't heard about it, don't sweat.) and on the way there, my school chums and I were swapping scary statistics about energy usage and stuff.

Did you know that 75% of energy into homes is used to light up those little LED screens on microwaves, VCR's and other electronics? And your phone charger and other appliances suck up power even when they're not connected to a phone and turned on?

Terrifying.

Anyway, on the BART ride back to our car, I was looking out the window at the sprawl of row houses that covered everything I could see, everyone's little pile of stuff with a cover on it (as George Carlin would say), and I was grateful that at the core of me I'm not a Big City kid. I love how small Marina is. I think if Sher and I end up in SLC again, the change will be hard.

Though, you have to ask: is anyone, really, a big city person? Or do we just end up places and have to deal with the cities we're in, bad traffic, pollution and skyrocketing housing prices and all? Something to ponder on your drive to work.

End Transmission.

ps- The worst part is I still drool over the thought of owning a house with a big yard.

More on the above photo in a moment.

It's been an interesting couple of weeks, due to the fact that I've had to pony up and declare, once and for all, a major. Would I graduate in Translation and Interpretation, or would I take a different road and do Translation Management? There are a million arguments for both sides, which I won't go into. Over the last couple of weeks, I'd probably changed my mind at least 100 times, each time saying something to myself to the effect of, "boy, was I ever an idiot for considering that other dumb major! Sheesh!" only, minutes afterward, to begin the decision process all over again.

Anyway, I had a meeting with my department head about it, and she helped me out by laying it all on the line.
"Well," she said, "you don't appear to be doing very well at all in your English classes."
"Strange, I know, since that's my native language," I said. (I'm getting a B+ in them, which by her standards is barely passing.)
"Well you're perfectly welcome to continue with T&I, but I have to warn you that you must be an exceptional T&I student in order to get a job."
"Thanks, you MEAN LADY!" Just kidding, I didn't say that.
But clarity came to me after that: I don't want to be an interpreter, so why would I bother stressing myself out in the dumb ol' classes if it's something I don't want to do? Why not take the other road, the Management road, which would allow me to avoid taking classes I don't like and instead tailor my education according to my interests? Sounds like the obvious choice, doesn't it? Well, in terms of stress caused, lemme tell ya, it's been a week of exhausting spiritual weight-lifting.
Thank you for allowing me that catharsis.
Oh, and Happy Birthday to Sheri.

Now to the photo. And a warning, this is me coming into the light as a Jedi-level nerd, so all those who still consider me normal, stop reading here.

This is in response to Greg's latest post.
Historically, you must concede that Superman is the ultimate superhero. He really was the first put into mass publication in the pulps during the 1930's, and several comic book companies went to court, and lost big time, for copyright enfringement, as their executives had said to their writers something to the effect of, "I want you to invent me another Superman." So in a way, all superheroes are fragments of that one guy.

Aesthetically, though, I find Superman rather boring. I mean, come on. Nothing can kill the guy. You have to go all the way to Krypton to find something that makes him vulnerable. And, because he really only has one weakness, Superman's archenemies really just exploit it again, and again, and again. How many times has Superman died, now? And then you have the Silver Surfer, who used to be human, but really, who can fight against a guy that has a planet-eating god at his beck and call? You have to believe just for a second that your hero is in real danger, even if you know he'll get out of it in the end. At least you're left wondering how. (I commend the makers of the Fantastic Four movies for making him a bad guy. Even though the movies themselves are dumb. As most adapted superhero films are.)

You gotta dig just a little deeper in order to get at what comics are all about, which is, at least in all interesting comics, the story of how the superhero comes to terms with himself. Which knocks Spiderman out of the running for "best superhero ever" because, as you said, Greg, everything just seems to go his way. He gets the girl, he's totally capable of balancing his home life from his superhero life, he's got a steady job he enjoys; I mean, what the heck is that all about? Who can relate to that dude? Snoozer for sure.

From this standpoint, you have to reconsider Superman again, and I'll tell you why: Superman is the only guy who actually is his secret identity. He really is Superman. That Clark Kent guy is the cover. Bruce Wayne, Peter Parker, Bruce Banner, etc - all of them are just people who adopt some other identity in order to cover their nocturnal habits, or whatever. But Superman, he by definition is the most alienated. He's an alien! A fact that the writers of Superman should definitely have developed into their storylines, but they didn't. So he loses.

