Stare.
 
2003 Notebook: Weak XXXI
 
   
gratuitous image
30 July 2003
No. 6,418 (cartoon)
Why do you need such a huge truck?

I have a very small penis.

That makes sense.

31 July 2003
One Image of Mr. Rainier Is Enough
Barbara pointed that we’ve hiked over thirty kilometers around the west side of Mt. Rainier, but she hasn’t seen me use my camera yet.

I confirmed that she was correct. I can’t imagine making an image of Mt. Rainier. Why, several time a week I recycle an aluminum Rainier Ale can with a perfectly fine image of Mt. Rainier on it.

I’ve discarded thousands of pictures of Mt. Rainier; who needs more than one?

gratuitous image
1 August 2003
Marine Memorial
I stopped by the Marine Memorial off what’s left of the West Side Road in Mt. Rainier National Park. The monument features a large plaque detailing how a plane with thirty-two marines aboard crashed onto the Tahoma Glacier on 10 December 1946. And that’s where the military men remain today. If I remember correctly, the glacier will spit them and their plane out in a century or two.

(I’d like to have my body fall out of a glacier long after I die, but that sounds like too much work unless I happen to fall into the right crevasse.)

The strangest thing about the Marine Memorial is that the dead servicemen’s names are listed in order of rank. One lieutenant colonel, a major, two master sergeants, and twenty-eight privates. It seems a little sick that the military would retain hierarchies even after death, but I guess the armed services can sometimes be that way.

2 August 2003
Jessica, The Lake George Ranger
I met Antonio at Lake George this morning. Antonio lives in Genoa, Italy; he’s wildly infatuated with Jessica, The Lake George Ranger. The very first question Antonio asked was, “Do you know this Jessica, the ranger?”

“I saw her notes in the outhouse,” I replied, “but that’s all I know about her. I don’t think I’ve ever seen her.”

“I think it is very beautiful that she wrote about packing out the condoms instead of putting them in the hole,” Antonio swooned, “she must be va-va-voom in the love cocoon!”

Love cocoon?! Poor Jessica, how could she possibly anticipate that a deranged Italian could have interpreted her handwritten note (with hand-drawn flowers!) in the pit toilet as a love letter?

3 August 2003
One and a Half Billion Seconds Old
I’m still recovering from Saturday’s birthday party. Yesterday I was twenty-five million minutes old. That’s one and a half billion seconds.

My friends and I enjoyed a nice party, even though I could only recall a relatively small numbers of the minutes we were celebrating.

4 August 2003
Rainier Ail
When I returned to San Francisco today, I decided that icy cans of Rainier Ale would be the perfect way to end a Mt. Rainier hiking trip. After a few frosty pints, I noticed something was different, so I examined the can. That’s when I discovered the Rainier Ale chemists had tweaked the alcohol content up to seven and three-tenths percent! That’s the good news.

The bad news is that Rainier Ale is no longer concocted in the same state as Mt. Rainier; Rainier Ale is now fabricated in Irwindale, California. Apparently Pabst Breweries, a company based in San Antonio, Texas, bought the trademark.

Although I don’t know much about business, I’m pleasantly surprised that the Pabsters can increase the alcohol content and ship Rainier’s clear waters all the way to southern California without raising the price.

Rainier Ale is always amazing.

5 August 2003
Country and City Flies
I saw a couple of flies when I was on the roof of the lab this morning. The San Francisco insects just sat there, unlike their cousins at Mt. Rainier that attacked me constantly during daylight hours.

I don’t know much about etymology or entomology, but I suspect these flies are in San Francisco for the same reason I am. It’s easy to thrive in a rich city without working very much.

6 August 2003
Mat Fetish
Fran introduced me to her friend Kevin, then asked me to comment on his photographs. She ambushed me, so I couldn’t refuse.

Kevin showed me rather pedestrian images elegantly presented between sheets of four-fly cotton mat board.

“I can’t really think of much to say about the pictures,” I lied, “but I believe the preferred convention is that one signs the paper on which the photograph is printed, not the window mat on top of it.”

“I’ve heard that,” Kevin said. “Unfortunately, my work’s not very good because I’m just starting out. I figure I can reuse the mats later when I make better prints.”

“I see where you’re coming from now,” I replied. I didn’t add that he was coming from a long line of photo weenies with a mat fetish. I’m sure he can’t help himself.

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©2003 David Glenn Rinehart