what i did over vaca

Right. I'm going to tried to draw on my olden mind and cover what I've done since, well, since, then.

We've moved into the house. That was December 31st after closing on December 23rd.

We hired a gentleman who I'll call "Shaun Witt" to patch our floors, sand-stain-finish, patch walls, tear down a small closet, smooth out some weird stucco ceilings, and generally do work. He didn't. He tore down a closet, patched half the floor (poorly, after Corey did half), did a shitty job on the ceiling and dry wall, and fucked up the floors. He did manage to tear down a closet. Well done.

We paid another huge hunk of money to have some professionals come in and strip the floor down to bare wood, again. They stained and poly'd and it looks fantastic. The evidence is above. The dark, hot fudge, jackassery you see is Mr. Witt's skills on display - that's the finished "it looks good" room. The professional wood finish is, well, the professionals. (Nothing has been doctored and no animals were hurt in the making of that photo.)

I'm in my last quarter at school. My final exhibition show is in March at the National Building Museum in D.C. (Graduation is June at the same locale, but I won't be attending.) I'm finished the day I walk out of the museum in March. It's been a good program, overall. Some real high points, lots of middle-of-the-road stuff, and some real low points - mostly due one horrid instructor. Horrid. Regardless, 25 classes, 24 A's and one B+.

I saw a woman at the bus stop the other night with an actual Discman. She was changing CDs. Wow. This isn't horribly important I'd just thought I'd add it for texture.

How about that GOP race?

My work is stilling going well. I really like what I do even if I had a week or two where I had to simply destroy (or attempt to destroy) people for incompetence. I try, I really do. What I've learned is that as a contractor I actually am not suppose to do that - I'm there to just play along. I hate that. Regardless, everything is going fine.

We've booked the summer vacation already for Stowe in last July. It cannot get here soon enough.

About three weeks ago I decided I wanted to take my music off my iPhone and use an older iPod for music. I don't have to explain myself. Anyway, I plugged in my external harddrive (who knows why...you see what's coming), 'selected' the music folder on my 'phone', selected all, and hit delete. "Do you want to delete all?" my computer asks. Hell yes! (click). (Enter the sound of my external harddrive that holds all my music clicking, zipping, and smoking.) It seemed like hours as I panicked and tried to stop what I had wrought...I finally yanked out all the cords. It was about 40 seconds, at best, but everything was gone (daddy gone). I stared at nothing. 25 years of my CDs which I don't have anymore. Loads of memories of good times and bad - gone. For about an hour I just consoled myself by saying that I'd just start anew from this point - not regathering the music...just new music. It's okay, right? I finally called my computer dude in Arlington, explained the situation, and he simply said, "Well, I can get that back, no problem." What?!? I'm not going to explain the process and how computers work, suffice it to say that he did recover it. It cost me a few bills, plus a new external harddrive, but it's back. 16,000 songs that somewhat track my life.

(As an aside, and sort of in my defense, the first album on both my iPhone and my music library were the same - Adele [zip it!]. So, as I was looking at my 'phone' and saw Adele, I assumed I'd selected the phone and not the entire 65 Gbs of my library.)

Christmas was nice. We had the Northerners down to celebrate and help pack out the old house. Phil, somewhere in his vast past, packed homes as some type of Johnny Tremain apprenticeship, so he instructed everyone (mostly Laurel) in proper wrapping and packing techniques. He claimed he'd never had a broken glass - and he's still 100% since nothing we had was damaged. Ms. M packed like a...packer, and cleaned, and cooked, and entertained. It would have been a nightmare without that help. Corey ripped out walls, patched floors, and Kt ran the drum sander (how badass is that?) to get the floors ready for Shaun's eventual fuck up. With three movers hired on the 31st, Corey came over and between the five of us we managed to get everything from point A to point B by about 4pm. X and L cleaned the entirety of the old house and we escaped by about 11pm.

I've been reading Into the Silence: The Great War, Mallory and the Conquest of Everest by Wade Davis, and The Long Walk by Sławomir Rawicz. I can't seem to do only one book - makes progress slower but what can we do? I've gone completely to the Nook tablet since before the new year. The Times and New Yorker are up-and-running with good software so I can unburden myself of most print items.

I saw Holly Twyford (again) in Time Stands Still at Studio Theatre. Excellent, as always.

We've run the birthday gauntlet since January 1st. Henry turned 16 (dinner at Greek Taverna with Cuban cake...go figure), Amy turned '18' with a visit to the Textile Museum and then drinks and dinner in D.C. Everyone took me for my 21st to Sunflower Cafe...very nice.

Nothing new on the music front.

Cats are well - and adjusted to the new place. No fighting required since the new 'hood doesn't appear to have any other cats.

I'm vaguely obsessed with Breaking Bad.

X and I have started lifting weights at the gym on weekends. One good session every week makes quite a difference. She's calling squats this week. She seems frail-ish sometimes; she's not.

book it

The Eleven had a discussion about bookstores at almost the same moment that Manjoo (or David Plotz) hit the ‘post this article’ button at Slate. Within days of our discussion, and not directly related, X commented on the overall crappiness of Amazon’s recommendations engine, particularly for books. If you gather nothing else from my input, know this: Manjoo is so wrong about the quality of Amazon’s ability to recommend to me another book based on my previous searches or purchases.

