Blog stats

A friend has started blogging about her family's sabbatical in Germany, and recently she mentioned that her blog gets a lot of hits from readers in Russia. How does she know? Blog stats!

I've contemplated writing about blog stats for a while, but have avoided the topic because it feels a little like I'm spying on my readers--which, frankly, is what blog stats are all about. Since there are only five or so of you out there who read this site regularly (how do I know? Blog stats!), I figure it's about time you know that the internets are tracking your every surfing move. Yes, Big Brother is watching you. Whether Big Brother actually cares what you do online is another question, but you might want to keep Big Brother in mind when you surf for drugs, grenades, fertilizer, and other illicit items.

Sometimes I spy on you too, dear readers--whoever you are. I know your ISP addresses and the countries wherein you surf.

Thanks to blog stats, I also know what Google search terms bring up my blog. I am pleased to report that in the past week or so, my blog was

* the #10 hit for "geeky cat toys"
* the #7 hit for "bsgrinder"
* the #3 hit for "mobius strip joke"
* the #2 hit for "trumpet spit valve condensation" and "nominalization justice kennedy"
* and the #1 hit (yay me!!!!) for "how to build a klein bottle out of clay," "top ass playing cards," and (naturally) "might oughta should."

Apparently I write about varied and far-reaching topics. The fact that my posts come up in Google searches doesn't mean anyone actually reads them though. How do I know? Blog stats.

Of course it comes as no surprise that my blog shows up in image searches for things like "diatoms," "radiolaria," and "klein bottles," but I find it interesting that my photos are pulled into the lineup by less obvious search phrases, which recently have included:

* "ceramic chicken of illinois"
* "chisel pottery with void"
* "glass worm lumber defect"
* "sneak peep"
* "twinkly candle holder"
* "trammel of archimedes what was its purpose"
* and "virginia bullshit grinder."

I am only slightly disappointed that my most popular posts have been on Radiolarians and Diatomaceous earth (these posts presumably disappoint science-minded colon-scrubbing surfers looking for useful information), followed by Bifocals (ditto; incidentally, I gave up wearing my bifocals shortly after I bought them, since I could achieve the same effect by just smearing Vaseline on my regular glasses). Next in line are Men in Lederhosen (gotta love 'em!), Kissed by the kiln, Correspondences with the Tooth Fairy, Chickens for the Cure, 2011 (note that Brunhilde, Desdemona, and Roxanne are still looking for a new cause), The Two Towers: a recitation on females therein (this one got a lot of hits because my famous filmmaker activist sister posted it on her Facebook page. I remain quite proud of my poetic prowess; I'm also a fan of the far less popular post, Grammar at Bag-End), Wheel thrown and altered in obscene heat (no, no, it's not what you think--people get there by searching for "wheel thrown and altered," not "obscene heat"), and Cone 6 wood firing.

Of course, if you click on any of those links, Big Brother and I will know.

The new bedtime routine

I thought curiosity was going to kill the cat, but instead it looks like curiosity is just going to break a lot of my pottery. Suffice it to say that I have never before heard a crash like the one young Schroeder produced in the kitchen yesterday. Farewell, nearly perfect green cereal bowl; alas, we hardly knew thee.

Fortunately, the finger puppet dinosaur is a good distraction for all of us. If we can't keep Schroeder out of trouble, maybe at least we can tucker him out playing fetch. We suspect he might have been a dog in a former life, but the jury is out on whether he was a very very good dog or a very very naughty dog, and on whether coming back as a cat is a step up or a step down.

Introducing Schroeder

After sweet Miss Maggie B died on December 2, Homer Wells became very needy. He started following us everywhere: into the bathroom to brush our teeth, into the bedroom to get dressed, downstairs for breakfast, upstairs to find a jacket, back downstairs to look for keys, into the kitchen to unload the dishwasher, to the front door to zip up a backpack, to the computer to check email, and on and on. Thus, after an appropriate period of mourning, we decided to alleviate Homer's neediness, and we brought home Schroeder, a 10-month-old pound cat who spent most of his formative kitten-brain-development months in a cage. It turns out that when you release a cooped up adolescent cat with ear mites into a 1850-square-foot house, he does a lot of frenetic, wild-eyed bouncing off the walls, 24/7. Needless to say, Homer is no longer needy; "resigned" is more like it (to his mature and patient credit).

Schroeder was so bouncy--and bitey--that for awhile, I thought we'd chosen the wrong cat. Two events this week helped him finally calm down: a second round of ear-mite pesticide at the vet's, and the discovery, high up on that dresser he finally managed to bounce onto, of a green and yellow hand-knit mama-and-baby-dinosaur finger puppet. Schroeder has spent the last three days killing that finger puppet over and over again, and when it comes back to life, day or night, he's ready to do whatever it takes to kill it once more. Half an hour after we go to bed, he leaps from the floor, lands half an inch from the only two precious eyeballs I possess, and proudly dumps the finger puppet on my cheek. Over and over again. "You've made the right choice," says his heroic and self-assured posture, as he impatiently awaits our praise.

Miss Maggie B was a dutiful cat. For the nine and a half years she lived with us, she guarded Elias every night as he fell asleep, after which she'd come back downstairs, relax with a glass of red wine, and get back to the hard work of looking ravishingly beautiful and begging for canned food. It turns out Schroeder has taken on some household responsibilities as well. In addition to boldly killing finger puppets, he routinely knocks the cover off the shower drain, snakes a paw down as far as he can reach, and ruffles around a bit, until he retrieves all the hair and accumulated gunk we hadn't known we were missing. Thankfully, he doesn't leap into bed with it and drop it on my face. Homer, now that I think about it, hasn't ever had a regular job, unless you count training us to carry him into the bathroom when he needs to poop (at which he has been quite successful--but then, we're pretty motivated students). Perhaps the right of Top Cat, which Maggie was and Schroeder now is, is the consequence of a solid work ethic.

