Monday, November 28, 2011

Man in green shirt with head colored outside the lines. (Ouch! That's gotta hurt.)

Sunday, November 27, 2011

Thanksgiving Weekend

Thanksgiving weekend—more people around the neighborhood, out on porches, laughter and hugs, Texas and Georgia plates, cousins blown away by the storm but back for a dose of home, bit of drinking, bit of music, bit of late night dancing on the stoop, vigorous handshakes, backslaps, and more laughter—I like it.

Saturday, November 26, 2011


Swan (photograph taken by June)

Tuesday, November 22, 2011

Causeway Bridge, seen from the middle of Lake Pontchartrain

Monday, November 21, 2011

Toy car

Sunday, November 20, 2011

Dolphin, Perdido Bay, Alabama. (There was a whole pod all around us, perhaps a dozen, including youngsters who flipped and flopped about, amusing themselves and us, while more serious-minded adults dove and dove and dove through an invisible but apparently delightful underwater fish buffet.)

Saturday, November 19, 2011

Pelicans at sunset, Perdido Bay, Alabama

Friday, November 18, 2011


Soldier Creek, Alabama

Thursday, November 17, 2011

Slimbo-Nada

Whoah! Dang, it happened again. Where the hell did this blog go? Who's responsible for this debacle? Oh, wait. That's me. My bad.

But I can justify myself. (Okay, lemme see... lemme see... yeah, that'll work.) Um, yeah, okay, this bloggy-machine isn't a high-falutin' publishing enterprise with uppity editors and underpaid writer drones. It is rather the organic outgrowth of the life of one particular individual (me), and that one particular individual (again, me), sometimes gets slurped into various other loops and detours and convolutions and enterprises of the aforementioned life, and this bloggy-machine gets sad and lonely and quiet. And then more dedicated and vocal readers fuss at me, and so I promise to get my bloggy-act set right, and then there's usually a few more loops and convolutions and detours, but I always make it back here sooner or later, and the bloggy-machine thrums back to life, and the organic outgrowth growths out again, and all is right and good in Slimbo-land.

Which is to say, you'll start seeing stuff here again. Bye, bye, Slimbo-Nada. Hello, Slimbolala.

Thursday, November 03, 2011

Halloween, a Sampling


Lulu, the flapper



June, the flamenco dancer (with a notable absence of front teeth)



Glow-stick art: Louise was drawing a spiral, June a cat. (That's the start of the head and one ear.)

Wednesday, November 02, 2011

"...Someone Ought to Warn Him Before I Knock Him Off His Chair..."

In programming, we're familiar with the concept of an infinite loop. Mess up your code, and it will actually happen: the logic will get stuck in some dumb cycle—wash, rinse, repeat, wash, rinse, repeat...

I have now encountered the same problem in my brain: There's a song by country singer David Allan Coe called "Longhaired Redneck", and it's very weird, and I'm very fond of it and have come to know all its words. ("...'Cause my long hair just can't cover up my red neck...") Trouble is, the actual song never musically resolves: it just goes in this chord progression that always leads right back into another round. ("...I've won ever fight I've ever fought...") On the record, they solve this by fading out. But my brain doesn't have a fade-out. ("...And I don't need some turkey tellin' me that I ain't country...") I have just enough internal pseudo-Tourrette's to have this song play ad infinitum in brain. ("...And sayin' that I ain't worth the damned old ticket that he bought...") It does sometimes shift to some far-back process space for much of the time, but then it comes forward again. ("...'Cause I can sing all them songs about Texas...") I often absent-mindedly sing bits of it outloud ("...And I still do all the sad ones that I know..."; ), causing puzzled looks from my co-workers and annoyed eye-rolls from my children.

There was that Star Trek movie where they battled the Borg and finally won by infecting it with some sort of "logic virus" ("...They tell me I look like Merle Hagard..."), an unresolvable conceptual conundrum. The Borg was destroyed. ("...And sound a lot like David Allan Coe...!")* Am I similarly doomed? Will I ever escape this spinning wheel of surly oddball outlaw country?** Help!

* The unresolvable musical structure is one part of the song's Tourrettic stickiness for me, but its weirdness is another. It brims with Coe's idiosyncratic crazy-cracker post-modernism (so say I), obsessed with issues of self-identity, self-mythologizing, his own historical context, and allusions to the history of country music. When he sings "them songs about texas", he slips into a nasal Bob Wills impersonation, then drops into a parody of country weeper whisper-speak for "all the sad ones I know". Then a bit of country legend name dropping (common to many of his songs), then hits a musical peak while referencing himself in the third-person. Nutty. Narcissistic. And stuck in my brain.

** Just between you and me, I'm not entirely sure I want to escape.