About a month and a half ago, I made a post on this blog with a certain gentleman in mind. Someone commented with a smiley, and when I asked aforementioned gent if it was him, he said not. In my naivete, I believed my only readers were the few friends I had given the link to (who else would be interested in my flickers and cucumbers?), and did not have a stats tracker on the blog. Since I was a little disappointed that the gent didn’t respond - and I don’t know who did - I installed a tracker for the New Year.
I got my Blogger account originally just so I could comment on a college friend’s blog. When I decided to start doing some writing (well, attempt to find time to do some writing), I put up a few posts. The blog allowed me to see my work outside of myself, so to speak, and to evaluate it a little more critically than I normally would have. Like I said, I gave out the link to a select few, and soon the blog became a way to entertain friends and keep them abreast of my various mundane activities and the weird and interesting things I come across on the ‘net.
The stats tracker has provided some surprises. In 18 days, I have had nearly 200 page views. Seems I have a few regular readers I don’t know. To those folks I say, “Welcome. And thanks for coming by.” Also, Chelsea city manager Mike Steklac has linked me on his blog The Chelsea Report. Thanks for the linkage!
The day before The Chelsea Report started showing up as a referrer to my blog, my friend A. asked if he could link me on his site. Interestingly enough, this new attention to Hawk in the Rain comes at a time when I am reassessing the blog: my reasons for having it, what goals (if any) I have for it, a possible redesign/reorganization, what kind of information I want to put out there in the ether.
I feel cautious about sharing myself and my opinions online. While I frequent many other blogs, I rarely comment. The blogosphere - with exceptions of relatively sane and thoughtful blogs, usually small personal blogs - always seems to be just a hair’s breadth away from a major flamewar. Trolls, comment moderation, accusations of fascism. But I guess that’s the side effect of becoming an A-lister, a Kos or an Atrios, and I hope I never get there. I’m content to remain an Insignificant Microbe in the Truth Laid Bear Ecosystem. After all, microbes really are quite significant in the real dirt and cytoplasm world.
So surfers, there might be some changes coming along. I’m not sure where this hawk is going - it’s up in the air.
18 January 2006
16 January 2006
Flickers at my Window Make Me Happy
He's a little out of focus - I'm still having trouble getting the camera to focus and click fast enough to capture birds - but here he is, eating brunch at around 11:00 am today.
The flickers have also been feeding off the suet feeder, where they look ridiculously large hanging from the small wire cage. I believe the blue jays alerted them to the menu at Cafe Chez Kim.
The flickers have also been feeding off the suet feeder, where they look ridiculously large hanging from the small wire cage. I believe the blue jays alerted them to the menu at Cafe Chez Kim.
15 January 2006
Bad Call, Good Cat
"You’re knitting!" K. yelled at me once, while we watched an oHIo State football game. OSU was losing. K. paced the living room waving his arms and shouting imprecations while I calmly worked on a hat for my grandmother and ignored him.
The best way to spend a Sunday is to watch football, cat at side, needles clicking away. While I watch football and like football, I rarely get upset or bent out of shape over football. I don’t usually yell like K. or have to go down to the basement to hit the punching bag, like my dad and uncle used to do back in the day.
So even though the Black and Gold’s dominant lead slowly leached away during the fourth quarter, I kept turning the heel of a sock.
Then, with a little over five minutes left in the quarter, Peyton Manning threw a long pass. Steelers safety Troy Polamalu had staked out the Colts’ passing lanes all day. This time, the ball hit Polamalu right on the numbers.
He got both his hands on it - interception!
He fell, rolled over twice, started to rise, and the ball squirted free - fumble!
He fell on it - recovered!
"Woo!" I hooted and rubbed Sylvie’s head. Sylvie purred.
The Colts challenged the ruling on the field, claiming Polamalu didn’t have possession of the ball. Replay showed he clearly did, then lost the ball after he was down. I thought so. The sportscasters thought so. I’m sure Troy Polamalu thought so. For something so clear-cut, the review took a long time. Tension mounted.
The officials didn’t think so. They reversed the ruling and called it an incomplete pass.
The RCA Dome in Indianapolis erupted and so did millions of Steeler fans across the nation. "Bullshit!" I yelled, throwing the sock on the floor. The recliner bumped against the wall as I ejected from it. "That’s a bad call! Bad call!"
