train a comin'

There’s some talk about the intertubes that the purchase of NBC by Comcast may spell the end of Hulu.com, which is a joint venture between ABC and NBC, at least as we know it. Maybe it evaporates into the ether or maybe they start to charge for me to watch TV shows on-line. I’d have a problem if it completely disappeared because we use it quite a bit, but I don’t, on very general terms, have an issue with a process that asks me to pay for what I watch. The ‘very general part’ is an assumption that since I’m not paying for broadcast TV now I wouldn’t want to have to pay for those shows in the future. What’s most interesting about this oncoming change is that it’s one more example of an industry that relies on technology but either doesn’t understand it, or simply refuses to see the future.

Here’s what we know will happen in the next few years: television will available on-line for a nominal (or free) cost. Television will be in homes via either cable, satellite, and/or broadband streaming over the internet. People will not be watching TV at set times every night in order to watch their favorite TV shows – it will all be on-demand, all the time. TV that is steamed via broadband will be available in quality that allows us to watch it on the actual TVs in our houses. My point is this: do you believe that any of those things won’t happen? Not a chance. In my mind, as I’ve pointed out in endless conversations, is that we know where we will be in three years’ time – and we have actual events to back this up (music, newspapers, books) – so why do the ‘leaders of industry’ refuse to either learn or lead? If I were to say to you that in three years time the stock market will be down 45% and bonds will be up 15% from where they are now, what would you do? I know that seems a simplistic point-of-view but it’s perfectly valid. Within that example, what the TV industry is doing right now is trying to buy a bunch of stocks under some misguided illusion that they can will them higher. What they are doing in the real world is trying to sort a way to maximize profits while continuing to operate using decades-old rules and restrictions as a prop.

My favorite example of this methodology is the easiest, and earliest, story: music. If you really rack your brain and think back two decades you’ll remember the historical timeline: the move from LPs to 8-tracks to cassettes to CD (and the horrible digital disc) to on-line delivery. There was never a point, particularly once we’d digitized the process where any one thought that time would stand still. During CD adolescence there was the gnashing of teeth and limitations on ‘recordable’ blank discs; you couldn’t buy a machine that would record. Even though we knew that recordable data sources were going to happen the fight went on and on. Then we had internet distribution and the industry simply dug in its heels, prosecuted people, yelled and screamed about profits, and then, effectively, went under. What they wanted to do was limit access, maximize profits, and fuck the customer. What a forward thinking company, Apple, did was figure out a way to simply be a conduit for the goods, at a reasonable price, and reap the rewards. iTunes does nothing but take the money, move the music, and kill on the bottom line. Why? They actually thought ahead and figured that you can be a part of the revolution or you can sit on your ass and cry. Good riddance EMI, Atlantic, Sony Music, et al – enjoy your days a non-entities.

If, for now, we set aside newspapers and magazines, book publishing is the next to fall. Not because the written (or electronic) work isn’t viable anymore but because the group of smarty-pants refuse to see the future. We may think that they see it with the Kindle and Nook but both of those products are delivery products, Amazon and Barnes and Noble, respectively, that are stomping the life from the publishers, and rightly so. What the publishers are trying to do is continue to charge $20-$24 for a new book that costs nothing to publish or deliver; they have no idea that we once again know the end result of the dream and it’s not in buying stocks…again. The publishers will continue to battle this until the last breath leaves their collective body and, in the end, they will also be irrelevant. They have a chance to continue as a business but the model has to change – the tipping point is here.

TV, both delivery and content, is clearly on the same path. I’ll look into my crystal ball and say, with certainty, where the content will be in the end. I will also say that I know what the delivery and content holders will try to do over the next few years. I will also say, with certainty, I know the final result.

What’s funny about all of this is that that I’m not averse to paying for music, books, or TV. I’ve paid for every song in my vast collection, I’ll buy books for a reasonable price, and I’d pay for ala carte TV. The funny thing is that they tried to not allow it for music, they are doing the same for books, and TV is only following suit.

Smartest guys in the room; that’s funny every time I hear it.

What now, bitches?

T

just a saturday

Apropos of nothing, or maybe something, I snapped a few shots on this Saturday. You get Lemon as she sits on her throne eyeing the snow; a lot more snow than we expected, and the real keeper - the box. X is going through her closet, and believe me, it looks like something exploded all over our bedroom. She dragged some empty boxes into the room earlier, pen in hand, and this is what I found. I worry.

love to all,

t

season's first

We've got our first snow on The Hilltop this morning. Before everyone settles in for the cold - and sometimes snowy - winter we always find the first snow romantic. Suckers.

quarter up

I'm a day behind on this, and X didn't find the story very interesting, but I'll pass it along, regardless. If you hail from the the Plains, Great Midwest, or varying portions of I-95 and Pennsylvania then you know from Skee Ball. We aren't talking about Chuckie Cheese or little kids-disco-light 'Skee Ball'; this is bowling alley, old-time arcade, and midway Skee Ball. I remember long ago when my brother and his friend (Dave or Dan?) played an entire day of Skee Ball at Peony Park in Omaha so they'd have enough tickets to buy eight, stemmed Budweiser glasses - that was big time, but that's not the point.

On my way home from the Caps game on Thursday night there was a couple sitting in the seat in front of me on the Metro and she pulls out her iPhone and starts to play electronic Skee Ball. (If you've ridden the Metro you know that anything going on in the seat in front of you is perfectly visible, especially when they are drunk and gabbing about their iPhone.) She'd only been playing Skee Ball for a few seconds before I knew she wasn't from any of the areas listed above. She's rolling her balls up the middle of the run...as if that's the professional method. I was tempted to remove my headphones and set her straight: in Skee Ball, if you want to properly impress the crowd, you'll need to bank your shots mid-bumper and then sit back and tally tickets. If you want to hang anything near 350-400 points you'll never get there going straight. It was almost unbearable.

Then again, maybe she didn't care.

t

hey, what's this thing do?

A panel of experts, appointed by the federal government, recently changed its recommendation and said that such routine mammograms should begin at age 50 rather than at age 40.

Off to a horrible beginning. I read, and listened to, quite a load of commentary over the last few weeks that addressed this recommendation. At first, I was a bit confused on why they’d recommend waiting on routine exams but the more I heard, from both sides, the more it made sense. What’s vital is that this is merely a recommendation, with some strong supporting data, but it doesn’t hold the rule of law or stop you and your doctor from doing what’s best for you. Like many other recommendations made by various independent and professional groups, we don’t need to open up this can of misery where the Senate will now begin to “debate” and “amend” every fucking piece of health and it’s place in the bill – I will give you a paycheck if the Republicans don’t next propose an amendment saying that “the four out of five dentists recommending Crest” are full of shit and that any health care reform package must not include any reference to brushing and/or flossing. This was a huge mistake on the Democrats part and something that sits astride Harry Reid’s narrow and incapable shoulders

I can’t believe this stuff. Like we need these knock-a-looks to be so far down in the weeds.

