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Friday, February 29, 2008

New DHARMA station - The Orchid Video



I listen to the ABC LOST podcast, and the producers told fans that they could find a new DHARMA station orientation video on You Tube. The video is for The Orchid Station. It's short, but to the point. I think we saw this coming...
And, for those of you who are total LOST fans, Lostpedia is a great website to check out facts and theories.

AI YI EYE

Meryl Yourish reports that NASA, with the help of the Hubble Space Telescope, has managed to find the Eye of Sauron floating somewhere Out There, about 25 light-years away.

Eye of Sauron

The scary-looking Eye is really a debris ring around the star Fomalhaut. (Who comes up with these kooky star names, anyway?)

Debris rings are formed, presumably, when dust and small particulates are blown out during the formation of a stellar system. Which, I suppose, would make this the biggest Blown-Eye known to humans.

(LOOK BEFORE YOU) LEAP

Today is February 29, 2008 - Leap Year Day in the Gregorian calendar.

Because it takes roughly 365¼ days for the earth to circumnavigate the sun, it’s necessary to add an extra day to our 365-day year every four years so that the months don’t get out of whack with the equinoxes and solstices. Otherwise, you have April showing up in mid-winter.

The Muslim calendar cares not for these things, being a purely lunar calendar. You have a new month whenever you have a new moon, and time of year be damned. It’s why Ramadan shows up in the spring some years, the fall in others. But since agriculture, with its regular planting seasons, is not a big deal to desert nomads, it was never an issue Back In The Day.

The Gregorian calendar - the most widely used calendar today - adds one slight refinement to the older Julian calendar, which has a leap year every four years. But because the solar year is actually about 11 minutes short of 365¼ days, the Julian calendar suffers from “season creep,” with January moving slowly but inexorably towards summer at the rate of just less than three days every 400 years. And so Pope Gregory proposed a slight modification: every year divisible by four is a leap year, but years divisible by 100 are not…unless they are divisible by 400.

So 1900 was not a leap year, and 2100 will not be, even though they’re divisible by four. But 2000 was a leap year, because even though it’s divisible by 100, it’s also divisible by 400. Got that?

That corrects for three days every 400 years. It’s still not perfect, but it will take about four thousand years to pile up a one-day error…and since the day is slowly increasing in length thanks to tidal drag (Tidal Drag! We’re all gonna die!), the error will actually be less than that. And I don’t expect to be around to worry about it.

For us Jews, of course, things get even more complicated. Since our calendar reconciles a lunar month (months always start with the new moon) with a solar year, seven years out of every nineteen are leap years. And we don’t just add a day, oh, no. We add an entire month. Since this year (5768) is a leap year, we have two months of Adar: Adar Rishon and Adar Sheni.

Which means, I guess, that if there were a Jewish equivalent of Sadie Hawkins day, we’d all be in trouble.

Happy Intercalary Day, Esteemed Readers!

FRIDAY RANDOM TEN

Friday: time once again for Blog d’Elisson’s Friday Random Ten, the weekly collection of Musical Madness horked out by my Little White Choon-Box.

It’s unnaturally quiet here at Chez Elisson today. Matata is still at the animal hospital, hooked up to an intravenous Lactated Ringer’s drip. We’re hoping that this will flush out enough of the accumulated toxins in her system to allow her overtaxed kidneys - whatever is left of them - to do their job. I miss my happy, eternally purring Meat Loaf...as does Hakuna, who patrols the house, occasionally calling out mournfully for her missing sister.

But music soothes the savage breast, so they say, and so it may serve to soothe the disquieted heart as well. Let’s see what Soothing Sounds we have up this week:
  1. Rudy Wants To Buy Yez A Drink - Frank Zappa

    From the 1970 Chunga’s Revenge album.

  2. Cabin Essence - Brian Wilson

    From Smile, the Great Lost Beach Boys Album of the 1960’s, finally released as a solo project by Brian Wilson in 2004. Originally conceived in 1966, it’s Wilson’s “teenage symphony to God.” My impressions on first hearing it are in this post.

  3. Brick - Ben Folds Five

  4. Cruisin’ for Burgers - Frank Zappa

    This version is from the Zappa in New York live album.

  5. For Good - Original Cast Recording, Wicked

  6. Theme from “Schindler’s List” - John Williams

  7. Tzama L’Chol Nafshi - Matisyahu

  8. Township Rebellion - Rage Against The Machine

  9. Resolution - Mahavishnu Orchestra

    Best listened to with the volume cranked all the way up.

  10. King Kong - Frank Zappa

    A Zappa trifecta today! This one’s from the Make A Jazz Noise Here live album.

It’s Friday. What are you listening to?

Goldfish Dreams


What do they dream of under the ice,
Under the ice and snow,
Hanging suspended,
All movement ended,
Under the ice and snow?

They wait to wake to spring thaw and warmth,
Spring thaw and warmth and life,
Sleek bodies swimming,
Cold memory dimming,
Spring thaw and warmth and life.
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FUZZY FRIDAY

The creatures of the earth,
In their infinite variety -
Whether subsisting on vegetables
Or a meat-filled diety,
Whether loud and in your face
Or retiring and quiet-y
They spend Fridays on the Ark
In the best Moduliety.


Friday Ark #180 is up at the Modulator.

Sunday evening, Carnival of the Cats stops off at Momma Grace & Company for its 207th edition. Drop by and say hello to this week’s Panoply o’ Kitties, won’tcha?

Update: CotC #207 is up.

Thursday, February 28, 2008

THOSE BASTARDS

From those fat fucks that brought you Chocolate Chip Cookie Dough Ice Cream, more ridiculous flavors:
  • ONE Cheesecake Brownie (Add inches to your waistline and fight world poverty and disease at the same time!)

  • Imagine Whirled Peace (Enjoy this whirly mixture of toffee cookie chunks and fudge peace signs, carefully blended into a mixture of caramel and sweet cream ice creams. Tastes like Yoko Ono’s ass!)

  • Cake Batter (Yellow Cake Batter ice cream with a chocolate frosting swirl!)
Hey, if I want cake, I’ll eat cake. If I want ice cream, I’ll eat ice cream. (Of course, I said the same thing about raw chocolate chip cookie dough, and look where that got me.)

Who else but Ben and Jerry (Growing America’s Ass Since 1978™) could come up with these ice cream flavor combinations? I’ve gotta hand it to ’em - they know what makes the average American ice cream eater tick. And it ain’t broccoli.

Great. Just fucking great. Another reason to stay the hell out of the ice cream aisle at the Stoopid-Market.

Gawd help me.

DEJA VU

Scratch Pad Matata
Matata relaxes on her Scratching Pad Tuesday morning.

It’s déjà vu all over again, and not in a good way.

Tuesday morning, the Missus and I knew right away that something wasn’t right with Matata. Normally, she’s walking around on our bed, shoving her butt in our faces and trying to roust us out of our comfortable Sleepy-Place. Then when one of us goes downstairs to fill the Kibble-Bowls, she will galumph down the stairs, making sure she doesn’t miss a single tasty pellet. But Tuesday, she took her sweet time getting to the kitchen...and for most of the morning, she simply sat under the chair outside our bedroom - a spot favored by her sister Hakuna.

Yesterday, she took up residence under Elder Daughter’s bed (another one of Hakuna’s hidey-holes). Food and water did not interest her, although as the evening wore on, SWMBO got her to eat a small bowl of food.

Normally, Matata will perch herself on my chest and try to nuzzle my face when I’m reading in bed. It makes it nigh-impossible to get through Paragraph One, but it’s the sort of endearing Kitty Behavior that makes Matata so special...like a dog in a catsuit. But last night, as I lay on my back, book in hand, Matata’s absence was palpable.

