The Aerie
My favorite ugly car is my 1996 Purple Geo Metro that I'm trying to
unload right now. I recently replaced it with an anonymous sedan, a '00
Plymouth Neon that can actually fit my whole family - wise, but boring,
like Gandalf the Grey (or in this case, Gandalf the Cinnamon).
I bought the Metro in 1999 as a "temporary" car and immediately fell in
love with it. Although it only has two more cylinders than a lawnmower,
it really steps out: push the gas pedal and zoom! you're off like a
motorized roller skate. Then there's the exhilaration of living always
one cell-phone-talking latte-drinking knee-driving teenager-in-mom's-SUV
away from Certain Death. Other cars are vulnerable to Serious
Accidents, the purple Metro is vulnerable to Really Strong Sneezes. And
it gets 35MPG city and can park ANYWHERE.
It's got a little rust. Its front bumper is a piece of aluminum
sheeting screwed to the plastic cracked by a love-tap with a brand new
car at an intersection. Its exhaust system is cracked off of the
manifold at the block. And sometimes the stereo wires come loose inside
the doors, and can only be reattached by the quadruple-jointed actresses
from Cirque de Soliel. Such a deal! I'll miss it when its gone.
Anyone want it? Drop me an e-mail. Please, no shoving.
My other favorite ugly car wasn't so ugly - a 1983 Mazda 626. That was
my Young Man car of my Twenties, and I had many an adventure in it,
including slaloming through the snow-filled median on Highway 10,
shearing the passenger-side mirror off on a post. I got struck twice on
my right front quarter panel in the same month, by drivers with two
different insurance agencies, and the panel-replacement checks turned
into the downpayment on my home.
But along came kids and the Mazda had to be traded in on a minivan, and
I watched my rusty, dented bachelorhood roll away to certain doom. I
was sure that its next parking spot would feature four iron walls on
hydraulic rams.
Six months later I was parking my van at a Target 'way across town...
when along came my Mazda! Its damage had been repaired, its rust
Bondo'ed over, and the Hmong family inside gazed suspiciously at the
American who was tearing up at the sight of their car. I tried to
communicate to them my glee at seeing my old car again, but I'm pretty
sure I've entered their family mythos as "Remember that crazy guy we
escaped at Target that time?"
I never saw it again, but I had not until that moment any idea that one
could feel such glee and even relief at seeing an old car again. Just
knowing it had not been destroyed made me feel like it, along with that
portion of my youth it represented, could still be out there somewhere -
packed with strangers, populated with bobbleheads in the back window,
but still alive, and still zooming up and down the road.
Wow, this is weird.
I've spent some time recently on some Harry Potter fansites, following reactions to the latest book. For those of you who may be concerned, there will be spoilers if you continue reading...
You have been warned! Turn back now! Booga booga!
Still here? You have too much time on your hands, you know that?
The cogent facts about book six are that 1) Dumbledore is slain by Snape, who runs off with a bunch of Deatheaters; 2) Ginny and Harry snog; 3) someone steals a piece of Voldemort's soul called a"horcrux," in the form of a locket concealed beneath a deadly potion, and leaves behind a note signed "R. A. B." in a substitute locket; 4) Harry is tasked with finding at least four more horcruxes and destroying them in the last book.
Now, of those facts, the tactician turns immediately to the THIRD, and starts puzzling. Who is RAB? Why did they bother to re-conceal the locket and how did they manage to steal it in the first place? And of course the fourth point simply begs the question "How will Harry accomplish the task?"
All reasonable questions. Plot-analysts turn to point 1), Is Snape really evil, or was he acting under orders from Dumbledore to kill Dumbledore if the alternative was to blow his cover? Will Snape's slaying of Dumbledore protect Draco Malfoy from Voldemort's vengeance? And most importantly, did Dumbledore's self-sacrifice lay a form of protection on Draco akin to what Harry's mother gave him whe she died?
Strangely enough, however, the questions that I find interesting aren't those that captivate most of the readership. Most of the fans on these websites seem to be concerned about very different issues:
"DUMBLEDORE ISN'T DEAD!"
Nobody wants to believe it, even after what happened to him in the original "Star Wars" or when he was crossing the bridge in "The Fellowship of the Ring." Die-hard (literally) fans have suggested every other character in the books as people shape-changed to look like Dumbledore. Or Snape's spell is questioned - maybe he SAID "Avada Kadavra," but actually cast and illusion of Dumbledore flying off the tower and crashing to the ground far below... and then somebody brought out a fake corpse and laid it there... with a locket in its pocket that Dumbledore had been holding.... yeah, that's the ticket! Dumbledore isn't dead!
People are bending their brains in knots trying to deny that Dumbledore is dead.
"HARRY AND GINNY?!?! ARE YOU KIDDING ME!?"
Unknown to me, there is a very large population of people who wanted Harry and Hermione to have a relationship. Called "shippers" by die-hard fans, these folks are incensed that JK Rowling sprang this Harry-Ginny thing on them with no warning whatsoever... That is, unless you missed the growing relationship between Hermione and Ron in the last five books, or Ginny's ongoing interest in Harry beginning in the first book.
If Ginny ended up being tortured and killed by Voldemort in the seventh book, some of these folks would have the Dark Mark tattooed on their forearms in gratitude.
"SNAPE IS/ISN'T EVIL, I KNEW IT!"
This is probably the most arguable point that these readers debate, but still it seems pretty clear to me that Dumbledore meant for Snape to kill him, both in order to maintain Snape's cover, to protect Draco and Harry, and possibly also to lay a protective charm over Draco Malfoy or somebody. In the very first book of the series, Ron sacrifices himself in a chess game in order that Harry can checkmate the King - this is exactly the same thing, in my opinion.
But the questions of Snape's motives and standing don't turn on the tactical issues - they turn primarily on the emotional connection between the fans and Snape. Some pity him and adore him, others loathe him and can't fathom the idea that he might have his own sense of honor.
The fans are all over the place. Dumbledore is dead, Dumbledore is in hiding, RAB doesn't stand for Sirius Black's brother Regulus, Harry is the last Horcrux and will die at the end of the seventh book, Lavender Brown used the Imperius Curse to get Ron to snog her, Snape loved Harry's mother, Snape is Harry's actual father, and on and on and on...
