I just sold my little Corolla to a random guy who appeared in my driveway and offered me cash for it as-is. For a variety of reasons, including a possible out-of-state move in the near future, Jeff and I have been waiting on getting it fixed since the great a/c unit debacle. I probably could have gotten more for it if I had fixed it up and put an ad in the paper, but this was a billion times easier. And the guy seemed nice and was buying the car for his teenage son, so I felt better about making him a good deal.

But it's happening so fast! It's my little Corolla! I've had this car since New Year's Day of 1994; it was my first major purchase. I've taken countless trips in it, some long, some short. I've spent seemingly endless hours behind its wheel as I was stuck in traffic on the 10 and the 405. I've travelled nearly the entire length of I-5 in that car.

I do think I'm doing the right thing, but I'm going to have to mourn for a while. O Corolla! O humanity!

You know how most pharmacies have a little line people are supposed to wait behind so that the person being served has some privacy? And you know how most people seem to ignore it completely, hovering over you like a helicopter on Dr. Romano? Yeah, I hate that. It always makes me want to make something up that will freak them out and--with any luck--make them rethink their behavior. Possibilities include:

shuffling a bit, scratching my neck, and speaking to no one in particular: "That leprosy sure is a bitch."

with purpose, breathing hard, and speaking to the pharmacist: "I'm here to pick up my Hanta virus medication. Hurry, please. Hurry."

leaning forward, smiling broadly, and speaking to the person who is violating my personal space most egregiously: "Have you seen 28 Days Later? It's really good. I mean, I just related to so much of it, you know?"

head drooping, making every move as though it's grotesquely painful, and speaking to absolutely everyone: "They say bubonic plague is rarely fatal these days. Yeah, right. Tell that to my houseguests."

Thanks to everyone who posted or sent birthday wishes! It was an excellent birthday; Kelly and Ryan came over on Saturday night, so we hung out, drank miscellaneous beverages--Levitation Ale tastes good, but it doesn't work, dammit--and played some cards and some Grand Theft Auto. Grand Theft Auto is one of those games that sounds terrible in principle: so violent! So grossly violent! So gratuitously violent! And it is. Be that as it may, hand the controller to someone, even the most peace-loving person you know, and they'll soon be jacking a Hummer and mowing down pedestrians with glee. They'll probably even make happy little "boom" noises each time they hit someone.

On Sunday, Jeff made me Swedish pancakes with lingonberries and powdered sugar, bacon, and mimosas. I felt utterly spoiled. And despite the fact that I already had one present in the works, he surprised me with a new mouse. It is the best mouse ever, and I find it touching that Jeff was apparently listening when I cursed at my old mouse, picked the lint off its little wheels, and then cursed it some more, because dirty or clean, it was worthless.

I'm almost done with my Christmas shopping. What has happened to me?

In just a few short hours, this will be what my upper back used to look like, because a man named Paul is going to put a shiny new astrolabe tattoo there.

I'm kind of nervous. My other tattoo is small, and I got it almost twelve years ago. This one will be larger--close to four inches in diameter--and considerably more detailed. What do women wear when they get tattoos on their upper back, anyway? Can I wear a tank top, or am I expected to just hang free in the shop for the three hours the work is supposed to take? Summer of Love, all right! Altamont, all right!

The tattooing went very well. And it was fast! My appointment was for 11:30, and I left at about 1:00. My tattoo artist, Paul, said that the process went quickly in part because I'm good at not squirming and because my skin absorbs ink quickly. I was surprised when he announced that he had finished--and glad, too, since the left side was starting to sting quite a bit.

I don't yet have any pics of the actual tattoo. I brought my camera along and intended to have Jeff take a picture before Paul bandaged up the tattoo, but that whole area of my skin is a very bright shade of red right now, so I'm going to wait on photos until the irritation subsides. Until then, I can offer you a couple of images. One is a very important message:

And the other is a scanned image of the design from which the artist was working:

I got the image from Roderick and Marjorie Webster's WESTERN ASTROLABES, which is from a series of volumes called "Historic Scientific Instruments of the Adler Planetarium & Astronomy Museum." About the drawing, the book says

THE SPHERICAL ASTROLABE - This astrolabe was described in the "Libros del saber" of Alfonso X of Castile (1221-1284). The stars and ecliptic circle are shown on a rete that takes the form of a cut-out spherical shell. This shell encases a ball on which are marked the horizon, altitude lines, azimuths, etc. Several small holes in the ball permit moving the pivot to adjust the instrument to the proper latitude.

The actual tattoo is about the same size as the image you see above. Some of the detailing had to be left out, but not much.

