Slice of life

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I decided to mow the lawn for the first time today since Memorial Day weekend. So as I crouched over the lawn mower carefully pouring gasoline from a 2 gallon can, directly from the neck without the spout, I noticed that the ember of my lit cigar was about 15 in. from the tank. "Hmm," I said to myself, "I need to go park this cigar somewhere else." So I did.

Not exactly a purported image of Jesus in a piece of French toast

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But it's even better! See the outwardly mediocre photo below and try to find the super-awesome subliminal image embedded within it.

Shot at the Cowboy Monkey, Champaign, Ill., Friday evening whilst Big Rock Head was blowing some section work with the Parkland College In-Your-Ear Big Band.

And I will hasten to add that, no, the ugly motherfucker at center left is not your genial host. How could you even think such a thing?!?

Click to enlarge. Taken with an iPhone 4s in available light using its digital zoom capability. The camera in the thing is quite impressive. I'll share some of the landscapes I made over Thanksgiving in western Iowa, on the estate of one of this blog's correspondents.

And I quote:

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Rudy, holding forth on the topic of squirrels:

They eat anything.
They're like rats!
They are rats. With tails!

Occupy Indian Summer

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While running an errand to Lowe's this afternoon I beheld this crew occupying the northeast corner of Prospect Avenue and Market View Drive in Champaign. The afternoon was crystal clear, warm, and bathed in that special gold sunlight that we get in these latitudes during the first month of autumn. I decided to visit them to get a sense of how my conservative university/corn-cob town may or may not have plugged into the national zeitgeist. Two things surprised me about the event.

First, the group's motliness impressed me as an asset, not a liability. This aggregation of 20 souls was pretty much the same demographic cross-section I'd expect to see at the Target two blocks to the north on any given weekend. The oddest guy in the crowd was the one wearing a "World's Greatest Dad" t-shirt and a home-made comparative US income bar chart drawn on poster board. Several demonstrators appeared to have participated in previous Occupy meetings, but most seemed to be first-timers judging from the chats I had. The crowd had a sort of tentative mood, not knowing exactly what they should be doing other than holding their signs and waving at cars. So they pretty much just did that, and in doing so they gave the clear appearance of unified purpose. It struck me as an organic aggregation, not one of those prefab demonstrations of lame, (usually) liberal political theater where people half-heartedly chant trite, pre-rehearsed rhymes. This group did use the "human microphone" technique to read the 29 September 20111 "Declaration of the Occupation of New York City." Their effort in this also seemed tentative---not self-consciously uptight, but sort of iffy... possibly because there was no one to hear the words except themselves (everyone else was in cars) and the Declaration is damn long to read out loud using such an approach. Nevertheless, all of this added up to an oddly touching experience for me: a not-quite-random meetup of individuals with an impulse to connect, getting to know each other on the spot, voting on whether and where to get together again.

The second, and even more interesting surprise, was how many car horns I heard honking in support while standing at that corner---possibly averaging 6 - 8 a minute at one point. The participants I talked with said it had been pretty much like that for the hour-plus they had been standing there, with only two or three rude remarks having been shouted from passing vehicles. (I heard none while I was visiting the scene.)

Is it possible that there really is some sort of self-organizing grassroots phenomenon in its early stages of nationwide formation? As long as the Occupy movement remains positive, cooperative, nonviolent, non-hierarchical, and noncommercial, maybe it has the potential to address a deep need in a society that is becoming exhausted by its alienation from itself and sick of the depravity that corporations have infected it with.

Blind Justice!

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Here's a snap of the first band up today in the Prairie Crossroads Blues Society battle of the bands at Memphis On Main, Champaign, Illinois. The band is named for Mr. Tim Donaldson, center with Fender Strat; and Roger "The Doctor" Prillaman, left with stacked keys. Tim is the owner of The Blind Man, a Champaign window dressing boutique, and Roger is an Urbana attorney. So: Blind Justice!

Tim and Roger are geezers of approximately RubberCrutch vintage. Tim's longtime aggregation, the No Secrets Band (which I think must have been named after Carly Simon's nipples), broke up a few years ago, and he has been playing with his talented sons and one of my talented sons for almost a year. Roger was a mainstay in Captain Rat and the Blind Rivets, which was probably the leading Champaign-Urbana bar/party band through some of the 1970s and much of the '80s (not sure---didn't get out much back then).

