current events

There was a lovely in-studio performance on Augie March photo at the top and then select listen (128k mp3) to launch it in iTunes and listen to the three-song set. They’ve been around the block for some time (they’re Australian, that’s a block…) but their music is new to me. After a bit of the interview between songs it became obvious why I’d switched on to the sound, it was right there, he said it – Big Star. There’s some Big Star, some Americana , a twist of Belle and Sebastian, and a pinch of lovely pop going on throughout. They’d come to the station in the morning after a late night at the Varsity Theatre in Dinkytown and hit the road afterwards to head west in a van that could probably be best described as shitty - the live of a minor touring band. That’s commitment. You can disregard all that blabbing and just enjoy the music.

X has been a-lookin’ for a bicycle of late. Wandering into bike shops leads to three basic effects:

1. You will always find yourself drawn to the most expensive bike.

2. You find out there’s way too much you don’t know actually understand about bikes.

3. You decide to shop some more. See #1 and #2.

At the first shop she found a beautiful 2007 Specialized TriCross that cost a pretty (very pretty) penny. It was the most expensive of the bikes suited to her needs. We didn’t understand much about bikes – there’s a lot to know. She decided to shop some more. After a few stops on Wednesday evening (REI and a horrible shop in Falls Church) she had more bikes swimming in her head but no bike at home. This morning she calls en route to Dr. Sam (the chiropractor) and tells me about a few other makes and models she’s found on-line. Since I want nothing but more bike goobley-gook in my head I do a little research and find another local shop that carries the Specialized TriCross she adores. As an aside, the TriCross is in the same utopian part of her mind that was occupied by Georgetown Law three years ago: nice, pretty, expensive, and the only real option – even as one flitters around comparing other suitors. Once her mind is made up it’s a done deal. She’ll smile sweetly at George Mason Law or some Bianchi bike but it’s merely a sham. Anyway, the local shop has the older 2006 TriCross still advertised on-line so I give them a call on the off chance they have them in stock. The very nice woman at the shop here in Vienna tip-types into the computer and tells me that, unfortunately (or not!), there’s only one left in the company inventory (there are four stores in N. Virginia). I learn it’s at the shop out in Ashburn and it’s a 56cm frame. I say Bingo! X is out near Ashburn as we speak and her size for the TriCross is…a 56cm. You see, Dr. Sam (the chiropractor) has his office out near Dulles which is just down the road from Ashburn…and that’s about 30 miles from where we live. There’s only one bike, it’s the right size, it’s 30 miles away, and she’s wandering around out yonder.

She now has a very nice bicycle in the back of the van and is homeward bound. I’m happy she has a bike; I’m most impressed with my work. Up top.

T.

fan club

While listening to the Car Talk podcast this morning there was a question concerning a broken vent fan control on some caller’s car. The details or the call aren’t so important but the answer that outlined how the fan functions was enlightening – and is surely related to my ongoing wonder about why house fans, and their ilk, always turn on first to high (first click), followed by various mid-settings, and eventually all the way over to low. It seems to me, if I followed along correctly, that current to fan motors flows first through a resistor that controls the amount of power; or what I call fan-chopping-spinning-speed. I’m guessing that when the initial current blasts through the motor it’s easier to have the resistor wide-open and allowing maximum speed on first click, hence the high setting. From that point we ramp down the power (increasing the resistance?) as we flip to the lower settings. It doesn’t make sense to have the resistor begin at its highest level (low setting) and then amp up (lowest level/high setting) as the knob rolls through its gears/settings. There may also be some type or size of motor that requires this configuration – I think the big floor models might have motors that can handle the initial avalanche of current. Go ahead and call me crazy; either for the entry or for my lack of mechanical engineering knowledge.

Did we know there was a flavor industry and flavor scientists? I think they are members of groups like the Flavor and Extract Manufacturers Association (FEMA). It came up during a discussion about the possible link between microwave popcorn fumes and pulmonary cancer. Apparently, FEMA is the “…oldest and largest national association of the flavor industry.” There are more?

T.

sick and tired

X was sick last week; I’m sick this week. I don’t take kindly to her statements that somehow say “I managed to go to law school while sick yet you decide to stay at home and recover.” Actually, that is exactly what she said. I think law school is much more important.

A few weeks back X gave me four kid’s serial books to use as wampum for the boys – but what they’ve become is some version of the Lost Ark for G. I swear I saw him wandering around the house the other day wearing a fedora and carrying a bullwhip ready for adventure. I broke out two of them on the drive to the Aquarium last week and explained that their mother has given me four to use as ‘well-done’ markers, or garlic, or crosses, or wooden stakes, or silver bullets…whatever. They quickly did the math (!) and figured there must be two leftovers hidden somewhere in the house. (I immediately moved them from the upper reaches of my bookshelf to the trunk of the car. Ha! they’ll never find them.) G. has often wondered aloud about the house, saying things like “did we do anything good to get the books?”; or, “is there anything else good we can have?” (this being after they’d been given a new computer game); and, the always helpful, “where the hell are the damn books!” He didn’t say that last one but I can see it everyday in his eyes.

Corey and I decided to spend an afternoon away from the WonderTwins. We headed to the bar to watch football, drink beer, and hang around with the other ball-and-chain parolees. Wait, that wasn’t it. We went shopping at a spice store and came right back home; I know, you’re thinking testosterone. The problem with leaving the twins unsupervised is they end up nattering at each other and hatching uncited, and unresearched, dinner plans. Around 5pm we find out about the soup, smoked fish, salad, and dessert plan for the evening. I managed to talk X down from the ledge, delay the dinner until 6:30pm., and scurry out the door for more fish and necessities. A little story about perception. Kt felt there was plenty of fish available for five adult dinners with enough left over for fish tacos the following night. Corey believed there were only three small pieces meant to feed the two of them one night. X told me the two of them were daft and I needed to step in for inspection of fish status and put forth the ultimate decision. This is my life. If someone needs beating up, get Corey. Woodworking? Corey. Car repair? Corey. Figuring out if there’s enough tilapia for dinner? I’m coming off the bench. I got more fish – and cut in line at the register just to prove my manhood…that vegan I knocked out of the way never had a chance…picture earth shoes flying through the air. Bang!

The Larry Brown books are quite good.

More later.

T.

stop now if you don't want my angst; transition

I almost let this one go but the news today from Southwest Airlines reinforces what X calls my moral judgment.

I’m going to edit the profanity that was laced throughout the initial entry; here’s what we get from yesterday.

It’s called public transit for a reason, seriously. A few things that came up today on my usual northern Virginia / greater D.C. commute. The 401 was crowded this morning, lots of folks standing, yet we had some guy that I’ve dubbed Larry sitting in the outside seat of a two-seat bench. The window seat’s empty and Larry isn’t some guy going 399lbs. who needs two seats – Larry is a hateful person. Larry has direct descendants on Southwest flights: it’s always that couple sitting in the aisle and window seats during the boarding zone A cattle call. Even if you’re part of the A or B boarding they’ll sit there pretending they don’t know each other; as if two emptied-eyed, baseball cap wearing hucks from Kansas City simply ended up, by chance, in the same row. I hate them. Back to Larry. Larry apparently has a divine right to two seats even if some other rider doesn’t feel the need to tell him to either move over or stand up. You know what Larry? Even if you have two seats you’ve got a hundred people who think you’re an ass…and they think you suck. You can go through your simple life thinking you’ve pulled some kind of amazing feat…it’s a fine line between feat and jackassery.

Riding the Orange Line home this afternoon I noticed Larry’s cousin all laid back in my car. He had his headphones on while he kicked back and stretched his feet out on the elderly/handicapped seats in front of him. It doesn’t matter so much that the seats are reserved for anyone, it’s more a configuration I’m describing, but why is it that anyone thinks putting their crappy, stinky shoes up on a seat is okay? Why? If you want to rest your feet on your mother’s couch while you watch Dancing with the Stars, feel free. If you are somewhere that ain’t kin…knock it off. I can see Larry and his cousin, Larry, arguing over the last Miller Lite.