“I put forth an amendment requiring that all insurance companies participating in the exchange provided coverage for non-hurty band-aids for all children.”

bothered in sleep

I’ve been babbling at X for at least the last year about racism, crazy folk, where we’re going in this life, and my despair on issues from wars to the New Haven F.D. Supreme Court case, and myriad other pins that clutter my wee brain. Now, I can steal what I think is the most dead-on explanation of what I’ve been feeling but been unable to articulate. What’s been eating at me is what I see as some form of deductive logic from our daily lives; when in truth, or at least in my view, how we react in life is more a inductive logic gleaned by simply walking our days; we take specific instances and infer that event upon a greater population. We don’t, even if we think we do, live our lives by some utopian belief that everyone is nice, everyone is happy, and that everyone treats us all the same. We know that’s not true and we know, from our daily frustrations, that it’s not how people live. The minority of encounters in our life draw the darkest marks and it's those instances where it turns on us and the ugliness rises so that we shudder and hide. Nevermind. Here's the explanation.

I also want to pass along a great piece, Daddies Win!, from Roger Angell in the last New Yorker. Unfortunately, you need a subscription to read it on-line - I guess if you get the New Yorker you've already read it, if not...do. If you don't have access, and you like reading the highest quality journalism, find someone to print it for you. I've given up on baseball, for the most part, but his summary of the Yankees' playoff run is simply stunning. Great stuff.

That's my cat, sleeping. She puts me at peace.

So does this...



Love to all.

T

blowing in the wind

Over the weekend I was cornered, or called over to the coffee table, to answer for my opinion on Global Warming. I was apparently next-in-line after X had addressed this same query; I attempted a deft escape by replying that we basically believe the same thing and, well, essentially…ditto. That didn’t seem to bat away my inquisitor so I decided to simply break out my big gun-theory created for just this moment: us. What I find most potent about this ideal is that is anchors itself in common sense and simply reaches out and touches our lives. Instead of interpreting and analyzing scientific data, and in place of the skewing of numbers to our own needs or yelling at each other (or using phrases like “Drill, baby, drill!”) why not just look at our house and our life and contemplate behaviors. If you think about your daily life and its influence on what’s immediately around you then you’ll know there are simple changes available. Let’s say you’re at the market and you load all your groceries in shitty little plastic bags. Why? First of all, they are horrible for carrying anything. Second, do you like the idea, or vision, of all those bags floating about your neighborhood and hanging in trees and shrubbery? Probably not. We can go out and buy reusable bags for next to nothing and eliminate that problem. What about when you leave the house and turn the heat (or A/C) off for the day; what’s crazy about that? You save some money and don’t burn up fuel. Maybe you decide to ride a bus, ride the Metro, or walk from here to there. Maybe you decide to buy a smaller car because you’re tired of paying $120 to fill up your truck or van. Who knows? There are loads of things that sit within your own circle that will do all of us some good without even contemplating the larger circle beyond your neighborhood or city. If you think about spending less money, cleaning up your life and home, and trying – even just a bit – to cut back on the obvious stuff then we’re halfway home.

We import about 30% of our oil from countries we seem to label, somewhat blindly, as “terrorists”; most of our imported oil actually comes from Canada and Mexico. If instead of fighting a huge tapestry of ‘eliminating oil usage at all costs’, we started in the backyard and worked toward a 15, 20, or 25% reduction then we’d be well on our way. A small piece in our house, where we cut back by 20%, isn’t at all painful and if we all make a similar decision it’d be better all about the place.

Maybe in ten years we’ll won’t be debating reduction in petroleum usage but celebrating new and renewable sources. What’s weird about global warming is that it’s not actually an argument, is it? It’s not a battle between armies massed against each other, really. Just the common sense around your life and home is a good enough start.

Granted, my answer while sitting on the coffee table wasn’t quite as detail but the gist was the same.

At that point, I excused myself and made a cup of tea.

crafty vegetables

The Eleven got up early-ish yesterday and spent Black Friday doing something much more interesting than even contemplating stores and malls: we drove about southern Vermont visiting artist studios around the Putney area. We'd done the tour over Thanksgiving weekend in 2005 and it was high on my list this year. Putney, and the surrounding woods, is surrounded by what must be hundreds of beautiful studios and artists who create every type of art you can imagine. Yesterday we narrowed down our list to six or seven that included pottery, tiles, quilting, Japanese woodworking, bookbinding and prints, and a spinnery. With a loads of rain in the morning the studios weren't overly crowded so we were able to stay warm by diving into studios warmed by wood-burning stoves.

This morning I headed into Brattleboro to gather some root vegetables at the Winter Farmers Market. The holy grail was a Gilfeather turnip that I was clued in on at Thanksgiving dinner at Ellen's. She made an unbelievable turnip soup and discussion rounded back to exactly what type of turnip was the genesis of the dish. This led to some ooh-ing and aah-ing by the locals as they spoke in hushed tones of the heirloom Gilfeather turnips. I have no way of knowing whether it was Ellen or the turnip (that would be a great book name: Ellen or the Turnip) but I'll have some idea when I make soup next week from the five-pound Gilfeather that's safely ensconced in the car. I also grabbed loads of massive parsnips for roasting, what appears to be a five-to-seven-pound bag of organic hardstem garlic, red and golden beets, and three pounds of beautiful Jerusalem artichokes. All will travel well back to Northern Virginia and end their service in soups, gratins, and myriad roasting pans.

There's a short story about Laurel, a small goat, and I from a visit to Vermont a few years back. Maybe I'll jot it down, have Laurel add to and edit it, and then pass it along. Either way, the above is another Vermont picture; it's the barn next door that plays a central role in the Laurel and the Goat tale.

We're loading up the car this afternoon and will drive halfway home this afternoon. We'll be back on The Hilltop pretty early Sunday afternoon.

t

happy day

We've made our way to the North, arriving yesterday evening, after doing half days up from the D.C. area. The clan'll head over to the hostess' digs shortly but we wanted to wish everyone a Happy Thanksgiving from The Hilltop - on the road. Here are few snaps of southern Vermont on Thanksgiving afternoon.

Love to all.

t

pumpkin hunting

While I was letting Pumpkin out the front door about a month ago I heard a scrabble-scrabble sound coming from the porch, the left of the door. (Our front porch is big-ish and runs an L-shape around the front and side of the house.) Pumpkin was doing his usual worrying about crossing the door threshold as I stuck my head out the door and took a look for the squirrel that was no doubt making the noise. Sure enough, he was standing about seven feet from the door and peering back over his shoulder toward the door; he wasn't much concerned with me or the cat. As Pumpkin hopped through the door he headed towards the squirrel who'd slowly started to move across the porch toward the steps. My impression after this encounter was that all the small forest animals of The Hilltop have long been aware of Pumpkin's lack of claws and somewhat slow-motion life; they have few worries. (Not that cats hunt-and-kill squirrels although 'twere it Lemon the Ready coming out the door that squirrel might've died of heart failure.)