On tubs, in background with head bisected diagonally by Roger's mic boom, is Ben Donaldson, a graduate of Champaign Central High School's nationally renown jazz program. The ultra-handsome gentleman plucking bass strings at the right, also an alum of the Central jazz program, is Dave "Rock Head" C****," who officially adopted that stage name as of today. (The crowd seemed to be tickled by it.) The 20-minute set included one original composition by Big Rock Head entitled "Weathered Man."

Winner of the battle gets to compete in a national battle at Memphis at some point.

Cavalcade of marsupials

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It turns out I was correct about the massing of the terror prowling the night kitchen here in my private domain, The United State Of Moronica. Not a mouse. And happily, not a rat. Fifty50 reader Carlos Magnus was kind enough to lend me a small steel live trap, which I deployed Monday night somewhat arbitrarily in front of the basement door against the breakfast nook wall. I loaded the bait tray with a nice Japanese rice cracker thinly coated with peanut butter on each side (for good adhesion to the tray).

At about 0330, around the corner from the head of my bed, I heard something fairly large but sluggish rattling around in the cage. Since I hadn't set the catches on the trap correctly, my prey almost worked himself out before I got him out the front door. Not a raccoon, either: a possum that was almost too large for the cage! Since this drill interrupted a sleep cycle I could barely navigate or perceive what was happening, but felt satisfied with my high-level trapping achievement and quickly drifted off as soon as I hit the mattress.

On a whim, "just in case," I reset the trap again the next night. And I'll be a suck-egg mule if I didn't hear the goddam cage rattling around at the crack of 0230! Luckily, this coincided with the conclusion of a sleep cycle, apparently, and I had the presence of mind to grab the Nikon D80 and take a mugshot of this guy.

Not the same prisoner I took the previous night. Significantly smaller. For reference, the baseboard behind him is about 3 inches high. I was pleased that the creature remained calm and also well behaved, elimination-wise. Having set the trap latches correctly this night, I carried the trap onto the porch and gave him early parole. Of course, on the third night, when I caught another motherfucking possum (same trap, same place, at about 0130 this time), it occurred to me that the specimen pictured above might have found his way back into the crib from the staging area of my porch. He seemed a bit smaller than Two of 4, though (that's right---four!), so it may have been another sibling. Anyway, with great cunning I released the latest addition to my collection all of 15 feet away from the porch, and he made a beeline across the street to hopefully break into a neighbor's house.

Last night, I deployed two live traps (one in the basement) and came up with No. 4 at about 0230; possibly even a bit smaller than No 3. This time I let my captive chill in the cage on the porch for the duration and took him into work with me. While tempted to release him in the foyer of Rudy's apartment building or inside of Walmart on Prospect, I found an unkempt field for the release. Understandably, Four of 4 was showing some teeth to reflect his poor attitude after a noisy, bumpy ride in in the back compartment of the station wagon, but still behaved well enough.

So tonight, in a few minutes I'll swallow a handful of pills and wash 'em down with 8 oz of gin in preparation for bedtime. But again with double-barrel traps baited with a succulent midnight snack for the herd of marsupials in the basement.

Happy Independence Day, Soldier!

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Beer-D is watching Independence Day fireworks tonight in a small town called Mahomet (yes, I agree---it's a much more peculiar name for these parts even than "Podunk" is). It is a Champaign County bedroom community to which affluent people flee from our twin cities for the "good schools" and other mythical quality-of-life perks. Any-hoo, I received a text message from him shortly before the fireworks began, commenting on how well received some patriotic Toby Keith song was by the Proud Americans in attendance. Then, this exchange between him and me:

Beer-D: There's some bugler actually playing Taps right now. The fuck?

RubberCrutch: He must think it's Memorial Day.

Beer-D: Oh my god, they played it for a guy who's ABOUT to be deployed to Afghanistan!

Well, yes, I understand that Taps is played at lights-out on Army installations every night. Likewise, I am familiar with the fact that the sounding of Taps by a bugler is universally recognized by Americans as a musical salute to a deceased soldier at his or her funeral. I am not a military veteran, but I'm pretty sure that Taps is not a song that a soldier wishes to hear immediately before being deployed to a theater of operations. I wonder if this untimely gaffe even registered with anyone other than the soldier and his family.

Barometer of pathos

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I live in a Big 10 university community, which I believe to be the lamest in the conference. I've always been amazed by how little this town has going on for itself in any respect---musically, artistically, socially, politically. But just how pathetic is it? Well, my friends, these twin cities, occupied by close to 150,000 souls, can literally generate only two Craigslist "missed connections" ads a month... and one of them is usually spam!

