underdogishere

Have I been living under a rock?

2011-11-09T08:34:00.002-05:00

The combination of MongoDB and jQuery is the coolest thing I've worked with in a long, long time.

5:55

2011-07-21T19:28:00.002-05:00

...were the numbers I saw when I looked at my clock this morning, as the twin sonic booms reached my ears and rattled my sliding glass doors...

...for the last time. Ever.

Unusual question

2011-02-06T07:42:00.004-05:00

Jana Remy, on her blog, posed this question:

what is the plural form of 'apocalypse'?

...to which I would answer:

Why would you ever need to know?

I mean, how many of them can we have?

Retrospect

2011-01-01T10:58:00.002-05:00

...because that's what we do at the end of a year, isn't it? Retrospect? Because we in "the West" have arbitrarily chosen this point in the Earth's orbit to look back on what has happened since Earth was last at this point in its orbit.

For me, there were two events in this past orbit that easily stand out above all others: The first was the death of Barkley. The second was the death of Andrea.

I never knew, until this past year, how much loneliness could ache.

Yesterday, on the final day of the past year, we were out in my car and we were behind a car that had a bumper sticker that said "Dog Only Nose." In case you're not a dog person, this is a common conceit among dog people, to play on the fact that "dog" is "god" spelled backwards, as in, for example, "dogspeed."

When I saw "Dog Only Nose," I thought it was pretty clever. But as the day wore on, and I couldn't get thoughts of Barkley and Andrea out of my head, I realized that it was in fact profound.

Happy New Orbit, everyone.

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Merry Christmas, Finale

2010-12-25T02:00:00.000-05:00

Rubber duck Nativity:

Merry Christmas, Part III

2010-12-24T13:29:00.003-05:00

My Christmas tree at work this year (those are Swarovski ornaments):

Keeping the "Christian" in Christmas

2010-12-22T03:00:00.001-05:00

We were in a restaurant, and at a nearby table the waiter was wrapping up serving a party. Overheard:

Waiter: Happy Holidays!

Patron: Where I come from, we say "Merry Christmas."

Waiter: We're supposed to say "Happy Holidays," so we include people who don't celebrate Christmas.

Patron: First we were entertained by your stupidity, and now we're being entertained by your bulls**t.

Except this obviously pious Christian didn't censor himself with asterisks.

Merry Christmas, Part II

2010-12-20T03:00:00.000-05:00

Judi's Christmas tree!

Merry Christmas!

2010-12-18T07:31:00.003-05:00

This was produced by a company in England, Alphabet Photography, as a Christmas gift for their customers, and was originally sent to about 5,000 people. Since it has now, already, had tens of millions of views, you've probably already seen it, but in case you haven't, grab a tissue, and Merry Christmas:

I think the expression on the face of the guy at 3:24, by itself, made the whole thing worthwhile.

Recently overheard....

2010-12-17T07:58:00.002-05:00

A young man speaking:

My grandma is kinda mostly sane. Sometimes.

The color commentator on a broadcast team covering a college football game:

The kid's got a good imagination. When he graduates, he wants to be a fictional writer.

I guess if you go around telling people you're a writer, but you don't write a word, then that would make you a "fictional writer." No?

Finally, a woman speaking with a young man who appears to be in a relationship with her son:

Woman: Does your mother smoke?
Young Man: No, she never has.
W: Does she drink?
YM: No, she never drank. But once when I was little I ate some of her brownies and... they weren't right.

Reality Deficits

2010-12-08T11:00:00.000-05:00

A couple of months ago, on Morning Edition, there was a professor who specialized in Pakistani history talking about why so many Pakistanis have such crazy ideas about the United States (for example, that the U.S. funds the Taliban). She said it was due to a "reality deficit."

Reality deficit! The term struck me immediately. The more I thought about it, the more it made sense. Now, I don't want to imply that every boneheaded belief is due to ignorance. For example, I suspect that most Young Earthers are well aware of the preponderance of evidence regarding the true age of the Earth. They aren't boneheaded because of a deficit of reality. They're just boneheaded because they choose to be.

On the other hand, I think there's a constant stream of evidence that the boneheaded ideas of many so-called Tea Party members and many religious conservatives can be chalked up to reality deficits. Some good examples are the many so-called Tea Partiers that I've heard claiming that Obama should be impeached for violating the Constitution, or that the Constitution states that Christianity is the official religion of the U.S., but who, when questioned, admit that they have never actually read the Constitution. This ignorance creates a knowledge vacuum -- aka a reality deficit -- that can be filled in or made up by any talking head or radio jockey saying pretty much whatever he wants. You see, the real value of the idea of reality deficits, as expressed by that Pakistani professor, isn't just that people are ignorant. No, the real insight goes a step further: It's how this missing reality leaves a gap into which obviously wrong ideas can be easily poured.

So much attention these days is being directed at budget deficits. In my humble opinion, those aren't the deficits that should really be scaring us.

Toys For Tots

2010-12-03T10:38:00.003-05:00

Last weekend, we made our annual Toys For Tots drop off at the Crowne Plaza Hotel on the beach:

Judi's mother joined us this year for the first time. The box was empty when we started, and Judi packed it... well, the way Judi packs things.

Happy Christmas Season!

Thanksgiving Day Treat: A Pink Butterfly Cake!

2010-11-24T09:05:00.005-05:00

A coworker baked this gorgeous cake, which I photographed using my phone just before she sliced into it:

It was more beautiful than the picture conveys. The flowers and butterflies were edible -- the tips of the butterflies' antennae where even dipped in edible glitter! The lady who made it is a test engineer; she told me this is only the second cake she's ever baked. She made the cake from scratch (no mix), and made the butterflies and flowers herself.

It was delicious.

::smile::

2010-11-24T08:53:00.003-05:00

From time to time I'm in a store and see a sign that says "Unattended children will be sold as slaves." Besides being conventional and banal, I imagine there are some times when this sign might actually encourage parents to leave their children unattended.

Last weekend I was in a shop in Cocoa Village and saw this sign, which made me smile:

And there was nary an unattended child in sight.

This is the Way We Cook!

2010-11-12T06:00:00.001-05:00

Asina Nos ta Cushina

compiled by Jewell Fenzi

One of the greatest pleasures of traveling is enjoying the local cuisines. Cooking seems like such a straightforward human activity, yet each culture and even sub-culture has found food to prepare and a way to prepare and even eat it which is completely original and unique and just as amazing and enjoyable as every other culture's and even sub-culture's cuisine.

Isn't that amazing?

I mean the multiplicity of wonderful cuisines, not the really long sentence.

So isn't that at least part of why you travel? I mean, there are some people who go to Italy and eat at McDonalds, but don't you eat Italian? And there are some people who go to France and eat at Taco Bell, but don't you wallow in French? And there are some who go to Japan and camp out every mealtime at Kentucky Fried Chicken, but don't you seek out authentic Japanese?

I know you do.

So why is it, I ask you, that people regularly travel to the islands of the Caribbean, and proceed to dine in restaurants that feature... Italian, French, and Japanese cuisines? (Not to mention McDonalds, Taco Bell, and Kentucky Fried Chicken.) But they do. In droves. And it's not to say that the Italian, French, and Japanese restaurants in the Caribbean aren't great -- they are (I guess). But, you know, you can eat great Italian, French, and Japanese cuisine back where you live, in the great United States of America. So why wouldn't you indulge in an exquisite cuisine that you probably can't get back home, that's right at your fingertips: Caribbean cuisine!

But it seems hardly anyone does. To be fair, part of the problem seems to be in the marketing: Local Caribbean cuisines are swept under the rugs, like an embarrassing mother-in-law who drinks and wears housecoats all day, while top-notch Italian, French, and Japanese chefs are drawn to the Caribbean by the big tourist bucks. But, to be even fairer than fair, the fact is that native Caribbean cuisine is the equal of any in the world. It just gets shorted in the islands.

Why make a Federal case about all this? Well, we just got back from a visit to the Dutch West Indies, where as usual we ate some awesome West Indian meals, but, more important, we brought back a cookbook! A cookbook with an exclamation mark in the title! This is the Way We Cook! Subtitled, in Papiamentu, Asina Nos ta Cushina, which means "this is the way we cook." It's packed with recipes from the native cooks of Aruba, Bonaire, Curacao, Saba, Sint Eustatius, and Sint Maarten, as well as illustrations sketched by Helen Dovale.

And here's how this can be great for you, too: This is the Way We Cook! is available here from Amazon! You'll notice that there are a bunch of used copies available for next-to-nothing, and new copes available for prices in the $18 range. You should have this wonderful cookbook addressing this wonderful cuisine, and if the less expensive used copies are all you can afford, then that's what you need to buy. But be aware that the writer makes no money on these sales, so if you can afford it, buying a higher-priced new copy will put a couple bucks in the writer's pocket, and I'm sure would be much appreciated.

To whet your appetite, here are a few recipes that I've reproduced from This is the Way We Cook! Try them, and become convinced that you need this cookbook:

Bon probecho!

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Coming home

2010-10-04T19:33:00.004-05:00

Andie has been gone
four weeks; heartbreak still opens
a lonely home's door.

Watch for her...

2010-10-03T06:35:00.002-05:00

Judi, as we were leaving a bar-b-que restaurant last week: "I'm leaving with wings on my fingers and ribs on my toes."

It's Banned Books Week again

2010-09-25T07:17:00.005-05:00

Banned Books Week began this weekend! Now this is my idea of a holiday.

Librarians, of course, stand at the forefront of those who battle censorship, and the American Library Association, one of the sponsors of Banned Books Week, keeps a top ten list, and you can see 2009's here. A great deal has been made this year of the fiftieth anniversary of the publication of To Kill a Mockingbird, which is a perennial among banned books, and it's still up there and going strong. And other books that appear year after year are still secure in their places: And Tango Makes Three, Catcher in the Rye, and The Color Purple. The Harry Potter series has dropped off, replaced, perhaps, by the Twilight series. And I'm sure the ghost of Mark Twain is disappointed to find that Huckleberry Finn didn't make the cut this year.

