Next Blog

Just so you know, this is what I got when I used the "Next Blog" function at the top of the page, and I wanted to share it with you. ITP, no doubt!

watch a weigh my sense

This morning at church a young lady I hardly know was baptized. I’d been upstairs helping out with the kids’ class, but we all headed back to the auditorium to watch. We crowded in at the front of the auditorium, and I had one kid on my lap and more all around me.

Just as the Chloe’s father was about to immerse her in the water, usually a quietly profound and moving moment for the congregation, the eight-year-old boy next to me leaned in and whispered, “Did you know she plays the bagpipes and she’s only in the second grade?”

“Really? That’s cool,” I said admiringly. Then she went under and then she came up clean. We all clapped and rejoiced.

After service, I ran into her as she and her mom were leaving. Her hair was still wet when I hugged her and congratulated her on becoming a Christian.

Then I said, “I hear you play the bagpipes.”

She looked at me the way most kids would look at me if I handed them a set of bagpipes.

Then her mother, who I’d also never spoken to before, caught wind of our conversation and said, “What?”

“Bagpipes,” I repeated, looking back and forth between Chloe and her mother. “Don’t you play the bagpipes? Jack Henderson told me you play the bagpipes…”

She shook her head and her mother laughed. “Oh, Jack. He just made that up.”

I babysit Jack a lot. He’s one of my favorites, so somehow I found myself defending him even in this preposterous situation. “He doesn’t usually lie,” I said, as if I believed there must have been some occasion when Chloe had at least pretended to play the bagpipes and Jack remembered it. I pictured her playing a Scot in a school play, kilted and winded. "You know, Jack Henderson, age eight, reliable source."

They both laughed. I blushed for having believed that a little girl could play pipes that take the air out of full-grown men, and for this being my very first conversation with Chloe or her mother. I suppose it was a good ice breaker.

I told her that next time I see Jack, I will tell him all about how much I enjoyed her recent bagpipe recital.

Surprise!

Have you ever walked into something wonderful, completely unaware of where you were going and without expectation? Have you seen a performance of some sort with no previous knowledge, and walked away wishing for more? Have you seen a concert in an unlikely place or at an unlikely time, and came away whistling the tunes of the band or artist?

If you have, then you have experienced the top rung of the evolutionary ladder of the genus Pleasantus surprisus. I've been fortunate to experience a few of these instances.

Tonight, I received an email from the University of Arkansas. It said I should go to a concert in the Union Theater. For a week now I've been planning to write the literature review for my research project, and I had just settled into the idea of buckling down and getting it done tonight, so of course I accepted the invitation to do something else. The electronic flier attached in the email looked cool, and the band's myspace sounded alright, so there was no way I was going to let my responsible nature get in the way this time.

Bowerbirds is truly delightful. The band played against a backdrop of black and burgundy velvet curtains and to an audience in theater seats, and I really felt like I was at a play or the premiere of some new indie flick that only the elite knew about and I somehow stumbled into. The music was as simple and complex as many Andrew Bird songs, but there was a definite originality to the three-piece from North Carolina. After the set, the band played an encore performance in the stairwell down the hall; the audience just followed and filed in, lining the railing up three flights of stairs. Needless to say, I was impressed. I bought two albums.

Missed Connections

You know the feeling; you see a stranger, and without even talking to him or her, you know that they could be the love of your life. But you walk away, never knowing what might have been.

Of course, you could always get on your local Craigslist site and create a missed connections post. I mean, I've never done that. But I wouldn't judge if you did. If you don't know what these are, I suggest you do your research. They are entertaining, engrossing, and though I hate to admit it, I've gotten that warm, fuzzy feeling from reading them.

But with this website, they're just too much. I mean, they were already great, just oozing with averted love and pathos. But now, set to paint and paper, I can't not smile. I think you'll agree.

