Don’t you love when you get into a song and its chorus just happens to coincide with your resolution of the week? This hasn’t happened to me since I discovered Okkervil River’s The President’s Dead right before Gerald Ford passed, but the stars have aligned again.

One of the few drawbacks of working from home is that the line between work and home gets the ol’ Gaussian blur. My girlfriend identified this before I even started, but it didn’t bother me until recently. It turns out the benefit of not having to commute in the morning is erased by how easy it is to just wander to your computer and fire up the email before properly waking up. You get an early jump, but it’s canceled out by the lack of focus that haunts you throughout the rest of the day.

So, in the spirit of the Secular Sabbath, I’m going Analog in the AM. From 7-9am I’ll be awake but not using screens. Sorely needed triathlon training or cleaning are two areas I might spend this time on. So if you’re an early riser yourself and see me on Gchat, AIM, Facebook, Gmail, and so on, tell me to shut ‘er down.

But really the whole point of this post was to play this song a bunch of times.

Fun Fact: Port O’Brien apparently work in a cannery in Alaska. My friend Dave just started working as a Carnie in Alaska. Less gritty, but still wild.

Looking back, these were probably the most foul things my parents let us near in the otherwise innocent ’80’s. I remember not being allowed to buy the most super-disgusting Ninja Turtle villain. I couldn’t find a picture of him but I did find this one that my parents did let me get:

But neither were anywhere near as gross as the many Garbage Pail Kids trading cards and stickers we had.

So it’s good to see that they’re back, complete with a make-your-own feature that was the most fun I’ve had this week. The customization panel is also by far the best series of tabs I’ve ever been offered:

Unfortunately the share with a friend feature seems to be broken and there’s no way to embed your card anywhere (it was animated so the little rat comes over and eats at the pool of maggots), but still fun stuff for a Friday:

Make your own.

My Dad’s eulogy for his dad, my granddad:

Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
Though wise men at their end know dark is right,
Because their words had forked no lightning they
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright
Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,
And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight
Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
And you, my father, there on the sad height,
Curse, bless me now with your fierce tears, I pray.
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

— Dylan Thomas

Dad raged against the dying of the light. He did not go peacefully.

Yet his entire life was one of live and let live. He wished no one harm and harmed no one.

He loved his family, his forest and trees, which he planted, his dogs, multiple generations which he borne and raised. He was a doer…he made things and made things work. Not always successfully, but ample enough to get the job done.

He ran a farm, a coal mine, worked for a corporation, and developed a wood business that never made money but kept him busy and sane.

He loved his tools, his workshop, his freedom to do what he pleased. He ran wild with thoughts and feelings and work and enjoyed getting up every day of his life. It is to be envied.

He reveled in building his house, his farm, the pond, and making things (and us) work. Many are the morning I arose to his ‘get out of bed you lazy bones’. Coffee was on, the sun was rising, and trees needed to be cut, split, loaded, dumped for props for the mine, and stacked. Then we had the cows to milk, the chickens and pigs to feed, the milk to churn into butter, and the rock shot to do in the mine. But, we all bear our cross…

Dad never ran out of things to do, to fix and to talk about. He lived a full life, always searching for things to do. We should all be so happy.

Dad taught me to fish, to hunt, to plant gardens, to care for animals, and embedded in me a sense of honesty. You have to be responsible and proud of what you do and how you do it.

For all Dads’ social isolation, he was one of the original party animals. He loved to talk, dance, eat, and have a good time. I remember his trying to control our Friday night ventures into NY State, as we were 18 and could drink there. (This was popular at the time).

He bought us a keg of beer and had me and my friends stay in our back yard. Of course, by one o’clock, we were out playing football by moonlight. After the many calls from irate mothers the next morning over torn clothes and bruises, he never did it again. But the thought was pure.

I think what I will most miss about Dad is his calm presence in any situation. He just knew what to do and what to say to help us on our way.

God’s nature harsh and untamed,
Cold, wet, wild, un-named,
Create yourself in your own terms,
Make use of the abundance that is provided,

Dad made his choices and struck a claim
Worked the earth above and below
To keep his family fed and clothed
Hard work and fortitude
Honesty and frugality
Fun and laughter
Strong hands and strong bonds
Dad built a foundation out of nothing.

Yet end of days comes for everyone
To move on to another plane of life
But the transition is a new birthing and hard
Especially for those of us remaining here
Dust unto dust, but life ever-lasting

Dad is running free in the woods with his loving dogs
Fishing the streams for rainbow trout
And tuning the Chevy to purr like a cat
We are but moments and seconds from seeing him again
When he will turn and say, what took you so long, slow-poke?

Justin laid The Rhinocerus Egg and breaks the tie on brothers blogging vs. having a life, with Jeff now the minority in the latter category.

Chandler joins The Cult of Pure Banality. Despite being unemployed, the only time Chandler can find to write is during his nightly regimen of drunk munchies:

In these frigid times, the plumbing of my mind has burst forth mental sewage onto the internet and straight into your homes. Inspired by capitalist propaganda and radical lunacy, I’m here to present you with some good-old-fashioned, totally useless drivel. The kind you used to get from your drunk friend at 3am in college when he decided it was time to “have a serious talk”, because that’s who I am: your drunk friend.

My own personalized version of hell will involve shoe shopping and furniture moving. And it will be really cold out. I got a little preview this weekend.

My parents invited me to come down to Boca Raton, Florida with them a few months ago, but at the time I didn’t realize how badly I’d need some sun and thought it might be weird tagging along with just my parents. They had an hour layover at Reagan yesterday, so I met up with them for lunch and tried to buy a ticket on their connecting flight, to no avail. I had a swimsuit, sunglasses, and a toothbrush in my backpack just in case. It’s a lot easier to do in romantic comedies I guess.

So now I’m still here and have to move all my stuff 4 feet next door to the other room (we’re taking turns with the small room). Meaning the few piles I’ve managed to eliminate in the last 6 months will be back, and those I hadn’t tackled yet will be emboldened by the veritable jailbreak of clutter.

Everyone I talked to today is exhausted, sick, or both. The temperature’s very low and Fox News has reported to me 7 different ways the cold can kill me, including being wet, homeless, or losing my corneas to the wind.

One to two inches of snow are expected. Maybe somehow that will translate to the federal government getting shut down which will snowball into no work tomorrow. Yeah, I think I’m going to bed at 9.

UPDATE: It’s somehow 11:30 and I’m still awake, but Madeleine did post a great poem that’s echoing my feelings right now:

“Winter’s Onset from an Alienated Point of View”

The first cold front came in
whining like a carpenter’s plane
and curled the warm air
up the sky: winter is
for busy work, summer
for construction. As for
spring and fall, ah, you
know what we do then:
sow and reap. I want
never to be idle or by plumb
or level to fear death,
so I do none of this
in offices away from weather.
– Alan Dugan

For those of you not in the DC area, the Washington Post has a free daily paper short enough to read on the Metro ride to work. Amongst other tabloid-tastic sections, they have a wedding section, By Invitation Only, or B.I.O., as its known by fans and acronym lovers across the city.

For those of you in DC, don’t know if you noticed, but my brother and sister-in-law were featured. Again. This time, in the annual “Best Of” feature. They tied for best proposal.

Congrats Brian and Lauren. And good luck to Justin, Jeff or myself in trying to top this kind of proposal and publicity.

Also, I love that while everyone else had a picture slow-dancing or kissing, you guys are rocking out in a limo.