Mini Me Mod
Location Denver, CO
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Sprocket's Training Milestones
Came home (Aug 2, 2014)
Asked to go outside (Aug 5, 2014)
Slept 4 hours straight (night) (Aug 5-6, 2014)
7/3/13 - 8
7/4/13 - 30
7/5/13 - 36
7/10/13 - 54
7/11/13 - 57
7/18/13 - 67
2/17/14 - 83
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- Dream of the Red Chamber
- Time to Kill
- Scent of the Missing
I Love My Freaking Meetup!
Friday. 7.26.13 10:23 am
So, I was looking at the photos for my meetup, today... and if you don't mind me bragging insanely of my buddies for a minute, I LOVE MY FREAKING MEETUP! I swear, we have had more real FUN crammed into the past eight months than I could imagine. Good friends, good times, I'm liking my life.
Things people have said I should be:
Friday. 7.26.13 12:14 am
These are the things that people have said I should be when I grow up:
1.) A Teacher/christian education
2.) A Nun
3.) A bartender
...Which of these is not like the other one?
Tuesday. 7.23.13 10:52 pm
Anthony Alexander Hupert was looking at the dew. His face was pressed up against the grass as he gazed at the iridescent droplets. One grew heavy, breaking free of the hydroelectric bonds that kept it grasping that single spot and slid, precipitously, down the blade until it pooled at the based of the sheaf of grass. A. A. Hupert’s face was getting quite wet and the front of his shirt was getting a bit soaked. He noticed this, vaguely, but, with full awareness of the discomfort, let his back relax and let his stomach get wet. After all, it was all about choices, wasn’t it? That, at least, is what his mother always told him.
There were good choices and bad choices and you had to live with the consequences. Anthony was pretty sure that this was a good choice, but that a damp shirt was the consequence of enjoying the morning dew. It was as if the ground was dusted by fairies. Every Anthony could see, the little drops of water glistened brightly in the morning sun. They winked and twinkled as they shifted back and forth on the awakening grass. The grass was not all that was awake. The was a series of different pitches of buzzing from flies, gnats, and other insects as they buzzed about the dew, landing on blades and drinking the sweet water.
Anthony was startled by a wet and noisy ear. He looked up and saw Ephestagorious leaning over him. Ephestagorious or “Ephy” was a clumber spaniel, and as the name suggests, Ephy was a large low, lumbering creature, with white fur and one brown spot on her back. She had two brown ears and little brown freckles here and there, but only one big brown spot. It was placed just left of center on her shoulder, where she best liked to be scratched.
Now that Anthony’s face had presented itself to her, Ephy took about the solitary task of thoroughly wetting his face, which Anthony did not like very much at all.
“Eleck! Ephestagorious, what are you doing?” Anthony asked. Anthony truly had not justification for saddling the clumber spaniel with such a long name. In fact, the name meant little if nothing at all. However, since Anthony was an attendee of a top grammar school and his school teachers had slowly impressed upon him the idea that long words were far superior to shorter ones, Anthony Alexander Hupert decided that his dog would be superior at least to the dogs of all the other children in the class who had dogs named things like Max, Skip and (horrifically) Dog. A. A. Hupert could have tried to be funny with his name, like the little boy Mankins who named his dog “Cat” or cruel like Horatio Dawkins who name is dog “Shitface”, but Double-A Hupert was simply not that kind of boy. He was, as he resentfully called himself, a very nice boy.
Anthony never much liked being a “nice boy”. There was, of course, the issue of girls. Girls, of course, did not like any of the boys, but at least Horatio Dawkins got their attention when he pulled their pigtails or tugged at their skirts. In fact, Horatio got all kinds of attention from the teacher and the other children for being cruel. Double-A was not too fond of that. It seemed all manners of wrong that he should work so diligently to be quiet and well-behaved like everyone told him, and Horatio continued to be treated like a rock star.
It was this flicker of envy which first gave birth to the ‘Intrestification of Anthony Alexander Hupert”. Double-A was well aware that ‘intrestification’ was not a word. He even knew that someone like Horatio Dawkins would mock him for inventing a word like ‘intrestification’, but he did not care. Double-A’s game of interestification was not limited to any short-term goal. He had no ambition to be copy of the elementary school bully. Double-A Hupert intended to be something that no one had ever seen before.
