scurrilous george

I don’t really get George Tenet. Let’s see what I can make of the bits-and-pieces that have rolled into public view. Bear in mind that I don’t have TV so I haven’t seen any of the 60 Minutes interview he gave last night. The man was Director of the CIA in the build-up to the war, he was a part of the inner circle that’s either trying to convince Bush of the WMD or convince him of their absence, he uses a term like “slam dunk” in some conversation, and he finally walks away and/or resigns and/or is fired in 2004. That same year he’s awarded the Presidential Medal of Freedom. See George start to write a book. See George not utter a peep about just how bad the planning or intelligence was prior to the war. See George take his medal. See George…blah blah blah. I never had much hope for George; I had hope for Colin Powell. Both of them, particularly George if we are now to believe him, tell us that they stood their ground, that they tried to do good, that their intentions were true. Neither one did anything. Nada. Zero. Suddenly we are supposed to jump on the bandwagon and realize that they were sheep led to slaughter by the wolf? Sorry George, I’m not buying. What makes it worse? It’s been three years, he’s said nothing…still…but now that his book is out he comes knocking on my door. Well done. Here are George’s “Tenet’s Tenets”:

Know who you are.
Good. I’m riding along with this one. Je suis Todd. (is that right?)

Honor the service and the sacrifice of the men and women who protect this country and our values.
Ooops. I think that you’re inability to take a stand way back in 2003, to plan for the meat grinder the troops live in, demolishes this pillar.

Follow your heart and dare to take risks.
Ooops. Missed again. If you wanted to take risks, you could have, you could have done it back then, you could have done it before you had a book to sell.

Fight hatred and prejudice wherever you see it.
The first one that I can’t quibble with…

Laugh as much as you can.
That sound George hears is my laughter.

Take care of the people around you.
Didn’t.

Pray.
If you did, it didn’t help.

Love and serve your country.
I believe he does, without question. He served a long term as DCI but he’ll always be remembered not for the ‘slam dunk’ debacle, but for his inability to stand-up for himself.

I vent. I'm going back to writing about haircuts.

T

caught in the net

About a month ago I got an email from Al Gore. This was a bulk / spam mail that he fired out to all who signed his online ‘save the overheating world’ campaign. I didn’t actually participate with my electronic signature, but X added me to the list when she was on about being so hot and soggy; global warning and all. While she was sitting at the table that afternoon, the day prior to her, H, and Cracker heading to the school-skipping protest at the Capitol, she asked if I wanted my name and address added in protest (not a protest from me about her using my email address; you know…the hot earth protest thing). I did, and in the end it was much easier than actually doing anything myself. So I get this newest thank-me email at my yahoo account, and it’s delivered to my inbox as opposed to my bulk / ‘this looks like crap’ box. I get email from family that ends up in the bulk box, but Al Gore firing off one email to over 500,000 people somehow sneaks through the filters? If there was ever a reason to believe the conservative accusation of the mainstream media being in the pocket of the liberals, this is it. Or, maybe it simply validates Al Gore’s assertion that he invented the internet – he’s got some serious skills.

Speaking of bulk emails. A few weeks back, I accidentally opened or clicked on some email about faux watches for sale. I immediately recognized my mistake and braced myself for an onslaught of crap email attempting to sell me stamps, hot young chicks, cars, payday loans, mortgages, or millions of dollars locked in African banks. You should see the inbox on my older yahoo address, it’s a literal strip mall of junk mail. As it is, it appears junk watch sellers refuse to share your email with others in the fine industry of email junkhoundary. I do get about five emails a day promising the best, fake watches ever manufactured – but no other junk. To be honest, I find watch retailers to be very discerning.

X stumbled on this blog yesterday. I can now consider myself well-rounded. I may laugh at Dave, but it was a blog just like his that taught me to make good French press coffee. The greatness of the Net, and blogs specifically, is that you can find people that are intimate with just about any subject you care to explore. Go Dave!

T.

follow the leader

I'm in like Flynn now that Andrew Sullivan (and his millions of weekly blog hits) is on-board. It's unlikely that I'd vote Republican because there's way too much baggage on that side of the aisle, but this candidacy could blow the whole campaign open - for both parties.

billy hicks and the hot licks

I will open with Mavis Staples. We’ll Never Turn Back is an album that immediately jumps to the fore of all recordings. I’ll admit that I’m not a Staples Sisters connoisseur…but I will be shortly. Over the last five years only two other albums immediately became classics for me: Buddy Miller’s Universal United House of Prayer, and Solomon Burke’s Nashville. This outing is produced by Ry Cooder and you can hear his influence throughout; the guitars, the rhythm, the very slow and grinding pace. The track "My Own Eyes" rivals the Buddy Miller version of Dylan’s "With God on Our Side" as one of the greatest performances I’ve ever heard. This is the kind of music that moves - that makes me wonder just what it was like in America all those years back as people fought for rights that we denied them. To hear a voice like Mavis Staples’ rolling through the graphic of the American novel is something beyond awe. I can safely say that this will be the best of 2007 – amazing.