This morning I loaded her into her Sherpa carrier and took her to the vet. Matata does not put up the same kind of fight Hakuna does when I try to grab her, but today she was even more listless and acquiescent. My attempts at chivvying her out of her hidey-hole were met with only token resistance.

At the vet, the X-rays looked good...but the blood work told the real story. Blood urea nitrogen (BUN) and creatinine way up...liver enzymes elevated...all signs of incipient renal failure.

Déjà vu all over again...

...because it wasn’t all that long ago that Meryl Yourish was going through this same affair with her Tigger. And I do not want the story to play out the same way.

Matata will be staying with the vet for the next several days, as they pump her full of IV fluids and try to get her BUN and creatinine levels down. They’ve told me the prognosis is 50:50, which sucks. But at least there’s some hope for recovery, the chances of which plummet to zero without treatment.

I’m just hoping that Matata can fight the Good Fight and at least keep herself going long enough to celebrate her Bat Meowtzvah later this year. Your good wishes and prayers on her behalf are greatly appreciated.

Time to go and recite a Meow-Shebeirakh right now...and maybe a couple of Psalmons.

Wednesday, February 27, 2008

WEEKEND AT BERNIE’S

The Momma d’SWMBO got an unexpected phone call last night. It was her friend Bernie from Henderson, Nevada, checking in.

Bernie is a friend of relatively recent vintage. Momma and her husband David had met him during their last trip to Las Vegas, having been introduced by David’s son, a full-time resident there. They all must have hit it off pretty well, since Momma and David spent a whole day out at Bernie’s, hanging out, admiring his paintings. (“Weekend” sounded better in the post title.)

David and Bernie are contemporaries, their ages being within a year of each other. [And Bernie is exactly six days younger than Eli, hizzownself...in case you wanted another useless piece of data.]

Bernie was fairly well known in his day, as it turns out. No Oscars adorn his shelves, but it’s not for lack of trying: over the past 59 years, he’s been in 110 films. Some of ’em with some Big Names, too. Kirk Douglas, Laurence Olivier, Marilyn Monroe...hell, he even did a Roman bath scene with Olivier that was considered so salacious Back In The Day that it was suppressed for years. Those were days when Hollywood could be downright prudish. Imagine that.

Elvis’s famous DA haircut? Got it from Bernie, he did.

A busy guy, for sure. Busy enough to have been married five times. Five! And he even has a kid in the business. For a while, she was a name in slasher flicks: perfectly understandable, given one of the better-known roles her mother played.

But Bernie is a sweetheart. Calling SWMBO’s Momma just to say hello, and all.

Definitely a mark of Curtis-y.

Warning re Warning


This is taken from an email I received yesterday. I hope you never need this information. The Goodweather women, on the other hand, are sure to, sooner or later.

But beware and take it with a grain of salt. Or at least go to

http://www.snopes.com/crime/prevent/ninetips.asp

and check the efficacy of some of the tips. Some are right on but others may not be the best thing to do in the situation.

And if you don't know about Snopes.com, you really should. Every time you get one of those emails with a sad story (dying boy wants postcards, kittens will die if you don't do something or other) or a warning (canned goods tops are all contaminated by rodents; snakes and alligators in sewers) that goes around to be forwarded to every one you know -- check Snopes first. They deal in 'urban legends and myths' and usually have additional information. Some of those emails have been circulating for years and have little or no truth to them. This one has some truth but some also some misinformation.


The following is said to be the result of a series of interviews with imprisoned rapists
.

1) The first thing rapists look for in a potential victim is hairstyle. They are most likely to go after a woman with a ponytail, bun, braid or other hairstyle that can easily be grabbed. They are also likely to go after a woman with long hair. Women with short hair are not common targets.

2) The second thing rapists look for is women whose clothing is easy to remove quickly. Many of them carry scissors around specifically to cut clothing.

3) They also look for women on their cell phone, searching through their purse, or doing other activities while walking because they are off-guard and can be easily overpowered.

4) Men are most likely to attack & rape in the early morning, between 5:00 a.m. and 8:30 a.m.

5) The number one place women are abducted from/attacked is grocery store parking lots. Number two - office parking lots/garages. Number three - public restrooms.

6) Rapists are looking to grab a woman and quickly move her to another location where they don't have to worry about getting caught.

7) Only 2% of rapists said they carried weapons because rape carries a 3-5 year sentence but rape with a weapon is 15-20 years.

8) If you put up any kind of a fight at all, they get discouraged because it only takes a minute or two for them to realize that going after you isn't worth it because it will be time-consuming.

9) These men said they would not pick on women who have umbrellas, or other similar objects that can be used from a distance, in their hands. Keys are not a deterrent because you have to get really close to the attacker to use them as a weapon. So, the idea is to convince these guys you're not worth it.

10) If someone is following behind you on a street or in a garage or with you in an elevator or stairwell, look them in the face and ask them a question, like what time is it, or make general small talk: 'I can't believe it is so cold out here,' 'we're in for a bad winter.' Now you've seen their face and could identify them in a line-up; you lose appeal as a target.

11) If someone is coming toward you, hold out your hands in front of you and yell STOP or STAY BACK! Most of the rapists interviewed said they'd leave a woman alone if she yelled or showed that she would not be afraid to fight back. Again, they are looking for an EASY target.

12) If you carry pepper spray, yell I HAVE PEPPER SPRAY and holding it out will be a deterrent.

13) If someone grabs you, you can't beat them with strength but you can by outsmarting them. If you are grabbed around the waist from behind,pinch the attacker either under the arm (between the elbow and armpit) OR in the upper inner thigh VERY VERY HARD.

14) After the initial hit, always GO for the GROIN. You might think that you'll anger the guy and make him want to hurt you more, but rapists want a woman who will not cause a lot of trouble. Start causing trouble and he's out of there.

15) If the guy puts his hands up to you, grab his first two fingers and bend them back as far as possible with as much pressure pushing down on them as possible.

16) Of course the things we always hear still apply. Always be aware of your surroundings, take someone with you if you can and if you see any odd behavior, don't dismiss it, go with your instincts!!! You may feel a little silly at the time, but you'd feel much worse if the guy really was trouble.

But wait, even more useful tips! (Most of which Snopes considers not so good or even potentially dangerous)

1. The elbow is the strongest point on your body. If you are close enough to use it, do!

2. If a robber asks for your wallet and/or purse, DO NOT HAND IT TO HIM. Toss it away from you....chances are that he is more interested in your wallet and/or purse than you, and he will go for the wallet/purse. RUN LIKE MAD IN THE OTHER DIRECTION!

3. If you are ever thrown into the trunk of a car, kick out the back tail lights and stick your arm out the hole and start waving like crazy. The driver won't see you, but everybody else will. This has saved lives.

4. Women have a tendency to get into their cars after shopping, eating, working, etc., and just sit (doing their checkbook, or making a list, etc.)DON'T DO THIS! The predator will be watching you, and this is the perfect opportunity for him to get in on the passenger side, put a gun to your head, and tell you where to go. AS SOON AS YOU GET INTO YOUR CAR, LOCK THE DOORS AND LEAVE.

5. If someone is in the car with a gun to your head DO NOT DRIVE OFF, repeat: DO NOT DRIVE OFF! Instead gun the engine and speed into anything, wrecking the car. Your Air Bag will save you. If the person is in the back seat they will get the worst of it. As soon as the car crashes bail out and run. It is better than having them find your body in a remote location.