All of which leads me to wonder why certain books make the coveted top ten, while others do not. For example, why not Their Eyes Were Watching God? All The Kings Men? (All The Kings Men, by the way, was required reading when I was a sophomore in high school. When the teacher assigned it, he remarked that it was "intense," but he "hoped" it wouldn't be "too much" for us.)

Anyway, back to which books make the list: Clearly, books are more frequently targets of censorship when they are more frequently read. Hence To Kill a Mockingbird, Catcher in the Rye, and the replacement of Potter with Twilight. But some of the others... why them and not others? And Tango Makes Three? Lauren Myracle's Internet Girl series?

I've been analyzing the lists from recent years, and I'm pretty sure that if you can't write a blockbuster like Catcher in the Rye, but you still want to make the most-censored top ten, you should chose one of these two meal tickets: (1) Write about homosexuality, or (2) write realistically about young adults, especially girls, maturing (while Judy Blume never made the top ten list with a single book, five of her books made the list of top one-hundred challenged books of the decade of the 1990's, which makes her a rock star among the censored). If you want to really stack your deck, you should write realistically about about young lesbian girls maturing. If the young adult lesbians are realistically witches or vampires, I don't think that would hurt.

Barring that, writing a story that portrays Christianity in a bad light is as good fallback.

Happy Banned Books Week everyone! Read a book!

Um, no

2010-08-19T05:00:00.000-05:00

From time to time I teach classes where I work. In one particular class, all but one of the students arrived early. While we were waiting for the final student, the ones who were there were talking among themselves. The following snippet occurred between a young, blonde-haired, blue-eyed woman, who I will call Sue (not her real name), and a young man from India working for us on a Green Card, whom I will call Umang (not his real name). You should know that my employer bunches our holidays together so we get a week and a half or two weeks off over the Christmas and New Year holiday -- that's our "Christmas Break":

Sue: Are you going back to India during Christmas Break, Umang?

Umang: No.

Sue: You did last year, didn't you?

Umang: Yes, but it's too expensive for me to go every year. I go every other year.

Sue: Do you even celebrate Christmas?

Umang: No, I am a Hindi.

Sue: Does that mean you worship the Devil?

Me: ::head bang on podium::

Mid-life Crisis

2010-08-15T18:40:00.001-05:00

Special note: The following post was actually written two years ago, almost to the day. I thought I had posted it then -- I don't know why I didn't --but I came across it today in a folder of unposted posts, which I guess are "unposts". Two years have past, and some things have changed, but I still think it's worth posting. Here it is:

One night recently Judi and I were sitting in her Florida room while it rained outside. "Look at the paver-stone walk," she said, referring to the walkway that runs in front of the butterfly gardens. "Does it remind you of somewhere we've been?"

The walkway was puddled, and raindrops were splashing down hard. The accent lights in the butterfly garden were shining in the wet.

Somewhere we've been? We've been to so many places. The someplaces began to flood into my mind:

San Diego, St. Lucia, Lisbon, Atlantic City, Cedar Rapids, Key West, Los Angeles, Curacao, Dallas, Seaside Heights, Chicago, Barbados, Pensacola...

...Palm Springs, Freeport, Barcelona, Binghamton, Bonaire, Miami Beach, Yosemite, St. Kitts and Nevis, Rome, Boston, Tortola, Madison, Daytona Beach...

...San Francisco, St. Maarten, Naples (Italy, not Florida), New York City, San Antonio, Puerto Rico, Santa Cruz, Cannes, St. Thomas, St. Paul, St. Petersburg (Florida, not Russia)...

...Aruba, Napa, St. Barths, Savannah, Provincetown, Las Vegas, St. John, York (Maine), Jacksonville, Nassau, Biloxi, Reno, Sanibel, Venice...

...and how many others? But I watched the lights in the raindrop-shattered puddles, and the memory she was talking about literally bubbled up in my mind. It was a memory from almost twenty years ago:

"New Orleans," I said, and Judi smiled brightly in the dark.

"We were in Jackson Square," I continued. "It began to rain, and we ducked under cover. The rain cleaned off the pavement, and the lights were reflected in the water on the pavement just like that."

The last few years, I've been going through a mid-life crisis. Nothing extraordinary, nothing worth blogging about, just the usual run-of-the-mill mid-life crisis that most men go through around my age. You know: Why haven't I accomplished more with my life? What do I have to show? I had expected so much more of myself, and now I will never achieve it: I'm on the downhill run towards death. Why did I squander my youth?

You know, that kind of ho-hum mid-life crisis.

But recently I've been coming to terms with it (as most men my age do). It started with the realization that if I were to be diagnosed with a fatal disease tomorrow, I would have to admit to myself that already, in my life, I have been to many extraordinary places. Already, in my life, I have seen many extraordinary things, eaten many extraordinary meals, experienced many extraordinary adventures (did I ever tell you about the time...?). Already, I have met many extraordinary people...

...not to mention having had the most extraordinary of them all by my side the entire time.

Already, I have made many extraordinary memories.

My journey to acceptance of mortality isn't complete, but in moments like that one, that night, watching the sharply plunking raindrops send out circles of rapidly expanding light and reliving the warm, hearty memories of that New Orleans night so many years ago, I realize what it is I have, and how much more satisfying that is than dwelling on what I have not.

I haven't lived the life I had thought I would lead. But I could have done worse. I could have done a lot worse.

Is it all good?

2010-08-12T12:33:00.004-05:00

A while back (okay, five years ago -- how times flies) I posted about the magical effect of the phrase "bless his heart." Last week a coworker informed us that she nags her father, but, she added, "it's all good."

"It's all good." Such a breezy statement. Just as it seems you can say anything bad about anyone if you include "bless his heart", you can also confess to any crime and be forgiven as long as you wrap it up with, "it's all good." The Urban Dictionary has this entry for "It's all good":

Platitude that covers so many emotions and situations that it says little; its only real meaning is that the speaker is trying to rise above whatever problem exists, without expressing their underlying negative emotions.

Ouch. C'mon, Urban Dictionary, don't hold back.

Anyway, as with "bless his heart," let's see how far we can push this. Let's start with the original inspiration for this post:

I nag my Dad, but it's all good.

Okay, she seems to be saying, "it's not like it sounds." She might even be implying (or intending to imply) that her Dad doesn't mind being nagged.

Let's kick it up a notch:

I wrecked my Dad's new car, but it's all good.

Okay, we can buy this, too. Maybe Dad is simply grateful that his child wasn't hurt. And who knows? Maybe he was already regretting buying that particular model, and he's relieved that fate took it off his hands.

I got mad at Dad and threw a glass and cut him over the eye, but it's all good.

You know, this example begins to show the real power of "it's all good", because it works. "It's all good" is so obdurately positive that it convinces you that, somehow, something positive came out of this incident. It somehow ended well. The world is a better place for this assault and battery.

One final try:

I framed Dad for that armed bank heist that I pulled, and now he's doing twenty-five in the state pen, but it's all good.

Doesn't this leave you with a sunny, happy little feeling? It is all good. And, somehow, we are deflected from the question of, for whom?

Happy Birthday, Judi!

2010-08-09T09:57:00.004-05:00

Yesterday was Judi's Happy Birthday. She took the opportunity to visit the butterfly exhibit at our local zoo. It was her final opportunity, because, coincidentally, the limited-run butterfly exhibit ended on her birthday. The exhibit was nothing special -- Judi's own gardens and Butterfly House are more impressive, her gardens aren't on a limited run, and she's a much better guide than the largely uninformed volunteers at the zoo -- but afterwards she went into the bird house and fed the lorikeets.

"Feeding the lorikeets" means buying a tiny cup of some sort of nectar at a booth which is outside the bird house. You realize why the booth is outside the bird house as soon as you re-enter the bird house with the tiny cup of nectar in your hand. You are expecting to freely move to the center of the bird house and hold up your tiny cup of nectar, inviting the birds to sip. What really happens is the birds (who are not stupid) dive-bomb you the instant you come through the door from the nectar booth:

But Judi surprised me and got into it:

Rock on, Judi! Although I wish you many more Happy Birthdays to come, I hope you continue to refuse to grow up.

A "Cool" Idea

2010-07-29T11:12:00.002-05:00

I thought this was pretty clever:

It's a pitcher with a column in the middle that you can fill with ice, to keep the juice cool.

Haiku Tuesday

2010-07-27T20:23:00.000-05:00

Feeling peace, stillness,
quiet heart, one should not have
to get out of bed

I'm so Victoria Holt

2010-07-25T19:18:00.009-05:00

I was standing in the back aisle of a supermarket, waiting for an employee to check on something. I was trying hard to overhear a young man -- a scruff of hair on his chin, wearing black jeans and a black t-shirt showing upper arm tattoos -- was monologing while two two women -- one apparently with him and one an employee, hopefully not on duty -- listened. This was the line that first caught my attention:

"I was so Dostoevsky, and she was so J. K. Rowling."

People really talk this way? To other people? In public? Really?

Unfortunately I couldn't hear everything, so I couldn't get the drift of the conversation... er, monologue. But I heard this:

"I so did not want to move in with my mom and dad. I would have done anything to get out of it. I would have sold an intestine."

Dude, I would suggest that you sell a kidney first. You need your intestine.

I'm on Facebook. Really.

2010-07-18T07:19:00.000-05:00

Disclaimer: Believe it or not, I composed this post before my brother's post, below, appeared. And he and I have never discussed Facebook (in fact, we haven't discussed anything at all recently). It's a total and complete coincidence that we both wrote posts about new networking technology at the same time. His post is great. Here's mine:

Recently I read a post on another blog that claimed that individual blogging is dead. According to that poster, the only two types of blogs that remain relevant in today's blogosphere are (1) the few super-blogs that have such huge followings that the bloggers support themselves financially (think Cake Wrecks, Go Fug Yourself, Bike Snob NYC, etc.), and (2) "group blogs" that can keep up a steady stream of posts that are both interesting and daily because they're the product of a pool of contributors. Individual and occasional bloggers like me are, in effect, a stagnant backwater that the Internet has passed by. At best. At worst, we are pathetic losers. According to this poster, what's happened is that individual blogging has been replaced by Facebook and Twitter.