I remember trying to relate to X the parallel between what I heard from a local bike shop owner years ago, and the super bookstores (Border’s and B&N). What drew this attempt was a conversation between a good friend of mine and the ‘wrench’/owner of a higher end bike shop in Omaha. That conversation was driven by my friend’s observation that there were quite a few more quality bike shops that had opened in town over the last decade, and that there must be a load more people riding bikes. Said owner pointed out, based on his 30 years in town, that there were no more people actually riding bikes than there were ten years ago – more shops didn’t indicate more riders. Now, I don’t know why people were opening more shops if the size of the pie wasn’t growing, but I might put forth that there was a growth in the visibility of cycling (they’d just opened a wonderful city-wide set of bike paths) and entrepreneurs wanted to get in on the initial rush of excitement. The big bookstores strike me as a similar phenom: they overran the landscape because they felt there were more people reading (why? I’m not sure). Regardless, I never felt people were reading more books post-Border’s/B&N building explosion than they were prior. I’d bet that most of us can see that in ourselves, probably in our families, and if you ask around at work or your friends, the amount of book reading is probably way down across the country.

Amazon, bookwise, is simply another step up the accessibility ladder for book buying – a new rung, but not an actual representation of an increase in reading (any more than digital music delivery indicates that person A actually listens to more music). They no doubt have data that show an increase in book buying, though I’d be curious to really have someone get deeper access to the data’s “who” and “what”, before I’d be totally convinced that reading has exploded. Even with the Kindle and/or Nook, I don’t actually buy the premise that people who don’t read will suddenly become bookworms because of electronic access. Most people don’t even have the time or desire to read long-form journalism; and what of books? Probably not. Access doesn’t necessarily correlate to doing. I also wonder if Amazon’s other businesses props up the bookstore portion of their revenue.

Now, independents. I’ve long missed the local record store, and this is pretty much the same path, different medium. As we decided during our talk about independent bookstores, we both like having those people that love books to do some of the filtering for us. If it’s a store that doesn’t fit our style we can always go to a different local. That filtering is far better, at least for me, than trying to maze my way through Amazon in search of a nugget that might appeal to me. On a trip to Richmond earlier this year I bought four books at two different shops that were are all excellent, and I didn’t know anything about them prior to grabbing them from the shelves. But, that’s not the biggest plus for me. What I miss from record stores and smaller bookshops is actual human gathering – even if we don’t ‘talk’ to each other, the engagement with the clerk, or some other person, is far preferable to an online life. And for that, I’m willing to pay more.

As David Plotz aptly pointed out while discussing this on the podcast, if your position is that Amazon does it for cheaper, delivers to your house, and ‘picks’ books for you, then fine – they win hands down. I have no argument. But, when I think about books I will always choose to hang around the old Olsson’s books in D.C., Kramarbooks, or a Powell’s before a Barnes and Noble, or shopping via Amazon.

stolen from an andrew sullivan reader

"I appreciate the comparison you highlighted between the gay vet who confronted Mitt Romney and the black veterans in history observed by Ta-Nehisi. I am a former soldier, having served in the US Army from 1985 until 1989 before being discharged after a witch hunt. My sister is a retired soldier and my son is currently serving. We have a tradition of military service going back to at least the Second World War. It is my father, who fought with the storied 761st Tank Battalion (the Black Panthers) and his generation for black soldiers and airmen that I want to talk about briefly.

On my mother’s side, there were three Tuskegee Airmen.

My father, as I said, was a tanker. Before WWII, both my father and my uncles had lived every day of their lives in either Louisiana or Alabama, respectively. My father joined the Army the week following the attack on Pearl Harbor because the Army would let him fight as either infantry or a tanker but the Navy would have had him shining shoes or being a cook. My father wanted to fight.

He spent four years in the Army, was decorated with the Purple Heart and the Bronze Star. When he came home at the end of the war, he went to college where he met my mother, who had spent the war building airplanes as a ‘Rosie’. Because my father served, he and my uncles got the GI Bill that allowed them to go to college. World War II made my father who he was.

My parents stayed in Alabama, where I was born, until 1968 when they moved us to California. The 1968 election was the first time my father ever cast a vote in the nation he had fought and bled for. When I joined the Army my father was very opposed to it - partially because my sister had joined four years earlier, partly because of his memories of serving in a segregated military. To convince him that my reasons were good, I told him that it takes a special kind of man to go and fight for a country that does not consider him enough of a human being to go to school where he wishes, to vote in elections, to live where he can afford and to work in any job he is qualified for. That generation of black men who signed up and served knowing that they would return home and not be able to vote were very special men.

When I think of the generations of gays and lesbians who served in our military, I think that whether the likes of Romney (or a non-trivial swath of the GOP for that matter) realize it or not, they are in the debt of these folks and are in the presence of the very best of America.

