summer's musical opening

A few notes on music as the month opens, I can't help myself.


It took well over a month to arrive but my shipment that included the new EP from Justin Earle, and the newest from UK-based american wunderkinds, Redlands Palomino Company, finally arrived. Both are worth the wait for different reasons. Justin Earle (under the moniker that includes his middle name, Townes) is Steve Earle's eldest child who has a distant sound of his father. I had a great opportunity to see him about five years ago in London when he, his father, and his aunt Stacey were together doing acoustic sets at the Beyond Nashville festival. Justin did a song that night that I don't fully remember but I'm guessing it could have been Yuma from his new CD. What's so very interesting in the music is that I can hear the intensity of Steve Earle in a type of music that just beyond his sound. They can both tell great stories but Justin is more a folk artist than his father; it's a short chain between them, but it's one that's long enough to hear that distinct diffence. It might all reside in Justin's pounding guitar playing laid up against Steve's strumming and chords...I don't know, I can't even play guitar. It's an excellent opening effort.


I've read some not-so-great reviews of the Redlands Palomino Co. shows in the UK. Considering that they are the sweethearts of the americana-UK crowd (along with the long-lost Arlenes) I was a bit concerned about the new CD. No worries. Maybe Alex has rubbed some folk the wrong way for a few shows, maybe the endless touring takes its toll, maybe it was an off night; the new CD sits just below their debut, and that may change with more listens. Though the music isn't the same, what Redlands reminds me of is the feeling I had when I heard the first Son Volt album: this is the perfect mix of sound, music, and lyrics that I've always wanted. I'm trying to get them to America because they'd do well here in the mid-Atlantic. Maybe a bakesale to raise money for the trip. Another top-rate CD.

The heat has taken and won't go away until September. Come at your own risk.

T.

(Justin Townes Earle photograph by Joshua Black Wilkins. Redlands Palomino Co. press photo courtesy of the band's website...see link over on the left <<<<)

what?

Yahoo.com reports this story....
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SAN JUAN, Puerto Rico - A Saudi Arabian detainee at the U.S. prison at Guantanamo Bay apparently committed suicide Wednesday, the U.S. military said.

The detainee was found unresponsive in his cell by guards in the afternoon, the military said in a statement from U.S. Southern Command, which oversees the military prison on the U.S. Naval Base in southeast Cuba. Attempts to revive him were not successful, it said.

It was the fourth suicide at Guantanamo since the prison camp opened in January 2002. On June 10, 2006, two Saudi detainees and one Yemeni hanged themselves with sheets.
_______________________________________________
Unresponsive? What does that mean, exactly?

"Hey Joe Bob, this dude is dead."

"Right. Must have killed himself."

I've been 'unresponsive' in the morning when the alarm plays in my ear. My children have been 'unresponsive' when I ask them to do something. The Bush Administration is 'unresponsive'...can I call them dead by suicide? Just wondering.

T.

red cross

I'd like to introduce you to McPherson. X was strolling home along with the high-speed crowd last night near McPherson Square and stumbled upon this young bird in the middle of the sidewalk (street? Metro Station?). The little guy immediately recognized her as the crane from Are You My Mother and raised an uproar of squawks. X stopped, looked, checked for hidden cameras, scooped up the poor guy. and deposited him in a fashionable paper bag. From the news reports he was very loud, he hasn't made a peep since getting home, and she had to warn him sternly about making any peeps while riding the Metro. As one expects, knowing her, he was absolutely silent all the way to Ballston Station. Of course, once they exited the station the squawking commenced. He's been here about 24 hours, he's very active now, and he might just make it. I've been the nursemaid this afternoon but I'm not so sure what he thinks of me. It's the same with all little ones.

T.

us? really?

Hello David Kamp!

This is an interesting article on a number of fronts; I’ll just relate how closely are the observed happenings around North Park Dr.

Kids are both picky, which is quite natural, and allowed to put on food blinders if we’re not careful; I’m guilty of it with Laurel. X has come up with a brilliant strategy of giving each boy a list of three things he chooses not to eat – I think only one of these is still in play right now, and it includes: spinach, peanut butter, and onions. Fair play, we can stay away from those ingredients but they are still on the hook to at least try everything else put on the table. It’s mostly a miss as the boys tend to sniff at, walk slowly around, touch a tongue to things, and finally decide they’re not hungry.

In a type of end-run the other day, G thought that maybe it would be easier for us if he provided a list of at least twelve things he would eat. Here are the foods in G-town:

Pancakes
Waffles
Crepes
Pizza
Pizza Bites
Quesadillas
Tostadas
Tacos
Burrito Bites
Toast
Bagels
Peas
Potatoes
Mashed Potatoes

I’ve grouped the items based on what I’ll call the “how 6 things can look just like 14!” They fall under these ‘gabe-y-mid’ food groups: flour (pancakes, waffles, crepes), pizza (self-titled and bites), mexican (quesadillas, tostadas, tacos, burrito bites…he won’t eat nachos anymore), bread (toast and bagels), potatoes, and peas. I will allow for the fact that he forgot beans on toast which he quite likes. He also forgot cereal, another entry to the bread category. His food groups are basically the same as kid menus we see in restaurants every day, even though I really thought a list of what they generally eat would be larger…it’s not. One must bear in mind that all the stuff they eat is organic and natural, no fried stuff, and no sugary foods around the house...to that's a plus. Unfortunately, I now feel like we need to get some placemats with mazes, seek-and-finds, and hand out little packages of crayons. Dang.

T.

just try it. please!

Here’s a very serious look at developments in the workplace of today. I think I've passed along the idea of the level of competency in the work force being shockingly low. I know Phil has a saying that the bar out there is quite low; it doesn’t take much to impress across the broad spectrum of employment. For the moment we can dismiss brain surgeons, lawyers, engineers, etc. Some fields require a much deeper level of scientific or philosophical training to even get in the door – I don’t wholly excuse those fields from the discussion because I’m sure they have similar issues.

What brought this on is my current assignment to turn some outlines and lesson specs into a functional learning tool. The ins-and-outs of how this process works, or the subject matter, aren’t important. The theory should be that if two different people are going to work on a project; i.e. one starts the outlines and completes the research, and the other puts it into a finished product, then the first person better be minimally competent. If they are thinking about passing along some product that isn't comprised of intelligent research and some actual work…then don’t pass it along. I have no desire to fix someone’s poorly conceived idea of work. It seems like the critical mass of alleged experts (or workers, or developers…) are completely stuck in antiquated era of what passes for skill. The best parallel I can draw upon is how people use to high jump way back in the day. All these yahoos working today are still competing with some scissor technique, eastern cut-off, western roll, or straddle technique of high jumping. This is how they still look, as if trying to win a blue ribbon during their 3rd grade field day:
Listen, some of us have figured out better ways to do things – they aren't even better ways, they are just ways, for crying out loud. Unfortunately, 80% of those workers getting paid good money refuse to develop beyond that old crappy method of jumping, because in their mind it’s functional enough to get by, why actually get better? The worst part of the whole scenario is that it has nothing to do with how much work someone does; that has no effect on producing something usable. Do you want to know how I know? Because people here spend days and weeks working on a project and it’s still garbage. Not because they can’t do it…they simply choose not to. Seriously, it’s just like that effort from 3rd grade; here’s a nice green ribbon for just for being you! Put a check in your little Excel spreadsheet, you're done with the project!

Here’s how people that actually give a crap about competency high-jump:
That’s right, Dick Fosbury! He figured out a better way to do something and then practiced and perfected the skill.

Teach a man to jump and he’ll jump. Teach a man the Flop and he’ll kick ass.