This city typically has about as much life as you might expect in a place like Tuscola. The leatherfaced men gaze hatefully through dead cinder eyeballs from under the visors of NASCAR baseball caps; all women seem to be upholstered with cottage cheese and cud. I see more fire in the eyes of a single Amish lady on her quarterly field trip to Target than I can sense upon walking the entire length of Green Street in campustown, where the girls seem to use Photoshop instead of makeup, and boys roam in herds from bar to bar dreaming of their next opportunity for date rape.

Take, that, Garrison Fucking Keillor!

February thaw

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Hi. Remember me?

Reintegration of the shoulder bone has been going well, and I'm probably a week ahead of schedule in terms of physical therapy progress. Reintegration of my headbone back into the work cycle has been more difficult.

And regarding my absence from here, it's not as if my mind isn't brimming with verities that I need to share with everyone. What's going on is that it's still fairly hard to align my thoughts into sequences of words that comprise coherent sentences; takes me 45 minutes to squeeze out a 20-minute post still, at least if I want it to apply some craftsmanship.

Also, the house has sort of devolved into a virtual turd mine, and my usually pitiful organizing skills are still in the sub-remedial zone. And although I'm actually a fan of fairly robust winters, this current one has sucked rocks beyond decades of memory. It's been a miserable, bitter, relentless winter just like the ones I remember in the Chicago south suburbs as a paper boy, wearing crappy JC Penney winter jackets made out of stiff polyester and primitive fiberfill, with my skin blanching toward Edgar-Winter white on face and under under useless mittens and footwear.

But even then, we always got a February thaw. Ours here in central Illinois would appear to be on the way in the upcoming week, starting tomorrow. I'm hoping that when I kick back the slabs of compressed ice pellets we've been walking on for almost two weeks I will feel tumescent shoots drilling skyward through the scalp from my mental bulbs. I've about had it with living like a ghost.

Cutty, feely open thread

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A few "housekeeping" matters for you, in the form of my first, very own "open thread." In case  you don't know, "open thread" is a blogging term for a post that is of little inherent interest but serves as a pointer to a comments section where readers may intercommunicate.

I will direct the vassals of my domain to use the comments thread, if advisable, to pass along any news of interest about my condition and wellbeing in relation to some arthroscopic surgery I'll receive on Tuesday. This will take my left shoulder offline for several days, and it probably will stymie any significant typing by RubberCrutch. My hope is that there is no news at all to report, other than "all is well," and that immobilization of the shoulder won't have me away from the keyboard for more than, say, 36 hours.

I'll probably be away from work for close to 2 weeks, and will start fast on PT in 1 week. This pretty much constitutes my "vacation" for the upcoming year, so I intend to enjoy it to whatever extent possible. I've laid in a case of assorted affordable organic wines for medicinal purposes.

I'm still a little behind on responding to commenters from over the holidays and the past weekend; I feel like a jag about this because it's always my intent to share words with people who take the time to read this page and then write something about it. To me, blogging at a third- or fourth-tier scale is the only meaningful internet social medium; Facebook and Twitter seem worse than useless for purposes of... well, anything; blogging is not only social, it's also personal. I hope to catch up with all commenters before tomorrow noon, which is showtime.

If there is anything to be reported about my condition, it will be posted in the comments section by Beer-D or Big Rock Head. Talk to you soon.

---Love, RubberCrutch

OK, I gotta settle down now

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Between my current fevered speculations, which are intended to develop a plausible hypothesis about what is really wrong with Obama and his political flubs and miscues of the past 2 years; and some mind-bending reading about current events that I intend to comment on soon, I'm now ready for some west and welaxation. West and welaxation! That's right. So here's a nice-ish photo I shot last night from the back door of the garage.

I made the image on my mighty Nikon D700 using a Nikkor 24mm prime lens opened up to f/2.8 and with an exposure of 1/40th of a second (hand-held). Of interest to old-school photographers, I set the ISO to 6400---16 times faster than the old Kodak workhorse fast film, Tri-X. I didn't even bother to correct for visual noise, which would plague most digital images made at this speed on lesser cameras.

This picture astounds me in terms of how capable this camera is of capturing high-quality images in low light. The key light was a mercury vapor security light that inflicts itself on my property from the alley. I did very little postprocessing, just tinkering a little with the white balance to reduce the red/magenta tint of the light source, then applying the Adobe Bridge vignetting tool in the RAW processor to eliminate the "irising" effect at the corners of the frame, which is inherent to most wide-angle lenses.

I was amused by this sight last night because the patio looked all set up to host a conclave dedicated to booze and cigars, with the only obstacle being about 4 inches of highly packable snow covering everything. By afternoon today, incidentally, we had about 10 inches on the ground here in my small city on a swamp.