I am not trying to blow my own horn. This is not about my service. I went in because I felt that I had grown up in a nation that did consider me an actual citizen and if my father could put on the uniform when he was, at best, a second-class citizen I could do no less. I just want us, as Americans, to acknowledge that gays and lesbians have served and continue to do so and that these are the very best of our nation. They get up and they do their duty knowing that the man or woman they love back home is not considered their actual, wedded spouse and yet they do it anyway. We should honor them as the exceptional Americans they are."

music

Dawes with Mumford & Sons - When My Time Comes from WXPN FM on Vimeo.

a deed, indeed

I’m going to be more positive. I think my blog can often whine.

We’ve done the deed and purchased a house. Contact is accepted, a bunch of paperwork is being done, money is changing hands. The American economy is strong.

It’s a two-level place with seven (yes, seven) bedrooms as currently configured. Corey is going to rip out the walls downstairs that create three bedrooms, and we’ll turn that level into a large, open living room and big dining room. The upstairs will keep four bedrooms with a full bath and master bath to follow. We got a very good price on a place this size while staying in the same school district for the kids – a primary goal. The commutes for us won’t change, time or distance, but the boys will have a longer bus ride to school. X did a load of the work on this, and I played the role of agreeable co-dependent. We’re very happy to have our own place with no limits on what we can do to it over the next few years – the longer view being 7-8 more years in this area. I can’t imagine what the gardens will look like in three or four years. The picture above is the backyard. The front of the house picture at the Web site isn’t the best so I’ll hold off on more photos until we get in and sorted.

I’m allegedly heading back to school in January to finish up the degree. I have three more classes – they weren’t offered at night this quarter so I was out of luck – and should be done in late March. From there, I still have one year of GI Bill benefits so I may move to community college and take some courses of interest to me. Or, as X asks, “why don’t you get certified as a massage therapist?” I think I see where she might be going on this one. Food. Massages. Maybe I can go to housekeeping college.

All the kids are home and healthy. The cats are fine. We’re doing great.

The move will be a very sudden evacuation between Christmas Day and New Year’s. We should close on the 23rd of December with nine days to sort out the place. Based on the just-completed military operations call from CINC-house, I’m responsible for victuals three-times-per-day from the 23rd to the 29th while they rip out walls and carpet (new, ugly white…anyone need 1000 sq. ft of carpet?), patch the wood floor, sand and re-varnish. 30th and 31st will be actual moving from The Hilltop. This has all been dubbed Christine’s Happy Holiday Moving Blast. We’ll keep a solid audio, video, and photographic blog of the festivities. I may have to set-up a field kitchen in that back shed.

Love to all.

t

is that a stick in my eye? i hope so

I would be horribly remiss in my duties if I didn’t get one story off my chest, posthaste.

We made the one-day motoring trip from Brattleboro to the D.C. area yesterday; the Eleven and the Fifty. It ran about 11 hours, but a full two hours of that was passed by things you might consider screwing around: stopping at one bakery/sandwich shop, another deli, trying to find a Barnes and Noble, putting oil in the car (?!?), getting gas, finding a Barnes and Noble, and grabbing a bite to eat at the Panera in the B&N strip mall parking lot area. The Panera was my idea, and it’s the heart-and-soul of this vignette.

We walked in about 7:45pm, into a place manned (womaned?) by four teens who couldn’t possibly manage to lead actual lives that involve actual things. Yes, it was my idea to amble over to Panera from B&N – it seemed like such a grand idea. L. ordered a chicken Caesar salad, and we ordered two mozzarella and tomato Paninis, to go. Smooth. Done. Case closed. We are the only folks in there since they are closing at 8p; well, us and the woman and child ordering ahead of us – an order that took FOREVER to be completed. An order that included two bakery items. I should have known. We eventually get our bag of stuff and headed to the car, disregarding everything that Joe Pesci taught us about drive thrus and/or takeaway. L. has no chicken on her sorry looking salad, X starts to eat her Panini before ripping it open to see what looks like ½ a cherry tomato and an area the might have once seen mozzarella. We turn around. The smooth brains ‘working’ in the place have locked the doors by now and began ‘cleaning’ up for the night. We knock, wave, and eventually get let back in to the scene of the crime. Each and every one of the girls is totally confused by the situation as presented, one that involves bread, tomatoes, cheese, and salad. They continue cleaning while debating ciabatta and baguette, cheese and tomato, salad and salad. Eventually the manager is brought into the movie from his cubicle in the back of the restaurant – the bar is very, very low to be a manager. He looks at the sandwiches, says “those are all wrong”, and slowly begins the task of actually doing something. The girls are rallied, actual tomatoes are gotten, cheese is secured, and he manages to somehow make two new sandwiches. As for the missing chicken, one of the wedges pulls a little baggy of chicken from below the counter and shakes it out on L’s salad. Classy as fuck. L. decided she didn’t want the salad anymore. I tell manager-man that we’ll just take a refund on the salad. There are two rounds of questioning on the salad before he gives up. Two rounds before I pull my ServSafe qualification/culinary card and point out a few items. First, the chicken is clearly delivered pre-cooked in little baggies. Even with that, I don’t want to see the chicken disgorged from said bag onto the salad. Take the salad down off the counter, do your thing, and re-deliver it. I think there’s some old saying about sausage and making. Second, the minute we walked back in with a food issue, and there was a determination and agreement to make us some new stuff, you need to get the fucking minions to stop cleaning the counters, leaving the cleansing buckets and cleaners on the counters, and take care of us before going back to cleaning. Nope. Not these geniuses: scrubbing away, nasty sanitation buckets on the counter near the chicken – pretty bad. I understand they were in a hurry to close on a Sunday night and get home in time for Kickin’ it with the Kardashians, but really? It was probably the worst encounter ever in a food place. I don’t say that lightly. But, the good that comes from it all is that I’m even less likely to eat ‘out’ then I already have been of late. I’d like to thank the good folks at Panera Break, near 84 S 32nd ST, Camp Hill, Pennsylvania.

