man escapes peaceful tea café incident

On Friday afternoon – drizzle and all – the Eleven ducked into a tea café in Burlington for a pot of elixir. We’d successfully ditched the older folk and given the kids most of the cell phones before sending them scurrying about the promenade. The plan was to meet around 7pm for the annual feast at A Single Pebble. The tearoom was smallish with only about six tables and another area that housed a double set of remove-shoes-sit on cushions-ponder the universe-like tables. We missed out on one table as a philosopher of sorts slunk passed X as she waited for me to pop back in after sorting out adults and children via cell phone. Our slippery philosopher was wearing glasses indicative of either a deep love for Georg Anton Friedrich Ast, Christoph Gottfried Bardili, or afternoons spent debating the merger of Schlick's Vienna Circle with Hans Reichenbach's Berlin Circle. Upon sitting at his stolen table, he opened his satchel and pulled out a sheaf of kosher vellum, a quill of raven, and a porcelain mosaic inkwell and began drafting either music staves or his life story spent on the cusps of Burlington, Vermont. Of course, just about everyone sitting in a Burlington tea café is by some account pondering the depths of life and/or the newest Radiohead CD. After another ten minutes or so a couple got up to leave and we worked our way over to the table as the “waitress” (what do you call a waitress in a tearoom?) was clearing the ceramic mess and took our seats. Unfortunately, the process of sitting at a table is no indication of past or future performance by our tea girl. Things were not going smoothly, or peacefully, by this time. I eventually got up and headed over to the tea laboratory area and ask her for a menu. Her response was to hand me a tattered tome and a small bell. Right. Which one can I smack her with? I know, it’s not very tea-like. What I began to wonder is this: do people in Asia ever just have tea to pass the time? Must the representation of the tea culture in America always be some monochromatic series of hippies, deep thinking, dreadlocks, and shitty service jammed down my throat? Just saying. We managed to order a pot of Russian Caravan that brought with it my desired dash of lapsang souchong black tea. (I just noticed on wikipedia that the smokiness of lapsan souchong is comapared to “…the smell of a campfire or of Latakia pipe tobacco”. See what I mean? Latakia pipe tobacoo?) The tea was perfect and everything began to simmer down a bit. Our Germanic philosopher didn’t seem so Germanic. Our server seemed to smile a bit more after getting a “hit” from “her friend” to remedy her “headache”, and we offered the other half of our table to a couple standing at the door. X‘s offer of the chairs and half table was met with a sarcastic “What? And interact with other people?” response as they settled in the chairs. We had a very nice get-to-know you conversation and found out that he designs energy-efficient buildings and she ran computer simulations on energy-system designs. Don’t get too carried away; both moved to Burlington from other places and settled into the scene years ago – massage therapy and whatnot – but the difference was that they were a perfectly lovely couple that greatly enhanced the experience and deadened the ‘deep thoughts’ vibe that tends to crush the life from these places. I’m pretty sure that just about any other set of people in the place would have had the personalities of a picture frame. That’s what too much worrying and thinking does to a person – turns you into furniture and furnishing accessories.

return fare

We had a great week in the ever-changing northern Vermont weather. Laurel and I ended up spending about five hours on the JFK tarmac yesterday trying to get back to D.C. but we finally made it home about 10:30pm last night and have moved her flight back to Omaha to this evening. If you’re going to be stuck on a plane, on the ground, for five hours then you’ll want to be on jetBlue – 60 channels of satellite TV. That little screen probably saved at least three or four people from certain death raining down from my perch in seat 23B.

Over the week we did a lot of eating; it happens that there’s not much that can be done to eliminate feasting during an entire week where the weather and events are fluid. Quite a bit was actually cooked at the house – primarily the breakfast and lunch bits – with a few nights spent eating out. The best dinner was a treat from the MagDad at Café Shelburne in Shelburne, Vermont.

There was, of course, the annual golf in miniature championship contested last Monday evening. As so often happens with these major events it ended up in a three-way tie with X, Phil, and I all carding -5 totals of 49. There was some complaining at the 16th tee box about a (ferocious) cat either preparing to pounce or laying on the fairway affecting someone’s tee shot. This mild protestation of cause-and-effect was shouted down, and mocked, by both progeny and progeny’s boyfriend.

We managed a few museums, horseback riding, swimming, a waterfall visit, children swimming endlessly, shopping, trips up to Burlington, bookstore visits, more than enough crossword puzzling, and a few games of Pitch Penny™.

Pitch Penny™ revealed a very interesting aspect of L’s personality. It appears that there’s quite a little competitive streak in the quiet reader. The game is a creation that tests one’s ability to scream forth answers that begin with a randomly chosen letter. The topics range from European rivers to fictional characters to Latin American geography. What L quickly sorted is that the eight million pages of books she’s read are suddenly worth something in this mythical world of “Goepps O’ the Woods”. In fact, she ended up being too good and was eventually forced into the adult group that couldn’t answer until the children had an allotted head start to each question. Now that I think about it, this little streak also raised its head when I had the kids at the pool and they played the “tons of loose change on the pool floor” event. The children are sat at the edge of the pool while I throw piles of change all about before they’re finally let loose to gather as much dough as possible. The only rules are no flippers, no goggles, and you can only pick up one coin at a time. That coin has to be returned to your pile on the edge before you can head back out for more. What I noticed was that the boys have a tendency to get a coin, come up for air, loudly declare the type of coin for the other submerged or recently surfaced brother to hear, and then swim back to their pile – sometimes spending a bit of time finding said pile. L. decided to simply dive/swim back and forth as quickly as possible with no talking, declaring, or sorting of her pile’s location. I don’t know what any of the means for her future but I’ve seen a new side.

Our three-inning Wiffle ball game was highlighted by X smashing a first-inning line drive into Maggie’s already wounded left knee and a second-inning heater into H’s left thigh. She also managed at third-inning short fly ball that tempted older folk into a headlong rush that could only end in tears and another out. I wouldn’t say it was new side of her – it simply reinforced the smiling assassin caricature.

I think Canada is working its way onto the books for next summer.

It’s nice to be back at the regular homestead.

t

early august means vacation

We're packing up and heading out tomorrow for a week of anything but work. It doesn't look like the weather is going to cooperate so we'll just have to mud our way through the woods - there are worse things in life. I've got some trashy books - read, fiction, and where we're going there's no Internet. And no, we aren't going to John McCain's place. I have my phone and it works just fine. See you in a week.

late july fireworks show

I finally managed to download the Slate Political Gabfest from last Friday and I listened to it while driving to Dulles to fetch WonderTwin #2. Each Thursday afternoon (recorded) they review three issues from the week and end the 25 minute-or-so show with Cocktail Chatter. About halfway through the podcast there was a brief interruption (clearly added after completion) from John Dickerson (host) to let us know they were going to fast-forward to Cocktail Chatter and then come back to the final topic after the time warp. I think there were two reasons for this – they have a time limit on a satellite radio broadcast / podcast they produce, and they wanted to give the “director’s cut” listeners fair warning about the impending bar fight. What happened was a pretty volatile, and damn entertaining, session covering the John Edwards affair, its coverage by the media, and the limits of privacy. What was so great about the blow-up was that Dickerson, David Plotz (Slate’s newly-minted Editor), and Emily Bazelon (Legal Affairs, Yale Law, family issues) just cut loose as the debate fuse was lit by the producer (?) who just pipes up with something akin to “that’s bullshit” in response to Bazelon’s stance. I believe they thought the recording was stop while they really railed at each other in a wholly unprofessional yet real-world manner. Being as these three tend to always keep the intense political rants off the table, it was refreshing to hear an argument devolve into what goes on in heated debates everyday – some f-bombs, bullshits, and raised voices. You might be tempted to call it a bit sophomoric as the voices climbed in volume and the rafters shook, but it was pretty cool to get a little more insight into how the three of them interact when Dickerson isn’t using the words narrative, optics, and polls; Plotz isn’t being the check-the-box and make sure you introduce every step of the show Editor; and Bazelon cuts loose from her maternal concerns and legal training to stomp her bullshit brand and rain down the profanity. Sometimes there aren’t any other words that carry the sting of dissent. Great stuff.

t

ssssshhhhhhhiiiiiiiiiitttttttttttttttttt!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

As Sen. Ted Stevens readies himself for a court appearance today to answer his indictment, there was a five-minute spot on NPR this morning with some commentary primarily from fellow Republicans. For now, most sound supportive of the senior senator from Alaska but the best quote, without a doubt, came from Utah Senator Orrin Hatch who questioned the timing of the indictment in relation to Stevens reelection effort this fall, and I nearly quote, “I’m not one to say the Justice Department if full of sleazebags, but…” I’m glad Sen. Hatch wouldn’t be one to say that. Imagine how that might sound if another Jurassic Senator was to say something like that aloud? It’s as if a body couldn’t possibly imagine this Justice Department stumbling into the political fray.

