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Best. Bikeride. EVER.

My bikeride to work yesterday was unusually...colorful, to say the least. I passed two weird-ass characters en route, and had to share the experience.

First was a junkie/schizo version of Whoopi Goldberg trundling up the sidewalk with some mass of plastic bags, possibly containing more plastic bags or some other stuff. We will likely never know.

Anyway, as she steps aside so I can pass, we make polite eye contact, and she mumbles--with a slightly unhinged but still informative air of propheticism--"Same old shit...justa diffrunt day...."

She said this directly, as though it were some vital life lesson, deadly serious. Very not what I'd expect form good ole Whoopi.

A bit later, I'm passing mattress Warehouse and happen upon a stereotypical witch-type.

Craggy, somewhat gnarled face; light, faded, fluffy hair; tiny and scrawny; apparently using one of those wire push-carts as a walker, just hobbling along minding her own business.

But--dude--she looked and dressed exactly like Stephanie Tanner from Full House. I shit you not

Hit this with the witch stick and you've got my girl. Woman. Witch. Person.
I'm pretty sure at around this time the 1990s collapsed in on themselves.

But even so--who says Wheaton, MD, has no celebrity??


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This moment: A tattoo.

So I read Mrs. Dalloway in high school, and it was perhaps the most beautiful thing I'd ever read. One passage in particular, very early in the book, hit me hard with my first experience of the sublime, and stayed with me—and led at last to my first tattoo.
In people’s eyes, in the swing, tramp, and trudge; in the bellow and the uproar; the carriages, motor cars, omnibuses, vans, sandwich men shuffling and swinging; brass bands; barrel organs; in the triumph and the jingle and the strange high singing of some aeroplane overhead was what she loved; life; London; this moment of June.  (Emphasis added; full paragraph included below. From the full text of the novel as made available by the University of Adelaide.)

The paragraph this is from, the 4th paragraph of the novel, is the 1st passage with the stream of consciousness the book is famous for; although self-limited here, the flow is no less gorgeous. In the passage, Clarissa is walking on a street to get those famous flowers herse…

Losing Doolittle.

I recently got to spend a few days at the lake house my family used to visit through most of my childhood; we no longer own it, and it turns out I missed it more deeply than I realized.

Anthony and I both got the week before NYC Pride off this year, so I contrived to get us a little time there. The cousins who own Greenshore gave Anthony and me permission to relax there for several days rather than just the 1 or 2 I had expected. Good god, I'm grateful for that.

I missed this place. Standing on the balcony, the porch, or the dock and looking out over the lake, I was reminded of the beauty and tranquility this lake represents for me. The meaning and memories, too.

This was always a place of solace and stability for me. We moved around a lot when I was a kid, but we always came back to this place. It had been in our family for generations before I was even born—if we'd been able to keep it, it would have been a solid 4 generations including mine. This was where I figured out I w…

Gardenzia carnivorus.

I recently got back into horticulture after a bad moment of burnout, and wouldn't ya know it, I'm back at it with carnivorous plants! Despite tweeting about it endlessly, I haven't actually explained how or why this started.

Back in middle school, I helped my science teacher set up a carnivorous plant display. Nothing elaborate, mind you; a terrarium with a bunch of sphagnum moss and some pitcher plants, a sundew or two, maybe a Venus flytrap? Didn't leave much of an impression, except maybe that they died and that sucked. shrug.
A couple years later, I was in a bog near my grandmother's lake house, when things changed forever. I was in the back end of the canoe, and as my dad pulled the front end out of the water, I glanced to my right and spied, on a stump with some moss, sundews (Drosera rotundifolia, to be precise).
Of course I recognized therm instantly—they're hard to mistake, with those the sparkling tentacles and all. I gathered 3 or so of them (I know