Sunday, July 31, 2011

Mammoth Art

When Mark and I were in the modern art wing of the Portland Art Museum, we passed by a neon sign that read, "Five Words in Orange Neon". This was one of several pieces that reminded me of Tina Howe's play, Museum.

As we were waiting for the elevator, Mark noticed the sign and said, "This is not a mammoth -- For all we know that's what all those cave painters were thinking."

This struck me as funny on many levels and I giggled. "I love you," I said and pulled Mark closer.

Cars Alluring; But Is It Art?

For our anniversary, Mark and I went to see The Allure of the Automobile at the Portland Art Museum.

The phrase that sums up our experience: It was a car show. And by "car" I mean million dollar vintage race cars or vehicles that really only fit two people (and their suitcases).

After looking at the fifteen or so cars, we decided that we were looking at craft and history, but I wasn't sure that we were looking at art. Mark (and I) had hoped that there would be original draft designs on display. And I'd hoped that we'd see more radiator cap tops and sculpture. I think the show would have benefitted with the inclusion of other period objects, so we could have seen how the cars' aesthetic was interacting with the aesthetic of the time. "Well, I guess this is like looking at jewelry," Mark said.

After about ninety minutes of looking at cars, we took a break to the modern art wing. This was mostly because I was having trouble wrapping my (admittedly pedestrian) art appreciation brain around the concept of car-as-art-object, and I figured that if I looked at things like eighteen inch black plastic cubes, video loops of sunsets set to the Apocalypse Now movie soundtrack, and pictures of dumpsters taped over with silver tape (I'm not making this up, you know), I'd be able to go back to the car show with a better appreciation for the artistry.

I fell in love with Mark all over again as we chortled our way through the Modern Wing. On our way back to the cars, we gave a detailed artistic critique of the way the metal etching on the elevator walls made organic reflections of the lights. And then we were back with the cars.

Going off to view alternate art didn't quite work. I was still mentally contrasting and comparing Allure with a show consisting of Kitchen Aide mixers all lined up on artistically lit pedestals.

I made a few sketches.

One thing I noticed about this show that was different from other shows was how (ahem) aggressive everyone was with photographing (they didn't exactly say, "Get out of my way!" but they didn't say "please" either). The photograph frenzy was strange, like being on a kind of birding expedition -- and I guess when I've been in museums before, people take pictures of the art. At Allure, as often as not, people would have their pictures taken as they were standing in front of cars, sort of like one would have one's picture taken with a recently-caught trophy fish.

I enjoy photographing objects in the Egyptian wing of the MET. So I can understand the thrill of phonographic acquisition. Still....

My favorite car was the sting ray because it looked just a little bit like Luke Skywalker's land speeder. Mark's was a 1930's Chitty-chitty-bang-bang style car. I liked how the headlights on some of the older cars had magnifying lenses built into their glass, or how designs (like a candelabra) were etched into the bulb's glass. A few cars had hinged wrought-iron-looking bumpers, which was cool. But the award for most interesting goes to the car with a third, swiveling headlight stuck in front of the radiator.

We left the car show and went upstairs to look at the silverware. I really looked at those 17th-Century chocolate pots and tried to imagine that I was looking at the cars. But it wasn't the same -- the cars didn't have clawed feet, or labyrinths of leafy bronze vines coiling around Titans. The cars looked like tanks, or teardrops, or women's breasts, or phalluses, or airplanes, or cellphones. They weren't even SteamPunk. I guess cars fall into the same category for me as all those endless Madonna With Child portraits from the renaissance.

Afterward, we had dinner at The Portland City Grill. It was fun because we were thirty stories high. We ate good food while looking at Mount Hood. We got to watch skateboarders on the roof of a parking garage beneath us, and also the gyres of a red-tailed hawk.

Friday, July 29, 2011

Seven Years Annerversary

Seven years ago -- August 1, 2004 -- Mark and I had a Ceremony of Marriage. Our families and friends attended the outdoor ceremony, which was held in our landlady's backyard garden.

It was purely a ceremony -- Oregon's constitution had recently been amended to forbid same-sex marriage. (And, reviewing notes, it appears that West Nile Fever had yet to make it to Oregon.) Aside from things like the car, the house and joint checking, we haven't really registered with legislative bodies.