(end of mostly laughable bit…beginning of bitchy bit)

Another story from this week that hit a note was about a neighborhood of NW D.C., Trinidad, which has been under a police roadblock / ID check / lockdown for a few months. The violent crime there has been devastating with something like 26 murders already this year – and innumerable other non-fatal shootings. The D.C. police chief has said that until someone tells her it’s unconstitutional she’ll continue with the police roadblocks around Trinidad. A few things struck me about the problem; first, roadblocks constricting a neighborhood don’t qualify as any type of long-term solution to the crime and policing issue. If anything, it’s an activity I’d file under political expediency. More importantly, it reflects the huge differences in gun ‘ownership’ supporters and the violence that’s prevalent in America. The supporters of gun ownership – in the home, on the streets, in their cars, on their hips – primarily justify their position by using two very basic arguments: hostile home invasions and criminal activity (also known as the “only the criminals will have guns if they are banned” plea). In our high-minded debate about the prefatory phrase of the Second Amendment and the twisting of statistics to meet our needs, we don’t actually give a shit about the number of guns and violence around America. I doubt that any of the people so offended by any restriction on guns give a damn about a neighborhood in NW D.C. where shots ring out all day and night. A place where law enforcement is spending untold amounts of time and money in order to basically quarantine the problem from the fucking law-abiding citizenry that feel more guns is the ultimate solution to their fear of home invasion. What more guns across a city get you is more violence. Trinidad is an example of what happens when everyone has piles of guns in a confined and highly populated area. The reason the NRA humps and their paid membership don’t really care about guns in America is because they don’t care about inner city neighborhoods and the untold number of kids being gunned down. They simply want to feel as if they are the police and their God-given task on this Earth is to patrol their living rooms and shopping malls with Colt .45s and Glocks. I have a deal for those law-abiding citizens and divine gun owners; how about you take your guns over to Trinidad and stop the crime just like you claim you’d do if someone came into your church or your mall with a gun. If you see something illegal going on then I expect you to Rambo-up and double-tap the bastard between the eyes. If you claim you could or would do it in a parking lot in Montana or from the S’barro tables in the food court of Reston, then I think you’d be a great help in stopping the heathens in their tracks. Remember that jackass in Texas who killed a couple of burglars coming out of his neighbor’s house? He was just protecting his own, taking the law into his own hands, keeping the World safe. Maybe he could come to D.C. and straighten some stuff out. Fire away, Johnny.

t

sidle up to the bar, bring a #2 pencil.

X called this morning from the parking lot of the Bar Exam testing location. She’d been parked for a little while and gave me a call before heading inside and the inevitable filling of bubbles on a computer scan sheet. She primarily reported on other arriving drivers – and lawyer nominees – who felt the need to navigate the parking area by slipping between her car and a car two spaces over instead of simply going the additional 15 feet to the end of the row. As much as anything, it seemed an indictment of local drivers more so than law school alums. She said there was also some guy walking in and drinking from a paper bag; turns out it was soda but I wouldn’t be too sure. With that, we finished our call and I wished her luck as she headed into the jaws of the hypotheticals.

L. and I went to see Wall-E last night; my first, her second viewing. For those that have watched Pixar movies develop you can’t help but be amazed at the changes in computer animation since Toy Story. It’s not a knock on Toy Story, but the differences in the entire process are particularly obvious in Wall-E. After the debacle of Cars, Pixar got back to the basics of a good story with Ratatouille and then deliver a pretty tough punch to the solar plexus of the America in Wall-E. It’s nominally a love story that kids will find acceptable – cute robots, computers, funny voices – but the backdrop of the film is more of a haunting hidden behind the usual well-written dialogue and comedic efforts. The real target is consumerism and our faulty logic that everything will continue on forever and there’s no need to worry ourselves about the outcome. The people in the movie are simply soporific beings managed by food, video games, TV, Wal-Mart, and big easy chairs. I found myself quite taken aback at how easily the producers slipped the screwed-up humans right passed us – candidates for laughter instead of pity. I don’t know that a lot of the theater got it the first time through but I suspect that if there’s any spark of light in a person’s mind then it might hit light a fire later this week. Maybe I’m being to optimistic. It reminded me of something Steve Earle said at a show in Reno a few years back. He was playing some of his bluegrass songs from The Mountain and laughed at just “how much socialism you can slip into a bluegrass song and no one seems to notice”; I think Pixar has copied the formula.

We’ve got a bit of a heat wave rolling in over the next three or four days. I’ll try to keep cool and ungrumpy.

t

d o double g and the 420

What you often end doing when you’re feeling a smidge off is put together a nice compilation of music. I’ve decided to dub it “my life around alt.country”. I was going to be “my life in…” but I’m not actually “in” the business. I’m not sure it’s a perfectly sound title since the term is probably too narrow for what I’m including: you get some Americana, a little country, some newgrass, a little cow punk, and some standard alt.country. It’s a humdinger…there’s some Tift Merritt blasting away in the “library”. You know you’ve got a thing going when you hear the Gourds blasing out Snoop Dogg’s Gin n’ Juice.

Out of the corner of my eye – or in front of my eyes and down the hill – I just caught sight of what appears to be a bunch of kids that can only be dubbed as square-headed cowboys named Otto (it’s a long story). Mr. Q., previously from across the hall, is one of the original Ottos. If you know Q. then you know what I’m talking about. I’ve taken the ‘Otto’ and transferred it to my own needs. I think X. had a herd that ran roughshod around with the boys in England. At some point, they all came running back to her in the park complaining about the fear of ‘other boys’ in the park. Between H., G., and the other three chump-a-lumps there was little worry of them and their weapons being overrun.

The Cubs start a four-game set in Milwaukee tonight – I’ve got some, only some, nerves.

L. made it to camp and home today. As expected, she feels a bit of freedom overcoming her now that she’s got wheels. Her only complaint is that it’s sort of uphill all the way back to the house. You can’t have it all.

round peg, square hole

On my way home from work last Friday I was opining to X just how disastrous I think work cubicles are in the running history of the human race. Just like building on swamp land, getting involved in a Ponzi scheme, or voting for Bush in 2004, I recognize that at some point people must have thought it a good idea. Probably at some point in the late 70s or early 80s there was an inept decision made, with best intentions, by some company in Cleveland to change the office floor space from wide-open swathes to manmade caves of misery. There is absolutely no benefit to the cubicle live that I can discern. What I once again noticed this morning, and something that’s bothered me since being here, is that while walking around the joint you notice just how many people have mirrors mounted on their desks so they can see who’s either passing by or violating their space. Life through a mirror? Of course, there’s never been a cubicle designed that allows its hibernator/prisoner to actually look outward into the World – look at the damn wall. The wall!

L. is at her clay-thing camp this week and gave me a call this morning to let me know she’d made it into Falls Church on her bike. The camp hours aren’t the greatest (11a-3p) so we took a bike ride yesterday afternoon and covered the route, rules of the road, and any other questions she might have. I think that by the end of the week she’ll feel well chuffed at having been out and about on her own during these rides into town. The roads all have sidewalks and the route is about 95% residential – no worries.

Is my vacation here yet? Where is it?