p.s. Don’t think me sexist. All the employees just happened to be girls. I’m sure we would have had the same outcome with dudes.

capital offense

As expected, at least in my house, the Capitals fired Bruce Boudreau this morning. I didn’t think he’d make it through Thanksgiving weekend, but he did…barely. The Caps lost their last two games 6-3 and 5-1; games I didn’t watch, but the box scores told the story. Truthfully, Boudreau did some amazing stuff in his four years and three days as manager: he unleashed the offense, he then strangled the offense in order to focus on defense when the playoffs became an issue (and was successful until the team quit vs. Tampa last year), he won 200+ games. For what skills Boudreau has, he used them all. Now, here’s where the screw turns.

Ovechkin. His decline from top of the league to a minus-4 vs. Buffalo over the weekend has more than likely sealed his fate as a flash that’s burnt out over the last two years. You don’t get a minus-4 in a 5-1 loss unless you are actively sabotaging your team on the ice. You see minus-4 only rarely in hockey; even on off nights when you’re team loses 7-1, you won’t see minus-4’s on the score sheet. In order to ever be a considered a great in any team sport you can’t ever sacrifice the game on the ice or field. Ever. To finally be tabbed a coach killer, and make no mistake, Ovechkin is now a coach killer, is generally the final mark against a player in team sports. You can hate your coach, actively want him gone, talk to the press, etc., but when you quit on the ice then your hatred (or ego) moves you into territory from which you’ll never recover. Even though I say it’s been two years, it’s actually been a bit longer – that nearly two years marks the 2010 Vancouver Olympics.

In the 2009 Stanley Cup playoffs (about seven months prior to the Olympics), the Capitals lost game 7 at home to the Penguins in the Eastern Conference semi-finals. The final was score was 5-2 and the Penguins went on to win the Cup; Ovechkin and the Capitals began a long swoon to where we sit now. I left that game with about ten minutes to go in the third, obstensibly to beat traffic, but even then I saw the writing. They Caps quit in that game the moment Ovechkin failed to score on a breakaway with the score at either 0-0, or 1-0. The flood gates opened and the Pens built the led to something like 4-1 or 5-1 before I gave up. That was waypoint 1 on the journey. Waypoint 2 was the horrid Russian performance at the Olympics. Waypoint 3 was the loss to the Canadiens in the first round of the 2010 playoffs. Waypoint 4, and one far worse from a leadership point-of-view than the loss to Montreal, was the 4-0 sweep by Tampa in last year’s second round. Tampa was better than most thought, but they weren’t that good, comparatively. After losing the first two at home, the Capitals quit. The final destination is today. Two days after posting a minus-4 on the ice, Ovechkin gets what he wanted: a new coach. Problem is, #8 hasn’t shown any inkling to grow as a player and I don’t see it happening now. New coach Dale Hunter is walking into a locker room that’s been poisoned by at least two full years of refusing to play a team game. That poison has seeped so far into the team that you can see the rest of the players simply falling in line with the lack of will that Alex has exhibited since missing that breakaway in 2009. His path, and this team’s, is littered with failure after failure when the rubber hits the road. There’s a common denominator in the math: Ovechkin.

I don’t know if Hunter is the cure – I doubt it. A few things need to happen to right the ship. First and foremost, strip Ovechkin on the captaincy. He never should have been made captain, and after his performance in the last two games, he never should wear it again. If Dale Hunter is the badass everyone thinks he is, he needs to walk in the room, take the “C”, and tell Alex, in front of the team and the hockey gods, that’ll he’ll never wear it again after what he pulled the Buffalo game. If anyone else has any questions about winning, they’ll keep them to themselves. The result is that Ovechkin goes into a funk (could it be worse than this?), or he answers the bell. Choices. His career from this point forward is either a Steve Yzerman resurgence or a steeper fall into mediocrity.

Time tells.

i hate those people

I have a winner. I've often babbled about how much I hate people in grocery stores; in this day-and-age of no courtesy clerks (my title at Albertson's in Omaha back in 1983 - a bagger). I'm at Balducci's the other night - a problem in and of itself - and I'm behind the worst....ever. She's standing at the register reading a magazine. As the cashier scans and bags her one bag of groceries, she does nothing. When done, the old bat then walks back 15 feet to the front of the register to replace the magazine she's reading. Really? Then, back at the point-of-sale, she pulls out her store card for discount, waits, waits, waits....and then goes for her money. Sllllllllllllllllooooooooooooooowwwwwwwwwwwwww. Finally, it appears the transaction is complete, but old bat doesn't like the fact that her smallish order, "with two bottles of wine", isn't double bagged. She attempts to put the already packed bag into another bag (won't work) while I wait and hope I don't slash her neck. The clerk lets her know that the maneuver she's attempting won't work, to which she belts out, "There are two bottles in here, I need it double bagged!"

