This an op-ed from a blog called Small Wars Journal. It's about torture and it eloquently addresses the issue and the answer. If you don't want to know, or don't care to read about it...no need to click. (Thanks to andrewsullivan.com)
Todd
A little tawdry but it is from the Sunday Times. This week's review was particularly good (the review, not the restaurant) and this was the best bit. I can't help a quick push my a favorite columnists:
"I’ve been told this is the place with the best burger in London. Hamburgers, like pizza, bloody marys and fellatio, are things that incite fierce argument about technique, authenticity and heresy. In fact, they’re all just simple constructions. The trick with burgers is not to make them posh, expensive or large...The further they get from their motorway origins, the worse they are." AA Gill.
Backpedaling to my ticket sale at Saturday’s show. I sold them a few months ago during the great ticket panic of 2007. The show was actually sold-out before the 9:30 Club announced it via its website; I’ve got my tricks. My buyer was the first of about a dozen to contact me the day I threw up my ad and I told him I’d send an e-mail the week of the show in order to set-up the exchange. The final options I gave him were these: I’ll be there at 7pm to give you the tickets (they were at will call), or you can let me know when you’ll be arriving and we’ll coordinate our efforts. Normally I won’t be at a show an hour before doors – I’m not one to feel a need to stand right at the front of the stage, but I’m always willing to get there early if they happen to be the type that wants to pile in early and stand for five hours. As it was left, we were to meet at 7pm (see my cab ride…) and exchange the tickets. As I was in line (or on line for the easterners) at 7pm, with only about ten people in front of me, I called him to see if he was standing nearby. Come to find out he doesn’t really want to get there until after the first opening act so he’s anticipating about 9 or 9:30pm. Hmm. Right. Not much to do at this point but tell him to call me when he shows and I’ll come outside and exchange tix for dough. The problem this presents is that I’m in the club so early that I ace one of the eight barstools at the upper-level bar that holds the greatest view and comfort for a long show (yes, that’s right, eight make up the entire actual seating capacity of a 1000+ occupancy club.) The beauty is that nobody can block your view because the next bar row (VIP only) is eight feet below you, the bar is right there, and you have a seat…it’s perfect. Unfortunately, by the time my buyer is going to show the place will be almost full and there will be vultures cruising the area looking to poach my seat. I need a plan; I have a plan. There a two girls standing at the bar-table-rail who showed up shortly after the eight stools were commandeered and I’ve decided to trade one stool for the table-bar corner if they’re willing and able. I close the deal at a song break when I quickly offer them the terms of the contract and they readily agree – I lose my stool (though they were willing to hold it) and in return they spread out a bit and manage to hold the corner leaning area, currently occupied by one of them, for me when I return. We pinky shake and I now know that when my phone vibrates indicating “go” time I only need to pass them a “you’re on duty” look and scramble down the stairs. Upon my return the shuffle takes place and I get to spent the rest of the night perfectly poised for maximum enjoyment – love not war, I say. Love not War.
The Ticket Exhange, written by Monty Python
(see diagram below, it’s horribly self-explanatory)
Just as the first band is finishing their 30-minute set my cell phone vibrates and I see the ticket buyer’s name on caller ID. There’s no way to actually speak into the phone because the music is too loud; I hop up, give the duty look to the gals, and head down the stairs. I’m walking down the outside stairs to the sidewalk as I open up my phone and hit green button-green button to call back my “John”. A single ring and he picks up as I look about and see only a handful of people out front, maybe ten or twelve total:
“Hello? Is this Todd?”
“Yeah. I couldn’t talk when you called. Where are you at?”
“I’m by the tour bus?”
[I look around]
“I’m by the tour bus out front. There are two buses.
Are you around the corner? I’m by the stop sign.”
“No. I’m by the tour bus. By the stop sign.”
“I don’t see you. Can you see the tour bus by the stop sign?”
“Yeah. I’m right by the sign.”
“By the tour bus?”
[Clearly he’s lost. I look around, up at the sky.]
“Okay. I’m out front, by the bus, by the stop sign.”
“Me too.”
[This is stupid. I decide to actually turn around; he
decides to turn around.]
That is embarrassing. There was an entire stop sign post right between us…no wonder we couldn’t possibly see each other. We make the exchange, laugh the WonderTwins, and try to make our way inside while averting our gaze from the punked, pierced, and tattoo’d bouncers who no doubt witnessed the entire episode. What I immediately wished, upon returned to my bar area, was that it had been as easy as what I witnessed during my first year visit to the Hardly Strictly Bluegrass Festival in San Francisco. I was sitting near a couple at the Star Stage, waiting for the next act to start, when the cell phone of the couple ring-rings. She answers and begins to direct her friend to where they are sitting amongst the crowd. Picture about a thousand people laying about on blankets and sitting in low-backed chairs. Since it’s between acts you can actually see all the way to the stage with little visual interference.
“Hey. Debbie? Yeah, we’re about halfway up towards the stage.”
[She stands and looks around.]
“You’re by the mixing booth? Yeah, we’re halfway up.
We’re on a blanket. I’m standing.”