The city is full of doors that are triggered by pads that automatically open the door(s) for handicapped people. (I can’t get much deeper into peeves so I might as well continue.) If you aren’t handicapped, but simply too lazy to actually open a door, then stop with the auto-door function. Those things have a useful life and you’re burning up gears, oil, and maintenance time through your ease. Since I’m on this idea…if I’m ahead of you and between the auto-doors do not activate the doors from behind me and pitch the next door into me as I reach to open it. Look! I’m opening an effing door.

And finally, if someone is running for the train and you’ve decided that you can’t make it, or don’t care to make it, get out of the way. Even with the iPod playing you know full well there are people running for every Metro train in D.C. Without the iPod…you can hear them running. Move out of the way – it ain’t your world.

I quit.

That was a huge whine.

T.

verse chorus

A little music and book talk to open the day. As so often happens with me, I end up rolling down the highway with a little nugget that piqued my interest. I remember reading Bill Gates’s book a number of years ago and ending up with a copy of Solo Faces by James Salter and a mountain climbing anthology; one of which had been brought up by Gates. From there I ended up reading some Jon Krakauer articles and eventually all his books – now I’m waiting on release of the movie Into the Wild (directed by Sean Penn) which is based on one of his second book. This chain-of-events has been going on for something like twelve years.

This week’s entry ramp was a link to a song/video by Brent Best (Slobberbone, Drams) that appears on a tribute CD of sorts. The project drew together a group of musicians, primarily from Mississippi , who wrote songs either based on or directly from the writings of author Larry Brown. I knew nothing of Brown. He died in 2004 and had been a great friend with a bevy of great musicians…and apparently a very good writer. I don’t have the full story on all the songs – I’ll download them tonight – and I haven’t yet read his work. I’m off to the library tonight to grab one of his novels and a collection of his other stories. I’m always amazed at how we fall in line with artists (authors, musicians, etc.) whose work we enjoy. If Brent Best is writing a song for a tribute project than the subject of said tribute is clearly going to be someone I dig. I’ll let you know the results. The song and video, titled Robert Cole, is a cracker.

As The Eleven sat chatting around the dinner table the other night I confessed my absolute lack of house plant knowledge. The point of this mea culpa was to clarify my inability to actually take care of everyone’s houseplants while they cavort in New England every summer. I generally get directions that I might understand and then pretty much water all the plants when the dirt gets dry: that’s my entire skill set, dry dirt = water. X, playing the role of my confessor, tried to appease my angst by passing along tips that included how fast the water flows through the pot, how clay pots allow more water to escape but ceramic pots hold water, the well known fact that it’s almost impossible to kill a spider plant, and myriad other plant and/or garden-based trivia. When she finished I pointed out that this flood of information hit my brain the same way it would hit her mind if I suddenly began describing the Nebraska football counter trey play. It’s not that either of us can’t comprehend either subject – it’s just that neither of us care. I did learn that mushrooms growing in a plant pot isn’t really a good sign.

A woman being interviewed on NPR just used one of my most despised words: redouble. It always seemed to me that you’d first have double your efforts and if that doesn’t work then you can redouble, which is actually four times the effort you initially put forth, right? What happened to tripling your efforts?

That's Brent Best with his newest band, The Drams, he's second from the right.

The gent in the second photo is Larry Brown.

Kisses to all.

T

what is it sebastian? I'm sorting matches

I don’t know that I’ve ever before mistakenly returned one of my DVDs in place of a rental, hard to know in hindsight. I do know that on Sunday evening I grabbed three DVDs to return to my local; one was late, two were on-time, if you care. I took a good long look at the three movie covers with a certainty unlike any other: Brother Bear II (boys’ movie), Miss Potter (X), Music and Lyrics (the Eleven). Unfortunately, it wasn’t actually Music and Lyrics in my hand but another movie that X has recently purchased at Target – here’s where it gets funny and wherein my defense is held.

As you sit at your computer reading my ramblings, I’ll like you to imagine the following movies, their plots, the acting, and etc.:

Music and Lyrics, Bridget Jones: The Edge of Reason, Bridget Jones’s Diary, Love Actually, About a Boy, Notting Hill, Nine Months, Four Weddings and a Funeral, The Englishman Who Went Up a Mountain, Two Weeks Notice, or Mickey Blue Eyes

Even if you haven’t seen all of them you can play along. If you’ve seen only one of the films then I ask you to suspend your disbelief one more time, for just a second, and transfer Hugh Grant from the one movie you know…and place his character in any of the other movies. Exactly the same movie, trust me. It just like when you hear a DJ announce the first spin of a new Neil Diamond song on the radio and you’re wondering just what it will sound like. Well, it’ll sound like every other Neil Diamond song. Do you know why it’s so easy to start a Neil Diamond tribute ‘band’? You only have to don some sequins and learn one song. Sorry about that. What happened in the DVD return event was that I grabbed her newly purchased Love Actually instead of Music and Lyrics – it seemed like right movie, it felt like the right movie. I realized the error of my ways last night and X took the right DVD back this afternoon and explained the situation to the store manager (who, by the way, is a really good guy). He gave a nod of understanding as X explained the confused Hugh Grant syndrome that her ‘boyfriend’ is trying to overcome. It was sometime during this rambling explanation, probably about the time she said Hugh Grant, that Don started nodding in empathy. He’s seen it all. He’s a profession DVD purveyor. He understands the Hugh Grant vortex. I think it happens all the time – they probably have a checklist at the video store:

1. Are you holding a returned Hugh Grant DVD with no Blockbuster sticker/ code? Go to step #2.

2. Is it a modern movie setting with a loveable flop-top?
Yes go to #5.
No to #3.

3. Is it an older English-y movie setting with a loveable flop-top?
Yes go to #6.
No go to # 4.

4. It must be a copy of Extreme Measures. No worries – no one will return to claim his action movie repertoire. If it's not a copy of Extreme Measures, go to step #9.

5. Check our stock of the following, if it’s one of these, go to step #7.

Music and Lyrics
Bridget Jones: Edge of Reason
Bridget Jones’s Diary
Love Actually
About a Boy
Notting Hill
Nine Months
Four Weddings and a Funeral
The Englishman Who…
Two Weeks Notice
Mickey Blue Eyes

6. Check our stock of the following, if it’s one of these, go to step #8.

Remains of the Day
Sense and Sensibility
Restoration
Sirens
Lady and the Highwayman
Impromptu

7. Hugh Grant film was rented by a girl/girlfriend/wife and returned in haste or confusion by the significant other. She’ll be back. Checklist complete.

8. Hugh Grant film was rented by a girl/girlfriend/wife and returned in haste or confusion by the significant other. He’ll be back – it’s not so embarrassing to watch these films. Hey, it’s kind of like history and whatnot. Checklist complete.

9. Make sure it’s not a non-Blockbuster DVD starring Renee Zellweger (her movies are also the same). If it is, and it probably is, go to #10.

10. Leave it in the stockroom box with other copies of Extreme Measures, the early Cusack collection, the Zellweger whiny movies, and the Sandra Bulluck cute girl repeat-role movies. We donate them to charity. Checklist complete.

Good evening.

T.

a boy and his cup

The boys were piled into the car Saturday morning and driven out to Maryland. The first stop was to pick-up Sue who’d invited everyone on a visit to the National Aquarium in Baltimore. This isn’t about the aquarium. I decided to stop at Murky Coffee in Clarendon for a cup of brain juice. We all have little lessons we learn in life and then promptly forget (is that a lesson? is it learned?). This lesson will be called the “white shirt and to-go coffee cup”. The four leading indicators for this little nugget of misery are the following: a too full cup of coffee, the cup seam-to-lid hole location, a belief in ‘spill proof’ drinking silos, and being in a car en route to somewhere other than a short errand – someplace like an aquarium 60 miles away. Two of the four were clearly in play (belief and miles) so klaxons should have been sounding in my little head…yet, the human mind refuses to suspend belief or even contemplate that a spill proof cup might not be spill proof. I was almost in the red before I even got up a head of steam. My large house brew was too full before I sidled over to the milksugarcinnamonmagic bar but I still managed to get just enough milk and sugar into my paper cup so that a meniscus formed on top – that’s three indicators for you playing at home. I grab a sippy lip, slap that baby on top (very carefully), and click down over a steaming, overfilled cup of Panama Boquete Hacienda La Esmeralda Especial. I’m out the door before you know it, skipping to the car, singing some Roger Miller, and imagining myself a smart boy. We pull out of the parking lot, squirm around a corner, and start the drive up a lovely boulevard north of Clarendon. I’ve got some music playing, the windows are down, the breezes are blowing, the boys are doing games in the backseat, and my coffee is calling my name. Ah…a nice sip of quality coffee from my perfectly mixed cup. Why does my chest feel hot? Funny. Another sip of my coffee. Why do my legs feel hot? Dammit. I’m censoring that response. My trust has been violated. The spill proof cup, with the perfectly aligned cup seam, steam, overfilled liquid, and sippy hole configuration, has done me in again. I pull over on the leafy damn boulevard (it’s not so lovely now) and pull out a bottle of water and some napkins to clean my clothing. The quick-ish response does prevent me from driving home to change clothes but I’m absolutely infuriated for the next ten miles. This one will stick with me for at least a week – I won’t be fooled, don’t even try. No guarantees after October because there’s clearly a pattern: the other dozen times this has happened in my life haven’t remained as strong warnings in my head, Hell, I can’t even remember to duck when walking through our apartment in order to avoid smashing my head on the monkey-bar that’s installed in the dining room doorway. A little hot coffee isn’t any big deal, right? Whack. Ouch!