Sometime later that week H. told his mother the yard-as-story history of the squirrel family that lives in the trees of our back hill. Apparently, the 'couple' has some kids - I think the number is three - running about and the mother squirrel is something of a battleax - my word added to H.'s description. The father squirrel, as relayed by H., spends as much time as possible at the neighborhood pub, bowling alley, or generally anywhere he doesn't to listen to the kvetching of his lovely squirrel wife. Fortunately, we've got loads of trees and a good perimeter that provides him safe distances from his homestead without forcing him across other squirrel nations' borders.

About a week after the first Pumpkin / door event I was again letting him out in the morning and when I opened the door this time the same squirrel was at the door, as if he'd knocked or hit the doorbell, up on his haunches, and clearly waiting for Pumpkin to come outside. The opening of the door didn't distress him one bit - nor did I - as he was waiting for old Land Squid to come outside. By the time Pumpkin traveled the last five fee to the door the squirrel had moved off a few feet and again hopping very slowly toward the stairs. The cat carefully leapt over the threshold and started to follow the squirrel down the porch. I guess that as my laughter at this strange friendship subsided I remembered how many times I'd seen Pumpkin slink around the slide of the house, down the garden path, 'hunting' whatever it is a cat like him could hunt, I realized that cat and squirrel spend a good part of their days playing some sort of hide-and-seek with each other. They both benefit, with Pumpkin getting a chance to 'catch' something, and squirrel spending his days ignoring his responsibilities and earning a piece of mind.

Even our cats have been turned to strange creatures...

(untitled)

"The true culprits are those who mislead public opinion and take advantage of the people's ignorance to raise disquieting rumours and sound the alarm bell, inciting the country and, consequently, other countries into enmity. The real culprits are those who by interest of inclination, declaring constantly that war is inevitable, end by making it so, asserting that they are powerless to prevent it. The real culprits are those who sacrifice the general interest to their own personal interest which they so little understand, and who hold up to their country a sterile policy of conflict and reprisals. In reality, there is no salvation, no way out either for small states or for great countries except by union or conciliation."

Baron d'Estournelles de Constant
Introduction to
The International Commision to Inquire into
Causes and Conduct of the Balkan Wars, 1912-1913.

politics

This is a bit that's gotten funnier since the day we watched it. It's an entire episode but all I'm interested in passing along is the James Carville bit that starts at the 7-minute mark.

"You ain't tall; you just clever."

Brilliant.

thunderbirds are go

It looks like L. will be moving here in January for her next semester of school, and hopefully, the summer of 2010. We're sorting details, schools, bedrooms, etc. but it's all a very exciting prospect. I'll have more details, as if those are needed, in the near future.

X. decided while out-and-about over the weekend that she was meant to create a desk/computer/work corner in the living room. The area was already set with a table, computer, chair, and whatnot but she decided - at the store - that what it really needed to be was a corner full of a memory-foam pad, nice linens, pillows, and other accouterments required by queen-like entities. What we have now is a removed table and a floor-based semi-harem looking area where she can sit on the floor or kneel whilst doing whatever it is she does in that corner. My very first input/question was this: what are the odds, do you think, of both cats and both of your children deciding that your pillow carnavale is the best place in the World to sit, nap, sleep, or just mill about? She feigned surprise that any of those four would even contemplate entering her castle. Sure...that hope will work out just fine. Pumpkin spends time curled up in the wall-corner beneath the bookshelves so that he's protected from any "death from above". Of course, she was correct on Lemon; Lemon would just as soon die than spend any time in or near her competition. Lemon looks at the entire configuration in disgust - as well she should.

We've got a jaunt to Vermont next week. We'll leave here on Tuesday night and drive halfway with the finish on Wednesday morning. The plan is to avoid the I-95 traffic and run the left/right-hook through Pennsylvania and New York State (see you various 80s interstates). I'll keep everyone posted from the road. X's cousins are hosting Thanksgiving and I'm working that day merely as a sous and then fully running the day-after-Thanksgiving festivities and cooking. Interesting...

wrapping the weekend

While working - nay, manning - the LOC information desk yesterday I had one of those special moments. A gentleman and his girlfriend came to the desk and asked to see "the instruments"; we have a collection of violins and cellos on exhibit in the Whitthall Pavilion. They include all the great instruments of the day: Stradivarius, a Crisler donation, and about a half-dozen other pieces. The Whitthall isn't something that folks wander through as a matter of course being that it's a room off a downstairs hallway, but in my 20 months at the LOC I've had maybe 20 folks who've come to specifically see the instruments. The Library also pulls them out quite often for concerts in the Coolidge Auditorium by traveling players. Anyway, once I got the key from the supervisor we headed downstairs for a quick look and I find out that this gentlemen is the guitarist for Pete Seeger and has been building violins by hand for over 40 years. You will rarely in your life witness such happiness as I saw when he caught a glance of the instruments; there may have been tears in his eyes. His girlfriend, who'd found about the exhibit on-line, was all smiles to see just how happy he was to come across all of this on their visit to D.C. (they came down from NYC). I had the benefit of getting a nice, in-depth explanation of the shapes and design of violins - something I found horribly interesting. After about 45 minutes of joy they headed out with plans to come back to the City - the next time I told them to call ahead and speak with the musical instruments librarian; they are perfectly happy to actually pull out the pieces and let folks examine and hold them. It was wonderful to see them head out on the 1st St. NW so happy.

I'm watching the Sunday night NFL game on-line; Colts v. Pats. If the fans of each team (or haters of each team) can throw out that bias, watching these two teams is what football is all about. Both of them are so well-coached and so much fun to watch that I think they may be the only teams across sport that I'll watch and not have a rooting involvement. Brady and Manning are really something like heavyweights going at it. Great stuff.

It's looking more and more like L. will end up here in January. Details are being sorted but if it works out I hope she'll be here until the end of the summer...updates to follow.

rave party

Neither of us had seen A Streetcar Named Desire in any form (film, stage, or read on parchment) prior to last night's show; we both had a passing familiarity with the DuBois sisters and Stanley Kowalski. One of the finer points put forth by X, as we rode the Metro home, was that there's no real need to see it in any other iteration; the quality last night laid a perfect vision for how the characters should be brought to life. I know that seems unfair to say being that we have nothing to judge it against but follow along with her reasoning. Blanche and Stanley must be horribly difficult characters to bring to life without going overboard. Both show sides of personality that change drastically depending on who they are with or what state of mind they are experiencing; both could also be overacted, and no doubt have over the years, and that would make the 3:15 show almost unwatchable. Even though we expected Blanchett to be good she was better than imagined. About halfway through the first act I was also convinced that Joel Edgerton, as Stanley, was the equal of Cate. I thought he perfectly played the myriad of emotional personalities one would expect from the character - without going into hysterics. I'm going to guess, perhaps against all sense, that Brando overacted. (WaPo review here)

The show was our first time in the Eisenhower Theatre at the Kennedy Center and I must say I was quite pleased. The seats are very nice, there's loads of leg room (for a theatre), the acoustics were excellent, and the temp just right. I know, these seem like small things but they all bother me if the don't fall into place - at least rudimentarily.