Really?

My experience with Facebook began when two bloggers that I used to follow told me that they were giving up blogging so they could devote themselves to Facebook. I signed up on Facebook so I could continue to follow them. And since I was there, I also befriended a small number of other people.

So... is Facebook replacing blogging? To begin with, Facebook replacing blogging is like bricks replacing apples. Neither my two ex-bloggers nor anyone else I've seen on Facebook is publishing thoughtful paragraphs, or even multiple-sentence accounts of their lives and adventures, the way they used to do when they were blogging. They're just tossing out occasional one-sentence updates using the "News" feature, and maybe slapping up a picture or two. Facebook isn't blogging. Facebook is, well, a way for people to keep casually in touch with each other. Which is perfectly fine. But it's not blogging.

So this week I started poking around on Facebook to see how it could be used for real blogging, if one wanted to. And it seems that the "Notes" feature is what Facebook wants you to use for blogging. Although I haven't seen anyone who is.

If Facebook is truly the death of blogging, it's not because it's the equivalent of blogging. It's because bloggers got tired. Is that because not enough readers wanted to hear what they said? I dunno. This blog has a grand total of three readers. Is it worth my time to post my ::ruminations:: for three readers? Probably not. But, on the on the other hand, is it worth more to me than, say, letting Facebook followers know that I ate a Reuben for lunch today? I think so.

During my exploration of Facebook, I did notice that it allows you to mirror your external blog in your "Notes". So I signed up for that, which means this blog, including this very post, should also be in my Notes in my Facebook account. There's something deliciously self-referencing in all that. Not that I expect anyone to read it there, either.

One thing that's amazed me about Facebook is how thorough it's been at recommending people that I went to school with or used to know for befriending. But I haven't tried to get in touch with any of them, because I have this very-un-2010-like aversion to intruding in someone's life without an invitation. However, if you are on Facebook and would like to hook up with me -- because I am interested, believe it or not, in superficially socializing with you -- try this:

Gregory Smith

Now I Get It

2010-07-16T11:29:00.001-05:00

Northern Bro:

The web is full of old fogey stories and here is mine.

I admit that I just don’t get Facebook or Youtube. Youtube is something that confuses the heck out of me. There are a few interesting things on it, and my Florida niece has steered me to some very funny clips that I enjoyed immensely. But when I go on myself I have never been able to navigate through the thing. Admittedly I haven’t spent a lot of time trying to figure it out, and there is a chance that with the investment of 15 minutes or so it’ll be clear as day. As it is, I point and click at random (since that is as good a method as any when you are hopelessly lost) and most often don’t end up with anything interesting. Not once have I come across something that is supposed to be ‘viral’ on Youtube, which makes me feel like an idiot.

Now you have to remember that during my formative years the big technological innovation in the area of communications was the touch button phone. No more waiting for the dial to rotate back to position after each number! Talk about convenience… And the big technological innovation in the area of electronic entertainment was color TV. My wife, who is a few years younger than I, lists VCRs as the technological innovation of her youth. Alas, I was already in college when those contraptions came out (and by the way, my first collect dorm room had ….. a rotary phone. I hear they come with internet access now).

Facebook I kind of understand, but not entirely. The entire phenomenon reminds me of the most excellent Thanksgiving eve contradance that Steve Zakon-Anderson hosts in Peterborough NH every year. When asked why he hosts this event on Thanksgiving eve he says (tongue in cheek) that it is for all the people who have come home for Thanksgiving and once they get home they start talking with the relatives and suddenly remember why they left. His dance gives them an excuse to get out of the house for a few hours. Facebook kind of reminds me of that. Through Facebook I have reconnected with many people whom I have drifted away from over the years. Through Facebook I am now reminded of why we drifted away from each other in the first place. I guess that serves a purpose.

Then this summer it all made sense. I was trying to sing the old Bing Crosby number ‘Swing from a Star’ for our 4 year old. And, lo and behold, I went to Youtube and found a clip of Bing himself singing it in ‘Going My Way’. What a treasure! Because of Youtube our daughter has watched not only Bing, but also Gene Kelly singin’in the rain, Donald O’Connor doing ‘Make ‘em Laugh’ and Fred Astaire in top hat and tails tapping and singing ‘Putting on the Ritz’. She enjoys them all and after many viewings has just about memorized ‘Make ‘em Laugh’. I couldn’t be prouder.

Now I get it.

Haiku Tuesday

2010-07-13T13:02:00.004-05:00

I desperately
want to build a bridge, but can
see no way forward.

Can I call in a pizza?

2010-07-12T12:18:00.003-05:00

A local retirement home has been running a radio ad in which they tout, among their many other amenities, "chef inspired menus."

I can't tell you how much this underwhelms me.

To begin with, it implies that the place doesn't have a chef of its own -- if so, they would be "chef prepared menus." So what do they have, a cook? But you know, anyplace that has a cook will call the cook a "chef" (except a barbeque place), because after all what is a chef? The word isn't like, say, ketchup, whose definition is regulated by the Federal government. So a chef is whatever we say it is, and if this place doesn't even have a cook to call a chef, then what do they have? My suspicion is that early every morning they go down to one of the local day laborer places and pick up the least-scruffy looking specimen they can find. They stick an apron over his head and a spatula in his hand and, voila!, you have a, well... not a chef.

Which brings us to those menus. Notice that the recipes aren't the creations of real chefs. No, they are merely inspired by chefs. At first I found this surprising, because if they wanted real chefs' recipes, then for a few bucks at the local Goodwill store (not far, perhaps, from one of those day laborer outfits), they could pick up any number of cookbooks written by real chefs -- the likes of Paul Prudhomme and Graham Kerr (I still remember watching the Galloping Gourmet when I was a kid). But I guess it's too much to expect a hash-slinger you picked up at Laborers R'Us to prepare a recipe created by, say, Michael Ruhlman. So they are reduced, in the end, to chef inspired menus.

How does that work, do you think. Do they tack up a picture of, say, Julia Child, and tell Mr. Spatula-of-the-Day, "Look real hard at that picture -- oh, go ahead and squint if you must -- and then prepare the meal that comes to your mind"?

In that case, see the title of this post.

Surprisingly "Big Thinks" from H. G. Wells

2010-07-08T08:00:00.002-05:00

I've finished The Island of Dr. Moreau, by H. G. Wells. I enjoyed it very much, but one thing in particular really jumped out at me. This book was written in 1896, yet Wells's description of what is unmistakably PTSD (or "shellshock," as it used to be more vividly called) is truly remarkable. I'll try to illustrate without giving away any more of the story that Wells himself gives away in the Introduction, but this is how the narrator introduces his condition:

They say that terror is a disease, and anyhow I can witness that for several years now a restless fear has dwelt in my mind

Then he talks about how he knows he's crazy, but can't help it:

I could not persuade myself that the men and women I met were not also another [redacted] and that would presently begin to revert

Even more remarkably, he finds professional help:

But I have confided my case to a strangely able man {snip}; a mental specialist, -- and he has helped me mightily, though I do not expect that the terror of that island will ever altogether leave me.

And it never does. Does the following sound like a panic attack to you, too:

At most times it [the terror] lies far in the back of my mind, a mere distant cloud, a memory, and a faint distrust; but there are times when the little cloud spreads until it obscures the whole sky. Then I look about me at my fellow-men; and I go in fear. {snip} I shrink from them....

When I lived in London the horror was well-nigh insupportable. {snip} ...prowling women would mew after me; furtive, craving men glance jealously at me.... {snip} Then I would turn aside into some chapel, -- and even there, such was my disturbance, it seemed that the preacher gibbered "Big Thinks".... {snip} Particularly nauseous were the bland, expressionless faces of people in trains and omnibuses; they seemed no more my fellow-creatures than dead bodies would be, so that I did not dare to travel....

Wow. Creepy. And consider that Wells, although raised in poverty, never served in a traumatic situation; he was, in fact, a socialist and a pacifist, so he would have had no personal experience with shellshock.

I just have one final, secret aside, for Prendick's ears only. If you aren't Prendick, don't listen:

The preachers? That's really not in your head. They really are gibbering "Big Thinks."

Happy Birthday, Satch

2010-07-07T08:00:00.002-05:00

Leroy Satchel Paige famously claimed that no one knew when he had been born, and that even led him to coin one of my favorite sayings: "How old would you be if you didn't know when you were born?" However, like so many of Satchel's autobiographical claims, it was hooey. The man who might have been baseball's greatest pitcher was born on this day, July 7th, in 1906.

So, how old would you be if you didn't know when you were born?

Haiku Tuesday

2010-07-06T04:28:00.007-05:00

at my side He lay,
as His great heart slowed, slept, and
then stilled forever

All pieces of the same puzzle

2010-07-05T08:20:00.000-05:00

Recently, Judi and I had a friendly debate over the meaning of the word whore. No, it's not what you think: The word came up in a magazine article about a television character, and the discussion centered around whether remuneration has to be required, or whether simple licentiousness is enough. When I got home I decided to look it up in the dictionary, and that's when I found this fascinating etymology in the American Heritage Dictionary:

Whore has been traced all the way back to the original Indo-European root, karo, meaning "to like" or "desire." From this, the early Germanic languages derived a word, horaz (how the "ka" sound became the "ho" sound is something I'm sure etymologists understand), meaning "one who desires," with a specific sense of "adulterer." From this, in turn, we derived our Modern English word.

But wait! There's more: The same Indo-European root, karo, passed into the Latin branch of languages as carus, meaning "dear." From this we have borrowed ("borrowed" is the verb etymologists use for "loan words," as if we have to return them someday, perhaps with interest)... but, as I started to say, we have borrowed into Modern English care, cherish, caress, and, the ultimate in selfless love, charity. So the words whore and cherish come from the same root.

But wait! There's more: The same Indo-European root passed into the Sanskrit branch of languages as kama, meaning "love," with a particular sense of the physical expressions of love -- not just sex, but also kissing, caressing, and hugging -- and we are familiar with this word in Modern English due to its presence in the title of a famous, ancient work, the Kama Sutra.