T.

step in the booth, pull a lever

This afternoon was fraught with choices. None of the decisions were life altering but I was flummoxed by both.

The first choice I had to made was dealing with single-track operations on the Metro's Orange Line out Dunn Loring way. At the top of the stairs (and escalators) was a handwritten sign that read "All TraINs OperTinG ON the VIEnna side of THe plAtform". I'm including my rendition of the Dunn Loring-Merrifield Metro station below. The titles to the outside of each track are what the trains are labeled on the lead-car placards. I'll tell you that 'the Vienna side' makes little sense because it's not like the north or south side - Vienna is merely a destination, which if you care is off the bottom of the map. Don't concern yourself with the direction of travel for each train because it won't matter. So, you're heading down the stairs, you've read the sign, and you're wondering which track to stand near - go ahead and answer for yourself. We'll come back to this conumdrum later.


My barbers (Wilson Blvd. Barbers) are moving to a place in Westover come October. Until then, they are splitting time between the current place and the new place (run by a Greek or Moroccan guy). One barber is at Wilson Blvd. and one is over at Westover. I called Farraj today to see if Habib was working Westover since that location always has fewer people. I was told he was so I show up about 5pm and it's Farraj, not Habib, manning the chair. That has nothing to do with the voting mechnism...I digress. I'm in the shop and there are two barbers working: Gerard, a member of the current staff at the shop; and Farraj, who I want to cut my hair. They are both finishing up the guys-in-seats at about the same time - the problem is that the first chair cleared is the chair the next guy takes and I'm the second waiter. If Farraj finishes first, what to do? I don't want Gerard doing my 'do. I'm very tense. As Farraj starts to finish up the neck shave I sense he's up to some "additional trimming and grooming" in order to stall so he finishes second and I get my cut from him - I am a regular afterall. Sure enough, they finish mere seconds apart - Farraj just in second. Whew! Disaster averted. The hair looks good for those tracking at home.

As an aside, I asked X last night if she's ever come across a fan with first click that is the lowest setting (i.e. 1 of 3, or lo of lo-med-high). She hemmed, she hawed, and I threw out a very confident "there are none in this or any other world" judgment. If you know of any that have an opening click of lo, I'd like to know. If not, why is this? I'll generally eliminate anyone from the discussion that happens to also know the width in inches of standard gauge railroad.

The answer to the Metro question is the right-side track. I think the sign was wrong.

Love to all.

T.

h-e-double toothpicks

Sen. Obama was strong in the Senate hearings today. Aside from the fact that he felt the need to spell A-S-S instead of saying the word, he spoke well. He didn’t rehash the same questions and blather that most of the panel put forth – he hit the main issue: at what point, or at which benchmarks, do you see the U.S. deciding to withdraw. I like Gen. Petraeus and his testimony (both days) as a whole has been straightforward. I don’t much care for the graphs and charts he presented because numbers can be wholly manufactured to fit any situation. The problem with what Petraeus faces is the limits on what he can or cannot do on a battlefield; affecting strategic thinking. In the greater view, the strategic planning (nation-building, withdrawal, more/less troops) is held strictly by the President and his administration. The tactical issues (Al Anbar, sectarian violence in neighborhoods, prosecuting foreign and insurgent fighters) fall directly to Petraeus. In the areas where he has enough troops due to the surge (Al Anbar) there may be some progress, such as “sitting on the [sectarian] fault lines”, as Petreaus testified. The general is doing the job he’s been tasked to accomplish but the fact is that the job (strategically) cannot be accomplished with troops. Both the ambassador and the general readily admit that the only way for Iraq, and this war, to succeed is via political rock breaking. And that’s the rub: he’s a military man doing a military man’s job well but fighting a futile mission. The greatest fault in the entire vignette is that Petraeus refuses to make any determination or estimate on how long it would take to complete his mission: securing the entire country in order to allow the political process to gain a foothold. As the author of the Army’s counterinsurgency manual he knows in his heart just how long and how many troops it would take to quell the violence and allow politics in Iraq to become a factor. If he can’t answer that question with any level of fidelity then we’re simply toiling down the same endless path. I disagree with him on this fact – providing an idea of a timeline wouldn’t be debilitating to U.S. force in Iraq.

The idea of having Ambassador Crocker present at the hearings was misinformed. His comments and strength of knowledge about the military affairs, which is the point of these hearings, were unhelpful. I know he can’t really do his job (strategic/political) until Petraeus can do his.

I think moveon.org needs to back off.

Here’s my suggestion for future House and Senate hearings. The chairperson can open the proceedings with the following:

“The entire committee, and our country, thanks you for being here and for your service to your country. Now that I’ve passed along those comments for the committee, and the American people, the next member that utters anything about thanks or service will be summarily kicked in the A-S-S.”

T.

crush crush

A broken postal (or UPS) delivery driver crawled home from N. Park Dr. on Friday afternoon. He admitted that ‘our’ delivery had done in him – he was calling it a day. We first heard the normal delivery knock on the door and a then massive thump on the lanai. It turns out that X has ordered four massive buckwheat husk pillows for the kibbutz inhabitants. She apparently grew weary of the dusty old pillows what normal people sleep on every night…comfortably. The first new pillow test came Friday evening when she managed to wrangle her husk-a-low into the largest pillow case we own – barely. Come Saturday morning the die had been cast and the remaining feather/foam/soft/comfy/sleepy pillows were brusquely torn from under the restful heads of sleepy children (and boyfriends), stripped of cases, and cast to the dark corners of the Earth: husk-a-lows around! It should be pointed out that she decided the fully stuffed version needed some husks removed so that a head could actually make a dent in the harvest vastness. We proceeded to remove a gallon Ziploc bag amount from each and therefore finalize her evil plot for full compliance. (The four Ziplocs of husks are stored under the bed and might appear as some type of drug stash.) Since H. was off at a slumber party-thing on Saturday night it was up to G. and I to serve as lab rats for the sleep tank. I think G. was suspicious but managed to hold his tongue for fear of a 30-pound pillow upside his head. I, being a good test subject, fluffed my silo of grain and promptly fell a-slumber, happily. The only problem I encountered was the inability to get an arm out from under the sheer mass of my ‘pillow’ whilst trying to rollover in the middle of the night. I also had a strange dream that involved squirrels rustling about my head…who knows? With the test results accurately compiled Sunday morning, the old pillows were kicked about one more time and victory declared. H. had his first husk-a-low experience as he lay his head down to sleep last night. We got home from the Mavis Staples show about thirty minutes after they boys went to bed and X wandered in to kiss them good night (such a nice mother). H. looked up and said “This pillow is horrible!” to which his mother replied, “Don’t be silly. Pull your blanket up, I’m cold.”

Consider yourselves warned.

T.

miscellany

Lots of things; little of nothing.