The trick is to be grateful and hope the caper doesn’t end any time soon - David Carr

t

feeding and the fish

L. and I headed into Balmo yesterday after dropping X off at the airport and we somehow managed to successfully navigate what seemed like all of the western part of the city. (I know it’s probably not wholly true, but Baltimore is one beat down city: hardscrabble, hard working, and looks eerily similar to the Wire on all fronts.) I’d found a place to eat an early lunch, the One World Café, at the edge of Johns Hopkins University. I watched as L. managed to completely devour a huge pile of powder sugar-dusted French toast and half of my fries – I feed her, often, I don’t know what was going on. We walked the inner harbor later, got way too hot for my comfort, spent some time in a really bad Barnes & Noble (packed, bad selection, nowhere to sit), and eventually headed out for some ice cream at Vaccaro’s in Little Italy. I’d found the Italian bakery on visit last summer and decided we had enough time to kill until our 6pm Aquarium entry to grab a little something. Rarely do you come across a regular gelato that can’t be sucked down in a few minutes. A word of general warning: if the basic option on the menu is a regular and the afterthought is a small, get the small. We did the regulars and found they’re easily enough for three people to dig at while sitting around a table mesmerized by the sheer volume of sweets. We both made it almost half-way through before turning ourselves into the authorities and walking away beaten and embarrassed. I noticed they offer an all-you-can-eat dessert buffet on Monday nights after 8pm for $15.50 – the thought is almost too much for me…

My summer tourist-aquarium plan didn’t really blossom. I mistakenly figured that if we got timed tickets at the end of the day then we’d manage to see everything with only a smaller throng of summer families about the place. You’d think that by 6 or 6:30 all the kids would be screaming for dinner and ice cream and they’d need to head out to Chilli’s, the Hard Rock, or the ESPNZone, right? Well, they are hungry, they just happen to be hungry and screaming in the aquarium right next to me since ma and pa just spent $125 for the family to see the fishies…and they’re going to see the damn fish come hell or high water. Needless to say, and as a second general warning, if the venue is still selling timed tickets until 6:45pm then there will be packs of visitors right up until that point. I know, it should be obvious, but I fell for it. We saw the dolphin show, the rays, the sharks, and most of the basics – it wasn’t as bad as I might make it sound; you know about me and people.

We made a quick stop at Vaccaro’s on the way out of the city for some coffee (to get me through the late drive back to Virginia) and a small (a SMALL) bag of luscious Italian cookies.

Thunder’s rolling in the afternoon.

t

it's the music

Right-o

Here's what we need to focus on between now and the end of the year: The Old Crow Medicine Show and their new CD in September, and Gillian Welch. I'm merely guessing, but I think Gillian and David Rawlings must have something to release in the works. Of course, they've always been way off the path of "I must do it" so it could be next year. I'm listening to her tonight; she's so underrated in the twang world.

The 61 is off to BWI to drop X off for her journey north and the Massachusetts Bar Exam on Wednesday and Thursday next week. She'll be staying in Springfield for a few nights to make sure there are no major worries or traffic jackassery on the mornings of the test. She's worried. I understand the worry but I'm fully vested (and have money riding on...) her meeting the 80% pass rate. Send her good thoughts...

L. and I, or the remaining 51, will be heading onward to Baltimore after the drop-off. I've got some late entry tickets to the Baltimore (national) Aquarium and dolphin show so we'll hang around the Inner Harbor, do some eating, and do some shopping before the fish and our later drive home.

X sent me a friend request on facebook today. I reminded her that we are already sleeping together and a facebook friend request was so JV. Was I wrong? Just asking.

The weather in the D.C. area has been unseasonably mild this week. Lovely sleeping, with my facebook "friend", pleasant evenings, and dreamy mornings.

More on the fish later.

t

going once, going twice

Since X is all busy with her "Bar" studies and feels no need to add to her blog, I’ll relay this nugget of a story. Earlier this week, at about 7 or 7:30 pm on some night, there was knock at our door from the crew of a white 25-foot, mostly plain looking moving van. There was some black lettering on the side that said something like “Fine Furniture Department”. The schtick from the door knocker was this: the county of Fairfax had sent them out to sell excess or unused furniture that the county either didn't want or no longer needed. I know what you’re thinking, “Be careful, I don’t think they are from the county!” We’re still not sure who would fall for this rouse – late at night (when all county workers are always working), “unmarked” truck going door-to-door, or being anywhere on our little bitty street as some kind of offering process to county residents. X immediately recognized the problem, steered well clear of the asking price on unwanted county furniture, and scored us three rugs, two winged arm chairs, and a set of personalized towels (initials - GJT) for $100. Nice.

I was cutting the grass last night and am beginning to think my $15 Jacobsen lawnmower will make it through only a single season. It sounds like an F1 or NASCAR car that’s lost a cylinder and is just turning laps for practice. Don’t get too worried for us on the Hilltop, it still cuts fine and contributes its clippings to the glorious compost heap in the back corner.

I’m about to get very serious in my planning for the Stowe trip next month. I’ve mostly sorted out the knives, cutting boards, waffle makers, and other equipment; now I’m trying to draft up menus for six dinners. If you’re going to be there, and you have requests, you know where to find me. Risotto is already on the menu – you’ll eat it and you’ll be happy.

t.

p.s. X didn’t really buy anything from the fine furniture van. But if she’d taken a look…

magnum, tubbs...get over here

I rode the Metro up to NW D.C. today to pick L. up at her digital movie/claymation camp at Sidwell. The way it works up there is that the parents, call them SUVs or Mercs if you will, pull into the double-through lane of the parking garage, give their kids’ name to the clipboard counselor kids, and your little one’s name is called across the school square by another counselor kid sporting a bullhorn. As I’m awaiting my arrival in the quad I hear this given name over the ‘horn: Infinity. Infinity? There are few problems with young Infinity: first, I hope he/she is an only child. Second, that’s one tough name to live up to as a being. As for the first, if other kids come along, you better not be naming them Gus, Doug, and Lily (not that I don’t like Lily). What I am certain about is that Doug, Gus, and Lily will have some type of mortality complex after traipsing through life behind goddamn Infinity. What the parents need to keep in the name bank are these noms de tiempo for the next siblings: Forever, Eternity, Pi, and my favorite – Infinity plus 1. Nothing solves a kid argument like the Infinity plus 1 riposte.

(I just realized that the kid's name might be Infiniti. In that case, we need the siblings to be Lexus, Eldorado, Portia, and XJS; nothing surprises me.)

I’ve been running mock drafts for fantasy football. Am I weird?

The Cubs are struggling and I prefer not to talk about it.

t.

blueberry dreams

In the paraphrased words of T. Boone Pickens, “We own 3% of the oil reserves in the World yet we use 20% of the World’s oil. We can’t drill our way out of our dependency on foreign oil.” That is the simplest statement yet made concerning the problem – and from a wildcatter and newly-minted leader in energy technology, no less. If nothing else sticks in your craw when it comes to this particular issue during this election season, remember the harbinger: we can’t drill our way out.

L. has moved onto her second week of summer day camp. Last week’s Whirlygigs and Wild Things run by the Smithsonian received mediocre reviews. If I were to guess, I’d say she’d give it a B. I think she enjoyed riding the Metro to camp everyday more than the camp itself. Now that it’s over I can tell you that she successfully rode from West Falls Church to the Smithsonian all by herself every morning. That’s not something you can reveal early on because people worry. I know from my Omaha-Chicago Amtrak trips in the late 70s that kids can function just fine on their own; we can even catch cabs at the train station and find our way to the North side.

This week she’s doing digital movies and claymation at the Sidwell School in NW DC. Unfortunately, there’s no Metro stop nearby so we’re driving her into the heart of the D.C. beast each morning to drop her off in the golden Mercedes. After the first day it’s apparent this camp is much more to her liking, at least if one were to base it on her excitement yesterday afternoon.