Chickens for the Cure seek new cause

The runs were fun, but Desdemona, Roxanne, and Brunhilde are sorely disappointed that Komen for the Cure has cut off grant funding to Planned Parenthood. They're clucking about finding a new cause where they can set up egg production. Suggestions?

A life well lived

I gave up figuring out how to embed audio files in blog posts, and instead just videotaped my telephone. This phone message is remarkable because (1) I've managed to save it for an entire year without accidentally deleting it, and (2) my parents phoned me on my actual birthday last year, as opposed to confidently calling me on the 29th (Frederick Delius's birthday, not mine, but you can understand how someone--even my own parents--could confuse me with Delius, right?).

After living with carcinoid cancer for 25 years, my father passed away three weeks ago, on January 9. Although I suspected it, I didn't realize a year ago that the phone message would be the last time he would sing "happy birthday" to me. I saved the message for remarkable reason #2 above, and also because he sounded so cute ~0:35-0:42. (My mom sounds pretty cute too.)

You think of parents as, you know, just your parents, without always realizing they're amazing people beyond your own corner of the universe. My dad was a math professor, politician, and artist. The summer after I graduated from high school, he taught me how to do triple integrals so I could successfully test out of third semester calculus at the University of Illinois. That was good bonding time, especially after all those tear-filled elementary and secondary school hours of help, with me just wanting to know how to do the problems and him wanting me to actually understand the math. You know how it is. When I thanked him last October for that long ago summer math help, he didn't have any recollection of it--probably because he had been so busy defending civil liberties, taking photographs, and dealing with cancer. In addition to math, my dad also taught me how to stand up for what's right, how to make amazing, crusty, dark pumpernickel bread, and how to write a darn good letter to the editor. I miss him.

http://www.news-gazette.com/news/people/2012-01-10/life-remembered-hiram-paley-was-leading-progressive-urbana.html

http://www.aclu-il.org/hiram-paley-a-life-well-lived/

http://www.news-gazette.com/opinions/editorials/2012-01-12/hiram-paley.html

http://www.news-gazette.com/obituaries/2012-01-11/hiram-paley.html

http://www.champaigncountycameraclub.org/HP-gallery.htm

http://www.ilga.gov/legislation/fulltext.asp?DocName=&SessionId=84&GA=97&DocTypeId=SR&DocNum=537&GAID=11&LegID=63453&SpecSess=&Session=

It must be February

It must be February--the camellias are in bloom. Oh dear, really?

And then a miracle occurred

My blogging pace has certainly slowed down. That is mostly because my tongue-in-cheek blogging attitude doesn't mesh well with the things that have been happening around me this fall--mainly, other people's stories that aren't really mine to tell.

Happily, one of the things I've been working on is now public: Claymakers is becoming a nonprofit. If you value chickarinas and twinkly votive holders, if you value Klein Bottles and spheres within spheres and anything else wheel-thrown and altered, if you value stories about wood firings and gas firings and oxidation firings, then you should also value Claymakers, as I wouldn't have been able to do or blog about any of those things without the fantastic community and creative incubator that Claymakers is. Consider making a donation today (and hey, check out this spiffy gift card!).

Positive change at Claymakers aside, this fall has been pretty tough, largely due to other people's stories. Elias's story has included hours of physical and occupational therapy, the legacy of his doubly-broken elbow. My dad's story has included a hospitalization and increasing discomfort; I wish him glorious weather and no ice or snow for his walks.

Then there are the extra-familial stories. As a professional church musician, I play for a modest number of funerals every year, and usually the deceased are acquaintances more than friends. But this fall we lost two former choir members within a few weeks of one another. One lived far away and had an unexpected death following a long and rich life; the other was close to home, a long expected death following too short a life. The latter friend was part of the inspiration for chickens for the cure. Consider making a donation today (designation "breast cancer").

In the midst of people deaths, there have been kitty deaths. Sweet Miss Maggie B developed idiopathic chylothorax and began wasting away until we made the difficult decision to euthanize her, yet she remained purrful, affectionate, and loyal to the very end. Shortly before Maggie's death, a friend's beloved cat was mauled by her neighbor's dogs. Both Maggie and Ralphie were a credit to their species and are greatly missed.

I was briefly tempted during all of this to blog about my persistent allergies and consequent lingering cough, and how a Hall's cough drop wrapper that advised "Be resilient!" made me want to throttle the wrapper designers for trying to thrust their oblivious chipperness into situations about which they know nothing, but I went to bed instead. However, the gods of suckiness never sleep.

This past Friday, the dogs came back for my friend's pet chickens. If I believed in Hell, I'd believe a special place is reserved for dog owners who think leash laws only apply to other people's dogs. Five chickens, mauled; only four survivors found, all seriously injured. My friend cleaned and dressed their awful gaping wounds and kept watch to see whether the chickens would survive past the weekend.

Or maybe the gods of suckiness do sleep. So far, the chickens are holding their own, and today, in the midst of all of this fall's illness and death, a miracle occurred--the great Week-Before-Solstice Miracle: the missing fifth chicken suddenly reappeared in the coop, mauled but not infected. Naturally, my friend is rededicating the coop this week; I quite expect that any food or straw that's down to a one-day supply will, incredibly, last the eight days between tonight and Solstice. May this season of distress end on the 21st with the return of the Sun's light.