6. A few notes about getting into your car in a parking lot or parking garage: A.) Be aware: look around you, look into your car, at the passenger side floor, and in the back seat. B.) If you are parked next to a big van, enter your car from the passenger door. Most serial killers attack their victims by pulling them into their vans while the women are attempting to get into their cars.C.) Look at the car parked on the driver's side of your vehicle, and the passenger side. If a male is sitting alone in the seat nearest your car, you may want to walk back into the mall, or work, and get a guard/policeman to walk you back out.IT IS ALWAYS BETTER TO BE SAFE THAN SORRY. (And better paranoid than dead.)

7. ALWAYS take the elevator instead of the stairs. (Stairwells are horrible places to be alone and the perfect crime spot. This is especially true at NIGHT!)

8. If the predator has a gun and you are not under his control, ALWAYS RUN! The predator will only hit you (a running target) 4 in 100 times. And even then, it most likely WILL NOT be a vital organ. RUN, preferably in a zigzag pattern!

9. As women, we are always trying to be sympathetic: STOP! It may get you raped or killed. Ted Bundy, the serial killer, was a good-looking, well-educated man, who ALWAYS played on the sympathies of unsuspecting women. He walked with a cane, or a limp, and often asked 'for help' into his vehicle or with his vehicle, which is when he abducted his next victim.

10. INTERESTING AND SCARY (but not verified, possibly it came from a tv show). Someone heard a crying baby on her porch one night and she called the police because it was late and she thought it was weird. The police told her 'Whatever you do, DO NOT open the door.' The lady then said that it sounded like the baby had crawled near a window, and she was worried that it would crawl to the street and get run over. The policeman said, 'We already have a unit on the way, whatever you do, DO NOT open the door.' He told her that they think a serial killer has a baby's cry recorded and uses it to coax women out of their homes thinking that someone dropped off a baby. He said they have not verified it, but have had several calls by women saying that they hear baby's cries outside their doors when they're home alone at night.


Be careful out there . . . the internet can be dangerous too.
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China Cove


If I could jump into this photo, I would! When I turned 30 last April, my mom took me on a special birthday trip to California, to share the beauty of the Monterey Bay/Carmel/Big Sur area since I had never been there before. It was an AMAZING trip, and I took zillions of photos. This picture is from our hike at Point Lobos State Preserve in Carmel. I'm sure I'll be posting pictures from this trip on and off all the time because the scenery was just so photographic!
I plan on decorating the walls in my home with framed pictures from this trip...one of those projects I plan but haven't managed to complete yet. I've got lots of those...projects planned but uncompleted, I mean. My To Do list is a mile long, I swear. Do you keep a To DO list? I can't imagine life without one. I keep a notebook full of them, crossing them off as I complete them, adding more as I go.
Anyway, back to the picture. I wish I was hiking through Point Lobos right now with my family. The weather was wonderful, the scenery gorgeous and I'm so jealous of people who live there...although I'm not wild about the thought of earthquakes. That's a huge deterrant actually. My younger sister just moved to this area, and I can't wait to go visit her. She's having the time of her life exploring the area. I miss her!!!
Everyone needs to have a China Grove picture (or wherever appeals to you) posted near their computer or on their desk to remind them of the beauty of nature and to escape into just for a few moments. It's refreshing, it brings back memories, and has me planning my next vacation! I am using this photo as my desktop background on my computer right now.

OBSOLETE SKILLS

A post over at verbatim caught my eye the other day.

There’s a website out there that lists an inventory of Obsolete Skills...an inventory that is growing daily.

Many of the skills or activities listed have been obsolete for lifetimes. Centuries, in some cases. Knapping flint? That one went out with the Iron Age in most places. Swordfighting? Modern projectile weapons have pretty much reduced the role of swords to that of pure ceremonial decoration, even if you can still use one to disembowel an unruly neighbor in a pinch.

Plenty of other items have to do with information technology, recent advances in which make numerous tasks obsolete within a short span of years. Such things as “Tweaking your AUTOEXEC.BAT and CONFIG.SYS files” or “FORTRAN programming” may be obsolete today, but we expect technological advances to sweep this sort of geekery away pretty quickly...to be replaced, of course, by fresh, new geekery.

But there are plenty of other activities, formerly routine, that truly have become obsolete...at least, as long as you live outside of historical preserves such as Old Sturbridge and Plimoth Plantation. Here’re a few:
  • Crewing a muzzle loading cannon
  • Carving a nib into a quill or pen (what a penknife is for!)
  • Casting lead bullets
  • Starting a fire with a wood drill and block
OK, sure - these activities have been obsolete for a long time. But here are some others that died out within my lifetime:
  • Adjusting a television's horizontal and vertical holds
  • Extracting a square root using pencil and paper
  • Changing a typewriter ribbon (or using a typewriter, for that matter)
  • Calling collect on a pay phone (try to find a pay phone these days!)
  • Replacing burned out vacuum tubes in your radio or TV
  • Counting out change (a useful talent killed off by electronic cash registers)
  • Darkroom photography
  • Dialing a rotary phone (strangely enough, we still use the verb)
  • Editing audio tape with a razor blade and splicing block
  • Laying out magazines using wax and bromides (I’ve done this)
  • Loading film into a 35mm camera
  • Opening a can of beer or soda with a church key
  • Placing a coin on a tonearm to prevent skipping (What’s a tonearm, Grandpa?)
  • Using a slide rule
  • Setting the choke or pumping the accelerator when starting a car
  • Making copies using a mimeograph or a ditto stencil (mmmm, ditto smell)
  • Using carbon paper to make copies
  • Using correction fluid to fix typos (and huffing it to get wasted...)
  • Using a party-line telephone
  • Using paper tape for programming
  • Typing and sending a telex (it’s what people used to send written stuff overseas before the Internet...and faxes)
  • Using Hollerith punch cards
  • Doing calculations using a Table of Logarithms
  • Using an Odhner pin-wheel mechanical calculator (for those occasions when a slide rule wouldn’t be precise enough)
  • Using telephone exchange names
  • Watching a slide show with a slide projector
  • Taking photographs with flash bulbs or flashcubes
  • Applying the coating to a Polaroid photo
There are plenty of others...but what’s bizarre is that I remember many of these activities as being pretty commonplace. Yet, can you remember the last time you used a Logarithm Table...or an old-fashioned slide projector and screen...or a church key?

SNOW!

Harris Snow

The Harris Shutter turns this morning’s snow flurry into a cascade of multicolored flakes.

Still Winter After All

Hellebores, budding daffodils, and cascading winter jasmine starred with sunny yellow blooms -- not to mention a thunderstorm, mild temperatures, and frogs singing in the fish pool a few days ago -- had lulled me into thinking spring-like thoughts. But we awoke this morning to a veritable winter wonderland and I slogged through ankle deep snow to fill one bird feeder.

Clouds of purple finches and cardinals descend on the crabapple tree near three of the bird feeders, covering it with the illusion of puffy red and pink flowers on the snowy branches. All the feeders are crowded with customers and just outside my window I hear a rapping and look up to see a little downy woodpecker, sidling along upside down under the eaves as he mines the crevices for hibernating insects.

My husband suits and boots to brave the snow -- the cattle have to be fed and he kindly agrees to take hot water down to the chickens, saving me the treacherous trek down the slopes. The Border Collies go with him, delighted to have Something To Do, even if it's only mindless barking as they follow the tractor into the field where the cows huddle around the feeding ring, waiting for the hay.