T.

victim by choice

I listened to most of the Goodling testimony last week while cutting-and-pasting graphics and inventing phraseology for training lessons. I don’t think either topic is much to write home to mother about, so if I must choose, and choose I do, I’ll gab a little on the Goodling testimony.

Who’s worse for the wear? Every member of the House Judiciary Committee. What a bunch of lost folk; not one of them came off as anything close to impressive. The Democrats couldn’t form a consistent line of questioning and the Republicans were like State Troopers who just pulled over a pretty girl…I’ll get to that further down the tome.

Where did they make mistakes? The Dems decided it would be a good idea to harp on her attending law school at Regent University, a religously affiliated university. The plot was lost right here because attending Regent wasn’t an issue that needed to be addressed. That's not the root of what bothers me and it simply opened up the door for Republican members to gush about godly universities and education (and every one of them did). What bothers me is how a 27-year old Goodling from a Tier-4 law school joined the Justice Department in 2001, and by 2003 (at the latest) was a 30-year old with no prosecutorial experience making judgments on attorneys at Justice.

Where didn’t they make mistakes? The Republicans just sat there looking stupid and waiting for the fish (the Dems) to take the bait. On the hook they had a mixed platter of god and the ‘harmless girl defense’. Not one of them was interested in the proceedings. They decided to not actually say anything...play dumb. There was bluster aplenty, but no intelligent questions or input. Beyond the ludicrous evolutionary timeline that attempted to link Yale to Harvard to Regent in the history of great institutes, I will take a moment to point out one deeply disturbed member of the committee. In his sophomoric attempt to make people look silly for bothering with this event, he revealed what is apparent to all: no matter where you go to law school, you can still be a dolt. Here’s to the smooth-brained Rep. Ric Keller (R-Fla):
_________________________________________________________

KELLER: OK. The reason I bring [the Carol Lam controversy] up is because one of the most controversial things -- and you just hear it in the L.A. Times this week, and I'm looking at an article May 18, 2007.

And I'll just read you what it says: “Speaking at Loyola Law School in Los Angeles on Thursday, John McKay, who was the fired U.S. attorney in Washington state, said he suspected that U.S. attorney Carol Lam was removed in San Diego to derail the expanding probe of then-Rep. Randall 'Duke' Cunningham.”

You hear that allegation over and over, and yet I have the documents here, the first of 20 members of Congress to complain about Carol Lam not prosecuting illegal immigration was February 2, 2004, from Darrell Issa, which was circulated to Department of Justice, the White House and Carol Lam.

I hear from you that you had heard complaints about not enforcing gun control gun crimes in 2003, 2004, and you had heard complaints about not enforcing immigration-related prosecutions in 2005.

And yet, the San Diego Tribune did not even break the initial story of Duke Cunningham until June 12, 2005, which is a full 14 months after Congressman Issa wrote the first of many letters complaining about her not enforcing alien immigration laws, which makes it literally impossible that she was fired as a pretext for Duke Cunningham because all the problems were occurring, as we hear from the documents and your testimony and others, before the story even broke about Duke Cunningham.

And, in fact, when I had Carol Lam right here, I asked her, Do you have any evidence whatsoever that you were fired because of Duke Cunningham? She said no.

When I had the U.S. attorney here, Did you fire her because of Duke Cunningham? No.

I've looked at 10,000 documents, e-mails, many witness interviews, testimony, not a shred of evidence. But I still see (inaudible) that we saw in the L.A. Times this week saying that our attorney general's a criminal because he let Ms. Lam go because she prosecuted Duke Cunningham.

I'm happy that we were able to set the record straight with your testimony that the problems that she incurred dealing with illegal immigration and gun crimes far predated the breaking of the Duke Cunningham story.
And I will yield back the balance of my time.
_________________________________________________________

What I’d ask Mr. Keller at the end of his Barnum act of waving around Xerox copies of newspaper accounts (and he was) is this: If Carol Lam was so incompetent for so many years, and had 20 members of congress complaining about her (including the divine Mr. Issa!), why did it take the Justice Department 32 months to act? By the way, for those for geniuses like Keller, those 32 months are the 14 months you complain about in your pompous speech plus the 17 months before she was involuntarily resigned in December 2006. If I play along with your support of the Justice Department then I’m shocked that it would take over 2 ½ years to dismiss someone who was “obviously” so incompetent. I'm not sure that pointing out immature leadership actually increases the publics opinion of the department.

How did Monica do? Not bad. If this had been a heads-up poker game she would have won. That’s not really say much since she was playing against a bunch of 9-year olds. X pointed out this weekend that it’s horribly embarrassing to see that people of authority are still be swayed by any type of doe-eyed female using the distress defense. Monica’s greatest benefit was the immunity. She could be long-winded, she didn’t admit to much while at the same time admitting to breaking the law, she brought on a hair style suitable for maximum flattering of the crowd, and generallye managed to drive off with a warning. It was very well played on her part. Two things I suspect: her daily haircut, for a fastburner like her, was no doubt more rigid. Also, I think she had on way too much make-up, but what do I know.

And finally, to clarify the continually trotted out line that all Presidents fire U.S. Attorneys: they do, just not their own. According to the Congressional Research Service, and they only have numbers for those that don’t serve full initial four-year terms, not the carryovers, the numbers are staggering. A “carryover” is a U.S. Attorney who has completed the four-year term and remains in office after a presidential reelection (Reagan and Clinton) or because, for some reason, the new party president decides to leave them in office. Here are the numbers of U.S. Attorneys replaced when a new President takes office:

Reagan: 71 of 93 attorneys
Clinton: 80 of 93 attorneys
G.W. Bush: 88 of 93 attorneys

I don’t have the numbers for the first Bush, but I assume since there wasn’t a change of party in the White House in 1988 most of them were allowed to stay.

In the quarter century between 1981 and 2006, a total of 54 U.S. Attorneys did not complete their four-year team; only two of those were fired, the last being in 1984. The reasons for the others leaving are outlined in the document; those that didn’t gain appointments to the bench or return to private practice have some very interesting stories.

I’m just saying…suddenly 8 or 9 U.S. Attorneys are dismissed for performance-related issues? These aren’t holdovers that slid through from the last administration; these are your Attorneys. It’s comical if you think about it.

Peace.

T.

(pix: Stephanie Kuykendal for Newsweek (right); Chip Somodevilla / Getty Images)

heat ice lightning pies

We had a long weekend that seemed framed by pies and weather.

X and the boys went camping on Sunday afternoon and pitched their tent into the eye of a strong summer thunderstorm. I, through sanity of choice, was sitting comfortably at home watching a movie when the blusterin’ commenced. It wasn’t long before my telegraph started clicking and I was cabled the news that they were heading home, post-haste. In the midst of the event I thought the reported broken tent post (full stop) had occurred because of Everestonion gales; ends up X just got a little too bossy and snapped it like a twig. They did manage to grill some burgers before evacuating the campground. Does that count as any type of success? It was a good enough blow that our electricity was out most of the evening and into the early morning. We ended up around the table playing poker by candlelight. As an aside, I ended up with a short stack of chips, battling X at the end, because her stack was huge – she had NO problem using her motherly wiles while slaughtering her childrens’ banks of chips. I’m much more restrained…just hoping to educate. She’s a killer.

The pies were a lemon-lime tart on Thursday night and a strawberry-rhubarb yesterday.