[Looks out toward the mixing table.]
“Yes! I can see you. Can you see me? Oh, we also brought the
macaw…he’s up on his perch.”
I look up and behind me to see that, in fact, they have brought the massive blue macaw to the show and he’s poised royally on a 10-foot high pole of a perch. Now there's an idea.
“Oh, you see him? That’s us.”
Really?
T.
(photo by Marina Chavez)
There were two opening acts on Saturday night, which comes to either one or two too many opening acts. I know I’m grumpy about openers and that’s no doubt either ironic or hypocritical because one of my favorite bands, the Tarbox Ramblers, were discovered as an opening act. Hey, even the sun shines on a dog’s… The first openers Saturday night had somewhere between six and eight members which is huge number for the third-ranked band on a ticket, whatcha get paid for that? $500? At least they were local so not too much financial stake in traveling to the show.
I want to throw some ideas out on the second act, Emma Pollock. (I expect a vast number of hits from Pollock google-rs and supporters.) She was a founding member of a Scottish band, the Delgados, and is now touring in support of her first solo album. As written and performed, her music isn’t at all anything that interests me. It falls into the category of droning, “noir-ish”, some-kind-of-sound that I don’t much like – a lot like Interpol (more angry hits from their fans coming.) Anyway, after three or four songs she called out someone from the wings “to join us for some of his songs” – at least that’s what I think she said. Out bounds a guy who looks like a combo of Jack Black and Jeff Tweedy armed with only a tambourine and my favorite instrument – the shaky egg. The band, at this point, actually jumped to life and the next two or three songs were fantastic simply due to the addition of a tambourine, a shaky egg, and side-stage guy harmonies. After this all too brief probation from droning, he gathered up his sheet music (for a shaky egg?) and disappears. Cue a few more droning songs. Thankfully, our mystery side-stage genius pops out for a few more songs and essentially talks me down from the ledge. Come to find out that my savior is Kurt Dahle, New Pornographer drummer. That’s probably what it says on his business card.
The Pornographers were stellar. All nine or 10 on stage made amazing music and my admiration for A.C. Newman’s ability to write, produce, and get everyone on the road is only enhanced by the show. He’s the drive behind the group and they’ve been top-notch for all four albums. The two female members of the group warrant input. Neko Case (her again…) has been with the group as a vocalist since it’s inception and what I learned is that her voice is even more stunning when measured against the band and other singers. Obviously her vocal ability is legendary, but when performing as a solo artist you often forget just how good she is – there’s nothing to stack it up against when it’s just her. She’s staggering when blasting into a song, as the lead or harmony, when with the Pornographers. The other member that caught me eye was Kathryn Calder who plays keyboards and sings background vocals. She is also slowly stepping in to fill Neko’s role since there’s a general belief that this is Neko’s last run with the band. Calder is another great singer and instrumentalist who may be the most lively and enjoyable member to watch during the shows – great show duds and lots of dancing.
Did I just say “general belief” when discussing personnel in an indie band that few people even know? General belief makes it sound like some deep political debate; “there’s a general debate on the timing of the Iowa Caucus…” What a fool I am.
I’ll move through the various Saturday night escapades using small steps; there were far too many interesting things to include in one post. The back story is this: I bought four tickets to the New Pornographers show at the 9:30 Club in D.C. X wasn’t too interested in going so I was on my own. I also had sold two of the tickets via Craigslist and needed to deliver them out front before the concert. The agreed delivery time was 7pm (doors were at 8pm, first band at 8:30pm). There will be short quiz later, remember the details.
Left the house at 6p and headed to the Metro for a three-line, two-station transit to the U St. and Florida Ave. neighborhood of the District – the area that reminds me so much of north London. For those unawares, one of the curses of the Metro system is the inevitable 14-minute gap between trains on evenings and weekends. For us commuters that base our lives on 3-4 minute gaps during rush hour, the 30-45 minutes of waiting for the trains (using a three-station trip) is excruciating. By the time I got to my third station (Chinatown) it was already 6:45 and the next train was….14 minutes away, go figure. Since I’d agreed to a 7pm meeting for the ticket transfer, and I’m nothing if not prompt, I decided to hop back up to the street and catch a cab the last few miles to the club. Awaiting me outside the station was the strangest cab-for-hire I’ve ever encountered. I climbed into the backseat and gave Santa Claus my destination. I’m wholly convinced that St. Nick was my driver: huge white beard, strange wintry cap as disguise, big winter jacket, hymms playing on the radio. Check, check, check, check. As we pulled away from the curb, very slowly, I immediately realized this guy was in no hurry to get anywhere – the photo negative of every other cabbie in the world. Since we were moving soooo slowly through NW D.C., and the scenery was passing as if I was riding in a horse-drawn carriage, I took a good look around the cab. It appeared that he’d simply painted Taxi Cab on the doors and rolled out this piece of junk from behind the fence at the back of his property. Every single warning light on the dash was activated - every single one. There were at least 8 warning lights blazing or blinking through the dark of the cab – I didn’t know cars had that many warning lights. The two that really startled me were the “you’ve left the iron on at home” light, and the “you’re digital camera is done charging” light. Along with those problems, the car apparently had no oil, brakes, fluids, battery, or wheels. Not only were the lights a little disconcerting but steering wheel was misaligned by 90 degrees. Regardless, Ol’ Jeb did get me safely to the club, arriving at exactly 7pm, but there was no need to stop in order for me to alight…I simply stepped out the cab as we moved along at normal 1.5mph, handed him some cash, got my change, and walked in front of the cab with no worry of getting hit.