The Eleven headed to La Tasca in D.C. last night for the big environmental journal shindig. X just completed her studies for the day before we started getting ready. (Ready for me is about 20 minutes from ‘go’ to done…shower and all. The hair is more problematic these days.) We walked to the Metro and she was so relaxed, the weight lifted, mission accomplished, a lovely smile to go with her new short hair. We were at ease throughout (aside from all the Nats and Wizards fans en route to games) and the Georgetown International Environmental Law Review crowd is quite sociable. As we were slurping unlimited sangria and chit-chatting, there were two things that struck me: St. Elmo’s Fire, and just how different G’town kids are in relation to the Harvard/Yale stooges. First, St. Elmo’s Fire. It’s impossible to be in D.C. and not immediately think of the Brat Pack screaming from bar to bar, motivated by the Reagan years, wanting to change the world. The Law Center crowd is a full reflection of that spirit that I’d love to see across our country. They’re vibrant, overly intrigued by the events of the day, worried about how they’ll make a real mark on lives, and full of the vigor that I remember once having - to change the world. Not only that, these dudes sport some serious sideburns! And that little discourse leads to the next bit, the part about Harvard and Yale. I suspect, particularly when I see marriage/engagement pictures in the Times (and think of Alberto Gonzales), that the Harvard/Yale crowd are dolts. The G’town crowd is much more internationally inclined, more rebellious, and full of punks, voyeurs, and rogues. I can honestly say that if we parsed all the junk in government and law, we’d find that the Hoya crowd always stood on the up-and-up; they love what they do and they seem as if you’d come across them them half-drunk, standing on a corner in NW Washington, giving the finger the world. They are excellent.

The NYTimes announcements weren’t great this week but I did find the one bit that clarifies everything us men have suspected:

Her reservations dissipated after a few dates, she said, and they became serious after a few months. “We were together for six years,” she said, “and now he is perfect.”

Serious after six months? Perfect after six years? That's like a really bad car payment loan from Sid down at AutoRow...six years! Bang! That’s apparently how long it took her to get that poor ass to marrying standard. Is that a whip I hear cracking?

Love to all.

T.

he said, she said

I found this link at the Daily Dish (Andrew Sullivan) over at the Atlantic. The design is by a couple of university types and is intended to predict the gender of a writer. I can’t help giving something like this a go so I loaded up four of my longer blog entries; four times it predicted male. Well, that’s too easy, isn’t it? I pasted six entries from the Wonder Twins (two from Twin 1 and four from Twin 2) into the machine and it came back predicting six of six were male writers. What? Clearly what I’d found was a design issue: maybe a few words that are tagged as male that shouldn’t be, could there be something wrong in the algorithm?, maybe it’s operator error. I was about to put pen to paper when I decided to give it one more shot. I loaded three entries from Wife in the North to see if her style of writing was more suited to forcing a female result. Sure enough, two out of three were female predictions and the third fell just a few words toward male. What have I learned? What did I already know? I know this, if the Twins are heading down the escalator, hurrying to catch a train, and you find yourself between point A (them) and point B (the train doors) you better being doing one of two things: either getting a move on, or getting ready for a beat down. It’s the guy in them coming out. The Wife would probably be a bit more gracious – she’s probably also get offered a seat. Aren’t they sweet?

really...it's okay

I’ve finally climbed the ladder to the plateau of accessory. I know the Eleven has a big-time gala on Saturday evening, and I’m fully cramming for the environmental discussion, but tonight's state-of-being is the apogee of relations: I’m the boyfriend. Yes! One of G’s schoolmates is coming over tomorrow evening to hangout and I’m the third rail of planning. I overhear X on the phone saying this, “I will be here studying, but my boyfriend Todd will be watching G and Z. They’ll probably get a movie, pizza, and pop some corn. I just wanted you to know.” Just thinking about the phrase, “my boyfriend…” (fill in the blank) is fun. I must say that she’s very upfront and honest but it also sort of sounds like “I'll be here, but Mr. Chimpy from next door will be watching your little bun…”

Maybe I’m stretching.

Love

T.

hey kids, don't do drugs

The idea that I would be checking grammar on any document (a driver’s license, an exit sign, a birthday car from my mother, or children’s homework) must be some sort of irony (X can explain the four types of irony; she’s like that). I vividly remember sitting in English classes taught by the likes of Ms. Wiltsie, Mr. Howe, Mrs. Chevalier, Mrs. Lorenzen, and Mr. Drickey, and ruing the day I was born and eventually mandated to fulfill public school English requirements. Those hours were, and I am not understating, the most tedious and horrific classroom times of my entire life. I hated them…every last second. I hated English like I hated Barry Switzer and the Oklahoma Sooners during the 70s and 80s. Hate. Is that clear enough? It wasn’t the teachers, it was the material, and it’s probably one of the reasons I never much liked fiction or novels - it seemed like too much work. Back to the story. X gave me a legally paper of some sort last night to proofread. Giving me anything like that is opening up the writer to ridicule and general laughter from my position on the couch. The reason I’m so difficult on papers these days is that I remember running away screaming from any type of writing, but I also reflect on the last ten years and know that I’m much better at some of the word stuff than I was throughout the 1980s and 1990s. By any account I’m self-taught, a very middle-of-the-road self-taught, and I find myself amazed that college graduates (and law school students) write formal dissertations at about my writing level. I’m always assuming that I’ll be duly impressed by their wordsmithing, yet I rarely am. (By the way, I had two New Yorkers, one Esquire, and the Onion laid before me, ready to enjoy some reading when the 30 pages covering “prior informed consent” were tossed at me.) I played along and made feeble attempts to only highlight subject-verb agreement errors, grievous misspellings, lack (or inclusion) of hyphenated adjectives, etc. I think these are the evenings spent together that represent the pillars of loving relationship. Actually, that’s not true. I think she’s been misguided by our daily discussions on slip decisions, politics, and ‘what’s for dinner’. It happens.

