2022 has entered the chat
Great year for two enthusiasts
Ring a ding ding in the new a dew dew
I once had a phone that only dialed 2s, and my college friends loved the wrong-number lady’s glacial delivery: “The number you have dialed… two, two, two… two, two…” Now we’re at the most twoful time in 1800 years and I’ve pulled up all the landline cords and disconnected the telephone pole. How will I survive 2022?
Weird how much of 2021 involved teaching in my pajamas. “Remote learning” was quickly overwritten by the technicolor ambrosia of (masked) face-to- (masked) face school, a triumphant return to pants requiring a belt. It feels longer ago than just last year that we had a president trying to overthrow democracy. But he ran things for a few weeks in 2021, that may be enough to disqualify the year.
Was 2021 was better than 2020? Sure, like stubbing your toe is better than whanging your shin. We’re off to a hellacious start to ’22, here’s hoping January is the bad wedding that precedes the good marriage.
The week in dog poo
The first week we got Ginger, both dogs pooed at the same time and I wondered if that would become the standard. If only! Just once in three years did it ever it happen again, and that inspired writing that I shared with the the sixth grade, of course. So what a pleasure on New Year’s Eve when the dogs synchronized their deuceage. Five total poos on the walk, an epic crapping to close the crappy year.
Then on New Year’s Day, the wife reported they pooed at the same time AGAIN. so either we’re in for an exciting year, or maybe the wife just can’t let me have anything to myself.
UPDATE: I’m kidding, I love my wife! Excellent person to be locked down with, I’m happy to share the poo spotlight!
Something of the Week: Letters from an American
Back when I ran the Blog Club (!), a sixth grader had a feature he called “Something of the Week.” It could be a song or video game or info about a weird animal. Deliciously open-ended. THANKS, KID!
I’ll start this substack linking to another: Heather Cox Richardson’s Letters from an American. Some people’s opinions I weigh against my own, some I trust without question. Heather Cox Richardson’s sober analysis focusing on history and the events that led to that moment makes her very much the latter. I read a lot of news, I seek context and analysis, hers is beautiful. My first read of the day.
The Urban Blah, Feb 6, 2009
I used to collaborate with my brilliant Canadian artist friend Lovisa to make a webcomic that failed to become syndicated across the globe. It had its moments, some of which I will share.
The resolutions will not be televised, Netflix wisely passed
No more sugar. I ended the year on a catastrophic months-long cookie bender (next year only unappealing Halloween candy)
I want to learn drums. Already have the drum set — thanks, Covid cabin fever!
Two servings a day, fruit and veg.
Always buy two packages of crackers. We run out.
Start a substack.
I had a humor column in college that was semi-successful and semi-formative to my sense of self. I dabbled in journalism and television screenwriting, and in the early aughts I had a few blogs. My notoriety as a blogger was limited to a small sphere, but I did get thanked in another blogger’s book and was once recognized in a coffeehouse. Becoming a teacher drew the writing-for-fame quest to a close.
I liked to proclaim how RELIEVED I was not to be trying to be a writer any more. Since college, the dream was “to be a writer.” I spent years in Los Angeles “trying to be a writer.” Now as an English teacher, I tell kids THEY’RE writers, and it’s true — all you have to do to be a writer is… to write. Young me would say, But I wanted to earn my living as a writer. And that ship has sailed. But being a writer to get people to read my steaming pile of word-kugel? Resolution #5.
I’m still considering this kind of a beta test, so if you’re already here, gimme feedback!
My Back Pages: “Dream Key Noodling,” March 9, 2015
Random excerpt of something from my archives that went nowhere, but now gets to see the light of day. Fiction:
I got dealt a bum hand parentally: my mom died having me, and my dad was so wrecked over it, he drove into a tree. Pretty much the worst thing that could happen to a kid, to be out of parents before you’re out of single digits, day-wise. Grandpa Al took me in and raised me as his own, just as he’d raised my dead dad.
Grandpa Al was a top-notch farter. He had great control of his butt, both internally and externally, which meant he could both time farts and decide what kind was right for the situation.
Quite a shift from the one paragraph to the next. This represents maybe 60% of the document.
Did you know?
One time, Oscar winner Geena Davis walked up and gave me a teddy bear. What’s your best stuffed animal origin story?