Crazy Stable

The only thing electrifying around here today was the lightning, which crackled so violently that we all screamed and dived under the covers.  Otherwise, I was corrupted by the influence of this creature:

variously known as Tube Steak, Fat Sack, Sporran Man, and Road Kill for his energetic lifestyle and resulting potbelly. Here he is in one of his 10-hour comas.  The Child will kill me if I do not remind you that his proper name is CocoBop Velvetpaws.  Hey, it's Friday...we're here, we're catblogging, get used to it!

In fairness, I should point out that during one of his Nibs' conscious intervals today,  he was found vigilantly gazing up into the eaves of the laundry room through the hole in the ceiling, where the rain drips down; somewhere in the cavity wall above, we distinctly heard the rhythmic harsh squalling of a squirrel in distress or pique. (It sounds kind of like Lucille Ball's petulant "Waaaaahhhh" cry, only very high-pitched, metallic, and repetitive.)  Bits of debris had also been dislodged from the cavity (by rainwater, or by tree-rat activity?)  I'm not surprised; upstairs, in the walls of the "Plant Room," I've heard scufflings of late.

Gotta get that roof fixed...the thought of CocoBop entering the Matrix and chasing Bagel through the walls of the house is worse than the rain coming through. 

Hold your breath. After almost 20 years, we're getting the broken stained-glass front door lights repaired.

A fellow named Peter and his assistant Frank came on the hottest day of the year to prize the poor busted panels out of their frames, first by taping them up tightly for their plastic and reconstructive surgery.  

They got them out in one piece!

For a brief while, our poor openings stood empty.
 

Here are the windows laid out on the porch. On the gurney on the way to the OR, as it were.

Then the poor "eye sockets" got the plywood treatment.

Yes, it's the look that says "Bad-Assed Warning from the National Weather Service." I insisted we paint them white outside to look less freakishly abandoned. A little better, I guess:

So this is how we'll look until the fellows at Albert Stained Glass get through releading both panels, making a template, and replicating the missing sections. We went over there today to see the panels laid out on the operating table, surrounded by dazzling sheets of every imaginable color and texture of stained glass...with a genuine Tiffany three-part scenic panel hanging a few yards away in the front window. I think they are in good hands, and that this will have been worth waiting for. If they can finish the job by Labor Day weekend and the housewarming party, then Joy Will Know No Bounds!

Oh, and inside the foyer, I wrote this on one of the plywood panels:

 It says "RESURGAM" ("I will rise again" in Latin).  It's a little tribute to an old friend of mine, now long deceased, who gave me a tour of the harbor area in Plymouth, England. He had served as an air-raid warden in WWII, when Plymouth was fiercely bombed. As we passed Plymouth Cathedral (all in one beautiful piece by the early 1980s), he described how, the morning after the Nazis blitzed it, a banner was erected across the smoking rubble with this word on it.  Great story and great spirit, Oswald James Cope, Sr...here's thinking of you!

We've all heard the snarky "three important things in real estate...location, location, and--" POW! [Sound of real estate agent getting socked in the jaw while reciting this to poor potential home buyer]  Yeah, whatever.  But seriously, folks [dusting off fist while agent moans on ground],  the location of the CrazyStable--like so many other things about it (its size, condition, etc.) has been an ongoing invitation to Look on the Bright Side of Life...or look into the abyss of woe.

Sometimes it's the abyss of woe--truck traffic, soccer-player post-game madness, and (until the blessed resurfacing of the Parade Grounds) an endless succession of dust devils from the playing fields. We're in a very exposed locale, and sometimes I envy those whose houses are tucked into peaceful cul-de-sacs.

But sometimes, it's the bright side--like when a storm blows in across Prospect Park and we can smell the wet earth scent on the wind...or when I'm feeling blue and isolated, and am cheered by the sight, visible from our upper windows, of the ever-present soccer players  floating up and down the field in a joyous improv ballet. This weekend, it was the Bright Side, big-time. Shown below, in a satellite shot from outer space, are the Happy Rays emanating from the Child's and my first joint bicycle ride through Prospect Park, which, since it is virtually across the street, will be seeing a lot of us this summer. 

