At the Royal BC Museum — which we skipped through quickly, pausing mostly for the ice glacier and mammoth — two crystal glasses caught my eye.  They were monogrammed F.R. and the caption above them named Francis Rattenbury and his notable architectural acheivements (some buildings in Victoria, I forget which.) 

He was more notable, however, for his life.  Bedded much younger Alma Packenham out of wedlock, divorced wife Florrie, Married Alma.  Then got old and boring and clubbed by Alma’s teen lover.  The murdering teen lover was sentenced to die and Alma stabbed herself in the heart. 

They must be laughing, the Canucks, at our silly old Spitzer affair.  How dull in contrast. 

I haven’t read An American Tragedy in years, but the storie’s the same I believe.  Sister Carrie (not a nun) seduces established man who leaves his family, loses standing and money, bores her out of her mind etc.  Can’t remember, though, if anyone dies. 

I’ve taken to drinking lemon water.  Please remember if I wind up at your house.

[Wiki for Rattenbury]

A. has requested I show this picture.  I would have earlier but for the focus – A. commits the most daring act of our lives and I screw up the shot.  It was even scarier, I promise, in person and completely clear. 

(That’s A.’s very own hand, by the way, beneath the creepy, spindly fur.)

There is snow on my ground, which I resent, because it’s April (practically) and I purposely chose a mild climate because I’m not cut out for this sort of thing.

The morning, by most accounts, went better than planned, A.  I know you wonder.  I gave them buddies to color at breakfast and then fold up and pocket for strength.  Jr. named his buddy “Buddy”, G. named hers “Mom.”  I think we’ll prevail.

Mr. Clinton is nearby this afternoon, I RSVP’d.  This would mean pulling the kidlets out and exposing them to oration, but there are worse things.  Being born male in a praying mantis family, for instance.  You all know the girls eat the boys during sex. What you may not know is that it’s generally only the skinny girls who do. Because they’re hungry.  (Beware of salad-eaters, praying mantis men. They make up for it in time.)

We learned this, of course, at the bug zoo, you must go.

I’m trying to Flick, to be cool and put A.’s artful bug and flamingo photos on Flickr.  No go, Jack.  Stupid Flickr, stupid lame wireless router, stupid nothing interesting in the paper today at all nothing. 

Anyhow.  For H. and others, Flickr’s to come.  We jumped on the beds and ordered room service and went to not just the National Bug Zoo but Butterfly Gardens, too.  I forgot, though, to mail the postcards.  Will stick them with my Christmas cards.  (Aside from cooking and the sexual organs, I’m secretly a man.)

Before we arrived, I lost my glasses.  No vague idea where.  I’ll sing a song to you if you find them. 

I’ve been calling this little guy “Bert.”

Hmm.  That sounds derogatory but isn’t.  It’s a song in The Boogie Book from seventh grade piano. It came to mind. 

I’m back!  From Canada, you sillies.  Well, Victoria, that may not technically count.  Still.  There was customs. 

Stopped first in Seattle to catch the ferry.  This guy — let’s call him Stan – is from Pike Place Market circa Wednesday. Stan either has a big fat tongue or a sausage in his mouth.  Either way kind of gross, eh?

It’s my 746th post!  This one right here!  Noisemakers and bubbly on the way.  A speech for you, the fans, still to come.

Meanwhile, I meant it about offline.  Seriously.  I’m gone from now, right this minute, until Sunday; you’d better get a grip.

In Newport (OR) there’s a little tourist strip by the bay.  They have an aquarium, a wax museum, something else I think, and Ripley’s Believe it Or Not.  Oddly, the only thing I remember from Ripley’s, and I’ve been there more than once, is the D.B. Cooper display.  Wait.  Maybe he’s in the wax museum, I think he is.  Who cares, go to both, they’re connected at the gift shop. 

The point.  His station was the coolest.  There’s a backpack hanging from a tree in a forest, all dark, then some sort of trick mirror flashes a ghostly image of him.  You turn one way, he’s there.  Look back, and then he’s gone.

Why do you care?  Well, you don’t unless you’re in Newport right now, in which case you should go — to the Wax Museum, I guess, I think it’s seven bucks.  And I only say any of this because they’re claiming kids in Seattle found Cooper’s parachute now. 

In case you have no idea what I’m talking about at all, D.B. was a smooth-talking hijacker who famously disappeared right here, in the Northwest, in 1971.  He jumped out of a plane with his cash into trees, dropping a dash of intrigue onto the sport that has since gone unmatched. 

Read more about him here. 

I’m offline until Monday.  Go outside, dig up dirt, plant daisies.

I put Scruffy here.  But only for a few days, I swear. 