The Library has been slow for the most part today. Not a lot of tourists as everyone is saving up travel time for Thanksgiving and Christmas. The weather, overcast with light rain, is probably keeping some of the locals away.

We have a dinner get together tonight with folks only 'known' as other parents of students at H's school; always an interesting mission when you don't actually know anyone via interaction. We'll see how the roasted vegetable, puttanesca sauce, and pesto lasagna goes over as our pot luck entree. If nothing else, it'll be the heaviest dish by weight.

desirous

I'm running around a bit today getting errands done, cooking pizzas for tonight's dinner and a veg lasagna for some New School parents get together tomorrow night, all while getting ironed and ready for the The Eleven's date at the Kennedy Center tonight. I managed some very nice seats for Cate Blanchett in A Streetcar Named Desire; it was long planned and in early for seats to the soldout run. The reviews have been great and I'll add my wholly amateur input tomorrow morning from my seat at the Library of Congress information desk.

All's well here aside from the endless rain.

t

I wore headgear...but only while sleeping.

Sometimes I'll just link; I know it's lazyish but what the heck. I've said or done just about every single one of these - not necessarily in a car but probably...sort of...

replaceable

Just in case you think, for one minute, that a place in this place is secure, consider this: I chucked both my immersion blender and the full-sized blender into the bin over the last week. I had an old Proctor-Silex immersion blender and I'll say one thing for it, and one thing only; it's the best immersion blender on Earth. You don't need crappy attachments, bowls/glasses to blend in, or any other junk to be happy - get the Proctor-Silex. That's it up above - a newer version than my decade old gem - get it. Trust me. (My impatience on purchasing will be evident, momentarily.) It's also plastic so it's good for teflon; and it's one piece. Don't buy into the two-peice construction myth. Think about it this way: I can give you something that is one piece or something that's two piece. What do you want? Aside from a hot bikini it's the greatest mystery of life. The important trait of the P-S, or any other immersion, is the size and placement of the openings. After mine finally busted after the eleventy-billionth batch of soup I headed to Target (source of my previous purchase) but they didn't stock it any more so I grabbed what I'll dubbed the piece-of-shit Oster immersion. Absolute junk. The holes were too small to puree anything so you had to do the dreaded 'tilt'. Granted, after a few tilts go bad and you have hot soup all over the stove and your sweater you get a little better but it's such a pain. Eventually, after about a month it melted and met it's potential - the garbage. After my dearest very subtly requested split-pea soup for dinner I realized I was in the shite with no blender. (The full-size, and not doubt related, blender hit the trash after I attempted to round out a batch of romesco last weekend - seriously, it was rotor blade carnage about The Hilltop.) I couldn't find a new P-S so I went with the Cuisinart which has a better opening system around the base (blender base), is one piece, and plastic vice metal construction. It worked much better this evening than the trash Oster but it's not the same. Unfortunately, I didn't have time to order a new gold standard online, mostly due to laziness, but I'll keep you updated on my findings. Is this more than you needed to know?

I'm into the new Radney Foster offering as I type - probably the closest thing to real country that I listen to these days; and Radney's good.

Peace.

t

warn, fate, eat

So, I’m sitting at my nemesis light this morning, first in line to turn right from lane 2, and I hear screaming sirens and see the flashing lights of an ambulance crossing from right-to-left in front of us. The left turn arrow kicks on at about this point and the guy in that turning lane hits the gas and off he goes. For some reason, I honk my horn at him hoping to get his attention so he’ll stop and not get t-boned by an emergency vehicle. I immediately realized that if mindless driver guy doesn’t hear – or respect – the sirens then my horn is useless. I consider it a self-critiquing moment.

I nabbed my gal last night and took her to see Mariza at Lisner Auditorium in D.C. Mariza is one of the leading lights in the Fado world and she put on a lovely show. You know you’re enjoying it when you go through a 1:45-minute set and don’t understand a word (aside from her lovely version of Smile toward the end). As you’d expect from someone of her caliber, she had a fantastic band with her (Portuguese guitar player*, acoustic guitar, acoustic bass, percussionist, and sometime keyboard/trumpet player). The stage set, with everyone but her seated in a broad semi-circle, grew on me as the show moved along – the players all get a bit insider joke-y as the show went on and were clearly enjoying themselves. The percussionist and Portuguese guitar player, in particular, stood out for me. Mariza was engaging throughout with the between-song dialogue beautifully weaved in when needed. One of the last songs they performed – just her, and the two guitarists, sans amplification – was brilliant. She introduced it as a taste of how she (and they, no doubt) started out playing in tavernas of Lisboa. We were in the fourth row so close enough to fully enjoy the singing and playing. I should be able to give her voice a full review but my skills in that area are questionable. She sounded brilliant to my amateur ears and I guess that’s good enough.

I’m not sure what to make of this – I don’t want to influence folks too much – but, not only is the ‘happening’ perfectly normal in the world but the comments are priceless. Should I be worried that I don’t see death as such a problem that I can laugh at comments? I certainly would have stayed to watch the outcome. I guess there’s some warning required but it’s not gruesome or bloody.

T

* both the guitar, a Portuguese guitar, and the player, a Portuguese player, apply here.

mug shots

Here are few mugs from the last week; before they become stale. The first two are from the piano recital last Sunday. Why is it that recitals are, more often than not, held in a church? As if being 12 and trying to play some damn song isn't bad enough, they make you do it in a church. Believe me, I remember it well.

We decided that G. managed to break the land-speed record in his playing of Go Tell Aunt Rhody. Both boys were actually very good and I took everyone for gelato afterwards. Well, I took myself for gelato for my suffering and they happened to be in the car.

On Halloween we hosted the ulpan for Mavis' birthday party. It was smallish but fun. Between Mavis, G, H, Q, and Aida it worked out well; after the party part everyone headed out to The Hilltop for the candy grab.

Here's the birthday girl. Shhh, no need to ooh-and-aahs...she already knows she's cute and it's, quite frankly, embarrassing. I've had some good looking daughters in my life - I know from cute. Nice frock.

I only give you this last one to demonstrate how I am king of my castle. The cats aren't allowed in our room; this is all based mostly upon their initial arrival when I wasn't sure I wouldn't be allergic to them. The rule has remained in force simply because I don't really want cats all over our lovely bed. This is how we seem to find them of late; my domain (and bed) is clearly in jeopardy. Neither of them have an ounce of respect for me.