A true story from the ulpan of monkeys.
We had a mouse
Living in our house
Digging up our plants aloe
Basking in the nighttime glow
We gained a trap that was humane
And set it out to great refrain
Gone to sleep our hearts a-flutter
Hoping to lure…with peanut butter
A single night and he is trapped
While we sleep our luck is snapped
Two boys wake up and take on work
No need for little mouse to lurk
Just outside the door they ponder
We’ll free the rodent, he’ll certainly wander
“We opened it outside,” they say
When mother gets up to start the day
“He’s small and can’t get in,” they cry
She thinks, and wonders, “Why I try?”
More Saturday night stories…stay tuned.
T.
I didn't end up at the 'new' barbershop the other day. There was a mission change that entailed Amy taking the boys over post-haste and me missing my chance at a clean coif. I may head over later this week because it's near impossible for me to live with the hair in this state - and this is why I'll never have long hair - I can't get through the garbage-y phase. I am, however, bringing my digital camera so I can put faces to my barbers. In fact, I've decided to 'IMDB' the cast of my blog so everyone has a vision of what the characters look like. That's okay, right? This isn't fiction where my four readers want to imagine their idea of the population? If you'd like to register a complaint, feel free.
Rockies in five games. I've called it.
Our friend Sue forwarded this link to my old pal Melissa (co-worker, not ex-wife) a bit ago. I got an e-mail from Mel sometime last week and can now put a thumbtack on the map that represents where all the people I've known are now living. (She's in Greenville, Texas...if you're wondering; and you are.)
I had the longest dissertation on torture and the domesday scenario composed and ready to throw out; suddenly, I realized that it's hardly worth the effort. It's a morally bankrupt, short-minded, and shallow argument. Then next politician that trots out that lame story should be removed from office. That's the summary.
All's well here. My work is sssooooo stimulating. It matters not at all - I'm here for that chick.
T.
(would she find chick sexually offensive?)
As the The Eleven was settling to sleep last night, I decided I wasn’t quite in the best position for a duvet-covered, tea-induced slumber. This led to some rustling on my part and X awaiting the finished product so she could then finalize her pouncing. As I’m flipping and adjusting I say, in jest, “I’m not the way I want to be…I want to be smarter and I want nicer hair.” To which she replied, “You have nice hair.” I’ll let you interpret her choosing agreement on just my hair.
X has come to a conclusion using her deductive (?) reasoning that she doesn’t much care about the primaries, caucuses, etc. – Hillary or Obama are both acceptable. The general election is even further off the scope. No arguments from me. But…I find the exploding Ron Paul support to be a blast to watch. The Republican candidates are in a major huff and would like nothing more than to ban him from debates or speeches. I still think we’ll see a John Edwards surge through the Fall and early Winter.
I’m lasso’ing the boys and taking them, and myself (unlasso’ed), for haircuts tonight. Expect a barber shop update tomorrow.
T.
X has a thing against Crocs© and I have a thing against Bluetooth wireless earpieces (I don’t know if it’s copyrighted or trademarked or patent-pending, so it gets no symbol). Methinks the Croc-life comes from the same vat of stupidity that gave us the bandanna tied around the ankle/bottom of your jeans, circa 1982. By the way, I invented that look! I’m not kidding – I was all over the idea of untied hi-tops and bandannas while traipsing around Milford, IA back in ’81 and I have evidence to support it…somewhere. Would you question a guy who dyed a blonde streak along the right side of his hair? Would you question someone who wore spurs (real spurs!) and sawed-off cowboy boots to bars in Iowa City? I didn’t think so.
I can understand and support the idea of the Bluetooth earpieces: you’re driving, maybe you’re always busy, your career is as a day trader, you sit on the FISA court, or you deal in drugs and/or hookers…take your pick. The issues I have don’t even take into account the person walking down the street, talking to no one in particular, and confusing everyone else because we think you’re crazy – who cares?
The math is like this…assuming you are, in fact, a VERY busy person, and since that piece of Borg shrapnel is mounted stupidly in your ear, I would think you’d be on and off the phone almost non-stop. I’ll even cut down the non-stop to simply talking on the phone at least 25% of the time – every four times I see you, you’re talking. If we expand the control group to the ten people I see every time I’m out, I should see 2 or 3 of you communicating warrants for wiretaps, dealing dope, or trading penny stocks. What I see instead are ten goobers kitted out like Seven-of-Nine or Uhura while shopping for the latest season of Full House on DVD at Target. You look moronic. To (almost) completely paraphrase a line from Patton Oswalt, “…if you want to see what it’s like to be a tosser, stop by a Target on a Saturday morning and watch the broods of failure wander the aisles anticipating the next DEFCON alert change from NORAD via their ‘secure’ Bluetooth apparatus.”