At first, what fascinated me was simply the many words with different, seemingly conflicting meanings that have derived from this simple root. But then, the more I thought about it, the more the words fit together. Because, when you love someone, one of the feelings you have towards that person is ravenous lust... in the sense of whore? You also cherish that person above all else, and care about him or her even above your own welfare. And again, although you lust for physical love, you also find fulfillment in kissing, hugging, caressing, and loving sex.

So it seems, to me anyway, that this word karo, from our ancient mother-tongue, has traveled through time and through different daughter-languages to converge in our language today as a set of words that, collectively, describe some of the many facets of that complex feeling we call love. How fitting is that?

Independence Day

2010-07-04T08:03:00.002-05:00

My sincere thanks to Jen over at EPBOT for calling my attention to this terrific video^*:

Jen was much taken with Thomas Jefferson (who was, you will remember, a skilled violinist), but Ben Franklin is my favorite. History buffs may quibble about the details in this video, but if want to quibble, quibble with someone else. I love it!

^* In case you're coming across this after the post has scrolled off EPBOT, this is the link to the specific post.

::puzzled::

2010-07-03T15:20:00.003-05:00

In my previous post, about Kindle for Android, I mentioned that it doesn't have search, or dictionary look-up. Okay, I thought, it's running on a phone. But I also have an app called Aldiko on my Nexxus, which is an absolutely free e-book reader that you can mostly use to read public domain books (I'm reading The Island of Dr. Moreau at the moment), and I just discovered that this free e-book reader supports both searching the content of a book, and dictionary look-up. Kindle for Android isn't exactly free -- I had to buy my original Kindle, and of course I had to buy the books -- so am I expecting too much if I think it should support the same feature set as a free competing product (and the original Kindle)?

If you have a Kindle, and an Android phone, I still think getting Kindle for Android is a no-brainer. It's a great product. But, hey, Amazon, catch up with the competition, okay?

::hopping excitedly::

2010-07-01T14:06:00.003-05:00

Kindle for Android was released a couple of days ago! I'd been waiting for it, and there was a touch of cosmic irony in that I found out about the release while reading tech news headlines... on my Nexxus. Of course I instantly touched over to Android Market and installed it.

It's awesome!

It brings most of the features of the Kindle to the Android platform, though search, and definition lookup, seem to be missing; and from what I've read you can't create notes. But (unlike most Android apps I've tried) it's intuitive and stable. What really impressed me was when I opened a book that I'm in the process of reading on my real Kindle...

...it opened to the page where I had left off on the Kindle! So I can bop back and forth, reading the same book on the Kindle and Nexxus, and it keeps my place.

That's a nice touch.

If you have a Kindle, and you have an Android-running phome, get this app!

No, I haven't died; I've just been very busy

2010-06-30T07:05:00.004-05:00

Now that the U.S. has been eliminated from the World Cup, I can post about this without fear of jinxing us.

I've been awed by how much the World Cup has captured the imaginations of people in the United States -- or at least people around me. I've seen die-hard baseball, football, and basketball fans, who swear that soccer is for sissies, watching World Cup games that the U.S. isn't even playing in. People who aren't even interested in sports under normal conditions have been heard discussing what win, loss, or tie will get the U.S. out of the Group Round; or indignant over that blown call in the England game.

Anyway, this is the World Cup story that I have to tell:

It was the morning of the U.S.-Algeria game. You may recall that this was a must-win for the U.S. Either a loss or a tie would have eliminated us. I happened to be in my car and was able to listen to the first fifteen minutes on the radio. Then I was back at work. I called up a site that was live blogging the game, but of course I had to work, so I only checked it from time to time. The score stayed tied. I checked at the eighty-sixth minute -- only four to go -- and the score was still tied. Discouraged, I went back to work.

My cube farm has a conference room on one side, and the cafeteria is on the other side of the conference room. I was deep into coding and had actually forgotten about the game a few minutes later when I suddenly heard the sound of a crowd cheering in the cafeteria. Cheering? My coworkers aren't the type who cheer spontaneously at odd times. And then it occurred to me: Maybe the game was on the televisions in there. I quickly brought up the live blog and hit refresh. Yes! U.S. goal!

But what really got me excited wasn't the U.S. victory. It was the realization that a crowd of my coworkers had been standing in the cafeteria, anxiously watching those final, nail-biting minutes.

Welcome, America, to the World Cup.

I took a picture of this...

2010-04-24T16:44:00.002-05:00

...because otherwise you might not believe it. This is in the Macy's at the Plaza Las Americas mall in San Juan, Puerto Rico:

It's a vending machine for iPods and iPod accessories.

I'm in Puerto Rico...

2010-04-20T10:26:00.003-05:00

...and this is the view from my balcony:

I wonder if it ever crosses Nero Wolfe's mind...

2010-04-12T14:54:00.003-05:00

...that neologism was once a new word.

Our company has each other!

2010-04-10T06:14:00.004-05:00

If you look up solecism in the dictionary, I'm pretty sure you'll find a picture of this poster:

...which is hung on the side of a cube where I work.

Spring

2010-04-02T04:26:00.006-05:00

The weather has been gorgeous here; so gorgeous that Judi has been leaving the sliding glass door open, so the dogs can go out and in freely.

The day before yesterday Judi was sitting at a table when she heard her little beagle Stormi come inside. She sensed Sunni sit down on the floor beside her, though she didn't really look. Then she felt a tiny cold nose touch her calf. Looking down, Stormi was looking up. Then Stormi bent her head and nudged the cap of an acorn that she had brought in and dropped on the floor. Then she looked back up at Judi. The acorn cap was her gift to her Mommy.

Stormi in Mommy's Chair

Of course, there won't even be newspapers in 2063....

2010-03-22T05:09:00.003-05:00

I just discovered this quote from Vladimir Nabokov:

With the Devil's connivance I open a newspaper of 2063 and in some article on the books page I find: "Nobody reads Nabokov and Fulmerford today." Awful question: Who is this unfortunate Fulmerford?

Who, indeed? I want to know.

The Local Botanical Garden

2010-03-07T08:13:00.003-05:00

Yesterday I was at the local university, Florida Institute of Technology, for the annual Botanical Fest. It was for the butterflies -- you can read all about that here. But I also had an opportunity to wander around the campus, where I attended college more than thirty years ago, with my camera.

The university has a botanical garden that's more extensive than you would think for such a small institution in such a populated setting. Here are a few pictures. As usual, you can click on a picture for a larger version:

I think it's impossible for capture the intricate tapestry of overlapping palmetto fronds with a camera, but I keep trying (and getting frustrated):

This winter has been extraordinarily cold, leaving us with more "turned" leaves and bare trees than usual:

A match made in Heaven:

May You Have Interesting Ancestors!

2010-02-26T07:41:00.007-05:00

According to my brother, the genealogist in my family, this guy was our direct ancestor:

SIMEON SMITH was the man [who was a friend and familiar companion to Reuben Clement, who might have been crazy], --and all of his neighbors as long as he lived believed that he was an adept at the black art. Of him it was alleged, "That some gloomy night, like those chosen by magicians to invoke spirits, he had called up the devil at the cross roads where four roads met in his native town, and to obtain superhuman powers he had agreed to be his liege man, and had then kissed Satan's cloven hoof." Wonderful were the feats that he could perform. Sometimes, from sheer malice, he would saddle and bridle one of his neighbors, and ride and gallop him all over the country round. Then turning jack-o'-lantern, with counterfeiting voice he would call some loitering person through the woods, around marshy ponds into tangled thickets, and leave him lost in the cold damp swamp. The butter would not come, and he was in the churn; the cat mewed and jumped wildly about the house, and he tormented her; the children behaved strangely, and he had bewitched them. Smaller than a gnat, he could go through the key hole; larger than a giant, he was seen at twilight stalking through the forest. He could travel in the thin air, and mounted on a moonbeam could fly swift as the red meteor over the woods and the mountains.

This is from The History of Warren, a Mountain Hamlet, Located Among the White Hills of New Hampshire, by William Little, published in 1870. My ancestor may not have been as interesting as all that, however, because the book goes on to say:

Without doubt all this was pious scandal, worthy of the Puritans, for Simeon Smith was a good man, and in spite of their superstition compelled the respect of his neighbors. He came to Warren in February, 1773, bring his family and worldly effects in a one-horse vehicle, known among farmers as a "jumper." He settled on Red Oak hill, and lived for a time with that restive little backwoodsman, Mr. John Morrill. Mr. Smith was likewise a small-sized man, smart to work and quick-motioned. He had a large family, two or three boys old enough to help, and before another winter he had a comfortable cabin of his own.

Drat! ;)

How romantic!

2010-02-14T07:54:00.001-05:00

So what kind of business would you want to be sure would be open on Valentine's Day? You know, for those last minute Valentine's Day needs. A florist? A confectioner? No. What you really need is:

A pawn shop.

I was startled at first to see this pawn shop advertise that it will be open on Valentine's Day, but, gradually, the common sense of the matter won me over:

If you need cash to buy a last minute Valentine's Day gift, you can get it at a pawn shop. If you need to buy a last minute Valentine's Day gift -- anything from earrings to a trombone to a gun -- you can buy it at a pawn shop. And when you receive a totally inappropriate Valentine's Day gift ("Oh! Honey! You knew exactly what I wanted! A Glock 17!"), you can turn into cash (always an appropriate gift) at a pawn shop. And even though Valentine's Day falls on a Sunday this year, you won't have to wait until tomorrow, because this pawn shop is open today and stands ready to fill your every need!

What could be more romantic?

And on a serious note, Happy Lunar New Year to all my three readers!

[nyc] Times Square

2010-01-20T06:47:00.007-05:00

No visit to New York would be complete without an evening spent in Times Square. And no part of Times Square is more iconic than its high-tech billboards. "Look, my little children, at the amazing billboards! The M&M's! The Hot Wheels cars! The..."

Whoops!

Maybe there should be a prime-time each evening when the billboards are family-friendly. Late-night billboards can come out after that.

Speaking of M&M's, there is a three-floor store at the north end of Time Square devoted exclusively -- all three floors -- to merchandise featuring the-candy-that-melts-in-your-mouth-not-in-your-hand. I kid you not:

I had no idea there was so much M&M merchandise available.