Not only that, but as I was scratching a few red marks, and making sure that I didn’t make her look stupid when she hands in the draft, we end up delving into some of her tax law studies. For instance, if you purchased a lottery ticket and gave it to your progeny as a gift, and those numbers hit three days later, what is the adjusted basis of said “gift” and when would you claim the income tax purposes?. I know what you’re thinking – who cares? I care, that’s who. I immediately piped up with a ‘scenario’ where I had sat down at a Caesar’s Palace blackjack table (non-smoking) and parlayed $100 into $1200 over the course of an hour. If this had ‘actually’ happened, the pit boss would have stopped over to not only complement my excellent play, but he would have wanted me to join the player’s club. You know…name, room number, address, driver’s license…just fill out this form, well played! You see, if I’m sitting at his table with 1G of earnings he’s going to report me to the IRS. The problem for him is that he’s got no idea whether or not I’ll cash in and walk away when I’m done; all he knows is that I just made $1,000 – so it’s time to pay up. The value of my black chips doesn’t change unless I’m stupid (see below), just like the value of the ticket doesn’t change regardless of when I cash in because it isn’t traded like a stock or bond. You pay taxes the moment it’s worth the winning amount and you claim it during the tax year it was awarded, not the year you cash it in. I’ll be open for tax consultation, and comedic interpretations of the tax code, through the extended deadline in October. Two shows on Sunday.

If you must know, my friend took his money and walked down to the MGM in a vainglorious attempt to get back the $300 he lost the previous night. That is never a good idea. I think everyone should use the story of my friend as a definitive lesson in gambling.

Peace and aces.

T.

what is he on about?

Right. Last Thursday presented a couple flying chips of grammar that got caught in my eye. The first was in Justice Ginsburg’s dissent in Gonzales v. Carhart where she uses the sentence “Revealing in this regard, the Court invokes an antiabortion shibboleth for which it concededly has no reliable evidence…” I immediately reached up and grabbed my Concise OED, hurdled over to Webster’s online, and checked with Wikipedia for enlightenment. I’ll just paraphrase a combo platter of what it means: customs, principles, or beliefs that distinguish groups of people. It also means a slogan, catchword, saying, or belief that has little meaning or truth. As if reading slip decisions isn’t difficult enough? I’ve got to deal with Ginsburg and Scalia chucking in words that I need to cross-reference? Even with my complaint lodged, I’ll be trying to sneak this into conversation at the big ‘do on Saturday night in Clarendon (X is the coordinator of this law journal spending spree, ask her. I think I’m supposed to be nice.)

The other turn of phrase that caught my attention was in Sen. Arlen Spector’s opening remarks during the Gonzales testimony last week (psst. Go to Spector’s Web site and tell me that picture of him is current). I love this one, “was replaced because she was hot on the trail of confederates of former Congressman Duke Cunningham…” Hot on the trail of confederates! If I weren’t so grammatically inept I’d more often take the time to ponder terms like confederate, and I’d correctly think of confederation as groups, joining of peoples, allies, etc. Instead, I’m just a dope that always associates the word with the Confederacy; my mind turns to thinking ‘bad guys’ as opposed to a grouping of like-minded folk. Allies and Axis in WWII seem to make sense, but Union and Confederacy in the Civil War are two words for the pretty much the same thing. Ah, who knows? What I like about confederates as allies, pals, all for one and one for all, is that I can stop referring to my 401 bus confederates as carnies. Confederates all.

On a lighter note, G asked me during bowling last Saturday what the term Turkey meant, and where it originated. What you might think is that it came from the big gobble-gobble birds we eat at the Holidays. Well…you’d be right. At the time, I had no good story to pass along from my years of keggling, but it seems to be quite a simple origination. In the early 20th Century it was much harder to get three strikes in a row, so during the holiday weeks proprietors would offer a live bird to the first player on each team to get three strikes in a row (also from Wikipedia). You’re not free of bowling terms yet, not by a long shot. Another bowling term’s history came to my attention as I was rooting around, “Brooklyn”. I know from a Brooklyn, because my Brooklyn ball is quite good, especially when it’s just peaking across the headpin. It seems to have originated from the days when people crossed over from Manhattan to Brooklyn, and is the term for right-handers hitting the 1-2 pocket. Fair enough, but confusing when I look at a map. A side term is apparently “Jersey side” which describes the same crossing over for left-handers (the 1-3 pocket); representing travel from Manhattan to Jersey. Now I’m really off on this whole thing. Seriously, look at a map and you’ve got Manhattan in the middle (say it’s the 1 pin), Brooklyn to the east (say it’s the 3 pin), and Jersey to the west (the 2 pin). If I’m right-handed and crossover the headpin and hit the 1-2 pocket, I’m so in Jersey. If I’m left-handed and crossover to the 1-3 pocket, I’m sitting in Mr. Kotter’s classroom getting hounded by Mr. Woodman – that’s Brooklyn! I think wikipedia is all messed up on this one. It seems that what they mean to say is that if you’re IN Brooklyn they call any cross over a Jersey, if you’re not in Brooklyn any cross over is a Brooklyn; so Manhattan is the center of the bowling universe? Jeez. Further research yields this: both terms represent the cross over pocket for both types of bowlers – it just depends where you happen to have learned your bowling terminology. The “Jersey Side” action committee doesn’t seem to have found a foothold in Middle America.

This is the most useless entry I’ve ever written, and I’ve written some useless ones…


T.

football, rubgy, cricket...snooker!

It’s that time of year again, the two-week run to England’s May Bank Holiday, and it means only one thing to a young man dreaming of sport – The World Snooker Championships at the Crucible Theatre in Sheffield, England. This marathon begins with sixteen players in the first round contesting best-of-19 frame matches, and builds to a four-session, two-day, best-of-37 frame championship final.

