Help yourself

On Saturday, I passed a box on the street corner near my house.  It was just an ordinary cardboard box, about the size of two milk crates, but, attached to it were a handwritten sign saying "free" and a shiny mylar helium balloon, so that no one would miss it. 

It is very common in the city for people to take random items that they no longer want, stick "FREE" on them and leave them on the street.  Most often, you will see abandoned furniture, which is sometimes truly great if you happen upon it before it has been vandalized, rained on, or peed on. Cardboard boxes are not quite as ubiquitous, but they do pop up.  In boxes, you will usually find old books, toys, clothes, weird outdated electronics and/or videotapes. We are all at a bit of a loss about what to do with our old videotapes.

There was nothing visible in the box from a distance, so I assumed most of its treasures had been claimed. As I passed, I peered in.  At the bottom of the otherwise empty box, there were three chocolate chip cookies.

I have questions. 

1. Would anyone eat a cookie claimed from an abandoned box sitting on the street corner in a major urban area?

2. Are there towns in America where unmanned free cookies would be cheerfully consumed without fear of death? 
     A.  If so, would they be left in a cardboard box or, more likely, a basket

3. Was this particular large box at one point filled with cookies? Suggesting
    A.  A significant baking project
    B.  That some 40 dozen cookies had already been claimed by
          brave or hapless cookie-loving citizens    

4.  Had there never been any more than three cookies in the box?  Suggesting
    A. A sort of miserly act of generosity
    B. Some kind of trap, or mean trick, akin to the famous
        dollar bill on a string
    C. That the baker simply had no smaller boxes

Clearly, there is no need to go on costly vacations to marvel at the wonders of the world.  Are the ancient pyramids any more mysterious than this?  I think not.  Heavier, yes. Bigger, certainly.  More confounding?  Not really. 

Welcome!

You found me!  I knew you would. I'm very excited to welcome you to my new virtual home.  I'd invite you to my actual home, but I really need to vacuum. Seriously.  It's kind of gross and I'm afraid you'd have an allergy attack.  Besides, the Upstairs Baby is a blossoming percussionist and you will want to murder him and then you will feel bad about yourself because, after all, he's just a baby.  Or that could just be me.  Just to be on the safe side, though, you're better off here.

I started this writing experiment back in 2004. For years, I didn't tell anyone my blog even existed and sometimes (e.g., 2010) it pretty much didn't.

Then some things happened: 

1. In 2008, I told my first story at Porchight.
2. In 2010, Evan Karp posted a video of me performing and, despite my weird 20th Century technological wariness, I became internet-searchable.
3. In 2011, I met the Blog Bully and he told me that if I was going to bother having a blog I should probably actually write things and post them there. 
4. Somewhere along the line, storytelling shifted from a thing I did a couple of times to A Thing I Do. There is video evidence. I wanted to put it one place.
   
5. It was time to stop skulking about. 
   

None of this means that I will stop blathering on about unimportant things around here.

But it's so pretty!  And it has a real address!  You probably won't even notice the shoddy content.

Thanks for coming.

Not forsaken

Friends, I am in triage preparation/panic mode for this weekend's two shows. 

Hey!  Here's one now (there is a misprint in my name, but it's my own fault for not noticing in time. Let's politely ignore it). 

It's all very well to try to distract us with snazzy videos, but a minute ago were you saying that you're just now preparing?  And the first show is on Friday?  Yes. That is what I'm saying. I am a terrible procrastinator. Wanna make something of it? What with all the hand-wringing and self-doubt that I need to attend to, there may not be a lot of cereal for dinner this week except for that which ends up in my own personal belly. It is not because I don't love you. It is more because I don't want to humiliate myself in front of scores of people.  Selfish? Perhaps.

As an act of good faith, here's a little snapshot to tide you over:

This morning, a man stood on the grassy, be-palmed median of Dolores Street holding something delicately between his thumb and index finger. He regarded it intently and blew on it repeatedly.  I was charmed thinking that he was making a wish on a downy little dandelion. Only when I drew nearer did I perceive that he was trying to salvage a cigarette butt he had found on the ground.

It's not quite Amelie around here, but we do what we can.

Most beloved character in fiction

On my way to work this morning, I heard an extended debate on the radio about the tainted Foster Farms chicken in California and what should be done.

This probably wasn't the main objective of the program, but my big takeaway was that someone must immediately write a book featuring a jaunty protagonist called Salmonella Heidelberg. If not, it will be a tragic waste.

Somebody get Lemony Snicket on the horn.