X was frustrated but nicer…
Love to all. Really.
Brownback is apparently exiting the race. Here’s a blurb from the news:
“In the latest CNN/Opinion Research Corporation poll conducted October 12-14, Brownback was the top choice of 1 percent of the registered Republicans polled. The poll's margin of error was plus or minus 5 percent.”
It’s not going well when the margin of error might put your actual number at -4%. I would certainly put him in that region. Unfortunately, that means the -4% might switch over to Giuliani.
I ordered tickets for a New Pornographers show (they aren’t actually pornographers) for a few months back. Normally the club sends them fairly quickly via mail – I’ve either not received them or I chucked them because they were in a plain jane, junk mail-looking envelope.
The Eleven has been wondering what’s an appropriate word, or words, to drop into the following spectrum:
BALONEY --------------------------------------------- BULLSHIT
The germ of the quandary is that I’m of the opinion that if I’m in the Senate, or maybe the House if I’m using this kind of language, I’d completely called bullshit on people – and actually use the work bullshit. It appears that some might find that offensive, and that’s fair enough, but baloney doesn’t have anything like the power of displeasure I’d feel when listening to Darryl Issa or Nancy Pelosi drone on in space. I’m open to all inputs that are more meaningful than baloney.
Frick it.
T.
During my rounds of Reno and greater Northern Nevada the whole real estate crisis become oh so clear. I'll get to that is a few minutes.
Here is the oath that every commissioned officer takes upon entering the military, I've added in a name for clarity:
"I, Ricardo S. Sanchez, do solemnly swear, (or affirm), that I will support and defend the Constitution of the United States against all enemies, foreign and domestic; that I will bear true faith and allegiance to the same; that I take this obligation freely, without any mental reservation or purpose of evasion; and that I will well and faithfully discharge the duties of the office on which I am about to enter. So help me God." (Note that the last sentence is not required to be said if the speaker has a personal or moral objection)
Seems clear enough, doesn’t it? The oath of enlistment is a bit different in that there’s allegiance to the President, the Uniform Code of Military Justice, and the officers appointed over us/them/we. I only took it four times. Anyway, there are tons of people out there, Mr. Sanchez and various other retired generals, who apparently believe that stars on their shoulders, political expediency, and marching behind a President was part of their job description. It's either that, or he was too afraid to make a stand and tell the truth - I've no idea which is worse. He was no doubt afraid they'd treat him as that did Eric Shinseki when he testified by telling the truth. Somewhere in his mind he thinks that his belated confession (and future book) will somehow exonerate him from responsibility; even greater reason to doubt his sanity. I sure hope Sanchez sleeps well at night. Well done, General - keep up with the Japanese spiritual quotes.
On to Reno. When I moved there in 2003 the entire area was busting at the seams - real estate prices skyrocketing along with a severe housing shortage even with the eye-popping building of endless subdivisions. All of Nevada led the early 2000s boom, at least two or three years ahead of the rest of the country, and I got in just as things began to fever pitch. When I put my house on the market in the spring of 2005 I was about two months too late. It sat empty for a year and I had to lower the asking price by $40,000 and pay the buyer's closing costs just to sell - but I got out just in time. That was summer of 2006 and the market is far worse now than it was then. The city of Fernley is swapped with empty homes for sale and rent. Prices have plummeted – 2400 sq. ft homes are now selling for the 2006 price of my 1500 sq. ft house. Downtown Reno has empty condos and townhomes in beautiful new buildings on the river. It’s ugly. My real estate prediction is this: Reno is at least a year away from riding out the problem. Consider the collapse as starting in spring 2005 and I can see it will last until at least the fall of 2008: count that as a run of 3 ½ years. For the rest of the country; it didn’t get real bad until spring/summer 2007 so the end will be nearer the end of 2010. Those are the facts on the ground – don’t believe anything you read from economists and real estate associations.
Such light discussion today.
I’ll get off my rantings and railings…
T.
I waited for Esquire to publish the name of the Sexiest Woman Alive because I refused to believe the hype, and Poiret-ish detective work, put forth by some I know. I didn’t really believe the idea that it would be Charlize Theron because she’s about five years ago. Charlize Theron? What? I’ll have to read the article/results to figure out just what she’s been up to lately, I know of absolutely nothing, but isn’t currency part of the sexiest thing? There’s certainly a voting chunk that is aligned with popularity as the contest winner is discussed. Charlize Theron? Shocked. Of course, based on my belief that the Employee of the Month shouldn’t be a rotating award so other workers don’t cry or quit, the fact is – if the contest is Sexiest…Alive, what happened to last year’s winner (Scarlett?)? If she was sexier than Ms. Theron last year, what happened? Did I miss something? Is she sans sex this year? Is she dead? Even if you dispatch that argument there are at least four that far overshadow Theron: Blanchett, Ricci, Wiesz, and Swinton.
