Freret Halloween Block Party

The neighborhood center where I volunteer had our big Halloween block party/costume giveaway yesterday afternoon — a dang fine time. A few snaps of some of my youngsters:

Miss Takaiya as Cinderella, a vision in pink

Russell, wearing both a Rasta-with-faux-dreads hat and a Dr. Evil suit. I'm not really sure how those ideologies blend, but he made it work.

"DJ Paul" rocking the block

Rashad, who decided he wasn't going to mess with costumes anymore (other than his spooky skull and bones necklace). I sympathize; I've also decided that I'm too old for costumes. (The strictures of The Uniform don't permit such vagaries.) Well, actually I did wear a goofy orange hat and a fake mustache, but shhh, don't tell anyone.

From the Doodle-Ma-Tron: Old Rocker Dude

Well, he looks like an old rocker dude to me. Your mileage may vary.

Angel Trumpet

Though it's almost November, the Angel Trumpet continues to throng with flowers. It blooms in cycles, every few weeks, from early Spring to late Fall, budding, then bursting into full glory, then dropping its flowers and starting again. When in full bloom — appropriate to its name — the smell is heavenly.

Memorial

Sunday Morning, Central City: Second Mount Everest Baptist Church

Like I said, I like taking pictures of churches.

Sunday Morning, Central City: Church Gable with Cross

I don't go to church, but I like taking pictures of churches. And Sunday morning, as I cycle by, I like hearing, through the heavy wooden doors, the preacher's riling sermon or the congregation's voices joined in song.¹ And of course churches are a thematically appropriate subject for our Sunday morning series.² And we have a lot of them scattered through our neighborhoods, no great cathedrals, often humble little places, but evocative in their way.

1 Growing up, though not religious, I always found myself singing along with the hymns during my Episcopal school's Friday morning services. I love any kind of group singing. The unison of voices is, in and of itself, a fine and glorious thing.

2 And I suppose my little Sunday morning rides are my own sort of communion — with the quiet, with the magical light, with whatever it is that gives those hours their singular quality.

Sunday Morning, Central City: Purple Flower

One of my favorite times to bike-n-snap is early Sunday morning. And one of my favorite places to bike-n-snap is Central City, the neighborhood just down the way. It's super quiet — everyone still asleep (except for the devout early birds already in church) — empty except for the Golden Hour light sloping in and setting every little thing aglow. Like this flower.

Chirp, Chirp, Chirp, Chirp…

Wait, do you hear that?

Chirp, chirp, chirp, chirp...

Sounds like crickets.¹ Sounds like the sound this blog has been making this past week. Nuttin', bupkis, nada. Whoops! Let's fix that, shall we? (And by we, I mean me.) Onward and less-chirping-ward!

1 Wait, don't birds also "chirp"? Do birds really sound like crickets? I guess maybe. But not that much. This whole spelling-animal-noises business is kind of a mess. (Do cows really "moo"? Can their lips even make an "m" sound?)

Blue, Orange, Blue

Another from my wildly exciting Water Bottle and Mug series. And also fits nicely in with my Photos of Boring Stuff series. I've decided I don't have a problem with photos of boring stuff. Boring can be interesting. (So say I. Your mileage may vary.) Really, I've always been down with photos of boring stuff, but now I'm just fully 'fessing up. Up with boring!

Red, White, and Blue

Though his outfit is crisp, he looks a little dour. Whatsamatter, mister?

Illustration Friday: "Mirror"

My submission to Illustration Friday, the theme this week being "Mirror". (This is actually a recycled photo — shh! — from the old Joe the Skeleton series, but I liked it enough — and it was apt enough — and I was lazy enough — to decide that it was fair game.)

Orangutan With Mustache and Tophat

He must be a friend of the baboon.

Man in Green Shirt with Maroon Tie and Shades

Pair o' Pairs

Getting a family out the door in the morning can be hectic. This morning was particularly hectic — a lot of frantic rushing and scurrying. Upon returning home this evening, I discovered that, in the morning's rushing and scurrying, I had made a particularly spacey and ridiculous error and had somehow put on two pairs of underwear and had subsequently spent the entire day obliviously wearing both of them. Silly Slim...

Long-Haired Notiony Boy (Portrait of the Blogger as a Young Man)

Did I ever mention that in my late notiony adolescence I had hair down to the middle of my back and an inclination to wear oversized over-worn thrift store suits?¹ Just thought you should know.

1 I and my cohorts in notioniness considered ourselves "bohemians", not "hippies"; hence the suits; none of that tie-dyes and moccasins crap.

Slimbo-Lyricology: "Wish You Were Here"

So we've covered the honky tonk song.  Next up, my take on the old Appalachian suicide song. (Of course, the genre is really much older: songs that migrated from the British Isles to the American hills; reinvented themselves in this new enclave; got turned into bluegrass songs, commercial recordings, which got listened to a whole bunch by yours truly;¹ whose brain blenderized them and plunked out this song (which then gets rendered as bare-bones garage rock).)²

The day I was born I cried and I cried.
My momma held me near.
The night you left I cried like a baby.
Oh, how I wish you were here.

You're gone, gone, gone.
I'm all alone.
You never shed a tear.
There ain't nothing for me in
This old world.
Oh, how I wish you were here

The first time I lived was the day you loved me.
I lived every day you were near.
The first time I died was the night you left me.
Oh, how I wish you were here.

You're gone, gone, gone…

The next time I die is gonna be the last time.
Perhaps you'll shed one tear,
And remember the love I thought would last forever.
Oh, how I wish you were here.

You're gone, gone, gone…

One of the curious aspects of this particular lyric structure is that every other line has to end with a word that rhymes with "here". I didn't plan it that way, but it worked out fine.

1 I didn't just listen to the commercial bluegrass stuff. I was also obsessed for a while with Lomax-ian field recordings.

2 I've read grammar books that say various grumpy or complicated things about nested parentheticals. But I'm a programmer and we use these constructs all the live-long day. (Some programming languages use almost nothing but nested parentheticals.) I don't see the problem. Up with nested parentheticals! Down with grammar-grumpiness!

Red Pole and Chain Link Fence

Yeah, it's a boring photo. But I kind of dig it...