Bike-shopping excursion diversion: Got my bike at the estimable Mr. C's Cycles, where the nice man was very patient with a nervous lady pushing 50 who hadn't ridden a bike in nearly 20 years. Shopping for one made me feel like Rip Van Winkle; last time I rode, 12 was a lot of gears, and I'd never heard of a "mountain bike" versus a "road bike."  As I waited for the nice man to get me a "hybrid" ready for a test drive (that's a bike sort of halfway between Lance Armstrongy 'road' and X-sporty-dude "mountain"), I flipped through some of the catalogs.  Time was when a fancy bicycle accessory was a bell or some streamers. But here were mostly slick ads for fancy bike parts...nothing but parts, which wonks (many of them apparently legendary athletes with sponsorships from scary power-drink companies) choose with obsessional care and then assemble into hot, flamin' Frankenbikes.  My personal favorite? An outfit that promised "one bitchin' fork." (To go, presumably, with bitchin' derailleurs, a bitchin' suspension, bitchin' brakes, and perhaps a bitchin' water bottle.) The nice man did not make me choose a fork, bitchin' or otherwise, but rather matched my middle-aged and penurious self up with a fine and nimble $300 park-circling Trek,  an impressive-looking chain lock, and a Bell helmet that doesn't make me look too dorky. (I hope.) And the good news is: The cliche is true...you really never forget how to ride a bicycle.

So our "parkside location" has a whole new dimension, as the park beckons to Child and me on wheels. (Spouse is not a cyclist, sadly, but cheers us on.)   And the bikes--including that of Nice Tenant--are now stabled in the formerly underused and sad "Tool Room," giving it a new raison d'etre.  Yesterday we made it around the 4-mile park drive with the real  cyclist types--the ones wearing zippy Spandex jerseys, and undoubtedly bestride bitchin' forks.  Wheee!

or...why a Saturday Allocated to Paint-Stripping Turned into Lizard-Spotting, Brunch, and a Nap.

Bright and early, the Child and I met Spouse at the American Museum of Natural History, where Channel 4's weather reporter gamely shot a live remote stand-up at the opening of the museum's new exhibit, "Lizards and Snakes: Alive!"

 The squamates in question delighted us, particularly this guy, the Green Tree Monitor, who exuberantly danced around like the Geico Gecko on crack when the kids came up to the window of his vivarium. This is one party lizardo; I refuse to believe he is a relative of the repulsive Komodo dragon.  (Hey, we all have relatives we'd like to disavow.) The actual geckos mostly stuck to the walls of their tanks, but were incredibly cute, and one (which I named Frodo, for his spunk) snarfed down a live cricket as we watched. 

Which reminded us that we were really really hungry, having arisen at an ungodly hour for these frolics. So,  I bedecked with a new $3.50 lizard necklace and the child toting a finely wrought plastic Rough Green Snake, we headed over to Good Enough to Eat, the brunch spot beloved of bloggerpal Terry Teachout, for waffles, eggs, Biscuits with Sausage Gravy (my passion) and other goodies; we were too full to try their exquisitely homey-looking baked goods or, dear Lord, homemade coconut ice cream.  (Next time, next time.) After this Upper West Side diversion, and the requisite trip to the Grand Army Plaza greenmarket (where the peaches were in but we were too late for any but the bin-bottom squishers), we crawled back to the CrazyStable and slept like engorged Burmese pythons.

Upon waking, I learn that a neighbor, the energetic and accomplished president of our block association, is up to her ears in exciting exterior roofing and siding renovation; then, checking in online with the tireless housebloggers at the Devil Queen, I read about their staggeringly labor-intensive rehab of their interior beadboard walls (involving cases of caulk--I didn't know caulk came by the case).

Hey, we saw geckos and ate waffles. Tomorrow is another day!  (A day on which I plan to try out my cool new bicycle...and then strip paint, lots of it...)

Photo credit: (c) AMNH, Denis Finnin