This is one of my favorites:

Edward Sharpe & the Magnetic Zeroes

I'm sure many of you have seen this already, and I know I've shared this with some of you individually, but this group gives me the good kind of chills and this performance of their single, "Home," is wonderful.

A dear friend shared this song with me while driving around on a day that neither of us particularly enjoyed, and I can honestly say that hearing this for the first time made it much better. Look for the recording of this song; it's marvelous.

Falcon, the Balloon Boy

Honestly, I don't know what could be nicer than this little incident that seemed to own the airwaves on Thursday, Oct. 15. After receiving a comuniqúe (cooler than text) asking if I had heard of Falcon, the Balloon Boy, I immediately set out on a digital quest to find all I could about him. After reading many news transcripts, watching many videos, and scanning the comments of those following the story from magical beginning to safe, but disappointing, end, I knew that I wanted to name something in my life Falcon.

I also learned that I wanted to invest in some sort of flying contraption that required little-to-no skills in aviation, and was metallic and shiny so as to attract a lot of media attention.

Check back soon for some Falcon, the Balloon Boy fan fiction.

If you have no idea what I am talking about, I suggest you do a quick Web search with your browser and search engine of choice. Simply use the search cues, "Falcon, the Balloon Boy."

I wrestled with the idea of just posting some videos and transcripts here, but I decided that the journey is half the fun.

Tron McKnight

I know this may be a cop-out, but I just wanted to use this forum to refer the readership to another nice blog written by a nice guy (my roommate). There are lots of nice things in this blog, and I'm certain you'll have a lot of nice chuckles whilst reading.

Enjoy the nicety that is Tron McKnight.

name that sensation

Help me out, please. I'm trying to come up with a word. What do you call it when a song falls into your lap and you're instantly smitten. You don't want to listen to any other song for at least a few days, or maybe ever again. Maybe. You're smitten, so you're allowed to entertain the idea that this song might be It for you. You put that song into its own playlist and then set that playlist to repeat. You haphazardly whip up a mix CD topped with that song or copy the song to your iPod so you can listen to it over and over again in your car. With the windows down and the wind blowing and the leaves are changing and you do feel home.

This song might be It for me.
(But I've said that before. And before that. And even before that. So many times.)

So what do you call this kind of song when it happens to you? Maybe I'll make you a mix of those songs of mine if you come up with a name for them that saves me the trouble of saying, "Oh man, I just heard this song and I can't stop listening to it."

Mono-Moviewatching

Have you seen Disney/Pixar's latest film, UP? If not, and if it is still playing in a theater near you, go see it ASAP. It's a wonderful movie, and I hope your experience will be as...um...moving...as mine was.

Hopefully all of you have gone to a movie by yourself. In my professional opinion, a solitary movie-going experience is up there with riding a really great roller-coaster for the seventh time in a row, or having a really great cup of coffee and thinking about the wonderful book you just finished. A solitary movie-going experience to UP is heavenly.

And soggy. And somewhat embarrassing. But still wonderful.

I had been wanting to see UP for a long time, as it had not yet come out in El Salvador while I was there. When I got back to the States, it took me a while to go and see it, and one day after my classes I finally did. By the way, a solitary movie-going experience is best experienced during a matinee showing.

So, I finally went. I walked in to the theater, and my only company were two mothers and their respective children sitting in the middle seats on either side of the aisle. So I settled down in the second row to the back: out of sight.

I was crying within the first 15 minutes. And by crying, I mean sobbing. And by sobbing, I mean, I was making crying noises and had my handkerchief out. I was a mess. I was doing all I could to not be heard by the mothers and children, who I'm certain were NOT crying.

Now, let's make something clear: I am not a crier. It is rare that I cry, and usually, when I do, I feel stupid. Sometimes my thoughts are that maybe a cry would be good for me, but about a minute in I usually regret it and want to get on with my life. So my UP experience was quite the anomaly. And, though I was embarrassed about it, I must admit that I left that theater feeling pretty good.