And no evening in Times Square -- no matter how cold it is -- is complete without protesters:

Next up, my final post of pictures from my New York trip: The skaters at Rockefeller Center.

[nyc] High Line Park

2010-01-20T01:45:00.000-05:00

If you want the full scoop on Manhattan's newest park, the High Line, you can start by clicking here, and remember, Google is your friend; but here's the Cliff Notes version:

As hard as it may be to believe with today's real estate prices, there was a time early in the previous century when there were stockyards, slaughterhouses, and meat packing plants in Manhattan. They were connected by a private rail line that ran up the Lower West Side, carrying carcasses and killing the occasional pedestrian in the process. In the 1930s the pedestrian count got too high, and they decided to elevate the train tracks. The trains ran until the early 1980s, when Manhattan became too precious for meat packing, and the elevated railway was abandoned. In the 1990s, it was going to be torn down, but some enterprising souls had an idea: Turn it into an elevated city park! And today it's the High Line.

The whole idea is just so cool, we had to check it out.

It was cold. Cold, cold, cold. But that didn't prevent some New Yorkers from... er, sunbathing?

The lounge chairs are actual rolling stock that can be run up and down sections of the old train tracks:

How cool is that? Here's Judi trying it out:

Here's a view of the park:

Here's a view from the park, of the Empire State Building:

Park benches:

Next up: Times Square!

Progress Achieved, promise made

2010-01-17T10:34:00.002-05:00

Northern bro.

I have to say up front this entry has nothing to do with politics. Instead I reflect on Christmas carols. Evelyn, our three year old (with considerable prodding from my wife) really got into singing Christmas carols this year. I’ve got to say, there is nothing like hearing your three year old belt out O Little Town of Bethlehem or Jingle Bells. However, after dinner when we move to the living room for a little family time (which is before pajama time, which is before reading time, which is before bedtime) her favorite song to listen and dance to was ….. Snoopy’s Christmas. As it turns out Linda has a CD that has all three songs from the Snoopy vs. Red Baron saga and as far as Evelyn was concerned these are simply different parts of one long song.

So I had the opportunity to (or was cursed with, depending on your perspective) listening to these three songs many times this holiday season. I must say it was a mixed experience. On the one hand, as a history buff I am glad that Evelyn has learned the name of her first historical character, Baron Von Richthofen, hence the progress achieved. On the other hand what she has learned about this character was the sworn enemy and later the friend of a shootin’ beagle. Oh well, I guess you have to start somewhere.

There are several verses to this saga that I have forgotten from childhood. For instance, I did not remember that in the second song Snoopy has forced Red to land and is getting ready to finish him off. The dog also lands, jumps out of the plane and approaches his enemy who ‘fires a shot and turns to run before Snoopy has a chance to raise is gun.’ You know, I never thought of Snoopy packing before. At first the thought was disturbing until I realized it explained two things. It explains why Charlie Brown put up with so much from the dog. Second, I always wondered what Snoopy carried in that briefcase in the MetLife commercials. Now I know it was probably his Glock. Only later did it occur to me to wonder if Snoopy was the only Peanuts character to carry a sidearm. Did Schroder keep an M16 in his piano?

On another note, Good King Wenceslaus was also a favorite this season. This went over much better for me as it is one of my favorite carols. But here is the promises made portion of this post: If I am ever granted the superpower of the Good King (apparently his feet could warm the ground “Heat was in the very sod that the saint had printed”) then I will use that power to fight crime. Not sure yet exactly how that will work.

Now that's embarrassing

2010-01-14T14:20:00.006-05:00

ESPN Radio has taken over a station in my area. I'm not much of a sports fan, but sometimes I like to listen to talk radio, instead of music, and ESPN is loads better than Rush. Anyway, I heard both of these gems on ESPN Radio on the same day:

"You can't see the forest through the trees."

Yes, there's a forest over there, but you wouldn't know it because some durn fool went and planted trees.

"You don't wanna know what skeletons they're going to dig up in his closet."

For some reason I always thought that ESPN personalities were pretty well paid, but apparently this one is so destitute that he lives in a house where the closets, at least, have dirt floors. Here I am a lowly computer programmer, and even I live in a house where the closets have carpet-over-concrete floors.

But these aren't what's embarrassing (the title of this post). No, what's embarrassing is this: I was checking my server logs, and found that someone had come, not to this blog, but to one of my trip albums over on http://beaglewriter.com/albums, by searching Google Australia for the string "i undressed to my boxer shorts".

Really?

Really. You can try it for yourself:

http://www.google.com.au/search?hl=en&q=i+undressed+to+my+boxer+shorts&start=39&sa=N

In my defense (such as it is), the passage that the result links to was meant to be innocuous:

I think I've mentioned how hot it is here [St. Maarten]. You can only wear an outfit once -- it gets so soaked with sweat, it's toast after that. To wit: By the time we got back to the resort today, and I undressed, my boxer shorts, clean that morning, had a solid white stain at inch high all the way across the front, where they crease while I'm sitting. It was salt. From sweat.

Still, embarrassing.

[nyc] Chinatown

2010-01-05T07:41:00.012-05:00

Lots of pictures in this one!

We decided to take a walking tour of Chinatown. After much looking online, I picked this one, which turned out to be great: Chinatown Walking Tour Map - New York Chinatown Map and Guide. I strongly recommend this guide if you want just a walking tour (and not a culinary tour).

Two surprises were (1) that the oldest cemetery in New York (1683) is in Chinatown, and (2) that it's Jewish. The First Shearith Israel Graveyard:

If you click for the larger image, you can read that Josaih Ellis died on October 8th, 1798.

Next up is a meat market whose window is plastered with posterboard in Chinese -- I assume cuts of meat and prices:

It was really, really cold during our walk. About halfway through, we were looking for a place were we could warm up and drink some hot tea. The tour recommended the Golden Unicorn, so we dropped in. The Golden Unicorn is a dim sum establishment. We asked for only hot tea, but they rolled the cart over, and we were intrigued, so we ended up trying a few baskets. The food was excellent. A bigger challenge was that Judi's mother had never eaten with chopsticks, and Judi hadn't in a very long time, and had lost the knack. It came back to her, though:

Until she got really good at it:

They did not offer us forks, by the way.

In case you ever need any tasty hand-pulled noodles, this is your place:

Purportedly New York's first dim sum parlor -- you can't read it even in the larger version, but the date painted on the window is 1920:

I'm not sure what role this life-sized plastic Homer Simpson plays in Chinatown, but there you are:

Perhaps if this blog has a visitor who can read Chinese, he or she can interpret the placard in Homer's armpit for us.

Here are Judi and her mother standing on a streetcorner waiting for the light (I made it across before they did). Notice how they stand out against the dark-clad natives:

This bike, chained to a lamppost at the end of the Manhattan Bridge (the Manhattan end of which originates at the edge of Chinatown), memorializes a bicyclist who was killed on the Bridge:

It seemed fitting.

An intersection (nothing more):

The tour ended at the Mahayana Buddhist Temple -- the largest in Chinatown, according to the guide. That was very interesting (and another chance to take a break from the cold). I hadn't been in there very long before my Reiki "turned on" full blast. There are a number of altars, each different. Here's one:

Next up, the High Line Park!

[nyc] Rooftop Gardens

2010-01-02T08:20:00.003-05:00

Every time I stay in a big city -- one with tall buildings -- I never fail to find rooftop gardens. It seems ubiquitous that some city residents set up gardens on the roofs of their buildings. I find them fascinating. We weren't very high up in our hotel, but here are a few rooftop gardens that were in view:

This isn't a garden per se, but it's my favorite: A square of fake grass, a table, an umbrella, and four chairs. It would have been interesting to see people seated around this table, except that it was the dead of winter:

Next time, a terrific tour of Chinatown.

[nyc] Saks Window, and Sunrise

2009-12-31T07:00:00.004-05:00

If you read the previous post, you know I spent a few days in New York City a couple of weeks ago. I was just looking at the pictures I took while there, and I've decided to post(v.) a series of posts(n.) featuring some of the ones I like. I'm doing this because, well... because it's easier to create blog posts of photos than it is to actually write interesting content.

Here are two to get us started. The first is a detail from one of the Christmas windows in Saks on Fifth Avenue:

I like airplanes.

The second picture was taken from our hotel window the next morning, and shows the rising sun shining on the ornate face of the Ansonia, an exclusive apartment building that was across Broadway and a block south:

The Ansonia was built around 1900 and is said to be the second most famous building on the Upper West Side, after the Dakota.

You can click on these pictures and any others in this series to see a larger version.

Next, I think, will be rooftop gardens.

::snowball::

2009-12-22T15:17:00.007-05:00

It so happened that I was in New York City this past weekend. When the blizzard hit. The snow began falling about midday on Saturday, and by Saturday evening it was coming down pretty good. It was fascinating to sit in my hotel room, overlooking Broadway on the Upper West Side, and watch the circumstances of humanity as they unfolded in the snow.

There were a couple of things about New Yorkers in a snowstorm that were starkly different from my memories of winter in New Hampshire. The first was the large number of people who were using umbrellas:

Umbrellas in a snowstorm? What are you thinking? Where I came from, we wore a hat or scarf over our head, and just let the snow fall on it. As cold as it was outside, everyone should have had a hat or scarf anyway.

The other thing that struck me was the large number of people riding bicycles in the storm:

People, snow and bicycles do not mix. Not unless you're a bicycle messenger and you have no choice. Early in the evening the bicycles plowed through, but as it got later and the snow appeared to be about three inches deep, the bicyclists began to have a lot of trouble with control. Their front wheels slid back and forth and they were jerking the handlebars to try to keep balance. Not to mention frequently touching the ground with a foot. Taxis were following one guy who was in the middle of the uptown lane, and as he swerved around they were honking at him constantly. It was dangerous.

