Julie Childs is dead. Another hero gone. Joel Stein does an adequate job noting some of her grace in last week's Time.
Jon Stewart and Pentagram are coming out with a book about democracy inaction, called America (the book)... an educational textbook that just sounds stunning. America is still alive and kicking.
Thursday, August 19, 2004
Wednesday, August 18, 2004
backstory?
hmm, (insert self-deprecating, self-conscious comment about finally trying out this thing called blogger and wondering why I think I could have the time to log my thoughts daily when I can barely entertain them) now what.
Ok.
Fast summary of my life as of today (so I don't have to go backward and log my preweb life in any sort of detail....) or at least part 1 of summary
Lesee...
Born in chicago with a bit of jaundice (my first rejection) on good friday, right around the middle of a fabulous year for american cars and american dreams as the 4th child (they should have stopped after me, but no they had to have a red headed 6'5" monster baby who would later propel me about 6 feet headlong into a circa 1910 sewing machine with his proud strong 12 year old legs leading to a swirl of stars and an early and intimate understanding of edges and how they may intersect with users nay projectile children of users of products) in a family that would ultimately have four children (a heartbreak for my parents that I'm sure led them to cherish us all the more), a dog named (at one point aptly and later very much not aptly) Pretty (though it could be used as a modifier, "pretty ugly," which would serve to aptify the situation nicely), a succession of birds and fish and robot servants fashioned out of brake calipers and bicycle wheels and drunken uncles, and visiting dominican brothers of the cloth, and grumpy gaelic spouting perenially dying with six months to live as told to her by her doctor 20 years ago grandmas and just about any stray friend in need of a room and some food and little verbal reparte (my mom and dad had a very open "our house is your house, share the wealth" policy... if your wealth is measured in open arms and tight warm hugs and witty jibs and jabs, and a stumble down tumble down hundred year old victorian home a few blocks from the inland fresh water sea of michigan) with a mother/scientist/teacher/denmother/matriarch/oldest polio-stricken daughter left fatherless at the age of 12 who had to grow up fast to help around the stockyard cafe run by my (heretofor mentioned tank of a pearl handled gun toting) grandma/electronmicroscopist and a father/motorcycle racer/tinkerer/horse trader/pack leader/mechanic/teacher/rube goldberger/life is a grand adventurer/war veteran from the wrong side of the tracks.
Ok.
Fast summary of my life as of today (so I don't have to go backward and log my preweb life in any sort of detail....) or at least part 1 of summary
Lesee...
Born in chicago with a bit of jaundice (my first rejection) on good friday, right around the middle of a fabulous year for american cars and american dreams as the 4th child (they should have stopped after me, but no they had to have a red headed 6'5" monster baby who would later propel me about 6 feet headlong into a circa 1910 sewing machine with his proud strong 12 year old legs leading to a swirl of stars and an early and intimate understanding of edges and how they may intersect with users nay projectile children of users of products) in a family that would ultimately have four children (a heartbreak for my parents that I'm sure led them to cherish us all the more), a dog named (at one point aptly and later very much not aptly) Pretty (though it could be used as a modifier, "pretty ugly," which would serve to aptify the situation nicely), a succession of birds and fish and robot servants fashioned out of brake calipers and bicycle wheels and drunken uncles, and visiting dominican brothers of the cloth, and grumpy gaelic spouting perenially dying with six months to live as told to her by her doctor 20 years ago grandmas and just about any stray friend in need of a room and some food and little verbal reparte (my mom and dad had a very open "our house is your house, share the wealth" policy... if your wealth is measured in open arms and tight warm hugs and witty jibs and jabs, and a stumble down tumble down hundred year old victorian home a few blocks from the inland fresh water sea of michigan) with a mother/scientist/teacher/denmother/matriarch/oldest polio-stricken daughter left fatherless at the age of 12 who had to grow up fast to help around the stockyard cafe run by my (heretofor mentioned tank of a pearl handled gun toting) grandma/electronmicroscopist and a father/motorcycle racer/tinkerer/horse trader/pack leader/mechanic/teacher/rube goldberger/life is a grand adventurer/war veteran from the wrong side of the tracks.
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