I’m a bad, bad person. 

I did sign him up for the nature walk, playtime, snack & snuggle, and romp & rassle.  And at snack & snuggle he gets ice cream!

(Sniff, sigh.)

Though A. and I did watch Showtime for several years. 

Had the loveliest time yesterday, in spite of the rain.  I served up yummy pasture-fed dead lamb, vegetables, giant strawberries very un-greenly trucked in from CA.  Today, sun and soup at The Sage.  G., I hope, will have more stories.  She had this one, for starters, at breakfast:

“My friend M. was adopted and her parents were on drugs and so for a long time she didn’t even know what a carrot was!” 

G’s friend “M” should not be confused with the M. who shows up frequently on these pages, whose parents may or may not have been on drugs but who I am certain knows, at least, what a carrot is.

Right now we’re pretending to be under attack by goblins.  (Hmm.  Just like them). 

Have a lovely day and a nice broccoli soup.

On Wednesdays I help in the library for G.’s class and my fingers turn red.  Just the middle and ring finger on my right hand, red from the date stamper, remember those?  I stamp the cards and the book with the due date, it’s the very best job.  When I let the kids help me they all want to do the stamping, I don’t let them.  Perks come few and far between in life, and I’m greedy with this one. 

When I was little I planned to grow up to be three different things (at various times): 

First. A lounge singer. This came from the Streisand / Kristofferson version of “A Star is Born” which I wasn’t allowed to see.  I was, though, allowed to listen to the album and I did, six million times.  Then my mother bought the sheet music to “Evergreen” and I played and sang it loudly in the front room when no one was home, hoping someone would walk by outside and discover me.  (They didn’t.)

Second, A checker at Safeway.  Thirty years ago they had more keys to punch and the keys made fantastic clickey-click sounds. The job required great dexterity and skill, the good checkers were a thrill to watch.

3.  A librarian.  This was only so I could stamp the cards.  I wasn’t interested in finding books, or answering questions, or leaving the little desk for any reason at all, I just wanted to stamp all the cards.  And here I am now, Wednesday mornings, with my fingers all red.  Some dreams do come true! 

On another note, my problems today are all tied to carpet.  You know the one.  It covers the TV room, our bedrooms, the bunkhouse where I try to work, it’s insidious it’s creepy.  It feels evil, as though it’s motives are bad.  It’s had shady dealings in the past.  I might write a book about the carpet, I think it’s capable of monstrous acts.  Horror lurks here, it’s seeped into Scruffy. He chews through everything lately with brutal abandon.  Tables and chairs — metal, wood, teflon, Pinewood Derby cars.  The house is likely next, he’ll eat the house.  I worry at night he’ll chew me up while I’m asleep and I won’t know it.  Will wake up in scattered bits all over the ground and have to reassemble myself before A. sees; I’m Scruffy’s enabler. 

Holly and Jennifer are here to clean and I asked them to sweep the floor but I don’t have a broom.  “Ha, Ha, that’s funny,” I say to them, playing it cool.  “My brooms just seem to disappear!”  I say it as though it’s common, and also to make them think I’ve had many brooms and that I’m close to them; that it’s just chance and the position of the moon to blame for the fact that today we can’t find one.  The truth is I’ve been playing this line for months — with Holly and Jennifer, with the contractors and painters who want to clean up their mess.  “Ha, ha, this is so weird.  I don’t know where they go!”  They all know I’m full of it.  I care nothing for brooms, or where they are, I have little interest, even, in looking.  Same goes for vacuums and sponges and mops / laundry rooms / paper towels.  These things don’t interest me I don’t even care that they exist. 

I desperately want Jennifer and Holly to figure it out, to solve the broom problem quietly, behind my back.  They can gossip about me in the car when they leave. 

I’m safely stowed away in the bunk house right now and have an email from A. that says to go back out front.  People keep coming, and I have to talk, and it’s all very difficult for me.  I was hoping to avoid, for instance, the painter.  But A. wants me to go back inside and hang a note on the front door for UPS.  This is what I mean, this is why it’s urgent that I find an office that no one can go to.  If I had an office to report to at certain hours I wouldn’t be here to put the note on, or explain to Holly about the broom, or touch the door where Mark the painter points so that I know he’s serious when he says it’s not dry. 

If I had an office, like A., how would we handle the UPS?  How do other people do it?  And while I’m peppering you with questions, what gets red ink off one’s hands?  Regular soap, I’ve found, is somewhat weak. 

Where is M.?  I haven’t heard from M. in ages.  Perhaps he’s embroiled in a sex scandal, they’re all the rage right now in New York. 

My post headings are all first lines this week, so you know.  I’d offer a prize for your guess, but I don’t want to.