I really am a dork: I went to England and was so proud to bring back a British thesaurus (actually, the Chambers Giant Dictionary and Thesaurus.) It keeps company with Roget's.
But how else would I know that Received Pronunciation (abbreviated RP) is the form of British English spoken by educated people in Southern England. Or - and this is slightly more useful - that naff is slang meaning of poor quality or worthless and - here comes the best part! - that naff off means go away, and is considered offensive.
This treasure cost 9 pounds, at a bookstore in Cambridge.
I wrote the following on November 21, 1997: Late in December 1996, I told Carlos that I could hardly wait for the end of the year, as it had been a bad one. I told him. "It started out bad and stayed that way." He told me it seemed bad because that's what I was focusing on. He challenged me to write down something good every day in 1997 to help me focus on the good things instead of the bad.
And here it is, halfway through 2009, and with only a couple of years of gaps, I have faithfully followed his advice. My current journal is a five year version, and I always read the previous entries when I add new ones. For the most part, the things I've written would be things I'd forgotten about otherwise.
I always write the entries with a fountain pen, and always use purple ink. Don't ask me why.
Don't get me wrong: I do still tend to dwell on the negative, but by following Carlos's advice I have a reason, at least one time a day, to think of good things.
On my way out to the canyon today, I had to make a stop at the Strip (Come on, alcohol sales in the city!!) to get some Texas-made vodka.
Then I took the back way to the canyon, where I was rewarded with the sight of this excellent sign. It was in front of a run-down trailer park. And, no, that is NOT redundant.
This checkerboard wall is a good example of what this project has done: I've driven by the place countless times, but until I drove by it while also prowling around for something to photograph today, I'd never really NOTICED it.
It's a minor Parking Lot Mystery: someone left a bundle of Sunday papers in the parking lot by my office. I will keep an eye on them to see if they eventually melt into the asphalt.
This is in front of a place called the Patriot Firearms and Family Shooting. I was unable to determine if you bring your OWN family to shoot or if one is provided for you. But it is climate controlled, an important feature in these hot summers.
Lubbock, Texas
(My apologies for posting photos of stuff on my walls two days in a row.)
Since lately I haven't had too many reasons to carry a sterling-silver chain-mail evening bag, I hung it from a velvet ribbon on the wall under the stairs. That way, I can find it if the need arises.
We call this place "Rotary West" (and I will not divulge the actual name of the restaurant, but if you want to call it "El Chico" that would be OK with me). I met my friends here for lunch today.
The restroom is a plethora of colors and shapes, and made me feel a little drunk just walking in.
I can't imagine what would ensue if one encountered this restroom after a few margaritas.
There's a place in Austin where you can purchase surplus State desks and filing cabinets and all sorts of other cast-off items.
You can also paw around in big plastic tubs of items that have been confiscated by vigilant TSA agents at airports. There's a tub of nail clippers. One of pocketknives. One with little scissors. One with big scissors. And that's where I found this pair of Fiskar scissors. They seem brand new, and had a length of red satin ribbon tied on the handle.
I picture a little old lady embarking on a trip with her favorite scissors in her giant vinyl handbag. I am certain she was dismayed when they were taken from her, so in compassion for her loss, I've kept the ribbon just as she tied it.
I took a field trip today, to a place called Janes Gravel (No apostrophe is correct. I checked.) It's just past Slaton, at the rim of the canyon, and sort of shocking to see - especially the signs that say "mining zone"! This place is a maze of piles of variously-sized gravel, boulders, sand, etc.
It's where the big trucks come in to get rock for highway projects, or where weekend-project-doers come for a trailer load of cheap gravel. And the guy loading the gravel was amazing - he got the whole load right into the trailer.
One of my earliest memories is of my parents staying up late to process slides in the kitchen. I can still remember the first photograph I took - of a rock, with a mountain in the background. In college, I was almost positive I was going to be the next Ansel Adams.
All of which has led me here.