Yesterday we headed into the city to drop-off office fixings at X’s office at 16th and K St. She was in dire need of plants (for air) and a desk lamp (for light?) so we toted those in along with a suit (for emergency suit situations), and her tea needs / equipment. The new building they’ve squatted in is a little over-the-top; white marble that leads me to think Greek, mingled with lots of ‘art’ that makes me think what the hell? I half expected some Caesar-like senior partner to wander through wearing an olive-leaf wreath and toga accompanied by some modern rave soundtrack or Jackson Pollock. The design is a strange bedfellow with itself (can that be?). I had a quick tour of the roof ‘garden’ which just might have saved the entire package from a real punitive commentary. Her name is neatly affixed to the smoky glass parallel to her office door and duly impressed me. To summarize… nice roof party patio, good lettering. Not much for hundreds of millions of dollars of expense. Then again, I don’t much care for modern art or buildings constructed using the plastic ice blocks from my 1970s version of “Don’t Break the Ice!” (see above graphic…)

Did you read that 94 of 100 U.S. Senators didn’t read the National Intelligence Estimate on Iraq prior to the 2002 vote for war? Some read a five-page summary, but that’s a horrible excuse for not reading a 94-page report before raising your hand and volunteering us for war. The NIE was wrong in many of its assessments but that isn’t the issue; if you didn’t read it, you didn’t know.

It’s hot. We bought a new window AC on Saturday. All’s well…

T.

station 51, engine 51

Arlington, Virginia (USA) - Last night at appoximately 9:15 PM (EDT) a mother in the Buckingham area of the city was called out of her house in order to save a treed rat. The rat, Biscuit, owned and trained by her eldest child, had managed to shimmy 25 feet up a courtyard tree. Other members of the household were leary of rats in trees having never heard much about rat packs lurking in the upper canopy of urban parks. It appears from last night's events that not only can they climb but they aren't much bothered by seeing the ground many 'rat' miles below them. The issue with Biscuit on this humid summer night seemed to be an unwillingness or fear to move down the branch towards safety, according to those present. The emgergency- trained mother (aren't they all?) climbed up to the last branch that would support her weight before realizing the rat was well beyond her reach. At this point she decided to tape a box from the rat's cage, in order to provide a familiar smell, to the end of an ordinary kitchen broom and reach up toward the fearful rodent. After twenty minutes of making kissy sounds, talking sweetly to the rat, intermittantly cursing under her breath, and thinking to herself "another five minutes and we're going to a one rat household", the rat suddenly lurched close enough for capture. "I have the rat! I've got him!" echoed throughout the courtyard and quiet Arlington neighborhood. Biscuit was passed down to his owner/trainer and quickly secured in his cage at approximately 9:45 PM. Others in the house often wonder, it was reported.

michelle v. ann

I know full well that Michelle Malkin will hate the equation; she's just one step from being irrelevant. What is distressing to me is that I think she's so much better than the hack she's become; she's very smart, she has some excellent opinions...but she's pandering. I don't care that she fills in for O'Reilly, in the endgame she's much more believable, but for some reason she's carried his 'ideal' to her reporting. I think she's on the bad end of her pissing contest with Andrew Sullivan; I think she should be on equal footing, and I hope she gets back to what she does best; give me a reason to read her everyday. Her endless play of The View is just stupid...in case Michelle is wondering, us heathen liberals care little for Rosie or Elisabeth. I'm still fully behind her but I won't give her much rope. Give us what you used to be...a relevant, smart, and reasonable voice.

All the best.

T.

an excellent read

(AP Photo/Lawrence Jackson)

Andrew Sullivan attended an Obama get together in D.C. last night and filed this report. I think it's worth putting out there.

T.

be cool, look cool

Occasionally I put on my sunglasses as I’m heading out door and forget to put my glasses case (with my regular glasses) back into my man-purse. It happened this morning. It was no doubt brought on by a combination of just barely getting everything done (crepes, coffee, bagels, New Yorker in the bag, dodging spots of blueberry jam all over the floor, etc.) just as I’m walking out the door with the Wonder Twins. The two of them are now working in the same area of D.C. (McPherson Square) so they are once again striding together into the city each morning; I’m just alone as a token ornament. I’ll tell you that X is none too happy with her summer associate place of employment. Hopefully she’ll settle into a routine over the next week, get into some work, and develop a pattern that allows her to do her own thing – I don’t think interacting with the crowd at the firm is on her agenda.

I forgot to update the earlier entry on the Jeopardy! party we attended last week; she won. It was a little eerie to be sitting in the clubhouse where they live, family, friends, and neighbors all around, and watch her on TV while she was sitting right there. She didn’t answer any questions in the entire first segment due to nerves and learning how to time on the buzzer. She told everyone that during first commercial break the producer was giving her a pep talk and trying to ease her nerves. She got rolling after the commercial and was in third place going into Final Jeopardy – all three contestants were between about $13,000 - $16,000, so it was very close. Sara was the only one to correctly answer the final question, she wagered about $4,000, and ended up beating a five-day champion and earning almost $18,000. Well done…and very exciting.

The weather in the MetroPlex is just perfect right now. Unfortunately, I’m already bracing for the July / August onslaught of deathly heat and humidity. In an attempt to be more positive, and not worry so much about later summer, I officially opened the kebob season with sea scallops, mushrooms, peppers, baby squash, and red onions last evening. We sat outside and had our dinner while enjoying the setting sun.

More to come.

T.

room for two

A sporting entry.

The Floyd Landis saga hit rock bottom last Friday when we discovered that his manager, Will Geoghegan, called Greg LeMond the night before his testimony to either 1) threaten him, or 2) scare him into not testifying. I've never known what to think about Greg LeMond after his career in cycling, and I don't know why he was testifying in the case, but he certainly seems to have been on the up-and-up in this case. Apparently, he called Landis and told him that sometimes the best thing to do is come clean and not live with some lie for the rest of his life. LeMond told him a story about his life that was completely uhknown to the public in an attempt to get Landis to do what was right. For his trouble in contacting Landis he got a late-night phone call from Landis' manager, while Landis admittedly was in the room, and was effectively threatened with disclosure of LeMond's secret. Landis clearly passed along information that was given in some type of confidence, not a crime, but clearly revealed in an attempt to be vindictive (for what?) and to save his own ass. Maybe it's the Hitchens in me coming out, but Floyd's idyllic religious upbringing clearly isn't anything that would lead him to do the right thing...or, to do the right thing. We find out this morning that his manager is checking into rehab because he "feels bad". Well done, Will. I think Floyd should join him. What an absolute ass. The sooner he's gone, the better.

T.

crossing the walk

I’m a hardcore street crosser. I’m adamant about using applicable crosswalks and signals, but even officially sanctioned traffic signals with little lit walking people on signs require a measure of patience and hate. X and I differ on crossing and driving technique and these differences are reinforced when we’re walking together. My stance is that if I’m the walker, I expect the right-of-way in a crosswalk, lighted signs or painted lines; if I’m the driver I always give way (and room) to those crossing the street whether in a crosswalk or not. X is the opposite. My theory being that, right or wrong, I don’t envision a time in court where mowing down a pedestrian is going to be a good defense. It wouldn’t be such a good idea if I were the crosser and she were the driver, that’s why I stay close to her. Truth be told, my supporting data has been gathered mostly in parking lots rather than the mad streets of the greater Metro area – she doesn’t much threaten those on the streets.

