Pepper grinder bottle

I like to mix it up, I’ll alternate between “bless you” and “geshundheit” and if it keeps on happening I’ll mix in guttural mumbles just so I don’t overuse the phrase.

I like the idea behind “bless you”, there are so many cute little romantic ideas behind it. That people when they sneeze their heart stops beating for a moment and in that moment, they could be dead. Alternatively the saying could be a ward against some future illness that a sneeze could portend. I’ve seen it portrayed in movies where a parent is about to enter into a deal with some sort of magical creature and their agreement to allow the deal to go through is counted in sneezes by the victim. By saying “bless you” you wipe the slate clean, void the deal, and drive away the creature.

So the reason behind it is probably learned, probably habit, and for some probably tied to a bit of lore or trivia and they pay honor to it each time they say the phrase “bless you”. I suppose I’ve got a mix of all of that.

schooling threadfin pearl-perch

I find the distractions of life to be nigh overwhelming to me these days. There is just too much to do and the longer I ponder on the horizon of “To Do” items the further it gets away from me. Much like the surface of the Universe, it’s expanding and the speed of that expansion is increasing. There are some things I would dearly like to do, like plow through my “To Read” book collection, to plow through my “To Read” comics collection, to catch up on all the other things I have to look at or read up on and somewhere in all that find time and resources to try to restart my geocaching hobby. Unfortunately gasoline and other things that vie for my limited consciousness are all conspiring against me. There just isn’t enough time to do it all, so you have to be picky. I think that’s my overarching item on my Spring to-do list, is find better ways to handle all of this, to give up on some things and prune down other things.

Union Station Columns & Arches (Washington, DC)

My recurring dreams are all based on a central figure. I call this The House and in my dreams it is almost always either visible or a central player in my dreaming. Sometimes the house is a grand hotel, like the Waldorf Astoria, and it’s full of elevators without walls – just a platform and a knife switch for it to go up and down. Most often though The House takes the form of a sprawling 1970’s circa clapboard-sided bungalow house that is laid out in a single floor over thousands of square feet. In the house are people living in rooms, some are bedrooms, some are complicated conch-shell organized rooms with mystery hiding behind every door. Sometimes it’s bright and sunny, and sometimes it’s wet and rainy. Sometimes there are people I recognize and sometimes not. I don’t know why my dreaming mind takes me there and I remember the house so very well, and I’m sure it means something deep and meaningful but I’ve never been able to put a finger on it. I doubt dreams are supposed to be nailed down anyways. The minute you start trying to pin them, they slip out from beneath you and you find your memory slipping away from you. Many of the dream memories that I bring back to my conscious life function a lot like sand. The harder I grip, the faster the sand runs out of my fist and gets spread to the wind.

Every once in a long while I’ll have a very meaningful dream and the memory will hang around for the better part of a day. Very very rarely will those memories live beyond that, but there are some. I find that if I write about the dreams, that writing somehow solidifies them in my memory. I can’t really explain that one either other than it makes a fair amount of sense on a behavioral standpoint. What to make of the sprawling house? I’m sure any armchair dream analyst would have a field day with that one, especially if they knew some of the activities going on in the house and who was playing what parts.

Under the Milky Way

The best place to see the stars, at least close to where I am now is just outside of Cadillac Michigan. There is a little lake called Olga Lake, just inside the Manistee National Forest. This place is far enough away from cities and their light pollution to really get a great view of the night sky. I haven’t been to that place in years and considering the cost of fuel and general occupation with tasks at home, I doubt I’ll ever get to set foot there again.

Psyche and Cupid in the Musee de Louvre

I can’t really say that I have a FAVORITE, however to answer this question I would have to say that my ‘FAVORITE’ is the largest I’ve ever been in. That would be La Louvre in Paris, France. All of my really favorite sculptures and artifacts are within it’s halls. Everything from the Mona Lisa to my personally most-favorite sculpture of all time is Antonio Canova’s Psyche Revived by Cupid’s Kiss. In that I have a favorite, both museum and pieces. Right behind La Lourvre are the Rodin pieces in the Monet museum, also in Paris.

Airplane! The movie

There are a constellation of “Perfect Movies”, here goes: Airplane!, Clue, Young Frankenstein, History of the World Part One, Planes, Trains, and Automobiles, Mannequin, Jeffery, Noises Off, Deathtrap, The Man With Two Brains… there are more for sure… but those are the ones that come off the top of my head.

