Saturday was drippy, breezy in the morning so the boys and I watched Groundhog Day for the first time. The three of us are easily amused (Oliver Fern and myself perhaps more so than Adam), we were hee-hawing from beginning to end, it was good medicine. However, what might have been a new low for me, I even cried. Groundhog Day? Most of my life, I’ve been unusually susceptible to tearjerkers. While I’ve been the recipient of plenty well-deserved, good-natured ribbing it has never really bothered me except that over time the tears have become terribly inconvenient to the point of extreme irritation, occurring at such minor expense or cheapness that à la Steve Sax, Rick Ankiel, et. al, it has become a textbook case of the emotional yips and considering the state of the world, a hopeless one for the time being. Real men (or whatever) cry but nothing’s badder than fumbling about crying or worse yet, a self-conscious dissection of toxic masculinity. That’s not what I’m driving toward here, all I’m saying is that I value the complexity of that euphoria as a reward of brief escapism but it’d be nice to turn off the waterworks once in a while because sometimes I’m just not in the mood. Sweet, funny and sad sit together helplessly exposed in the palm of my hand like a fuzzy baby bird.
Continuing the waterworks theme, this older frame is from a popular park on top of Capitol Hill. Oftentimes, we’ll walk past here on the way home after browsing at a nearby bookstore, it’s a good half hour by foot, back to the house. The park’s even busier than it used to be since the light rail station was built, around the corner. In fact, it has been too busy for its own good several times the past month, local law enforcement has resorted to roaming the park, pleading for parkgoers in various mental states, to dissemble, divest and get their freak on more socially distant. I can’t remember what made me decide to isolate the spillway like this, probably because people were all around and I was resigned to something more abstract. It’s a conical structure which invites children or stoned hipsters to climb (you’re not supposed to, it’s part of Lincoln Reservoir). This reminds me of a certain scene from John Christopher’s series The Tripods and if anyone reading this is familiar with those stories from their childhood I’ll bet they can think of exactly what part my mind is on.