It was during my first tour in England (1990-1992) that I was introduced to snooker. When I finally sat down to watch the late-night wrap-ups from the major tournaments I couldn’t believe what I was watching. The 1992 Final between Stephen Hendry and Jimmy White was what really put me over the edge. I’d bet 20 pounds on Jimmy White winning it all, and he didn’t let me down as he jumped to 14-8 lead, was one ball away from 15-8, and kerrang...he missed. Hendry stepped up, claimed that frame, and then blasted through the next 9 to win it, 18-14. Hendry eventually won 7 of the 10 World Championships contested in the 1990s, is probably the most successful player ever, and is currently ranked #1 in the world.

Snooker is a devilish 3-D kind of chess. The huge table and straight pocket jaws make shots extremely refined. Players have more angles, screw (we call it english), speed, and cueing implements than you can imagine. The defensive ability (called ‘safety’) of some of the players is astonishing. My friend Buzz and I headed up to the Crucible for the 1998, 1999, and 2000 events, and I remember a frame in the 1998 Finals where Ken Doherty and Mark Williams played safety after safety until they finally agreed to re-rack the balls.

As if anyone cares, here are the (very) basics of the game.

- when you step to the table you must pocket a red ball first (they are left off the table)
- after a red, any other color must be pocketed (they are replaced on their spots)
- another red ball
- another (any) color, until you miss
- each red = 1 point
- the colors in point order (2,3,4,5,6,7): yellow, green, brown, blue, pink, black
- when your opponent misses, you’re up
- colored balls pocketed in order, lowest-to-highest value, to end frame
- most points wins the frame

Since every red ball that has been pocketed essentially removes a total of 8 points from the table (that red and the assumed follow-up 7-point black), the scores don't add up to the maximum amount on the table at the start of the frame. The highest possible total that can be achieved in a single visit, with all reds still on the table, is 147 points: 15 reds, followed by 15 blacks (alternating red-black), and all the colors in order at the end (36 consecutive shots). It’s rare in competition (it’s only happened five times at the Crucible) and takes some luck and a good run of balls. If Steve Davis were compiling a 147 it would take about three hours…he's very deliberate. On the other hand, if you’re Ronnie O’Sullivan in 1997 it takes about 5 minutes, which is diabolical. Here’s Ronnie making the legendary ‘maximum’ during an early round match that year. The video cuts in after he’s already potted a few reds and blacks during this visit to the table. Enjoy.

with this ring II

Another long meeting story in Sunday’s NYTimes wedding announcements

The couple met in 2004 at a Halloween party at a pub on the Upper East Side of Manhattan. Mr. Donohue was one of a half-dozen men who dressed as characters from Roger Hargreaves’s "Mr. Men and Little Miss" children’s book series. Mr. Donohue wore an orange suit, the signature color of his character, Mr. Tickle. He had stapled extra long sleeves to the suit so that he would have Mr. Tickle’s tentaclelike arms.

Ms. Cody knew one of the men in the group, Christopher Ahern, who was wearing a yellow suit, the signature color of Mr. Skinny. She asked him who had come up with the idea for the costumes, and he replied that it was his longtime friend Mr. Donahue.

“I thought the idea was extremely creative,” said Ms. Cody, who had improvised a doctor’s costume with the last-minute purchase of a lab coat, and scrubs and a stethoscope borrowed from her roommate, a nurse.

Ms. Cody struck up a conversation with Mr. Donahue and found the man in the orange suit to be “creative, confident in his skin, unpretentious.”

“She came right up and started talking,” Mr. Donohue remembered. “She was funny, honest.”

They spoke until the wee hours, when the party ended.

As I was typing the entry I thought I should have been calling him Mr. Tickle rather than Mr. Donohue; try it on your keyboard, it’s much easier to type. Not only would the finger stretches be easier, but if I know he’s Mr. Tickle based on the long-winded announcement, shouldn’t I just call him Mr. Tickle? Wasn’t that the point? Shouldn’t I call them Mr. and Mrs. Tickle? Or at least Mr. and Mrs. Cody-Tickle. And it's cool to work 'tentacle' into a wedding announcement...odds? I thought the 'when the party ended' was a bit much...as they do.

Mr. Redd, 45, is the founder and chief executive of the Project Management Resource Group, an engineering management consulting firm in New York. He is also a baritone whose appearances have included “Porgy and Bess” with the New York City Opera.

The thing that caught my eye was the baritone. I’m completely void of talent, and anyone who performs with the New York City Opera is amazing to me, but do I need to know this? “Hey X, we got an invitation to the wedding of that baritone guy from the ‘Porgy and Bess’ show. Are we going?” I imagine a response from across rooms declaring that unless it was the alto or harmony guy (I have NO musical terminology skills), we aren’t going. It strikes me that my wedding announcement should include the fact that I CAN’T sing. “Married today at the church, can’t carry a tune in a bucket…”

About half the announcements have photos of the happy couple, and I do wish them all the luck. Lord knows my marriage skills are questionable. But I can’t figure out the photo of just the bride. I’m thinking I should turn the page to see the “wasn’t present for school picture day” laid across the silhouette of some guy.

This week was the first announcements I’d seen that had same-sex marriages (I said it) of both sexes. Wait. Girls and boys. Wait. You know what I mean. I’ve noticed that the announcements with same-sex gals always seem to say “Ms. Debbie Jones (above left)”, but the same-sex guys don’t give the “above left” mapping. I tried to sort out who was who but came up empty.

And I love that Mr. William Mason’s father is “the national accounts manager at Tootsie Roll Industries of Chicago…” That is what life’s about, working at Tootsie Roll. Sweet.