The plains of Persia

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Persia, Iowa: realm of the noble Rep. Steve King, a mile down the road from the simple country demesne of Rusty and Lucky (the Baby Boom's answer to Ma and Pa Kettle). A quick, crowd-pleasing creekscape, lightly processed using the Adobe Bridge RAW processor and Photoshop for exposure and color correction, fussily cropped. RAW is a file format presenting raw data from the camera sensor. The Bridge RAW processor gives you an insane amount of easy controls that are often sufficient to whip out a quick, crowdpleasing landscape.

I probably put as much effort into this shot and the postprocessing as Larry Kanfer puts into any given "prairiescape," i.e., not much, but at this point I don't have a way to sell mine for $600, bare, like Kanfer does. Kanfer's work has ornamented the great rooms of Champaign-Urbana Junior League types for over 30 years now. Myself, I've always felt his photos lack soul, and many of them appear short on aesthetics and even proficiency. But what do I know about it if an auto dealership heiress wants to pay easy money for the stuff?

Editor's note: any problems with the aesthetics of this image are the fault of the creek channel and not the photographer. Thank you for your attention to this matter.

And I quote:

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"If a chicken don't eat its own shit I don't wanna eat it; it don't taste right."

---Rudy M., Champaign, Illinois (16 October 2010)

And I quote:

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"Hey! I used to bone a Roller Derby's sister!"

---Rudy, Champaign, Illinois (3 October 2010)

Happy birthday to "Politey"!

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...Politey being the antonymous designation for Rudy, the cartoonlike gentleman who spends much of his life in this apartment window, which is located 7 feet east of a Joe Pye Weed and dwarf coreopsis growing between my driveway and my fence, on West Healey Street in Champaign, Ill. Rudy has inhabited this planet for a full 67 years as of today. Coincidentally, also on this date in 1959, the first episode of The Twilight Zone aired on CBS. Also appropriately, he shares a birthday with Richard III (1452), the allegedly deformed, hunchback English king who served as the objective correlative in the children's nursery rhyme "Humpty Dumpty," and was probably seriously slandered by Shakespeare on behalf of the Tudor monarchy a century after he died; Groucho Marx (1890), who was somewhat less funny than Rudy during his career; George McFarland (1928), the runt called "Spanky" in the Depression-era Our Gang/Little Rascals film shorts; and Maury Wills (1932), a National League base-stealing speed demon during mid-century previous.

Rudy's favorite expression is "What're you doing?!?" His favorite pastimes are lurking in his window waiting for Billy Goat Gruffs to carelessly trespass, reporting hallucinatory sightings of nonexistent species of birds patrolling our feeders, and making shit up as he goes along. He coins at least four neologisms every week, and believes that each and every one of them have been part of The King's English since Humpty Dumpty roamed the earth.

I offer all of the above observations in complete earnest, but without so much as a microgram of disrespect. He is an sweety-pie American Original, and by far the least generic neighbor I've ever had. Happy birthday, Fatso!

Central Illinois corn palace

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I spotted this stately yet unassuming mansion this afternoon about 5 miles south of my comfort zone in southeastern Champaign County on the way to Douglas County. I snapped it on the way back into town, maybe about 5:30 p.m., as the sunlight was softening toward gold.

The architect should take a bow for exploiting this archetypal structural form of the rural midwest, penetrating walls and roof with the pairs of twin gables and enormous picture windows (another one on the southern elevation). The place must be full of light and elbow room, and I'd particularly enjoy seeing how the elongated, double-decker gables play out in the interior, function-wise. Hopefully, the designer paid attention to energy sustainability, too. I think this building is miles ahead of the generic, predesigned suburban-style houses with which everybody else feels it necessary to litter our rural roadsides. If I ever had to rebuild from scratch in town, I'd strongly consider using the design. It's aesthetically well matched to our region and, as an extra bonus, it would stir up the pod people in my neighborhood.

The beauty of peak hurricane season

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There is, I assume, more much more trepidation than beauty experienced by denizens of the U.S. Atlantic and Gulf coastal lowlands during peak hurricane season. I think, without an ion of glee, that it may just be the price people pay to live a few miles from white sand beaches and rum shacks, gorge on fresh, affordable seafood at will, and escape the torment of long winters. There are also crosses to bear when emigrating to Champaign, Illinois. It's the nation's most mentally and morally conservative Big 10 university town. Our current alpha creatures are real estate people intent on digging out every last green space in the county to make room for unneeded new townhouses and strip malls in a moribund market. The downsides here are less dramatic than for coastal people, but I'd bet our list is much longer (and beyond the scope of this post).