Why oh why did I not open this catalog until I was pretty much done with my shopping? I'm sure somebody on my list really needed those record coasters, the duct tape wallet, the writers finger puppets, an animal lamp, or some of the cutest baby socks ever made. If they didn't need those, they probably did need a wine tote to go with a bottle of wine wrapped in one of these wonderful little dresses.

I might have to get a couple of these things anyway. The American Express bill doesn't come until next month, right?

In other news, I heard Band-Aid's "Do They Know It's Christmas?" today for the first time in a while. Did you ever really listen to those lyrics? They're awful. I don't remember that having occurred to me when the song came out, but a lot of things are like that: you experience them when you're young and then revisit them when you're older, only to find that your perspective has totally changed. Then, you wonder how you possibly could have not realized that the Chronicles of Narnia are so very Christian, or that mushrooms on pizza are really quite good, or that Flashdance is a terrible, terrible movie. So, let's revisit "Do They Know It's Christmas," shall we?

There's a world outside your window,
and it's a world of dread and fear
Where the only water flowing
is the bitter sting of tears.

We're talking about Africa here, right? If I remember correctly, the proceeds from the song and from the Live-Aid benefit went to Ethiopian famine relief, but don't quote me on that. In any case, the song doesn't say anything specifically about Ethiopia, or about any other African country, for that matter. It's just "Africa," the whole continent. And apparently, the only water on the whole continent is the water of human tears.

And there won't be snow in Africa
this Christmas time,
the greatest gift they'll get
this year is life. (Here's where Boy George goes "ooohhhh!")
Where nothing ever grows,
no rain nor rivers flow...

No snow? Tell that to the people hanging out by Mount Kilimanjaro. Or the Atlas Mountains. Or the ski resorts in South Africa. No rain? What's happening when it rains, then? ("That's God crying. Probably because of something you did.") And how do you account for the portions of Africa that are, you know, rain forest? Finally, I don't care if you flunked fourth-grade social studies; you still should know that the Nile runs through Africa. You should at least strongly suspect that there are other rivers on the continent, too, but come on: the Nile?

Raise a glass for everyone
Underneath that burning sun.

Rub it in, Bob Geldoff. Rub it in. Cheers, you poor bastards! We'll order an extra round and dedicate it to you, because I bet you don't even have cocktails in Africa.

Do they know it's Christmas time at all?

I'm guessing the non-Christians don't much care. If they do, we certainly wouldn't know about it, since every single citizen of every single African country speaks exclusively in clicks and whistles.

I'm all for the spirit of giving, but my word, would it have killed Geldoff to not be such a tool about it?

Also, Simon LeBon can't sing.

beatnikside calls it "city love," and that’s a good name for it. It is not a term to be confused with a more general love of place. Country love, for example--and when I say "country," I’m speaking of wilderness, not of nations--is entirely different from city love. Country love comes from imagining the glaciers that carved out the canyon where you’re standing. Country love comes from awe of and affection for the few spots that have managed to remain untouched by the sphere of human endeavors. Country love comes from feeling small and liking it.

City love, on the other hand, is built on human endeavors. You might love the fact that you live in a city where the seasons are distinct, where there’s snow every winter and sun every summer. You might love the fact that you never have to scrape ice off the windshield of your car, or that you start eyeing your favorite sweaters every August and know you’ll be wearing them in September. These things don't mean nothing, but they also don't mean enough. Nobody loves a city just because they haven’t had to buy an umbrella in the last six years. To say otherwise would be like telling someone, upon being asked what you love about your partner, that he has "great eyes" or "amazing shoulders." These descriptors could match any number of people. They are the stuff of one-night stands, not of great affairs.

Years ago, I had a phone conversation with a friend who told me about a woman he had been seeing. "What is she like?" I asked him. "She’s like a butterfly," he answered rather rapturously, and I laughed. But then I realized he had told me more about how he saw her with that simple sentence than he might have said in ten minutes of conversation about what she does for a living, who she knows, or where she went to college.

And so I look for those moments. I look for the words that say just enough for me to know that many more things are being left unsaid. They aren’t always easy to find; people are typically most articulate when they’re talking or writing about themselves. This is why, I think, there are so many more songs about breakups than there are about happy relationships: breakup songs are almost never about the person with whom the songwriter has parted ways. They don’t tell the listener what someone was to the writer. And that’s often just fine, both because pain legitimizes a certain amount of self-indulgence, and because most of us can relate to the paradoxical desire to appeal for empathy while simultaneously declaring that we feel worse than anyone has ever felt.