The other dogs make very quick necessary dashes outside, then scratch and whine to be let back in. Molly heads for her dog bed while Bear, Maggie, and Eddie curl up together for a quiet day on our bed; William claims a comfy chair in my workroom, and Miss Susie Hutchins stakes out one of her favorite cold weather spots atop the warm computer router by the window. There's a fire in the fireplace, classical music on the radio, and the whole day ahead.

A good day for a writer . . . time to dive back into Miss Birdie's world and see what's going on there.
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AND NOW, A MESSAGE FROM MR. DEBONAIR

Dear Reader, observe these words with care:
Wipe when you’re finished on the Porcelain Chair!
A one-swipe wipe for a lump down there,
A two-swipe wipe for a chunk down there,
A three-swipe wipe for a loaf down there,
Wipe when you’re finished on the Porcelain Chair!

Chorus:
Wipe, readers! Wipe with care!
Wipe when you’re finished on the Porcelain Chair!

[Apologies to Noah Brooks, Isaac Bromley, W. C. Wyckoff, Moses P. Handy, and the incomparable Samuel Langhorne Clemens.]

Tuesday, February 26, 2008

CRACKERS

The latest Saveur magazine showed up in the Mailbox d’Elisson a couple of days ago. Every issue has a theme; this one’s focus was on butter.

No, no mentions of Last Tango in Paris, the movie that did more to change the public’s perception of the Noble Fat than the revelation that margarine, rather than being a healthful alternative to butter, was loaded with deadly trans-fats.

But reading about all those butter-drenched dishes (Risotto! Hollandaise! Shortbread!) made me think back upon the day when I encountered an unexpected pleasure:

The Best Fucking Saltines On The Planet.

It was some 22 years ago, and I was having lunch at the Capital City Club in downtown Atlanta, one of the “oldest and most prestigious social clubs in America.” I, along with my immediate superiors, was the guest of one of our customers, the owner of a growing flexible packaging business. Our host was a courtly Southern gentleman of the Old School, and the genteel atmosphere of the Capital City Club reflected his taste and discernment. We were seated; we ordered our luncheon; we discussed Business Matters.

I tried very hard not to release any Wayward Farts as we waited for our food to show up. That would have been...improper. And unbusinesslike, to boot.

But as I sat there, sphincter tension ratcheted up to the breaking point, I noticed a little silver dish of saltines sitting in the center of the table. I tasted one. Then another.

Normally, saltines are Desperation Food. They’re dry and uninteresting, especially without some sort of meaty or cheesy topping. But these - these saltines were marvelous! They had a rich, unexpectedly decadent flavor, one that hinted of dairy and salt.

They were the Best Fucking Saltines On The Planet.

It was all I could do to keep from wolfing down the entire contents of the little silver cracker-dish.

I couldn’t restrain myself. I had to know. What made these saltines so extraordinarily good? I got the attention of the waiter and asked him.

“Well, suh,” he answered, “we take regular saltines and soak them in melted butter.”

Ah, yes. That would explain it.

Do you Blokus?

So, with one son home sick, we've been playing lots of board games. Some of our favorites are Sequence, Scrabble, Monopoly, Sorry and Blokus.

Blokus is an awesome strategy game for all ages. Our youngest son, Remy, starting playing it when he was five years old. The rules take about a minute to explain, very simple and straightforward. The game was invented by a frenchman named Bernard Taritian who is a mathematician and biochemist.

The color blue always goes first...and when my son Donny is the color blue, he always wins! (He wins a lot as other colors also) We have now banned him from being blue. Unfair but true.

Remy saw The Simpsons version of Monopoly at a local Wal-Mart or Target store recently and really wants it. Of course, since then I haven't seen it anywhere, although I'm sure I could find it online.

Other things the sick flu child has been doing when he feels up for it are coloring and watching movies. We print coloring pages off the Internet of his favorite TV show characters.

Everyday Sacrament




Here's another everyday (in the sense of ordinary, rather than daily) sacrament that I observe now and then -- ironing the linen hand towels that were part of my hope chest almost forty five years ago.When my grandmother (Ba again, the one who made the banana bread) learned that John and I had set a wedding date, she immediately called her sister in Troy, Alabama and commissioned the making (hemstitching and monogramming -- all by hand) of a dozen linen towels for me -- by the same woman who had made them for my mother's hope chest twenty-five years earlier.

At the time I couldn't imagine myself worrying about such fripperies, much less ironing them. And as we moved through the early years of our marriage -- the Marine Corps, college, grad school, and a series of rented houses -- the crisp white towels stayed folded in the bottom of a trunk, along with a fancy tablecloth, some Battenburg lace placemats and napkins, and similar odds and ends that had no place in our very casual and peripatetic lifestyle.

But when we moved to the farm and built our (still very casual) house, I dug out those hand towels and hung them in the bathroom by the wash basin. Even early on, when the bathroom was just for bathing and we used an outhouse, by golly, those linen towels were there when we returned to the house to wash our hands! Of course, no one in the family ever uses them. We all dry our hands on whatever bath towel is handy or on our jeans if there's no bath towel. It's silently understood: the towels are for company.

I'm always interested in the way various visitors use them -- or don't. Some folks dry their hands on the hidden side of the towel, leaving the monogrammed front smooth and pristine. Some take the handy bath towel option. But others use them boldly -- and it's a good thing because then I get to wash and iron the towels. I doubt I'd enjoy it if it were a daily or even weekly task but it's not often -- not till a fair number have accumulated, say once every month or so, depending on how much company we've had and what their hand-drying habits are.

Ironing the towels is a sensual experience -- the hiss of the hot iron on the wet linen, the bleach-tinged laundry-day smell of the steam rising from the drying fabric, the sudden revelation of the woven patterns in the linen, the glassy smooth surface of the freshly ironed material. I hang the still damp towels from yard sticks and canvas stretchers stuck at the top of the bookshelves up in my workroom. Later I'll come back and fold the towels, dry and as stiff as if they'd been starched, then put them away to await their next encounter with guests.

Thanks to knits and no-iron fabrics, as well as a schedule that allows me to dress like a bag lady much of the time, I iron very little. If I had to deal with great piles of ironing as women of past years did, I doubt I'd be rhapsodizing about laundry in this way. But since it's only now and then, the whole thing, like the making of my grandmother's banana bread and cooling it on the same racks she used, is a pleasant link with the past and an affirmation of continuity within change -- with maybe just a hint of ancestor worship around the edges
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MEDIOCRITY

The road to Hell (I’ve heard it said)
Is paved with Good Intentions.
But the route that I’ve been taking’s
Paved with Honorable Mentions.

Monday, February 25, 2008

Tag, you're it.

The flu has hit our household. Despite the flu shot, my six-year-old son, Remy, has come down with it, poor little guy. We were told it hopefully wouldn't be as bad as it could be since he had the shot. Also, we caught it quickly, so he was able to go on the anti-viral medication.

He's been down and out, aching all over, coughing, diarrhea, throw-up, the works. I'm hoping the rest of the family doesn't catch it...

Wish us luck!!

Hellebores


Modest mourning blooms
For forty days of fast-tide --
Shy Lenten Roses.





The winter-blooming hellebores (helleborus niger), sometimes called Christmas Roses or Lenten Roses, are in flower now. Nestling half-hidden in fall's dead leaves, the blooms wear understated mourning colors of purple, lavender, white and palest green. Their heads hang down, as if hiding and I had to lift them up to take their pictures. Very hardy, hellebores thrive in dry shade, multiplying and cross pollinating to produce strange and lovely variations on the purple, green, lavender theme. Hellebore was once used medicinally for a variety of ailments including leprosy, jaundice, gout, sciatica, and convulsions but modern herbalists approach it with caution as, like foxglove, too much can kill. (Ah, a future plot twist for Elizabeth?)

