Marching on Harvard, dressed like a panda

It takes a certain kind of man to walk publicly in front of hundreds, probably thousands, from Tufts University to Harvard, dressed as a panda, fuzzy ears and all. Today, I discovered I am that kind of man. The occasion (as if one needs one!) was honkfest, a "revolutionary street spectacle of never-before-seen proportions" -- basically a good old fashioned protest parade with live marching bands mixed with floats. More of a good-natured dadaist freak-out than a "madder than hell" political protest, it was loud, colourful, cheerful, and loads of fun.

We were told to come "dressed like endangered pandas", which meant facepaint + black-and-white clothing approximating panda colourations + bandages indicating injury.

The group was called "Endangered Animals with Lipstick", and the float was a giant syringe marked "STICK IT TO ME BABY" riding on a hospital gurney, and the overall political message was something to do with health care, the environment, and Sarah Palin. For or against? Not sure, really. Whatever it was, we were mad as hell and weren't going to take it any more. At the end, Sam asked "Pat, did we win the protest?" "Yes!" I replied.

I was the designated flag-bearer, which meant that if I had any sense of self-consciousness whatsoever I was at the wrong place at the wrong time, as I was placed front-and-center. The size of the banner may have been some help in this regard, unless someone recognized my shoes. Here's me and Karl Marx:

(photo cc Chris Devers)

G and the boys followed up near the float. The crowds were thick along the full length of the march to Harvard Square, and there were many people with cameras; I am sure that a quick search on flickr will reveal many interesting artifacts.

In the end, lots of fun; the kids would have had a great time, if it they hadn't been frieked out by this guy, who was part of our group:

(picture cc kharied -- thanks!) See also some nice photos from a better photographer than I.

Remember when?

Remember when we went camping on the cape, went on a bike ride, and stopped for ice cream, and I was so excited because Orleans had saturated wireless service (before Google saturated the globe with satellites), and I was so excited to try out the then-newfangled netbook, and we had ice cream and cappuccino, and I posted something to the blog after snapping a picture.

That may have been one of the best days of my life ...

What lies beneath

Today I was digging a hole to plant a potted rhododendron in the back yard. The yard, it is said, was part of an old Victorian dump back in the day, and this would appear to be borne out by the amount of dated garbage I dig up every time I even scrape the surface.

This time, I hit what appeared to be an old plastic bag. Things got stranger when I saw that there was knitted material inside that plastic bag. Things got stranger yet when I poked the material with the shovel and found there was something hard inside that knitted material.

Now, I grew up in the pacific northwest at the time of Clifford Olsen and the Green River killer, and I've seen my share serial-killer TV shows, so -- while I knew the odds were against it -- I did immediately think that it was possible that this may be a foot in a sock, or an infant cranium. Meanwhile, Ben -- who was "helping" me dig the hole -- started whacking at the hard thing with a trowel, saying "Oh, a mitten! Look Patrick, a mitten!" I could feel the very beginnings of a panic onset.

I decided to do what any stiff-lipped, steely hombre would do; I went and got G., who just happens to have a passing professional interest in forensics, bodies, and The Gruesome in general. She looked at it, and said "oh", and after a minute of discussion I decided "we should see what it is". I also decided that she should be the one to check.

G carefully unwrapped the still-half buried fabric and -- sure enough -- it was a skull, probably of a small dog.

"Oh, good," said G. "It's not human" and walked away.

I filled in the hole, moved over a few feet, dug a new hole, and planted the bush there.

Rest in Peace, friend.

Chocolate and forsythia

Magic realism is hard to come by in the suburbs, but it can be found. On Monday, me & the lads took a bike ride to Borderlands state park (the park comes from an old estate -- the mansion & grounds are still there) and en route encountered the fabled Mansfield Chocolate factory.

 

Yes, it is an active chocolate factory ("Like Charlie and the Chocolate Factory?!" asked Sam).

 And -- so it is said -- you can always tell when it is about to rain, for the air in Mansfield smells like chocolate.

Here are some snaps of Borderlands in the spring:

 

... the last shot is of the estate swimming pool, build in the 1930s (now filled).

Gettin' dirty

Okay, there is apparently more to home ownership than clearing the driveway. We've begun to enjoy the pleasures of tilling our patch of earth which, by downtown Toronto standards, is huge (by suburban Massachusetts standards, about average).

While we did engage in some first attempts at gardening at York U and the Co-op (with some success),  the condo rental we've been living in subsequently had a strict "look, don't touch" policy when it came to landscaping. In all seriousness, to post a bird feeder required clearance by the board.

All that is behind us now, and we are free to kill whatever plants we want to. In scattershot fashion, we have planted hydrangeas, hostas, lilacs, forsythia, Rose of Sharon, pansies, a Japanese something-or-other bush, various woodland plants -- all before May 1. Seeing as how we don't really know what we're doing, most will undoubtedly die. But some will survive, and next year, we'll plant more of the survivors, and so on it goes.

Our crowning achievement thus far? Three veggie boxes, meticulously constructed by a certified engineer (thanks, Drew!) and overseen by Deanna (college archivist-come-taskmistress, who kept us going despite whines of "man, am I ever tuckered out" and "my hands hurt from hammering").

Thanks to you both! As someone who mostly sits with his head in the nebulous ether of computer-space, going out back and getting just filthy feels pretty darn good.

Campus life in the first world

As just overheard outside my office door:

Her: Oh, hey, how's it going?

Him: I'm okay. Tired. You?

Her: Yeah, alright. I'm doing some research on human trafficking.

Him: Oh, yeah? Wow.

Her: Yeah, it's really depressing.

Him: Yeah, I'll bet...

(pause)

Him: So, we should get together and party!

Her: Yeah, totally!

Bored on a snow day - the results? Art!

Last Monday was a snow day in which the boys and I were stuck at home for the day.

By lunchtime, we had emerged with our first feature film. Now I'm hoping the Oscars come out with a category for "Best picture based on the near-incoherent ramblings of a 5-year-old".

Zagat for the five-year-old male

Regular readers of this blog (both of you -- hi Mom!) may recall an early post on Norton fine dining, which featured a place called "Patty's". Patty's has since become a favourite with Sam, who regularly asks that we go to "the place with pancakes".

Out of curiosity, I asked him today why he loved Patty's so much. "Is it because of the pancakes?" I asked.

"No, not the pancakes", he replied.

"The breakfast sausages?"

"No."

"The eggs?"

"No."

"Well, why do you love Patty's so much, then?"

Sam sighed. "Because the bottle with the maple syrup is shaped like a rocket ship."

Home ownership so far: mostly digging

One thing that you can say about living in a condo unit: there is a lot less digging come winter. Where once we merely huffed about how long it was taking the bulldozer to clear up to our driveway, now we are responsible for clearing our driveway.

The driveway is stupidly wide -- allied tanks had less room as they liberated Paris -- and as a result, the shoveling job is somewhat onerous. And so far we've had 4 major snow-dumps. And, along with a shovel, I am the household snowblower. In that capacity, I have been doing plenty of blowing.

But no matter; it's really the only exercise I get for 5 months and I get to post a smug "I dug this" picture of myself on my blog:

Broke-my-back Mountain

  

Those piles are about 6 feet high. 

Does this give me macho-cred? Probably not.

 

Some gratuitous winter porn: 

just a reminder that winter really is lovely