Sylvie jumped off the chair, flattened herself against the floor, and slunk off towards the bedroom. As I looked at her I realized "Bad call" sounds a lot like "Bad cat." "Bad" alone is enough to stop her in her tracks. Or get down from the table. Or get out of the bathroom sink.
"It’s okay, kitty, I don’t mean you," I said. She turned and searched me with luminous green eyes. "Bad cat? What’d I do?" "C’mon, you’re a good kitty." I patted my leg for her to come, and she did, and we went to the kitchen and I gave her a little snack and a back rub, telling her all the while she’s a good kitty.
I returned to the living room and fumed as the Colts drove down field and scored a touchdown. I picked up the sock and resumed knitting. My mood brightened considerably a few minutes later, when the Colts turned it over on downs deep in their own territory. Pittsburgh was still winning. Time was running short. They had a chance to score and put the game away. Sylvie twined around my ankles and I picked her up as the Steelers’ offense lined up. She leaned into my shoulder and purred as Jerome "The Bus" Bettis spun towards a touchdown.
"Noooooooooooooooooooo!!!!!!!!!" I wailed, the pitch of my howl arcing with the ball as it shot out of Bettis’s grasp, propelled by a defensive player’s helmet. I slumped to my knees in disbelief. Sylvie dug her claws into my arm as she made her escape from the clutches of the crazy person who had invaded her caretaker’s body.
The Colts’ kicker trotted out for the field goal attempt. "Miss it, miss it, miss it, miss it," I chanted, pounding on the floor. Sylvie watched me, wide-eyed, from the doorway.
He missed it.
All is quiet now. Sylvie naps next to me on the chair. I am apparently forgiven my transgressions. The yarn is in its basket and the cat treats are on the shelf, waiting for next week’s conference play-off game against the Denver Broncos.
The best way to spend a Sunday is to watch football, cat at side, needles clicking away. While I watch football and like football, I rarely get upset or bent out of shape over football. I don’t usually yell like K. or have to go down to the basement to hit the punching bag, like my dad and uncle used to do back in the day.
So even though the Black and Gold’s dominant lead slowly leached away during the fourth quarter, I kept turning the heel of a sock.
Then, with a little over five minutes left in the quarter, Peyton Manning threw a long pass. Steelers safety Troy Polamalu had staked out the Colts’ passing lanes all day. This time, the ball hit Polamalu right on the numbers.
He got both his hands on it - interception!
He fell, rolled over twice, started to rise, and the ball squirted free - fumble!
He fell on it - recovered!
"Woo!" I hooted and rubbed Sylvie’s head. Sylvie purred.
The Colts challenged the ruling on the field, claiming Polamalu didn’t have possession of the ball. Replay showed he clearly did, then lost the ball after he was down. I thought so. The sportscasters thought so. I’m sure Troy Polamalu thought so. For something so clear-cut, the review took a long time. Tension mounted.
The officials didn’t think so. They reversed the ruling and called it an incomplete pass.
The RCA Dome in Indianapolis erupted and so did millions of Steeler fans across the nation. "Bullshit!" I yelled, throwing the sock on the floor. The recliner bumped against the wall as I ejected from it. "That’s a bad call! Bad call!"
Sylvie jumped off the chair, flattened herself against the floor, and slunk off towards the bedroom. As I looked at her I realized "Bad call" sounds a lot like "Bad cat." "Bad" alone is enough to stop her in her tracks. Or get down from the table. Or get out of the bathroom sink.
"It’s okay, kitty, I don’t mean you," I said. She turned and searched me with luminous green eyes. "Bad cat? What’d I do?" "C’mon, you’re a good kitty." I patted my leg for her to come, and she did, and we went to the kitchen and I gave her a little snack and a back rub, telling her all the while she’s a good kitty.
I returned to the living room and fumed as the Colts drove down field and scored a touchdown. I picked up the sock and resumed knitting. My mood brightened considerably a few minutes later, when the Colts turned it over on downs deep in their own territory. Pittsburgh was still winning. Time was running short. They had a chance to score and put the game away. Sylvie twined around my ankles and I picked her up as the Steelers’ offense lined up. She leaned into my shoulder and purred as Jerome "The Bus" Bettis spun towards a touchdown.