I have a little colony of hellebores across the road from my garden and at this time of year it's a delight to see their pretty faces, even if I have to chuck them under their chins to get a look.

As always, remember to mouse over the pictures and click to enlarge. These retiring little flowers are like fireworks when seen close up!
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THE POINT OF DIMINISHING RETURNS

There’s an economic concept known as the Law of Diminishing Returns, which states that past a certain point, each additional unit of variable input yields less and less additional output. Or, put another way, if you spend more, you get more...but as you continue to pay more, you get less and less socko for your simoleons.

If I pay $50 for VSOP Cognac instead of $30 for VS, I’m getting a big boost in quality for that extra $20. To move up to XO, the next quality level, may run me $50-60 or more above and beyond the cost of the VSOP, yet the difference between XO and VSOP is not nearly as dramatic as that between VS and VSOP. And that $1500 bottle of Louis XIII? Sure, it’s good. Hell, it’s better than good...but that extra $1400 buys an improvement that is more subtle than it has any right to be.

Having said all this, it’s still true that the price of a given tipple is a rough guide to quality. Sure, there’s all that marketing ballyhoo - which is why a product such as “premium vodka” even exists - but there really is a huge difference between that $150 flagon of 21-year-old single malt Scotch and the $20 bottle gathering dust on the bottom shelf at the local Schnapps Merchant.

It’s also true that high quality consumables are best enjoyed with minimal doctoring...and, conversely, why complex recipes are helpful in masking the nastiness of cheap ingredients. I can get away with using rotgut gin and brandy when I mix up a batch of Chatham Artillery Punch...but for a Gin and Tonic or a Martini, only the best will do.

Likewise, I will drink a fine single malt Scotch whisky - or a high-end bourbon, for that matter - neat, or with a splash of water. Soda? That’s for mixing with blended Scotch (if you must). And nobody in his or her right mind makes a whisky sour with Lagavulin or Talisker: It’s stupid and wasteful. Like eating Beluga caviar on a Ritz cracker.

You got Dom Pérignon? Great. Pour me a flute full, and I’ll get a snootful. But don’t you dare make a Mimosa with it. That’s why Gawd invented Korbel Brut. Making a mimosa with Dom Pérignon is like lighting a cigar with a $100 bill. No: it is like wiping your ass with a $100 bill.

It’s like having an Oscar Mayer wiener with yellow mustard, sauerkraut, and chopped truffles.

So imagine my horror when I see that the local Longhorn Steakhouse is offering up a “Gold Dust Margarita,” their attempt at a top-shelf drink. It contains Patrón tequila (nice!), the usual margarita sour mix, and Grand Marnier. But not just any Grand Marnier: this drink contains Grand Marnier Cuvée du Centenaire, a hyper-costly version of GM containing rare old Cognac.

Top-shelf or not, folks, a Margarita is still a fucking Margarita. The quality of the tequila is important, as it is the drink’s main Active Ingredient. But the orangey triple sec component is there to provide a minor flavor note at best. The subtle, delicate quality of Grand Marnier gets lost amidst all that tequila and lime juice like a fart in a windstorm.

With this drink, it’s not even the waste of money that pisses me off. It’s the misuse of a precious natural resource: Expensive Booze.

You want a Margarita? Use good tequila, by all means...but you can get by with Hiram Walker triple sec. If you feel like getting fancy, go with Grand Marnier (the basic Cordon Rouge kind), or, even better, with Cointreau.

But if I see you dumping fifty-buck-a-shot Grand Marnier into a stupid-ass Margarita, I will either want to laugh at you or kick your ass on account of you’re Too Stupid To Drink Like A Human Being.

Now, can you bring me a Quarter-Pounder with Cheese...with a slice of duck Foie Gras and extra ketchup?

NOT THE STENO POOL

Living Harris Water

Step into a swim, Jim.

SUPERVISION

Last night, the Missus (freshly returned from a weekend in Savannah with the Mistress of Sarcasm and our friend JoAnn) and I (freshly returned from a weekend in the north Georgia mountains) decided to tie the feedbag on at the California Pizza Kitchen that just opened up less than a mile down the road.

After waiting about 20 minutes to secure a table, we sat down and ordered, forgoing the Bizarre Pizza Selection in favor of a couple of salads. Just after we ordered, who should we see stroll in but our Rabbi and his wife. We invited them to join us, which they happily did.

Within minutes, our meals were set down before us. I suppose I should have felt a pang of Religious Remorse, seeing that I had ordered a Cobb salad. Given that we live in Cobb County, it’s not an unreasonable menu selection...

...except that it’s not exactly kosher. In fact, far from it. That’d be a stretch, considering that this Cobb salad contained roasted beets (OK); blue cheese (no problem); chicken (uh-oh); and crumbled bacon (Danger, Will Robinson!).

But our Rabbi is a live-and-let-live kind of guy. And besides, he couldn’t give me too hard a time, seeing as how I was eating my meal under Rabbinical supervision...

SOLDIERS...

Soldiers

...about to die in a Good Cause.

Some of the supplies we brought with us for our annual Weekend Retreat in the north Georgia mountains. Alas, none survived intact.

Spirits and spirituality. Now, there’s a heady combination for you.

Here are a few of the Usual Suspects:

Minyan Boyz
(L to R) Bart, Hank, Josh, Houston Steve, John, Barry, Elisson.

All told, we had roughly 50 attendees this year...and a superb weekend, the weather having been clear and cool (but not cold) most of the time. The night sky was a brilliant canopy of stars, far different from what we see in the ’burbs of Atlanta.

Night Sky
Night sky over the mountains. You can see Orion clearly.

The trees were lit up by the campfire while we were lit up by our various Adult Beverages. In the firepit were the rocks which, when heated to an orange glow, provided a happy blast of heat for the Famous Sweat Hut.

Campfire

We returned home Sunday mid-day, refreshed and relaxed...and lighter by several fifths. A superb weekend, all in all.

Sunday, February 24, 2008

Sudoku

This is another pleasure, albeit a not-so-guilty one. Sudoku is a logic-based number placement puzzle, for anyone who doesn't know, although it's hugely popular, and I expect everyone has seen it before by now. The game was invented by an American architect Howard Garns in 1979 and, published by Dell Puzzle Magazines and called "Number Place," but it became super popular in Japan where it was renamed. Sudoku roughly means "Single Number" by my understanding.


Why are these types of games and puzzles good for you? Because they are incredibly good "exercise" for your mind. Challenging your mind to "learn new tricks" and keep on its toes can actually help you prevent Alzheimer's disease and dementia as you age. It can also relieve stress and keep you mentally balanced and socially connected.


Now I've done my part to enrich your brains, all you have to do is go out and do it!

Ba's Banana Bread








This is what you do with those bananas that have gotten too ripe. Banana bread was one of my dearly loved maternal grandmother's standards and when I make it, it's always a memory trip. I have the recipe in Ba's lovely spiky handwriting and her little wire racks to turn the loaves out on. The smell fills the house and I'm ten years old again, a tall skinny little girl who didn't hesitate to butter a slice of the still-warm banana bread.

Some household acts are more than just cooking or cleaning -- some are sacraments.





Ba’s Banana Bread

Really more of a cake than a bread, it's dense and moist and sweet. Excellent toasted with butter, delicious cold and spread with cream cheese, just fine all by itself.