Double-A walked up the steep hill that lead to his mother’s and father’s house. They lived in a nice house, a large house for that area of the country. From where he was standing, he could see the rising stone wall as it faced the backyard. Father’s container garden was stationed in the yard, thoroughly wet with the same morning dew. These dark green plants had sent out long arms of leaves, that trailed forlornly on the cement patio. A glass door provided and entrance into the humble Hupert mansion. It was a sliding glass door with a little wooden knob, that Double A would like to have said was oak. He pulled back the door and looked down at the gully between the cement patio and the white speckled tile floor just inside. There was wet leaves caught in it: brown ones, green ones, red ones. He picked them up and stared at them, watching the light change on them as he brought them closer to his face. He looked at the negative spaces and tried to make out the shape of the doorframe in the tiny mirrors of water, slimed across the surface of the leaves.
“For heavens sake, Anthony Alexander Hupert,” his mother said, “What are you doing letting all the flies in.”
She put her hand on his back to shove him inside, but stopped and peeled back his fingers.
“Dirty leaves?” she said, “Heavens, you get into everything, don’t you.”
She shook out his hand and finished pushing him inside, the click of the sliding door putting a barricade between him and the discarded leaves, left scattered prettily on the cement ground.
“And what have you done to your shirt!” she said, “Have you been lying down in the grass again? What am I going to do with you. Don’t put your dirty hands on my glass windows!”
“I am seeing,” Anthony Alexander said mysteriously, pressing his hand up against the glass anyway. He pulled it away, revealing a tiny handprint just beneath his hand. He could see the flecks of dirt as they stuck to the glass along with the smeared silt.
“Anthony,” his mother said, “Did you do that on purpose?”
“Do what on purpose?” Anthony asked, perplexed.
“Did you press your hand up against that glass, right after I told you not to,” his mother asked him.
His mother grumbled in utter annoyance and stormed out of the room.
“Its just glass,” Anthony said, “I’ll wash it.”
“Well, at least he is a creative child,” his mother said.
“What use is a creative child,” his father said resentfully, “It seems the only use of being creative is wandering around and not knowing what one is doing with one’s life.”
“Oh honey,” his mother replied.
“It’s a curse,” his father said, “And I don’t want any child of mine to be saddled with it.”
He got up and stormed out of the room. Double-A went over to the kitchen table. It was that same oak-like color that Anthony had observed on the door. The bright yellow light was coming in from the window, painting the tile and plants with edged shadows. Anthony traced a finger along the edge of the shadow.
“Anthony, wash your hands before smearing them all over the table,” his mother said.
Anthony dropped off of the kitchen chair and looked at the table.
“Why are dad’s papers yellow,” Anthony said.
His mother looked over, “Oh, that’s highlighter, honey.”
Anthony went over to the kitchen sink and started to wash his hands, “What is a highlighter?”
“It- Why do you have so many questions?” his mother asked, “I’m late, honey. Do you have everything you need?”
He felt her lips flatten the hair on his head.
“Uh-hunh,” he said.
“Alright, bye-bye, honey,” she said and almost as if she did not have to cross the white carpeted living room to the door at the other end of the house, the door clattered behind her.
“Oh, I need-“ Anthony began, but he could not think of what he needed.
Anthony shook his hands out and looked around for a towel. He opened the cupboard beneath the sink. It smelled like powdered bleach. There were no towels. He turned around and bumped into Ephy. Ephestagorious was growling. The towel was on the handle for the oven. Thus acquainted with the whereabouts of the towel, Double-A was permitted to turn his head and watch Ephestagorious as he reached out to grab the towel. Her shoulders were scrunched, her eyebrows flat, her tail motionless and of course she was growling, a deep rumbling growl from the depth of her throat.
“Ephy,” Anthony said, “Don’t growl like that.”
He said this, not because he believed that Ephy should stop growling, but because his mother always said that, and it felt wrong if it were not said at all.
“Ephy,” Anthony said, but he dropped his sentence. He had finished drying his hands without watching them and so he drifted now, closer and closer, to the cupboard beneath the sink. The doors flew open.
Something green and blue flew at his face. He swatted it. His hand connected with something chilly and fleshy and propelled it across the kitchen. It flew out, above the glass top stove and pounded into the skillet hanging there, ringing it like a gong.
