Museum of Fine Arts Houston | MFAH], and a slice of human flesh revealing the circulatory and nervous system looked no different than a barren forest. And when our bodies die, they just decompose to make more earth, from which even more roots of things are borne. So, why aren't we also the earth while alive? For all I know, the outer-space car and bus exist as regular guys in everyday life, and are the conduits between the heavens and the Earth, nature and humanity, and basically, form the essence of [Time | time]. Then again, nothing [Hey Nineteen | I] just said is any different from [The Beatles] \"[Within You, Without You]\" - actually, sorry to digress; [GIANT LIE | a few dudes on drugs fucking-around with instruments is neither here nor there when it comes to the point I'm trying to get across]. \r\n\r\nSo -\r\n\r\nLast Sunday afternoon, I was smoking a [bitch cigarette | Kool 100] with my mom on the patio, waiting to check-out some old family pictures. Out of the blue, she randomly drops some shit on me that has a literal profundity of things such as the [Zapruder] film or [Lou Gehrig's] Yankee Stadium farewell speech. \r\n\r\nEarlier in the week, she pulled into their porte-cochère after work. Essentially, it's a little parking tunnel between the first level of the house and the garage. My [dad] has transformed their garage into a hybrid woodworking shop, golf equipment warehouse and humidor; accordingly, since he spends most of his time there, he installed a window-unit air conditioner last summer. Though theoretically designed to fit three, the ancillary space hardly accommodates one mid-size car. \r\n\r\nAnyway - after getting out of her SUV, she heard a \"devastating\" squelching noise coming from the garage. After a little detective work, there was a sparrow which had become trapped in between the the windscreen and window in the garage. Because of the a/c unit, the garage window is permanently, partially open. She assumed the bird had tried to escape the heat, but had a lapse in foresight in its haste. The space it had assumed was prohibitively small for it to spread its wings and fly away. By the time my mom discovered the bird, it was relegated to a tiny corner-space yelling for help in between gasps of dehydration and exhaustion.\r\n\r\nBy this point, as she continued the story, tears began to swell in her eyes. She hurriedly pried open the window screen, and the bird bolted into midair, but only far enough to make a dive-bomb straight into the swimming pool. She couldn't do anything but watch it flail awkwardly in the water, with barely enough energy to stay afloat... albeit fly.\r\n\r\nThe bird eventually made it to the side of the pool and perched itself on a single lump of decorative limestone for \"something like thirty minutes.\" Finally, it spread its wings for a moment before flying up and away into the dusky air. My mom never took her eyes off the bird the whole time.\r\n\r\nMom and I walked back inside the house, where my dad was passed-out in his perfectly ass-contoured [leather] recliner. I walked over to him and gently thumped him in the balls before scurrying across the room where my mom sat with the pictures. It's funny to watch my dad wake-up after not knowing he's been asleep - it's a rare 10-or-so seconds of obliviousness that must be taken advantage of, and he lets us enjoy his temporary [off-guard] vulnerability. \r\n\r\nBefore dozing back into his sunburned [karma | coma], dad lets us know who's boss by unleashing a gnarly 4-second fart with his eyes closed, flipping us off with half a smile. My mom hands me the pictures; the first is a sepia-toned picture of the tiny cookie-cutter house on Slayden St. in Brownwood, TX where I grew up. A 1979 Chevy Good Times Van is parked in the driveway; Jonathan the buff [cocker spaniel] and Casey-Jane the rescued [greyhound] are lying on the cool concrete. I've just learned to walk; I'm wearing an Ohio St. ringer tee, standing in my plastic mini-pool, holding a hose with no pants on and laughing at nothing in particular.\r\n\r\nThe next picture is older. It's dusk and dad is sleeping on the couch, on his back, and I'm curled in my diaper sleeping face-down on his chest while he rests his right hand on my back. After 30 years, he hardly looks different than he does while in his recliner. Mom tells me how I used to wait behind the screen door every afternoon waiting for him to [Blackbird | get home from work]. \r\n\r\n \r\n\r\n ","writeuptype":"personal","author":{"lasttime":"2011-09-17T15:10:35Z","is_bot":0,"type":"user","hidelastseen":0,"title":"heirdo","node_id":1966659},"publishtime":"2010-08-05T17:51:05Z","createtime":"2010-08-05T17:51:05Z","title":"August 5, 2010 (personal)","type":"writeup"},{"createtime":"2010-08-06T01:25:26Z","publishtime":"2010-08-06T01:25:26Z","author":{"node_id":2021132,"hidelastseen":0,"title":"wombat-socho","type":"user","is_bot":0,"lasttime":"2023-01-05T05:28:37Z"},"writeuptype":"log","doctext":"

Today was the last class for Accounting 215, Computerized Accounting. I turned in my [Excel] homework, did the practical exam for that section of the course, and finally got the grade for the [QuickBooks] practical I did two weeks ago. It's not really the instructor's fault; evidently her mom is in the hospital, which emergency cost us a week's worth of Excel instruction, and adjunct professors at community colleges don't rate [Teaching Assistant|TA]s. So things haven't gone as well as we all might have liked. I had mixed feelings about taking the class to begin with, since I already have [Microsoft] certification for Excel and about a decade's experience working with QuickBooks, but what the hell - the [Virginia|Commonwealth]'s Board of [accounting|Accountancy] will probably count it as a business class for the purposes of qualifying me for the CPA exam, anyway. Also, it was an easy three credits.

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