I need soldiers....

bang bang

I’ve already hit on the Avett Brothers recently but I realized this morning, while listening to their live performance of Murder in the City from the Newport Jazz Festival, that they’ve created something very close to my perfect song. Not only is it powerful but what they’ve created for me falls into the exact same box that holds another three-minute wonder: the box with Guitar Town by Steve Earle. This little box o’ mine holds these specific examples because both are preciously simple, musically, and lyrically stunning. Both are short with no filler and the songs led me deeper into other offerings by the artist. (It didn’t hear Guitar Town until about 1989 or 1990 while I was in Athens; by then Earle already released Exit 0 and Copperhead Road.) I don’t know that I’d call either song my all-time favorite because I’d have to include Someday, Someway and Wagon Wheel, but both are in the top 10. The difference between Murder / Guitar and Someday / Wagon has more to do with the arc of the careers: both Crenshaw and the Old Crows had just given us their first albums. The true power of both is that they draw you into the story behind those that wrote them. If I haven’t posted Murder in the City before, here it is:



Last night as we were finishing up with The Daily Show, X told me had two questions she needed answered. “All right,” I said, “fire away, I’m ready.” Question number one was: “Should I have bangs or not?”; question number two, “How often do you think about death?” My answers were “no” and “twice a year.” She felt the twice a year was a bit specific; I thought the bangs question was weird because I told her I’d never really seen her with bangs so there’s no reason to think I’d desire change. She told me she’s wore bangs ever since she’s known me. I told her, in my head, that she’s a whack-a-doodle. Bangs? I don’t think so.

There’s been a rash of birthdays over the last week that are being sorted of being addressed over the coming weekend. We’ve invited WonderTwin 2 over for dinner so that’s kind of covered. As for G., well, he had a family-ish party on Tuesday night (I was working the election so I didn’t attend) and a friends-come-over party on Sunday. On Wednesday night, after he finished his dinner of perfectly prepared salmon steak, he stop spinning around mindlessly in the living room, turns to me, and asks, “Todd, did you get me something for my birthday?” Hmm, let’s see if I can parse that innocent little question.

t

taking a stand

The other night, I think it may have been before heading out for Quiz Night, G. began a question thusly, “So. If Laurel moves here in the spring does that mean…”. There was actually a pause at this point and my mind quickly filled in any number of issues that might arise if another child ended up in the house: he’d lose his bedroom, he’d have to play nice with someone other than his brother, maybe he’d have fewer chores to do, his personal space and growth might be stunted; any of a number of childhood issues might bubble to the surface. The finish to his sentence of concern was, “…I won’t get to have orange juice with pulp in it?” Right, that’s exactly what I was thinking. I told him that since Laurel likes no pulp and he likes pulp, I would make the sacrifice and have both types available. In my mind the addendum to my answer was, “if this was the great concern of the day then the day wasn’t too bad.”

X has another four days of work at her current firm in D.C. before moving to what she calls a “boutique” firm on the 16th of the month. She’s decided to move on after just over a year and has been hired by a smaller operation that’ll make her work day much happier. (I didn’t spill the beans a few entries ago; I wanted next of kin notified first.)

Even though I reported it earlier I'll reiterate that I think we're moving quickly to winter here. We need to order a cord of wood and get it settled on the porch - fires galore.

More later....when there're more interesting nuggets.

mary

Over the last few months we've taken to watching The Mary Tyler Moore Show on Hulu.com. I vividly remember watching it during its original run (1970-77) but it must have been the later seasons when I was 10- or 11-years-old. Having moved from the Cities down to Omaha in the summer of 1972, my family has some midwestern connection to Mary and her crew. I don't know if this was a strictly midwestern ideal but I suspect most flyover state families felt a pretty strong connection. What's so great about the show is that every character is perfectly cast. I'd forgotten just how great Ted Knight/Baxter was while melding the huge ego of an anchorman with his employment at the fifth-rated local news station. Mary and Lou Grant have the perfect chemistry between not only employee and boss but the '70s relationship between men and women. And Mary...she's seems much hotter than when I was eyeing her, pre-puberty. Great TV. (In the season we're watching Georgette and Ted aren't married yet and Cloris Leachman and Betty White hasn't even shown up yet.) The final piece of this TV puzzle was the opening theme for the show. It apparently changed three times over the years - same song, different styles - and the episodes we're watching have the second version (third season) which I couldn't find on YouTube. Regardless, if you're old enough to remember the show, this will strike a chord:



I headed into D.C. this morning to gather some more hip cards to send to L. each week. There's a great place, Pulp, that stocks a huge selection of cards created by anyone other than Hallmark or the other junky companies. It's a pretty hip 14th St. NW storefront that both she and I enjoy. It's also right next store to a cool kitchen store; as if I need that.

I'm about halfway through my second viewing of Band of Brothers. The first time I watched was also on DVD while living in a tent in Qatar. I didn't know much about it at the time - living overseas and all - but ended up watching the entire set in a 24-hour period. This viewing only confirms my opinion that it may be the best TV ever made.

Another week on the horizon. I'll be working the Virginia elections all day Tuesday so it'll be a long one.

net prophet

One of my favorite rockers, Chuck Prophet, has a new album out this week: Let Freedom Ring! Chuck holds a special place in my heart after first seeing him hop up on stage at the Fillmore in San Francisco during my first Lucinda Williams show. Chuck joined the band, and guitarist Doug Pettibone in particular, on stage for an absolutely killer version of Joy. After the set I saw Chuck sitting on a bench in the upper lobby, all by himself, munching on an apple. After that, I found me some Chuck Prophet music. It wasn't long after that he came to Reno to play the Hacienda with his Mission Express - a simply stunning show. After that night he headed to Europe and I sent X to see him at the Borderline in what amounted to a virtual date (we each have pictures of us with Chuck at our respective shows.) The new CD was recorded in Mexico City and actually draws him away from the multi-layered stuff he's been doing for the last five years and deposits him right back into the heart of rock n' roll. Sweet stuff; he'll be here at Iota next month and we'll move our virtual date to a real date.

I was greeted at the mailbox today by both my acceptance letter to cooking school and my VA certification that will pay for the whole shebang - very good news.

The Eleven will do another Caps game tomorrow night - some sort of hockey date.

(Picture from my seats)

H. is working on his science homework and as an eighth-grader he's doing the somewhat standardized science-y homework that entails the writing down of experimental details. I remember so very well my 9th grade biology teacher, Mr. Kelp, hammering away at our science notebooks and assignments. Back then, in Omaha, our methodology was strictly this: Purpose, Equipment, Procedure, Data, Conclusion. Nothing more, nothing less. If you forgot one area then you were in for a world of hurt. Purpose. Equipment. Procedure. Data. Conclusion. Bang.

Our quiz results were once again right at the tenth-place of about 45 teams. I think X, who I badmouthed in an earlier post, might be right on your position in the 'Quiz World'. You are what your record says and you'll never win if you aren't right there from the get-go. Of course, this comes from a woman who spent seven years in England winning every week; well, glomming onto an already established winning team by shaking her moneymaker - no shame.

I had a great time at the Verizon Center last night as the Caps came from behind and beat Philly, 4-2. They fell behind 2-0 and then roared back in the last 30 minutes to win. When they beat the badass stormtroopers it's much more exciting then a struggling win versus the non-rivals. I'd rather see last night's game than a 4-goal night by AO versus a less worrisome rival.

No further details on my school or L. ending up here in January...I'm withholding nothing.

t

dinner, date, d.c.