Mark was particularly handsome that day. Some days -- just the other day, in fact -- I'll look at him and fall in love with him all over. And on the other days, the hard days, I repeat my part of the vows: "As the Earth and the Moon dance around the Sun, so I braid my life with yours."

And thinking about Mark, who will probably make a gagging sound when he reads the above, I suppose that I should prepare the Ultimate Love Gift and start the laundry and the dishwasher.

Wednesday, July 27, 2011


This was in the news a few weeks back:

Microdrones, Some as Small as Bugs, Are Poised to Alter War - "The Pentagon now has some 7,000 aerial drones, compared with fewer than 50 a decade ago. Within the next decade the Air Force anticipates a decrease in manned aircraft but expects its number of “multirole” aerial drones like the Reaper — the ones that spy as well as strike — to nearly quadruple, to 536. Already the Air Force is training more remote pilots, 350 this year alone, than fighter and bomber pilots combined.

“It’s a growth market,” said Ashton B. Carter, the Pentagon’s chief weapons buyer."

On one hand, cool! Robots!  On the other hand, these are war toys, and some folks would like to see them being tested in Easter Oregon.   What I want to know is, why isn't the department of agriculture working with microdrones to improve farming and ranching techniques?   Or why isn't the parks service using these to monitor forest fires?  And could microdrones become the guardians of the very young and the very old?  Or deliver pizzas?

Late July 2011 Update

Hmm. The day job is cutting into blogging time. So some quick updates:

Monday, July 18, 2011

2011 June 30 - Thursday

After the third or fourth time I'd sung, "What's that on your head? / A wig!" Mark finally asked me why I was channeling the B-52's. I smiled and said, "I like to call my wig, 'Olana'." Because it was true, we were driving off to the Rip Van Winkle Bridge and the magical family mansion of Frederic Edwin Church, Olana.  We'd first discovered Olana last January, and between Mr. Church's over-the-top writing about it and all the sumptuous interior designs we knew we had to go.

As we crossed the bridge over the Hudson, we saw the square tower rising over the trees on an overlooking hill.

After a brief snack in the parking lot, we walked to the carriage house, which now serves as the museum and gift shop. The house had lots "gingerbread" on in, which made Mark wonder which came first, the houses in San Fransisco or Olana. Then we saw the main house.

I wanted to take photographs, but they weren't allowed inside. I wanted to sketch, but sketching wasn't allowed, either.

Mark and I probably won the Gay Men's Laser Eye Award for Interior Motif Recognition. The house was filled with chachkies from Egypt and Damascus. The whole house, especially the yellow Central Hall, was designed for family nights of children's plays and guests' tableaus. Everything that wasn't imported from the near East was designed or painted by Church. One picture frame that stuck with me was based on decagons and star zelige. Upstairs, there were samples of imported tile work Church had probably used for the exterior.

The funniest moment was learning that the meticulously stenciled Arabic script in Mrs. Church's office was complete gibberish. The most useful factoid -- he sandwiched black paper between clear and amber glass to create a stained glass window effect.

The servant's quarters were much more plain but still nice; even the utility stairs were wide with low risers.

After the tour I photographed the outside of the building. The day was mostly sunny, and it was just after the sun had passed through the local meridian. Olana strikes me as one of those buildings that demands being photographed ninety minutes within sunrise or sunset. There are so many rich details tiled or carved into the walls that navigating the contrasts proved to be an almost insurmountable challenge for my camera's light meter and auto-focus.

I also sketched some of the curiously shaped windows. Mr. Church had fun working out the brickwork and the geometry for the keyhole shaped casements.

More photos here: John's Olana Photos

After Olana, we went to a Vanderbilt Mansion in Hyde Park. Mark called it a McMansion of its day. Whereas Olana had been a grand family chateau, Vanderbilt was a family hotel. Olana was welcoming like a Vegas show; Vanderbilt was welcoming like an Edward Gory Chase - I fully expected an urn to thud into the earth next to us.

Our Vanderbilt guide was a Park Ranger. She had long blond hair and used the word "costed", as in "it costed twelve million." I can't decide which part of the tour was funnier, learning that Mrs. Vanderbilt died in Paris on a shopping trip or the following exchange as the tour guide and I were speaking about Olana and I pulled out my sketchbook. TG: "Oh, are you an architect?" Me: "No, but I play one on TV." TD (Obviously missing the 70's TV commercial reference): "Oh, are you an actor?" Me: "No, I'm just a computer geek." (Note to self: jokes based on 70's culture only work with people born between 1950 and 1970).