X has gone off this morning to buy some blueberry plants. We looked at some scruffy, street-wise plants last weekend but her initial impression was to bypass them and look around some more this week. It wasn’t until we were at least three blocks away from those scrubs that she realized maybe they were what she wanted all along – tough, hardscrabble plants. I tend to agree because if these plants were sitting in a Home Depot parking lot sprouting blueberries then they must be quality. I don’t think you want to buy specially raised, manicured, soft suburban blueberry plants. Much like me, once they are taken away from the comfortable life they’ve led they tend to get grumpy. Updates to follow.

t

theatre and a coffee after?

“1536: WICKET - Panesar c De Villiers b Morkel 0, Eng 186-9
Here's the good news: Jimmy's still at the wicket. Here's the bad news: Monty isn't. He fences at a short one and spoons an easy looper straight down AB's throat at third slip. A line of lads dressed as Thora Hird in Last of the Summer Wine slump in their plastic seats.” – Tom Fordyce at the BBC text / reporting center.

Today is the first day of the second England v South Africa Test at Headingley. The 186-9 total isn’t exactly what you’d like to post in a first innings. England may be trying to speed things up a bit in order to bowl while the pitch is apparently favoring the bowlers – we’ll see.

The 61 is going to the theatre tonight to see Man of La Mancha at the Keegan near DuPont Circle. The Keegan is a smallish venue that does theatre more along my tastes than do the massive, and expensive, high-end venues. The acting and directing are fantastic but some of the big money theatre mentality is long forgotten. They also seem to be a somewhat Irish-woven company of beer drinkers and songsters. I love the Keegan.

Here’s the list of items we managed to corral during our Wednesday night visit to Sur La Table: a sifter, 9” tart pan with removable bottom, portable/travelable cutting ‘boards’, two jars of sand (don’t ask, I can’t explain), a reusable gold drip coffee filter, and a single cup drip coffee rest on-top-of-your-cup maker holder thing. The last item was the cause for our trip but it inevitably turned to more than just the mystery of the world of single cup coffee makers. Speaking of coffee makers, we now have in our house: the single cup maker, a French press, the Eva Solo, a Mokka cappuccino maker, and some frozen instant. I think we’ve got all the bases covered – and we don’t even drink that much coffee. Have I told you yet that I’m horribly intrigued by a vacuum coffee maker? More on that at a later date.

I just found this coffeeblogbattle while searching the D.C. area for a local coffee bean roaster. Murky Coffee in Arlington, right near our old place, is my second favorite coffeehouse ever (the first being Bibo in Reno). This tussle is why we can look at life and laugh like hyenas. Here’s the blog written by the customer, the open letters from the owner of Murky, and the WaPo story that came after the explosion in the coffeeblogosphere. It’s hilarity on every level. I cannot get over the closing of the owner’s letter on July 14th, “I’ll punch you in your dick.” That is highly quotable.

Friday.

stop me if you've thought this

What I’ve realized during my time in the private sector is that there are an endless number of ‘jobs’ posted for people we’ll call program managers and project managers. I hate program managers and project managers. Here’s a wikipedia definition of project manager: “… the discipline of planning, organizing, and managing resources to bring about the successful completion of specific project goals and objectives. A project is a finite endeavor—having specific start and completion dates—undertaken to create a unique product or service which brings about beneficial change or added value.” Right. Making dinner every night qualifies as project management. Making dinner every night over the course of an entire week probably qualifies as program management (the managing of separate projects under one overarching theme). I guess if you add in some packed lunches and a few quick breakfasts than you could claim yourself some type of certification by ISO, Six Sigma, or any other fruit-loop organization. Aren’t these PMs, as they’re called, actually just workers and managers? Do we really need new on-line and resident educational programs to ‘qualify’ people as such? Here are a few other areas I might consider as PMs per your resume:

1. Making sure the dog gets walked twice a day.
2. Establishing and maintaining an exercise routine.
3. Creating a kick-ass compilation CD for your friends.
4. Planning the purchase of the new G3 iPhone.
5. Budgeting your money so you can buy Madonna tour tickets.
6. Printing labels and applying them to index cards for Bar study.
7. Planning for the cab home after hanging with friends at the local bar.
8. Making vacation plans.
9. Setting the alarm to wake you up.
10. Putting out the recycling.

You get the picture.

Todd
Project Manager, the Paddle.

p.s. I’m changing the verbiage on my resume ---- big money PM!

if i had a hammer

I think this is the most sane coverage of the New Yorker / Obama kerfluffle. What strikes me immediately in this newest, minor explosion is that it so closely mirrors the “bitter and clinging” Obama verbiage from earlier this year. Those that are supposedly ‘offended’ by the cover, which I think is brilliant, are offended for someone else that they think might be offended. We, us left coast liberals, think we know what those we imagine not being smart enough to understand satire are offended by. “I am offended for them.” It’s some strange juxtaposition of truth in what people think and someone else actually saying, writing, or drawing it out loud for them.

In defense of all those on all sides: I think we are a nation of whiners, I think there are people who are bitter and cling to things that give them comfort, and I think there are a load of folks that believe the Obamas are terrorist Muslims. The truth hurts us all a little bit.

what's the answer?

Last night the Eleven and L. (I guess for the summer we could all be The 61 if we go by the LXI roman numerals…) headed out to for trivia night to one of the local microbreweries / restaurants over in the old neighborhood. We brought L. along for three reasons: she knows a lot about mythology and the current crop of children’s books, we couldn’t very well just leave her at home, and finally, I offered her any dessert on the menu. The decision to head over for the quiz came fairly late so we didn’t have adequate time to prepare mentally or physically for the challenge. I’m not sure what we would physically do but maybe some stretching would’ve helped. Once we were seated and L. had ordered her sundae it became obvious that we were the smallest team – accounting for 2.5 adults. Some teams had 8 or 10 players that appeared to include some Weird Al Yankovic ringers…don’t ask and don’t worry, I’m not setting up any excuses. The first round (of four) rang us up in dead last of 17 teams involved. You see? The stretching would’ve helped. Our performance over the final three rounds was impressive enough to climb to a tie for 14th after the second, 12th after the third, and a final standing of 6th at the end. Well done! L. read her book, ate her sundae, occasionally pondered the entire situation, and was one-for-one when asked for an answer – she came up with the correct kids’ movie answer. What we really needed was help on the first two questions of the third round: who was the dancing lady with bananas and fruit on her head? and, who was married to both Frank Sinatra and Mickey Rooney? We got to Carmen on the first question but couldn’t come up with her last name (blame me for distraction); we had no real idea on the second. The final bonus question was intriguing: what two states that border each other have the highest rate of smokers in America, and the lowest rate of smokers in America. We bet the most points allowed and the answer no doubt moved us five or six places up the chart. I think that if we draft another player we might find ourselves battling for a top-three position some Monday night.

L. had little to report on camp yesterday. It seemed she was fairly middlin’ on the events but there wasn’t anything necessarily bad. Hopefully the Smithsonian will up the ante today and get her a bit more interested.

I think there was some agreement during the quiz, while my guard was down, that we're going camping this weekend. Yikes.

t

easier words

I thought about it earlier but forgot to include it once I got on my little rant.

Saturday was my first day working as a volunteer at the information desk in the Library of Congress (more badges, better access). Since we’re at the height of tourist season there’s little rest during the seven-hour shift: directing folks, handing out tidbits of knowledge, and passing on my life’s wisdom. Here are my findings:

1. People want to see the books. They want to go into the main reading room (see picture above) and yank some literature off the shelf. Unfortunately, the rooms are for researchers and “readers” only. You can’t very well have loads of tour groups wandering the aisles while Vaclav Havel is doing research.

2. The most asked questions, not necessarily in order: Where are the books? Where is the restroom? Where is a drinking fountain?

3. Any family that comes through security between 3:30pm and 5pm, when we close, generally looks as if they’ve nearly completely some type of vacation marathon. It’s close to 95 degrees outside, they’ve been beaten by the Sun, they’ve walked five miles, visited four Smithsonian museums, had a bad lunch near the Mall (there’s little choice), and they’re trying desperately to finish the Library of Congress and Supreme Court before going back to the hotel and dying.

4. I had at least a half-dozen patrons ask some form of this question, “My kids want to see the room from National Treasure, where is it?” A few asked to see the Declaration of Independence. Unfortunately, I had to send them a mile back down the Mall to the National Archives to see if Nicholas Cage has put it back.