From a plot and technical point of view, book six seems very clear cut. Snape will be revealed to have done Dumbledore's bidding, Harry will discover and destroy Voldemort's horcruxes and help destroy Voldemort, etc., Wormtail will have to pay back his life-debt to Harry, etc. But for a lot of these folks, the inevitable, inexorable outcomes of modern heroic fantasy take second place to their refusal to accept the painful losses of fictional characters to whom they've become attached.
It really is astonishing...
Now, that having been said, if Ginny were to die in Book 7, I am certain she would come back to life in Book 8. But Rowling wouldn't dare!
Back when I was born, the boys club that was the medical profession had decided that birth was clearly nothing to be experienced by women, so when my birthmother delivered me she did so while drugged into insensibility.
Given that I was busy learning how to breathe, I was a little too distracted to pay attention to what was going on as I was whisked away.
It took me thirty years or so to find her again, and while that has been very nice I've never had a chance to be with my birthmother on my actual birthday. So this year, being unemployed, this is the year. We're going to drive down to visit her in Pigeon Forge, Tennesee.
Now, this all seemed like a good idea until I started looking for places to stay... and stumbled across this web page. Warning - it has an attached 500K file in case you are on dialup
Now, it's bad enough that Pigeon Forge is the home of Dollywood. And that my birthmother lives in a, er, well, let's just say "tornado magnet." And this is the Deep South, the Great Smoky Mountains of Tennesee. I'm up for all that.
But after listening to the song attached to that crazy-ass webpage, I'm not sure this is all such a good idea. I mean, anyplace that would stick a song that kitschy on their website exists on a whole different plane of tacky that I've ever encountered. And, doubtless, that's actually the 'best of its breed' for songs of that type, too...
Hopefully this is not a sign of other things to expect in Pigeon Forge, Tennesee... I bet the rest of Pigeon Forge shows style, class, and panache...
Okay, I'm not sure, but I think this whole Internet-is-everywhere thing might be getting out of hand.
I'm sitting here at the Red Cross, my left arm swaddled in heating pads and blankets to increase bloodflow, and a needle in my elbow. And my right hand is typing on the Internet.
This is just wrong.
Apheresis is a process by which clotting cells are extracted from the blood and then the whole blood is returned. The cells are used for folks such as hemophiliacs or surgery patients who need help healing. Not so many people donate clotting factor, because the process takes about an hour and a half.
And since usually they put needles in both arms, meaning that for two hours you can't bend you arms at the elbow. You can't scratch your nose, you can't go pee, you can't eat or drink too much, and the process causes your lips and small muscles to vibrate - apparently due to lack of calcium.
Since it takes so long, the Red Cross goes to Great Lengths to provide entertainment. Cable and DVDs are available and you CAN operate a TV remote. For me - without cable at home - it can be fun to spend an hour reminding myself that cable is not worth the money.
But today I was scheduled for a single-arm donation. Three of my last four regular double-arm donations have failed. So in addition to watching cable or DVD, I can sit here and blog my donation. Sick, sick and twisted it is.
If a clot forms on or in the hypodermic, the whole donation goes to hell. And a couple of times they messed up the initial needle-insertion. So far this year I've only managed one successful donation, and the Red Cross can't really afford to throw away the donation kits.
So I took a three-month break to give my veins a rest, and came in for the single-arm donation in order to halve the chance of clotting.
Today's donation has not been without it's challenges - my blood pressure cuff went flat and they spent half an anxious hour messing with the needle before they figured that out. And I'm just hoping to hit the required minimum - 2.5 somethings - before the donation goes completely awry. Right now I'm at 2.3, and because of the delays my bladder is getting a bit full.
But it looks like it's going to be successful here, and soon I'll be able to get up, bend my left elbow, and pee.
Hopefully in that order.
Various events today got me thinking about the way we Americans disassociate ourselves from the world.
The first was one of the latest London transit bombings, someone who fortunately wasn't seriously hurt. She repeated a phrase I've heard very frequently in similar situations: "It was like something from a movie."
I think one of the latest Darwinian survival selectors has to be "ability to quickly re-grasp reality following disaster." I suspect that the people best suited to survive disasters are not the ones who experience all subsequent events through a blur of unreality. Probably the ones who survive best are the ones who say "Crap, that was real, I'd better think about what to do next." Dissassociation is dangerous.
I saw this earlier when my family and I were on our way to see a movie - my third viewing of "War of the Worlds," as a matter of fact. Just such a movie as victims of disasters find called to mind in moments of crisis.
Anyway my family and I were driving along West River Parkway past a quiet portion of Minnehaha Park, when I saw something that chilled me to the bone. I very, very small child, younger than two years old I'd guess, running along the curb on the other side.
Now, the parkway traffic is generally slow enough that this would be of concern, but not utter panic. Any reasonable driver, one would expect, would in the first place be going rather slowly on the parkway, and in the second place have plenty of time to stop upon seeing this toddler running down the road.
But the oncoming driver DIDN'T stop. The oncoming driver slowed considerably... but could not seem to understand that his need to get wherever the hell he was going was NOT greater than that baby's need to not-be-run-over. While the five or six miles an hour at which he passed the child probably seemed to him to be a snail's pace, my heart was in my throat from the moment I realized that he wasn't going to stop until he had completed passing the child.
Mind you: we're talking about a two-year-old, running along the gutter, and a car crawling past mere inches away. All that kid had to do, at every moment that the car was passing him, was swerve, turn, stumble, or fall to his left, and he would have been roadkill.
I was in a panic by the time the oncoming car reached me - I was honking the horn without thinking of it (indeed, whenever I try to honk the horn on this stupid car I can never find the right spot on the steering wheel to press), yelling aloud, and trying to remember how to lower the window of my van. Still, I managed to catch the eye of the lad driving the other car, and I hope he could read my lips saying "You stop the car!"
Fortunately it all worked out. I stopped until I could see, coming across the park and still at quite a distance, the child's father - looking not at all concerned, by the way. The toddler had reached the family's truck, and an older sibling - all of maybe six - had taken him in hand.
This, in turn, reminded me of a news article I read earlier in the day. The report was of a woman who had been in a multi-car accident in Florida. As she lay bleeding on the pavement, she could hear tires crunching through the broken glass near her head, as drivers intent on reaching their destinations crept through the accident scene in order to be on their way.