I managed a batch of roasted vegetable lasagna with a basil oil sauce last night. As with much involving veg, it ended up being more work than one expects. Damn good, nonetheless. The Eleven headed over to the farmers market in Clarendon this morning - same vendors as DuPont Circle on Sundays - and grabbed some peachs, peppers, sorel, mushrooms, tomatoes, and basil. The leader of the pack was a $20 pile of fresh porcini that needed a'cookin'. They ended up sauteed in olive oil over a pile of polenta (resting on broiled bottom of roquefort) with fresh greens and an heirloom tomato. Very nice. I'll need to so some research on just what one is to do with sorel. Half the massive peaches ended up in a double-crust peach and blueberry pie. You can't go wrong with huge white peaches...even if you try.

I'm off in the early morning for my first game in the Fall Ultimate season. A new rec team that's captained by some 22-year old punk. We played his team twice over the Summer and he's really good. He was a punk over the Summer but now I'm on his team...love him! Last season I dubbed him Samberg - primarily because he looks just like SNL's Andy Samberg. If you haven't seen Samberg's funniest work (not the Ultimate version, the SNL version) here it is. It'll be a fun season as I try to get better (shape, skills, etc.) before next Summer.

Nebraska struggled today and they've got #1 USC in Lincoln next Saturday. I don't like Coach Bill Callahan, and as much as I want them to do well, they'll get hammered. USC 31 Nebraska 14.

X has decided to publish in the Environmental Law Reporter (January issue). I played a bit of the pro/con issue with her - hopefully not too persuasive - and she sent the e-mail confirming her decision this evening. It's impossible for me to imagine writing an article that's so timely that it would warrant this kind of decision. Her passion as she wrote, her worry that it wasn't quite good enough have been shattered (the worry) by the acceptance she's recieved. I'm very proud of her...and I'm simply the cook!

I sent out a few links last week for lake/waterfront cabins in Quebec. There are those who've deemed the Great White North as next Summer's destination of choice. No response...one can only try.

The Eleven are off to Rockville, Maryland tomorrow night for the (my) much anticipated Mavis Staples show (third row). I sense some worry in her eyes; as if I'd lasso her into something she wouldn't enjoy. What? Me?

Love to all.

T.

higher math

I saw a man at the 401 bus stop wearing a black pirate-y eye patch. Eye patches (2) have now drawn even with unicycle sightings in the Paddle. The patch wearer was, of course, smoking a cig.

The Eleven and the boys decided that Thursday nights would be filled with pizza and movies this semester. X doesn’t get home until about 9pm from classes so a homemade deep dish followed by a DVD or trip to the theatre seem like a good idea. It kicked off last night with the three of us heading over to Ballston to see Transformers. My knowledge of Transformers falls on the spectrum very near my knowledge of heels on women’s shoes (kitten?), and Pokemon. On the way home H. decided to pass along some additional information about other Transformer generations…ahhhh! I decided the equivalent for him would me passing along this little dissertation on mathematics after watching him do his long-division homework:

Me: “That was some good math. After that you’ll learn that the method of separation of variables will yield particular solutions…”

Henry: “Wait. I don’t know anything about that.”

Me: “I know, but this is right after long division. Those partial solutions of a linear partial differential equation on very simple domains such as rectangles may satisfy initial or boundary conditions. Isn’t that cool?"

Henry: [eyes rolling back in his head] “But that’s way more than I want to know.”

Me: “Okay, but, because any superposition of solutions of a linear PDE is again a solution, the particular solutions may then be combined to obtain more general solutions. You see?”

Henry: [falls from his chair to the floor]

Me: “Henry? Anyway, if the domain is finite or periodic, an infinite sum of solutions such as a Fourier series is appropriate, but an integral of solutions such as a Fourier integral is generally required for infinite domains. It’s very cool.”

Henry: [mumbling from the floor] “What does that have to do with Optimus Prime?”

It’s not really Henry. X will no doubt testify that I’m guilty of not using enough yes and no answers if I feel there should be more to a story.

One clerkship interview has been offered from West Virginia for X’s application process (see our Sunday). She’s also received two offers for publication of her environmental paper on Atlantic tuna fishing, very impressive. Of course, I’m published many times a month.

The Stranger had a hilarious reader input concerning the Sen. Craig issue. I’ve got nothing much to say about the tomfoolery so I’ll just leave to others. The comments below the picture made me laugh on a Friday…and that’s good enough.

T.

take it elsewhere

I was listening to Kojo Nnamdi show again today. His second hour on Thursday is open for callers to set the agenda. As with every Thursday there is a rash of moronic callers with some bone to pick. As you’d expect from my leanings, most of these chuckletons are white conservatives living in the greater D.C. area. (P.S. Kojo is on 12 -2 pm Eastern time daily on WAMU. You can listen on-line at www.wamu.org.) The massive issue here Northern Virginia are day workers. A day worker center was opened a few months ago in Herndon that provided a shelter and basic traffic flow security for laborers. What we hear every week on the show are people who are mentally unable to separate day laborers from illegal aliens. Are there illegal aliens working as day laborers? Certainly. Are there legal workers at the day laborer centers? Yes. In fact, Kojo brought up that the fact his sons worked as day laborers one summer to earn money; and, shock and surprise, they are U.S. citizens. What about those Americans that work as contractors and sub-contractors that deal in cash so they don’t have to pay taxes? That’s illegal, right? Shall we crack down on that activity? I guess we could if we could find the non-white purveyors of these illegal doings. The entire debate is based on two facts: first, there are illegal immigrants in America and second, they are Hispanic/Latino. That’s the endpoint for every conservative debate and the algebra means that we should deport, discriminate, and punish every Hispanic in America – problem fixed. We can debate who is responsible for immigration reform (the Federal Government) but we cannot continue to use the “all those day laborers look illegal to me” - that phrase gets trotted out every week on the show. If anyone believes that the playing field in America is even – and that everyone can simply fill out an application and get a job and get paid – is in denial. It all makes me fume.

when will i quit

Such a debate raging: Tres Chicas are playing at Iota tonight and I’ve suddenly become my own devil’s advocate. This is what happens when you get older and less interested in seeing performers more than once. It’s a Thursday night and show time is 9pm with an opener slated. I figure it’ll be 10:15 before the gals hit the stage and suddenly beyond midnight before I get to bed. It all figures to be a five-hour sojourn for a 90-minute show and that’s the rub. I could get two hours of apartment cleaning done, have dinner, wash the dishes, get through an episode of Deadwood, and be in bed by 10pm. I find that fewer and fewer artists can pull me out on weeknights.

I had a blurb written about the Neko Case show a few weeks ago but never published it…gun shy. The gist was that she’s a one-of-a-kind singer, I love her songs, the show was nice, the crowd very good (including the much anticipated calls of love and marriage)…it wasn’t earth-shattering. The Neko crowd would never take anything but praying at her altar as a valid input. Along those lines…
This week’s episode of Musicheads at the Current included weekend DJ Tony Lopez pointing out, quite rightly in my opinion, that any CD running 74 minutes will make him run for the door. No matter how good the music, and it generally doesn’t hold it’s quality throughout, it becomes too much. As is well documented, I have a similar live show parameter – about 100 minutes. Beyond that run I’m thinking about the twenty to thirty minutes of dregs any artist pulls out during live shows that run too long. Suddenly they’re pulling me beyond two hours (two-and-a-half with encores) and my mind keeps wondering why they’ve done it. In my defense, I’ll point out that I’m perfectly happy to let the artist play whatever bevy of songs they choose for the evening – I’m not one that needs to hear everything I’d put on the play list, and it’s that mentality that leads to people getting all roped up in three-hour sets. My question is this: would you rather have 90 minutes of killer performance or 2 ½ hours that alternates between dribs and drabs? There isn’t really a choice because there are few performers that can hold attention for that kind of time – hit me with both barrels and let’s head out. What made me think of this was the dcist.com review of the Neko show that included the fact that the set was 75 minutes. Very nice.

And I’m adding this little online input / discussion with the Washington Post staff writer (J. Freedom du Luc) from the WaPo website – hitting the nail on the head about all crowds at all shows:

Writer:“My question is one of 9:30 Club etiquette...we showed up about half-way through the opening act for the Neko show (too bad, b/c he was really good). We head upstairs and there is room to stand along the railing towards the front of the stage, with folks sitting in that first row of steps. We wander over and stand along the railing, and a guy sitting on the stairs behind us freaks out and tries to convince us that he is sitting there...but is also planning to stand against the railing once Neko comes on. We finally convince him that you can't both sit and stand at the same time and he's gotta give one of his spots up. I always stand downstairs at the 9:30, so the upstairs world is a bit new to me--is this common for 'upstairsers' or is this guy as big a -&%$# as we think?”