Our Park Ranger Guild was less formal than our Olana Docent, and let us wander on the floors more. Although the French Empire chairs and tapestries and sculptures were cool, the most interesting thing to me was how the natural convection of air from sub-basement tunnels up through the skylights allowed for fairly good 1880's air conditioning.

After the mansion tour, Mark and I walked through the garden. Mark surveyed the landscaping and made a few note for how we could respond to our neighbor's recent construction with layered plantings of bamboo, lily, iris, and shrubbery.

Sunday, July 17, 2011

2011 June 29 - Wednesday

This was Playland Day! Family fun since 1928!

Visiting Playland is a Dwyer Tradition. When I first met Mark's family, one of the very first things we did was go to Playland. I'm not sure when they moved into their current house, but previously, at one point in the 1960's, the Dwyers, then a family of three, lived near the old amusement park.

I enjoy the rides (although I would have enjoyed a few more had I been wearing my contacts), but what I like about Playland are some of the old attractions from the early 1920's. The Dragoncoaster is a mostly wooden roller-coaster. Part of the attraction (?) is that people were shorter back then, so sometimes it seems like I'm about to be decapitated by some of the wood beams in the ride's structure. I think what I like are some of the old posters for the Dragoncoaster; but the really cool thing is that the operator controls the ride with a Really Big Lever -- I think it's about four feet long and it looks like you need to work out a little to move it.

The architecture of Playland has an Art Deco feel to it. I like the light tower at one end of the arcade.

But what I remember most about Playland is the carousel -- it's from something like 1910. I had romanticized the horses, because reviewing the pictures I took, there's something frantically wild about these ones. They all are pulling hard against their reigns, and their eyes have a sad, terrified, or calculating cast.

They reminded me of the carousel from Something Wicked This Way Comes, and in my storyteller's mind, I wonder what invocation has bound these beasts to the wheel -- and had it been some wicked enchanter's trap or had it been a well-deserved punishment?

We stayed until the park closed.

Saturday, July 16, 2011

2011 June 27 - Monday

Cookies for breakfast! (Again.) I mean; there I was. It was morning; the cookies were there, and it was breakfast time.... Actually, now that I think about it, I probably had a bagel, too.

Mark and most of his siblings went into The City. I'd opted out in order to have a more relaxed day.

I'd noticed when we first arrived that Grandma Mary's gutters were overflowing and probably needed to be cleaned out. Cleaning the gutters took a little longer than I expected, because I had to take apart the drain pipes and remove all the decomposing leaf material. Taking them apart didn't take nearly as long as trying to put them back together.

Once I finished that chore, I decided that I would have a soak in the tub. And read my newly purchased Atlas of Ancient Civilizations. And eat a Double-Chocolate Klondike Bar. You know, that Cat in the Hat had something going there when he ate cake in the tub.


"Do you like Green Eggs and Hammurabi?"

2011 June 26 - Sunday

Post-Wedding Game Day!

To accommodate all of the Dwyer relatives, many folks pitched tents and camped in Mark's Mother's (Mary) back yard. There were lots of New York Bagels (with cream-cheese) for breakfast. The newlyweds came by for a post-wedding visit -- which was pretty amazing, since the wedding lasted until at least 1 AM.

When the Dwyers gather, there's usually lots of party games. Folks gathered mostly outside on the porch and a general atmosphere of "Brunch meets Cookout" ensued. The kids and some adults had their faces painted -- the kids as bunnies and the adults (or at least one of the "adult" kids) as a wolves.

And then it was time for the newlyweds to go and pack for their honeymoon to the Caribbean. The next thing everyone knew, there were percussion instruments everywhere. I had a giant conga drum. There were other large drums -- and a collection of tambours, cowbells, clacking sticks, and other noise-makers suddenly materialized in the hands of the kids. I want to say there were bubbles, but I might be splicing that in from earlier in the day.

Kevin and Jackie slowly walked down Mary's driveway. By this time more tribal face-painting had occurred, so they were followed by what might have looked like a cross between The Muppet Show and Cirque du Soleil. At about 2 PM. I think we nearly caused three fender-benders from drivers slowing down to rubber-neck at the spectacle.

Kevin and Jackie drove away to a cacophony of jingling rhythms.

Afterward, there was smoke and fire.