5. I made dinner reservations for at least two couples who had restaurants in mind but didn’t actually know where they were or if they’d be crowded. I’m nice like that.

What’s most amazing, to be serious for a minute, is just how nice the visitors can be. I met some very interesting people who had specific pieces in mind and were so happy to get a chance to actually see them – they come back and thanked me. I had any number of people coming in looking for a rare book that had been published by an ancestor – they managed to get cards for the reading room and were able to review the books in peace. I had people from just about every country on Earth wander in for the tours or a quick look at the Great Hall. I was also working with a woman who’s lived in D.C. since 1942, so during lulls in traffic I learned a ton about how the District has changed in 65 years.

I’m thinking about training to be a Docent at the Library this fall. It’s a two-day a week, 14-week training course that gives you the deep, deep history of the Library and then allows you to be a public, private, or Congressional tour guide.

On a sad note, mighty Jefferson rat passed on yesterday after an nearly week-long tussle with ill health. He did his best but it wasn’t anything he was ever going to overcome.

light reading

I fetched L. from the airport on Saturday night and she’s settled in on The Hilltop. I took her to the first day of her Smithsonian day camp this morning so I’ll have an after-action report this evening.

I’ve got two reads for the folks this morning: a Christopher Hitchens Vanity Fair piece on waterboarding and Barack Obama’s op-ed piece from today’s NYTimes. Hitchens has been a supporter of the Iraq war from it’s outset but is far too intelligent to be someone that falls in line with those that draw a direct line from supporting the war to condoning torture; believe me, it’s the straightest line you’ll ever see. Obviously, these two positions shouldn’t be mutually supportive – or exclusive. As for the op-ed, it’s nothing new in what the presumptive nominee has said all along. What is new, as far as events are concerned, is the elected leader of Iraq saying that he wants a timeline for withdrawal of American troops. Seems fair enough, right? It isn’t the op-ed that gets my emotions roiling as much as the comments added by the public. In general terms, those that support Obama and those on the left, wholeheartedly agree and cheer the idea. Those outside of that group simply say surrender, flip-flop, Muslim, give me my gun, torture, terrorists, etc. It’s a mindless direct association between American troops leaving – we lose – and the torture mentality. Frankly, it’s embarrassing. If our president – come January 2008, whoever it might be – can’t decide that leaving Iraq at the request of the elected government in that country without being called names by blind followers of some doctrine, then we are much deeper troubles than I ever imagined. I know this is such a nice Monday morning input.

How about this? The Cubs hit the All-Star break tied for the best record in baseball. They’ve won the last three series and can now take a little break – aside from the eight Cubs playing in the All-Star Game.

I think figuring out the Brett Favre situation up in Green Bay may be more difficult than getting a resolution through the U.N. Security Council.

t.

parental discretion required

On our way back to The Hilltop earlier this evening we were sitting behind a Prius at a traffic light over on the Idylwood Dr. when a funny thing crossed my mind. After relaying this little nugget to X, I told her I’d consider it irony if I knew how to actually define irony. I have my own definition, as does Alanis Morrisette. The point was this; I remember when I was driving a Prius back in 2004 (they’d been out in America for about a year) and reading how all the ‘geniuses’ were badmouthing the car as some sort of Hollywood, liberal, people-I-couldn’t-care-less-about, statement. There was quite a waiting list for new vehicles (I bought a used one) and it wasn’t until about 2005/06 that Toyota managed to produce enough for the 'elite'. Just long enough to let Toby Keith and his gang of slackjaws settle down and get back to buying Hummers, SUVs, pick-up trucks, and anything else not needed by normal people. Just long enough to now laugh that American auto companies and consumers could have produced and bought more efficient cars. Throughout it all there was a continuous insinuation that people that chose to drive hybrids or economy cars – or chose to ride public transport…dear God! – were clearly intellectuals that didn’t wear American flag lapel pins or give a crap about the troops. Shit, we were probably sitting around drinking tea, eating tempeh, and watching Clooney movies. By the grace of God we will forever have cheap, subsidized gas so there’s no need to question my patriotism since I’m driving a big F350 Turbo Diesel.

Surprise, motherfu*&er! It ain’t free and it won’t last forever. The loudest hum of complaint and flow of tears are coming from Jethro, his dog, his girlfriend, and his DVD-equipped jumbo truck. I have no sympathy at all – zero. In fact, jack that price up as high as possible and let’s be done with it.

I’m bitter.

I don’t hate everyone, but it’s and ever-growing list.

t

one man's junk

The Eleven was lazing our way through the long weekend by studying law, reading books, doing some house tidying, and running a few errands in search of groceries, plants, and household goods when we decided to grab a movie for a Saturday night date. I think we’re all well versed in some of our movie issues (my documentaries, her Jane Austen, etc.) so wandering through a Blockbuster can be more than a little confusing: should I offer this? How about a comedy? Maybe a drama? Anyway, I came across National Treasure and vaguely remembered someone telling me it was a pretty good movie – a movie everyone should own so they can watch it multiple times! In fact, if I remember correctly, the public was on edge awaiting the sequel that came out last summer. Allegedly, the original was a nice combination of action, drama, comedy, and mystery. What ‘they’ forgot to tell me was that is was also a horrible movie. I’m not sure how to make this clear to anyone who even remotely told me this was a good movie: it may have been the worst movie I have ever seen. We weren’t even out of the parking lot before X was reading the ‘reviews’ and summary on the back of the box – and it was right then that we knew we were in for something horrific. We toughed it out the two hours by simply hoping there wouldn’t be another clue revealed that would lead to another 15 minutes of misery, nauseating acting, bad plot twists, stupid Nicholas Cage riddle-decrypting faces, a complete lack of sex appeal by the female lead, crappy dialogue, and poor action / chase movie etiquette by everyone involved in the caper. What our little viewing date became was something more akin to MST3K than enjoyment of a ‘film’. Don’t get me wrong, cutting a movie to shreds while watching it at home holds a certain charm. Compared to our Friday night movie, O Brother Where Art Thou, is was like being forced to read descriptive essays by college freshmen: believe me, I’ve done it, and once you’ve read someone describing a baseball diamond’s infield as “marshmallows floating in a sea of hot chocolate”, you’ll understand what I mean. I’m still having nightmares.

That’s a positive, top of the morning entry, isn’t it?

Love to all

t.

the age of sport

(photo: New York Times)

I’ve become mildly obsessed with the challenge of Dara Torres and her fifth Olympic Games. Mind you, it’s a challenge to make a fifth Olympic team over the course of seven Summer Games – she retired a few times. At 41, she’s set American records, and won, both the 50 and 100 freestyle at the trials in Omaha – smacking down some more than twenty years her junior. I’ve got no clue just how hard it is to win any Olympic event but I’m pretty sure the dead sprints must be both the toughest to overcome, and the best option for an older swimmer. Maybe it’s like big punchers in boxing always maintaining the ability to hit real hard even if they can’t go 12 rounds anymore. Regardless, it’s an amazing run.

Speaking of endurance, Nadal and Federer went nearly five hours of court time before deciding the final 9-7 in the fifth. I was following the BBC text online all day before realizing that NBC was broadcasting the live video feed; I caught the last three games. What it made me think about, while reading the text online for over four hours, was just how great sportswriters of yore must have been; to relay the epic event while still providing the details that made you feel as if you were there even as you read the paper the next day. I quite enjoy it.

I turned to X tonight and said, “If I say MacArthur (as in Gen. Douglas…) what’s the first thing to comes to mind?” She says, “He smoked a corncob pipe.” Right. What I was looking for was some explanation of why I didn’t really equate his history (WWI, WWII, and Korea) with any particular time, event, or MacArthurian quip. Once again, I was not flexing my history ability – yet, I read a lot of historical stuff. I told her that what I was looking for was more along the lines of: he fought on both World Wars, escaped (?) to Australia in WWII before “returning” and flexing his military mind, he led the forces in Korea at 70 years-old, and was relieved by Truman because we were at a point of transitioning between the civilian on an military complex. She said she thought it was more of a free association exercise. I told her the corncob pipe comment was pretty free.