“Oh my,” said Double-A. Ephy barked or continued barking, it was hard to tell. The little green creature got up on its feet and started to fun as fast as it could toward the sink. Double-A reached out and grabbed at it. He was shocked to find the cold body grasped in his hand, but he did not let go. He marveled at it, watching the little face gnash its teeth and the little hands pound against his fist yelling:
“Let me go! Let me go you upworlding scum!” or something stronger, Anthony could not quite say what. He was sure about the bit about ‘upworlding’, though, as the creature would use it many times in their conversations later on.
“What are you doing in my kitchen,” Anthony asked. He did not ask unpleasantly, although it unpleasant as Ephy had not desistented in her incessant barking and attempts to eat the wriggling blue creature.
“Ephy,” Anthony said soberly, “Leave it.”
Ephy did not seem to hear at first. She continued to jump and growl and even put her paws on Anthony’s arms in an attempt to get him to drop it, but in the end, she looked up at him, as it woken from a dream and stepped back from the wriggling creature.
“Let me go!” the creature howled, but Anthony did not let go.
“You’ll tear my eyes out if I do,” Anthony objected, “Besides, what’s keeping you from running back under the sink and causing trouble for my dog, again.”
“Your dog!” the creature wailed, “Your awful slobbering dog! We should have poisoned it when we had the chance!”
Up till this point, Anthony had not made up his mind about the little creature squirming in his hand, but at the mention of poisoning his dog, he certainly had. He did not like it one tiny bit.
He started to walk towards the door.
“What are you doing?” the creature howled, “I will pull your eyes out you upworlding piece of lion’s trough! I tell you I will! I’ll tear you to pieces and your dog, too!”
“I plan to smoosh you in the yard,” Anthony replied, “Ephy?”
Ephy trotted alongside him, growling each time the little creatures hands go too, close. Anthony opened the sliding door. The creature bit him.
“Ow!” Anthony screamed, “Why would you do a thing like that?”
The little imp (because that was all Anthony could suppose it was) tumbled out of his hand and was running before he even hit the floor. Ephy took off after him. Anthony started to run, screaming and yelling as he tried to keep ahead of his feet, feeling the thud of each step in his nose.
They came to the bottom of the hill and then the creature turned sharply, ran to the pond, and leapt into the water. The pond was a decorative pond. To Anthony’s knowledge, when his parents had put in the pond, the only thing alive in it were the lilies and the coy, but it seemed that something else inhabited it now. Ephy ran after the little blue green creature and barked wildly at it.
“Stop,” Anthony said, gasping for air. The little green creature peaked out from behind a sprig of manicured grasses and the leapt back into the pond, swimming away under the surface of the water like a frog, its legs shooting out behind him with each stroke.
Anthony gasp in a few more chilling breathes of air, “How odd, Ephy.”
Ephy whined and whimpered and then came back to Anthony to lick his hand.
“I don’t think we ought to go after it,” Anthony said aloud, “It will just get us into trouble.”
But, his mind offered, this would be a wonderful opportunity for interestification.
Anthony balked at this suggestion. He tried to argue the case for staying on this side of the pond by way of a rather circuitous analogy involving a giraffe, a kangaroo, and a safari in Africa, but as it turned out, Ephy decided it for him. With a clumbering lumbering leap, she leapt from the side of the pond and splashed into it.
“No, Ephy, no! Anthony said, taking off his shoes, and before he knew it, he was knee deep in water, pushing back the sheets of it, trying to find his recently departed dog. Anthony sighed, took a deep breath, and dove into the pond.
The pond had a bottom. Anthony remembered that clearly enough. He remembered walking along it before they had put the water into it. He had scrapped his knee while he was pretending to be a knight in shining armor. It was quite a feat at the time to scrap one’s knee while pretending to be a knight n shining armor as you were supposed to also pretend that you were riding on a horse, which would make that rather difficult, but Anthony had found out how to make it happen all the same. What Anthony certainly did not remember was the picture frame that was placed on the bottom of the pond that seemed to suck everything toward it like a whirlpool. He saw decorative koi fish, swimming desperately against the current, bumped into them and felt this cold scaly against his face. He felt grasses rake at his fingers and his clothes as he drifted deeper and deeper in the pond. He tried to grab the edge of the frame, his fingers clinging to it by the last of their three segments, until, tip by tip, he lost it, whirling deep, deep down into the darkness.
