Stormchasing

It continues to be--to use the technical term--darn hot in Cincinnati.
My friend Charlie has been trying to convince me for some time to listen to Mr. Rhythm Man's show on WNKU, which goes from 6-9 on Saturday nights. I can't get 89.7 in my house, so I decided to go out driving and tune in on the car radio. There were dark clouds off in--well, I don't quite know my directions here yet, let's call it "the southwest." They were clearly rainclouds, and there was clearly rain in them, and they were clearly passing my neighborhood by. So I decided, having no particular place to go, to follow the storm--with the hopes of feeling even just the most incremental bit cooler.
I learned a few things. One, Charlie was right, Mr. Rhythm Man does him a mean show. It made an excellent stormchasing soundtrack. Two, Cincinnati is not the sort of city where you can say "I think I'll drive southwest tonight" and have your desire reach fruition. One road I followed for a while terminated in a park. Another steadfastly refused to permit me a left-hand turn. There seem to be a great many parts of the city that are only accessible from one street, and if you don't happen to know exactly where that street is, well, too darn bad.
So it was an informative as well as an entertaining evening. Never did catch up to the storm, but I got to watch the steam rising off the asphalt in thick clouds.

Phone Conversation

Me: So what's your brother teaching?
Other Person: Arthurian Legends.
Me: What?
Other Person: Arthurian Legends.
Me: Oh! The phone reception was bad; I thought you said "Art Theory and Weapons"...but that's the same thing actually, isn't it?

Confidential to S.B.: Welcome back to the States, Sotha!

Easily the winner in the "Most Inappropriate Comment To Make To A Child" contest

I was sitting in a cafe the other day when a mother with two young sons came in. The younger, who was maybe 1 1/2 or 2, was at that stage where running around and making random loud sounds is what a good time is all about. His mother tried shushing him once or twice, but not in any way that proved effective. Then he went over to her and presumably tried to get something out of her pocket (I didn't see exactly what happened), because she said to him, "Stay out of my pants, unless you have dollar bills."
...
I just...I can't even count the number of levels where that's so wrong.

The Nylons make me happy.

Lookee what I just found: The Nylons' guest appearance on the short-lived record company sitcom Throb.
Go. Watch it and come back and agree with me that this is great.
After finding this, I went on a spree, looking up other Nylons songs on YouTube. Couldn't find much actually by them, but heard plenty of a cappella groups, collegiate and otherwise, singing songs in Nylon arrangements--"Up the Ladder to the Roof," "Me And the Boys"...That last one's a curious case, because it was a song written by The Nylons (or just Paul Cooper I think) about being Nylons. So it's bizarre to hear another group cover it, especially when they get to the lines "Where we're coming from/We're born to run/We run, we run like NYLONS!"
But hey. Anything to keep the Nylon spirit going.

Not quite a month between posts, so that's good.

Got word of the passage of another good dog--Robbie, a sweet and sincere floppy-haired fella who lived for two things: to be loved and to torment his big sister. In my prayers I am entrusting him to the intercession of St. Puppy-Pants.
I also tried to be extra kind to both Cori and Chili the night of Robbie's passing, in his honor. I took them both out for walks. Normally I only walk Cori, and Chili gives me the look of utter devastation only boxers can give as we leave. But this time I came back for Chili and hooked him on the leash. (I had to walk them sequentially--there's just one leash.) I was naive in thinking I could make both dogs happy this way, however. As soon as Cori saw we were leaving without her, she started snapping and growling at Chili something awful. Never mind she had just returned from a walk some .5 seconds ago; another dog was getting a privilege she wasn't! They crack me up.
Did I ever tell you about Maay-BEHH's nun friends who wanted a biblical name for their dog? They named him Moreover. (Just pretend "dogs" is singular in that citation.)

Another Plug

For the Fourth I went to my landlady's mom's house. We travelled together--me, my landlady and my landlord (Mr. and Mrs. Landpeople)--to Cincinnati's West Side. Now, understand that throughout my childhood, the Fourth of July meant one thing and one thing only--a backyard picnic at the Roeger's house. The Roegers and my mom and dad and a few other folks were part of a post-high school circle of friends called the Discussion Club; though over the years as the members had children and then grandchildren they wouldn't get together for their regular meetings anymore, they still convened once a year at the Roeger's, that family being the one with the biggest yard. (And with all the children of Discussion Club members, and then the children getting married, and then grandchildren, a big yard was essential). We'd pile in the van and drive out to this ranch house and play badminton and eat barbecue and go get sodas out of the coolers in the garage, and then it'd get dark and we'd chase fireflies. I especially remember the kid's room filled with Sesame Street toys, and playing Robin Hood with one of the few girls about my age who came--we made bows and arrows with twigs and rubber bands. Sometimes a teepee would be set up, and then we played Indians. For some reason (influenced I guess by the packaging on another kind of TP) I thought "White Cloud" would make a good Indian name for me.
Anyway. Mr. and Mrs. Landpeople and I went out to the West Side--the Best Side--and I got to meet Mrs. Landpeople's kith and kin. But where did we go but a ranch house with a kids room filled with toys (including the same Fisher Price airplane I used to have), and with a big backyard complete with shuttlecocks strewn all over? Coolers by the garage, the works.
Mrs. Landlady could hardly have known that by inviting me, she would teleport me back to a childhood memory. But nostalgia trip aside, it meant a lot to me to be invited to a family Fourth of July gathering.
So now that you know what a great person my landlady is, here's her website in case you're ever looking for someone to do some photography for ya.

Ice Cream Truck.

Hot day, walking up to the store.
Little boy up the street, maybe 9 or 10. He's standing by the trash can at the curb wearing that little boy expression that says, "Mom asked me to do something a minute ago, but I can't remember what it is, and...oh, look! There's a bug!"
As I approach, we both hear chimes in the distance. Tinny music, bells, whistles. His expression changes--he is the wanderer in the desert catching sight of an oasis. He looks at me, but he whispers the secret to himself, as though he can barely believe it.
"Ice cream truck," he whispers.
"Ice cream truck," I confirm.
He tears up the steps to his front door. You never know when the tinny music will fade. "ICE CREAM TRUCK!"