J. Freedom du Lac: “I'm with you here. Dude can't do the long-distance ownership thing. If somebody leaves their space along that rail and nobody's holding it for them, then it's fair game.”

My corollary to that discussion is the process at the Birchmere in Alexandria. (I know, you can tune out whenever…) The Birchmere main room is all tables, no standing, and the doors generally open about 60-90 minutes before the show – first come, first serve for seating with each table each seating between 6 and 10 people. For the sold-out shows they hand out numbers to folks as they arrive even earlier than doors opening and start calling numbers as the doors opening – it’s all very orderly. What generally happens is that there might be a group of 8-10 attending the show together but only one nugget shows up early to snag a number and then get seats for the rest of the monkeys. This guy ends up holding an entire table for the rest of the party that prances in about 20 minutes before show time…and it pisses me off. Here’s my rule: you can hold an equal number of seats as those of you currently sitting at the table. Call it my “you’re on a date” rule. If you want to hold eight seats then at least four of you have to be there. Period. If I walk up and decide to sit down at the table that you’re either laying on, or is covered with your purse, your jacket, one or your shoes on two seats, your hat, your effing umbrella, and your socks…I’m sitting down. Tipping the chairs up doesn’t count, nobody holds a seat for someone in the venue by tipping the chair against the table. There, I’ve said it. Stuff it.

This is the most useless entry ever.

expect no quarter

The other day at Trader Joe’s I bought a roll of quarters from the manager/customer service counter – or plank, as they might call it. I grabbed the business card of that store’s manager because I couldn’t pass on this name - Johnny Lawless. If I could change my name to anything it would be Johnny Lawless.

Getting back to work is uneventful after five days of vacation in Vermont. What can you do?

I didn’t get much input from the crowd on the yawning in public disease that’s overrun the city. The details are pretty clear: it seems that covering your massive, gaping maw while yawning on the train or bus is now non grata. I’ve seen some huge caverns and studied a good amount of dental work on display by complete strangers.

We were sitting in a living room semi-circle doing the Sunday NYTimes Puzzle last week and I somehow ended up in the role of reader. In the normal state of affairs the Eleven gets to sit back and simply provide input whilst MC Phil picks-and-chooses the across/down puzzle route. What you don’t want to do when designated control is not spell out all idiosyncratic clues that Will Shortz swings your way. My mistake was my encounter with the clue “Weigh stn. visitor.” I did spell the ‘stn.’ in order to indicate an abbreviation for the answer, well done on my part! Unfortunately, I neglected to spell W-E-I-G-H aloud and the front row on the couches had W-A-Y stuck in their shared DNA headmeat. When I finally almost mumbled over the answer (‘semi’…ah!) as I filled it in at toward the end of the puzzle my beachhead was washed over with refreshing waves of “what?”, “weigh?”, “well, of course…”, “Jesus”, and other variants of “you’re a damn fool”. They will eat the young and newly entribed.

We played golf in miniature on Mountain Road in Stowe one evening. They don’t call it mini-golf up Stowe-way – too left bank. I stink. X is some kind of putt hustler who smiles sweetly while gutting you on the course. I’ve never beat her, not that I need to, but she is ruthless with the short stick. I don’t think she missed any 4-6 foot putts – cold and calculating with a dash of grin and ‘oh my’ mentality.

The first day up North was spent at the Shelburne Museum followed by dinner at A Single Pebble. The Shelburne is site of the Electra Havemeyer Webb Memorial Building that houses an amazing group of impressionist artwork. After wandering around through gardens and exhibits for a number of hours we ended up in this building and were overwhelmed by the paintings on display. I can’t remember all the details but the building contains the innards of a NYC apartment of Electra and the brood – some lineage of the Vanderbilts and sugar kings. The Shelburne is well worth a visit. I must pass along a funny quip; the boys got a little frustrated with each other after a long day together and managed to get involved in child diplomacy. When X stepped in as the intermediary I overheard H. relay this evidentiary tidbit “Why am I always blamed for things I do?” Brilliant.

I’ll let everyone go for the day.

T.

hot potato, cool weather

The heat has died…ding-dong. We’ve had rain over the last two nights and it’s continuing to be cool through the days. This lovely turn of events means two things: I’m not grumpy and I don’t have to water the outside flowers. I lead a simple life.

I was walking to the Ballston Metro this morning, listening to This American Life on the iPod, and suddenly came upon a baked potato on the sidewalk. I’m on a sidewalk near a church that’s nowhere near any gathering of family garbage cans or garbage pick up areas. The complete potato is laying about a foot-and-a-half from the opened sheet of foil, something that all Midwesterners recognize from our evenings of meatloaf and baked potatoes. I think those coastal towns and cities tend to bypass the foil when baking, philistines. The potato was whole and hadn’t yet been considered for toppings; the foil was completed and appeared to have been unrolled, not torn. How did this happen? It clearly hadn’t been thrown from a passing car, who would do that? Of course, it makes little sense for someone walking to drop the potato in disgust. Did someone grab some leftovers from the ‘fridge on the dash out of the house this morning (or last night)? Maybe they were running late and took the first foil wrapped object they came across. Halfway to the Metro they peel back the foil and realize that this solid oval-shaped item is damn baked potato…a baked potato! You can’t eat a plain, dry baked potato while walking – you’d look stupid. Though if you were sneaky you could drive along in your car and munch on a whole potato, especially if you’re hungry and aren’t sitting at a traffic light. That’s why the tossing from the car was eliminated from suspicion. I guess the frustration of a cold, dry, plain baked was too much for them and they couldn’t wait for a garbage can. Damn the potatoes…damn the potatoes.

I’m heading up to Stowe tomorrow morning for five days vacation. Unfortunately, this year’s rental doesn’t have a ping-pong table in the basement and I think X finds this inadequate. I don’t need to spend any more time slaughtering the Goepp clan with my freakish paddling skills. We’ll make due with hiking, swimming, sitting in the hot tub, and surprisingly rousing matches of badminton.

I suspect computer access is limited; you’ll know soon enough.

Love to all.

T.

building to a future

Thomas Friedman’s op-ed in the Sunday NYTimes nailed it concerning the situation in Iraq and the report due next month from Gen. David Petraeus. I’d link to the article but the Times is pay-per-view for columnists online. Anyway, the gist is that if we need someone to explain to us what is happening with the Iraqi government then it’s not working. What we need, and expect, is a very clear signal or action from the parties involved in the Iraqi government: public statements like we will work together as a coalition, we will crack down on militias, insurgents, etc., and we will do it by such and such date. No translation required, merely a forthright statement from the government. He also applies the theory to any number of Middle East peace plans over the last forty years; whenever he had to sit through a briefing and explanation, without any clear action, he wrote off the plan as failed at genesis. Sadat to Israel in 1977? That didn’t need explanation.

The Eleven had a long discussion on Barrack Obama and Hillary Clinton, senators and vice-presidents, and long-view politics. Very lively! The opening idea was that if Hillary Clinton wins the nomination I think she’d be foolish not to bring Obama on as the veep. I’m not sure how she’ll fare in the general election but I think she needs a strong running mate; someone who isn’t an unknown and wholly subservient politico to the world (i.e. former Virginia governor Mark Warner). Obama gives the ticket a ton of pull across the populist spectrum and would probably offset some of her negative numbers. The issue becomes what I think of the vice-presidency, it doesn’t often lead to the presidency through election: only Thomas Jefferson (1797), Martin Van Buren (1833), and George H.W. Bush (1989) made the jump. Nixon eventually became President but that was eight years after he was veep. I think eight became President through the death (and one through resignation) of predecessors. Of course, being a senator doesn’t provide a much better record – only JFK in the 50+ years. So where does Obama go? Back to the Senate or to the Executive Office Building? I don’t know that he’ll ever be more popular than he is right now and I certainly don’t think that after eight more years in the Senate the iron will be hot. Even four more years, and running against an incumbent in 2012, isn’t a grand idea. If we assume that we wouldn’t see him until 2016, and the great hit on his record is his lack of international experience and leadership, than I would prefer to see him serving as a dynamic, aggressive, and very visible V.P.- it would greatly enhance his political clout – but only if he’s dynamic, aggressive, and very visible. I certainly believe that time spent hanging around the First Husband and learning the workings of government and diplomacy would do absolutely no harm. Since I’m sitting here on the left and hoping to build for the future I can’t help but think a Clinton/Obama administration would provide a chance for 16 years of leadership; come 2016 he’d only be 55. Whaddya know?

