PENGUIN PHOTOS

I know I've dangled the promise in front of you for months, and here they finally are!  These two showed up a few days ago to molt, which means they just stand in one place for a few weeks, not really flinching unless you get closer than eight feet.  FEAST YOUR EYES:

Words I Never Thought I'd Say

No, not like that. :)  For many years, I'd been hard-pressed to dream up circumstances in which I'd be willing to sing "My Heart Will Go On."  But then, against several odds, Corndog Addiction became a reality.  I've wanted to have a band that plays the Dead Kennedys' "Holiday in Cambodia" for years, and McMurdo's underground punk scene needed a shot in the arm.  But it turns out punk music isn't always as easy as it sounds.  So we settled on some manageable tunes and punkified some others, including "Time After Time."

I decided not to go into a lengthy disclaimer about Jello Biafra's overblown paranoia concerning left-wing fascism, and just went for it -- instructing people to "come quietly to the camp," and describing how "you'd look nice as a drawstring lamp," then building to peak furor:

Now it is 1984
Knock knock on your front door
It's the suede-denim secret police
they have come for your uncool niece...
you will croak you little clown
when you mess with President Brown

*That's past and current California governor Jerry Brown.  Watch out for that guy, he might really mess things up one day.

Because we only had five songs under our belt, Corndog Addiction played a smaller venue, for a select audience (the band room; twenty friends.)  It was pretty great.

Last week, my former coworkers really outdid themselves.  The galley folks set up a little theater and presented an original play/series of monologues, and then turned around the next night to put on 80s prom.  There was teased hair; there was helmet hair; there was crimped hair; there was a pregnant cheerleader; and I hung out with a friend who was actually of an age to be at prom in the 80s and said the verisimilitude was uncanny.

Perhaps best of all, though, I finally got together with my coworker who's shy about playing guitar.  He played some pretty flamenco stuff, and then mentioned he had compiled a bunch of Beatles and pop charts.  Turns out the acoustics of the chapel are perfect for "Don't Stop Believin" as well as "The Lion Sleeps Tonight."

So, it was about forty minutes between "a-wheem-a-way" and "suede-denim secret police."

The Size of a Banana

There are lots of Post-Its on my desk, covered with tiny writing probably only I can read.  The contents change over time, and occasionally one is the victim of drips from my mug, but the cycle is unbroken and there are always new things about which to remind myself.  Instead of a memory palace of distinctive objects in notable locations, I have a mental wall of notes I refer to -- remarks of utmost importance in large-ish letters with permanent marker, nagging to-dos in smeared, thin blue ink.  In some way, physically writing the words conjures their spiritual existence in the ether of my brain.

We all (mostly) carry around a "green brain" here, a small notebook (titled in classy cursive "Memoranda").  This is another repository for important random facts, instructions, and date ideas corresponding to boys I have crushes on Department of Defense project code numbers.  The page I most frequently consult is my cheat-sheet for how to run the Weekly Numbers report,* which you think I'd remember after doing it twenty times.

*The Weekly Numbers report consists of me pulling data to show how much cargo we processed and shipped to various destinations...by weight.  For some reason.  I guess logistically that's a significant parameter; unfortunately for me, the amount of paperwork for a five-pound box of potato chips is the same as a 500-pound pallet of seismographic equipment.  And these scientists not only eat lots of potato chips but enjoy packaging them in many separate boxes, each with its own subsequent documentation, labels, and tracking.

That mention of twenty might sound flippant or exaggerated, but in fact, next week -- my last week -- will be twenty-one.  After all this staring at tiny numbers, staying up way too late in the band room, seal close encounters, eating meat of questionable provenance, and so very many artfully-dodged unanswerable phone inquiries, I will float around New Zealand for several weeks.  Just me and my rucksack full of cheese.

Odd Ends

There were these adorable, dense, and chocolately little frosted bundt cakes for dessert at lunch today.  That's about all I got.

Here's a part of one of my favorite poems:

Cutting the lemon
the knife
leaves a little cathedral:
alcoves unguessed by the eye
that open acidulous glass
to the light; topazes
riding the droplets,
altars,
aromatic facades.


It's by Pablo Neruda, he was pretty cool.  Here's another literary tidbit:

It had snowed softly and thickly all through the hours of darkness and the beautiful whiteness, glittering in the frosty sunshine, looked like a mantle of charity cast over all the mistakes and humiliations of the past.

Gotcha, that's from Anne of Avonlea.