T.

the influence of gonzales

It might not be fair to call it an influence so much as a realization that our Attorney General has the witnessin' ability of a ten-year old. (I’m averaging the ages of the boys.) Influence is defined as “the capacity to have an effect on the character or behavior of someone or something, or the effect itself.” (OED). I suspect that H is the influence and Alberto Gonzales the influencee. You may ask how I could possibly think that AG2’s testimony was a studied dramatic piece learned from child. Well, I’ll just present the facts and let you decide.

As the boys were sitting at the table on Saturday night eating soup and corn scones, H asked G to pass him the butter. You’d think this could have been a straight forward table transaction but you’d be horribly misguided. As G passes the butter (and eventually the jam) to his bro’, he asks him if he also needs a knife. As background, I generally try to put out the proper silver for the boys to use at meals but they never seem to see it with their eyes – without fail, H gets up and wanders into kitchen hunting a feasting tool to use as a shovel. As usual on this lovely spring eve, H has already gone to the kitchen for a knife. G, who is unaware of H’s movements and who is holding the only knife that I’ve put out with the butter, appropriately asks “do you need the knife?”. The inappropriate response he gets slapped with is “I’ve already got one. What are you, blind?”. Sound the bell and let the fractious child moot court begin! Before we cover Attorney General Henry’s testimony you need to know that, unlike White House desires these days, X and I have overheard the entire conversation and have a near-perfect mental recording of what just happened. In the following court reporter excerpt X plays the part of Senator Leahy, and H reprises his award-winning turn as Alberto Gonzales.

X: Henry, what did you just say to your brother?
H: Nothing. I don’t remember.
X: You just said it. What do you mean “I don’t remember”? What did you say when he asked you about the knife?
H: Nothing. Well, actually, I said “Thank you, but I already have a knife.”
X: Henry, you did not. I heard what you said.
H: What?
X: Henry!
H: Well, I don’t remember what I just said…but it wasn’t bad!

And…cut!

I’ve heard there’s an internal investigation going on at DoJ and the Attorney General has been quarantined to his office. He hasn’t been able to confer with his deputies or listen to any of the other testimony that’s taken place over the last month. His preparation has been somewhat isolated. In fact, I think H has been sneaking to Justice and hanging with AG2 all day - showing him the ropes of Testimony 101.

incongruous

Beginning with my walk home from the Metro on Friday afternoon a few things have struck me as out-of-sorts. Not a global warming out-of-sorts, more a feeling of seeing things in a big city and not registering that whatever you're seeing is just strange. What triggered this was an older gentleman crossing my path, walking with the help of a cane, and carrying a unicycle. What my mind does for the remainder of my 15-minute walk home is attempt to sort out whether or not a unicycle would be useful for transportation in a city. It is any faster than walking? It certainly isn't any faster than a dead run, so if you're planning on using it to flee a scene (any scene), you've come up with a bad plan. Can you put it on the bike rack on the front of the bus? Can you enter the center car doors on the Metro? Now that I think about it, I don't think it's faster than walking. So, what I have left is that the gentleman is either a long-time, and now retired, circus performer who carries around a unicyle in order that people know he was a circus performer; or, it was one of the things one grabs at an estate sale or flea market because you can't imagine why you wouldn't. "Hey, a unicycle - always wanted to give one of those a go." This, or course, reminded me of the weekend in Reno when I almost bought a huge set of beautiful oars that were for sale in the antique/flea market down on the river. I have no idea why I was so enthralled with them but I figured there might be a day when having a paddle (I know, it was an oar...stick with me) might come in handy. You know the old saying, up shit creek and all, so I envisioned them in some kind of cross mount on my red wall in Nevada. Some weird symbolism I imagined. That was back when I started the blog stuff and they led me tot he title of The Paddle because The Oar didn't have any kind of ring-a-ding to it. Any other ideas on the guy toting the unicyle would be appreciated.

The second thing I noticed this weekend was an old Red Barn or Dairy Queen structure here in Arlington that went under years ago and has been turned into a chicken place (food chicken, not chicken yard). It's called Super Pollo. I love that. I'll let everyone come up with their own version of Super Pollo.


The Eleven had Sue over for dinner last night and then we headed to Iota for the Tarbox Ramblers and Silos show. After our last aborted attempt to get into a Saturday night show I made sure we got there early enough to secure a place in the house. Yes, I fell back into my thinking that any show I was interested in would be a packed house by 8pm. Yes, we walked in and there were only three other people in the joint, one of whom was Walter Salas-Humera (singer, guitarist, writer, and producer of 20 years of Silos music). We got three stools at the bar and we (mostly me) spent a while discussing the music biz. My comments limited to completely inane and useless statements based on a wannabe bar band member. He's exactly the kind of laid-back guy I expected, and it's amazing to think about how many miles he's seen on the touring circuit of America. The Ramblers were great, as usual, and have apparently incorporated the drummer from These United States who filled in last visit after some 'incident' with the normal drummer. I don't know if he tours full time with them or just sits in when they visit the D.C. area. We stayed for a part of the Silos show but he's not writing the same kind of stuff that hooked me in the late 80s and early 90s. It's certainly louder, with a heavier rock sound, but it doesn't suit me quite as well. But, like any band that I have an attachment with, I'm glad they're still playing, still making a living, and still enjoying themselves; where and what my tastes might be doesn't matter so much in the end.

We hailed a cab to get home after X was shocked, SHOCKED!, that one would have to wait 20 minutes for the next Metro. I felt very cosmo taking a cab home.

Love to all.