That’s too much political thinking and whatnot.

T.

loads of stuff

Let’s get back to talking about the Fairfax 401 bus blended together with a little chat about bags…and purses. (I’m going to excuse the WonderTwins as lab rats for my useless observations because they both carry totes in addition to, or in place of, ‘purses’. Smart girls.) Public transit commuters need to carry stuff because we don’t have the benefit of cars and trucks to run to during our smoke break. We need stuff. What I’ve noticed about the busgals is that they tend to want to maintain their designer purse-cute clutch ideal, probably as much for the other gals as for the busboys. I don’t have any issues with girls and large bags so it must be for the other fashionista dames; they do glare at each other-. The deal with men is this, when we finally realize that carrying a bag is a grand idea we are completely overrun with perfecting the bag life. We have no worries about overall size and certainly no need to find a small clutch or cute little lamè bag to impress the girls…we’ve decided, and we’ve got stuff to carry. It used to be that it seemed women carry purses so that we can laugh at them; as if they needed to bring along all that lipstick, powder, brushes, huge wallet, mirrors, and other womanly needs. In fact, the root of the problem, from the man logic jail, is they don’t go big enough and then end up with and an additional carrying platform like a recycled, handled paper shopping bag from Nordstrom or Macy’s so they’ll have shoes and lunch for the day. I guess the fact that the bag has nice rope-like handles and comes from Bebe or l’Occitane makes it fashionable. Guys would never do that, it’s counter-intuitive and we’d end up with a ratty old Subway bag with our ratty old shoes inside. The point of carrying a bag, any bag, is so our hands are free to do things like:

Describing a sweet golf shot from the 17th hole,

Explaining a great passing maneuver from the weekend’s Formula 1 race, or possibly,

Giving an accurate spatial relation demonstration representing how we shot down a Russian MiG, or our watch, on our Cold War video game.

It’s not so we have free hands so we can carry other bags. The great bag life allows us enough room to carry everything needed to survive either the workday or trip around the world, you never know: lunch, clothes, newspaper(s), book, magazines, iPod(s), first aid kit, umbrella, snacks, keys, wallet, sunglasses, water bottle, spare water bottle, day planner, camera, hand soap, maps, and tons of other stuff. We’ve no need to be svelte and overly fashionable; in fact, the more stuff we can pull from the bag the more impressed the crowd. As if a few lipsticks and rouge is enough to get a man through the day.


I’m off to the 9:30 Club to see the flaming redhead tonight. It’ll be my first Neko Case show and the general tenor of most reviews is that the crowd is a bunch of guys swooning over her. I’ll be mature. I think my review will take on the boy:girl ratio along with how mesmerized and full of woo the men were…

T.

86 99 whatever

For those not fortunate enough to have visited the N. Park kibbutz I'll try my best to give you a broad description of the apartments. The Eleven live over in #2 with two kids and two rats; take your pick on which may be which. The Corkat lives across the hall in numero uno with three birds and a cheeky child. Close your eyes for a few moments and just imagine how the floor plans for two apartments across the hall from each other might align...think...shhh....think of something peaceful. Got it? Right, they are exactly the opposite of each other and that's apparently baffling enough for this boy. Now, add in the little nugget that we are constantly back and forth betwixt the abodes; we know them well - they are simply backwards, you know, backwards. Good, now you have the back story.

I'm not sure exactly what chores I have while my beloved is off wandering the Hamptons with the rich and famous. Since I don't care to think about it too much I've decided to just do what I think is required - primarily the watering of plants and whatnot. I came home this afternoon and decided the massive sunflowers and assorted herbs and plants outside needed some H2O. I look here, I look there, I look everywhere, but I can't find the hose we bought last week. (We are sort of sneaking the hose onto our kitchen faucet and watering everything much quicker than before.) I decide to call another special agent to see if she knows where the hose might have gotten to; for the purpose of this story we'll call this special agent, Kt. Here's how it starts, and please review the first paragraph for tips and clues...

Me: "Hey. Do you know where the hose went?"
Kt: "Yes."
[me thinking to myself, "are you going to tell me?]
Me:"Good [sigh], Where is it?"[a divinely phrased interrogative]
Kt: "Do you know where our TV is?"

Now I'm completely lost. Have we slipped into code? Is Alberto listening, illegally? I ponder my responses, and think for just a moment that the answer to this masterly game of chess is something like "the rooster is in the cockpit", for which I'll be given access to the hose I so desire. No no, I think, that's not it. What the hell kind of question is that? Of course I know where your TV is, I think, "I could find your TV in my sleep. The apartments are exactly the same, I've been in there, I know which hidey-hole you keep your TV in." At this point I decide I've got some type of writer's license and decide to condense my response, just in case,

Me: "Yes."
Kt: "It's under the TV."

Phew! Disaster averted.

I'll give you a few words about Black Snake Moan, which I watched on DVD on the huge TV last night. Christina Ricci is basically a tramped-up version of every Reese Witherspoon role; Ricci has always been a much better, and sexier, actress. Samuel L. Jackson is the best cusser in the business - he can rip off a profanity like no other actor. The rest of the movie was fair-to-middling so I'll give it 2 ½ (of 5 stars). How in-depth is that?

Hugs to all.

T

no man

I heard a story on Morning Edition that informed me that Phoenix is an “urban heat island”. It appears that Phoenix, land of concrete, sand, and sun creates its own heat on a daily basis by absorbing the blast furnace-like death rays from the Sun. Even as the Sun sets and night falls upon the peaceful valley the temperature is maintained much higher than it should be throughout the night as heat dissipates from the parking lots and strip malls. When morning comes the temperature is higher than it would be if you weren’t living in an actual parking lot – hence, no relief ever arrives in the summer. Go figure. Physiologists also report that humans adapt after a number of weeks in that type of heat. The body creates greater amounts of something called heat shock protein which is a chemical that prevents your cells from killing each other. I know that when I plan where I’d like to live, if a locale either 1) acts as an actual furnace or, 2) alters the chemical composition of my body so it doesn’t start eating itself, I’m not packing up the wagon and settling down anywhere near there. Seems fair enough, right?

Here’s my wiggle-wave to the nearly departed Karl Rove and his divisive, stinking politics; thanks to the Old Crows and metrolyrics.com

as important as a straw poll

There was very intelligent discussion taking place on our drive to Dulles airport last night. X and the boys are now safely in New England for their annual three-week boondoogle; I’m ‘working’. The intrigue began when X pondered aloud, for reasons unknown, why superheroes wear costumes. In particular, what is the deal with the cape? I understand capes, my mother used to pin a towel around my neck when I was home from school, and have some professional experience: the cape helps you fly. Why wouldn’t it? What other purpose could it serve? As my statement of truth was floating through the air I realized that maybe I only think the cape helps them fly because that’s the impression I’ve been given by the creators - I only think it because they’ve made me think it. X pointed out that having a piece of material flapping around behind you, tugging at your neck while you’re hurtling through the air, probably doesn’t assist in the flying skill. That nay saying attitude never stopped me from jumping around on the stairs in our house or from tree branches back in Minnesota youth…I don’t trust her silliness. The cape was merely a minor problem to open; what about Wonder Woman’s invisible plane? How useful is it, really? The first serious question is whether or not the outline of the plane is provided simply for the cartoon viewer benefit or if it really shows when she’s flying. If the outline is there all the time, in the superhero world, then the invisible trait is pointless – they can all see the plane. If this is all true then the invisible bit is only helpful to ensure that Wonder Woman is following FAA safety requirements: seat belts, shoes, golden wrist bands, etc. If the outline isn’t visible then we’ve got bigger problems, not the least of which is how to find the plane on the parking ramp. We know that Wonder Woman doesn’t have any type of special vision so the possibility of misplacing the plane is quite likely. How would you find the ladder to climb up into the cockpit? I imagine that a truly invisible plane (or truck, or car, or helicopter) parking on a ramp at Midway Airport will probably get run into by fuel trucks, baggage haulers, food service, and myriad other ‘visible’ mechanical machinery. Also, Wonder Woman isn’t invisible so the baddies can see her flying through the air, looking dopey – not so tricksy now, is it? The massive number of fallacies with the invisible plane make it no better than a non-invisible plane. Since it only appears to function as her transport then she should simply get a jet-fighter, visible and all.