I like many of those songs. But I like the butterflies, too. So I try to pay attention.

I found Mary McCarthy’s city love at the bottom of a fishbowl. McCarthy, an American novelist and journalist who died in 1989, lived in Venice for a time and wrote Venice Observed as both a tribute to the city and a record of her time there. In the book, she describes an apartment she rented and the pets left in the kitchen by the owner of the apartment: two anemic-looking goldfish in a china bowl.

In the bottom of the bowl is a pile of five- and ten-lire pieces. That is all--no greenery, no algae, no scum. The water is clear and still. The fish are extremely pale, almost white, as though their colour had been bled from them, and very lethargic in their movements, not to say torpid. When I first looked at the apartment, I noted the fish and supposed they would go upstairs with the family. But when I moved in, they were still there in the kitchen, and the signora, drawing one of her most apologetic faces, as though she were about to ask me for a loan of one million lire, inquired whether they were in my way, whether I should mind if they stayed there. I did not mind, I said, but she must tell me what to feed them. Nothing, declared the signora, with a droll, sidelong look; she delights in mystifications. 'Non capisco,' I had to admit. 'Niente, niente!' airily repeated the signora. They did not have to be fed; that was the principle of this aquarium. The coins generated some sort of chemical in the water, and the fish lived on that; she had copied the idea from a fountain in Milan. I expressed doubt. Those poor blanched creatures were dying. Certainly not, scoffed the signora; she had had them nearly two years and they were in excellent health. As a proof of this, she plunged her long forefinger with its red-painted nail into the water and tickled one fish’s tail; he feebly crept away from her touch. 'Ecco!' she said, opening her pocketbook and tossing a fresh coin into the bowl. It was a bank too, she pointed out: if I needed change for my breakfast rolls, I had only to borrow from the fish. And there was nothing to clean; between the fish and the lire, the water stayed fresh.

This, for McCarthy, is Venice: it is a place sustained by its own improbability. It is a wishing well that operates on the coins of people like the signora, "an utter realist who lives in a web of unreal schemes." It is a pale reflection of its past, a marvel despite--and perhaps because of--its languid tenacity.

And that, for me, is city love: a fascination with tangible visions, with the collective personality of an urban space and the energy that drives it. You don’t have to want to live in a city to love it, nor do you have to love everything about it. What’s required is depth of connection--the conviction that whether or not you are from a place, you are in some sense of it.

Next up -
Part II: A Sunflower for Jerry

"Return of the King" balled my rog. Uruked my hai. Nazzed my gul.

I will say one thing, and one thing only, in criticism:

"A Not-Ode on Liv Tyler"

Oh, Liv Tyler,
What?
I'm sorry.
I didn't catch that.
You see,
the thing is,
you keep whispering, and
I CAN'T FUCKING HEAR YOU.

Here it is! The first in a brief series that revisits some of the more amusing exchanges I've had with people in comments here. The ones I can find, anyway. I'm not duplicating entire threads; I'm just highlighting.

This one's from January of 2002:

maigrey: Elf boy is so *totally* hot! And when he's shooting that bow in rapid fire? I know violence is bad, but let me tell you he was totally sexy there.

And Viggo Mortenson (Aragon) is pretty damn fine, too.

majorweather: I just went to check on elf boy's birthdate so that I wouldn't feel creepy for finding him so hot. He's only five years and a month younger than I am; that's not so bad!

You're right about Viggo, too.

beatnikside: I dug the elf and Viggo, too. And I am so not gay. Really.

Five years? Cradlerobber.

majorweather: Mama's gonna "buy him a mockingbird."

beatnikside: What if that "mockingbird" don't "sing"?

majorweather: Mama's gonna buy him a nipple ring.

beatnikside: And if that nipple ring don't shine?

majorweather: Mama's gonna ply him with good red wine.

beatnikside: And if that good red wine should fail?

majorweather: Mama's gonna still get some hot elf tail.

According to today's LA Times, the Staples Center gift shop will soon be selling life-size Shaquille O'Neal bobblehead dolls for $25,000 each. Life-size. That means these dolls will be 7'1". With heads that bobble. I can only hope they don't dress them like this:

Did I mention that the heads will bobble?

It's sunny and well over sixty degrees here on this fine New Year's Eve. Our friends Chris and Danielle are here, and Kelly is coming over later. Here's the plan:

1. Eat something.
2. Go to the park. Play croquet and/or bocce.
3. Drink something.

While playing Hoopla last night, Jeff couldn't seem to stop getting the cards that require you to draw. Here's why that's an issue.

These shapes: not turkeys.

Gobble gobble, folks! Here's to you.