T.

looking for the corner

Here’s some breaking news: that World Wide Web has tentacles running through everything. My review of the Patty Griffin show got more than a few people upset. My concert timelines (reinforced years ago by Lucinda Williams making us wait for two hours…and I love her) and disinterest in encores (I can’t honestly remember one in hundreds of theater shows that was memorable) rubbed people the wrong way. This came to light when I noticed that suddenly my measly site counter blasted up to a massive 44 hits in one day after I posted a link to the review at Patty Griffin’s Web site; imagine my surprise! The tracker took me to the Scott Miller message board and it was there that my preferences weren’t generally appreciated. It was all fair enough, my timeline is certainly silly and self-imposed and that was to be one of the points of the entry, a little self-deprecation. I generally leave the more in-depth reviews to others, I don’t do song lists as a rule because my listening style is to have all an artist’s songs in one play list…and then shuffled endlessly so I don’t have, or know, most song titles in my head. To me, bar and nightclub shows are different than theater shows – I’ll stay to the bitter end when Slobberbone / the Drams, Lucero, or the Gourds are rocking a packed bar. If Patty Griffin were blowing the house down at the Birchmere, I’d stay; I have strange habits. I also like to highlight band members that interest me (Doug Pettibone with Lucinda, et al) and try to push their skills along with the lead performer, hence the Bryn Davis link. Anyway, the folks over at the message board are much like me when it comes to music: it’s important, you are dedicated to the live music scene, and you are committed to a lot of various artists touring the country. I think we've made peace and I've got another place to get good links to the big world of musicians. I guess I could either tone down my sarcasm and peccadilloes, or not link to the rest of the Web. Hmmm…

Peace.

emperors IV

Hmm. Where to begin? They make it seem as if the 1st quarter fund-raising numbers are the most important thing since the idea of voting rights. Two nuggets to keep in mind, and they are all we need to know so we can stop listening or caring about the dollars: Mitt Romney raised something like $20+ million and is standing at single digits in the polling numbers for the nomination; Hillary led the money derby and is rapidly losing ground. Money does not equal success, especially with at least a million days before anything really matters. It will keep you running in the race but it won’t directly translate to success.

Fred Thompson is not in the race and he’s around 15% in a lot of the polls. The Republicans are just a wee bit dysfunctional right now.

Tommy Thompson is in the race. Did you know that? Maybe he’s banking on garnering the “Thompson” vote if people get confused – it could happen. His voter recognition is actually nil.

I’m very confused on what to do with the numbers. I still don’t think Giuliani can win the nomination regardless of what the polls say: he has absolutely nothing that the Republican base wants. McCain is slipping more each week. As far as his leadership is concerned, I’m very worried. In a front page article in the Sunday NYTimes he says that he has no “Plan B” for Iraq. What? If the current plan is all he can possibly envision, then he’s done. Romney is dead in the water even with all that dough. We’ve got one Thompson but not the other. I’m lowering my available poll points by half and only running the numbers to 50% total until someone steps up (or in) and takes charge.

The Dems are boring me. Hillary is clinging by her fingernails to Obama’s suit. It’s clear that the Dem voters never were on board with her and she’s got little chance of holding on much longer – though she’ll run through the primaries. I suspect the real mudslinging by her campaign will kickoff in full force by Memorial Day. Richardson had some press while he was in N. Korea a few weeks back but he’s still taking this campaign slow and steady. He’s still my guy. Edwards got some traction a few weeks ago but is spending more time with photo ops than actual campaigning. I still don’t see him going on much longer and my numbers reflect that.

There was a letter to Andrew Sullivan’s blog a few months back that outlined an idea (and it was very well put) that Jeb Bush might just hold out, let the candidates kill each other or implode, and step in late to scoop the nomination with very little long-term review of his politics. Name recognition and money – doesn’t sound so crazy right now.

Democrats	My Vote	The Nation
Clinton	25	30
Obama	33	30
Richardson	40	10
Edwards	2	15
Dodd	0	2
Biden	0	3
Kucinich	0	1

'Publicans	My Vote	The Nation
McCain	20	40
Giuliani	15	30
Romney	5	10
Brownback	0	0
Hunter	0	0
Thompson (either)	10	20

Unless something very intriguing happens in the next few weeks I'm dropping Kucinich, Dodd, Biden, Hunter, and Brownback from the numbers. I apologize (?) for never including Huckabee's candidacy; it wasn't that I didn't know, I just didn't care.

T.

quick hit review

The P. Griffin show last night was excellent. First and foremost, I do not give good reviews to performers and venues that don’t have good time management (this applies primarily to theater venues; bars / nightclubs are different animals). The details of that management are these: timely start, short opening act performance, headliner equipment up and ready to go, short break between acts, 90-100 minute performance by headliner, and preferably no encore. If you’re tipping your head like a confused dog when you read about my lack of interest in encores, I’ll tell you my feelings. If I’ve paid $40 to come see your show I don’t need to stand there and clap like an ass for five minutes before you come out to play two or three more songs. My ticket is my encore (call it a pre-core); play all your songs, hit me hard to finish the show, turn the lights up, and go home. There. Here was last night’s timing – 2 hours and 35 minutes of show, gate to finish.

8pm – Scott Miller steps on stage to open, right on time
8:35 – Scott Miller says thanks (he was good enough) and walks off stage
8:40 – I’m in the Warner lobby getting drinks
9:00 – Patty comes out and starts her set
10:35 – Patty and the band are done (not including encore; I didn’t stay)
11:05 – Home from the show, the walk, the Metro.