Cubs won two of three in St. Louis this weekend.

T

one car leaves the house going 50mph...

I’ve done a bit of back-of-the-envelope mathematics in some sort of vain attempt to conjure a reasonable idea about gas prices, the World oil supply, drilling, and prospectin’. From what I’ve corralled, and I’m going to round the scary numbers to make the math prettier, we import about 10 million barrels of crude oil per day. It obviously comes from a number of countries in varying amounts so I’ll just deal with a few of the rebel and unstable countries we like to castigate, Venezuela and Saudi Arabia, in order to demonize either them, our use, or our own insecurities. Combined they account for about 25% of our daily imports (about 1m from Venezuela and 1.4m from Saudi Arabia per day, respectively.) In order to eliminate our need for either Hugo Chavez or the House of Saud, we need to somehow either increase our own production (or buy from someone else) or simply reduce our use. There’s a thing called CAFÉ, the Corporate Average Fuel Economy, standard that notionally applies to corporate fleets but can be used as a simple measuring stick of what’s going on out there. The average on-the-road fuel economy for cars is sitting at about 25mpg and for light trucks it’s about 20mpg. My premise is this: build, sell, and own more fuel efficient cars (and trucks, if you must.) In order to offset that 25% of imported oil we could increase our economy for cars to 31mpg and light trucks to 25mpg and be done with it. No need to wait ten years for drilling the oceans or ANWR in hope that it will alleviate the problem sometime in my late fifties. If that seems like too much to hope for then how about everybody carpool to work once a week? It almost seems like everyone carpooling once a week would work out to each person who’s riding alone in a car saving 20% of their Monday – Friday fuel usage (more math). Twice a week? Now we’ve got 40% savings Monday – Friday.

On a lighter note…

We went to see Lyle Lovett and his Large Band at Wolftrap last night and took advantage (?) of the Metro Transit Authority’s bus service from our Metro station to the venue. What happens is this: you pay $3 for the roundtrip fare with buses departing every 20 minutes from West Falls Church station. It’s about a 15-minute ride to Wolftrap and the bus deposits you right at the entrance to the massive amphitheater. The theory, and it worked better last year, is that you don’t have to deal with the mass of parking and traffic and you can just flounce on and off a bus like a celebrity. Last year there was a different system involved between the buses, the traffic cops, and Wolftrap. Last year they would actually stop all the traffic leaving the park and allow the buses to drive straight out onto the exit road – it saved loads of time. This year they seem to be making the buses wait in line just like every other car so the advantage is seriously diminished. Anyway, what the Eleven was laughing about upon arrival is the bus driver passing along, and passengers hopefully understanding how, the return ride rules apply: the buses, all of them, will leave the venue 20 minutes after the show or at 11pm, whichever comes first. We immediately put forth the idea that the driver actually should provide real examples to some of the concert goers who looked, and probably were, confused. Maybe before you can exit the bus you have to answer some word problems, things like this:

Driver: “Suppose Lyle Lovett finishes at 10:15pm. What time are the buses departing?”
Rider #1: “11pm?”
Driver: “Incorrect. You need to find a friend who understands directions.”

Driver: “Let’s say Mr. Lovett ‘finishes’ his show at 10:45pm but he hasn’t played Closing Time or If I Had a Boat and you love those songs - you came for those songs. So, you know there’s at least one encore coming – as always at these things. What time is the bus leaving?”
Rider #2: “When will he finish playing If I Had a Boat?”
Driver: “What? You need to hang around the other guy who’s confused. When will he finish…Jesus.”

Driver: “Okay, someone help me out here. The former Mr. Julia Roberts decides he’s dog tired and only plays about ninety minutes and walks off the stage; the house lights come up, you look at your watch, and it’s only 9:20. When does the bus leave?”
Todd: “9:40pm.”
Driver: “Great kid. Let me ask you one more. Ol’ Big Hair finishes playing If I Had a Boat and it's now 10:55 – that’s for Rider #2 over there – and that’s the encore, end of show. Lights up and people start heading out. What time does the bus leave?”
Todd: “11:00pm, but me and the two confused riders latched to my ‘don’t get lost’ rope are going to have to haul ass through sidling suburban crowds, roller coolers, and assorted lawn chairs in order to see your smiling face.”
Driver: “Well said” [fist bump]

t

a what?

It’s yet another entry in the grand archives of online commentary from BBC bloggers covering sport; this one credited to Tom Fordyce. It's from the ongoing second set of the ladies semi-final between Venus Williams and Elena Dementieva (read from the bottom. The top is the most current with the score in this set):

Dementieva 3-4 Venus
Demen's nowhere near one. She's now screaming on almost every point. On reflection, it's more Hattie Jacques having rump pinched by Sid James than the Victorian lady scenario described earlier.

Dementieva 3-3 Venus
Demen's best hold of the match - to 30, which for her is as untroubled as it's been. Now for a pop at a break...

Dementieva 2-3 Venus
Tiniest hint of a change in momentum; Elena seems to have realised that she'll have to go for her big guns if she's to have a chance, and a gambler's forehand sends Venus scrambling fruitlessly. She has a roll of the dice at deuce but puts her chips on a forehand wide and sees the ball drop the wrong side of the line. Venus holds, and Demen produces a drawn-out scream of the sort you might expect from a Victorian lady shocked in her boudoir by a rakish manservant.

Brilliant.

t.

all presidents

Here’s a review of a little thought rampage the Eleven had in the car yesterday. If you must know, it was driven by my somewhat middling description to her of the Continental Congress functioning depicted in John Adams (HBO) that I’m watching on DVD these here days. The first thing I asked was this: if you ask a bunch of Americans who was our greatest President, how would the voting break down? I originally asked X what three would mostly likely be named. She immediately guffawed at my asking for three, thinking I was mentally unstable, and pointed out that there would only be two that anyone would consider: Washington and Lincoln. (Washington is prominent in the first and second parts of John Adams and we’ve already spent time on the Hilltop discussing his personality and position.) This sort of rolled into how many people we thought would recognize a picture or either if we held up just one 8 x 10 glossy and said “Who is this?” The summary seems to be that in the greatest President debate it would probably lean to Lincoln by some margin; though I might be willing to see something very close to a 50-50 draw. As far as recognition is concerned, we seem to think Lincoln is probably the most recognizable person in all of American history. The second little nugget was the drafting of the Declaration of Independence by Thomas Jefferson. I hadn’t realized he’d written almost the entire document - I’d assumed it was more of a team effort. What came to my mind next was more of a curse than a political view: that bastard John Hancock. I’m going on record as saying that if you asked around about who wrote the Declaration of Independence you’d get a ton of responses saying, “why, John Hancock, of course.” I know he was president of the Congress and all, but his big, overwrought, “look at me” signature covering half the spare space at the bottom is gauche. Just because you get to sign first doesn’t mean you have to be so damn grand. We still have people referring to “John Hancock” when they ask you to sign something; we don’t even know who John Hancock was, really. I guess he must have written the thing.

It is what it is.

t.

by the book

Last Friday’s Politics Hour with Kojo Nnamdi on WAMU here in Washington D.C. was one of the most entertaining and enjoyable political discussions I’ve heard in a long time. I Podcast Kojo’s shows and listen a day later during my walk / bus commutes. A good portion of the hour was spent on the D.C. gun ban decision and the guest being D.C. Attorney General nominee Peter Nickles who was very clear about what the D.C. council and mayor would do over the 21 days they have to comply with the Supreme Court’s decision. He says that new licensing regulations would not allow any weapons currently banned as dangerous (assault weapons, machine guns), as well as not allowing registration for automatic/semiautomatic handguns or any that could be altered to become such. There will be a waiting period, a requirement to know the D.C. gun laws, no licenses for carrying the guns outside the home, and a requirement for a trigger lock on all handguns when stored. A few of those issues were addressed by the decision, primarily the trigger locks, but I suspect all of them could stand the test - aside from the semiautomatic issue; seems to me you’re talking about only allowing registration of revolvers.