Cate
Christina
Rachel
Tilda
and last year's winner Scarlett
This has been way too much effort in addressing a wholly unimportant issue. Ooops.
On a more serious note - there's an Christopher Hitchens article in the new Vanity Fair that's unbelieveably thought provoking. As I've said before, Hitchens is one of the great philosophers and writers of our time, I often feel like I want to strangle him and point him to his words. He can make the most persuasive argument, he can use parts of brain that I don't have, yet I see into what's wrong with his push. This is one of the first articles I've read where he acknowledges that it's gone awry but there's no inclination on his part to figure out just why. I remember riding the Metro about six months ago and seeing a very young guy missing the bottom of his leg. I assumed then, and I still believe it now, that he was en route or returning from a vetern's hospital and that he'd been wounded in Iraq. He sat as I, he watched the world through the windows, he seemed settled. But for me it clawed at every bit of whatever soul I have - his live forever changed and his ability to live on was far too shocking to my system. You know what's funny? He isn't a hero - he's someone who served is country and made a great sacrifice greater than anything I'll ever know. I could see his pride, I could see that service was a duty; duty isn't courage. In this day and age it's something that someone else does. That doesn't make his life any greater or less amazing - it makes it sadder because he'll never know just how much I admired and respected him - but as a country there is no respect. Measure Hitchens' article against the jackassery of questioning whether a candidate for President is wearing a lapel pin; or if a Hummer 2 has a yellow ribbon proudly displayed on its bumper. Think. We know nothing - it's horrible.
esquire.com doesn't have the article online; the newstand is worth the purchase price. You also get some great Annie Liebowitz shots of great folk singers. Damn Liberals!
You can't be more psychotic than this mess...
Love to all.
T.
I heard the ad on radio today advertising Lexus’s voice-activated navigation system on some or the other model. The first thing that comes to mind involves something about a significant other ‘inadvertently’ blurting out, “Do you know where you’re going? Are we lost?” My normal response is a measured “Sure baby, I just got turned around.” All of a sudden the dashboard lights, and a disembodied voice replies, “No, he doesn’t know where you are and he won’t ask for directions.”
[dashboard light dims and system shuts down]
That doesn’t seem so helpful in the end – a smartass navigation system that always takes her side. Maybe I choose not to use the so-called navigation system. All works out fine in the end because after a few miles I recognize where we’re at and I know exactly how to get where we’re going. I turn and say, lovingly, “Right. Now I know where we are, I recognize that building [squinting and pointing]. We’ll turn right at the next block and swing around to the Interstate.”
[light on dashboard fires up...]
“As if turning right there will get you to the Interstate. He recognizes that building? That phrase has never before been uttered…”
[dashboard light extinguishes with a chuckle]
I don’t need that kind of heartache…I can read a map.
While I was waiting for the plane out of Reno on Friday afternoon, sitting at an empty gate down the terminal from my packed departure gate, a young girl pulled out her violin and gave it a good practice. Her mother was either her teacher or simply a talented parent; she had her run through her scales followed by a couple of lovely tunes. The most natural musical instrument demonstration that would happen in an airport, while you’re traveling and miserable, is more likely to be some yob yanking out a trumpet, kazoo, or snare drum just to further irritate people. Maybe it would be a guy busting out his guitar and practicing his version of Good Riddance – that would be so painful. This was beautiful to hear as I struggled through the crossword puzzle…I’m not always horrible; good things can happen in airports.
Corey and I attacked X’s bike last night in a miserable attempt to mount her rack and fenders. How hard can a few nuts and bolt be? Yep. Great.
T.
My phone has gone a-missin’. If I follow the great Dave Porter’s advice (“stop looking, start thinking”), I’m sure I’ll have it rounded up this evening.
I’m backing up the calendar a little to imagine Hardly Strictly Bluegrass 7 that exploded in Golden Gate Park the first weekend in October. I managed to make it to numbers 4 and 5 while living out West and have made hotel reservations for each of the last two…just in case. The free festival is fully financed by Warren Hellman and covers five stages and three days – you won’t find a better or friendlier crowd than the music lovers by the bay. The photos from this year’s show are still filtering in but this a great shot of two Americana icons: Dave Alvin and John Doe - I know, they mean nothing to most but I like it …
(photo copyright: 2007 Hardly Strictly Bluegrass - photo by jon r. luini)
(photo copyright: Jeanne Hemhauser-Ricci)
I forgot to mention that I finished the NYTimes Sunday crossword on my own yesterday - girls. I had it wrapped by the time I landed in Reno; about 5 hours of give-and-take while I flew along. I missed a couple (according to my favorite crossword blog) but I'm okay with it. If he's the 166th best in the World than I'm certainly top 200...hee hee.
T.