The showdown this morning occurred on the usual corner, N. Carlin Springs and N. Park Dr. (click here for a map…if you zoom in on the corner you can see the crosswalk). I know I shouldn’t expect much from the driving clowns of the city but I refuse to be bullied by idiots. This morning there was an opening on my side of the street (the NE-bound lane) which I stepped into in a mad attempt to signal my crossing intention to the fools driving southwest. I’m not dumb enough to step in front of Joe Bob doing 40mph so sometimes I have to hold steady in the middle of the road. The problem with this is that eventually (usually in a few seconds) cars start approaching in the lane I’m occupying and these drivers aren’t quite evolutionarily developed enough to recognize a 6’3” person attempting to cross the street. Since the woman this morning clearly had the analytical ability of a black Labrador, and the intelligence of a wedge, she keeps right on truckin’, and gives me a little honk as she skitters her Audi by me while wondering just what I could be doing in the road? After all, she has a line of 50 cars sitting at the stoplight just 25 feet away. In order to make my opinion known, I respond with this statement through the small opening in her window, “Excuse Miss. I was simply trying to cross the street here in the crosswalk. I’m ever so sorry. Maybe later on I can come over to your house and apologize from my misbehavior.” For some reason, she must have misheard me; I think she gave me a look.

While I’m on about traffic, I’d like to point out to all those driving in this big old world that when turning a corner, if you stay in your lane everything will be peachy. Not only don’t they stay in their own little piece of line-marked terra firma, they refuse to turn right onto a three-lane road when the middle and far lane are occupied with oncoming traffic. Why? Because they can possibly fathom the idea of staying in a lane…they need at least 2.5 lanes of open turf before their little plankton brain can get the car going.

Seems like a Monday.

Hugs.

T.

a crown nonetheless

Until the last post I'd forgotten just how vividly I remembered the showdown. I remember how absolutely focused I was, as one of 18 million, watching the race on what must have been ABC's Wide World of Sports. Not such a nice ending, but a great video tribute, and another beautiful horse. I didn't know, until this diddy, that Jacinto rode both horses as the primary jockey...and when he had to chose, between the Kentucky Derby winner and Ruffian, he chose the gal. She was never beaten to the line.

Pause the music off on the left...again. Sorry.



T.

peak of the crown

I remember watching Seattle Slew and Affirmed winning back-to-back Triple Crowns in 1977 and 1978. Way back then I was quite a racing fan and spent many afternoons and evenings in the “kid” corral at the track in Omaha. I was only 8 when Secretariat won the Crown in 1973 and don’t remember whether or not I was watching races on TV that early summer. Looking back, it’s the Affirmed/Alydar battle over the three races in 1978, along with a horse named Ruffian (considered by some as the greatest filly of all time), that remain from my years so closely following racing like other kids followed baseball. Nearing 30 years since the Crown has been won, and on the eve of the middle race, I did some digging and bring you (courtesy of youtube.com) the most amazing run of all-time, and still the fastest run over 1.5 miles in all of history: Secretariat winning the Belmont Stakes in 2:24. Enjoy.

You probably want to turn off my music over on the left before you start the clip.



T.

double jeopardy

The Eleven is off to the greater Annapolis area this evening for a gala event centered around watching the wife of one of X’s law school classmates appear on Jeopardy. The classmate and wife are hosting a number of friends (and family, I assume) to watch the show that was taped months ago. Since both are forbidden from discussing the outcome of her appearance on the show the rest of us are going in cold as far as planned reactions. I’m assuming she did well on the show, just getting on the show is quite a feat, so we shouldn’t have to restrain ourselves from yelling out things like “Who is Grover Cleveland. Geez! Hit the buzzer! COME ON!”; or “What is a contusion! AWWW!”; maybe, “Where is the Lena River! What a BUNCH of idiots!” I’m definitely staying away from murmuring “How easy is that?” when the Final Jeopardy question flashes across the screen. I hope she won, I really do, but I also hope that she didn’t bet the mathematically determined amount that allows someone to win the game by $1…I hate that. All or nothing, baby…

All or nothing.

T.

here i go again

Oftentimes, just as the grind is beginning to wear down the sharp edges, you get a chance to brake the machine and enjoy moments of complete simplicity. What you really want to do is not have sharp edges to begin with, to not worry about the grind, and merely be one of those that let life wash around you – more rider than driver. Riding is perfectly nice. I’ve always sensed that there are two equally interesting camps that deal with being a rider in this world, and I can marry both to a lyric in a Radney Foster song “I belong in honky-tonk barrooms…”; the first is that I don’t want to worry about what’s outside, I just want to listen to the music. The second is that I want to be just like the artist that's works, tours, enjoys, and his happy with his world of music. Tons of performers in venues across the world fill one of those ideals for me, a lot fill parts of each, but few fully complete both. Of course, it would be untrue to say that if I were offered the talent and place in the business that Lyle Lovett holds, that I’d pass. It’s also difficult to imagine that I wouldn’t want to be up on a beer-soaked stage every night like Brent Best, blasting out great song after great song. It would be very easy to say that as an everyman performer, songwriter, and entertainer I’d love to be Todd Snider; right now, as he was last night. I certainly wouldn’t want to have been through the life, the peaks and valleys, that gave us what appear to be a very comfortable person and artist.

His show at the Birchmere last night was acoustic, which perfectly suited the venue. He’s a performer who starts the show, band or no band, in a deferential manner, like he just wandered in as part of a string of performers. He plays a few songs to open and then gives you an idea of how his shows flow: singing, storytelling, laughing, serious songs, beer songs, politically-charged songs, and more laughing. Whether he’s telling or singing the story is irrelevant. He can disarm you by merely passing along, in his inimitable way, that the songs aren’t written as political songs but written, as they are, simply because they rhyme. He’ll tell you that he’s not up there to preach and convert anyone but to just tell the stories that interest him. Both approaches work for him, and I think he believes that both are true to some extent, but there’s little doubt where he stands politically and on the issues of the day. The beauty of his style is that the power of his songwriting is cut by his ability to deliver the message in way that is impossible not to enjoy. His self-deprecating manner and stories (you’ll never hear a funnier story the includes NASCAR star Bill Elliot, stage monitor speakers, and ranch dip) give insight into just how easy it is wander through life as a pretty smart guy and still end up on the short end of goings on. His guitar playing, which can be overlooked when the full band is on stage, was excellent last night (he let us know that he’d been practicing). His voice was strong and the sound in the venue perfectly set so that even if you didn’t know the lyrics you could easily follow along. Taking all of that into account, what makes him great as a performer is something that X pointed out on the way home: there’s isn’t any point during his performance when you feel you’re simply riding out a slow portion in order to get to back to something that grabs you. Even with artists that I love I find myself mystified at some point during their shows trying to decide exactly why they determined that we wanted to hear three or four, ten-minute jam sessions. As he wrapped up and headed off the stage, the crowd gave what was truly a rousing ovation for an outstanding performance – and we stayed for the encore, go figure.

Dan Bern opened the show which I found interesting because I owned his self-titled album long before I ever got turned on to Todd Snider. I listened to that album a lot over the years and always meant to catch a show but it never seemed to work out. It was always easy to see how he got pigeon-holed into the ‘dylan’ box early in his career. His voice, though better than Dylan’s, is similar, but his songs are of a different tone. Dan Bern writes songs that leave subtlety sitting off in a corner, mock so much of what’s wrong in this world, and often make you laugh out loud. Anyone who writes a song that declares themselves, because we are all waiting, as the Messiah has my vote. Dan doesn’t even like to wait for the bus let alone the second coming.

Back to the idea of braking the grind. Last night’s show gave us a few hours of simply sitting in a nice club and enjoying a great show. No cubicle or commute for me to worry about, no papers or exams for X to plan. Though it was more than that for me. I sat there listening, laughing, smooching on occasion, and remembering just how cool life is when you sift out the boring, mundane things and just think about the cool stuff. Man, I’d love to be Todd. Oh wait.

Dig what you do.

T

eff the customer, or...'done in by The Man'

I shouldn’t be so abrasive. The Eleven had some excellent encounters with the real world yesterday: she at the dentist, I at the IRS. I know my story better so I’ll give it the first whirl.