Aside from the handgun discussion, the other guests on the show along with the other topics proved an inviting hour of radio. The two guest co-hosts, Bruce DePuyt and Bill Myers, were both on top of their game and the rapport between everyone showed that there can certainly be some humor, and well-researched positions, when dealing with political issues. You can listen to the show here if you have an hour while typing, scrubbing the kitchen, or playing online games.

I’m enrolled in training next week to work as a volunteer at the Library of Congress Research Assistance Office. I’ll only work one Saturday a month but it’ll give me a badge and a chance to wander around the stacks that are generally off-limits to the public. L and I always visit when she’s here and we end up peering longingly down into the research room you see in most pictures of the Library. Am I going about this all wrong? L gets here on the 12th and will be staying for four weeks: three weeks of camp at the Smithsonian, Sidwell School, and a week of ‘working’ at a pottery maker, before we spend our last week up in Stowe, Vt. With a near empty house these days I’m sure we can squeeze her in somewhere.

shoot 'em up

As if I wouldn’t have something to say about Heller v. District of Columbia.

Even though I parse the verbiage of the 2nd Amendment differently than Scalia and Co., I can live with the decision that clears the decks for dealing with the gun issue in America . What Scalia has given us, as X so rightly stated, is a stick in the mud.

Their interpretation of the amendment is based on how to equate the prefatory phrase (“a well-regulated militia) and the other grammar bit about “the people”. The majority opinion declares that “the people” are individuals, not a “common” people, and very clearly says that individuals have the right to have handguns in their home for self-defense purposes. What is also does, and a byproduct that surprises me, is state that laws prohibiting guns in schools and government buildings, as well as waiting periods, licensing requirements and the like, are all perfectly legal. Apparently in their parsing of the phrase they decided to either ignore the “shall not be infringed” bit or determined that it’s something they’d rather deal with down the road. Either way it will turn that Justice Breyer’s dissent will eventually tell the tale: the balancing of public good against the inconvenience or burden placeed upon the individual when any new cases make their way to the court. If we conflate the finding in the Indiana voting case decided earlier this year (Crawford v. Marion County) with any future gun licensing set of requirements we might be onto something. The Court decided in Crawford that the burden placed on an individual to procure a state-issued photo ID (“just pop down to the DMW on your off time”) was not a burden too great in order to maintain your right to vote. If future gun control laws require a thirty-day waiting period, a background check, a licensing fee, an annual or biannual renewal, then it seems reasonable – it’s some time and money out of your pocket but you can have your gun if you follow the rules; rules put in place for the public good. Of course, what I think is, “Why would anyone need the immediate purchase of a handgun anyway?” Why would waiting x number of days be an issue? Let’s say you come running into my legal, gun-issuing storefront (call it “People Kill People Guns”) and need a handgun right now, or by close of business tomorrow; the law may have decided that you don’t actually need it this minute but you can have it after meeting whatever requirement are in place. If you feel you need a handgun for defense in your home, you can have it – in your home. There’s no requirement for allowing either open carry or carry-and-conceal permits. If you have a gun and you need to come on down and renew its license then you’ll have to prove you still have the gun in your possession. It’s really no different than if you come down to renew a driver’s license: you need to prove your residence, prove your insurance status, and they’re going to make sure you’ve paid all your tickets. Thanks to the very clear language of the court’s decision it appears there are plenty of steps laid out before those that desire better gun control.

cool swiss

We'll keep it as light at possible on a summer Wednesday. With Wimbledon in full swing we're bound to have fashion to discuss; I'm nothing if I'm not a fashion maven. For some reason the grass at the All England Lawn and Tennis Club brings out the runway model in every player. I'd have suspected it would've happened on a more routine basis at Roland Garros in Paris but apparently there are two issues at play: first, the clay in Paris would make a mess of your togs and, second, the requirement to wear all white while participating in SW19 means that everyone needs to sort out something shocking...and white. Last year Roger Federer came to the court sporting a white blazer over tennis shirt and shorts; devastatingly handsome. The jacket idea has been pounced upon this season by a number of the ladies entries: Serena and some other female player I can't identify. Roger, being the leading man that he is (and at least one step ahead of the masses), decided to explode out this year with the smart cardigan and massive "gucci" looking manbag. It's nothing but top scores to him. 

In response to Fed's style sense last year, it appears that Shazza decided to bump up the ante and open this year's play by sporting not only the tuxedo jacket look on entry, but she played in the tux shirt and tux playing shorts. Touche.


Don't look at me that way. You know I already picked Federer to win (of course I picked him to win the French also) but my ladies champion is to be none other than Jelena Jankovic - two Serbs in a row for the women's Grand Slams

Hey to everyone.

t

p.s. I can go back to railing on people and politics whenever you'd like.

irish eyes

I almost decided to open with some ramblings about the military academies and their seemingly endless problems with religiosity; or, a couple of Supreme Court decisions handed down this morning. Instead, what I’m asking for is an extra $7m that anyone might have hidden in couch cushions or Swiss Bank accounts. I’m fully convinced that this is where we need to be living. Why? So everyone can come visit and hang around Ireland relaxing – it’s all for you, really. Consider your multi-million dollar contribution as some kind of timeshare investment. I’ll cook.

Loosely based on The Eleven’s NYC excursion to see La Boheme, we’ve decided to take in three operas performed by the Washington National Opera at the Kennedy Center this season. Even with fancy-pancy opera doings and big money donors about, I’ve managed to procure some front row seats in the first tier which should serve our needs just fine. (We’re on to see Carman, Turnadot, and The Pearl Fishers.) The last of the shows is in May so I’m going to swear off tickets, with the exception of any future Steve Earle or Tom Waits dates, until after that last show. I’ll live with hockey and opera.

If anyone has any question concerning the rule against perpetuities just let me know. I’m apparently still studying for the Massachusetts Bar on a nightly basis.

t.

s-a-t-u-r-d-a-y night

X had an appointment to get her back unmangled out at Dr. Sam’s this morning. From what I heard last night there was also the possibility of combining our jaunt out west with a few other errands: picking up a floor lamp and getting some good quality composted horse manure. I know what you’re thinking and I only ask for your empathy. Departure time was set for 9:30am, which might not seem early to the olden folk but it’s early for me on a Saturday. Needless to say, the boys were on their own for breakfast as we rolled out for coffee, Armenian sweets, and a stop to purchase some industrial waste bags for hauling manure.

I’ll skip the chiropractor visit, in narrative form, because I sat in the parking lot reading a magazine while she got done. It’s nothing to really speak of. The good part was our weigh station stop to pick up 350lbs of horse manure. Even with my minimal knowledge of manure and compost I could recognize the quality in this massive pile of compost. What really tipped me off as I mounted and secured the compost was this: X kept saying how lovely and beautiful it was. I think she calls me lovely and beautiful. Think about that. Breathtaking. I all seemed clear enough to me as she gasped in ecstasy. The greater issue was my lack of manure attire. She tells me afterwards that she was a little suspicious of my outfit that included some new sandals and clothes not really fit for mounting the mountain. She claims to have thought that “he must know what he’s doing since I’ve told him we’re going to get some composted manure.” That phrase means little more to me than visiting a local nursery and hauling a bag of ‘compost’ out on my shoulder. I was mistaken. I blame myself. I would think that if I’m heading out to get compost in a Mercedes-Benz then I’m excused from thinking a real horse ranch is the destination. Funny enough, we stopped at a nursery on the way home to get some kit for her plant seeds that are on order. This was my kind of nicely bagged compost nursery. She eventually got some good advice on seedling survivability from an associate who come up with this response to whether or not normal enriched soil we be okay for seedlings: “If it were me, I’d use the soil labeled for seedlings.” This ran counter to the first guy who seemed less interested in types of soil and directions. We got the soil (labeled and in a bag) for seedlings and headed home.

Our block mates had a block party this afternoon on our 20-house, very quiet street. There were plenty of kids, salads, casseroles, drinks, and big BBQ equipment. We’ve got a very nice group that hang around our block.