Back in Northern Nevada for the week - flew out yesterday and will be back home late, late Friday night. Here are some quick thoughts:
1. Lou Pinella will have his pitcher well-rested for Game 4...next season.
2. American Airlines changed my ticket for $25; good for them.
3. Someone at our apartment is none too happy that I'm out here.
4. I'm reading The Israel Lobby - am I anti-semitic?
5. I'm sitting in my old coffee shop in Fallon; it'll never end.
6. The high desert air around here is so very sweet.
7. You can't always walk at someone with a rat on your shoulder.
8. If you don't ask, you don't know.
9. Impeach Bush.
10. Where are my socks?
On Saturday night we had Sue stop in for a Greekfest dinner and follow-on to the Erin McKeown show in Alexandria. The gnosh was tasty but I'm in an ongoing battle with big beans from the Lebanese Market; X thinks it's cooking, I think it's the beans...as I would. The gigantic beans may get a good set-to as I had with poached eggs a few years ago. The poached eggs have been put in their place and the beans are soon to follow. The spanikopita, tzatziki, bread, and feta stuffed cucumbers were just fine. Sue brought fantastic baklava for dessert and wine for mouths...well done. Amy came over and I sat quietly listening whilst girls joked about doors, locks, sex, time-of-day, and the like. I hate girls. The Erin show as just as I'd expect from her: lively, to the point, fun, piquant, and verv-y.
Sunday night involved more dinner guests as Corey made a massive stock of paella. Matt, of the England Matts, came over along with those others that I can't remember; can't remember names, not people. (Do not forward this to anyone who knows them!) Another great eve chatting and laughing at the strange lives and ideas embodied by those in their 30s (I count myself based on both mean and mode averages). I've decided to take on an Irish accent beginning next week. Be advised.
That's it for now. I've got room at the Inn if anyone wants some time at 4000 feet.
T.
This isn't so much meant as a laugh track directly at Sen. Larry Craig as it is a questionable assertation by Hennepin County District Judge Charles Porter. In his 27-page order declining to overturn the senator's guilty plea he wrote:
"The defendant, a career politician with a college education, is of at least above-average intelligence. He knew what he was saying, reading and signing."
After watching too much C-SPAN, and fresh from the Blackwater testimony to the House committee, I am deeply troubled by the fact that a sitting judge could possibly write that statement - beyond two or three member of Congress there isn't another with any signs of a thought pattern or sense of realism. Both sides of the aisle get about a 6.7% approval rating from me.
Speaking of Blackwater - Erik Prince was a very good witness. That doesn't change the fact that I don't think these companies run by former military members are nothing but bad news. He was good - the congresspeople were fools.
T.
I’ve covered the new barber shop situation already but today I stumbled into the soon-to-be new place that’s still being manned by only one of the barbers I want cutting my hair. In I walk and up jumps some guy from his chair chattily directing me in for a ‘do. I’m hardly settled in with my backward superhero cape across my chest before he’s rattling on about something or other. I feel that barbers, new barbers with new customers, should stick to the weather-chat opening. I’ll eventually open up and gab if I feel the need…I usually don’t. His cutting style was way different than what I’ve grown accustomed to over the last 15 months – it makes no sense; it’s like X working all the across clues followed by all the down clues in a crossword before trying to crack corners or leading testimony. That makes no sense either; I put up with it because I love her. If it weren’t for that she’d be on probation, double probation. He’s got clippers when he should have scissors, thinners when he should have clippers – it’s painful to even think about.
You know you’re an upper-level Metro commuter when you recognize speed and flow. The main qualifying box to check is knowing that when you’re departing the train and heading towards the escalator you may need to stop and wait in order to not impede running guy flying down the escalator to catch the (ding ding) train. If he’s sprinting for the train, you need to hold steady and let him through. You’ll get a knowing look when he sees another master commuter.
T.
This isn’t life-altering stuff. I guess it could be if it altered your life in someway but it’s mostly just sports. It’s been a loud topic of discussion around the water cooler today – can you use hindsight to justify a decision? Of course you can, because if you couldn’t then we’d never have anything too look back upon and rue. The deeper aspect of this issue is what was or wasn’t the correct decision to make at the moment it was made. The test case for today was Cubs manager Lou Pinella yanking his ace pitcher after only 85 pitches during a tied (1-1) opening game of the National League Divisional Playoff last night. The Cubs are playing the first two games (of the best-of-five series) in Phoenix against the Arizona Diamondbacks. The series will have two games in Phoenix, two in Chicago, and the last in Phoenix – if it gets that far. The Cubs must win one game in the desert to win the series. That’s the fact pattern. Both teams had their best pitchers going and both ended up giving up only four hits. Both were essentially unhittable. Pinella’s reason for pulling his ace was to save his arm so he could bring him back to pitch Game 4 on short rest (one day less than normal). The most obvious problems, standing on the mound with your pitcher right then and there, are these:
- There won’t be a Game 4 if you lose the first three.
- If you can win the opener, on the road against the other team’s ace, do it.
- You adjusted your rotation (a risk) to set-up your ace to pitch the opener.
- He’s gone six innings, given up four hits and one run. What’s the problem?
The support for Pinella’s decision include the following:
- The Cubs didn’t score again in the game; the hitters had no chance.
- We won’t know if it was a good decision until we see the Game 4 outcome.
- What good is it to have your ace take a game to 1-1 and further?