Friday, July 15, 2011

2011 June 25 - Saturday

Saturday was Wedding Day.

Mark has six siblings: Micheal, Melora, Matthew, Melissa, (Mark), Maria and Megan. Melora's son, Kevin, was getting married to (his now wife) Jackie. One of these days I should get some genealogy software and draw a picture of where all the aunts, uncles and cousins fit.

The wedding was fun. Since there were so many family members traveling from Mark's Mother's house, someone arranged a party bus. It had curving benches side-winding through its length and a big vertical chrome pole in the back. Yes, Mark and I both did about five seconds of pole dancing on the bus. Um, yes; there were drinks on the bus. And a music-driven light show. I think it was a good thing Mark was on the bus with his wedding invitation or the bus driver would have been totally lost.

There was pre-wedding discussion about the flavor of the minister, but based on my automatic responses to the service, I'm sure she was Episcopalian. The service was short. Jackie was a beautiful bride in a traditional white dress and demi-train. When Kevin, was saying, "For better of for worse," a golfer plunked a ball into the nearby lake.

The food was endless. The music was mostly fun -- there were times when I did wish the DJ would turn the volume down and talk less -- but there were stretches when the music made me dance. When the beat is fast and the words aren't too stupid dancing is what weaves the world.

Apparently there was an unofficial competition about who the best dancer was on the dance floor. My personal opinion was that of the three people who I thought were the best dancers on the floor, Joe F was the best couple dancer, the tall young woman in black was the best line dancer, and I was the best veil dancer. And everyone was slightly worried that I would throw my hips out (um, yeah; I did feel a little pull the next day across my left front hip).

Wednesday, July 13, 2011

Olana in Late June

Whew... things have been busy since we've returned. I've been meaning to post but have been focused on writing and The New Day Job. So for now, here's a picture of Olana, Edwin Church's mid-1800's chateau. Kind of Victorian, kind of Persian. Hard to photograph on a sunny day just after noon.

Saturday, July 09, 2011

2011 June 24 - Friday

7:25 - On the bus to the MET! I must remember the stop is at the CVS.

We've just entered the Turnpike. Riding the Shortline Bus must be getting easier because I don't have the nagging fear I'm heading to Ithica or Buffalo.

When I got to the New York City Port Authority Bus Terminal, I had a moment's hesitation as I tried to decide if I should walk to 4, 5 or 6 Metroline or enter the system under the Terminal and take the S line.
I wasn't completely awake, I wasn't sure which way I was heading, and a Very Friendly Person latched right onto me. He was kind of short, he was dark skinned, and he was unkempt.

"Where you going to?" he asked. He was kind of like a concierge on steroids.

It was one of those awkward moments where I was too nice to insist that I knew the way. The next thing I knew, my New Best Friend was leading me down to the subway entrance to the S line. It was then that I noticed the alcohol on his breath.

Once my guide had pointed the way, he got very still and said, "Help a brother out?" I figured, What the Heck, and gave him some money.

He thanked me, I walked through the subway gate, and I never saw him again. I did ponder, as I joined the stream of people shuffling to the S train, what kind of Greek plot I'd stumbled into. Would my drunken guide have been Mercury, or Charon?

I exited the subway near the MET and started walking in the direction I figured would be correct. In the past, I navigated by the sun's position, but it was cloudy and gray, with what felt like a genuine Pacific-Northwest drizzle threatening.

I knew I was heading in the right direction when I saw La Maison du Chocolat. Unfortunately the shop was closed, or I would have slipped in.

I arrived a few minutes later at the steps of the MET. Before opening. O Bliss, O Rapture Unbounded. Oh... A line.

Security has tightened at the MET, because my bag, which I've always been able to take in before, is ordered to the hat and coat check. This necessitated some awkward re-shuffling of things like my sketchbook and my contact lens case.

My first decision was choosing which wing to go first, then race to the end of that particular exhibit and work my way back toward the Great Hall. Until I win the lottery and can afford to arrange to spend the night (or a week of nights) in the MET, it's the best way to be in near-empty galleries.

For two hours I wandered the Egyptian wings. I love Egyptian art. It makes me want to twirl around with my arms flung out and sing "The Sound of Music" and then say, "Almighty Isis! (Isis Isis...)" At first I hunted for crisp examples of hieroglyphs that I have not already photographed.