1. Shut up
2. If you were watching, you would have caught this earlier
3. It doesn't need to be double bagged, you're an ass clown
4. You're an ass clown
5. I hate

Moving along.

I've been weaning myself from sport for a few years, believe it or not. I'm down to Capitals' hockey, but even those days are numbered. It's a bit like how I got off golf about 10 years ago - I don't have the time or energy to focus on hours-long stuff that somehow misses what I'm looking to accomplish. Nothing against golf, it's quite enjoyable. Within that discussion has long been a position that college sports - and certainly athletic scholarships - should be eliminated. Truth be told, nothing good ever comes from college athletics - as a program within a university. Competition is good, sport is good, the system isn't. The NCAA should have been abolished decades ago, colleges need to refocus on what they are suppose to be doing, and the idea of anyone attending college based on athletic prowess is comical on its face. There isn't any other valid position.

One more thing: the next person who uses the "you don't know what you would have done" in a given situation, as some sort of defense, gets the same treatment as the shitty, non-bagging lady.

I'm really a nice person. Really.

a tin cup for all these nickels

When did a cup of Starbucks coffee become that standard measure against magazine subscriptions, NPR membership drives, and any other contributable financial matters? Why doesn’t the NPR semi-annual membership campaign say things like, “For a $120 donation, and that’s only $10 per month, Beverly, the same as what you might spend on a dime bag,” instead of continually harping on the cost of a Starbucks? Listen, I don’t drink Starbucks often and, quite frankly, their coffee isn’t great, but I don’t think that they should be singled out in the $5 spending realm. How about you don’t buy the NYTimes on Sunday ($6), or that Happy Meal for the kid ($4-$6), or drive 20 fewer miles in your Hummer H3?

H has an assignment for his science class – and something that will also be a project of sorts for the school’s science fair. There are something like 46 pages of rules (nothing illegal, no fires, no using animals, etc.), but there is also some bullshit requirement that the student can’t repeat any other experiment or project…..THAT’S EVER BEEN DONE. Ever. Anywhere. If the moronic science teacher can Google up your suggested thesis, and find any indication that Newton, Einstein, or Darwin have attempted what you’ve put forth, think again. Anything. Ever. Really? They are expecting 15 year-olds to come up with something completely new to the scientific world; something never pondered or subject to experiment? On the basis of the Fairfax County School procedures I think the Wright Brothers would have failed class because someone else had already ‘tried to fly’. Remember that guy with his wings, wax, and the approach to the Sun? Yeah, him. “Sorry, Orville and Wilbur, you fail the class because you tried something that had already been done. Granted, you did actually fly so I’ll give you an F+.”

do not

I’ve been hand-making donuts at my weekend gig for the last six weeks. That’s not at the heart of this story, but I can at least vaguely tie into some professional donut qualification.

There’s a small Dunkin’ Donuts inside the shoppette here on base (for those non-mil types, the shoppette is essentially the combo gas station/7-11 on base). Since I walk right by while heading to work, I usually grab a cup of coffee to get me through the morning. The problem of the Dunkin’ Donuts is multi-faceted, but I only care to address today’s issue: buying dozens of donuts for work. Aside from the fact that I don’t care to stand in line while you buy three dozen donuts, what exactly are you doing with the individual donut type selection? Let’s imagine you’re buying two dozen donuts for your office. (For those who’ve worked in the same nozzle plant for a million years, play along.) Do you have the knowledge and personal connection to the donut eaters to know whether they like filled, cake, raised, sprinkles, chocolate, maple, etc.? Would you be standing in line thinking that Debbie in accounting would definitely want a bear claw with her coffee? Oh, and make sure to get a jelly-filled and a custard-filled donuts for Doug and Bob in shipping (they are always referred to as ‘Doug and Bob’ because they are like an old, married couple who’ve working in shipping for 15 years). How about just firing off the “fill two dozen boxes with a full mix of what you have up there” accepted technique and letting the donut artists do their job? We can be rid of you in about one minute instead of the 10 minutes I’m standing behind you listening to “one maple cake…..(pause)……two of the sprinkle ones. No the purple sprinkles not the white one. No the purple frosting, not the sprinkles. (Pause) (Pause) Two of the plain glazed. One maple cake. Wait, I already have one of those. (Pause) Two of the…..”

(fade to death)

what is....

We returned to Quiz Night last evening. Since I’m out of class this quarter it opens up our Monday night options; but not next Monday night, as that’s my first Caps game of the new season.

It was a small crowd, team-wise, and we did quite well with our 61 points – good for third place. The first- and second-place team scores? 63 and 62, respectively. We had our shot at glory and couldn’t quite pull it off. Don’t think that we didn’t spend a bit of time figuring out where we shed points. How about this one: What is the chemical symbol for Tin? Our team? Nothing. Couldn’t come up with an answer to save our lives. But, Phil was able to successfully answer a question where Austin Power: Goldmember was correct. Priorities.