Right. The fact that the game ended with a Cub lose, 3-1, isn’t a defense for the decision at the time of its making. It was 1-1 in the 7th inning, both pitchers are pitching great, but it only takes one hit to turn a game. In fact, the first hitter after Pinella pulled his pitcher blasted a home run to give the Diamondbacks a 2-1 lead; the relief pitcher gave up two runs in the very inning Pinella pulled his pitcher. I’ll take my guy through nine innings if we’ve got a chance to win in extra innings, anytime, anywhere – who wouldn’t? The idea that there was no way the Cubs were going to score anymore during the game (some type of premonition?) is ludicrous. That’s simply giving up because you think something might happen three games from now. Am I crazy?
T.
I’m a quotation mark hater so this blog is the perfect catalyst for maintaining my holier-than-thou ideals. Being as my grammar is shoddy at best, I’m not sure why this “mistake” always bothers “me”. Wander the site…particularly some of the greatest hits listed in the right menu bar.
While I’m at it…here’s AA Gill’s restaurant review from the Sunday Times. I have a soft spot in my heart for Gill because I find his reviews so tangential and entertaining – you never get to the actual review until the final third. If you’re in the restaurant business and the “restaurant” (ha!) part stinks then you’re open to critique. Believe me, if the place is glorious he’ll let the World know.
Erik Prince. Mr. Prince is the founder of Blackwater USA and director of Prince Group, the parent company of Blackwater USA. One thing I’ve seen on an alarming basis, especially since my court date during the Custer Battles hearing, is a long line of former military causing endless problems in Iraq. We don’t hear much about the civilian gun-toters on the ground, the guys who are doing the running around and shooting, but it never seems to end with the corporations run by former military gumming up the war works. Having been around the military a bit, and excluding the handful of leaders that were beyond excellent, there’s little in any ranks of the military that provide training for running any type of corporation or successful business in this environment. Unfortunately, we’re on a merry-go-round of the U.S. Government piling contracts on these young organizations simply because colonel so-and-so knew Jim Bob before Jim Bob headed off to begin Jackassery, Inc. It’ll only be a matter of time before that company under investigation and trotted before a judge.
One man’s opinion.
“Todd”
The reason I’ve decided to pass along this story is because X forwarded me this article reviewing the annual pig roast (and bluegrass music jamboree, I think) that her cousin Christian is a big part of up north. Plus, at least it’s out there for posterity and I won’t forget all about it when I turn senile. For those that live up in New England it’ll be a repeat – for those that don’t, here we go.
I’d headed out to southern Vermont, more specifically East Dummerston, on the Tuesday night of Thanksgiving week, 2005. My flight schedule took me from Reno to Boston where I’d reserved a rental to drive the 2+ hours across western Massachusetts before shooting north towards Brattleboro. X flew in from D.C. the next morning and I met her at the Hartford airport and we drove back up to Vermont and checked in at the Coloniel Motel and Spa. The Goepp Mansion was crowded that weekend with the siblings, children, cousins and friends visiting so we were ensconced comfortably in our own digs. A good number of us spent Wednesday evening doing a little howdy-do, having some dinner, and a glass of wine before retiring to our respective rooms, floors, wings, and cribs. The Eleven drove down the road to our alp-ish spa in our nicely appointed Hyundai Sonata – radio/CD, cruise control, headlights, and Florida plates.
The next morning we rolled out of bed and noticed a heavy New England snow still falling. There were three or four inches of fluffy flakes blanketing the holiday roads and our Sonata windscreen. How pretty! After a quick shower I walked outside to warm up the car and scrape the windows while X finished getting ready. The storm didn’t seem too much, the temperature was middling and comfortable, and I was looking forward to sitting around a fire before piling around tables with a bunch of folk I’d met either the previous evening or who would be showing up that day.
As we pulled out of the parking lot and got rolling on the virtually empty roads I could tell the roads were slick with the fluffed/packed ice/light snow pack that’s a bit deceiving. With my vast winter driving experience, learned on the snow and ice covered byways and highways of Nebraska, I gave the brakes a quick check to determine slippage and determine my friction circle. Check – nice and slow up the two-lane highway out of town, no hurry, a bit slick. That is nothing but good judgment and I was quietly complimenting myself inside my silly, silly head. I might vaguely remember thinking to myself some crazy junk about eggs and chickens.
After a few miles of climbing out of town on the highway there’s a left turn onto the road that takes you through the hamlet of ‘farm homes’ that indicate the suburbs of East Dummerston. You’ve got your trees and ditches, hidden driveways, and back-and-forth curves, deer, dogs, kids, and other obstacles that present problems to lesser drivers. I’m working the auto-transmission between drive and the two low settings, staying off the gas, coasting through the curves, and generally impressing the hell out of anyone that might be watching. Unfortunately, the only one watching is already spending the weekend with me in a New England motel – I’m getting nothing out of this masterful display. Since I’d been out to the estate on a few visits I knew that I’m was coming down a hill to a stop sign at the ‘Junction’. THE JUNCTION. It might be best to give you some reference to the diabolical area - here’s a map annotated with the pertinent points-of-interest.