(Holly Twyford)

I was watching the NFL pre-game show on ESPN and Chris Berman reported that the two former Bush presidents were going to be at the Houston game today and called them the "President Bushes", shouldn't it be the Presidents Bush? Sort of like Grands Prix? Just wondering. We're watching the dog down the street for a week so I'm spending the afternoon - post-dog walk - hanging around Daisy (dog) and her sweet HDTV; I have a new favorite thing.

We saw Lost in Yonkers in D.C. last night at Theater J. It's a pretty straight-forward Neil Simon play with wise-cracking dialogue interleaved with heavy family love issues. All the actors were very good but it only took a portion of the first act to realize that Bella, played wonderfully by D.C. legend Holly Twyford, was the holding center of the show. You'd be hard pressed to find a better cast across the board than what they've put together for this show. The theater, at the DCJCC, is a set-up perfectly (we saw Sandra Bernhard there last season). It's an eleven-row house, about 20 seats across, that was built steep so that every single seat has a full view of a beautifully designed stage. A very pleasing show all around.

We had dinner beforehand at Skewers on P St. NW. Even though the name is questionable, the food is excellent Middle Eastern fare. We split an appetizer plate and then both went with eggplant mains and red wines. Just perfect for a dinner before sitting for a 2+ hour show - until X decided she not only wanted dessert but then ordered the dessert with' supreme' in the name that included a lovely creme anglais, strawberries, and a dense cake. Needless to say, she then complained of being too full as we walked around the corner to the theater. I'm shocked...shocked! I think the most entertaining blurb from our dinner discussion was "We think the sumac is the most underrated of the autumnal colors."

She has biggish news and maybe I'll pass it along early in the week.

t

todds against bothersome monkeys

For some reason, far beyond me since it's been going on forever, I've been taken aback of late at political car stickers that intone "all of my type for Jackass" (feel free to change jackass to whatever or whomever you choose). I've decided that in my own little World I'll eliminate nearly all plurals from support stickers. If you want to tout "Blonde woman for the Death Penalty" that's perfectly okay - you just can't be "Blonde women for the Death Penalty". Any more than I can proclaim "Veterans for Free Love"; "Veteran for Free Love" is a whole different ideal. So, all of those that have any of the following: Democrats for, Women for, Gun Lovers of, Veterans for, Folks on Hilltop Place for, Dog Lovers for, Drying Clothes by Hanging Them Outside People for...knock it off. Kindly go out to your vehicle and cross off the 's' from your support sticker; or, if need be, change a vowel. You're free to be what you want but you're not free to claim me or the other 52% of the population. Thanks.

As is my chore sometimes, I stopped by the library and picked up a book for X to read in the evenings; a copy of Tom Robbins' Still Life with Woodpecker. I don't know from fiction but I'll say that this opening from the blurb on the back makes me wonder: "...is a sort of love story that takes place inside a pack of Camel cigarettes." What sort of story is that? It sounds as if there are loads of stories that not only take place in cigarette packs but, specifically, stories that take place in the packs of different brands. I think I'm going to entitle my blog "blatherings of the sort that you hear whilst standing in a boiling pot of spaghetti."

Speaking of Todds (see title), one of the questions from the quiz on Monday night was: Give the letter of the alphabet which is the first letter of the most World capitals. Right. X actually came up with the right answer immediately, and clearly from the blue, to which I sort of it wrote off as some sort of blather before I said "Tehran, Tripoli, Tokyo...I think it's 't'." And my tiebreaker between my 't' and her (eventually) correct answer was this "My name starts with T!" For those that know the WonderTwins, and those that do are blessed while those who don't are blessed, I'll let you think for just a moment about how much grief I got for my "my name is Todd and it starts with T" input. You give one WonderTwin some Guinness and ply the second with two Cosmos and you get the idea of the drive home. Endless...

If you want to know my reading stack then you can; I'm slowly working on The Believers by Zoe Heller and The Lost City of Z by David Grann.

Of you go now...

t

retest

I guess the quiz last night reminded me I hadn't posted for awhile; we didn't do as well as last week but it was a bit harder. I figure we finished about 10th out of 45, or so, teams. Who's going to remember walk current day animal most resembles the extinct quagga?

For some reason on Sunday night X decided she wanted to watch a Clara Bow movie. I agreed and then asked "who is Clara Bow?" We ended up streaming The Plastic Age via Netflix (and our Roku). For those not in the know, and who is?, Clara was a silent-age film 'star' from the teens and '20s. The Plastic Age (name for who know what) isn't really a Clara Bow vehicle as far as I'm concerned - she just played the hotsy-totsy gal who nearly ruins - no, she does ruin - the grand college life of one Hugh Carver, Track Star. You know her type: big eyes, little pursed mouth and too much lipstick. The cool thing about silent movies is that you can sit at home and talk or make fun of various bits in the film without much worry. In fact, you could wander off if you wanted and come back with a cup of coffee and be well caught up. The silents remind me of opera; lots of stuff supposedly happening but it's mostly just either singing or people moving about the place.

There's rumor about the L. may come here to live around the Holidays and stay through her next semester of high school. I'll keep folks updated on progress which is slow but gathering steam.

The Capitals' season is off to a bit of an uneven start but Mr. Ovechkin came ready to play this season - 9 goals, 8 games, leading the league in scoring. What I realized - again - while watching him at Verizon last week was that I'm very lucky to be in a city, and at games, with a sublime talent like him playing. If you want to swing by I have two seats for half the games; you'll be hooked. If you're interested, here's AO scoring both goals in regulation and the only goal in the shootout for the win - he does this stuff EVERY night.

We've got a little concert on Friday night (Tarbox Ramblers) and Lost in Yonkers at the JCC on Saturday. Conveniently, the boys will be out of town for the weekend so we can do as we please. Reviews to follow on both.

Our weather held nice for the last two days but I have no expectations that the depths of autumn isn't upon us.

Love to all.

t

adult SATs

We did the Pub Quiz on Monday night. I think we actually tied for fourth since there was the winning team and two tied for second (we were tied with another). Generally speaking, we did well for a rookie squad (The WonderTwins, one of X’s workmates, and I) scoring 79 (of 86) for the evening. The winners tallied 82 so we were close enough to sniff the lead and I think there were about 35 teams. X happens to think that her quiz experience tells her we’ll never win – there’s always two or three teams battling at the top, within a point or two of each other, and we’ll never get there…so she decrees. She’s so negative. If we’d gone with Alaska (state with the most national parks), Small Pox vaccine (which came first? the vaccine, X-rays, or penicillin), and known who the kid was in The Fast and Furious with Vin Diesel, then we’d have been right there. I may kick her off the team for malcontentness. Of course, the quiz has now become a must schedule event after this week’s outing. (Don’t let X know but I think her wanting to go every week sort of shoots down her quiz determinations. Who’d go every week if they thought there was no chance of winning? That’s what I thought. It’s not like she needs.)