I'm not sure what the nice thing is here. It could be the movie, solitary movie-going experiences, or the therapeutic catharsis of a rare and unexpected cry. I suppose it could be all three.

Please don't bring up the crying thing outside of the digital world. I'll deny it. And I don't want to be a liar. That's not very nice.

New Movie Trailers: New York, I Love You

Remember Paris, Je t'aime? I could watch it again and again, but I've never been to Paris, and it's not even at the top of my list of places to see before I die.

I have been to New York City, and I did love it. After my tour group left Staten Island, I got sidetracked by a Middle Eastern street vendor on our way to the alluring bargains of Chinatown. Suddenly I found myself alone, lost in some public park because I couldn't resist New York's cheap and tasty street food. I sat on a park bench with the kebab in question, and imagined that this was what it felt like to be local. I was slightly disappointed when my friends finally found me.

That was the moment I fell for New York, and that is why I am so glad that a new New York, I Love You trailer just went online this weekend.



Hurry up and get here, October 16.

Rogue Tusk

Happy 4th of July weekend! I saw a lot of America in the last two weeks. My dad is home for a bit from his job overseas, so we took a family trip to Yellowstone, but not before spending Father's Day with my brother and sister-in-law (and future niece!) in Arkansas. Nathan was still pretty fresh off the plane from El Salvador. It's so rare that we get to chat in person, so catching up with him in Searcy was a very nice thing.

Here's who you're dealing with here at The Real Ideal.

Look At This Photograph

First, I'd like to apologize for the title of this post, which I admittedly borrowed from a song by either Nickelback or Hinder, which are basically the same band. But this is a blog about nice things, not terrible things, so here we go.

Truly, madly, deeply, what could be nicer than old photographs? Recently, there have been a few instances that have rekindled my interests in these images of the past.

Yesterday, some relatives that I knew nothing about made a surprise visit to my grandparents' house bearing an envelope for my father. In the envelope were pictures of great uncles and aunts, my father when he was a boy, and even some early 90s family reunions in which I made some appearances. Well, that struck a note in my grandmother, who was not to be outdone. So she dug out the photo albums, and away we went.

Paul & Debbie of a friend's family, in an old photograph

I love seeing old pictures of my dad's family that I know little to nothing about. I like to think about their lives and what they were like. I like to see them sitting on the front steps of their true-to-form Arkie cabins, or, a little later, proudly posing with their new Chevrolet. I like to wonder what it was like to work so hard picking cotton or strawberries, raising pigs, and tending chicken houses so they could buy a vehicle to ride into town on the weekends.

A few days ago, in the midst of moving and emptying a large shop-building, I came across a trunk that belonged to my mother's mother, or, as I called her, Omi. She was from Heidelberg, Germany, and got off the boat in the late 50s after my mother was born.

In the trunk were tons of German books and old letters written in the language, which were treasures in themselves, but for a brief while I was fascinated by all the old photos that were littered about the box. Images of old European streets filled with small, roundish autos and thin-wheeled bicycles with fenders gave me a sense of longing, and pictures of people I was likely related to, whose descendants still live in Germany, made me curious.

Many of these photos were more than 50 years old and of people and places I have never known, but they had such a profound impact on me. This is my past, your past, or just plain old anybody's past, and that fascinates me. Especially when room is left for imagination and story-making.



*Bonus: What other popular song titles can be found in this post, and who performed them?

Time Out!

This is a good day for Zacks and Morrises and Indiana. When I was in middle school, an airport worker checked my passport and asked if I was any kin to Zack Morris. I might've joked, "Oh, you mean my husband?" But I was 14, so even though I probably had an old Tiger Beat photo of Mark Paul Gosselaar in a heart-shaped frame somewhere, I acted really bershon, like this airline employee was full of lame. Also, 14-year-olds are too young to be making "I'm married" jokes to grown-up strangers.