Makes two loaves (freezes well)
2 sticks (1/2 pound) butter
2 c. sugar
4 eggs, beaten
2 c. ripe bananas, mashed well (3 large bananas = 2 c.)
2 tsp. baking soda, stirred into the mashed bananas
3 1/2 c. sifted flour (sift before measuring)
1 tsp. salt, sifted with the flour

Prepare your loaf tins by greasing well (more butter) and cutting a piece of waxed paper to cover the bottom of the pan. Lay it in the greased pan and grease the top of the paper too.

Preheat oven to 325.

Cream together the butter and sugar. When well blended, stir in the beaten eggs. Mix well, add bananas and flour alternately till you have a well blended batter. Do not over-mix. Pour into loaf tins and bake at 325 for about an hour. A knife or bamboo skewer poked into the middle of a loaf should come out clean.

Turn out of loaf pans, peel off waxed paper, and let cool on a rack.

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Saturday, February 23, 2008

Odessa and Inez's Diaries

As I mentioned back on February 1, Nancy M., who grew up in my neck of the woods offered to let me have a look at her aunts' diaries. Today Nancy came out to lunch, bringing with her a dozen little five-year diaries, kept by her aunts, Odessa and Inez. The earliest is from 1933; I think the last entry is in 1972. Most of the diaries cover five years, with about four lines allotted per day.

In the open book in the picture, Odessa wrote in blue ink in 1942, red in '43, blue again in '44, purple in '45 and green in '46. And she wrote very small, cramming five lines into the four given. Her entry for Friday, January 2, 1942 reads: Pretty but cold South Wind blowing. A very busy day at store. Felt sorter bad a bad fever blister on lip so painful. Florence Cheek & Hydes left for Columbus Ohio A.M. Japs captured Manilla.

And on the same day, Inez said: Worked in kitchen as per usual. Ironed this P.M. Printed butter. Carrie Margaret and (a name I can't decipher) were all here this afternoon. Worked on rug tonite.

Then, as an evident afterthought, written very tiny between lines two and three: Japs captured Manilla today.

On the blank pages at the front of her book for '38-'42, Inez has jotted various intriguing one liners: Judy got a crying doll, July 3rd, 1941; Aug.22, 1939 Mr.Ledford was run over by train and killed; and my favorite -- Aug.23, 39 Polk Roberts chocked his wife to death.


I'm in love with these ladies already and am looking forward to spending a lot more time with them. I think Birdie is going to have to meet them in the new book
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Guilty Pleasures


This is one of my guilty pleasures. I am totally addicted to Starbucks Chai tea. I don't drink coffee at all, but my mom introduced me to this drink, and I love it. The price is outrageous, I mean, we're just talking tea here, but then again, the price of tea can drive people to do pretty rebellious stuff (Boston Tea Party anyone?). There must be something addictive in their chai...is surely can't be MY fault I need to drink one all the time!
The people at my local Starbucks know me by my name now...or by my drink. One or the other. Speaking of which, I have noticed an inordinary amount of MEN at my Starbucks. They meet there in droves. Lots of them seem somewhat older and drive motorcycles. Have I discovered a new species? Motorcycle, retired, coffee-addicted biker dudes who live in Suburbia? Sounds dangerous!
But, seriously, I like the Starbucks atmosphere, even though I never stay to drink and hang out. They have good music going, the employees are all suspiciously cheerful (someting in the coffee/tea, I swear), and the quotes and photography on the walls all seem intellectual and clean and artsy. It's just a really nice atmostphere, I think. I could become a Starbucks rat, I think, (as opposed to a mall rat) but that name doesn't work. I'll have to come up with a new term.
For now I'll just call it my guilty pleasure. My venti Soy, No-Water Chai. Thanks, Mom.

Friday, February 22, 2008

More than just a name



I found this image on the Internet of the Greek goddess Rhea. She was a Titan, daughter of Uranus (the sky) and Gaia (the earth). She married Cronus, a really bad dude who ate all his children for fear they would overthrow him. Well, after Rhea gives birth to Zeus, she hides him away in a cave and hands her husband a stone bundled up like a baby, whom he promptly swallows (not a real smart god). So, Zeus grows up, overthrows Cronus and becomes king of gods. Rhea is usually seated in a throne flanked by lions or in a chariot drawn by lions in all the arwork. Neat, huh? The picture of the lion above is one I took when we visited the Fort Worth Zoo.


There is another character in mythology named Rhea Sylvia, who was daughter to a king. This king was overthrown and his brother took over. He didn't want to be challenged by Rhea Sylvia or possible heirs, so he forced her to become a Vestal Virgin. However, she is..um...trapped by the god Mars and conceives twins. The Uncle puts these babies out to die and tries to do in Rhea Sylvia also, but she is rescued by a river god and the twin babies, Romulus & Remus, are rescued by a she-wolf. These twins grow up and found the great city of Rome.



Am I destined to be a mother to great men? I sure hope so. Meanwhile, it's fun to see history in names. I like the interesting mythology more than the Rhea bird (similar to an ostrich).






Bear aka Ursa

Bear, the prototype for Elizabeth's Ursa, is the Zen Master (Mistress?) of our dogs. Contemplative and focused at all times ("Bear's got an Idea!" we say as we open the door and she pads in , heading straight for the bed, looking neither right nor left, nor pausing for a pat), Bear is also a firm believer in the Law of Conservation of Energy. Only the red hound Maggie (Elizabeth's Molly) can convince Bear to go for a run in the woods; in general, Bear prefers an easy amble to a run . Actually, she prefers sitting to an easy amble, and lying down to sitting.

This is a dog who was so laid back and inactive as a puppy that our neighbor's son, her original owner, asked if he couldn't have a real dog instead. Bear has been known to go to sleep, stretched out on her broad back, belly exposed, in the waiting room at the vet while all around her other dogs shiver and pull on their leashes to get to the door.

Bear loves Eddie the cat and almost every morning spends a little time grooming him, as the picture shows. When Eddie and his sisters were born down at my younger son's house several years ago, Bear and Maggie would make daily visits to see the kittens, almost drowning them with their enthusiastic tongues. As a result, I suspect that Eddie suffers from a little confusion as to what exactly he is.

When Signs in the Blood was first out, I received a phone call from a friend. "Vicki!" she said, "I'm reading your book and I'm really enjoying it but I just got to the part where Ursa's missing. . . I have to know . . . is she going to be all right? If something bad's happened to Ursa, I can't read anymore!"

I assured Ginger that Ursa was indeed okay and went on to make a promise I may someday regret: "I will never harm a dog in my books."

How could I when they're so like my own?
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FRIDAY RANDOM TEN

It’s Friday, which means it’s time once again for Blog d’Elisson’s Friday Random Ten, the weekly Random Assortment o’ Cuts culled from the iPod d’Elisson.

I’m packing my bag for my annual Weekend Retreat in the north Georgia mountains. Rain? Mud? It matters not. We’ll be spending our time reconnecting with old friends from around the Southeast, getting a spiritual (and spirituous) shot in the arm. There will be Single Malt...and the Famous Sweat Hut.

What’s on the box this week? Let’s check it out:
  1. New York Girl - Miles Davis

    Miles at his most funkadelically outrageous, this tune is from On the Corner, a jazz-funk opus that is as far removed from the Cool Jazz of Kind of Blue as it is possible to be. Amazing what thirteen years can do.

    I heard him perform this piece live in 1972...and 36 years later, it still makes my head want to explode.

  2. Wizard People, Dear Reader (Part 2) - Brad Neely

    An alternative soundtrack to Harry Potter and the Sorcerer’s Stone, you can download it here by right-clicking on the following links (Part 1 and Part 2). Play it while watching the movie on your DVD player with the sound turned off; it will give you a whole new perspective on the world of Harry Potter.

