Comma Dot Comma

Okay, the singer of O Holy Night has revealed himself. It is a Nashville music producer and arranger, who recorded the song on a dare at the end of a long recording session in the 90’s. So, while he is not a singer per se, he knows music and deliberately tried to recreate the many errors he hears beginning singers make. At first he was non-plussed that it got out; now he sees it as a fulfillment of his calling to lift people’s spirits with his musical talent. More info available from fred mckinnon, the blogger and radio personality who broke the story. Includes audio interview with the singer.

UPDATE: Well, someone has added an alternate possible source in the comments section. So, I feel I must clarify that there is still room for doubt. The person on Fred’s site a) does not have any corroborating witnesses (such as the sound engineer who recorded it) b) has only circumstantial evidence and c) doesn’t offer the ultimate proof that I was hoping for: singing at least PART of the song during the interview. However, his speaking voice, the story of the song’s recording, the timing, his musical background, and his speculation on how the song got out all offer a good enough case that I’m quite happy to go with it. Like so many things in life, you pick the best option with the evidence you have, and revise later if necessary. That’s my story and I’m stickin to it!

It was a business lunch. We were discussing marketing and branding, and it turned out I had a lot of opinions. My fork was stuck conveniently in a pool of black beans, ready for me to take a bite once I finished talking. “We have to keep focused on students,” I said, gesturing to emphasize “students.” I gestured right onto the handle of my fork, which flung sticky, glistening black beans high into the air above the table. They showered down in singles and clumps onto my hair, face, and shoulders. “So that settles it!” I said after a moment of stunned silence.

Spent the weekend in Chicago for a wedding and mini-vacation. I’d only been there once before, when I missed a one-flight-a-day connection and had 24 hours to explore Chicago with impractical shoes and no coat or toothbrush. This time, the Windy City had done some kind of spa day/makeover/Tim Gunn thing in advance of my arrival. We had breezy shirt-sleeve weather all weekend, with the leaves going yellow and the buildings acting all glossy in the sun.

I saw a few people from college who have been MIA for eight or ten years, including the groom, who took the photos at our wedding back in the day. One of my key memories of him is,at his suggestion,picking pieces of hollow grass from the side of the road and smoking them in a reenactment of a childhood misconception. I mentioned this to him at the reception. One of his key memories is his walking into a sapling on the streets of Portland. I thought it might have been me who ran into the sapling. In any party of two or more, I’d vote myself most likely to smash into something.

Dr. G and I went on an architectural boat tour with another friend, with whom he use to have cutthroat Boggle battles. They seemed to be in a competition to run out the batteries in their digital cameras. Dr. G. won.

More college nostalgia at the Art Institute, where I saw up close and personal the actual paintings I used to tack up in my various dorm rooms and apartments as posters. My favorite was Old Guitarist. I like that guy. I used to hang it sideways so he looked less sad.

This week I’m back in my old DC haunts at a work conference. I went for a jog in Rock Creek Park the other morning, which I never actually did when I lived here. Wait, I did jog past the zoo once in awhile. I thought I’d be blogging OUT THE WAZOO but it turns out the internets don’t reach my hotel room so I just log on occasionally in the lobby. Yesterday I took two trains and a six-block walk to see a David Maisel photography exhibit in the National Academy of Sciences. they were having a meeting in the room where the exhibit was and would not let me in. I blame the Washington Post for luring me down there. C’mon– when I want to see mass environmental destruction, I want to see mass environmental destruction.

All the predictions were true. Our first weeks as homeowners have involved constant trips to the big box home improvement stores. The other night Dr. G pulled his favorite purchase from the Home Depot bag with a flourish: a black light. The bulb would only fit in a floor lamp, so we plugged the lamp into an extension cord and took it out back. Gary swept the house perimeter with the upside down lamp while I shadowed him, brandishing a 2″ x 4″. We were searching for scorpions, which conveniently flouresce under blacklight. We only found one, which I dispatched like the heartless scorpion killer I am. Just call me The Crusher.

Step One: Get two cell phones.
Step Two: Call one cell phone on the other cell phone.
Step Three: Answer.
Step Four: Hold both phones up to your ears.
Step Five: Try to sing, “Domo Arigato Mister Roboto” into the phones.

Oh, you’re confident now, but just you wait! That sound delay does a number on you!