I have to believe that the Florida drivers, like the lad driving the oncoming car this evening, are basically good people. I don't think that all these cars were piloted by natural sociopaths.
But I suspect that lives spent in front of the TV caused these people - and who know how many other people - to disassociate diasters from their own lives. And positioned safely behind the glass of a moving vehicle, I think it was all too easy for them to forget that the people they were trying to squeeze past in their hurries, those people were REAL. I don't think those drivers categorized the people outside the car as being as fully human as, say, the other people in their cars.
One scene in War of the Worlds is of a man videotaping the aliens. Moments later his camera drops empty to the pavement, the man apparently vaporized as he filmed. Dissociated from the reality of what he was witnessing, he failed to run away with everyone else in the crowd.
If we're going to survive as individuals, we need to deliberately seek to maintain our grasp on reality and avoid dissociating ourselves from the people and events around us. If we're goint to survive as a civilization and a species, we need to avoid dissociating ourselves from each other and the events of our world.
Because it's not alien robots who pose the threat, it's we ourselves and our lethal behaviors who are bringing on the crisis. And if we can't acknowledge a crisis that we ourselves create, how can we ever hope to survive it?
Okay, so the new car, well, the used car... er, the car I bought to replace the Metro... is pretty nice. I suffered a day or two of Buyer's Remorse after I picked it up, because honestly you have to be insane to spend savings on a car while you have no job.
But on the other hand I'm not COMPLETELY broke, I've got some checks coming in, and if any of the companies that owe me Serious Money were to actually cough up what they owe, I'd be doing okay. Still, this is the kind of thing that keeps me awake and staring at night, while during the bright light of day I realize that we will be fine. Over the past year and a half we have paid off all our debt (except for our home mortgage), so if we really had to, we could go back into debt for a bit.
But driving the car has been very pleasant. Picked up our family friend Debbie from the airport last night, and enjoyed her inability to locate my voice as coming from the nice sedan in front of her, rather than some crappy purple Metro. Then she brought her luggage over, and I pulled the wrong switch and popped open the hood instead of the trunk. Smoooooth.
The A/C works wonderfully well. The CD sounds nice, except I discovered that it can't play CD/MP3's. Tut. Why not just put a vinyl album player in there instead, sheesh. And when I filled the tank, I managed to top it off for $19, so still under $20. This is a completely meaningless and arbitrary measure of course: if I really don't like spending more than $20 to fill the tank, I could just dump a few rocks in to take up space.
And for the time being it's both clean and quiet, something that couldn't be said for the Metro ever since someone *cough*spouse*cough* bottomed the car out on a rutted road and snapped the exhaust system off the manifold. On the other hand, we haven't had to change the Metro's muffler since that time, either.
Now that I've mentally wrapped my head around the purchase and decided to keep it and enjoy it, I have to figure out what to do about the Metro itself. It's a real piece of junk, but on the other hand it runs good, gets good mileage, and has a nice stereo in it.
I'm open to suggestions!
So I bought a new car.
Well, okay, no, I didn't buy a new car, I bought a replacement used car to the '96 Geo Metro that I've been driving for the past six or seven years.
This was, of course, a wacky, foolish thing to do. The Metro works, and I'm between jobs, so I'm spending savings to buy something that I don't strictly need. Actually, this is the first time I've ever bought a car that I didn't strictly need. Normally I would drive my existing car solidly into the ground before replacing it - a highlight of my car purchases has always been needing to find a ride to the dealership. But in this case, no. Maybe it's age, maybe it's an arrogant confidence that work will make itself available (and honestly the phone has been ringing off the hook with job offers), or maybe I'm simply tired of the Metro.
Today I went to the dealership simply to pick up the $5 that the flyer offered "just for coming in," and of course they got me to buy something. I've given up even thinking I'm clever enough to outwit car salesmen - nowadays I just show up, turn around, and grab my ankles.
But I really did need to replace the Metro, even if it presently still runs.
To start with, the Metro is not and never has been very safe. When you drive a Geo Metro, you're always one bad driver away from the grave. And I have sufficient doubts that the airbags in that car would function that I've toyed with the idea of running the car into a boulder at 35 mph just to find out for sure.
Also, the Metro is noisy, to say nothing of hot and cramped. Hot and cramped I'm accustomed to: the idea of cars-with-air-conditioning is not native to my generation. Air conditioning is itself not part of my personal heritage. Air conditioning was one of those hedonistic indulgences, like boats and lake cabins, of The Wealthy or of our neighbors living-above-their-means. Privileged neighbors had air conditioning units in their windows: the term "central air" was reserved for those with circular driveways and footmen.
So the idea of owning a vehicle with A/C just seems improper somehow. But the new car has A/C.
The new car can also fit the entire family. This used to be the case with the Metro, but with three increasingly large teens-and-pre-teens in the household, (to say nothing of the ever-inflating adult population) the inside of the Metro was shrinking rapidly. And there's no denying that the Metro never seated all five of us safely. My entire posterity was on the line whenever we had to crowd into the thing together.
So I am thoroughly tired of driving the hot, cramped, unsafe and noisy Metro. It was always supposed to be my "temporary" car, when I picked it up in 1999. Just a disposable vehicle until I started making a little money. Obviously that took longer than I thought, but there were things about the Metro that I liked, too.
I liked its tiny size - you can park a Metro anywhere, and squeeze through openings otherwise reserved for motorcycles. I liked its gas mileage. As gas prices have climbed, my cost at the pump has skyrocketed from $12... to $18 a tank. When you can fill the car for under $20 and drive on that for over a week, these days, then there's a lot to like.
As for what I purchased... um...
I don't know.
No, no, I mean, I like the car and all, I don't have any doubts about it. It's just that, uh, I can't precisely remember the make and model of the car.
That, by the way, is a sign of the kind of man I am. Absentminded, yes, that's already established. But more to the point, what kind of guy doesn't recall a few hours later the make and model of the car he just bought? I have this notion that most guys would know the make, model, engine displacement, torque, horsepower, and gear ratios of the car. I know I bought a brown ("cinnamon", the salesguy called 'Whitey' kept telling me) four-door Plymouth sedan with moderately good gas mileage (25/31 as compared to the Metro's measured 31/36). I'm satisfied with that.