We also decided that the bulletproof bracelets are impressive enough, but it’s really the hand-eye coordination that’s key. As X plainly stated, “I can have the all the bulletproof bracelets I want, but I’m not stopping any bullets.” True, double true.

How’s that for serious stuff?

T

$4.30

That's what it will cost you to get from Ballston to RFK on the Metro's Orange Line. I know this because there are signs taped to every ticket machine in Ballston Station. I'll let you in on the reason for the inkjet invasion, but first the back story. The Washington Nationals baseball team, desired and required for thirty years, are averaging about 23,000 fans per game. I wonder about the number - I was there for a Cubs game and the crowd was nowhere near 23,000 in a 46,000 seat stadium, and the Cubs pull. The average attendance for Major League Soccer games, across the league, ranges from 16-23,000 per game. Not tonight...it's a sellout of over 46,000. By the way, there are never signs posted telling Nats fans the price of Metro tickets - but tonight is different, Becks is in town with the LA Galaxy. Beyonce may be runner-up on the list of celebs in D.C. today. I doubt Bonds would have drawn a full house at RFK...as if RFK could pull a full house, what a dump. That's some kind of effect.

I asked X to get me Posh's autograph tonight...I figure she'll be at the Beyonce show instead of RFK.

I saw a sign in a window at the strip mall that read "Help Waned", that killed me.

T.

shimmer shimmer

X is off to the Beyonce show at the Verizon Center this evening (in a luxury box), and as a salute to B. Yonce, I turn to her words…

“To the left, to the left.
To the left, to the left.
Mmmmm
To the left, to the left.
Everything you own in the box to the left
To the left, to the left.
Don't you ever for a second get to thinking
You're irreplaceable?”

I’ve already seen Beyonce during her days as part of the little opening act I’ll call Destiny’s Child. Sarah and I saw them open for Christina Aguilera in Phoenix way back in the 90s (it was her pre-trampy days when she was sponsored by Sears). I’m so hip. I’m taking the evening to relax at home, whip up some leftover pasta, drink a glass of wine, and watch some movie from my August watch list.

“To the left, to the left.
To the left, to the left.
Mmmmm
To the left, to the left.
Everything you own in the box to the left
To the left, to the left.
Don't you ever for a second get to thinking
You're irreplaceable?”

There’s a covey of my co-workers, most in their mid-20s, that have huge “Ron Paul for President” placards displayed above their desks. If I were betting on their political leanings, prior to the sprouting of signs and based on overheard conversations, I would have pegged most of them as young Democrats or centrist Republicans. I think Ron Paul fits well into that area of the Republican Party and I sense that there are many disenchanted young voters that are going to make some noise. Even with Romney, McCain, and Giuliani skipping the Ames Straw Poll, it’s going to make some news. The strong Ron Paul showing is going to shock some voters. Maybe Ron’s campaign slogan should be this…

“To the left, to the left.
To the left, to the left.
Mmmmm
To the left, to the left.
Everything you own in the box to the left
To the left, to the left.
Don't you ever for a second get to thinking
You're irreplaceable?”

A hot and humid hug to all.

T

haircuttin' hot

I know the weather is a silly conversation piece but when it's this hot it's hard to avoid. About 102 today with a heat index between 110 and 115, depending on the source. As I was walking home from the Metro this afternoon there was a woman waiting for the bus...standing in the shadow of a telephone pole. This sliver of relief was about 10 inches wide; what are you gonna do?

I popped over to the Wilson Blvd. Barber Shop (phone answering technique is "Barber Shop") to get my 'do fixed up and my beard trimmed. I'm trying to look wiser so I've let the shaving take a vacation - Habib was duly impressed with the idea of me growing a beard. I'm now well trimmed and nicely aligned in the facial hair department. Farraj (owner-operator) is off on holiday in Isreal so Habib has been extra busy for the last month...I gave him a little more in the tippage.

As an opposition entry to my bitching about bagging last weekend, I'll tell you that the cashier I had today at the store was unflinchingly cheery. So cheery, in fact, that I almost went nuts just waiting for my $1.82 of change. I think I should take it upon myself to sort out my little peeves - it's not you, it's me.

X is in the final days of her Summer Associate Tour 2007 and we'll head in Saturday morning to tote all her goods home. I'm working on a plan that might allow me to swipe some art on the way out the door since she got shafted on the Art Bidding Event 2007. Maybe if I dolled up in a suit and tie the guard would just wave me out with a "howdy do, Sir". I'll pry some art-placement schematics out of X over the next few days so I know what to heist. (Don't tell her.)

Quillen and I have this set kind of conversation most days - I ask him in the afternoon if he had a nap, "I HAD a nap." Then I ask him if it was good nap, "It WAS a good nap". Did he have any good dreams?, "I had GOOD dreams", and so on. Last night about 8pm he wanders into our apartment and immediately says to me "I just had a GOOD nap". Being an adult and all, I sorted out that, much like our affirmations from others ("Oh, your hair looks great!"), it was simply the normal phrase that comes out of his mouth when he sees me. I think I'll try to broaden my inquiries.

I've got a red clam sauce bubbling away. Gotta run.

T

casting couch

This may be my greatest screening yet. I often come across people who look like other people but rarely something of this level. When they film the bio of Hamid Karzai...

Give Ben Kingsley the hat.

t

happy news

I sense that I’ve sounded overly grumpy over the last few entries. Even if untrue, and it is untrue, sometimes railing entries become overbearing.

Remember the waffling discussion? Here’s what it looks like on Sunday morning at the North Park B&B. The first picture signals the imminent beginning; the second is what happens when someone gets hold of the fixin’s.



Here's one of the sunflowers that haa exploded from mere seeds scattered about the garden. I saw a small child climbing the stalks to the clouds.



L. is off in, literally IN, the Grand Canyon this week with her grandmother; a multi-generational vacation of hiking and rafting. She’ll be beat by the time she gets back to Omaha for school.

The comrades from across the hall popped in for dinner last night. Corey has finished his legal, sort of legal, legal deck at his friend’s house after working on it all weekend. My contribution to a project like that would be talking smack and carrying stuff around. Anyway, I’d made a big deep dish white pizza (béchamel sauce, artichoke hearts, red onions, fresh sage, garlic, fresh mozzarella, s&p, and some olive oil) for the commune. As we all sat down I decided that I wasn’t putting forth any more effort than cutting the huge rectangular beast into anything but four large quarter-pan servings: every man and woman for themselves, just hold out your plate. From my peripheral hearing comes this nugget, “that’s too big a piece baby, I can’t eat that much”. Sillier words have never been spoken. I don’t recall any bits left on any plate – strange, isn’t it?

As if “baby” will get you off.

T

i wasn't aware there would be a test

I was driving to Trader Joe's this afternoon and stopped at a light behind a car sporting a bumper sticker that read: 1% of the people have 40% of the wealth. What's your share?" Right. If every person equals one share (I'm making this easy) then all those really rich folk have 40 times more than they should. If the other 99 of us are sharing the dregs remaining, 60%, then I'm only getting $.60 on the dollar...if I were actually contributing an equal amount as that evil 1%. If each unit worked (and hour, a week, a month) is worth some portion of money, and my value is $.60, then I think I'm alright. My actual level of work is more like $.50 so I'm about 20% up on the deal. Not bad. I think that attempts toward socialist and liberal ideals shouldn't necessarily be based directly on some ratio of wealth. Is the system off-balance?, sure. Do I need to spend an hour wondering about formulas and equations? Not buying. Unfortunately, it's the constant path of 'protest' that doesn't hold any real effect.

Speaking of story problems, I've got this one:

How much longer will I stand in line at Trader Joe's because the customers in front of me think that bagging groceries is a spectator sport?