I must tell this story. X stayed home today, relaxed on the couch, started a fire, and called report on both cats lazing about with her. She was also up last night around 3am and told me this morning that Lemon was aggressive in her desire for pets; she also told me that she felt my cat was overbearing. Her update on the cats this afternoon involved her telling me that she'd given my Lemon a warm plate of cream. What? That cat that you think hates you and would rather you didn't exist? And you think I treat Lemon as a princess? A plate of warm milk...her hard-hearted, self-proclaimed toughness is out the window. Warm cream.

t

crunch crunch

The boys had a couple of other boys – boys all about the place – to the house for a sleepover last night and we were once again floored by the eating habits of others. The two that came over were brothers, one of which is a classmate of H., and the four of them spent most of the day and evening speaking an unknown language whilst playing Magic (The Gathering) cards. I only give you the ‘the Gathering’ portion because the game is always given its full title when spoken by children. We decided to make a roasted whole chicken, homemade mashed potatoes and gravy, and peas; it’s a staple of the weekly menu and it seems like you couldn’t go wrong offering a classic, straight-forward dinner to kids you don’t know. If you believe that then you, and we, need to tuck that thought back into its mystery holding box. The younger brother didn’t even come to dinner because it was well-known to both of the visiting brothers that his eating habits are ‘picky’ and the chances of there being something on a table that he might eat was nil from the moment he left his house. The older boy did come to the table as H. and G. oohed-and-aahed as one of their favorite dinners arrived. The problem became that our guest began his input with “The only kind of chicken I’ve ever seen is…”, I’ll give you the same second or two that I had to imagine how this sentence might finish.

(waiting)

“The only kind of chicken I’ve ever seen is a McNugget.” Yikes. Not ‘in’ a McNugget but ‘a McNugget’.You may have been thinking the same closing was in store as I; something like “from KFC,” “in a Popeye’s bucket,” etc. Nope, nothing even in the shape of a chicken throughout his 13-year life. I really wanted to ask what they had at Thanksgiving – he was really only looking at a small turkey, after all – but I let that go when I saw the look of complete amazement when he first caught sight of a whole, non-nuggetized chicken. He wanted nothing to do with the potatoes, gravy, or peas but he did at least have two or three pieces of chicken. (I tried to convince him to give my ass-kicking mashed a try but there was no way it was going to happen.) As he was eating he did give us a little background on what his brother will eat: Cheerios, potato chips, white bread, Chee-tos, and some other junky fuel. I kept waiting for anything that would be doable: spaghetti, pizza…anything, but it wasn’t forthcoming. After dinner we offered the pickster a grilled-cheese sandwich which seemed to pique his interest. We told him we only had whole wheat bread which seemed okay to him until he saw that it had seeds on it; he manage to scrap his hand along the crust before deciding it might work. X sliced up some nice cheddar for him to make a sandwich while we went out for an evening walk. I knew immediately, before departing the house, that it wouldn’t fly in the end because the bread had presented problem #1; and, when he saw the cheese wasn’t a cheese food product wrapped in individual slices, and instead sliced from a block, he was aghast. He tried a small taste of it that X passed along and then slyly moved to the garbage can and spat it out. Needless to say, when we got back from our walk the bread and cheese were neatly deposited in the can. Over his 18 hours at the house he didn’t eat a nibble. The whole series of events was simply stunning. When a kid is allowed to work himself that far down the food eating chain then there’s little chance of recovery later in life. At least if a kid is limiting himself to meatloaf or pasta or anything of value he may eventually grow to try new things but I have no doubt this kid will end up eating nothing but frozen burritos and nachos, whilst sitting in his underwear, for the rest of his life. At 11, or so, his metabolism is high and he’s skinny but that’ll change in the future and I don’t think his parents cotton onto that fact. It reminds me so much of the problem of diet in America. I think we’ve gone so far down the slope away from good food that for loads of folk, urban or suburban, there’s no recovery. Maybe I’m crazy, maybe not.

I have a whole separate story from the WaPo over the weekend; transportation. Maybe tomorrow.

The Eleven, WonderTwin 2, and someone known only as “Poor Phil” are heading to the Irish Pub for Monday night Quiz Night. Results and impressions to follow.

step 1 step 2 step 3...

I’ve turned in all my paperwork to the Art Institute and now have a few weeks of waiting to see if all works out. Between them settling on my acceptance and getting the GI Bill stuff in order, it’ll take a bit of time; updates when available.

I remember way back in the early summer with the President said he was putting $12 billion toward community colleges. The Eleven looked at each other and did a little high-fiving since we both have CC experience and loved it; as did everyone we know that attended a CC. For some reason community colleges became the weaker option in the drive for secondary education back in the 70s or 80s. All the rankings of top colleges and universities, the money expended by families, and the growing financial input toward public and private universities seemed to confer a death knell on community colleges. From what I’ve seen, loads of community colleges seemed to recover and thrive at some point in the mid-90s. I’m guessing the resurgence was a counter-balance to all the factors above: state universities began to actively tie curricula to the regional CCs, the cost of spending two years at a CC and then transferring to a four-year program made much more sense, and the cache of major universities (especially when you consider the cost) probably waned a bit after the go-go 80s. Not only that, a four-year degree isn’t actually a requirement for what many people would like to do in life, at least not at first. Sarah sorted that out at ASU two years ago and moved back to CC to complete a vet tech degree, go to work, and then move to a four-year program if she chooses. Unfortunately, not a lot of kids (myself included) sort things out that quickly and it turns into wasteful spending, lost years, and some mediocre careers. Paul Krugman has an op-ed in the Times today that presents a lot of hard questions about our education system, its financial situation, and its future. I don’t want to sound too much like an old, cranky man but what the public schools are teaching, even in a well-regarded system like we live in here in Virginia, isn’t very impressive. They send homework out with the kids, stuff that is grades behind where the kids are academically, that gives the appearance of learning but it’s really just box checking for the school. In fact, I think what we are seeing at schools, at least here, is an academic year of holding serve followed by three weeks of drilling the kids for the standardized tests at the end of the year. I’ve ranted enough about education in other entries; I’ll just let it all hang for now.

Between my application process for the Art Institute, and reading Krugman’s piece, I’m again bewildered (surprised? finally remembered?) by just how much of your life you’ll always have to answered for. My life, for all its ups-and-downs, has been charmed; the complaints I may have all fall from the parts of my life over which I had total control but chose to half-step or ignore. The Art Institute, as with all secondary schools, wants your academic transcripts, and since they do quite a bit of trade and community college training they also want your high school transcript. I don’t even remember high school but my grades were good and aside from it being printed on parchment, I have no concerns. My college transcript is another story. Rolling that piece of junk into the light of day is embarrassing. When I was 18, 19, and 20 years old it just didn’t seem too important; I wasn’t interested in the pitched battle to make millions on Wall St. (it was 1983, after all and I was just about to vote for Reagen) so I justified not doing well by thinking that, in the end, I’d somehow sort things out. Hey, I had a girlfriend and someone else was paying for school…no worries. Well, thing did get sorted and turned out well but it was twenty years in the military that steadied things, not me. It was almost a lark that I joined in the first place but I ended up with a career, lots of benefits, and a good life. Now, yesterday, the fact that I’m telling the story of my 2 ½ years of poor college performance, which could easily have been stellar if I had made even an inch of effort, over a quarter-century later is a tough lesson in taking care of your business at every point in your life. Nothing disappears – you DO have permanent record – and you better know that you’ll never walk away and truly start over. While I was driving home from the admissions office and thinking about all of this it wasn’t so much under the guise of being a straight-A student, saving the world, being a saint, or anything along those lines. What it was, and what really grated on me, was that you can’t finish your life as you may choose when you’re 14 or 15 years old, but you can make that future significantly more difficult. If you take on any sense of responsibility and move through your youth as a B student then you’ll be fine; you won’t be explaining away how a B+/A- student in high school ended up with a 1.98 GPA after two years of college. It all seems so obvious, doesn’t it? I’m pretty sure that, as a community, we miss those chances to pass along this symmetry; we figure it will sort itself out in the end. Well, it may, as in my case; or it may not.