I was aware of my own photography because I kept running into a young woman dressed like Lauraa Croft in tight black; she wielded a mega-zoom extra-clicky camera. Every time she paused in front of an exhibit I expected the Jay Giles band to shout "Freeze Frame!"

This time around the statue of Hatsheput compelled me. The artists communicated a sense of the Hatsheput the Monarch of one of the most powerful empires of the time constrained by her throne.

One of the objects I always seem defeated by is the black sarcophagus. Its glossy surface confuses my camera's auto-focus and the fine hieroglyphs on it come out blurry. At a carving next to the sarcophagus a man and two women stopped to look at the hieroglyphic inscriptions. The man was loud and sounded like a child dragged to culture.

"Look at those chicken scratches," he said. "They look like chicken scratches."

One of the woman said wistfully, "It's supposed to say something."

Since I was photographing right next to them anyway, I leaned over and pointed at the inscription. "This triangle shape is 'given' and this shape, ankh, means 'life' -- so together this means the phrase 'given life.' The wasp and the plant over the half circles is the title 'Lord of Upper and Lower Egypt.' This figure here is a god -- we know he's a god because he carries he rod of dominion in one hand and an ankh in the other. This man here is a king because he's wearing a crown with a snake -- the crown of Upper Egypt. This part in a cartouche is one of the king's names, but I'm afraid I can't read it."

"Wow," one of the women said. "Uh, thanks."

Later, I had more fun being amateur Egyptian docent explaining spirit doors to enthusiastic kids. There's something that strikes the storyteller in me to be able to say (while enclosed in stone passages enclosed in glass) "And this is Perneb's spirit door, where his spirit appeared to receive offerings brought by his family." I could almost smell the incense, and I'm pretty sure the kids could almost see an ancient Egyptian ghost.

I'd made a list of objects to see, then cleverly left it in the bag. And the bag was in forced check-in. But I found the MET's mark-down clearance sale instead!

When I'm in New York City, I always hear foreign languages. I like the ones that have guttural CH's or short, nasal E's. I heard a (presumably) father and son speaking as I went into the men's room to remove my contact lenses. I don't know if it's the humidity, or dust, or some funny museum chemical, but I only seem to be able to wear my contacts in the MET for about three hours before they start giving me problems.

As I stood in front of a sink, holding my left eye open and using one of those little plunger thingies to remove my contact, I felt the boy's stare. The scene reminded me of Laurie Anderson's spiel about being "The Ugly One with the Who Keeps Her Jewels in her Eyes."

I turned to the boy. In addition to whatever language he'd been speaking with his older relative, I'd heard them using English. So I said, "I have an astigmatism and my eyes are old. So I have to wear rigid, semi-permeable contact lenses. I can't just blink the contacts out, so I use this to take it out." I removed my contact lens and dropped it in its case. "But they're bothering me, so I'll wear my glasses instead." I removed the other one and put on my glasses.

About this time, the older relative realized that the boy had been staring at and was talking to a stranger in the men's room.

I enjoyed the Courtyard of American Sculpture and Arts. It's the silver. And the Tiffany's tile work. And the Art Deco. And... This time around I enjoyed the sculpture "Young Artist's Hand Stayed by Death." Perhaps enjoyed is the wrong word -- it communicated a sense of motivation to me.

I wanted to wander through the galleries of the Ancient Near East, but, alas, there was a huge queue snaking along side the displays. I kind of wished I'd stopped to take a picture of The Assyrian Bulls with the queue snaking between them, but I didn't want to photograph people's backs.

I think all the folks in line were going to see some dresses. This was too bad, because I couldn't really look at the ritual objects from the Levant and Fertile Crescent. They fascinate me -- so many of them seem to be saying something about the chariot (or cart) of the sun. While I didn't get to see examples of early Scythian art, I did get to see the Elomite Cow! Again! (I love the Cow.)

Walking through the Greek and Roman statuary, I must have hit a sugar crash, because the artwork made me meloncholy, and I wrote bad poetry. What triggered the poetry was a sphinx with no face; I've seen it before, but this time I felt for it and wondered what it might be like to come alive in a gallery some moonlight midnight and have no face. Then I looked around at the other fragments statues missing arms, legs or heads.


Wandering among the dead
Within the marble halls.
Clay and stone
House the ghosts
Of long ago.