Patty Griffin may have the best voice going in music today. She also has a great band that reminds me of the two great backing bands I’ve seen in recent years: Madeleine Peyroux and Joan Baez. All three groups are cut from the same cloth: great band leadership (in this case the lead guitar player), and a thumping / hippy / head-bobbing / bass-loving rhythm section. The most interesting of last night’s backers was one Bryn Davis who plays stand-up bass, cello, keyboards, and sang back-up vocals (according to her myspace she plays with Grisham, Rowen and Rice, Bela Fleck, and Guy Clark; and she has bass tats on her back – very cool). That’s a Telluride picture of her above. When they all cut loose on a few of Patty’s rawkus songs the whole theater was on fire; they had so many layers of sound coming at you that it was impossible to not get drawn in. In addition to the show’s timeline and the quality performance, the mixing crew had everything just right. In particular, Patty’s vocals were set so you could hear every lyric and intonation of her voice. They get 4 cellos on my 5 cello scale.

(photo courtesy of Tim Benko's Fine Art Photography)

the week

Good music happening in the D.C. area this week. I'm off to see Patty Griffin at the Warner Theatre in D.C. tonight and there's a Silos / Tarbox Ramblers doublebill at Iota in Arlington on Saturday night.

Add to that a potential great late show a week from Friday at Jammin' Java in Vienna, VA, and everythings looking good indeed. That Friday show features two, three-piece jam bands that are poised to have very good years: the headliners are Rose Hill Drive, here's a live video...



with support from Earl Greyhound. As if everyone is eagerly awaiting reviews.

T.

scurrying through the penthouse

Finally. It’s taken almost a week-and-a-half, but the good news is that we have two additions to North Park Drive: Jefferson and Biscuit. Rats.

X visualized her youth and drew the schematics for the four-level condo that her hamsters populated in her Gill, Mass youth. The boys needed some pets and hamsters are apparently neat, tidy, and easy enough to manage. This led to two trips to Home Depot, one by X and one by me, that eventually harvested the needed wood and screen mesh. Since you asked, I’ll tell you: Home Depot in Arlington sucks the absolute life out of you. The service is horrible, the store is horrible, the parking lot is horrible, the street it’s located on is hell. Put all that together in a blender and figure just how much fun we had getting the pieces gathered. Everything was leaning against the dining room wall on Saturday morning when Laurel and I headed for the cherry blossoms and X headed to the Law Center to study. The boys stayed home with Corey and he put the whole pad together in about an hour; it was perfect. (The Zapruder situation that involves Henry's hand and a staple gun is forthcomeing.) Exactly how my girlfriend gets people to do things for her with such ease is an entire sociological study yet to be done. When everyone congregated back home in the afternoon we decided to set off to PetCo to browse the small animal department. We examined and asked about pygmy hamsters, hamsters, gerbils (not allowed per X), mice, guinea pigs, and rats. They had two males, one light brown (Biscuit) and one almost black (Jefferson). X convinced the boys and girl that rats are actually quite smart, very trainable, and much like dogs…and I generally agree at this point. They’re cute and clearly smart enough to learn tricks and rules so I think it will work out well in the end. I will say that they aren’t as neat and tidy as hamsters. You can think about that. Here’s the crowd watching the rats on day #1…just like Laura Ingalls and her first radio.



T.

AG2

Tomorrow will be some must-see TV on C-SPAN. Actually, it won’t be so much must-see as it will be must-listen. I’ll be out for the day so I’ll miss most of it; I’m sure I can get some clips and reviews when I get home tomorrow evening (before heading to the Patty Griffin concert in D.C.) I tried to take a read through AG2’s opening statement to the committee (it runs a compact 25 pages!) but stopped after five pages and began to simply scan. What he’s addressing tomorrow falls within that opening 20% of the statement. I’m sure they’ll let him ramble on for the entire thing, ‘day in court’ and all that, but the last 20 pages cover these items: national security (terrorism buzzwords), protection of children (sexual predators), civil rights (Jackie Robinson and Don Imus neatly tied-in), border security (illegal aliens), intellectual property (my blog! I couldn’t think of anything else to equate), state, local, and tribal assistance (native Americans), and responsiveness to Congressional requests (he is kidding, right?). A breakdown of the final 80% of his opening?

Terrorist
Child Molesters
African Americans
Illegal Aliens
Native Americans
His undying commitment to cooperate
my Blog (or not).

That is one list of catchy, inflammatory subject matter – none of it relevant in the least. Is it good DoJ is doing those things? Sure. Does he need to bring up all this when the questioning is about a specific set of events? No. He might as well let us know that he buys off-the-rack, went to law school, his children are honor students at some school (see his bumper sticker), his wife is attractive, and his golf handicap is 6. They have nothing to do with why he’s there either, but for some reason he forgot to include those in his opening montage. Politics.

T.

lighthouse, leader...sheep wearing a bell

Lighthouse: an aid for navigation and pilotage at sea, a lighthouse is a tower building or framework sending out light from a system of lamps and lenses or, in older times, from a fire.

The nor’easter arrived two nights ago on N. Park Dr. It rained hard all Saturday night and slopped all the freshly laid mulch from the top of the courtyard to the bottom of the courtyard. The sidewalk full of mulch that ran to the parking lot displayed a quality of wave and water flow that could have been used by undergraduate engineering students; the mulch a perfectly aligned conduit for water. I spent a few minutes gawking at it, mouth agape, until I realized the rest of the tenants probably thought I’d gone mad. I subtly moved on attempting to act as if I’d merely lost my way. Who knows what they believe.