I know I'm not ahead of the curve on noting Gosselaar's Jimmy Fallon appearance from last night, but since Nathan is still in El Salvador (not for long!), we can pretend that maybe he hasn't caught wind of this fun Saved By the Bell throwback yet.

Note the tight-rolled jeans.

Time in!

Finding Home in Unlikely Places

First of all, I'd like to apologize for keeping you--the blogosphere--anxiously waiting for this next installment of The Real Ideal: Nice Things to Say About Nice Things. I know this has caused some deep distress, and I take full responsibility.

Whew. Now that I've got that off of my chest, let's get to the niceties.

I, Nathan, one of two co-writers of this fine publication, have been away from home for a while now--going on 10 months. I've been living in an unfamiliar country with unfamiliar people and unfamiliar customs. My time here has mostly been wonderful. I've met some great people and I've seen some great things. But, though I've grown to love this place, it's still not home. I've sure all of you have felt like this at some point.

Sometimes, however, we are blessed with the most familiar things in the most unlikely places; we are given the most unexpected reminders of home. And I'm not talking about being able to walk down the street to pick up a Whopper Jr. from the King himself. That's really not that nice. I'm talking about receiving an apple pie as a gift from a student, or making great jokes with a hilarious lady from Texas. That's the good stuff.

I had one of these unexpected pieces of home encounters a couple of weeks ago: probably the best one so far. A couple I've made friends with wanted to take me to a folk/bluegrass concert at the national university. I went, and I was so pleased. It was a legitimate four-piece string band from the Appalachians/Brooklyn, and they were great! They played a lot of my favorite songs, and it was a wonderful reminder of some of my favorite times spent at home--a heaping portion of American Pie.

The Hoppin' John Stringband

The Hoppin' John Stringband not only played great music, but they were great to talk to as well. They were so glad to have brought something so familiar to a boy from Arkansas and a girl from North Carolina (and Elvis, her Salvadorean husband). Check out the Hoppin' John Stringband, along with some of the members' other projects, here: hyperlink to their MySpace. I especially like the song "The Blackest Crow."

Here's to finding home in unlikely places; it is truly a nice thing.

In defense of scribblers

I was looking after the girl with the dead fish again the other day. This time she was cranky. She stayed up too late and woke up too early, which, for a four-year-old, equals a lot of crocodile tears into couch cushions. We were painting. I started a portrait of her, thinking maybe it would cheer her up. Instead, I accidentally gave her an inferiority complex because my painting was such a masterpiece (no it wasn't).

Her plastic paintbrush clattered to the table as she wailed, "This is the worst day I ever had! I'm so bad at this and I can only scribble and none of my friends scribble and all my paintings looks so bad..." She went on.

I scrawled a loopy face onto the portrait in a feeble attempt to convince her that I still scribble too—only my scribbles weren't half as untamed as hers, which just upset her more.

"Listen," I said. "There are some very famous grown-up artists who only scribble. Do you want me to prove it to you?"

I was afraid she might prefer a noisy tantrum to art history. But she nodded, wiping away the fake tears she so desperately wished were pouring down her cheeks, and sat on my lap at the computer while I looked up Jackson Pollock. We scrolled through galleries of his paintings and she pointed out her favorites.

"Wow, this is just so beautiful," she'd say, laughing delighted, four-year-old giggles as pure as her scribbles. She was enraptured by grainy videos of Pollock and other painters at work.

I think sometimes we all feel like she did. Like whatever we're working on is just pointless scrawling, and maybe the canvas was better off blank before we came along and messed it all up. But maybe we just need to see it in a pretty new frame. Maybe our life-scribbling is worth a million bucks to certain art aficionados or to our mothers or to four-year-olds or to God.

We didn't go back to the watercolors again that day, but I'm pretty sure it wasn't because she was still feeling ashamed or inadequate. She was just an action painter.

You Are Beautiful

After Nathan's post about great old buildings, I came upon this one in Fountain Square, an artsy district in downtown Indianapolis.