I left work early so I could get to the local IRS office by 3:30pm (they close at 4:30pm). I know that doesn’t leave DMV-quantity time, but it’s not like we’re in the midst of tax season. I had called the office beforehand and the message told me that there were only two types of inquiry that required appointments: tax preparation and handicap/special needs customers. All I needed was five minutes for some tax hack to pull up my account, tell me what they added, where they got the information, and tell me what form I need to fill out to begin the process of countering their excellent work. What I got was a desk lady telling me at 3:30pm that they aren’t seeing anyone else because there are still four people waiting for help. So? Do I care? Nope. I’m perfectly happy to sit in your waiting room to see if I can slip in before 4:30pm. She claims they don’t normally do that, make people wait without a number and all, but she’s clearly befuddled by my showing up at her desk during business hours…the nerve! The only option she had now was to go behind the cubicle dividers (with cipher locks?) and find someone to get me away from her. Out comes another IRS cartoon character and she relays the same story and recommends showing up at 8:30am to get a number and sit in the waiting room for up to five hours. Or, she can give me an appointment for sometime in June of 2035 (or next month). I say to her that they don’t recommend jack on the phone, in fact, they tell me that only the above two areas are valid for appointments. So I took my 2004 tax form from her, my letter from the IRS confirming how they’ve helped me, kicked her in the shins, and walked out the door...pissed. If I have it all lined up correctly in my head, here’s how it works: IRS adds some mystery tax bill to my account, charges me monthly interest, tells me to call the 800 number that can’t help me, tells me to remedy the issue by June 4th, can’t help me in the office unless I have eight hours to sit around steaming at their ineptitude, can make me an appointment three weeks away, and generally just expects me to be happy. Love it.

X ended up at the dentist office yesterday to speak with them about a bill for the boys. Her tale gets me more worked up than the IRS because I recognize the IRS as a ship manned by fools. I know they’re dysfunctional. A local dentist office is different; you’re standing right there while it’s happening, yet you get screwed in the end anyway. The short story is that they made some routine dental work choices (filling types and associated costs) that they knew weren’t covered by insurance. They didn’t tell her they were making these choices, knowing they weren’t covered, but still manage to standby the “you should know your insurance” line. That line is true but wasn’t the actual debate. If you don’t say you’re going to do A and/or B then my intimacy with my policy is irrelevant. In the end, X got a big bill for services that weren’t needed: nitrous and white fillings. The dentist knew the insurance issue with the nitrous (most don't cover it) but appears to have a soft spot for the comfort of children (a good thing), and felt that nitrous would make them happier (more comfortable?), so she did it without asking the parent if it was all right. That decision alone ends up being a chunk of money for two kids and multiple appointments. The white composites fillings for back teeth are just silly. Anyhow, X stood her ground and went to speak with them face-to-face after getting nowhere with the office manager. She had a short chat with the dentist/owner, who then went to fetch the dentist who did the work, and told her to explain her thought process during the treatment. After this recreation, and when both X and the dentist came to an agreement on some middle ground, the office offered to cut the bill by 50% and X accepted. It’s probably the best anyone could hope for in the instance, but I still have reservations about unexplained activities that involve other people’s money, particularly when we’re talking routine medical services. You certainly can’t walk into a dentist office and tell them to do some work and afterwards you’ll decide what you think is ‘best’ for payment. If there are choices for medical care than those choices should be provided. If we make the wrong decision because we didn’t understand our insurance, bad on us; but to intimate that we should be in the exam room during the procedures, and watching everything the dentist is doing, is just wrong.

Cake or death?

We’ve got a concert to attend at the Birchmere tonight…I’ll be nicer tomorrow.

T.

hitchen' post

The problem with the fiction and literature is that I can't stick with it. I had to check out The Bastard of Istanbul twice in order to finish; mind you, I liked it, but it took me a few weeks to just crack it open and get going. I've had Independence Day for almost two checkout cycles and am only a hundred pages in. For some reason, it takes a really good hook to get me deep into fiction, if it comes after somewhere beyond a hundred pages, consider that mark to be a few weeks from now. By that time I think to myself, why bother? The non-fiction, history, and political commentary has me from the get go...I checked it out because I was already interested in the characters and events, I chose the book because I already had some background. I'll equate it to meeting X's friends from law school, or her friends from the court last summer - they've been vetted, I'm perfectly happy to cook dinner when they come over. Some yob off the street isn't going to get the same treatment; it'll take time to establish a backstory, and by that point I'm well tired and not much interested in having them over. I think my mind is too closed in certain situations, too resistant to the sounds, and too worried about what to do with the techno-house music. What's peculiar to me is that when I do get involved in a bit of non-fiction, when I find something that has me from page 1 - I'm totally committed. Music is the same; if I have to wait too long for the pop chorus to grab me - it's done. Is it impatience? Aloofness? I've got no great shakes on the topic aside from the well-worn idea that if you want to impress me, you better get me quick.

What brought this on was God is Not Great by Christopher Hitchens. I'm already in his corner on this topic even as I disagree with him on other issues. I find that I'm lost, and tormented, by his arguments. I can handle the horrible history of war, the horrible genocides, the misery of people, and most of our ills when I'm reading the histories; yet, I find myself at pause while rolling around in my mind the ideas that are put forth in the guise of benevolence. I find it all incomprehensible. I'm done reading for the night.

Peace. Seriously.

T.

sticking it to The Man

Another Monday has rolled by, and mine was landmined by a post arriving from the IRS telling me that they had adjusted my tax bill for 2004. Thanks for looking out for me guys. They claim that there’s some $1,450 ($1,650 with interest) that is owed due to “pension and retirement funds” and “tax-exempt education fund withdrawals” that we hadn't claimed on our return. If the tax bill is nearly $1,500 then that’s a huge chunk of taxable income that I apparently mislaid. Fortunately (I think), there’s been a mistake in the art of social security number transcription. Being as neither of us had any pension or retirement activity, or funds, in 2004; nor did we have any education funds, I’m confident that it can be sorted out post-haste. Why anyone would think they could sort out an issue post-haste with the IRS is absolutely beyond me…and it’s me saying it about me. Maybe all the balloons I blew up on Sunday have made me simple. I called the 800 number yesterday and realized after 30 minutes that what I needed couldn’t be solved via the auto-menu lady talking into my head hole. I’m off early this afternoon to the Arlington IRS office to speak with an engaging IRS chap; retired G-man to G-man.

Speaking of the IRS and goof ball operations, do we all remember the ‘failure to rewind the videotape’ fines? The Eleven* was returning some DVDs to Blockbuster yesterday and X asks me, “Did you rewind the movies?” She said it in such smooth manner that I had to take pause and think about whether or not I had actually rewound them. Ha, such a funny girl! The 80s and 90s were oppressive times in video stores; bounties of late fees, failure to rewind fees, two or three copies of the newest movies available for our selection, 2.5 hour rental periods, etc. You know if was bad because every visit you were stuck behind some customer yelling, on the verge of homocide, that they were NOT going to pay that fee. The ‘please be kind, rewind’ fine was by far the stupidest – who cares? The only time I was usually caught was when I had to run out the door at 8:55pm (in jammies and a sweatshirt) in order to get the movie back to the store by 9:00pm, and thereby to avoiding the million dollar late-fee; or, when I just forgot to rewind because, like some kind of war criminal, I decided to go upstairs to bed after watching a movie. After a few un-rewind-fines I thought about buying one of those stand-alone rewind machines, I had friends who’d fallen for that trick, but all the machines were junk. Why do I need two machines in order to work a simple VHS tape? Why didn’t the video store knobs just buy four or five industrial-strength rewinding machines and rewind the few tapes that accidentally infiltrated the store? Why didn’t they show some humanity and just let me return Heaven’s Gate without the added punitive damage of $1-$3? Why? They were all bastards, and I name them: Applause, Blockbuster, all the independent family-run joints, discount supermarket chains, and innumerable military base rental shops. I feel much better.