"Noooooooooooooooooooo!!!!!!!!!" I wailed, the pitch of my howl arcing with the ball as it shot out of Bettis’s grasp, propelled by a defensive player’s helmet. I slumped to my knees in disbelief. Sylvie dug her claws into my arm as she made her escape from the clutches of the crazy person who had invaded her caretaker’s body.
The Colts’ kicker trotted out for the field goal attempt. "Miss it, miss it, miss it, miss it," I chanted, pounding on the floor. Sylvie watched me, wide-eyed, from the doorway.
He missed it.
All is quiet now. Sylvie naps next to me on the chair. I am apparently forgiven my transgressions. The yarn is in its basket and the cat treats are on the shelf, waiting for next week’s conference play-off game against the Denver Broncos.
13 January 2006
Can a Blogthing Quiz Predict Your Life?
Or is this some sort of feedback loop?
You Should Get a PhD in Liberal Arts (like political science, literature, or philosophy) |
 You're a great thinker and a true philosopher. You'd make a talented professor or writer. |
Is Caption Obvious a Copy Editor?
Headline of the day: One-Eyed Cat Had Medical Condition.
Gee, ya think? Having only half your sight organs might be considered a medical condition?
Something bothers me about that picture, though. Kittens are born with their eyes closed. And when they do open their eyes in about a week or so, their eyes are always blue. So why does "Cy" have a very open, very chocolately brown eye?
Part of the deformity? Or Photoshop chop?
Update 8:48 pm: I e-mailed my query to the Explainer at Slate. Hopefully a lot of other people did too and they'll post an answer.
Gee, ya think? Having only half your sight organs might be considered a medical condition?
Something bothers me about that picture, though. Kittens are born with their eyes closed. And when they do open their eyes in about a week or so, their eyes are always blue. So why does "Cy" have a very open, very chocolately brown eye?
Part of the deformity? Or Photoshop chop?
Update 8:48 pm: I e-mailed my query to the Explainer at Slate. Hopefully a lot of other people did too and they'll post an answer.
09 January 2006
08 January 2006
Label of the Week
The main ingredient in Meijer's store brand all-natural peanut butter is peanuts. You may also be surprised that it also contains peanuts.
Brokeback Mountain
I'd like my average movie-going experience to include more naked men in cowboy boots, please.
06 January 2006
Two from the WTF? Files
1) PIgs in Space!
Since I can't capture the animation, you're missing out on the gentle, helium-balloon bobbing of this hapless piggy bank in space.
It occurred to me as I uploaded the picture that the companies that produce these bizarro ads probably make them so weird on purpose, so that people will blog them and provide free advertising reach for their surreal loans.
2) Taurus Woody
No, no, no, not that kind of woody. On the way home from work, I got behind a Ford Taurus that lacked both bumper and fenders. In their stead were boards - like, actual 2 x 4s - painted black and somehow affixed to the car. The extra touch that really put it over the top was the addition of strips of reflective red tape to simulate lights.
Note to self: stash digital camera in bag at all times.
Since I can't capture the animation, you're missing out on the gentle, helium-balloon bobbing of this hapless piggy bank in space.
It occurred to me as I uploaded the picture that the companies that produce these bizarro ads probably make them so weird on purpose, so that people will blog them and provide free advertising reach for their surreal loans.
2) Taurus Woody
No, no, no, not that kind of woody. On the way home from work, I got behind a Ford Taurus that lacked both bumper and fenders. In their stead were boards - like, actual 2 x 4s - painted black and somehow affixed to the car. The extra touch that really put it over the top was the addition of strips of reflective red tape to simulate lights.
Note to self: stash digital camera in bag at all times.
01 January 2006
Disclaimer of the Week
I received a set of flannel sheets, printed with a “lodge theme” of leaves, deer, fish, and tartan swatches, as a Christmas gift. Not the sexiest sheets, but when you sleep alone in Michigan in winter, latex just isn’t cozy enough.
The flannel sheets sported this disclaimer:
Thank goodness that was on there, or else I would have been sorely disappointed when the brass bed, wrought iron lamp, and old-fashioned alarm clock were not to be found in this 14" x 12" x 5" drawstring bag.
The flannel sheets sported this disclaimer:
Thank goodness that was on there, or else I would have been sorely disappointed when the brass bed, wrought iron lamp, and old-fashioned alarm clock were not to be found in this 14" x 12" x 5" drawstring bag.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