The hotel was directly across the street from the Broadway Fairway Market, which I guess is one of the most popular grocery stores in Manhattan. It was doing a brisk business (thus providing me with lots of material for observation). At about eleven o'clock a woman left the market. She was wearing an ankle-length black coat and a scarf over her head. She was accompanied by a smaller person -- perhaps a teenaged girl -- in a white parka and white hood, and a child -- a boy? -- in a dark coat and a black ski cap. The little boy was exhuberant, throwing himself on the ground to make a snow angel, then jumping up and kicking snow in the air, then grabbing up snow for a snowball. He was enjoying the storm. The woman was trying desperately but somewhat timidly to hail a taxi. She was standing way back from the edge of the traffic lane and had her arm up, but seemed to wave her hand hesitantly. I freely admit I'm no expert, but in my very limited experience the best way to get a cab is, if not to actually jump in front of it, at least make a run at it.

Anyway, this lady's technique wasn't working. But what tickled me is that every time a taxi passed without stopping (which was often -- practically the only cars on the road by this time were taxies), the exhuberant child would pelt it with a snowball.

A taxi would pass.

::snowball:: Thud!

Another.

::snowball:: Thud!

Another.

::snowball:: Thud!

::snowball:: Thud!

::snowball:: Thud!

It's a wonder his arm didn't get tired.

Slowly and quietly this little group worked their way up Broadway to 75th, and they stood there at that corner for quite a while, she flagging, he pelting. The woman seemed to not even notice the child, who I silently rooted for in his assault on the cabs, the cabs that didn't stop. Then suddenly the woman collected the white parka and the small child and crossed Broadway eastbound, disappearing from my sight. Where was she going? Why had she given up on the taxis? What was her new plan? How did they get home? I'll never know.

Associations, and Thanksgiving

2009-11-27T07:36:00.003-05:00

Ever since this wonderful day almost two years ago, the sound of a dog lapping water from a bowl has been a joy to me. This morning I listened to Andrea lapping at 4:30. The simple joy hasn't diminished a bit.

I hope you had a joyful Thanksgiving.

If I only had the nerve

2009-11-24T05:53:00.003-05:00

Northern Bro: A few weeks ago Linda, the kids and I were in a local restaurant on a Sunday morning. A few tables over sat a young man with a T-shirt bearing the inscription: “This is America, speak English or get the F*** out!” (quote has been modified for content). Next to this inspirational saying was a picture of the Statue of Liberty.

Now, the shirt wasn’t all that unusual in our section of the country, nor was the proud public display of profanity. What was unusual was that another fellow diner pointed out to the man that the Statue of Liberty was built by people who spoke French and is in fact a symbol of our willingness to open our borders to immigrants. This person even pointed out the relationship between the Statue of Liberty and nearby Ellis Island. The lesson was lost on our poor T-shirt wearer who, as far as I know, left the restaurant as ignorant as he came in.

But the interaction got me to wondering how unusual it was to see someone question ignorant conservative trash to the trash bearer’s face. Why is that?

While pondering this I was reminded of a bumper sticker I saw more than a decade ago, shortly after returning to this state. I believe that the bumper sticker was old at that time and bespoke of a different time in our state’s history. It said: “Courage is being a Carroll County Democrat.” And then it struck me:

• Liberals don’t shoot doctors through their kitchen windows at night because they don’t like the way the doctor practices medicine, conservatives do.
• Liberals don’t beat a man senseless and then tie him to a fence in the middle of winter to die from exposure simply because they feel threatened by the man’s orientation, conservatives do.
• Liberals don’t torture people in the name of freedom and then, full of pride at their level of depravity, take photos so they can show their friends what wonderful value-driven Americans they are, conservatives do.

The list goes on and on. I myself have never been subjected to major discrimination (mostly because I keep my opinions to myself, present commentary excepted), but will note that when, after much deliberation, I put an Obama sign in my front yard last year, on two occasions ignorant yahoos in pick-up trucks screamed obscenities at my daughter and I as we enjoyed our yard. I find it hard to believe that a similar thing would have happened if I had a McCain/Palin sign in front of my home.

Jon Stewart is noted for saying that Democrats have 49% of the vote and 3% of the power (this was during the Bush years). I believe part of the reason is that we are just scared to stand up to the ignorant gun-loving reactionary yahoo conservatives on the other side. Someone once pointed out that the right-wing conservative Christian fanatics in America have a lot more in common with the fanatic Islamic suicide bombers than they to with real Christians and I am sure that is true. I am also sure that it isn’t too far a slide down that slippery slope from the place where it is OK to shoot doctors for practicing abortion to the place where it is OK to blow up an abortion clinic, or even a federal office building, day care center and all, simply because you disagree with the policies of our elected leaders.

So I tip my hat to that nameless person who pointed out the inconsistency on the yahoo’s T-shirt. I only wish I had been so brave, or so clever….. and I am grateful that the yahoo did not go out to his pick-up for his 2nd amendment guaranteed rifle and come back shootin’.

PS: My deepest apologies if I offended any owners of pick-up trucks. They truly are useful vehicles. I myself used to own one, and only sold it when it became necessary to have a vehicle into which I could strap a car seat. I miss that truck.

PPS: My sincere apologies to Yahoo's legal department. Really.

Vows

2009-11-23T08:32:00.006-05:00

public void Promise()
{
 while (!death)
 {
  try
  {
   Have();
   Hold();
   Love();
   Cherish();

  }
  catch (WorseException)
  {
   continue;

  }
  catch (PoorerException)
  {
   continue;

  }
  catch (SicknessException)
  {
   continue;

  }

 }

}

P.S. The original idea isn't mine. I lifted it from this post at Cake Wrecks.

L33tsp3ak

2009-11-17T06:42:00.002-05:00

Well, Jordanne and Judi Take a Trip was a bust, so you will be spared the follow-up, Jordanne and Judi Visit Goofy, and hearing Jordanne exclaim "Snot is splendid!"

On a totally different subject, Judi has been sick, and that resulted in this conversation:

Me: I think you have H1N1 flu.

Judi: Whatever happened to calling it swine flu?

Me: I don't know. Maybe it didn't really come from pigs. Or maybe pigs felt like they were being disrespected. But anyway, you're supposed to call it H1N1 now.

Judi: H1N1 sounds silly.

Me: I guess it means something to scientists.

Judi: But most people aren't scientists. But you remember leetspeak? If you look at it that way, it spells "hiney," so it would be the "hiney flu." Doesn't that make more sense?

It does. So if you see an old guy with glasses and without much hair talking about the Hiney Flu?

That would be me.

Jordanne and Judi Take a Trip

2009-11-10T03:33:00.000-05:00

By Gregory Smith

Jordanne was a little girl who lived in Suffolk. She lived with her Mum, Dad, and little brother Lewis, in a blue house with a green garden.

Sometimes Jordanne played with her little brother Lewis, but little brothers can be such a bother, don't you know? Jordanne's real best friend was her beagle dog, whose name was Judi.

Jordanne's family was going on holiday to Florida, which is in America. Jordanne had never been to America, and she was very excited. But she said to Mum, 'What about Judi? Who will care for Judi whilst we're gone?'

'There's only one thing to do,' said Mum.

'Yes,' said Dad, 'and that's to take Judi with us on holiday.'

'Hooray!' shouted Jordanne, and Judi twirled around in circles.

When the time came, they all went to the airport: Jordanne, Lewis, Mum, Dad, Grandma (who was also coming on the holiday), and of course Judi. They had about six huge suitcases, and Judi had to ride in a cage that was small enough to fit under the seat in the aeroplane.

As soon as the aeroplane took off, Lewis fell asleep. Later, a stewardess served them sodas. Later still, the stewardess came back with food. For Jordanne she had a cheese and pickle sandwich and a bag of crisps. Jordanne didn't like the cheese and pickle sandwich. She ate her crisps, but whilst Mum and Dad were fussing with Lewis, who had awakened, she pushed her sandwich through the bars into Judi's cage.

Judi thought it was an absolutely wonderful cheese and pickle sandwich!

It was a very long flight. Lewis went back to sleep, and then Grandma fell asleep, too. After that, Mum fell asleep, and then Dad. Lots of people on the plane were sleeping, and the stewardess was nowhere to be seen.

Jordanne knew that Judi was cramped in her small cage under the seat. Judi looked so unhappy. Beagles love to run and play, and don't like to be in a cage.

'It can't hurt,' thought Jordanne, 'to let Judi out for just a minute.'

She unlocked Judi's cage, and the happy dog jumped in Jordanne's lap and licked her face.

'Shhh,' said Jordanne. 'We can't let anyone know that you're out.'

Judi lay in Jordanne's lap, with her chin on the arm of the seat, and closed her eyes. Jordanne scratched the back of Judi's neck. They were both so happy. Soon, Jordanne was…

…asleep.

When she woke, after what seemed like just a few minutes, Judi was gone! Oh, no!

Jordanne jumped out of her seat and looked up and down the aisle, but Judi was nowhere to be seen.

Jordanne stopped to think. Where would a beagle go, if she were on her own?

The kitchen! (Which on a plane is called the galley.)

The stewardess had brought their food from the front of the aeroplane, so Jordanne went that way. With most of the people sleeping, it was quiet. She found the galley near the front of the plane. It was a little room off to the side of the aisle.

And sure enough, there was Judi! She had torn open a big bag of those awful cheese and pickle sandwiches, and was eating them as fast as she could. As soon as she saw Jordanne, Judi drooped her ears and tucked her tail between her legs. But she didn't stop eating. No, she tried to eat even faster!

'Judi! Bad dog!' Jordanne whispered. 'I'm very cross with you!'

Jordanne wasn't big enough to carry Judi, but she grabbed the beagle's collar and dragged her away. Judi slunk along, her tail between her legs. She looked very sorry for what she had done. Jordanne tried to stay cross, but she was a good-hearted little girl, and couldn't bear to be angry. She knelt down and gave Judi a hug.

Judi seemed to feel that she was forgiven, and as soon as Jordanne let go of her she twirled in a circle and stopped, wagging her tail happily and looking up at her little girl. Then she turned and dashed off up the aisle, at top beagle speed!

Oh, no!

'JOO-DEE," Jordanne called, without stopping to think.

People started to wake up.