*The Eleven: it’s been noted that the etymology of this term might be causing confusion. After so many entries of I typing “X and I did this…”, or “X and I went to…” (X being my term for Christine), I realized that the X and I, minus the conjunction, make the roman numeral XI, hence “The Eleven”. Thanks for listening.

Love.

T.

one man’s stuff, er, junk

Before I headed out west last week I stopped by the local used CD shop to sell off the remaining CDs that had been gathering dust at the foot of my bookshelf. I get most of my music online these days but occasionally buy actual new releases from artists that aren’t available at emusic.com. I probably had twenty new CDs from the last year and another forty of so from my previous life. I hadn’t had the time (or the inclination) to verify their existence on my hard drive until a few weeks ago. Now that all had been sorted I headed out on some Saturday morning errands. Before heading to the grocery I headed to CD Cellar in Clarendon with my boot-sized bootbox full of music that everyone wants…and wants now! In my mind it would play out like this:

Hip CD buyer/seller: “Hey man, how’s it going?”
Me: “Great. Just got some music I need to move.”
Hipster: “Rock on.” [making rock sign with fore finger and pinky]
Me: “Yeah. Just some rawk I finally ripped to my hard drive. People have been knocking down my door to ask when I was gonna sell. I’ll just take a look around.”
Hipster: “Cool man. Just give me a few minutes to blast through these.” [another rock sign]

As I’m shuffling through the used CD racks, making the jewel cases hum with the clackety-clack of a veteran used CD shopper (Amoeba, Homer’s, Cheap-o, Turn it Up, etc.), I know it’ll be mere seconds before “Tony” (as I’ve dubbed the music store guy) calls me over with a quick whistle:

Tony: “Hey man, groovy stuff you’ve got here. I didn’t even get through it all because the sheer glory of your stash is blinding me. By the way, I’m Tony, what’s your name?
Me: “T for Todd. How’s it going…busy weekend?”
Tony: “A drag mostly. Been seeing people trying to gaff off some lame CDs lately. All the good collectors have gone online. I’ve been up to my ass in Faith Hill, Beyonce, and American Idol CDs.”
T for Todd: “Sounds like someone’s either got horrible stuff, or they ripped off some yellow VW Bug parked over by Crate and Barrel.” [rock sign from me]
Tony: “No doubt! Anyway, this is quality rock, I’ll just give you $200 for the whole load.”
T for Todd: “Great. No Problem. Those’ll all sell pretty effing quick.”
Tony: “No Doubt!” [a two-finger rap sign across his chest]

Seriously…that is how it should have gone. Have you seen my music? Thought so. For some reason I end up shuffling through the racks much longer than expected as this guy, who must be in part-time from Sam Goody, rummages though the box pulling out every fourth of fifth CD. Out of the corner of my eye I see his technique and think he must be sorting the great CDs from the really good CDs. I end up grabbing a few used discs before heading up to the counter; I can see he must be done since he’s just milling about tidying up the register area. He points to a pile of about 25 CDs…

Sam Goody employee: “I’ll take those for $61.”
Me: “Yeah. Sure. Sounds good.” [hands in pockets]
Sam: “I can’t do anything with that other stuff.” [scanning my CD purchases]
Me: “Yeah, I know what you mean. I got those from my sister, she just wanted me to bring them along, you know…”
Sam: “Right.” [subtracting purchases from store credit]
Me: “Thanks.”
Sam: “Sure. Have a nice weekend.”

I always end up thumbing through the dregs of CDs that buyers decide they don’t want. Buyers function on an ever-changing platform of tastes and reason. The units that resell the best can be queued by geography, target audience, and numbers of copies they may already have in stock. As I made my way back to the car, and got to the end of my review of my Wednesday’s child CDs, I notice that he bought all the stuff I thought he’d laugh at when he came across it. The more recent, independent releases were happily dropped back into the trunk.

Of course, maybe my musical tastes aren’t as awesome as I thought.

[making rock sign with fore finger and pinky]

Rock on.

T.

emperors V

Right on man! Two debates hosted by MSNBC are history, one for the ‘Pubs and one for the Dems, and we’ve got exactly zero serious issues to discuss. I’m sure the next two hosted by Fox will be scintillating; imagine the gratuitous sex and patriotic overtones…it IS Fox after all. As promised I’m dropping Kucinich, Dodd, Biden, Hunter, and Brownback from the numbers. Those that never made a dent (Huckabee, crazy guy from Alaska, Tommy Thompson, etc.) can rest easy knowing that my political opinions won’t be levied upon them.

First the Dems, or as I call them “Hillary, Barrack, Rudy Giuliani, et al.” I sense that Bill Clinton is teetering on the threshold of hitting the trail for Hillary and he’ll make a huge difference, one way or t'other. She’s struggling into the Summer with nothing of interest to get on about. In fact, the entire group of would-be candidates is realizing the early jump into the race is making for long slogging through hot weather while most of us don’t care. Old Bill will get both the Democrat and Republican troops whipped up in a tizzy. I was trying to sort the odds of Obama and Clinton standing next to each other, right in the center, for the televised debate a few weeks back. MSNBC says the positioning was based on a random draw. Nine candidates, drawn randomly, and this is what happens? Are there any mathematicians out there? Richardson apparently didn’t come off so well on TV which is the kiss-of-death over the last 50 years. Hopefully his performance will be better over the next few debates. His commercials are funny, nonetheless. The numbers don’t change much; I still think Richardson will make up some ground, Hillary and Obama are a dead-heat, and I’m still betting Edwards doesn’t make it to the primaries even though I think he’s making up ground.

Fred Thompson is still not in the race. And now for the Republicans. There is not an electable candidate in this field. Fred Thompson is not the answer. No one knows anything about Fred Thompson yet he’s polling crazy numbers because the rest of the field is such carrion. Giuliani has finally played peek-a-boo with his left-wing tendencies so the forthcoming correction, fomented by Conservatives, in the polls won’t be a surprise. I can’t make heads-or-tails of McCain even if I think he is the only possible nominee currently on the campaign trail. I would say that Romney is free-falling but one can’t freefall from the dizzying height of 5% in the polls. I’m still only adding their numbers to 50% due to struggling candidates – and I’m putting the kibosh on Giuliani’s numbers, finally.

And now for my big prediction: We don’t have the complete field. The whole Bloomberg/Hagel talk isn’t worth the time spent on it, but I do believe Hagel will enter the race. Fred Thompson might enter. I still think we’ll see at least one more surprise before Labor Day, especially as the current crop falters through the Summer. I don’t have any Dems in mind but I wouldn’t rule it out just yet. What we have is a huge list of Senators and not much gubernatorial representation – this is going to be a wild ride come Fall. If you actually believe that money will be the sole factor then just remember Fred Thompson: no ads, not running, who knows what money he has, and he’s garnered 15% in the polls. This could actually end up being a nominating process that comes down purely to hype and not money. I’d save the money for the general election. And a little teaser for us to ponder: Schwarzenegger. He’ll have served almost a full-term (half of Grey Davis’, half of his) by the end of 2008. Would he be tempted to head to Washington D.C. as someone’s SecDef or other cabinet member? Interesting. Discuss.

Fred Thompson sets a record for number of references in one entry. Who needs money?

Democrats	My Vote	The Nation
Clinton	30	36
Obama	30	36
Richardson	30	8
Edwards	10	20

'Publicans	My Vote	The Nation
McCain	40	60
Giuliani	5	20
Romney	5	20

Peace.