I’m coming down E West Rd. to the stop sign at the School House / E West Rd. marriage: down-shift, light on the brakes, checking my speed, and steering deliberately – perfect stop. I look left up the hill to make sure no one is skidding down towards the intersection but, more importantly, to fully assess just how much speed I’ll need to reach over the first hundred feet of road if I have any hope of making it up the hill. I’m pretty good a math, a fantastic winter driver as I’ve already described, but even I know there’s little chance of coming close to the summiting the first crest. Even if I get that far, I’ve still got a hard right to negotiate and a second hill up Miller Road. I try to hold the wheels from too much spin as I turn and start accelerating from the stop sign; the front-wheel drive has very little grip and I know before I start that I’ve got no chance of making it. My mind immediately flips through the checklist and stops on the page titled “Give It Up”. And so I do….give it up. I turn to the date and tell her I’m going to back down to the flat area near the stop sign, park the car, and we can walk up to the house. I’ve once again flexed my supreme logic and patience.
I start creeping slowly backwards down the hill; we are only about 75 feet from the stop sign so we’re in good shape. As I’m pontificating on my decision-making prowess the car starts slipping faster under the pull of gravity; I can’t much brake, I can’t steer, but I can hear a crunch as the right-rear wheel slips into the creek/ditch at the side of road. Kaa-chunk-chunk and we’re stuck, one wheel in the ditch and the left-rear wheel up off the ground. We hop out of the car, assess the situation, and realize there’s no way on God’s green Earth we are driving out of this bucket of syrup. The snow’s really coming down by now and through the curtain of flakes we spy a kid outfitted in hunter orange, as you are, holding a shovel and wondering about the crazies in the ditch. He lives in the house with his stereotypical New England family, “Yuur really stook there in that ditch. Tain’t no way outta there on a day like this. It’s a beautiful snow though.” Great. I’m in a horrible movie and my car with Florida plates is stuck a ditch and I’ve got to deal with this?. I proclaim loudly that I’m from Nebraska, home of the free and land of the Huskers – I CAN drive in winter. I get knowing smirks from the Vermonters.
We realize that we should call up to the house, we can almost yell, and see if anyone has a chain and/or tractor available to yank us out of the ditch. My hopes aren’t high because I’m watching SUVs occasionally slide by, wheels locked, heading down the hill with little control. I’m just hoping we don’t get hit by yucks heading either up (they aren’t making it) or down the devilish climb. The snow is being worn off the road by these loons and it’s now nothing but sheet ice exposed. X hangs up the phone and relays to me and the crazy Simpsons people that Christian is coming down with a chain to ‘save us’. Just to let you know right now, he isn’t saving bupkus on this road, not a chance…no way, no how…but I admire his attitude. We chat with the Sox fans while we wait and watch more nearly out-of-control vehicles passing us every few minutes. I reiterate my Nebraska roots, talk up the Red Sox and Patriots, tell a story about my hunting prowess, and generally try to get the Simpsons family to not, 1. call other families to come watch and laugh at us or, 2. videotape the hi-jinks for YouTube. At some point Superman comes rolling around the left-hand turn at the top of the hill riding his Toyota super-truck and petting his faithful sidekick, Casco the Wonder Dog. The Simpsons father takes one look up the hill, squints his eyes, pushes up the eyeglasses, and decrees thus, “Oh, there’s a driver!”. Driver? I’m a driver. Give me one more chance…just one more. I guess Maine plates and good driving are some kind of ‘sign’ of good inclement driving abilities. Right, we’ll see. Chris comes about halfway down the hill, stops (!), turns around (!), applies the brake, and hops out with chain in hand. I can see this is only going to get more comical. I hook up the chain because I have gloves on…point for me…and Chris then tells me to get in the car and give it just a little gas. Let’s review: SUVs are unable to get up the hill even with running starts, folks can hardly drive down the hill because it’s all ice, my car is one-quarter in a ditch, Christian’s truck is at a dead stop in the middle of the hill, and he actually thinks he can not only get started and go up the hill…but do it while pulling another car? It’s laughable. L-A-U-G-H-A-B-L-E.
The chain tightens slowly and I feel it come taut. I’m watching the small four-wheel Toyota through the windscreen, he’s moving ever so slowly. Tasco is looking out the back watching me…laughing no doubt, because he knows what’s going to happen. Tug. Tug. Tug…I’m out and he’s still pulling the car. I’m shocked and amazed. Christian stops the truck mid-hill, hops out, and tells me to pull my car into the driveway on the right, turn around, and he’ll follow us down to the school where we can park and he’ll bring us up to the house. I decide we’re all better off if Mr. Incredible turns the car around, it’s a driveway after all and I sense a degree or two of slope. The car is immediately turned around as I watch, it’s facing downhill, and I manage to drive down to the school, park it, and we all head back up in the truck. If you must know, and surely you do, we shot right up the hill with Christian driving and X and I in the small cab: Wonder Dog was chuckling in my ear…I swear.
He’s not a bad cook either.
Love to all.
T