I’m not sure that I can claim to have been too busy to notice that Jolie Holland has a new CD out – not sure how I missed it, and am I really ever too busy? Was I not paying attention? She played here last month and I couldn’t make it this time around, but her touring should have been indicative of new music. Not always, but often. It’s a dash of serendipity that there’s new music after three years because I’ve probably listened to The Living and the Dead about a thousand times in the last month. I have no idea what brought me back to it ; but you can take that for what it’s worth. As a parting gift, I’ll pass along a song that’s moved way up into my favorite song of all-time list, Palmyra. The album version is a full-band (or multi-track) soiree, this is just Holland delivered a stunning acoustic version. Great stuff.

man with gun

I bag my own groceries; we all understand this fact. I was at TJ’s yesterday, doing what I do, and the cashier is hell-bent on my dozen eggs and where I’ve decided is their final resting place. Trust me - the eggs were fine in their vertical position at the top of my well-strong reusable bag. She was overly worried that they might fall out. What happens if they fall out? What? Nothing. They won’t fall out, I’ve got this wired – and, I’m not going to be swinging my bags around above my head as I amble to the car. She’s really worried about this; so worried that she pulls out a wine bottle paper bag and offers to put that around my dozen eggs. Thanks, that’ll help if I get mowed over by a truck – which is the only thing that will cause a breakage of my eggs.

I then stopped at another grocery store to pick up ice (for Tom Collins-es at Pizza Night), and lunches for the boys. (They like these 90-second meals that cost about $1.50 each.) I’m a pre-scanner at this store – you sign up for a program, you get a scanning gun that lets you scan and bag your goods, and then you walk up the self-checkout lanes, and fire away.* I get to the lane and attempt to make the final scan of the account closing barcode at the register and my suddenly my gun dies. Not the oft-malfunctioning death, the actual no power death. Are you fucking kidding me? Jesus. Now I have to remove my 12, $1.50 lunches, and 5 lb. bag of ice and scan this crap. Needless to say, the clerk who sort of mans the self checkouts can see that I’m a wee pissed off at this development. She wisely stays away. As I start zipping the lunches over the scanner and down the belt, the fucking machine stops after about six and ‘lets me know’ know something: “The bagging area is full, Please bag items before continuing.” What? Now I’m really irritated – six microwave lunches, and it’s full! The clerk wanders nervously to my lane and starts to pull some of the items off the highly technical, weight-sensing, NASA-produced, piece-of-shit belt so that I don’t kill someone. I start scanning again and super whipping things the eight feet to the end of the ‘bagging area’ mere milliseconds after she removes her in-danger hands. She quickly backs away and returns to the security of her podium. Damn right. I finish scanning, walk down, re-bag my loot, and shoot her a look of ‘crazy old man’ as I depart, stage right.

Am I wrong?

*By the way, there should be two lanes just for us gunslingers. As it is, there are six lanes that any smoothbrain can use for self checkout. I don’t have time for ‘Bob’ to ponder using self checkout and then spending HOURS trying to weigh and enter codes for his produce. You can do that crap in the produce section, where they have the scales and stickers, and save us all a lot of heartache.

surreys and things....

A few months ago one on my all-time favorite podcasts changed format. Musicheads, at The Current, decided it would be best to go from a high-quality product with reviews of three new albums to a Blender-like pile of junk. I miss Musicheads, and for good reason: I probably got 10-12 new artists or CDs out of the reviews over the course of a year.

This got me thinking this morning as I was commuting to work. My commute is longish, but quite pleasant: walk, bus, train, train, bus, walk (it's an anagram!). Anyway, I rip through endless podcasts once again, and my list of greats has changed a bit. Much like great musical artists - it's hard to keep it going for years without losing freshness. So, aside from Musicheads, which was one of my all-time favorites, here's a good list: The Moth, WTF with Marc Maron (my new favorite), and Splendid Table. Truth be told, Splendid Table should wear much thinner than it does, but I'm a food junkie so it's forgiven. Great stuff every week. I still run through This American Life, Car Talk, and Wait Wait! every week (simply because of the vast time to fill), but I don't feel committed. As an aside, I'm quite comforted by Prairie Home Companion, but they don't podcast the entire show each week. I've been listening for about 25 years and I'd be happy enough to catch up each week - never happens. Also, a call out to Thistle and Shamrock - what? you can't put up a podcast? Are you living in the 1990s with Garrison? I digress.

I'm going to Oklahoma! tomorrow night with WonderTwin2. We've learned a few things over the last few months: neither WonderTwin1 nor Corey could give a shit about musicals. I, for one, love all theatre, and it appears that Kt loves musicals so we are on for theatre dates. I don't sing. I don't dance, but I love some live performances. I also prior to the '(hating musicals' revolution) grabbed her two tickets for the Billy Elliot musical at Kennedy later this year - a box so her and Angry Bear could go on a nice date - but now I suspect she might have to coax him out of the den with the promise of a nice dinner at Cedar. Food often will soothe beasts.

I have and entire post-and-a-half about X and the Missoni sale at Target from earlier this month. I need to gather the narrative before I expose the World.