T.

those things

Here’s my first in a series of little things that make life better – the really good poached egg.

I used to be firmly in the corner of the omelet as the quintessential egg dish. I’m over that; it’s not that I don’t appreciate, or create, omelets of stature…and it’s sort of like the Babe Ruth or Lou Gehrig question, no one is wrong, it’s merely taste. Here’s the big dif’ in my kitchen doings: I can stack the poached egg – I can’t stack the omelet. In fact, the ingredients for both are close relations but the poached rules. Let me take a second to give you the rundown:

The Making of the Egg – I’ll admit that after my initial self-training I bought one of those microwave egg poachers. They use them at Pneumatic in Reno (second best restaurant in my World) and I thought it might be the way to go. Unfortunately, it’s speed they’re after…their stuff is great but doesn’t translate to my kitchen. In the end, it wasn’t one of my greatest ideas. I even disown the poached egg little metal dish/rack, removable kalidesoscope-y pan with inserts used on the stovetop. I’m much more freeform; I can do four eggs at a time in our shallow saucepan. Each egg starts in a very small glass bowl and is slowly poured into a very lightly roiling pan with a dash of white wine vinegar. The whites bunch up nicely, a bit hippie-ish if you must know, and the final eggs are dragged out with a slotted spoon. A minute to rest on a saucer, a dash of S&P, and hungry mouths to feed await.

The Making of the Stack – Here’s the real fun on Sunday AMs. This harkens back to the list of the 12 essential foods. Last Sunday was thus: toasted slices of rather big Italian bread, scallion hummus, big slices of roasted eggplant (done the night before), sliced vine-ripened tomatoes, and big patches of goat cheese. All of that got a blast under the broiler while the eggs finished. The eggs went onto the melted goat cheese, followed by spoonfuls of romesco, fresh Italian parsley, and a palmful of pinenuts.

So that’s what I pitch across the table at X (the frenchpress coffee is already half gone). She takes the knife…the fork…she cuts into the stack. A well-done poached egg will make you cry; that cut leads to the perfect stream of yolk running through the food. All the flavors mixed-and-matched, all the goodness scrapped up and gobbled down. It’s the egg; simple fantasy.

I'm back home.

T.

into the rabbit hole

I'm back out in Nevada working for a few days. I'll be home on Thursday evening. I used to be in shape for plane travel but those days are gone. The five-hour haul from D.C. to Phoenix, and the follow-on to Reno, made me realized just how much I hate planes.

It was nice to fly back over Reno on our approach and it reminded me of some good times (and bookstores, coffee houses, and shops) I had in my three years living in the Wild West. I also ruminated on a lovely date weekend that X and I had back in 2004.

I'm at my old coffee joynt in Fallon, Jive n' Java, typing on the antiquated common use computer. They've prettied up the place and it doesn't appear that live music is much played here on weekends...I think it's gone a bit God-y on us.

A few things to think about:

I don't think kids take typing class anymore. They've been using keyboards far too long by the time they get to high school and need to take typing.

I'll smooth out my dissertation on poached eggs this evening, and time permitting, I'll try to bang it out tomorrow after work.

My lovely little L. turns 11 tomorrow. My lovely older S. graduates in two weeks.

X took her last exam this morning and is getting a free dinner at Willow tomorrow evening; ungrateful girlfriend.

My hotel has some kind of moving picture box that is very foreign to me. I watched SportsCenter last night - novelty.

More tomorrow.

T.

nothing is forever

I was across the courtyard, in the other building’s basement doing laundry this afternoon, when I met an older woman I hadn’t come across in my time here. She seems quite nice and we were both commiserating about the rain and how doing laundry on a day like this can be a wee depressing. I told her that I had taken the car for the full wash ‘do earlier in the day so I already had that cheated feeling hanging over my head. She was finishing up her small load of laundry and hoping to have everything dry in time to pack for her trip to Argentina this evening. She told me about forgetting to pack underwear on one trip to China, she relayed the frustration of packing for Argentina in June – you just can’t tell what the southern hemisphere winters will bring, and she was stunned that the dryer she was trying to use seemed inoperable. Not just any dryer mind you, the Forever Dryer. You see, our laundry room has four full-sized, front-loading, Kenmore dryers: $.75 for one cycle which is generally enough to get everything soft and dry. One of the four dryers is fondly referred to as the Forever Dryer because your $.75 will run that baby all night long…trust me, all night long. Everyone uses it for the large load of towels, the blanket, maybe the occasional over-sized load (as if mother's would allow us to over pack a dryer.) As she rammed the quarters home and hit the start button, there was the eerie silence of a dead dryer. NOOOO…. Not the end of the Forever Dryer. I didn’t know what to think; maybe The Man finally figured out that it wasn’t producing the same amount of money as the other three siblings; maybe the fates decided to intervene and finally stop the good karma; maybe crazy old O’Malley gave it a good kick. In that minute or so we stared blankly at the unlit ‘run’ lamp I didn’t know how we’d all survive. What to do when we need to dry the spring-weight quilt? She finally decided that she’d need to go get another three quarters (it had taken her last three), come back, and switch dryers. Just as she was about to turn on her heel and walk away, she gave the door one more push in disgust and realized the unfastened door was the problem. Push. Click. RUUMMMBBBLLLEE….Run.

Some things do last forever.

Peace.

T.

P.S. I was at the store today and grabbed two cans of french cut green beans, a can of cream of mushroom soup, and...nothing. I couldn't find the Durkee's French Onions in the red-and-white cardboard 'can' to save my life. Where would any stocker possibly stock them? Are they used for anything other than green bean casserole? Anything? They should either be with the green beans or with the cream of mushroom soup. People....

meatloaf, not Meat Loaf

I don’t want you to turn away from this timeless entry because you’re not a fan of rock opera. I happen to own both the Bat Out Of Hell entries from the Meat Loaf catalog so neither title would have thrown me off the scent.

I bring up meatloaf because, for some ungodly reason, the other night I asked X if she’d ever had the legendary middle-American dish known as “green bean casserole with crunchy onions on top.” (Meatloaf and the casserole go hand-in-hand.) She was clearly perplexed by the lowbrow title because she’s simply not well-versed in Midwestern, nine-year old naming conventions. I described the royal dish to her in the simplest terms possible: can of beans, can of cream of onion soup, can of crunchy onions, and baking. That is the recipe. Those aren’t terms passed along in an attempt to make it easy for discussion purposes with the unknowing, that’s it – three cans and an oven. The memory of the ‘dish’ made me think about meatloaf and Minnesota, and they need to be addressed separately. First, the meatloaf. Anyone raised east of California and west of Cincinnati, in the area known to coastal liberals as ‘the large square-ish states region’, will swear that their mother’s meatloaf is the best meatloaf in the world. The World. They’ll swear on their mother’s meatloaf…it’s deathly serious business. I’ve had meatloaf "made" by other kids’ mothers and it isn’t any good, none of it. What I was thinking while I eating at their house, picking away at something dry and brick-like is, “Hey Brock, you need to come over to my house and get some really good meatloaf.” Of course, if he ended up staying for dinner the evening we happened to have meatloaf, he’s probably thinking, “Hey! This is the best meatloaf in the world.” I rest my case, your witness. About that Minnesota part. As I’m pontificating on my mother’s cooking I’m adding in little swaths of color and passing along witty anecdotes about my youth in the suburbs of the Twin Cities. I’m building a scene, directing a movie, giving my girlfriend some background on why I am the way I am. You see, I lived in Minnesota between the ages of 5 and 7, in a colonial-like house on Fondell Drive in Edina (if you click on the blue tacks you can see some of the sights!). The thing about neighborhoods in those days (the opening of the 1970s) was that the backyards on abutting blocks didn’t have fences…it was like open range. All the kids ran rampant through yards and streets playing kick-the-can and capture the flag. One of the families on the block behind us even had an early-70s, free-standing ‘tree’ house that we used to play on all the time. Late one fall afternoon I fell off the top of that son-of-a-bitch, broke my right forearm, and ended up waiting for the emergency room doctor to get back from dinner…just so he could re-break it over his knee before setting it. Wait, I digress, as is often pointed out. I was in the middle of this same idyllic background story, building to a crescendo, wending my way towards an anecdote about Mrs. Mary’s day care/nursery school, when X stops me, looks across the table, gets a goofy look on her face, and asks “how old were you?”; and “what street did you live on?”; and “the kid’s name was Rink?”; and “there were green beans in it?”. Yeah, I get it. She’s not much for details.