I'd like a full-length wall mirror just behind the register so Doug and Tilly can see how moronic they look while they clutch the debit card and watch the cashier bag six bags of groceries for them. Maybe they are thinking about that memorable time when Dixie at the Safeway managed to bag two carts of groceries in fifteen minutes. There was a day when SuperTodd worked the bags as a courtesy clerk at Albertson's (Omaha, circa 1984). My legendary ability to bag wasn't enough to convince grocery stores to maintain a cadre of highly trained, frozen food aware, heavy contents on the bottom of the bag, customer service gods. I'm guessing it was about 1990 when bagging ceased being a seperate skill set in the grocery...if you are older than 15 you should know all about this latest development. I should not watch you wide-eyed, with bags on the counter in front of you, imagining just how daring the ride will be when the bagging starts. Pick up a bag, put stuff in...it's not hard. Not only will you not look doltish, I might not be standing in line imagining ways to punish you. Oops.

Hey, it's Sunday.

T

the bed and breakfast

(the picture is from Hania's Bed and Breakfast in Truckee, California. If you go...stay. Gorgeous)


A few weeks ago Corey was lurking at the Italian Deli and Buy Me Shop when he discovered something called the Mukka Express by Bialetti. What this little jewel reminds one of is this: there are any number of products and companies in this big old world that don't deserve attention: Starbucks, Ford, People magazine, Crocs, etc. Yet, there are hidden and mysterious gems that excel beyond your wildest dreams: the Danish cheese slicer, my risotto, and Lidia Bastianich's recipes. The cappuccino this little devil turns out is amazing, and it meets X's doctoral thesis on products that are technological wonders that don't require electrical power. I must confess that my ability, or results if you will, have been sketchy since our purchase. Fortunately, I know when I've been less than brilliant and I finally decided to sit down today and watch the DVD that came with the pot. Bingo. Us guys don't even have to read anymore - just watch some TV. The lesson I learned today from the instruction module couldn't have possibly been ascertained by any normal human mind: there's a button involved. Get this, I'm suppose to push the button. Ah ha, j'accuse! I'm sorting through my brain file cabinet and haven't yet come up with a time where not pushing an available button was the right choice. There are buttons for a reason.

The rest of your meal is also drawn from the world of ingenius devices that have somehow slipped through the cracks of society (it's another Corey-found product...big head coming, if it can be bigger). The Eleven and clan have commandeered his classic Vitantonio Belgian Waffler. I believe the product comes from the lineage of Angelo Vitantonio of Cleveland. Angelo patented the first pasta machine in 1906 and probably moved on to start a company that produced other kitchenware. I defy anyone to find this two waffler anywhere...those that have them will never sell; they pass them on to family like season tickets to Nebraska games. Go ahead...google it. Don't be drawn in by the new looking Vitantonio waffle thingys...you'll know the king when (or if?) you ever see it.

Update Update Update. I just found one on eBay (I've looked before) and immediately made my first ever eBay purchase. It was up for a $19.99 'buy it now' price...I bought it now. I'm not waiting 6 days 1 hour and 34 minutes to get in a bidding war. Chaaaaaaa-ching. The seller apparently found it at an estate sale - that is how you get one of these babys, aimlessly wandering estate sales where the progeny are too mentally adrift of their parents to realize it's a Vitantonio. "I want nothing to remind me of them. Waffles every weekend? How wierd is that?" Life is good.

This is the greatest waffle maker I've ever known, and loved. I know from waffle makers...I've had any number of cruddy irons. It's so good that I packed it in my luggage* when we headed to Vermont last month. The evil plan consisted of piles of waffles (pecans and cinnamon baked inside) on the back patio on a Vermont Sunday morning. Some blueberries, blackberries, strawberries, yoghurt, and maple syrup somehow settled in on the big table and it turned into a waffling gorge session. Damn fine. If I can somehow move from the commune with both makers in hand then I'm set for my sweet little hotel in the woods near any city named Portland.

As the first of August settled over America last night...the Cubs were in first place. That's something to write home to Mom.

Love to all.

T

* I know you want to hear the TSA discussion on this one:

TSA agent: We've detected some metal in your bag. Can you please step over here.
Me: Sure.
TSA: We've got a notice out on some items of high interest. Please stand right here.
[Special TSA agent Bruce opens my carpetbag and digs with well-covered hands]
TSA: Ahhhh! [tugging and pulling something clunky from my luggage]
Me: Oh, that. I forgot it was in there [eyeing the waffler in the huge Ziploc freezer bag].
TSA: We've been thinking outside the box and this is definitely outside the box.
Me: What? It's in a clear bag. Do you think my mother would let me pack it in my suitcase if it wasn't seperated from my clothes? My shoes are even wrapped in bags. How about a break here? What could I possibly do with a Belgian Waffler?
TSA: Belgian?!

step away from the car

Right. Being as I’m a fan of just about any type of auto racing I was taken aback at an ad I saw on the inside cover of the latest New Yorker. It was an ad for the new Lexus LS and it took a few seconds to register in mind since I don’t generally read advertisements in any of my pubs. I was already into the table of contents before I flipped back to the ad. I’ll get to what caught my eye in a wee second.

My favorite racing series is Formula 1, followed closely by the World Rally Championship…I know my European is showing, I’ll try to tuck it in. I’ve long liked NASCAR but I’m more an open-wheel lover of American racing circuits. The 70s was much more memorable for watching the Indy 500 than the Daytona 500, at least if you were living in Omaha. If I purge my mind of my trivial NASCAR knowledge that has piled up over the years then I’m only being honest in saying that Richard Petty and David Pearson are the only stockcar drivers I knew in my youth. If we’re talking Indy Cars then I can overflow with names like AJ Foyt (I know, he drove stockcars too. Hell, AJ drove anything with wheels…probably the greatest ever American driver), Al Unser, Bobby Unser, Mario Andretti, Gordon Johncock, Johnny Rutherford, Rick Mears, Emmo Fittipaldi, etc. I think the ultimate test is the phrase that’s passed the lips of millions and millions of Americans riding in cars, “Who do you think you are? Mario Andretti?” I’ve heard that from kids in their teens…even now. I have never heard some punk say, “Who do you think you are? Jeff Gordon?” The next time they smart off from back seat ask them if they know who Mario Andretti is. Eventually, I moved to Bill Elliot and NASCAR but that’s another story.

Here are the basic engine specs on the 2007 engine being run by the defending world champion Renault Formula 1 team:

Capacity - 2400 cc
Architecture - 90° V8
Weight - 95 kg
Max rpm - 19,000 rpm

Do you know how many gears that beast has? 7 (plus a reverse…as if that’s used much). 7. 7. 7. 7. The last two World Championships for drivers and constructors have been won by the Renault team with Fernando Alonso at the wheel. I had a chance to attend a basic race driving school in England and I’ll tell you that hauling ass around Brands Hatch at nearly 100mph in an old open wheel Formula Ford is nerve wrecking enough. The idea of zipping around at 200+ mph in a Formula 1 car is terrifying. Is this too much of a back story? Sorry. My point is this: the new Lexus in the ad has EIGHT gears! if Fernando Alonso only needs seven gears to work his way around tracks from Monaco to China then I’m pretty sure Don of Leesburg, VA can get by on fewer. Exactly why does Don need the killer acceleration and power inherent in an 8-speed? Is he worried about his friction circle slipping outside of parameters as he blasts out of DuPont Circle with a VW Bug trying to pass on the outside? I’m pretty sure Don isn’t even capable of counting to 8 as he shifts at 6mph, 13mph, 25mph, 40mph, 60mph, 75mph, 100mph, and finally a kick at 125mph for the long run into Eau Rouge during his practice runs for qualifying. Who does he think he is, Jeff Gordon?. 8 gears? The dingletrons that are buying the sequential 8-speed are probably the same guys that attempt to downshift on the hard right-hand turn while exiting Key Bridge onto the Whitehurst Freeway (local joke). I can see this yahoo pulling into the local Shell, locking up the brakes into the ‘pit box’, and screaming to no one in particular that his car has understeer (‘tight’ for the NASCAR fans) and he needs less front wing. Didn’t we just move to 6-speeds not long ago? That was quite a reach from the kicking 5-speeds of my youth. You know what this reminds me of? This.

I rest my case.

T.