  3. Georgie And Her Rival - Elvis Costello

    From Mighty Like A Rose, one of my all-time favorite E.C. discs.

  4. Sunday Morning - The Velvet Underground

  5. Purpose - Avenue Q, Original Broadway Cast

  6. Bloody Well Right - Supertramp

  7. You Know What You Could Be - The Incredible String Band

  8. That’s The Way - Led Zeppelin

  9. Watermelon - Leo Kottke

  10. Mr. Bad Example - Warren Zevon

It’s Friday. What are you listening to?

FUZZY FRIDAY

It’s a rainy Friday, yet I feel fine.
My kitties take the lead spot on Ark 179.


The Friday Ark sets forth on its 179th voyage at the Modulator.

This Sunday evening, Carnival of the Cats alights at the House of the (Mostly) Black Cats - be sure to stop by and pay a visit.

Update: CotC #206 is up...with Hakuna and Matata leading the pack. Boo-yah!

Thursday, February 21, 2008

Birthdaze

Today was my birthday. My younger son -- the good-looking fella on the right and his girl friend fixed dinner - shrimp and grits with sausage for added flavor, roasted asparagus, salad, and an inordinate amount of champagne. Plus an amazing chocolate cake. There were eight of us around the table and seven dogs wandering in and out and a good time was had by all. There is nothing more to say except that I am very blessed.
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Greeks and the Rainforest


This is a photo from my trip last summer to The Dallas World Aquarium in Dallas, Texas. (http://www.dwazoo.com/)
One of their main exhibits is this Rainforest. It is a four-story tour, starting with the top, the canopy, where you can see exotic birds and monkeys hanging out. As you work your way down, you pass a sloth, see a crocodile cave, view poison dart frogs and vampire bats and eventually end up by the river where there are huge fish, turtles and the star attraction, manatees. There is even a level below the water, where you can see into the river through an entire glass wall. It is just an incredible experience. If you are ever in Dallas, you should visit. I'm not even bringing up the jackass penguins or the aquariums featuring an example from every country. This place is amazing.


So, what does this rainforest have to do with the Greeks? They are both in aquariums. The above rainforest is in the Dallas Aquarium and in my home aquarium reside four fish named after Greek Gods.


Ok, the aquarium belongs to my eleven year old, and the four fish are his. He named them Zeus, Ares, Athena and Goldie (the odd one out). However, Ares has just bit the dust, our first casulty.


Why Greek Gods? Well, every night for about a month, I read Greek myths to my son before bedtime. He ate them up. Loved 'em. And, they make great pet names. When I was in high school we had a mammoth Mastiff named Vesta, guardian god of the hearth. She was a gentle giant.


So, that's the connection between the Greeks and the Rainforest, at least in my mind.

READER

Pretty much any psychic can read someone’s palm. And most of ’em can do a decent job on tea leaves.

But Madame Potrzebie carved out a unique spot for herself among the members of the Soothsayers and Fortunetellers Guild. She was the only one who could read Ass-Cracks.

Ass-Cracks, it seems, carry a lot of psychic energy. Moona-mana, you could call it. And Madame P. knew all the secret ways to tease it out.

She could tell you about your loves, your dreams, your desires. How long you would live. Your deepest, darkest fears...and how to deal with them. What you ate yesterday (an especially easy question for her).

Clients came to her with fistfuls of money, wanting guidance in their business and personal decisions. “Should I take this new job?” “Is Jeremy the right man for me?” they’d ask her, and after a careful reading, she would outline the future consequences of all of their possible choices. Whether a customer was famous or obscure, it mattered not; Madame P. would offer up an impartial and accurate prognostication, as long as she was paid her (surprisingly reasonable) fee.

But she drew the line at politics.

The pundits and candidates flocked to her early on, knowing of her prodigious talents. “Who will win the election?” they all wanted to know. But Madame P. turned them all away empty-handed, and no amount of money could sway her from her refusal.

“Politicians!” she spat. “All hole and no crack.”

ANOTHER EVENING WITH ELDER DAUGHTER

After sitting through the first day of a two-day course on Late Career Financial Planning (with topics such as “Cat Food: Occasional Treat or Dietary Mainstay?”), I drove into Silver Spring to pick up Elder Daughter at her workplace.

She’s an associate producer with the Discovery Channel Global Education Partnership, a not-for-profit corporate arm that donates technology and teacher training to under-resourced communities throughout the world. They also produce educational documentaries for the learning centers they set up, focusing on a range of subjects from math, science and health, to history, culture and media literacy. Here’s a video that illustrates the kind of stuff she does:



Did I tell you I’m a proud daddy, having a daughter who takes the imperative of tikkun olam - repairing the world - so seriously?

We headed down into the District and ate at a hole-in-the-wall Jamaican place, snarfing down plates of jerk chicken and curry chicken roti and washing it all down with pineapple-ginger juice. It was delicious. I can only hope that I will not suffer the painful aftermath that occasionally attaches to the consumption of jerk chicken.

Afterward, we returned to Elder Daughter’s place, where I stayed long enough for her to thrash me in three games of backgammon. (How sharper than a serpent’s tooth to have a thankless child child who can beat you like the gong in a J. Arthur Rank production.)

Monument EclipseDriving back to my hotel, I listened (appropriately enough, considering our Evening Meal) to the Easy Star All-Stars Dub Side of the Moon, a reggae homage to Pink Floyd. Hillsides sparkled with a thin layer of freshly-fallen snow. The Washington Monument was a searchlight-washed alabaster spike, the coppery full moon in total eclipse riding in the sky above it. I regretted not having my camera with me.

Cold. Cold as the proverbial witch’s tit. But I didn’t care. I was warm inside, and it wasn’t just the jerk chicken working its magic on my viscera. I had spent a few hours with a beautiful and talented young lady, and on her account I was suffused with Fatherly Pride. A good, good feeling.

[The eclipse photo above is a pastiche combining my November 2006 shot of the Washington Monument with Sissy Willis’s striking image of the blood-red moon at totality.]

Wednesday, February 20, 2008

On Crooked Ridge


Grace Henderson was buried today in the little cemetery atop Crooked Ridge, close by the graves of her mother and father. Friends and neighbors dug the grave and carried her to it. Then they shoveled in the red dirt, tamping it down with loving care

The wind whipped across the ridge top, making the trees that crowded around the edges of the graveyard sigh and creak, and scattering last year's dead leaves into rustling flocks that skirled around our feet.

A wonderful mix of folk turned out -- native born, long time 'new people,' and more recent additions to our county, retirees finding a new home in our old land -- all brought together by their love of Grace -- who, in turn, loved them all.




Springing breezes stir
Fall's brown leaves to life --whirling
Amid the gravestones.
to view an album of more picture from Crooked Ridge, go to :http://picasaweb.google.com/vickilanemysteries/GraceSBuryingOnCrookedRidgePosted by Picasa

A FLOCK OF ASS-HATS

Or, our Adventures with UPS.

“What can Brown do for you?” - UPS slogan

Well, they can provide you with a few weeks of irritation and nervousness...and at least one post worth of Blog-Fodder. They are, indeed, a Flock of Ass-Hats.

I’ve had my issues with Brown before, mind you.

Back in the late summer of 1997, when Elder Daughter was preparing to begin her University Education, we had planned to ship most of her supplies to Boston via UPS. We lived in Houston at the time, and we had no desire to schlep E.D.’s crap up to school in a U-Haul trailer in what would have been a three-day marathon drive. Of course, that’s when UPS’s employees decided to go on strike, in possibly the most dramatic demonstration of Murphy’s Law since the Challenger disaster.