But hurricane season here is outstanding. The careful observer living in the Corn Belt can often peg the beginning of hurricane season, in all its local splendor, to the week if not to the day. Two groups of people are most likely to take note: farmers (but not necessarily agri-businessmen riding in hermetically sealed, GPS-navigated combines the size of a Gothic cathedral) and road cyclists (bi-, not necessarily motor-).

One leading indicator conspicuous to both farmers and cyclists is the prevailing wind direction, which changes here somewhat abruptly from southwesterly to southeasterly and easterly. Another indicator, somewhat less consistent, is humidity, which drops significantly around the time prevailing wind directions change. The humidity drop happens to be convenient to grain farmers, who want to dry down the corn and beans as much as possible in the fields to promote cost-efficient harvesting and marketing. It's also convenient to cyclists, who appreciate hot sun combined with pleasant evaporative cooling effects. I'm certain these weather shifts are directly related to the overarching climate patterns that originate in the tropical mid-Atlantic at this time of the year, but I'm not a weatherman so I can't document that. It's a correlation observed across decades.

Our "twin cities" had a few previews of the change in wind early this month. But last week --- Wednesday, I think --- the area was abruptly overshadowed by an uncharacteristically gray, gloomy day. From the interior of an over-chilled government building, looking out any window, the vibe was late October or November (and even somewhat chilly outdoors after the "closing bell"). Sometime around that day, either the night before or after, about 1.6 inches of badly needed rain fell on the asparagus garden. Then, suddenly, meteorological glory. Bike riding patterns after work became almost exclusively outbound to the southeast, east, and even north once. The object is to ride into the draft on the way out, not on the way home while the sun is racing to auger into the west horizon. Fortuitously, due to seasonal characteristics related to Terra's orbit around the sun on an oblique axis, last 180 minutes of daylight every day for the past week-plus has fully qualified as the elusive Golden Hour that landscape photographers prize so highly. And, as if right on cue, in the Atlantic and near the Caribbean, a new crop of tropical depressions and storms began to sprout.

This is peak hurricane season in the Corn Belt: made for communing with the genial, sunny Midwestern elements in solitude. Perched on the saddle of a lightweight aluminum touring bike tanked up with water bottles; a power bar in the saddle pack; biosystems exerting straight ahead with the help of endorphins and Advil, to a soundtrack of the wind and other breathing; and a fully charged cell phone that one hopes will have signal were a tire to blow 5 miles south of Villa Grove.

Local color goes national

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Champaign, Ill., Mayor Jerry Schweighart (SCHWY-hart) has earned his 15 minutes of fame on HuffingtonPost.

See, Mayor Schweighart is a birther, and he can't understand why his opinion is controversial. It's controversial because President Obama's birth certificate has been produced for the record and the "Kenyan version" was exposed as a counterfeit before the election (but I'm too lazy to look for the links on a Saturday morning). OK, whatever. This is no surprise to residents who have long known of Schweighart's far-right-wing orientation. But he's some kind of imposing fascist strongman, or even a strong mayor for that matter. He generally avoids inflammatory interjections into city politics, other than the odd periodic stupid comment that a few wingnuts applaud and everyone else ignores.

Predictably, the comments thread on HuffingtonPost is every bit as clueless as anything Crazy Uncle Jerry might utter. According to a commenter called "What's going on," everyone should sign a petition to "help us citizens of Champaign get this guy out of office." Commenter "LouisGA" declares that at "Champaign town meetings" the mayor "insists on wearing his white sheet and hood." No, he actually doesn't.

Driveway tableau [updated]

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The following is the transcript of a brief conversation, edited to eliminate digressions, between RubberCrutch and Rudy, the latter of whom having borrowed a shovel, had now returned it and was slumped against Big Rock Head's Mazda. His flesh was the color of window putty, but then again it is always that color. Big Rock Head and a neighbor who Rudy calls "Schmuck-meat" are bystanders and catalysts:

RC: Are you OK, Rudy?
Rudy: No.
RC (stoically, after a beat): You're not?
Rudy (irritably): Yeah, I'm OK! I always breathe like this 'cuz I have congestive heart failure!

[Editor's note: updated for narrative clarity.]

Families: our most important resource

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Overheard last Saturday on the second level of Bergner's, Market Place Mall, Champaign, IL. Dramatis personae: a Mother, Upholstered with Fast Food; a Daughter, Inflamed with Desire.

Mother: No!
Daughter: Why? I don't have any!
Mother: Put them down before you break them!
Daughter: Whyyy?!? I don't have any!!!