Nothing boosts my confidence like affirmative architecture.

"Aw, shucks, downtown Indy. So are you," I whisper, blushing a little. This town makes me feel so good about myself.

And this project makes me feel good about the world. I did some quick research to find the story behind this building, and I ended up spending a good hour on this Web site (www.you-are-beautiful.com). Why haven't I heard about this before?

You Are Beautiful is an effort to brighten days worldwide, making a difference by "catching us in the midst of daily life and creating moments of positive self realization." It's affiliated with art shows (like the one I wish I'd known was in Fountain Square two years ago), collaborative projects, stickers I'm sending in for, and more.

There's lots of cool pictures and neat freebies on the site. Make sure you look at these cool books designed by beautiful folks all around the globe.

Nostalgia vs. Novelty

I usually feel a fair amount of shame when I get all nostalgic. I'm not sure what it is, but whenever I get to day-dreaming about times gone by, I often get this shooting pang of conscious that seems to scream "get on with it!" After all, I am only 23: what do I have to be nostalgic about?

However, when it comes to novelty, it seems that any cheap new trick can catch my attention. I feel that I should be embarrassed about this, but of course, I am not. Why is it that I can so easily latch onto something new, turning a blind eye to the deceptive trickery of plastique and gloss and new, yet when I ponder upon an old friend, that one summer, that awesome experience, or a could-of-should-of-would-of, I shrug it off with such an ease that only self-inflicted shame can provide? This is a question that has been running laps in my mind for the past few days. Until now.

Nostalgia in Picture Form ©2005 The Real Ideal

Nostalgia in Picture Form ©2005 The Real Ideal


Nostalgia in Picture Form ©2005 The Real Ideal

Shame be doggoned; I love nostalgia. I've recently been feeling quite nostalgic, and have been regularly drinking of its springs of joy and sadness. Talking to old friends that I do not regularly keep in contact with, thinking on past experiences and circumstances, and time-traveling back to those good and not-so-good old days (whichever ones they may be at the moment): I am steeped in it, and it is great.

I have really come to appreciate nostalgia, because it has in turn brought appreciation for my past and where I come from and how I got here etc., etc., etc. Being nostalgic reminds me of people that I loved, and still love, and that I am sure still love me, because though we rarely even talk anymore, and because we have all gone our separate ways, one to another we are still who we were and who we always will be: bits of fruit suspended in the jiggling gelatin mold of life and time (please forgive me ). And I love that.

But what's interesting about nostalgia is that it really relies on novelty. Without the novelty of experiences had, secrets shared, places been, and new friends found, what would there be to be nostalgic about? Of course, through the lens of nostalgia, all that is plastic and all that is gloss and all that is false or fake is filtered away, and only the good things--the nice things--last.

Fish Heaven

Yesterday I was babysitting a four-year-old neighbor who was really excited to show me the pet fish on her nightstand. She held my hand and led me to the tank, where I saw a beautiful purple beta, floating upside down at the top. Faith was looking right at it too, but she was just chatting away about having her own pet in her room and how often she has to feed it.
"How's it doing," I asked cautiously.
"Really good!" she said.
I didn't have the heart to tell her how wrong she was.

Then today I saw this video, which sort of makes me wish I could have been there when she learned the truth, just in case something this adorable had happened next.

Remember: This girl is not my neighbor. Different dead fish.

Dart This!

Everyone has had a first car. That is, of course, unless you've never owned a car. For the sake of this post, let's assume that you have.

Some first cars are completely boring. If your first car was a new car, most likely it did not fulfill the requirements of the fabled 'first car.' What are the requirements of a first car, you ask? Well, I've made a list of what I think are a few guidelines in determining the quality of a first car.

1. First cars are completely dependable, though in cold weather they may have to be parked on a hill to start them.

2. First cars are perfect in any way. How the design of the dents seem to follow some Pythagorean algorithm, how the rust spots tend to look like deceased relatives, and how the rips in the seats are perfect for holding a wallet and/or cell phone: all perfect.