I was on my way to the DuPont Circle Farmer’s Market when the watery waveforms distracted me. The market was ongoing when I arrive, though smaller and quainter under the constant rain. I had my wide-brimmed rain hat and was full of dap. The sellers sort out the weather forecast the night before, being farmers and all, and bring only what they know they’ll sell during rainy market days. The dedicated buyers, primarily the well-heeled and young that populate that part of the city, get to enjoy a slower, less crowded market. Fewer people mean there’s a little time to talk with the sellers and less time spent working your way around the lost and confused ‘visitors’. My take for the day included lilies, two boxes of mushrooms, a smooth cow’s feta, big ol’ basket of greens, leeks, massive spring onions, a variety of chard, a package of basil egg pasta, and the Sunday NYTimes. The Times was not homegrown and organic – just the normal newsprint Times. (By the way, last week’s Sunday puzzle was finally broken last night at 9pm! After eight days. It was a son of a bitch. I’ll remember that puzzlemaker’s name…Barton something – bastard.)

In the midst of my Saturday night cook-fest of smoked tomato soup, battered-fried mozzarella sandwiches on skewers with an anchovy and caper sauce, and a big salad, X comes into the kitchen and puts in a request for homemade ravioli. I ask if she really has a preference for ravioli, or if tortellini is what she craves. She quickly answers with “anything stuffed” [pats me on the head and walks away]. She is smooth. The mushrooms and feta ended up in handmade ravioli covered with smoked red peppers, garlic, pine nuts, and basil for last night’s dinner. Somehow she managed to work her way through a bowl – dedicated girl. Heading into the weekend I was feeling like I hadn’t done enough real cooking, now I feel sated.

Back to the nor’easter. The walk to work this morning reminded me of the day after Thanksgiving when The Eleven drove out of Portland, Maine and walked along the beach for thirty minutes. If you’re not on the ocean you rarely get that powerful wind that feels and smells of big bodies of water. Maybe the rain that seems to be hanging in the air mingles with the gusts and it comes off as wet, heavy, and bone-chilling; I find it refreshing. Maybe I’ll head out this afternoon and cast my lobster traps in the parking lot (do you cast lobster traps?).

Tales of the 401 bus…again. Being of tall stature, and dedicated to the cause of what I’ll call ‘watching’, means that I’m the reliable indicator for the arrival of the northbound 401 bus at the Dunn-Loring Metro station. The carnies are either sitting in the bus shelter, milling about aimlessly, or leaning on posts waiting every morning for the bus. I’m a leaner (in the first shelter against the west wall, eyes against the distance), and a leaner is merely a single letter from leader; think about that. What this all means is that I’ve taken the time to figure out the direction of arrival, the color of the top of the bus (don’t confuse it with a Metro bus), and the timing of the lights out on Gallows Road. At the confluence of all three details I step out to the post marking the bus stop…and everyone immediately follows me into a neat, orderly queue. They don’t fall for some unknown rambler moving towards the post; they want a known entity, someone who doesn’t fail and never flinches when the southbound 401 pulls into the transit center. As if I’d trip up on the southbound 401 that clearly came from the wrong direction down Gallows Road. I’ve seen people queue when they see the (wrong) bus coming through the parking lot and it’s horribly embarrassing (just like me staring at the water) since it goes right by our stop to the southbound shelter. See? Now they’re standing in line and the bus flies right on by. Put away your transfers and pittance of coins and walk back to the shelter, heads hanging in shame. Me? I’m still leaning on the shelter looking cool. Bellwether.

Peace.

T.

do you have a date for the dance?

I’m going back to my overt slate.com campaign contributions. Dahlia Lithwick manages to align timely events (the Duke case and U.S. Attorney purge) into the one argument that clarifies just what pisses me off the most about the U.S. Attorney scandal. In fact, it sort of hits at what irritates me about the entire DoJ “HR” office. It’s not so much the fact that they ‘hire’ politically-connected people (that is always bothersome) but that they are hiring unqualified people. Not only that, the ones doing the hiring and firing are unqualified. The Attorney General is unqualified. The senior positions in DoJ and the U.S. Attorney offices are either being filled by political appointees, or filled by those hired by these appointees; we know that, we get it, and that is part and parcel to government so you can desist with the “pleasure of the President”, as if that’s code for incompetent. The idea that you can bring onboard people like Sampson and Goodling, and expect anything but jackassery, is comical. You know what? I don’t need to hear Goodling testify in this matter. As far as I’m concerned, she can stand on her Fifth Amendment right, or Sen. Leahy can take her testimony behind closed doors – I don’t need to see her fumble through testimony looking more and more like a lost high school senior trying to explain why she was home late from the Prom. Based on Sampson’s testimony, I think he must have been her date. These two ‘operatives’ are the poster children for the problems Lithwick addresses in her article: they are mirror images of the people they are installing in USA offices – neophytes who hold unbelievable power and who respond only to political will and pressure. (Without even knowing or seeing the newly appointed attorneys you simply need to take a look at these two dunderheads to understand what we’re in for.) These legal sophomores are replacing experienced prosecutors simply because they wouldn’t toe the Bush line, and I’ll take an experienced Bushie over a J.V. moot court team member any day. I don’t want anyone serving as one of our 93 USAs who can’t separate law from politics, or doesn’t have the ability to separate the two. I don’t think I want anyone who finished law school in the last decade. I most decidedly don’t want the new wave of attorneys to be racked-and-stacked by the Sampsons and Goodlings at DoJ. This new crop of ‘lawyers’ know exactly how and why they got the job and they’ll continue to act, and prosecute, in ways that will allow them to keep the job. They’re all young, inexperienced, weak, and unable to stand up to their kings…just what I want in my U.S. Attorney.

Peace. Right?

T.