I, myself, was always a fan of the X-men, because that comic did something very important, which was to examine real-world issues through the lens of their heroes. Which really is what it's all about, no? If there's no connection to the real world, then it's just a story. For example, with X-men, the question was discrimination. What are the lengths that people will go to to distance themselves from people who are different? What lengths will outcasts go to in order to be accepted? And the fact that the main bad dude was a holocaust survivor? Oh, man, the epitome of apt metaphors.

Which is why Bruce Wayne is a good one, too. As he fights evil and badness, he's got to come to terms with the evil inside himself. The ultimate struggle of the duality of man, right in one nice, tight, well-written, well-rounded character. And way better looking than the Hulk, who in my opinion is just angry, not conflicted. Good choice, Greg.

End of long transmission.

Whoa.

I just found two very odd links

Seriously, the most bizarre, oddly hypnotic screensaver ever. I've downloaded it.

A blog that lauds Theta Naught music, and offers free downloads of two of our albums. I have mixed feelings about it, because it's sure to get our music to more people, yet we sure could use the funds from album sales to go on tours and make more albums. I guess having your own music pirated changes how you feel about it.

Two, well three events to post about this week.

1) It's been a rough week for ol' Asher. In the first place, the poor guy somehow cracked a nail right at the paw. We first noticed that something was wrong when he would randomly yelp out in pain when he would sit, scratch, or play with Margaret's kids while they were here. He's lost his nail now, and so it seems he feels a little better, but he's licked it so much, one side of his toe is now hairless, and he's spent a few restless nights trying to get comfortable in his bed without disturbing his toe. Besides his toe, though, he had a little adventure with some cocoa covered almonds, which ended up being a two-edged sword: his tummy was very upset for a couple of days, and he ate a lot of grass, which made him (stop reading here o ye who are weak of stomach) vomit up five or six large puddles of cocoa-colored drool on our carpet and on the linoleum, upsetting the unsteady peace between himself and Sheri. I think, a week later, the ceasefire has been restored. We are happy, though, that he lived through the trauma, as we have been told that many dogs who cross cocoa's path don't.

2) We spent the weekend (Friday, Saturday & Sunday afternoon) warming up our parenting skills babysitting our friends' two kids. I only have two comments: a) those two maniacs are the perfect combination of kid craziness and tenderheartedness. b) I'm glad we're doing this one kid at a time.

3) A sad farewell to Kurt Vonnegut, Don Ho, and Phish. What will be the future of American Fiction, Hawaiian Tourism, or Post-2000 Hippiedom?

Well, my sister just announced the gender of her next offspring, so I thought I'd better give an update on my own.
Well, Sweet Pea (as we've decided to call the child) is currently about the size of an avocado, has all 20 teeth, can wiggle its little arms and legs, and has all of its organs.
But how amphibious is this: so now I guess Sweet Pea has eyes strong enough to sense the difference between light and dark. One website suggested that we do an experiment: shine a light on one side of momma's tummy, and the babe will swim to the other side. Weird-factor 8.5, Captain.
So we tried it the other night, but to no avail. Shame. Though it did give me the urge to see the movie "Alien," again.

ps- despite the tone that the above post might convey, I'm stoked out of my gourd to be a dad.

End Transmission.

Here's the new craze in lawn care: Taoist Gardening! Simply let the nature found in your backyard take its course, and miracles will happen. For example.
Here's a picture of our backyard when we moved into our apartment. Bare, sandy, rather non-inviting.

Here's a picture of it now, lush, green. Yes, that's Ash's tail you can see behind that jungle, there.
Well wouldn't you know, after four months of not caring for our lawn, look at some of the taoist magic that has happened:



Okay, not really.

End transmission.

This is yet another classic pic, taken by - actually I'm not sure who took this one, either. At any rate, the file itself is saved as "Pete Flying and Goblin Bremond," on account of me suspended tenuously above everyone else's head and, in my opinion the highlight of the picture, Bremond's (far right) goblin-like expression that he was never able to explain nor remember, but which embarrassed him so that he poked the eyes and face off of himself in every copy of the picture he could find.
Other noteworthy details:
1) Can you see my musical socks?
2) Which one of these people looks the most like Anthony Michael Hall? I know that in a post way back I said that Josh had outgrown that phase, but boy, it sure wasn't by the time this picture was taken.
3) Alli Condie - Where are you now? Surely my brother Adam will remember filming a junior-high production of "Hercules" with your brother in your back yard. Now there's a piece of historical media I wish I could get my hands on.
4) It seems to me there's some sort of higher, perhaps life-lesson type message embedded somewhere in this pic, but I can't quite put my finger on it. Something along the lines of - Between those lost in space and those who look like goblins stand those few who can raise their fists and say, "Yes, I look like one of the Brat Pack..."