3. First cars, like most nice things and works of art, vary in color and texture, as numerous professional quality touch-ups run the length of the vehicle.

4. First cars are not only for transportation. They are havens and retreats for the afflicted, the oppressed, and the 17-year-old loser and his loser friends.

5. First cars are closely connected with first bands.

Though not possible, in some ways, I feel like I had two first cars. My first first car was a 1965 Dodge Dart that my dad and brother surprised me with when I was 14 (or 15?). It had some problems, but I still remember the night before my 16th birthday. My dad and I lay in pools of very-viscous fluid as we dropped the transmission, replaced the clutch, and fixed the brakes. We worked until at least 2 a.m. getting it ready to drive the next morning, and we even took it out that night just so I could get a feel for the three-on-the-tree shifting again. The trunk became the closet of my teenage life. It held guitar amps, french horns, and lots of other things so I would always be prepared. Eventually, though, we had to put it down. Brake problems. It was the perfect first car, and I am very thankful for it. Here are some pictures of cars that look exactly like my first car; regretfully, I don't have any of my own. It's name was Johnny 5.

My second first car, though not as classic or whimsical, was just as epic as my first, if not more so. It was a 1988 Lincoln Town Car. It truly was a luxury vehicle. It had air conditioning and a radio: both upgrades from my previous vehicle. It also had an automatic trunk, with a little electronic retractable latch that pulled it down tight, so I didn't have to put too much effort into closing it. It had leather seats, a glow-in-the-dark thermometer, and automatic headlights that switched between bright and dim based on ambient light. This car took over for my senior year in high school, and lasted all the way to the very end of my junior year of university (and I mean VERY end).

The night before our senior registration, four friends and I almost got arrested in this car. I've been pulled over in this car more times than most people have been pulled over in their life. Why? Stereotypes and vehicle profiling. I got this car at about 60,ooo, and got to take it past the 100,000 mile mark. This car was epic, I tell you. Oh, and that huge bump by the post office? 'Nuff said. Even its death was epic. On my way home for the summer after my junior year of college, with all of my belongings packed in and hanging off of the car, it broke down. But not just broke down. I mean, I was driving down the highway, about 30 minutes out of Fayetteville, and stuff started falling out from under it. Apparently, it had something to do with the transmission. Anyways, some very strange man and wife wrecker team came and picked me up in Alma, after I spent 4 hours laying hands on my car, anointing my car with holy oil, and eating Geno's Pizza-By-The-Slice, and took me home. Epic. It's name was Esmerelda.

Me & Esmerelda, breaking 100,000


Rollin' them zeros

What was your first car, and what was it like?

From the Desk of El Mister

The following is a post from the blog I have set up for my classes, where I post announcements, dates of tests, and the occasional surprise extra credit assignment. We are studying expansion to the West in my U.S. History classes, and I could think of nothing more fitting than this. Maybe you'll get some joy out of it too, though I can't promise any extra credit in this economy.

Oregon Trail--8th & 11th Grades

So, when I was in 7th grade, I couldn't wait for Thursdays, because that was the day we went to the computer lab. Of course, the computer lab was not anything like it would be today: we didn't even have internet. But, we did get to do things like type our names, make banners with our names on them, or turn the computer on and off and on again.

Not only did we get to type seven letters at a time and get to push "the" button, we also got to play awesome games. No, not games like GTA 4, Tiger Woods 2009, or Shadow of the Colossus. These were good games. Classic games. Games with horrible graphics, and an educational theme. Games like MathBlaster, WordBlaster, DinoPark Tycoon, and I believe a universal favorite: Oregon Trail.

Oregon Trail is awesome, simple, and very educational. Believe it or not, everyone my age used to love playing Oregon Trail. For this reason, I'm going to make you play Oregon Trail. For extra points.

