duds of culture

My chemisty professor, Dr. Vaz, Dr. Apollo Vaz, is from Pakistan. As Dave Porter and I sorted years ago, you have your cricket-playing nations of the world, and then you got the rest. The primary benefit of being a cricket-playing nation is your position relative to the Queen when Remembrance Day comes in November. Your emissary has a better seat...luxury boxes of a sort. A cursory review of wicket-loving locales: England, India, Pakistan, the West Indies, Australia, South Africa, Canada, New Zealand, Sri Lanka, Wales, Scotland. Yes, I'm missing some, but if you aren't on that list then the Queen isn't, or never was, your head-of-state. Not only do these nations compete at cricket but they blend very nicely into the atmosphere that is the business paperdoll kingdom of England. This isn't a good or bad thing, just an observation. The dress of professionals in England, and the cricketeers at large, is deafeningly similar. I'd say 'continental' but that's not right, nor true. Dr. Vaz dresses in that European/sub-continent/cricket style: pleated, cuffed slacks and open collar long-sleeve shirts. I imagine there's a tie while at hospital during the day but it's more casual in the classroom. The blend of colors is very interesting and something you cannot buy in America. Those colors remind of a 128 crayon box, not the horribly inadequate 24 or 48 that my kind get by on. This is stuff that you need a shopping destination of London or Islamabad to buy. I quite like it because it's so different than the standard Tom DeLay-power suit that thrives in America.

Boston is whole 'nother joint. I spent a fleeting few hours involved with Logan airport and the type of folk you see in the terminal. I think major airports represent a nice cross section of what you might see in the greater Metro area. I think I've the ability to eliminate those that are clearly imposters, visitors, and transients. Coming into Logan last week I decided that Boston is made up of professors (and their associated progeny) and punkers. London punkers, no less. You get a feel for both in the photos above. Speaking of duds; the baggage claim at Logan is the worst thing ever! My first movement through that airport and it jumps above Atlanta Hartfsield and the Phoenix AirGarage on my list of most awful places in the world. At least on my way out it was 4:30am so it didn't seem so bad....aside from the detour through downtown Beantown that takes you somewhere out somewhere....and then ceases to post signs. I ended up somewhere near the early stomping grounds of the New Kids.

I've a fine story about my wonderful holiday...

soon enough.

t

incognito

Add a long weekend in Omaha together with three nights of class back home and I've been away for a while. Laurel participated in her first wedding last Saturday. Her Uncle Geoff got married and she performed in the much acclaimed role of "flower girl". Since it was an Autumn wedding she was more of a "leaves-from-the-cornucopia" girl; either way, the Academy loved her. The snap above is her in fancy dress (sans accessories) the morning of the wedding. I'd taken her to the salon to get an 'up-do' that morning...amazing to see her whole face since she's very unwilling to have her hair up. We saw a movie, made salmon and pototoes, did her homework, practiced her clarinet, played games of chess, and generally had a hoot. She's just a hair shy of five feet tall, greatly enjoys school, and is more than happy to do whatever's on the agenda...such a great one. Funny thing about chess...she plays just like me. This isn't meant to be a genome discussion, but we both tempt the other into crazy moves that lead to seriously imbalanced play. Get the queen out, bring the bishops, rooks, knights...jailbreak! The pawns are merely in the way. One game she took my queen as I lost focus on what was happening, I got her back, then lost her, then got her back. Kasparov never got his queen back twice in one game. I guess we're better players; maybe we're more fun.

no such thing as a stupid question

The checkout clerk/bagger/high school graduate at the grocery store asked me this question as she put my loot into my canvas bag, "Why to you use these bags?" Maybe not...