So it's still at the dealer, getting cleaned up. I'll probably take it past the mechanic tomorrow before I sign the papers. But if everything works out, I'll soon be trying to find something to do with a five-speed 1996 Geo Metro with an aluminum-foil sheet bolted over a cracked front bumper.
Anybody need a cheap cramped noisy hot unsafe car? It gets good gas mileage!
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| A very short Dementor and the Fat Lady |
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| Minister of Magic Cornelius Fudge is terrified by a very short Dementor. |
But interior weather aside, the party was tons of fun. The costumes were imaginative and well carried out. Aside from the heat, the crowding wasn't too bad because we managed to grab and keep a table early on. From there we were able to watch all sorts of interesting people and costumes go by.
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| A fradulent Fat Lady (my spouse was of course the Real Deal) with her amazing floating picture frame. |
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| A surprisingly tall Ginny Weasley drew a skeptical glare from a surprisingly short Professor Trelawney |
Upon arriving in the evening, one had to then line up again, this time to exchange one's number for a book-coupon (the difference being I suppose those few who might have gotten a number, but not returned later for the party). Once one had both number and coupon, then beginning at midnight one could, when called with one's group, line up a third time to actually purchase the book.
On reflection, it was a system that captured the British flavor of the books themselves.
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| While she looked very authentic in the store, the camera reveals that Hermione Granger had crazy eyes. |
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| Hagrid and Dumbledore pose with the Fat Lady and an very special Hogwarts student |
The folks who got #1 were an unusual pair, a pierced and tattooed set of young heavy-metal rockers with platform shoes. NOT what you'd normally expect. They arrived at 10:30 pm the night before. Spot #2 was occupied at 5:30 a.m. the next morning. Frankly, if I'd spent 6 hours camping out just for one spot better in line, I'd have been annoyed.
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| A wizard held forth a potions lesson for the amusement of the crowd. |
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| The astonishingly clever costume of a would-be Marietta Edgecomb, whose face bears pimples spelling "SNEAK" |
The only holdout on the costume front was my elder son, who grumpily declined any decoration and attended as a muggle. I really can't criticize him, as prior to the discovery of the hat I was not particularly keen on my 'Widdershins' garb. Nonetheless he was quite a hit in his own way.
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| A unicorn bids you adieu! |
Now, however, I am faced with a problem. Despite trying to avoid learning anything about the book in advance of reading it (I don't even read the jacket), I have been accidentally exposed to two newspaper comments. Both have said that the end of the book is a real tearjerker. So I don't actually want to read it!
Then there's the fact that after I read this, I won't have another new Harry Potter book to read for at least a year, maybe three... and that will be the last one!
This is truly a sucky situation. On the one hand I want to read it, and on the other hand I don't want it to end. I'm up to Christmas right now in the book (which is based around the school year at Hogwarts), and I know I'll finish it soon... but really I'd rather not.
Maybe I'll write to J. K. Rowling and suggest Harry be held back a year or five...
Well, just a few minutes until we leave for the Harry Potter party at the bookstore. I picked up ticket #45 for tonights drawing and am eagerly anticipating the book itself. Meanwhile the family is working on their last minute costume ideas.
Spent the day applying for jobs online. I've been lax over the past couple of weeks of vacation, so I had over 50 jobs that I could apply for built up. You'd think one of them would amount to something!
More later... now, off to Harry Potter!
We're just wild about Harry in this house... the new Harry Potter book, that is. The kids are actually a bit bemused, I think, because the Wife and I are the real fanatics. Oh the kids like the books well enough, but I think they find their parents a bit much.
That's what happens when bookworms marry, I guess - an English Major to a science fiction geek.
Anyway the long-awaited Sixth Book arrives at 12:01 a.m. sharp on Saturday, and we'll be there - possibly in costume - for the big event. I know, I know, total dorkwads. Still, it's fun - I've never been a 'fan' much. Even as a lad, Star Trek was never good enough to get me to don the pointed ears...
The Indigo Girls were as fannish as I got, culminating with a backstage excurion to meet Amy Ray - but not being a lesbian there was a limit to how fannish I could get.
But with Harry Potter, the sky's the limit. The stories are so captivating, the characters so real, it's easy to get swept up in the anticipation.
Will there be a funeral for Sirius Black? What does Harry do to make this 'his shortest stay at the Dursleys'? Will Ron finally figure out about Hermione? Will Harry finally figure out about Ginny? Who will die? When will Wormtail pay the debt he owes Harry?
I could go on and on. But with the book only 25 hours away, it won't be long until some of those questions get answered...
I can't wait!
(Being a fan can be fun!)
Thumbing our noses at the terrorists, my family spent a whole day at one of their Top Target Locations: Camp Snoopy at the Mall of America.
Their aunts had given my kids Christmas gifts of ride and purchase coupons, and the incipient heat of the day plus my youngest son's persistent nagging inspired us to use them. 'Twas mostly a pleasant experience. I don't think I'd've been able to enjoy it if I weren't on Grand Extended Vacation, but I am, so I did.
My favorite camping spot at Camp Snoopy is on these fairly comfortable booths just inwards from Legoland, and conveniently located right next to a bakery. Many of the seats at the MOA are designed to be uncomfortable - the chairs in the food courts are, for example, tipped forward to limit your time in them - but these booths are quite comfortable even though they are not padded. We arrived early at the MOA and got Rock Star Parking - second stall next to the doors - and grabbed a booth.
Shortly after we arrived we actually bumped into one of the aunts who provided the Camp Snoopy coupons. They had managed to convince their eldest to skip a sweltering outdoor carnival by promising the air conditioned Camp Snoopy instead.
At one point I left my wife and her sister to chat while her husband took one of their boys, and I took the other. Their Andy is my special nephew because, like me, he's adopted. His siblings fore and aft are born to their mother, but he was adopted with great difficulty from Russia. He's a charming, energetic fellow, and I followed him for about 45 minutes as he tore a path across Camp Snoopy and around the Mall of America, all the way up to the third level of Nordstrom's. I managed to convince him to board the glass elevator back down while he gazed, rapt, at the Mighty Axe ride.