Here are the rules: follow the link at the bottom of this post to play the game. You can't use a mouse, because we didn't have those back then, so you control everything by typing stuff in. Play the game, see how far you can get without everyone dying, then leave a comment on this post with your Name, Grade, Section, and your high score and final position in the game.

Here's a hint: hunt a lot, fjord the rivers, and start out with more than 50 pounds of food.

CLICK HERE TO PLAY THE BEST COMPUTER GAME EVER!!!!!!!!!

The Dancing Gene

I had some heartfelt conversations with my California Grandpa at Christmastime. Michael Jackson was on repeat in my car that month. Once, when it was just me and Grandpa on the road, we discussed our shared love of the King of Pop, and our shared love of dance. Grandpa was surprised (and proud) to hear that in certain parts of the world, I have something of a reputation when it comes to dancing. He told me a story about back in the day when his students were having a dance party at school and he joined in. He said the Compton high schoolers were impressed with his moves.

"I don't think there's anything to it," he said. "You just get out there and start moving to the music."

It's all in the family.

The way he moves, Ely Kim could be part of my family. (Seriously, Ely Kim. Let's get married.) He danced to 100 different songs for 100 days, and you can watch him shake it down here. Day 49 is one of my faves; bonus points if you know why.

BOOMBOX from Ely Kim on Vimeo.

Everybody dance now.

Wacky Warehouse: Everything Must Go

Good (but urgent) news for packrats: If you spent years collecting Kool-Aid Kool Points as a kid, saving up for one of the big ticket items, you might still be able to cash in. The Kool-Aid points program we grew up with will end on June 30, 2010, so you've got 15 months to redeem your stash.

I know we still have a giant Ziploc packed with points. I should have mailed them all in before the turn of the century, because even if I still desperately wanted a child size bike with radio handlebars (I kind of do still desperately want a child size bike with radio handlebars) or another Barbie doll, gone are the days when such treasures were available from the Kool-Aid Wacky Warehouse. You have your choice of a T-shirt, pitcher, towel or—and this last one is a doozey—a Kool-Aid packet holder (limit 20 per household). No walkie-talkies? No Big Wheels? No bikes of any kind? Sigh.

The Kool-Aid site is all hip and happening, made to look kind of like a MySpace page for the Kool-Aid Man, with music and videos and prizes—at least for the next year and three months. Act now, but make sure there will be some packet holders left for the rest of us.

Antique Edifices

Buildings, like most nice things, only get better with age. Take the Parthenon. Wait, no, I take that back. That's a terrible example.

The buildings I'm talking about are those that we grew up around, not those that grew up around us. Those that, though we've never seen them before, seem to be lined along the Main Streets of our minds.

Small Town New York

These were just my feelings when I snapped this picture from the railcar window of the fabled Adirondack train late last summer. On my way from Montreal to Albany, I saw many beautiful things: lakes, lush forests, mountains. But my favorite part of the six hour ride was when the train went through the old towns of northern New York.

An Aunt Story

Recently my Aunt Lou Ann was telling me about this article she read about bee mites in her local newspaper.

"Bee mites?"
"Yeah, you know. They're just these tiny mites on bees," she said. "It was the best article. You wouldn't think bee mites would be that interesting, but I could not put it down."

Here's where she was wrong: I would think bee mites sound mighty interesting, because bugs are crazy! Look at this video about ants that I have been making everybody watch lately.

First Thing's First.

A good bandana is hard to come by. However, one can find the perfect rebel rag at the Farmer's Diner in small-town Quechee Gorge, near Woodstock, Vermont. I know, because I've been there. The diner uses the bandanas as silverware napkins, therefore they are washed a lot, which also means they are well-worn. They use a variety of colors: some I've never seen before. My friend got a great green one. Apparently, our party was not the first to suggest buying some of these handsome handkerchiefs, as they were set at a very fixed price: $3. Not bad for a nice thing.

Two friends enjoy their Farmer's Diner napkins.