Love to all.

t

i order the large cup of coffee

Well, maybe I’m settled in after nearly three months at the new job. Plus, I’m out of school for a quarter so I’ll have all my evening free until after the New Year (I only have one quarter left, but they aren’t offering two of the last three classes I need so I’m in holding for a bit). I am working a brunch on Saturdays and Sundays (at least until about Thanksgiving) so sleeping in and weekend days are a bit garbled up.

Apparently there’s a coffee mug in the house that X doesn’t care to use. It’s one she brought home not long ago, and it mirrors any number of big, bulky,’ bust-a-head’ open mugs that we’ve gathered over the years. The funny thing is that about a week ago I found the mug stored in a cupboard above the microwave (there’s nothing up there but rarely used dry goods) when I was grabbing some pasta. I figured that Henry has put it up there while fulfilling his duty as dishwasher emptier – even though that made no real sense – so I took it down and used it a day or two later for coffee. I hadn’t realized it had gone missing again until Monday night when I went to the cloth napkin drawer at dinner, and there it was tucked away with the linen. What the hell? Now I knew that Henry was crazy: the napkin drawer on the other side of the kitchen? I put it on the counter as I headed back to the table and it was then that X pointed out, in a threateningly/meek manner, that she didn’t like that mug and didn’t want any coffee in it…ever. So, instead of simply saying that she didn’t like the mug – and we didn’t get into any detail in that area because I was laughing too hard – she was attempting to hide it “where I wouldn’t find it.” This is reminiscent of her pointing out a few years back that she didn’t care for shitake mushrooms (after three years of my using them), and last month where she said she didn’t want hummus ever again. I caught me a good one.

reset

Pizza night has slowed over the summer; not happenings, just folks. We have only four last week and four this week (swapping out one kid for another). 'Tis fig season, finally, so we've gone with a white sauce with: figs, heavily smoked salmon, rosemary, and feta - all a gamble. L. is staying true to her bacon, pepperoni, and cream cheese.

I'm now officially working another job - for career ideas, not money - on the weekends. I'll be working a pastry-baking line position at a strongly considered place in Arlington. With the school quarter nearly over, and being off next quarter - I'll be swapping my weekends for being home during the week in the evenings, at least for three months. There will be further evaluation after the New Year.

The house situation has turned. As expected (at least on my part), the sane member of our landlord's house has essentially called in and canceled the whole sordid 60-day notice affair. That means we aren't under a time constraint, though we'll keep looking, and we can actually consider this house as an option.

We've been hit with the remnants of Irene and a pretty good earthquake this week, but we've survived with no damage or worry.

what what

I haven't been here for awhile. I pop in to get back on track and there's some racy picture of Katy Perry and her tits. Strange.

Okay, quick-and-dirty update, not in chronological or order of importance:

We got 60-day notice to move. We are looking to buy. Deadline: October 15th.

I have a new job. Very nice, challenging. Cutting into my blogging.

School is going well-ish, but getting bored. Have an instructor who's horrid.

Looks like I may take a pastry/baking weekend gig at a good restaurant in Arlington.
Finally saw Kasey Chambers in concert last month.

L and I saw Cate Blanchett and Hugo Weaving in Uncle Vanya at Kennedy Center last night.

L went to Victoria for about a month, but is home now: had fun.

Boys are in Wisconsin, back later next week.

Life, for all its shit, is good.

I actually love everyone.

tits up

Here you have it. What may be the single worst set of lyrics I've ever heard. Believe me when I say this, I've listened to "Friday" by Rebecca Black too many times to not know; Katy Perry, are you serious? Even if you aren't, these are horrible. To hear them sung, as I did while driving and switching stations (I'm rarely off NPR). Good. Lord.

Do you ever feel like a plastic bag
Drifting through the wind
Wanting to start again

Do you ever feel, feel so paper thin
Like a house of cards
One blow from caving in

Do you ever feel already buried deep
Six feet under scream
But no one seems to hear a thing

Do you know that there's still a chance for you
Cause there's a spark in you

You just gotta ignite the light
And let it shine
Just own the night
Like the Fourth of July

Cause baby you're a firework
Come on show 'em what you're worth
Make 'em go "Oh, oh, oh!"
As you shoot across the sky-y-y

Baby you're a firework
Come on let your colors burst
Make 'em go "Oh, oh, oh!"
You're gunna leave 'em fallin' down-own-own

You don't have to feel like a waste of space
You're original, cannot be replaced
If you only knew what the future holds
After a hurricane comes a rainbow

Maybe you're reason why all the doors are closed
So you could open one that leads you to the perfect road
Like a lightning bolt, your heart will blow
And when it's time, you'll know

You just gotta ignite the light
And let it shine
Just own the night
Like the Fourth of July

Cause baby you're a firework
Come on show 'em what you're worth
Make 'em go "Oh, oh, oh!"
As you shoot across the sky-y-y

Baby you're a firework
Come on let your colors burst
Make 'em go "Oh, oh, oh!"
You're gonna leave 'em all in awe-awe-awe"

Boom, boom, boom
Even brighter than the moon, moon, moon
It's always been inside of you, you, you
And now it's time to let it through

Cause baby you're a firework
Come on show 'em what your worth
Make 'em go "Oh, oh, oh!"
As you shoot across the sky-y-y

Baby you're a firework
Come on slet your colors burst
Make 'em go "Oh, oh, oh!"
You're gonna leave 'em all in awe-awe-awe

Boom, boom, boom
Even brighter than the moon, moon, moon
Boom, boom, boom
Even brighter than the moon, moon, moon

And, for you're enjoyment. Apparently, Katy is know for her tits, and based on this, at least she has that going for her.