After they left we had several pleasant hours. The kids came and went, riding the rides, begging for food money, etc. Then we decided on a whim to go and catch "The Fantastic Four" in the cinema. Afterwards we established ourselves in Barnes and Noble while my wife took our youngest for more rides.
About half an hour later she called my cell. Cell phones can be wonderful things. Our youngest was delayed inside the "Spongebob" ride, but we would leave when he got out of the ride.
Half an hour later she called again - how long does the "Spongebob" ride take?
Our youngest had gone missing.
We all gathered near the ride with a Mall security guard, who took a description of our boy, his braided rat-tail a good distinguishing characteristic. Then we split up and started searching.
Thirty minutes later we had circumnavigated Camp Snoopy once, inspecting all the video arcades along the way, and then my eldest son and I searched the fourth-floor video arcades where the youngest was very unlikely to have gone.
By the time the two of us had returned to the exit of the Spongebob ride, I had started to fantasize about all the brutal and painful ways that I would be killing anyone who had harmed my boy. I had settled on smuggling a hard plastic knife into the court proceedings and cutting the fellow's throat from behind when my cell phone rang.
My wife and daughter had found him, wandering around Camp Snoopy. We must have passed him three times, at least.
Dinner now completely gone awry, we purchased Subway sandwiches and headed home. It was a very long day at Camp Snoopy.
It's been a busy pair of days around here.
Yesterday was my Aunt Kathryn's 80th birthday. Aunt Kathryn is like a restored-classic version of my mother: ten years older, but not nearly as careworn. A former nun and a longtime Oncology administrator, Aunt Katy never raised kids and never smoked, so she's got a kind of polished arrogance that only comes when the line between oneself and God has gotten a little gray.
So we got to sit through an entire Catholic mass. The kids were great, nary a peep out of them, showing just how old even our youngest is getting. I didn't expect it, but Catholic Mass has changed some since I Saw The Light and was Saved by the Grace of UU Atheism. It was odd hearing the blessing for "Pope Benedict the Sixteenth" rather than "John Paul the Second." (And what exactly is the point of asking blessings on the Pope? Isn't that like praying that the Saudi's get some oil?) The weirdest change is that during the Our Father, everybody raised their arms as if holding invisible tanning reflectors.
What's up with that? Are we trying to ensure that God gets Good Reception on his Prayer Antenna? Isn't amplifying the volume of one's own prayers that way a little pushy? I mean, some poor bastard is drowning in Venezuela and calling on God to save him, and here are all these stupid Americans saying the Our Father and this guys prayers are drowned out like a walkie-talkie next to the KSTP TV antenna.
His last thought, "Typical Americans."
After the interminable church service, we headed over to Jax restaurant for dinner. We've eaten there in the past - pretty much once every ten years on Aunt Katy's birthday as a matter of fact - and it never gets any better, or any cheaper. I made the mistake of ordering the Prime Rib, which was uncharacteristic of me but I was seduced by the thought of the horseradish sauce. A staggering and expensive disappointment: the tough, grisly meat cooled rapidly in its pool of watery juices; the horseradish sauce had all the kick of an old nag sprawled in the back Forty waiting for the press of the barrel to her head; and the baked potato was served without butter. Really, I don't know what I was thinking ordering that.
The meal was enlivened, however, by my wife and my cousin's husband. Early on in the meal my Aunt Mary, Katy's sister, realized to her dismay that she was seated next to ME. Ever since we converted to Unitarianism my family has been personas-non-gratas in my aunt's family in the first place. You just don't DO that in my mother's family. Then I compounded my sin by finding my birthmother - an act which most of the family apparently interpreted as one of staggering disloyalty.
Mind you, I don't have this on any direct information - it's not like my mother's family to work in any but the most passive-aggressive manner - but their behavior has not been subtle over the years and I get the message.
So Aunt Mary very quickly swapped places with Nick, my cousin's husband. A nice enough fellow, but apparently incapable of eating without his elbow directly out from his shoulder. Meanwhile my wife had positioned herself at some odd angle, so her left knee was pressing into my right thigh just above the Painmatic Nerve so beloved of Gitmo torturers.
I sawed away at my gristly prime rib bent into a kind of Z, leaning away from Nick's elbow in my face, and scooched away from the Knee of Pain. And for this privilege, as well as the dining pleasure of my family, I paid a sum sufficient to fuel the family van for two weeks.
I was exasperated enough by the end of the meal to not care about familial approbation. I made my apologies and we departed prior to the next step in the Endless Birthday, going to my cousin's house to Open Presents. There was only so much I could take.
When we arrived home I went upstairs to change, finding my wife typing on her computer. "Going to bed?" asked, as I peeled out of my sweat-soaked church-clothes. I hadn't actually considered doing so, but once she mentioned it I realized that it wasn't a bad idea. Rolled over, and with a little difficulty managed to fall asleep, thinking maybe I'd catch up after several late nights.
Woke up at midnight... and couldn't get back to sleep. 2:30 a.m. I finally dozed off again. So much for catching up on sleep: I coulda stayed up til 11:30.
Took a free course on ITIL - an IT-management best-practices library for which I will probably sit an exam in a couple of weeks. It was way down in Edina, a local home to the nouveaux riches which legend suggests is an acronym for "Every Day I Need Attention." Once a suburb and now part of the perimeter of Minneapolis, there is no good route to and from Edina and Points Beyond on certain days and times. Minneapolis' deficient freeway system nowhere better displays its failings than on the Crosstown and I-494 during rush hours.
Today when I left the class I passed over a freeway that was a literal, not virtual, parking lot, every lane jammed with unmoving traffic, the entrance ramps backing up onto the city streets.
This reminded me of the months I spent working at the Best Buy corporate headquarters back when it was in Eden Prairie (which is even further beyond Edina). I became accustomed to driving 22 miles home every day on city streets.
Today's trip was not bad at all. I took "American Boulevard" east to Lyndale Avenue, north on Lyndale to Minnehaha Parkway, and then glided my leisurely way home on the parkway, moving at a sedate 30 MPH and watching the park, the trees, and the stream for which the parkway is named. Looping through south Minneapolis, Minnehaha Parkway is one of those public secret treasures known to those who live here. On it you can travel easily, if not quickly, from downtown Minneapolis to the airport and Mall of America, or over to the Lakes and Uptown, at a predictable 30 MPH.