Judi jumped on the knees of a sleeping man who was dressed in a neat, light grey suit. The man had a round, pleasant face, with a grey moustache and a little beard, but when he suddenly woke and saw Judi, he wasn't very pleasant at all:

'No! No!' he shouted. He jumped up, sending Judi scrambling to the floor. Then he ran away up the aisle and locked himself in the toilet.

Next, Judi tried to make friends with a woman in a yellow dress.

'Beast!' cried the woman in a yellow dress, and she swung her purse by the strap, hitting Judi on the head. Judi slunk away up the aisle, wondering why the lady didn't like her.

Then Judi saw someone who looked as though she needed a friend: A young woman wearing a brown jacket that was buttoned all the way up to her chin. The young woman sat up straight and very stiff in her seat, with her hands clasped in her lap.

As Judi bounded up, the young woman yelped, 'Stay away from me! Stay away, I say!' and hopped into the lap of the young man seated next to her. 'Save me!' she said to the young man.

'Have we been introduced?' the young man answered.

By now all the passengers were in an uproar. Mum and Dad were in the aisle. Dad was looking for Judi, and Mum was frantic. 'Jordanne,' she cried, 'what have you done?'

Dad saw Judi and chased her up the aisle. 'Judi, come here!' he said, but not in a friendly way, the way Judi liked. 'Come here right now!'

Judi hid under a seat. Dad reached under and grabbed her collar. He picked her up and scooted her back into her cage, closing the door.

Everyone on the aeroplane was talking. Mum plopped Jordanne down in her seat. The stewardess stood over them and looked at Jordanne crossly.

'Little girl,' she said, "you shouldn't have let that dog loose in the aeroplane. That dog is supposed to stay in his cage. That's why you brought a cage. That's what a cage is for. Cages are for confining dogs. Don't you know that? Don't you know anything? And just look at the disturbance you've caused.'

While she was talking, the aeroplane's pilot came up behind her. Yes, the pilot! All the way from the front of the plane! 'And just look,' he said (and he was furious, believe you me), 'look at all the cheese and pickle sandwiches she ate! Do you know how much those sandwiches cost? And now we may not have enough sandwiches for all the passengers!'

Jordanne was about to tell to the stewardess that Judi was a her, not a his, and the pilot that the cheese and pickle sandwiches were awful, but her Mum (who knew her well) said, 'Shush!' to her, quite sharply.

The pilot and the stewardess marched away. All around them, Jordanne could hear people talking.

'Such an impertinent little girl!'

'Children are simply badly raised these days.'

'Do whatever they want.'

'When I was a child, I'd have gotten a good spanking, and rightly so.'

'Imagine the germs the little beast must have spread about."

Jordanne had started out angry, but now she began to cry. She felt so unhappy. After a few minutes, she felt something else, too.

'Mum," she said quietly, 'I have to go to the toilet.'

Mum took her hand and led her to the toilet, which was in the back of the plane. Mum was still cross. And as they walked up the aisle, the other passengers stared at her and sniggered.

When they got to the toilet, someone else was using it, and there was a queue. The man in the light grey suit was first, and the woman in the yellow dress was behind him. Then came Jordanne and her Mum.

The man in the light grey suit went in. When he came out, he was putting something away in his breast coat pocket, but he stopped to say to Jordanne, 'Little girl, I do hope you're ashamed of yourself.'

He returned to his seat. A little light on the toilet door said, 'In Use.' Then the light went out, and the woman in the yellow dress came out. She saw Jordanne and said, 'Hmph!' and raised her purse, as though she was going to swing it. But she didn't.

Jordanne sat on the loo and cried.

The other passengers settled down after a while. It was a long flight.

Eventually, they landed in Orlando. The plane taxied to the terminal. Everyone was ready to get off, when suddenly some policemen appeared at the front of the plane. A voice came over the loudspeaker system: 'This is Officer Dooley, of the Orlando Police Department. We won't keep you long. We have information that a diamond thief is on this flight, and we want to look for him. Or her.'

Everyone started talking. A diamond thief! On this flight! Goodness! Police officers in blue uniforms started down the aisle. Everyone was quiet. The officers looked at each passenger closely, sometimes stopping to ask questions. But they didn't look very closely at Jordanne and Lewis, who after all didn't look like diamond thieves.

Then Officer Dooley spoke over the loudspeaker again: 'Sorry for the delay. You can disembark now. Thanks for your patience.'

Everyone started talking again.

'Well,' said Grandma (did you forget Grandma was along?), 'I would say they didn't find him.'

'Or her,' added Mum.

In the terminal, Jordanne and her family stood in a long queue with all the other passengers. Judi's cage was sitting on the floor. Judi bumped against the sides, trying to get comfortable. Then, out of nowhere, another beagle ran up and sniffed briefly at Judi and her cage. Jordanne was surprised. The new beagle was wearing a green coat, and wasn't in a cage, only on a leash. Judi tried to wag her tail, but she didn't have room.

A man in a green uniform was holding the new beagle's leash.

'Who is she?' Jordanne asked the man in the green uniform.

'He's a he, not a she,' said the man. 'His name is Jake, and he belongs to the Beagle Brigade. The beagles in the Beagle Brigade sniff all the luggage on all the planes coming to America. They look for things that people are bringing in that they shouldn't.'

Jordanne looked around, and saw there were other beagles in green coats. They were running back and forth, sniffing all of the luggage that the passengers had carried off the aeroplane.

Jordanne looked at Judi. And then she looked at the Beagle Brigade beagles. She spun around. The man in the light grey suit was a short distance back in the queue. Jordanne walked right up to him, put her fists on her hips, and said loudly, 'You're the diamond thief!'

'Jordanne!' cried Mum, horrified. 'Come back here this moment!'

'No I won't!' said Jordanne. 'This man is a diamond thief.'

Everyone was looking at them.

'Little girl,' said the man in the light grey suit, becoming very angry, 'you are the naughtiest little girl I have ever known. Stop bothering me! Go away!'

Jordanne pushed her fists even harder against her hips. 'You're the diamond thief!'

'Little girl! Stop bothering me! Right now!'

'Jordanne!' said Mum, taking Jordanne's arm, 'stop this instant!'

'He's the diamond thief!'

'Obey your mother,' said the man in the light grey suit, 'the way a good girl should. Leave me alone!'

'Now hang on a minute,' said an American voice. It was Officer Dooley, of the Orlando Police Department. He had come up beside Jordanne, and he was looking closely at the man in the light grey suit. Suddenly he stepped forward and grabbed the man's moustache between his thumb and forefinger. He pulled.

'Ouch!' said the man in the light grey suit, but the moustache and beard pulled off! It was a disguise!

'Look!' said Officer Dooley. 'It's Dutch Meeker, the world famous jewel thief! Grab 'im, boys!'

Two boys - actually two police officers, one a man and one a woman - jumped forward and grabbed Dutch Meeker by the arms.

'The stolen diamonds are in his breast coat pocket,' said Jordanne. Officer Dooley reached inside Meeker's coat and drew out a small cloth bag.

'Well now, here they are, right where the little girl said. Whaddaya know. Cuff 'im, boys.' The woman officer put handcuffs on Dutch Meeker's wrists. 'Do you have anything to say for yourself, Meeker?'

'How did you know?' Dutch Meeker asked Jordanne.

'You were sleeping on the plane,' said Jordanne, 'when Judi jumped on you and woke you. You were frightened, and ran back to the toilet. I saw you. I just now realized that that was because you thought we had landed, and Judi was with the Beagle Brigade. You knew about the Beagle Brigade, and you thought she was going to find the diamonds. So you ran and hid them, so they wouldn't be found on you. Later, when you found that Judi was only Judi, you went back and got the diamonds. I was there in queue with you, and I wondered why you needed to go to the toilet again, when you had just been. And I saw you put the diamonds in your pocket when you came out.'

Dutch Meeker's chin dropped down on his chest.

'Case closed!' said Officer Dooley, and he picked Jordanne up and set her on his shoulders. He swept through the terminal carrying Jordanne, and a parade of people fell in behind them: Dutch Meeker, with the policeman and policewoman on either side, and Jake on his leash leading the man in the green uniform, and the stewardess from the aeroplane, and Mum and Dad and Grandma, and a smiling Lewis (he loved parades), and the lady in the yellow dress, and the aeroplane's pilot, and even the young woman in the buttoned-up brown jacket.

'I'm terribly sorry,' she said to the man in the green uniform. 'It's just that I'm so allergic to dogs. They make me sneeze.'

'That's too bad,' said the man in the green uniform.

Then someone let Judi out of her cage, and she ran ahead, stopping to look back to make sure everyone was following. It was a great parade!

'Jordanne's a hero!' said someone.

'Hooray for Jordanne!' said someone else.

'Don't forget Judi!' said Jordanne.

'We'll make Judi an honorary member of the Beagle Brigade,' said the man in the green uniform.

'And no one ever liked those cheese and pickle sandwiches anyway,' said the pilot.

THE END

The Beagle Brigade beagles really exist! You can meet them on the Internet at http://www.aphis.usda.gov/oa/pubs/detdogs.html

Tomorrow I will look ridiculous

2009-11-09T07:58:00.004-05:00

Among the most fundamental rules of writing are these:

Rule 1: Never write in dialect.

Rule 2: If you choose to violate Rule 1, only write in a dialect that you speak yourself, and know well.

Rule 3: If you choose to violate Rule 2, prepare to look ridiculous.

Back in 2002 we had some friends visit from England. The family included a little girl named Jordanne, that I was very taken with. After they left, I decided to write a series of children's stories about a fictional little girl named Jordanne, who is vacationing with her family in Florida. Vacationing with her family... and her pet beagle named Judi (you can analyze that all you want).

So far so good, but this is where I went off the rails: I decided to try to write the stories in English dialect (see Rule 1, above). My only exposure to British accents was the several weeks our friends had been around (see Rule 2, above).

I had outlines in mind for the first four stories in the series, but then I learned something they don't teach you in writing class: Not only does writing in a dialect you don't know make you look ridiculous (see Rule 3, above), it's also really hard work. I slogged through the first two stories, Jordanne and Judi Take a Trip and Jordanne and Judi Visit Goofy, and then I gave up.