It should be said that Anthony found it in his capacity to breathe throughout this curious experience, although he did not exercise this capacity until he was well underwater, exploding with his last caught breath of air. He inhaled involuntarily, fearing he would begin to drown, but found that air was inside his lungs. It was not a particularly scientific experience to be sure. He neither felt particularly wet nor particularly dry, so it was not as if any pockets of air lingered around him. In fact, he felt completely encompassed by a different sort of chill entirely, so like water that it was all he could do not to call it that. He drifted, his eyes open, but not stinging with water, watching the sea breathe with life.
The first thing that caught his eye was an enormous whale. It turned, demonstrating the distinctive silhouette of a humpback whale before breached and drifting further into the sea. Shadowy shapes of the humpback’s family swam through dark greenish blue water what seemed like miles away. A little silver flock of fish flew within inches of his nose, tapping him with little fins that slapped against his cheeks and nose before skittering off into the distance. They glittered past the outline of an old pirate ship, long ago sunken beneath the waves. Anthony thought to yelled out for his dog, but he thought better of it, instantly, knowing full well that he could not speak here anymore that he knew how he was breathing. Through his nose, he supposed, but besides, he could not expect his dog to hear him under the water or in whatever substance this was. His skin grew colder.
He drifted aimlessly until his soggy socked feet brushed against the sandy bottom. He took off his socks and placed them in his equally drenched pocket, allowing the sand to squish through his toes. If all of these interesting thing did not rub off on him, he though, he was not sure what else would.
He felt a bit weary, buoyed as he was by a subtle tide. He stepped like an astronaut through the blue green seaweed, watching veins of light dancing electrically across the sea floor. He continued walking, one laborious buoyed step after the next until he noticed a dark wooden door standing in the middle of the vast ocean.
“I wonder if there is anything behind it?” he thought, but did not look. It appeared well enough as though it stood independently upon the sea floor, and Anthony Alexander was not going to question it. His heart began to flutter. Maybe he should investigate the door a little further. When he was shopping with his mother, his mother always told him that he had to pay attention, that if he got lost, he might like to remember a bit about where he had been. Anthony Alexander had never put his mother’s advice to much use, as it appeared to him that one clothing rack is just as much like another, especially when it comes to crawling under it, but he at least thought enough to look behind him as he grasped the door.
There was nothing. No, glittering fish or humpback whales, no sunken pirate ship, just vast and unremitted nothing that extended out only a few feet in front of him and yet out for miles and miles and miles. He let go of the doorknob. His heart leapt into his throat. He hovered there a moment before clutching the knob again, desperately.
He opened the door.
Anthony suddenly felt very wet and very cold as whatever it was that had surrounded him left him suddenly. He took in a deep soggy breath for what seemed like the first time and ages and found himself drenched from head to toe. Where he also found himself was in a long red hall with picture on either side. They were paintings, to be precise, paintings of all sizes and varieties, crammed together like so many items in a thrift shop or perhaps the walls of the Louvre. All he knew what that he was wet and very uncomfortable and that his nice shirt was sticking to his arms. He thought a moment how cross his mother would be to see him all wet in his best clothes. He wore a white button up shirt and brown corduroy pants, all which matched his little leather shoes which seemed a very long way away right about now. He took out his socks and examined them. They were wet, too. The two little socks hand pale yellow tips, yellower along the seam. He wrung them out on the carpet.
“Oh, don’t do that,” said a little girl running towards him. She was wearing a pale blue dress and had a great deal of yellow hair, tied back with a black bow, “You’ll ruin the hallway.”
“Who are you,” asked the boy, but it was ever so too late, because she disappeared as quickly as she had come.
“That’s odd,” said the boy.
He started to walk down the hallway. As he came up close to the pictures, he noticed that they would start to move. He did not think there was anything particularly odd about this, as this is what he always imagined they meant when they said that pictures were ‘moving’ and ‘ready to jump off the page’. There was a little girl playing in a little stream in one. Somewhere in the back, men were trying to pull a boat into the water. A little crab waddled into the frame, trying to catch at the stick that the girl poked at him with. In another picture, red-brown grass swayed in the wind. A little painted shepherd called out orders to a black and white collie that ran ahead of him. The collie made him very sad then, because it reminded him that he did not know where Ephy was.