No traffic with which to contend, few unexpected delays, and a pleasant, green journey from start to end. Sometimes you get behind some self-righteous or timid driver who refuses to accelerate up to the speed limit of 25 MPH, and that can be frustrating since most cars seem to have an idle speed higher than that. Sometimes you come up behind bikers who believe their Tour-de-France spandex and reflective sunglasses would clash if they got off the parkway (to which, admittedly, they are entitled as vehicles) and pedaled on the very-un-hip bike path, not two feet to their right.
But most times its a relaxing trip right through the heart of Minneapolis, a trip bypassing the frenetic, overcrowded, aggressive freeways.
Today's trip was particularly nice. On Lyndale Avenue I spotted one of those discount-baked-goods stores that have mostly migrated out of my lower-income part of the city, and grabbed some cheap products for home. Then I crossed the street and picked up a dozen ears of Minnesota sweet corn for $5. That's $20 of commerce which I would NOT have conducted had I taken the freeway system home. And I remain confident that even with my stops along the way, I reached my home sooner than I would have had I pulled into line on the 494 entrance ramp. Heck, I'd probably still be there now!
On the way home, I also spotted a computer being discarded at the streetcorner, and stopped to glance at it. I have tried to break myself of the habit of picking up roadside computer equipment, but this relic was easy to ignore: an IBM 486 PC! Probably 15 years old!
So instead of a hot, noisy, frazzled trip home, I had a relaxing, inexpensive, and entertaining trip home.
Sometimes it's nice to break with the crowd...
Today rocketed by like a rocketsled to heck. Of course, daily events were overshadowed by the terrorism in London. Stupid freakin' terrorists.
But today just got away from me. Started with lunch with Joe and Gio, then Gio and I went back to Prof. Barker's to install an air conditioner for the old man.
After that I stopped by one of my old workplaces to see if they're interested in having me rejoin them. They recently got acquired by a giant international firm which would suit some of my larger plans extremely well, so we'll see where that goes. It would be funny to be back there.
I went home and changed, and took my daughter over to the local pawnshop to look at a bicycle that I'd seen for her. I have never purchased anything from a pawnshop before, so I wasn't sure how to handle it. But I talked them down $20 bucks and got the bike for a good price (certainly not what is listed new), so I guess I did okay.
While she biked merrily home, I continued walking to the gym, and afterwards it was dinnertime. Went downstairs to finish cleaning my office... and that was today! Tomorrow I have a free class in ITIL management processes (*yawn*)... Cya!
The luck just kept on comin' today. I recently picked up a new flat-screen monitor to add to my Linux desktop. The existing single monitor just wasn't cutting it for me, in part because Linux doesn't seem to want to let me set the screen resolution down to the one-letter-per-pixel that I prefer to employ in order to maximize desktop space.
Unfortunately, my computer only has one slot for the video card, so I had to look for a more expensive "dual-head" video card, that allowed for two monitors. And of course, those are more expensive...
I checked a couple of local resources and General Nanosystems had one for $118, which compares to maybe $40 for a single-video card. So before I headed over General Nano, I decided to stop by Que Computers, which recently moved into my neighborhood from its former digs up on East Hennepin Avenue. Que is basically a junk-shop, a commercial version of my basement storage room. But if you need a cheap monitor or PC they have them, and they actually have some pretty good deals on used laptops. And scattered around they store are random cards and cables of vintages that make me nostalgic.
I didn't have a lot of hope, and when I finally located the video cards my skepticism was reinforced. A few 1996-era video cards scraped noisily against each other in a dusty cardboard box, certainly nothing that would help me. My own box of video cards at home has a better selection of fresher cards.
I searched desultorily along the shelf past cardboard boxes with "sound card", "drive controllers", etc. Finally on the end was a box labelled "AGP video", with a half-dozen cards rattling around.
One of them was a Matrox dual-head video card circa 2000.
I grabbed three of the cards out of the box (my youngest son also needs a new video card) and went up front. Only one of the cards bore a price tag, a $9.95 sticker on one of the single-head video cards. The fellow behind the counter looked them over and said, "I'll give you all three for $7.00 each."
So instead of buying a new card for $118, I bought a used card for $7.
Took it home, plugged it in, and it worked immediately, with no complications. The two monitors immediately presented a shared, spanned desktop.
Yeah!
This never happens to me. I'm under some kind of Mummy's Curse regarding electrical equipment, from toasters to mainframes. Nine times out of ten I try to do something that ought to work out of the box, and it turns into four hours of experimentation and frustrated analysis, ending in an improvised repair involving metal cutters and packaging tape.
For instance, the other day I purchased a replacement ceiling fan for the bathroom. Now, this is a no-brainer: you take out the old frame by unplugging the power and removing a single screw and swinging the unit out on a hinge. Then you reverse the process to put in the new one.
For some reason, I chose 4:00 a.m. on Friday morning to put in the fan, and of course... it didn't fit. The frame was the wrong size.
Never fear! The fans mount to their frames by a pair of hex-headed screws and nuts. I grabbed my hex screwdriver and a pair of pliers and set to work... and stripped the tip of the hex screwdriver.
But okay, I improvise with a pair of Allen wrenches. After ten minutes of swearing I finally crack the screw loose... and the motor falls apart. The screws aren't just mounting the motor to the bracket, they're holding the motor together. But, okay, I'll re-assemble the motor and mount it on the... I can't get the fan out of its original frame. But never fear, the frame is aluminum! Ten minutes of wriggling, and I've torn up the frame on this brand-new fan that doesn't fit in my vent - the point of no returns, as it were.
So I go to mount the fan on the old bracket that came with the house... and in order to mount the fan on this bracket, I have to reverse the direction of screws through the motor. And... the holes in the motor are not threaded at the end where the head was originally supposed to be. And... I can't get in under the fan to hold the nuts so that I can tighten down the screws.
About 5:30 a.m. I finished re-assembling this upside-down, disassembled and reassembled fan unit, and installed it in the bathroom ceiling. Threw the switch, and it worked perfectly. Satisfied, I went to bed.
The next day, the fan failed to work. I found poking a pencil into the fan to nudge it would start it spinning, but I am the only person in the house tall enough to accomplish this, so that's not a long-term solution.