them kids

I work with someone who bought my beloved Geo Metro two years ago for her 'stepson'. At the time he had turned 17 and just then procured his driver's license. Oh, the stepson bit. He wasn't the step back then, he is now, but at the time he was living with her while his father finished his overseas duty. At some point he got a new truck and the Metro went the way of the wooly mammoth, of the way of someone in Fallon who needed a very economical means of transportation. Moving on. Young man (dubbed Cabin Boy by your's truly) finished high school in the Spring and is waiting to start his military career in a few months. Over the summer he moved to his own apartment (bought my couch and entertainment center) and was set to revel in new found freedom. Fast forward to this week and a little update. He's been in and out of the house since summer, gone through some girlfriends, and decides on a weekly basis to just not get up and go to work. Apparently, it's too much work. I think he's worked every hourly job the town has to offer. His only responsibility is to pay his $225 truck payment to my co-worker (the loan is in her name)...that's it, nothing else. Well, she pays the payments every month and has grown weary of chasing him down for the money. Last weekend the ultimatum was issued: come to the house on Friday (tomorrow), by 5pm, with six months of payments (to cover him through basic training) or the truck keys. Pretty simple. As I do...I started the idea of having a BBQ at her house, starting about 4pm, and running book on the following: would he show? would he be early or late? would he bring the girlfriend? would he give her the money or the keys? check or cash? repentant or not? Lots of action all ways. So what happens? It's not Friday. Why am I typing? Well, Cabin Boy decides the way to make his feelings felt is to take his 10-month old truck out to the desert and beat the holy hell out of it. Destroyed. Unrecoverable. Just enough juice to get it to her driveway in the dark hours....where he leaves the remnants and the keys. Adjustors say it's a total loss...over $10,000 in damage. I'm gobsmacked. At the same time, I'm not surprised. Those feelings are strange bedfellows.

variations on the simple life

It's vitally important to understand that of the eleven folks in my office, ten drive either SUVs, mini-vans, or colossal pick-up trucks. In fact, amongst those ten, there are 15 jumbo vehicles tearing about the wilds of northern Nevada. (In case you're wondering, and you are, there are also two trailer-campers, one boat, two ATVs, at least three motorcycles, eight other cars, and enough armament to hold off Bolivia for a week.) It's math beyond the tangent of 270. Not really the point of the entry, but the numbers started crawling around in my brain and I couldn't expel them. Christine and the boys 'did' camping last weekend at Harper's Ferry, W. Virginia-Marlyand-Virginia and suddenly camping raised its silly little head at work this week after a question from a co-worker. To be fair to him, he's got a big ol' pick-up and big camper that he uses quite often...not sure how that gets him off the hook, but there you have it. Way back in early 2004 we had many a laugh trying to figure out the difference between (in his words) 'tent-camping' and 'camping'. Seems rather obvious, but it's another in a long list of off-beat descriptions that gnaw at me. If you'd like to know how my little brain works just think about fiction and non-fiction, and camping and tent camping. I'll explain just the one and let everyone scratch chins and think. Camping is, by default...camping...in a tent or in the open. The grammar of it SHOULD be 'camping' and 'RV-camping'. You can't take the original idea, repackage it by adding some adjective, and smoothly replace the original idea with the lazy idea. I'm sure everyone just left the blog...sorry. So. On Monday the good lieutenant was asking if anyone knew anything about batteries, connections, power, and other manly tasks required of manly men. I immediately offered up sarcastic advice that had nothing to do with my ability to do anything with tools, power sources, or directions; but it did offer a spotlight for my ability to pick up the male lingo (Holley double-pumper carbs, boring stuff out, brake horsepower, 220 or 221s...whatever it takes). Show me flatpack and I'm off to the library for a few hours of Latin study. Come to find out he's trying to figure out how to run batteries, power, generators, possible solar panels, and myriad other devices to/into his camper in order to...drum roll please....run the AC in the 35-foot luxury trailer. Now, I'm just one man, but I think you can sit home in your underwear, on the couch, drinking a beer, and have the same effect of 'camping' as you will in a 35-foot, three-bedroom, Manhatten apartment of a camper. As Kramer so beautifully said in a 'Seinfeld' episode..."I can't go outside. There's nothing out there for me!" How very true. I'm guessing we've moved to another level, another place in outdoor history....'tent camping', 'camping', 'climate-controlled camping'.

"Honey? Seems the camping gear is packed. Did you remember the 500-count sateen sheets, Chianti, and oysters?"

I jest, even if the story is true. And to be fair to X and the boys, they did camp in a tent on the banks of the Hoohah river. Thankfully, when all was unpacked, food was stored high on a tree branch (bears, you know), guns were loaded, and all seemed swell...a headlamp and a nice Consitutional Law book was pulled from the rubble to save the intrepid explorers.

hey to all.

t