Katy Perry - Firework (Official Music Video) by ChaOko_01

I went and saw Kasey Chambers over the weekend. I don't have time for a longish review here, but I may get to it. Needless to say, she's the opposite of Ms. Perry on the scale of...well, everything. Even though her husband, Shane, wasn't on this tour, there's still a great story about singing this duet with him. Go Australia!

a trail of rage and melody

Everyone survived the long 4th of July weekend. We bought some fireworks that are still sitting on the porch because our streetmates busted out some (barely) "legal" fireworks and put on quite a show. L and I spent the early darkness sitting in lawn chairs in the street while watching, considering legal action, and applauding the show.

I decided to go autobiogs at the bookstore last weekend. It started with Hitch-22 (the memoirs of Christopher Hitchens), and moved onto See a Little Light by Bob Mould. Mould is one of the true geniuses/chameleons of the music business. He survived the blast furnace of his first band, Husker Du; went more harmonic with Sugar, and now does some great solo work along with DJing 'rave' nights (of a sort) across the U.S. At 50, he's produced a massive catalog of high quality work. He's a first vote hall of fame guy.

We believe the boys to still be alive in the midst of their second week of adventure camp up in Vermont. We'll know for sure when they show up on a plane Saturday evening.

The rest of the summer's horizon is pretty clear: vacations are done, heat and humidity are fully in place.

I'm settling in at the new job and enjoying a change of pace. My commute is now the other way - into D.C. - but the Metro and buses are doing me just fine.

I wanted to post this yesterday, but never go to it. David Brooks apparently woke-up with a pea in his mattress. Or, the Republicans. Nice call out on his part. I'm on the messenger.

"Over the past few years, [the GOP} has been infected by a faction that is more of a psychological protest than a practical, governing alternative."

"The members of this movement do not accept the legitimacy of scholars and intellectual authorities."

"The members of this movement have no sense of moral decency."

Thanks, David.

oh, my!

She's back after eight years. We'll see her the first week of August at Strathmore. If this is any indication of the rest of the album, this will be a very, fine summer.

where's my dough? and, where's my dough?

Jesus loves Wikileaks

That is the most interesting bumper sticker I saw on the road during vacation. I have no idea how to interpret it, but there you go.

For the most part (more on that later), we had a gas in Maine. Old Orchard Beach is a “kitztchy” (L’s word) throw back to the 1950s; updated to a more tattoo’d and rebellious teen and family crowd for the 2010s. It was an easy place to let the kids wander whilst eating ice cream, exploring, crowd watching, and (for G., especially) diving endlessly into breaking ocean waves. As for the adults, we relaxed endlessly while taking turns making sure kids didn’t get washed out to sea. We did most of our cooking at home, but did go out opening night for some fried clams and fish. Friday night included an adult outing for a ‘fancy’ dinner at Fore St. in Portland. If I could design a restaurant room and style – this is it. Big open room, lots of windows, 33 tables, cooking area right in the dining area…most excellent. They need to work on their non-meat (or fish) options, that would mean including some since they really had what might be classified as zero, but the preparation and dining was a solid A.

One the way home on Saturday (it was only the 51 in the car; X flew back and the boys were dropped off at camp), I discovered that my local bank, who I really like, had cut off my debit card due to suspicious activity. That suspicious activity was…me. In Maine. About 600 miles away. They did process three or four transactions on Friday, and then, bam…shutdown. We didn’t find this out until Saturday around 2p while attempting to buy lunch at Rein’s Deli in Connecticut. Being a local, they all close at noon on Saturday and there is no 800 number or 24-hour line to confirm the charge and get the card turned back on, and they don’t open again until Monday at 9a. Not good. Luckily, L. is a money hound and had $62 in her wallet (I had nothing) so we were able to get one more tank of gas and blast all 630 miles to the house. (We had a pre-paid hotel via Expedia for that night but food and whatnot would have been an issue.) Needless to say, the bank got a call, we straighten out the suspicious charge, and I asked them to always have my cell as contact before leaving me stranding somewhere in central New York state.

I introduced L. to Micucci’s in Portland, but more importantly to Stephen Lanzalotta who bakes bread and pizza in a corner of the store/warehouse. Even though X claims to have had bread this good somewhere in Italy, he makes the best bread I’ve ever had and if you don’t like that – fight’s on! We must have stopped in three times to stock up with luna bread, a few slices of pizza (un-fucking-believable), and focaccia.

I also had a lovely hour or so in an actual music shop in Portland, which is sort of like 7 hours in dog years, or Todd years. I miss CD store so much; I get it where I can. Speaking of hauls, I suggest some Tourista by Josh Rouse if you’re looking for some Spanish and Spanish-infused pop to relax with on a summer day with the windows open.

New job this week. Getting all the administration settled and will get to it full-time next week.