THAT'S how these projects usually work for me, so I was flabbergasted when my $7 video card worked today. Knock wood!
Deciding to ride the wave of good fortune, I took the bathroom fan apart one last time. I disassembled the motor and rebuilt and re-mounted it. I added a pair of nuts to those provided in order to separate the task of holding the motor together from the task of holding the fan itself onto the frame.
My luck is in top form... the fan now works famously. And it probably didn't hurt that my second attempt was conducted during the day rather than at 4:00 a.m.
Meanwhile, I should consider buying a lottery ticket!
[My computers are testing my resolve to post a blog entry every day. I had significant portions of this written on my laptop when it froze solid, and upon rebooting the screen didn't seem to work. I'm hoping it's because the laptop had overheated, and will try it again in the morning.]
Yesterday started off badly when I cut my thumb on my sneaker. Yes, I cut my thumb on my sneaker. No, don't ask how. Yes, it still hurts, in fact I think it's getting infected. If I stop putting spacesbetweenmywordsyou'llknowIhadtohaveitremoved.Oh,wait,I hit the spacebar with my other thumb. Never mind.
Despite that inauspicious beginning, I found a penny on the ground as I began my day of errands. As I picked it up I heard, "Find a penny, pick it up, and all the day you'll have good luck." running through my mind. Of course, the saying is actually "Find a pin," but I figured "What the hell, I can use all the luck I can get," and dropped it in my pocket.
My first stop was the Post Office, to check my PO box. I parked in the free 15-minute-parking area underneath the main parking ramp, and walked down the length of the marble-and-brass lobby to the box section at the far end. It was here for 30 years that my father-in-law worked, and here where my meager company has it's postal address. The edge of my actual PO box is visible in the photo to left (which is why I decided to use it even though it's got the big "©" watermark).
Having come all that way to check my (empty) PO box, I decided to test my lucky penny by leaving my car in the free 15-minute lot, and walking over to the government center. An industrious police officer passing our house had on Saturday noticed as the serious safety issue that our license tabs had expired in May and not been updated. Acting quickly to protect society from dangerous scofflaws such as myself, he issued a citation for $120.00! I was heading over to the Hennepin County Government Center to show my appreciation by paying almost the same amount to buy the necessary license tabs and keep our community safe. So leaving my car in the 15-minute free parking, I made my way about six blocks across downtown.
Minnesota used to be known as a state that caught its terrorists and educated its young. Now we're known as the state that loses track of murderous sexual predators and shuts down government because Governor Tim Pawlenty owes his soul to a batch of zero-taxation idealogues called the "Taxpayer's League."
I mention this because my errand was made more pleasant by the fact that many of our now-largely-uneducated population proved incapable of distinguishing between State and County services, and believed the county government center would be closed because all State offices are closed. So the Hennepin County Government Center was only about half as busy as it would normally be if the State hadn't shut down.
I fairly quickly got a number, and paid for my license tabs. It occurred to me that if the Services department was not busy, possibly citation review was equally free. Normally appealing a citation involves a day spent saving maybe $20 in reduced fines, so I don't try it. But dashing downstairs, I obtained a number and the assurance that my case would be heard in 45 minutes.
Interpreting that to mean two hours, I started to head back to my car but was accosted by Scott, a very friendly fellow from my last job at Hell's Fargo, and we chatted briefly. I walked back to my car, still parked in the Post Office lot. No ticket awaited me, and the car itself was still there, so I attended to another errand by driving to the bank.
On the way there I was driving down University Avenue, right through the campus for which the street was named, when out of all the kazillion people who work at the U, who should I see but Alan - yet another refugee from Hell's Fargo. I rolled down my window as I passed and told him I'd just left, receiving a cheery thumbs-up. What the odds were of that encounter I couldn't begin to figure.
Stopped at the bank, stopped for a quick bite, and drove back downtown, taking the time to hunt up a meter with 30 minutes on it. Walked back to the Government Center two hours after I left, and my number was next up.
When they called me, a very pleasant fellow reviewed my situation: ticket for unrenewed tabs, $120. Tabs immediately renewed, $120.
"Why are you talking to me?" he asked.
"Total mercy-of-the-court thing," I told him. "We lost the notice in the household mess, but that's hardly an excuse seeing as for two months I parked behind the van and never noticed that the tabs had expired. I'm hoping for a penalty reduction, but whatever your decision I'll take care of it immediately."
He looked at the ticket again. "That's a pretty stiff fine," he said, "Actually it just went up on July 1st." I remained silent, hoping he'd cut the fine to whatever the pre-July-first rates were.
"Well, you got the tabs immediately... I think we'll just cancel the ticket."
I thanked him quickly but sincerely and headed out, feeling like a Big Winner. When I got back to my car the time I'd found on the meter had expired, but there was no ticket. Hooray!
Got home, told the wife. Very happy. We decided to go for a walk down by the river.
From a trail well up the embankment I noticed through the brush and down the slope what looked like a very regular array of four CDs next to an abandoned campfire near the water's edge. It was quite a way down a steep slope, so having no particular destination for our walk we decided to take the trail down to the river's edge, and double back to see what that was. We poked around a bit in the brush trying to find the spot, with no luck... but on our way back out found an unopened bottle of Michelob beer just resting in tbe brush. My wife was all for leaving it, but I'm not one to turn my back on a bottle of bad pilsner found in the mulch! We took it along.
Back atop the embankment we were able to look down and again spot the CDs, further along the riverbank than we had searched. Telling my spouse "Hold my beer," (which were I to have died in the descent would have made a fine set of Last Words), I scrambled down the embankment, returning shortly with a large, dirty CD folio full of compact discs.
Upon our return home I put the beer in the fridge and cleaned off the CDs. Here's what we got:
"Your Favorite Weapon" by Brandnew*
"Smile (featuring Lady Saw)" by Vitamin C*
"Europop" by Eiffel 65*
"The Writing's on the Wall" by Destiny's Child
"5" by Lenny Kravitz
"Merry Christmas" by Mariah Carey
*I have no idea who these artists are.
