the appreciation of spam

It was recently brought to my attention that this is not necessarily very standard practice, but I keep my email very tidy. All the messages in my inbox have been read. All the spam is deleted daily. Apparently not everyone does this, but I can't imagine I'm in a huge minority (am I?). At any rate, it's had one immensely positive benefit. I always read my spam subject lines before deleting them, as every once in a cerulean moon something worthwhile from someone I like ends up there. Most of the time, however, I get spam about where to buy prescription drugs, and how to enhance the size of my penis. (And may I take a moment to say how touched I am that so many people are concerned about the size of my penis. Thank you.) But at some point last spring that changed, and the subject headings went off in what I can only describe as increasingly bizarre and at times mysteriously Lewis Carrolian directions. I offer you here a sampling in chronological order from May to present:

Euro emo mass suicide
Turn from sparrow to eagle
Hitler's son found!
See her instantly geeked!
Use mind to improve your fang
They whistled and warbled a moony song
O lovely Pussy! Oh Pussu, my love
And besides, to the Crumpetty Tree
and put the bun on the window sill to cool
Said the Yongy-Bonghy-Bo
The Pobble swam fast and well
Hello, deepshit!
Infection in our cinema
pragmatistho
Give squish mittens DUE attention
They gayest gay ever
Who had a little curl
Close by the king's castle lay a great dark
It is no giant but a disgusting frog
Sensation. Hitler was a woman!
How the silly frog does talk!
The old man said, Old woman, bake me a bun!
Dude, your snake sucks!

I find the recurring themes particularly amusing.

tomato camping

John and Kristin (two of my new housemates) have weekly a CSA box from Eatwell farms. Yesterday and today, the farm hosted a tomato sauce weekend camp-out extravaganza. The tomatoes were picked for us – heirloom varieties, zebra, and roma. We were overwhelmed by the quantity. This was not an embarrassment; this was nothing less than a mortification of tomatoes.

Some of which were amusingly vulgar:
Fresh basil, rosemary, oregano, and thyme, onions, garlic, sweet and spicy peppers and salt were also on offer.


Did I mention that this event was entirely free for CSA box subscribers (and their guests)? The sauce cooking began. We attacked with more enthusiasm than knowledge, and a great deal of chopping ensued. There was a free Bloody Mary bar churning out generous servings of freshly blended drink.

Eventually, (hours later) we had concocted two sauces (7 jars of one, and 2 of the other), as well as 4 or 5 additional jars of tomatoes in wine and blanched tomatoes, all of which we canned in the pressure cookers provided by the farm. As if that wasn't enough, we were also treated to free all-you-can-drink home-brew: a boc and a porter. My heart belongs to porter. After a dinner of pasta (and guess what, tomato sauce!), we drank more beer around the campfire and roasted marshmallows while two identical eleven-year -old boys lied about which one was called Andrew. We camped in tents on the grass and woke to fresh coffee, scrambled eggs with cheddar cheese and delicious tortillas, as well as fresh nectarines, plums, and figs. Then we picked strawberries.

san franciscan Gemütlichkeit

Endless sun in Dolores park on Saturday, followed by endless and very hearty dancing at Stern Grove on Sunday, followed by outstanding cioppino for dinner that evening. I did not make it, I merely consumed a great deal of it, with intense and heartfelt and often-verbalized gratitude. Wow. But back to the music - Toto la Mompasina and Nation Beat (some audio clips available here), neither of whom I knew anything about but either of whom I would gladly and unhesitatingly see again, played and played and played and everyone in the grove danced and danced and danced. Except at one point some men to my right, who stood, arms crossed, heads nodding slightly in time to the beat. We were then a mere 6 or 8 feet from the stage. I watched them out of the corner of my eye. I led by example. They did not follow. They just stood there, nodding. Fellas, I wanted to say, this just ain't that scene.

bliss

One loves one's loft bed. But one also loves to read in bed! How does one solve this problem? Does one sleep with one's book? Throw it on the floor? This is unkind to the book. This will not do. Does one then climb down from one's bed, place said book on a table, climb back up, and then fall asleep? This is what as commonly known as a hassle. Then, one discovers the perfect solution:

side view:


While on the subject of my own genius, check out the room before unpacking:

and after: