blowing cool

They came from Tennessee and Villanova and 98 Riverside to honor jazzman/chef/writer/webmeister Frank Kendig and his little family. And a happy and sad time was had by all.
For more of my somewhat marginal pictures of the event, look at flickr here.

forever blowing off bubbles

As I pack to leave the island and my houses to a series of strangers, I contemplate Bubbles, the Dissatisfied Tenant.
Bubbles has been described as "97 pounds soaking wet, from Florida, drives a convertible." She rented a house with air conditioning! She is not the classic Block Islander, needless to say.
She doesn't like spiderwebs. Outside.
The real estate agent tried to tell her to suck it up. Then, she said, she "groveled." When all had failed, she gave Bubbles her money back and moved her to a different house. Perhaps the only place on the island without spiderwebs? No bushes, maybe?
Bubbles worries me. She hasn't rented from me——yet. But I've become neurotic about insects.

the family that ate the world

So A left, bearing the two car seats and cutie kids to go with, in a minivan. OK, it was rented, but. The ziplock bags of snax for the plane, the wife going to visit MORE in-laws--everything, really, but the pets.
The last time I saw A in that house, I was the one with the snack bags and car seats, the in-laws and ferry schedules. Now he's doing it, and I'm sleeping in the room he used as a teenager.
Wierd. Vewy vewy wierd.
And J, they can't wait to see you.

here, piggy, piggy

Here is Ed's docu about fatcat congressmen and their million-dollar earmarks.

qantas flight

According to our correspondant in Sydney, those Furbies are dangerous critters.

catch of the day

To be a kid on Block Island with lots of cousins and other indeterminate relatives around is a good thing. Cookouts float from house to house, babies try a few steps and painted turtles swim in the pond, easy to catch and let go again.

family life

It's very funny to hear Ace call Simon "Bro."

the latest

one down

And one to go. Rental units, that is, not memorial services, although that is true as well. As I write this, I can see the ferry that is bringing the first group of guests for the summer. After that it's nonstop.
Now begins maintenance rather than prep. The new washer and dryer are so newly installed that I haven't checked the dryer yet. I have to buy a new lawn mower. Benny's here I come. Then it's just mowing, doing laundry, making beds, killing ants, spraying poison ivy, cleaning grills, stocking toilet paper, putting out soaps, administering new garbage bags, replacing breakages, writing notes, cutting flowers and repositioning furniture.
In that house. In the other one it's painting furniture and windows and railings, urethaning floors and etc before the deluge.
And then, repeat as above.

what awaits

and I'm off

reprise

There have been many unreported festivities in the past week. In Block Island, we had the mother-son Island Tour and the Poindexter Gin-and-Tonic Event On the Lawn. In New York there is The Parisienne in America, the college girl from Oakland, and of course The Artist Known as Chang, who needs some photo captions written (and probably another bio). Back to the Island tomorrow.

les paul on guitar

And it was his son's birthday yesterday—his son Russ is now either 59 or 69, I didn't hear well—so you know old Les is getting on. He's 93, and still playing a weekly gig.

mia

Sorry, but was readying Hannah's Honeymoon Hideaway for guests and hastening down the wind with Deb, stopping to buy a truckload of booze for Frank's memorial (not that he was fond of booze, but many of his friends are) and gas for less than $4.79 en route to NYC and Philip Jones Griffiths' memorial.
Alas.

how it got white

white trash porch

I always rather fancied a front porch with a washing machine on it. I did not, however, fancy a front porch with a brand new dryer on it that I cannot install because it is the wrong one.
Sending things back from an island is always rather a problem. I would suck it up, except that I can't install it—it's an electric dryer with a 220 line rather than a propane dryer that uses 110. And $1200 later—more than the dryer itself—the plumber, bummer, is back on the mainland, while the dryer, alas, is not.
At least the dryer matches the new paint job.

we did go to the beach

too hot

. . .to write or think or take any pictures. I think I'll go to the dump instead. Or the beach.

hedgies gone wild

Childhood best friends Whitney, Barrett, Jules, Trevor and Payton (sp?) exhibited the high spirited blue blooded behavior that enabled us to be kicked out of three bars in two hours. Only some fast talking by Hannah, who knew the bouncers, and a quick exit saved us from the clink.

fleur de nuit

After he made giant murals of the blooms of the night gardens of Key West, I warned Chris G. that he'd better look out or he'd become the go-to guy for flowers. As you can see, he did not take this advice. Never have perishing tulips looked so alive. For more of Chris's work, check out his portfolio.

summer is coming

But it ain't here yet. The boats are frequent but unfilled, the restaurants open on weekends to train their new staff, the checkers idly gossip in Russian at the grocery store. All is expectant, awaiting the summer people, hoping that recession will stay on the mainland and bypass the little island in the sea.

For some good news, other than J's Champagne breakfast, check out Ray Kurzweill's predictions at the recent World Science Festival: competitive solar in five years, all clean energy in twenty, magic diet pills, etc. in this New York Times article.

my favorite excursion

A short road trip from our favorite Block Island videographer, Oceanluna.

in the dawn room

christened in fire

Don't tell the mason--though he did say that if I kept it very small--but I picked a gray, rainy day and lit a few sticks on fire. In both fireplaces. They work!

farewell and hail

They came, they cycled, they played ball, they went out to eat, they walked, they split--leaving everything perfect. Thank you Michael, Eric, Kyle, Hannalaura (sp?).
There was the small matter of the forgotten dog biscuits. I gave them to Frieda. I think she will love them.