After the three-game sweep debacle down in Tampa, I can now report that the Cubs win…again. The first two against the cross-town Sox are in the books as wins.

t

things i hate

(Dan is exempt from reading this due to length and lack of focus - tcd)

“Drinking the Kool-Aid”

Do you remember the term “wilding”? I think it was newsworthy in the mid- to late- 1980s and used by various gangs running roughshod over New York City’s Central Park. I think it included mugging, robbing, assaulting, raping, and any other shitbag activity you can imagine being done in the name of losers. Maybe after twenty years we can step back a little and take the better attributes of wilding and somehow mangle it into our vernacular. Maybe we can use it when describing groups of folk getting together, supporting each other, and spending a crazy night out on the town. Maybe not.

Somehow we’ve become enamored of “Drinking the Kool-Aid” as both good and bad. I guess you have to be of a certain age to be able to pseudo-decrypt the meaning behind the phrase because I don’t think it came into use until years (decades?) after the event that’s the locus of its strength. The idea that anyone would say this about any other group or organization is eerie. Oftentimes, it’s thrown off quite casually when talking about a football team’s success, a company’s profits, or any other strong-willed group that has bought into a system. Sometimes it has a distinctly insulting connotation (“The Democrats have all drunk the Kool-Aid” quipped the Republican operative), but most of the time isn’t not nearly that overt. It’s become so horribly pervasive in American society. Maybe wilding wasn’t the best parallel. Maybe in ten years we can start saying that “the Republicans have gone all Koresh on us” as a perfectly acceptable way of saying that they’ve circled the wagons, locked the doors, and convinced everyone in their base that there’s a God-like figure gonna save ‘em – and they’ll use the guns just to make sure.

“It is what it is…”

If you’ve been in the military then this can be directly related to the “with all due respect” opening that might keep you from being court-martialed when you decide to tell a superior officer to kiss your ass. This has become the suffix appended, when challenged, to an insult or denial of any discontent. It sounds so sophomoric when you hear it coming from anyone over 15; hence my choice of definition. Imagine some confrontation with a co-worker who’s told everyone else at work that you’re a complete waste of time, money, air, cubical space, and sticky notes. You ask them about it in the hall and they say, “it is what it is.” I can almost picture that same person, ten years ago, making the “W” sign with their fingers and mumbling “Whatever, geez.” Of course, that same person, back then, probably had either a pierced tongue, a pierced nipple, or both. If you look closely you’ll be able to make out a tribal band tattoo on their upper arm. It’s all inane chatter substituting for actual thought. Hey, it is what it is…

“Throwing someone under the bus”

Wikipedia reports that a variant of this junk might have first been uttered by Cyndi Lauper in the 1980s. I hate this little riposte. I can’t even frame it in my mind – how many people ride buses and how many of those would actually throw someone under (maybe in front of?) the bus? I would think that throwing someone on the tracks or in front of the train would be a better option. Either way, this has become so pervasive that it’s more of an irritation factor than anything else; kind of like Richard Marx songs. The interesting bit about its usage is that it can be used by the person guilty of such behavior or by anyone attempting to pitch scorn on the person guilty of throwing someone under the bus. From what I see around these parts, the buses are always moving slowly in traffic or stopping all the time. Unless you’re going to drag someone kicking-and-screaming out to one of the expressways that provide access for express buses than I’m pretty sure the driver will have plenty of time to stop and yell at your target for laying in the damn road.

“Presumptive nominee”

When the hell did this become a life in being? I think Barack Obama, the presumptive Democratic nominee, and John McCain, the presumptive Republican nominee, are asking the same question. According to my trusty compact Oxford English Dictionary, presumptive means “presumed in the absence of further information.” Are we to assume (presume?) that there’s some information we don’t know about the nominees? Are we really so pessimistic that we feel the need to assume that one or the other has something so heinous in his closet that he might have to drop out of the race? I’m going to guess that the idea behind this turn of phrase came from the politicos of both parties who decided it would be best to use it as an indication of just how much they hate their own nominee; and as a way to de-legitimize them. I think the Republican base first attached it to McCain and the Dems simply followed suit. Everyone can chant it over and over in hopes that something happens and either the right-wing or left-wing crazies can eventually say they told us so. I have begun using it to indicate mystery and pessimism around our dinner plans. The other night X asked about my dinner plans and I told her that the presumptive menu included fresh Maine lobster, beluga caviar, a light frisee salad rinsed by “Holly Hunter’s tears” [© Patton Oswalt], and a bottle of 1969 Grand Vin De Chataeu LaTour. Of course, when I got home that night I realized I could neither afford Holly Hunter’s tears nor the ’69 LaTour. We had cold soup and slices of processed American cheese. I told her it was presumptive.

t

dinner and the date

I’ve given up on the self-imposed current events and politics blackout. I think I deserve some credit 15 days time served. I fired off an e-mail to a friend this morning concerning Obama and the presidential election and that seems to have busted the dam wide open. I bought the Sunday Times when I got to Reagan for my USO shift this afternoon and walked to my desk with a renewed sense of getting back into the game. Even though I didn’t make the goal, it was a welcome break from the ranting and raving about the blogs and news sites.

On the Metro this morning I spied a passenger wearing a “Club Sandwiches Not Seals” t-shirt. Though a creative logo, it’s not quite subtle enough to get me to chuckle. It made me realize just how fine the line is between subversive and merely catchy.

The Eleven hosted a dinner party for ten last night – our first in the larger ballroom space. Actually, we were hosting for Amy and her friends. The day finally evolved from cleaning and cooking to relaxing at exactly 5pm. Our timing couldn’t have been better as that was the planned arrival time and a few showed up smartly at 5. Dinner kicked off at about 6:30 and everyone appeared happy and well-fed by the time they headed home at 8:30. The old apartment’s dining room (for those that never saw it) housed the 6-person table with one short end against the window; the room was too small to squeeze even six in comfortably. The Hilltop has so much open space that we are able to set the table together with and the dark wood sewing table and very comfortably seat all ten; and there’s still loads of room for people to wander about or dance the tango. We like it.

The last two days of the U.S. Open have been amazing. Tiger turned a 30 on the back nine on Friday and then wrapped yesterday’s back nine with two eagles and a birdie. The doubling over in pain after any number of shots – and the scrambles to recover – may be too much for his final round today. I would love to see him win but I just can’t see 30- and 60-foot putts rolling in and chip shots dropping the cup. Of course, if he can get to the greens without too much damage he may be okay but that’s a tall order. There’s absolutely no good reason to believe he won’t tough it out and win but if I had to bet a paycheck, I’d take the field. The week has already been his most amazing golf performance regardless of today’s outcome.

t

p.s. that isn't our table up above. Ours was a bit more random.

sweet! law!

If the term cowpunk scares you off then you’d be best to either giddy-up along or skip the clicking on the little youtube arrow thing. There’ll be more afterwards.

This is a 1983 (year of my HS graduation) video of Jason and the Scorchers doing Absolutely Sweet Marie. This has everything you’d hope for in 1983 MTV offering: grainy camera work, huge hair, at least two guys singing into one microphone, girls in school girl outfits, guy walking down the street with his band joining him, cowboy hats, a bar, drinking, and a horrible overall storyline. Awesome. A few things to consider: first, Jason and the Scorchers were one of the greatest bar bands to ever live. Second, Jason and the Scorchers were one of the greatest bar bands to ever live. If I could possibly imagine any act whose music wouldn’t translate to video, it’d be these guys. In time you realize that CDs or videos will never properly reflect great live music that includes beer and smoke. If you get the through the entire horrendous three minutes than I admire your stick-to-ituvness. That is awful hair. Regardless, I’ll always love them.



X asked me a few weeks ago if I’d help her review for the bar; maybe 60 hours of time. She pointed out on night 2 that the initial askance/contract meant that asking was no longer required. I’m such a sucker. By the end of this summer I think I’ll be able to do well enough on the bar to at least be a public defender. Does that sound like a slap in the face of public defenders? Honestly, no intent.

We’re off to watch an episode of The Closer.

t