Wow, that long weekend was wall to wall adventure. Starting Thursday evening, we had cleaning and painting and packing and more cleaning and painting followed by yet more cleaning. Coordinating two sets of contractors and two sets of delivery men. An efficient team of church folk and my coworker showed up to help move our ever-growing pile of… well, I want to say junk, yet if I truly considered it junk I would have gotten rid of it by now, wouldn’t I? People were glum about the many boxes of books and CDs. We may also be the only family in history to lug a giant box of rocks through three moves. It wouldn’t be so bad if it didn’t say “ROCKS” on the box. Afterward we were able to clear aside a wide enough living space to welcome some out-of-town friends for a few days, and we threw chores to the wind and had fun with them.

For me, the fun included registering a complaint at a fancy restaurant because the menu invited me to “TRUST” the chef and sommeliers. Inappropriate quotes! We also had a good time exploring the the junk/antique/sculpture shops in Cave Creek and came away with a nice 3-D wall hanging for above the fireplace, adroitly spotted by our always-in-good-taste friend Kat. I’ll post a picture of it sometime. We watched the sun set over yellow cliffs, got attacked by bees (well our friend John did), and experienced Big Lots for the first time. This store had reached legendary status in the minds of our British friends after another mutual American friend kept singing its praises. They were non-plussed. the sour gummy worms they got were not at all sour.

So here we are at Tuesday and only about 20% of the boxes are unpacked and I have no idea where my makeup might be,nor the dishwasher detergent, nor the bandaids.

Our landlord dropped by to give us our security deposit back and to give us a parting gift– a large matted and framed photo of the sunset view off of our old balcony. She took it herself and it’s beautiful.

Now is that the best landlord ever, or what?

The hot dog guy outside the building always has interesting stories. I haven’t heard many of them because I only eat hot dogs when a) I forget my lunch and have less than 2 dollars in my wallet or b) I am moody and choose to be self-destructive by eating only vending machine food and hot dogs. So that’s maybe three times a year. Anyway. Hot Dog Guy (his real name is Mike but anecdotes sound better with nicknames. Seinfeld has changed the world forever in that regard). Hot Dog Guy has a second job at a major international shipping company which shall remain nameless (it has three letters in its name, that’s the last hint and I mean it!). Today he told me about the excitement of the holiday shipping season, when employees order New York Style Pizza straight from New York when they work overtime.

The customers send even more exotic things, such as lobsters on dry ice. In the holiday rush/slowdown, sometimes the dry ice melts and Hot Dog Guy hears the reanimated lobsters scritching around in the box. Click, Scratch, Shuffle… I’ll save the one about the damp 32-box delivery to a high school biology classroom, in which one of the boxes breaks.

So, the sellers hired a general handyman with an apparent IQ of 65, or the work ethic of a grouchy llama, to make most of our requested repairs on the house. Some of his handywork:

Stuccoing over the hinges of a new door
Stuccoing a nearby treetrunk (or at least cleaning his tools off on it)
Causing a leak in a toilet that wasn’t there before
Putting one large dark tile in the middle of a sea of cream-colored tiles
Setting up the bathroom plumbing so that both the tub faucet and the showerhead run simultaneously. In both bathrooms.
One bathroom that used to work fine now has no hot/cold.
Filling holes in the siding with putty that has since dried and shrunk, instead of patching the holes.
Creating a new hole in the wall where he tried to install a new doorbell.

He has been let loose unsupervised in our future house for 45 days; who knows what other treats we will discover!

Thank goodness they used a real electrician and HVAC installer to take care of the really dangerous stuff.

Suspenseful question of the moment: Will We Close Tomorrow as Scheduled?

UPDATE*****

Superrealtor comes to the rescue! Our realtor, Becky Shaw, aka Ms Damage Control, got on the phone and sorted everything out in an hour. We are switching from the seller’s contractor to one selected by her, who guarantees his work. He will fax over an estimate and we’ll leave that that plus 1000 for unforseen issues in escrow. He will clear his schedule and work all day Thursday and Friday to re-do the bad stuff and finish the incomplete stuff. We will move in as scheduled on Saturday. Rock on.

I am happy to announce the arrival of Unsplendid 1.2, the online poetry journal I help edit. Check it out, and if you like what you read, spread the word.

If you want very short poems: Hailey Leithhauser or Christof Scheele
If you want poems about hair: “Hair Receiver” or “Nappy Head.”
If you want sonnets: “Parable of Farid,” “Poem,” or “Adieu Cruel Girl”
If you wonder what the president would sound like if he spoke in rhyme: “Poem Composed of Statements made by George W. Bush”

Also consider: what happens to the extra pins when you are sewing; Billie Holliday in her old age; insults in the gym; and so on. I think all of it is good, but then again I helped choose it.

There is also some cool textile artwork.