In addition to these commercial CDs, there were a dozen home-burned CDs labelled variously "Sugar Ray" (apparently the self-titled album), "Bitchin'", "Me Mix", "Another 18 Songs Mix", "Short Mix 14 Songs", "13 Songs In A Mix", "* *Mariah Carey Songs* *" (asterisks theirs), and an unlabeled CD containing "ATLiens" by OutKast, which Amazon indicates I'm going to have to remove from the family music fileserver.
But my favorite-titled home-burned CDs were "Fuzzy Navel Mix" (which I admired for its correct spelling of "navel",) the lengthy "Bee Bop Mix! Beep Boop Boop Beep Beep for Jenny", and the very mood-specific "I-Hate-You-All Cheer Up Mix!".
Including a few CDs which I discarded because they were visibly damaged, the total haul was about $100 of commercial CDs, (one of which, Lenny Kravitz, I might actually have considered purchasing) and about a dozen home burned CDs that shall be amusing to examine.
Measured up, the day was a big win. Many things balanced out: a pair of pleasant encounters with former coworkers baalnced out a thumb wounded on a sneaker. The $120 necessarily spent on license tabs was balanced out by $120 saved on an appealed citation. And of course I had a nice stroll with the wife, so I'm on top there.
Even in crass monetary terms, I did very well. I parked downtown all day without paying to park so that's about $10 saved. Down by the Mississippi I found about $100 of music, and a beer. Given a beer can run about $4 depending on where you buy it, so I'm up $114.00 on the day.
Well, actually $114.01, if you include my lucky penny.
So for the first time in years, in decades, I have no outside stress. For whatever it's worth, I actually get a chance to rest. And any further stress that I'm experiencing is entirely me.
It's taking some getting used to, I have to admit. But while it has minor unexpected downsides, it has major unexpected upsides. One of these seems to be my ability to taste things.
Since I finished my job, everything tastes fantastic. Maybe I've just been lucky and having some good meals, but I don't think so. I grilled some fish the other day, and I was almost transported by the flavor. Every bite arrested my attention. Then the other day Theresa made some strawberry lemonade - store-bought lemonade, with fresh strawberries pureed and mixed in. Definitely bound to be good... but this good? I almost couldn't think when I was drinking it, and I couldn't get enough of it.
And it's not just food. Music sounds more... musical? The air smells fresher. I'm waiting for colors to get brighter.
If this is the result of reduced work stress, I may have to retire.
Two days into July, and what's the plan?
I have no idea.
I have to admit ot a bit of confusion about what to do with myself. My goal is to work on my novel, hopefully finish it up. But I'm finding it very easy to putter away entire days accomplishing nothing.
Part of it is just that there's such a mess in my office, as well as a zillion of chores around the house. I could spent the entire month doing chores. So at some point I have to buckle down and actually write.
Not that I'm complaining! I'm taking a whole month off, so I can't complain. How many people aside from the President get to take a whole month off?
When I started the contract in April of 2004 I had to wait five weeks to get paid. That made May of 2004 a very tense month.
But on the upside, following the end of the contract 0n June 30th, I get paid for five more weeks while doing no work at all! So it's a well-deserved break, and one eagerly awaited.
But now that it's here, I'm not exactly sure what to do with it.
This is why I need to be independently wealthy. Because I just have too much to do to have the time to work. I could spend the next month working on my novel. I could spend it fixing things around the house. I could spend it cleaning the house. And I can't get any of them done if I do more than one of them.
And while I don't want to spend the whole month working, I don't want to come out of it having gotten nothing accomplished.
What it comes down to is that I'm not very good at having time off. I guess I just need more practice!
And then there's the question of "just having fun." As many people who know me have pointed out on more than one occasion, I don't know how to "just have fun." Given a month off, I contemplate different types of work I could do. Does it even occur to me to spend the time biking around the Twin Cities or playing handball or joining a theater group? Not a bit. I gotta work on this.
So we'll see what the month has to bring. My resolutions so far are to hit the gym every day (again) and to blog every day. I figure these are reasonable requirements, with the understanding that I won't be perfect at them. I did pretty well last month - missed the gym only four times, which amounts to six days a week. That's pretty good.
I don't know what effect it's having, as I've been deliberately staying away from the scale. The point, after all, is to get healthy, not to necessarily lose weight or look a particular way. However, I do have some pants I bought last winter when things were at their worst, and they've become very uncomfortable to wear - in order to sinch the belt tight enough to hold them up they bunch up uncomfortably around the waist. So maybe I'm getting a little slimmer. I didn't really think about it at the time, but this is all wonderful timing for my upcoming 25th high school reunion.
So this month it's exercise in the morning, blog in the evening, and write in between. And if I can get anything else done along the way, great.
Maybe I can even practice having some fun...
There's an old Mercer Mayer computer game (based on the book) in which Critter and his Dad go camping. At one point a bear comes along and steals their dinner of fish from the frying pan. Eating scrambled eggs later, Critter says to his father, "Sure wish we had that fish, Dad."
My youngest has adopted that as his egg-eating mantra. Anytime anything with eggs is prepared - whether it's scrambled eggs, fried eggs, or an egg-tempera portrait - the boy strives to be the first to say, "Sure wish we had that fish, Dad!"
So tonight we had fish. He didn't like it.
Which just reinforces the old belief that youth is wasted on the young, because, holy smokes, that was good fish. I stopped by Coastal Seafoods after the gym, and picked up 2 lbs of fresh swordfish. At home, I squeezed the juice of half a lemon over some grated ginger, and then added a little salt and pepper. Then I grilled the fish on the barbeque and basted it with the lemon-ginger sauce.
The trick I've learned in cooking in general, and barbeque in particular, is to cook it slowly, and don't overcook. So I roasted the fish slowly, turning it frequently, and stretching the lemon juice as far as it would go.
The result was toasted golden brown, white and juicy. Some of the best fish I've ever had.
And he didn't like it.
More for me!!
I ran into our friend D in the fish store, and invited her to join us for dinner and the drive-in. She accepted initially, but needed a nap and skipped dinner.
More for me!!
So we're headed off tonight to our old favorite, the Cottage View Drive In. Double-feature, 'Batman Begins' and 'The War of the Worlds,' both of which I've already seen but I'm willing to see them again. Reviews to follow!
Anyway, I gotta get the folding chairs and lemonade ready for the drive in...