“Ephy!” he called, “Ephestagorious!”
There was a ghostly yip and a pant, some ways down the hall. Anthony ran towards it, hoping he could catch up with his stout little dog, but as he rounded the corner, the saw the gallery continue on and on, as if he had barely moved at all.
“That is no way to find a dog,” he heard someone say. He turned towards the movement in the corner of his eye and found himself facing a jolly sort of man, with a black velvet cap and a goblet of wine, which he seemed always attempting to raise, “Dogs do not simply appear when we call them, do they?”
Anthony Alexander doubted this very much, but declined to say so.
“If I were looking for a dog,” the wine raiser said, “I would start by retracing my steps, wouldn’t you?”
“I would if I were looking for my watch or my homework,” Anthony Alexander replied, “But I am not so sure if it would do much good for dogs.”
“Of course it would work for dogs,” sighed the wine raiser, “I don’t know what ever you are going on about.”
“My dog is alive,” Anthony Alexander explained, “she can get up and move about. I am not so sure that she would stay where I left here even if I had left here anywhere, that is all I am saying.”
He looked at his toes sheepishly, waiting for the painting to speak again.
“I don’t mean any offense,” Anthony Alexander continued.
“None taken!” declared the wine raiser, “After all, it’s your dog. It’s up to you if you look for him the wrong way, isn’t it.”
“I don’t really believe that is how it is,” Anthony Alexander objected.
“But isn’t it?” the wine raiser replied, “It’s your life. You can mess it up all you want to if you like.”
Anthony sighed, “I’m sorry, but I have tried to retrace my steps and look.”
He turned around the way he had come and pointed to a white hallway, filled with white marble statues.
“Just because we don’t always find what we expect to find,” the wine raiser replied reasonably from his frame, “Does not mean that it is not what we are looking for.”
Anthony looked up to object, but found that the painting of the wine raiser was quite still now. It was rather difficult for a painting to walk away when it was finished speaking. He supposed that must be how paintings ended a conversation.
Tuesday. 7.23.13 10:51 am
North Korean Propoganda
Thursday. 7.18.13 2:13 pm
Well, I've been watching bits of this 10 part "American Propaganda" series. Honestly, I was only watching it because I hoped it would be funny. After all, the North Koreans don't actually seem to know where the U.S. cities they are threatening to invade are, so... but this one:
Well, I think we criticize ourselves for the same things. If you watch cable television, the Americans of the world seem rather vacuous. I have been trying to figure out a solid theory to build a dystopia on, but honestly, I think all the books have already been written. Whether it is "Uglies", "Hunger Games" or "Divergent", we all know what's wrong with society. What is so depressing is that feeling that a single person has very little capacity to effect the hearts and mind of 313.9 million people, much less a world of 7 billion. Whether its graphic design or library advocacy, its hard to not see the world as a giant play in which we put on masks, do a song and dance and hope to make the world better for it.
Then, I remembered something. I remembered that I am the one who cooks dinner for my family. I arranged the spice cabinet alphabetically and took out all the old and rotting food. It's a stupidly simple, much like my current occupation as 'dog sitter', but it provides a small and limited function in what truly consists of my world. I am not standing behind lecterns being ignored by people who would really rather be spending time with their families, I am part of a family. In that way, I probably mean a whole lot more to two or three people than many of the celebrities do to millions, and that is important to remember. You are as valuable as the most valuable people in your life and what you do to take care of those people.
I have asked God for years, what my purpose in life is. For the longest time, I felt Him telling me that I was not ready to know. Finally, some time ago, the answer resolved: to help people. I thought, "Isn't it everyone's job, 'to help people'", but of course it is, and that's why I did not want to hear it before. This minutia is really our most important tasks in life, but it is so ordinary that we take it for granted... and yet, there is no hope of commodifying, advertising and centralizing good relationships, we just have to accept them for what they are: blessedly present in our lives.
I guess what I am trying to say is:
“Friendship is always a sweet responsibility, never an opportunity.”
― Kahlil Gibran
Tapped with a cane
Wednesday. 7.17.13 11:18 am
My professor had a professor, a very old woman, who taught a 3-D design course. Everyone would build their project and set it up at the front of the room and the professor would go by and tap each project with a cane. If your project fell down, you would fail the course. I feel like I just tapped my research with a cane.
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