Post-Answer Update: And of course, how could I forget, The Kentucky Fried Movie!

Saint Patrick’s Day is always a little bit of a problem. The trouble is deciding what you are actually celebrating. Are you celebrating Irish culture? Are you celebrating Alcoholism and Thuggery? Are you celebrating the actual Saints Day? The whole day is riddled with problems. If you are going after Irish culture, and you think you can explore it with food, and you wander into a “Corned Beef and Cabbage” recipe – save your effort. That dish isn’t Irish at all. It’s Jewish. So for proud Irish Catholics, they may be a touch upset at that. As with Alcohol and Thuggery, well, they go hand in hand. People put food coloring in beer and feature alcoholic beverages, because the Irish are stupid brutish obnoxious drunks. Obviously. And you have to placate the gaelic horde with alcohol before they push your wife down a narrow staircase. Then we get to the Saint himself. This one is jammed-packed with issues. Saint Patrick drove the snakes out of Ireland. Supposedly to save the Irish Potato, which I believe is either called the Muck or the Punter. But this is a cute little charmer to answer curious children. What was Saint Patrick doing? Snakes? How about aboriginal druidic and pagan peoples? Yeah, there are a lot of people still quite upset, even thousands of years later that Saint Patrick ejected the original people and original belief systems out of Ireland so the Catholics could set up shop. I never really got into it very deeply, maybe he did, maybe he didn’t. Maybe he’s just an allegory and didn’t really exist. Much like the rest of the “Holiday” it’s primarily what you think it is that it becomes for you.

For me? I wear my family crest which I have on a shirt and I spend time looking at pictures of County Antrim where I suspect my family was originally from. I look at the tartan for Antrim and I spend a little time daydreaming about the boat and the red-hand on my family crest. Then I enjoy some Corned Beef and Cabbage and think fondly of a nice Jewish family helping out a down-and-out Irishman. Then I start thinking about Latkes and Knishes. I then fall asleep in my recliner after several beers and finally do some honor to my proud ancestors. 🙂

No Name Road

My parents chose my name. My middle name is my fathers first name, and his I believe is related to one of his grandparents. I admire the icelandic people because name construction is a rather straightforward affair and delightfully chained together with either -son or -dottir. I imagine my family was quite fond of biblical names, since we have so many, Joseph, John, James, Theresa, Martha, Timothy, Andrew… and that seems to be more influenced by my father’s side where all the biblical names are hanging out. On my mother’s side, the names aren’t biblical at all. Susan, Mildred, Allen, Reuben. I’m quite happy with my given name, and I think it fits me well. There is something to note however, people who call me by my complete given name irritate me. Being called Andrew sets me on edge. It’s not that I don’t like it, but it makes me very agitated and skitterish. I much prefer Andy. The people who call me Andrew, if they are really paying attention will notice a look that I’ll give them, and it’s not altogether pleasant. All of that reaction is really quite reflexive. It’s almost as reflexive as when someone whines at me. I cannot brook whining. I have to clench my fingers into tightly controlled fists and lock up my arms to prevent myself from grabbing the whining person and shake and slap them senseless.

Funny that these prompts evolve into other discussions very easily. Naughty! 😉

The Awkward Butterfly

I seriously can’t even think of a single one. There are a gallery of options but doing anything with any of them would be just too awkward. The only thing that I would love would be to have a brunch with Stephen King and give him little bits of lettuce for hours and hours and at the end a huge feast and see if he understands analogy.

Trumpet

I used to be able to play the Trumpet, but a protracted amount of orthodontia pretty much obliterated that pursuit. I found that I much prefer to consume art than try to produce it myself. I think I lost the faith, when it came to music when I stopped feeling the need to compete for “chair position” back in grade school. Much like other parts of my life where competition rears its ugly head I find myself questioning the inherent value of the activity and then considering the people that surround me. Usually the evaluation leads me to consider the people around me to be worthless sacks of protoplasm, then to question why I’m even doing something and if it’s really for me, and then I usually walk away from it. As time goes on I find myself more interested with insular matters. Recently at work several coworkers have asked me if I felt bad that someone else took sole credit for what a group that I was involved with accomplished. Frankly I’m not after approval or rewards. I’m just here to do what I do, if people want to make a big production of it, that’s up to them. If other people want to claim the spotlight, all the more power to them. This is the core reason why I have zero interest in sports. I’ve never seen the point of it.