I’m going to give the green bean casserole with crunchy onions on top a shot this weekend. I sense the boys will move slowly around the pan, wag their tails, and sniff at it like it’s a new dog in the neighborhood. I’ll wait for my mother to forward the meatloaf recipe to me before I give that a go.

Love.

T.

days of 'ute

X and the boys headed over to the elementary school book sale this evening after dinner. The Eleven had dinner as normal folk do; the boys were off at a friend's house until the last gasp. They came piling through the door with bikes and big, red, sweaty faces at the last toll of the bell. I had imagined the book fair being one of those events where Debbie and Julie from South Arlington (or West Dummerston) show up at a school with racks of crappy volumes sold as if they were Avon. I think it's one of the those home businesses that's sweeping the nation; mini-vans of off-sale books. They're never anything anyone would want to buy, but kids seem to love the junk masquerading as a 'book fair'. I was wrong about this one. It was actually the school parents donating books that were sold to other parents and kids to benefit the school*. Great idea. (As an aside, they didn't want books that no one would buy which X took to mean that no one would want the Tax Code volume from her class this semester. I told her that my father would love the tax code and so I'm mailing it to him this weekend...she doesn't really get us.) Anyway, back to the chronology. They all pile back into the apartment with a sack full of goods and I immediately think/say (as does her father), what did you got for me? Turns out she's got three old (circa 1970s) paperback Doonesbury collections. She's well-versed in D'bury because that's all the WonderTwins could find to read after finishing every other book in the Bernardston house back in 1970s. We glanced through them and realized that the entire Nixon/Haig situation is timeless; substitute Bush/Gonzales and it's just as funny now as it was then.

Cereal. You knew it was only a matter of time before I got to cereal. H wanted to know why the 'one bowl of cereal per day' rule exists; I referred him to the Queen. The Queen said "because", to which H responded, "You can't just make up a rule for no reason." The poor, gentle soul of the 11-year old. The cereal around this pad is actually somewhat nutritious. Way back in the Omaha of my youth, the stash was more likely to be Lucky Charms, King Vitamin, Fruity and Cocoa Pebbles, and Honeycomb. Time was tight in the morning, people had junior high school and secretarying to attend to, but as long as we had some orange juice and a slice of cheese on the way out the door, we were golden. My health has been very good throughout my life and I'm perfectly happy to place the golden plaque of good vibes on the shoulders of juice and good old American cheese. Formage!

It looks like L. starts school in mid-August and will miss the trip to Stowe at the end of the month. Sarah also starts ASU early in Auguest so she's out of the picture. I never thought it could be so hard to find someone to come to Vermont and hang around in the extra bedroom.

T.

* I vaguely remember X giving me the lowdown on the fair. Maybe this is why she just smiled at my Serbia and/or Rwanda genocide books, the volumes of Pax Britannica, Churchill's history of WWII, or my Bury Me Standing Roma gypies saga. What? I'm not fun?

taking on my life

I can’t help it. The Shouts & Murmurs pages of the New Yorker is standing on the pinnacle of sly humor these days. After last issue’s take on crushes (all of which I’ve experienced), and this issue’s review of another aspect of my life, there is no way to make it any better in the next issue. This particular section of the magazine has always been hit-and-miss with me – I’m often into it for just one paragraph before moving on – but they’ve now laid purchase to at least three solid, future months of my reading time. Genius.

over the edge

I’ve already spilled the beans to X on this entry, she’ll get nothing out of it. This whole boyfriend-girlfriend thing is horribly conducive to speaking, and bouncing things, off the other. You get what you get.

I’m perplexed by the huge condo / apartment buildings in the greater D.C. metro area: every one taller than three stories is laden with balconies. Yet, I never see anyone out on the balconies – they are clearly and idea used to sell and rent, but are rarely used by the suburbanites. Of course, if there were no balconies no one would move in, “Honey, there’s no balcony. I need fresh air in the evening. I need somewhere to entertain.” We, here on North Park Dr., spend a ton of time in our courtyard. People in the New England, those out West, those in three stories or less DO spend time outside: in courtyards, on porches, on the lawn, watching people. Nobody sits on the stoop outside a thirty-story monstrosity…nobody. If you live in something that big you want privacy, and with privacy comes the highly-valued personal balcony. In the end, it might house the bike, the boxes from moving in that you were too lazy to break down, the recycling, or the bag of garbage that goes down on Tuesday mornings. “Hey baby, you forgot to take the hidden garbage down this morning. I was planning on have the gals over for mint juleps on the balcony this evening.” As if…

I was down at NAS Pax River today. As with every trip to the ‘base’ I realize once again that I’ve got no idea how I spent twenty years in the military. I had a great job, I loved where I lived, but I was lucky. There is nothing that mixes when you put me and military together…I think I knew that when I was 21.

T.

the final frontier

Being as I'm a part of air guitar legend - I must pass along this link as a representation of the never-ending track meet of life and fun when you're nineteen and in college. I found this at a blog called hero of our time but am linking directly to the youtube video. After you watch this you can rest assured that just like my slate.com sabbatical, I'm off linking directly to other sites for the next week. In fact, this time next week I'll be back in Nevada for a few days so it might get sparse; brace yourself. The video was created by a Columbia freshman fulfilling her science and/or math requirement by taking a class called "frontiers of science." English majors...all the fun.

alert: pause my irritating music off on the left before starting. xxoo.



If I'm not mistaken, I may have dated her sister in Iowa City...circa 1983. Wait, it would be her mother, wouldn't it? Shit.

Peace and love.

T.

crime and punishment

There’s a free-standing, real estate-like sign along Gallows Road near the Dunn Loring Metro that advertises the following


I was passing by on the bus and caught it briefly as we turned into the lot. As you’d expect, I thought to myself “Well, day care without the use of cages is certainly holistic. We can put labels on the kids’ clothing saying that they were raised ‘cage-free’ and ‘organic’.” Not only that, apparently there’s no long-term commitment like other day care centers – a nice, convenient drop-off service in case the little button needs a few days or hours of romping the fields while mom and dad work overtime. It did take me a second to register the Day Boarding bullet as an indicator that it’s probably pets they’re looking to book at the inn. Suddenly I started thinking about X’s legal writing or legal editing professor and I began to think how one would advertise a horrific pet kennel...



As an aside, If you happen to be forced to purchase a like business property after your current business is destroyed, here's what you need to keep in mind. Take your insurance payment and deduct the (book)value of the old business to determine your realized gain. If you don't spend all the insurance money on the new business then you'll compare the realized gain with the monies that you didn't spend on the new business and take the lesser of the two - that's your recognized gain. Remember, your new basis for the business is the value of the old business, plus any additional cash or credit you used to buy the new business, plus any money received, minus any recognized gain. Voila! You can review this information in Section 1033 ofr the U.S. Tax Code.

Such a life.

T.