Who can call their names
When their forms crumble?
In some wing undiscovered
There must be restoration
For faceless sphinxes and
Angels' shoulders crack'd.

7:50PM - Mark IM'ed me and ... OMG! Will you look at the time!? I had no idea it was so late. By this time I was in the bookstore and I'd become distracted hunting for bargains and gifts.

8:45 - On bus back to Suffern. I've spent almost eleven hours in the MET.

Death Staying the Hand...

  Hey Kids! Don't let this happen to you. Seize the day and finish that project before the ultimate deadline!

Friday, July 08, 2011

2011 June 23 - Thursday

Woke up at 10 AM after minor dozes. Being nocturnally inclined plus being three time-zones east is a difficult thing. When we visit Mark's relatives in Suffern, it's way too easy for me to stay up late. Thus, it becomes way too easy for me to get up late.

There's cable TV here. We don't have a TV at home, much less cable. I tried to watch Game of Thrones and The Lightning Thief. I decided that Game of Thrones was going to be too edgy for me in terms of visuals, and that I'd enjoy the story more if I were reading it.

The Lightning Thief was cheesey and the Young Adult structure kept jumping out at me, especially the "I'm the female romantic interest, therefore, you must defeat me in armed combat" part. There was more parental angst than Bambi and about as many Greek warriors as Troy. What I found somewhat troubling was the teen-hero's dyslexia and ADD were explained as being a result of being hard-wired to be a Greek Demigod. Indigo Children, anyone?

After I turned off the TV, I edited a short story manuscript and thought about its structure. I'm tempted to cut out the first scene because it feels like a lump of exposition that the story has to drive to to get to the plot. I want to keep it because I don't want to confuse the readers.

Ate too many Klondike Bars.

Thursday, July 07, 2011

2011 June 22 - Wednesday

Had a strange dream of animalmorphic Faeries cavorting on ocean cliffs during a dark Summer Solstice night.

12 Noon: Waiting in Terminal A2 for our flight.

The planes on the tarmac are kind of loud. I expect we're taking a trubo-prop to SLC. We've gotten food at the terminal because we don't expect we'll be fed in flight.

I have a nagging feeling we've forgotten something, like locking all the windows. If I didn't always have this feeling when embarking on a two-week long trip, I'd be more worried.

I need to force myself to write. I've gotten out of practice and during vacation it will be difficult to focus on writing between all the wedding activities, family visits and tourist stops. This time I'm bringing no electronics and have brought a few manuscript drafts. While we're gone I have to write a Machine of Death story. The Wordos suggested "IN-LAWS" but I figured that would be a good way to get into a lot of trouble.

On the first plane. It's not a turbo-prop. I'm a little jammed into the bulkhead, but I'm sitting next to a good window. There's an extra-loud loudspeaker over my head, and I jump every time the captain chimes in -- which is usually just as I'm nodding off.

Noon-time glare off of the Three Sisters fills the cabin with white. Air travel always reminds me of when I was a skydiver. I look down on the ant-trail highway and feel myself count three-two-one and step backward off of the plane of my memory and into its air-stream. Half the time the soundtrack in my mind is Enigma's Eyes of Truth, the other half it's Uncle Bonsai's Lois Lane.
I miss skydiving. My bank account, however, does not.

Later, looking out the window over the southwest at a tan road trailing along umber ground, it seems as though I'm looking sideways and the road is climbing into the sky.

The circular fields are plowed in labyrinthine furrows. I'm sure there's an agricultural short story in there somewhere.

Wednesday, July 06, 2011

MET Pegasus Clock

This is a clock on display at the Metropolitan Museum of Art.

I've seen this piece before, and have another photograph of it somewhere, but it was only with this shot that I realized that the piece is meant to be seen from this angle. Or maybe I should say this the the side of the clock that is the art and imagination side. The other (top) side has the dials and markings that allow you to tell the time and (probably) the seasons.

I like this because it's a clock, and astrolabe all rolled up into one.  I like it because it's (mostly) silver.  And I like it because Pegasus - unlike the Sisyphusian Atlases holding up other globe clocks - looks like flying with the heavens on his back isn't any trouble at all.

Tuesday, July 05, 2011

Ride In Style

Look! It's me at Playland (last week) on a Really Old Carousel -- er, I think
it's from 1910. Playland factoid: Tom Hanks in "Big" uses a fortune
telling machine in Playland to turn himself back into a child.