E.D.’s stuff showed up at school eventually, but it did make for an exciting several weeks.

Fast forward to early February 2008. I’m sending a small but valuable package to Mrs. Eli, a birthday present intended to commemorate a Major Milestone. I go to the local UPS store, log in, print out my shipping label, hand the package over, and pay the tariff.

“You’ll need to put it in a shipping box,” I told the Genius in Brown Shipping Specialist, almost as an afterthought. As I said, it was a small but valuable package.

A few days later, I got a call from Eli and Mrs. Eli. They had, it seems, received a Rather Strange Package: a Fuzzy Helmet with Bison Horns. And I was the shipper, according to the mailing label.

“Now, why would Elisson send you a Fuzzy Helmet with Bison Horns?” Eli had asked Mrs. Eli. A rhetorical question, of course. Clearly, a mistake had been made. Or I had gone stark, raving bazonkers. (Hey, anything is possible.)

UPS contacted them the next day, asking whether they had received a package (yes), and whether it was something they had expected (no). It seems that, sure enough, the Genius in Brown Shipping Specialist had mistakenly switched my shipping label with one that belonged on another package. The Fuzzy Helmet! And, listening to Eli recount the story to me over the phone, I recalled that someone had indeed been shipping a Fuzzy Helmet with Bison Horns at the same time I was shipping my package. It’s not the kind of thing that’s easy to ignore, you see.

OK, well and good. Now, UPS sends someone over to pick up the Fuzzy Helmet with Bison Horns, so that it may be shipped to the correct consignee.

Getting said consignee to send Mrs. Eli’s package to her, however, took a little more work. UPS, having solved half the problem that they themselves created, dropped the ball, forgetting to arrange the solution to Part 2.

It took a few phone calls from Eli to get the ball rolling again. But imagine the frustration of calling UPS on the phone, giving them a tracking number, only to be told that, “Oh, we already delivered that package.” Sure you did, Chumley - to the wrong frickin’ address. Catch 22, make room for Catch Brown.

After sufficient badgering, UPS sent the Erroneous Recipient a prepaid label, and said Recipient shipped Mrs. Eli’s package. It finally arrived today, fifteen days late, unceremoniously dumped on their front steps. I’d have thought they would have wanted a signature, especially since the package was small and valuable.

At least it got there. Finally.

PUTTING ON TH’ TRAINING PANTS

Les flageolets, les flageolets,
Pour vôtre coeur, la bonne santé.


- Old French Proverb

At 3:15 yesterday afternoon, I was perched in my dentist’s chair, making the acquaintance of Mr. Permanent Crown Restoration. Less than five hours later, I was having dinner with Elder Daughter, almost within shouting distance of the White House. Modern Aerial Bus Technology never ceases to amaze me.

I’m here in the general vicinity of the Nation’s Capital to take a training course at the local Big Outpost of the Great Corporate Salt Mine. It’s my first visit to this particular facility, a place once as inaccessible to me as the surface of the Moon. That’s because this used to be the headquarters of one of the Great Corporate Salt Mine’s competitors, and contact with competitors in our industry is permissible only under tightly controlled and unusual circumstances. But then came the Merger, and the formerly untouchable became, well, touchable.

It’s a little like having a family living down the street from you and being told you can’t play with their kids or go into their house. And then, one day, your Dad announces that he is marrying the Widow Woman who lives in that house, and that the kids you weren’t allowed to play with are now your step-siblings. Now you get to check out all the stuff in their basement.

This place, unlike our Sweat City headquarters, is packed with fine art and museum-quality Industry Artifacts. And it’s huge. I’d call it “Battlestar Galactica,” except that name has already been snarfed up to describe another competitor’s headquarters.

But a conference room is a conference room, no matter where you are...and a two-day training session will test your sitzfleisch. The good thing is, I’ve checked my eyelids for pinholes several times, and I haven’t found a single one yet.

Last night, I met Elder Daughter at her D.C. digs, just a few blocks from DuPont Circle. We walked up into Adams Morgan to snag dinner at one of the local French eateries, the cold wind sharpening our appetites all the way.

Elder Daughter recommended the salade Niçoise, so we split one. You can’t go wrong with a salad that includes lettuce, tomatoes, sliced boiled potato, hard-cooked eggs, tuna, tiny Niçoise olives, and the odd anchovy fillet.

I challenged E.D.’s adventurous spirit by recommending that she order the ris de veau - calf sweetbreads. Sweetbreads were a favorite of the Momma d’Elisson, but I resisted ever trying them until they landed on my plate at Chez Panisse, the Berserkely-based temple of American food-worship, twenty-four years ago. They were delicious...and last night, Elder Daughter tasted them for the first time and enjoyed the hell out of them, despite their being Mysterious Organ Meats. (Thymus and/or pancreas, in case you were wondering.)

Meanwhile, I had the cassoulet, the quintessential French comfort food. Simply put, cassoulet is the Gallic equivalent of cholent, the fragrant (and fragrance-inducing) Jewish sabbath bean dish. To describe a cassoulet as a Bean and Meat Stew - which it is - is to do the dish an injustice. This version was rich with sausage, lamb, duck confit, and flavorful, long-simmered flageolet beans. I will leave the question of whether it was wise to eat a plateload of cassoulet before spending a long day in a confined space as an exercise for the reader. Discuss amongst yourselves.

On the way back from the restaurant, E.D. cracked me up with her spot-on Eartha Kitt impression. I’d better start developing some resistance to her sense of humor (which strangely resembles mine), or I’ll be pissing my pants all through Japan in a couple of months.

LOST


This is the most amazing drama on television. EVER!!

Let me start by saying that I didn't watch the first season of this show when it premiered. It didn't sound like something I was interested in: plane crash survivors on a mysterious tropical island. Then I eventually tuned in because I heard some interesting buzz about the show, and I was sucked in immediately.


The musical score for the show is incredible. It is performed by the Hollywood Studio Symphany Orchestra and composed by Michael Giacchino (who also did music for the show ALIAS and for the movie THE INCREDIBLES).


The show is filmed in Hawaii, which is obviously one of the most beautiful backdrops possible.


The cast is huge, which leaves room for lots of character interactions (and slowly revealing cioncidental unlikely character connections). Relationships are essential. The first few seasons are largely character motivated, which each episode focusing on one character with flashbacks to their life before the crash. The characters are flawed, all having major struggles in their lives. Their arrival on the island has given them a chance for change and to confront themselves and their issues. The discover mysterious inhabitants, The Others, and they find evidence of the DHARMA Initiative research stations throughout the island. This is no ordinary island.



The show explores huge issues like good versus evil, fate versus free will and faith versus science. Unlike most TV shows, they don't tell you WHAT to think. They leave it up to you. Each show brings up tons of questions...each episode might answer a little, but ask even more questions by the time it's over. It's a show that allows you to think for yourself and encourages thought long after it's over. Fans could spend hours researching electromagnetism or various other scientific ideas broached and essential to understanding the island.



Comedic relief is ever present and I find myself laughing out loud at some of the characters' actions and remarks. Some characters are con men, and I am forever trying to figure out if they pulling a con or not...and the bad guys...they can be really bad. In a delicious, bad, finger-licking way you'll love.



And, each episode reveals more clues...some obvious, some in the background that you have to really search for and study. There are so many fan sites devoted to exploring every possible clue and meaning. It is easy to get sucked in.



I could go on and on, and I probably will, but for now, this is my introductory speel on my favorite show ever. Run. Don't walk, RUN to your nearest video store and rent Season One. I dare you not to get hooked. The mythology, the intelligence, the mystery...it leaves you wanting more.

ENJOY!!!

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