I think I need to give Laurel a call.

That was rambling. I’ve got nothing else….

Oh wait, I do. Here’s something brilliant to start your weekend.

t

that's that

I had a long interview at the Art Institute of Washington D.C. this afternoon - long enough to get a parking ticket - and the deed is as good as done. Someone, somewhere has said that two years will pass whether or not I choose it to do so; I'll do my two years learning to cook and having much more fun than I do now. Well, it's learning to cook beyond the "my girlfriend likes my food" cooking. There's a focus on baking and pastry which is fine with me since that's easily my weakest area. I can roll into a B.A if need be after I'm done; as if I want to be so into the business side. I'm an artiste. I kid. I suspect, based on the crew of artists, designers, and chef wannabes, that I may be referred to as "Pops". I love the kids. The school is right on the Metro on this side of the Potomac and I can easily work part-time and attend classes with the GI Bill. At some point, if I tough it out for six months I might be able to quit the contractor work and become a barrista somewhere. Who in this world goes to school in order to make less money? I feel very European. In a perfect world I can highjack my 'brother-in-law', the grand Christian, and Bryce when it's all done. Four for success or four for drinking; either is fine.

The institute has four brand new kitchens with all the great stuff I want in a school. They also run a restaurant on the top floor that lets you wait, cook, manage and run the joint. I'm not much for wearing uniforms so we'll see how this works out.

If not now, when?

adieu,

t

born to be a fiddler in this old-time string band...

Go Kevin, Ketch, Willie, Morgan, Gill....and Critter! Finally, an Old Crow Medicine Show concert DVD. Here's Wagon Wheel, which I've linked to numerous times - I'll keep hitting that lever until I make them the most popular band in America. I feel I'm a pretty good judge of music - at least the stuff I like, yep - and this it the best song by the coolest band, ever. The Eleven's string band date in London way back in 2004 is the stuff of legend; pure. legend.

Actually, I can't release you for the day until you've got some mouth harp...man, I'm in heaven...

get behind me, satan

An interesting day; I'll go backwards.

We did the Capitals home opener tonight at Verizon (a 6-4 win but really out-of-hand at 6-1 after two periods) and dinner at Rosa Mexicano. Maybe, at some point, X will relay all her "hockey arm candy" experiences - she says I can't, so there you go.

We went to the annual Crafty Bastards art fair in Adams Morgan (D.C.) this morning and her review of it was dead-on: Etsy.com with more people and heat. I'm more willing to dive into art fair crowds than she but it was a bit overbearing at times. We managed a lap through the goods and then headed out. As we exited onto 18th St. NW I noticed a sign on a post, one of those will the pre-cut pull tabs with the address and phone number, for someone selling all their plants due to an impending move West (S.F. as we found out). I hailed my gal - the plant 'thing' - and showed her the sign. It's only a block away and the plants on offer look quite nice so we wander over. You could not have shown me an apartment in the city that more perfectly matches my ideal. It was a narrowish one bedroom, one bath place across two small levels (the bedroom and bath being upstairs). The small back deck was totally set with growing bamboo shielding one side, lovely plants everywhere, and a longish view to the Washington Monument. A dining room table was at one end with the open living room and small kitchen as you moved back toward the door. Hardwood floors, dark colors everywhere...perfect. Of course, you couldn't put more than two in that layout so I began thinking of what to do with the boys. Considering it was in Adams Morgan, and within what I consider easy walking distance to DuPont Circle and various Metro stops, I was ready to move. We didn't end up with any plants but we had a nice conversation with the seller. As we left and walked down the tree-lined street I turned to X and told her that I'd found my place; she replied that it was because, like the current tenants, I have gay tendencies. Fine with me. Nice design, great plants, well-groomed...no issues there. I'm still working a plan to move to the city. Actually, we sort of agreed to move in when the boys move out after high school. I can wait seven years...

After the art fair - and plant mission - I swung by one of the few quality records shops left in the U.S.: Melody Records at DuPont Circle. I have to run in and grab the new Avett Brothers and Brother Ali; I'm not sure you could mix-and-match two more different artists.

She's had her bath, it's late, and I'm on waffle, apple compote, and coffee duty in the AM.

Hey to all.

t

it'll be a surprise

A whole bunch of theatres - live, singing, and drama theatres - nationwide are sponsoring a Free Night of Theatre deely-bob across the country on October 15th. All the metropolis(es) are participating and D.C. is contribuing loads of tickets. You already know that we try to get out and gawk at the singers, dancers, and actors as often as possible; I more often than the Eleven, but we do all right (X saw Helen Mirren last week in Phedre but she's too busy to give you a proper review). The Free Night allows people to get two free tickets to a load of shows around D.C. (I think 26 theatres in all) with just about every company participating from the Washington National Opera to my beloved Keegan Theatre crew. Tickets were available online yesterday from noon - with a warning that the nearly 4,000 would would go quickly - so I pulled- up the site at noon, in violation of my 'be at the site, locked-and-loaded' at least fifteen minutes early. I'd perused all the offerings and given X some options this morning based on available nights, Caps hockey games, rock n' roll shows, Gung Fu, and piano lessons. She put her finger on Lost in Yonkers at the D.C. JCC's Theater J. (We've been to Theater J before to see Sandra Bernhard's one-woman show last year.) I think she made the choice when measured against some of the heavier stuff I had on offer. Anyway, back to noon today. I'm good with tickets - the procuring of and quality seating therin - so I was confident I'd easily manage two for Yonkers. As a measure of ticket fights, I got two tickets for the Capitals v. Penguins Game 7 of the Eastern Conference Semis last season with less difficulty. I know it's mostly driven by the ones and zeros in the Internets but I was stonewalled at every turn - the freaky theatre goers in D.C. are hardcore. There's no way that site didn't crash at about 12:01pm yesterday. In fact, my building's power fluxed just after and I'm sure it was due to the bourgeois class trying to get free tickets to shows. (Since I pay for my season tickets to the Opera and Woolly Mammoth should I have stayed away and let others in? I pondered the moral hazard argument.) After nearly twenty minutes of hitting the 'site is overloaded and you can go to Hell' error message I did finally manage to get two for a Saturday night in D.C.

You never know when you might be foiled. Live with that motto.