Anyway, that was back in 2002. No one has seen the stories since. So why bring it up now? Because I've decided to post the first story, Jordanne and Judi Take a Trip, to this blog tomorrow. And I wanted to warn you. Because while it's short for a story, it's really long for a blog post. We'll see how it goes before I decide whether to post the second story.

Tune in tomorrow...

Tomorrow is Election Day...

2009-11-02T18:34:00.003-05:00

...and I've had a number of email messages this past week exhorting me to vote for this person, who is running for Mayor; and this other person and this another person and this yet another person, all running for city council in tomorrow's hotly contested elections in...

...Dearborn, Michigan.

The only time in my life that I even set foot in Michigan was an hour layover in the Detroit airport on a flight to Milwaukee. And the only thing I can say about the Detroit airport -- which is all of Michigan I've ever seen -- is that the Roman Catacombs must compare favorably. My hike through the dark, cramped, and ancient tunnels of the Detroit airport would at least have yielded a more interesting story if I had taken it through the Catacombs instead.

So... elections in Dearborn tomorrow? I guess someone filled out a form and made a mistake writing his or her email address, or someone else made a mistake typing it, but here I am, sitting in Florida, unable to vote, but getting these emails and hoping like heck that up there in Dearborn, tomorrow, the good guys are going to win.

You, too, can learn to organ in just ten easy lessons!

2009-11-01T18:29:00.003-05:00

It's been a while since I commented on an Oxford English Dictionary Word of the Day. But today's Word was...

...air guitar.

Not the noun. The verb. As in (OED's citation):

2003 Bang Apr. 13/1 The former Spacemen 3 leader nearly knocks his pint over while air-guitaring.

Seriously. Air guitaring. Not playing air guitar.

It seems to me that if air guitaring is an accepted verb for "playing air guitar", then guitaring should be fine as a verb meaning "playing guitar"? No? As in:

"Eric Clapton's guitaring brought the audience to its feet."

(Or would that be, "Eric Clapton's guitaring feeted the audience"? -- just kidding. I think. :)

Anyway! All I have to say to Eric Clapton, B.B. King, Mark Knopfler, and the legion others is...

Guitar On!

Taking for granted

2009-10-27T06:53:00.000-05:00

Carolyn Hax is a Style columnist for the Washington Post. She writes an advice column called Tell Me About It, answering questions sent in by readers. Her current column includes this question:

An ex-boyfriend recently sent me a Facebook friend request, which I accepted. I am married with children and so is he. We live several states apart.

After reminiscing about our past in private e-mails, I let him know that I had mentioned to my husband that I was in contact with him, and that he should feel free to comment on my wall. He had not done the same with his wife, and he let me know it would be best if I did NOT comment openly for all friends to see. I felt very uncomfortable with this but decided it was his business.

Months later, I wished him a happy birthday on his wall, only to notice that he had deleted my post. Should I un-friend him?

Now, I'm not going to reproduce Hax's answer, which after all is the property of the Post, or even offer an opinion myself, because, honestly, I don't care. But what did strike me was this:

Ms. Hax's column is printed (on paper) in a newspaper with a very large circulation, and is also syndicated in over 200 other newspapers (including my local one), and read by I-don't-know-how-many people, and yet the Facebook-speak is simply presented as common English usage, that might have been around since, you know, Shakespeare, and doesn't need to be explained to anyone. Friend request? Friend as a verb? Wall? Un-friend?

Not that I wasn't able to figure them out (even though I'm not a Facebook customer), but still.

By the way, if you want to wish me happy birthday on my wall, you'll need a can of spray paint.

Insurance

2009-10-18T14:31:00.002-05:00

Northern Bro checking in with a perspective from the trenches on the health care debate:

Two things happened this week: First, we found out our insurance carrier was going to increase our premiums by 16.4% in January. I expressed surprise that they would go up by this amount in this political climate. Our rep insisted that they had to increase rates because of the political climate. Their story is that because of the uncertainty created by the health care debate in Washington many people are rushing out to get elective surgeries out of fear that the Democrats are going to take away their insurance (something that no one in our little corner of the Northern woods has witnessed) and that because the President offered COBRA subsidies as part of the ARRA, many sick people are still on the insurance rolls who ordinarily would not have been able to afford insurance. According to the insurance company both of these factors made it necessary to increase our premiums.

Secondly, the unmarried partner of one of our employees lost her foot to infection this week. She had been laid off and didn't have insurance so when her foot became infected she put off going to the hospital to have it looked at. By the time they finally decided that a visit could not be put off any longer it was too late to save her foot.

It appalls me that there are people around who claim our system does not need fixing.

Of local cuisine, fast food, and people who surprise you

2009-10-18T12:06:00.001-05:00

In this recent post, I mentioned that I'd been away for two weeks, and where I had been the first week (St. Thomas). So where did we spend the second week?

Curacao.

So... about Curacao:

While we were in Willemstad we popped into the local McDonalds -- I know, McDonalds? -- for some iced teas, because, you know, most places in Willemstad don't serve iced tea (the real, brewed fresh kind), and, believe it or not, McDonalds does. While standing in line, we noticed this on the menu board:

McKroket.

McKroket? Seriously? As you may know, the kroket is a Dutch speciality that's available all over the Dutch West Indies -- Holland House in Philipsburg on St. Maarten serves great ham krokets -- but... McKroket?

I had to give it a try.

It looks like this:

It was... tasty. You know, for fast food. Meat and cheese mixed together, breaded, and deep fried. Served on a service-issue McDonalds bun. It was interesting to see McDonalds attempt to incorporate local cuisine into its menu. After a little browsing on the Internet's tubes, I learned that you can get this in McDonalds stores in the Netherlands, too.

Just so you aren't misled, this is what real Curacao cuisine looks like:

And it's great!

Also on the food front, we had lunch at (and took a ton of pictures at) the terrific Curacao Butterfly Garden. There's a post about that on Judi's Butterfly blog. You can find it here.

Another thing I learned on this trip is that you never really know anyone. The sea-channel that links Curacao's magnificent but somewhat-inland harbor to the Caribbean splits the city of Willemstad in two. The side that has most of the buildings and people is called Punda -- literally "this side" in Papiamento, the local language -- while the other side is called Otrabanda -- "other side." Makes sense, eh? :) Punda and Otrabanda are joined by the world famous (really) floating bridge -- a pontoon bridge that swings out of the way when ships and tugboats are making their way through the channel. While the bridge is swung aside, pedestrians gather in crowds on both sides, waiting for it to close.

Judi, as you may know, is big on "following the rules." Common Judi-isms: "The sign says not to do that." "I don't think they want us to go there." "They have that rule for a reason."

So we were in Otrabanda, and just walking up to the floating bridge, wanting to return to Punda, when the bridge started to open. The fence was crowded with pedestrians, waiting. But the gate in the fence was open. And you can't imagine how surprised I was when rule-following Judi suddenly walked through the open gate, all by herself, and, without missing a beat, hopped across the widening space that separated the bridge from the land.

Judi?

Of course I instantly followed her -- I mean, the gap was getting wider and wider -- and then I was standing on the bridge as it moved under my feet, the land and the crowd of patient pedestrians behind the fence falling away behind me.

Judi?

Yes, Judi. Jay-bridge-walking Judi, as casual as if this was the kind of thing she did every day::

The bridge is usually crowded with people, so it was strange to be on it when it was almost deserted:

A yacht in the channel, passing by the opposite end of the floating bridge, which is obviously no longer attached to land:

The far end of the bridge is lined up with a restaurant, creating the optical illusion that you could walked from the bridge straight up to your table:

But the fact is that the restaurant is up the channel from the real terminus of the bridge, and there's a lot of water between the bridge and the restaurant.

As Judi waited at the far end for the bridge to close, I caught up with her and said, "I'm amazed that you just jumped across to the bridge. That isn't like you":

She answered, with nonchalance, "I know, and it occurred to me that I might fall in and drown, or my dress might get caught in the mechanism, or I might be crushed. I can imagine the headline: 'American tourist crushed by floating bridge.' But then I went ahead and did it anyway."

You never really know anyone.

Bad, bad blogger botches Banned Books Week

2009-10-03T06:35:00.000-05:00

What can I say? It's been a very, very busy past two weeks at work. Is that the reason? Whatever it is, I missed Banned Books Week this year. It ends today. How could I let this happen? I love Banned Books Week. Anyway, here's my belated post for Banned Books Week, 2009:

-------------------------

To those who are active for a cause -- civil rights, the environment, abortion rights, heck, even anti-abortion rights -- it's often a point of pride to be arrested and convicted in the service of the cause. Recently the mayor of some Southern city offered a pardon to any activist convicted of a crime during the Civil Rights movement: They only had to ask and their record would be wiped clean. Almost no one asked. That conviction that comes up during every background check isn't something to be ashamed of. It's a badge of honor. I've even heard of parties thrown for activists when they reach a milestone -- say, twenty five, or even fifty, arrests and convictions.

If an activist takes pride in the number of his or her convictions, then for a "banned" book the measure of pride must be the number of times that someone asks to have it stricken from a library's shelves. Did you know that And Tango Makes Three, by Justin Richardson and Peter Parnell, has been the book most requested to be banned for...

...three straight years.

Truly a badge of honor.

And there's one more great reason for me to recommend And Tango Makes Three: If, like me, you blew off Banned Books Week until the last minute this year... it's an illustrated childrens book, so it won't take you any time to read. You can still squeak in under the deadline.

Reminding by committee

2009-10-01T08:00:00.003-05:00

Recently I received one of those automated telephone calls reminding me of a doctor appointment. It started with a chipper ladies voice telling me the doctor's name, and the date and time of the appointment. Then it changed to a more dour ladies voice telling me arrive fifteen minutes early. Then a man's voice cut in to let me know that if I was having a certainprocedure done (I wasn't), I needed to arrive thirty minutes early. Then the original chipper lady returned to give me a phone number to call if I had any questions.

I had a distinct feeling that I had just received a reminder call from a conference room full of people who kept blurting out little bits of information as they thought of them.

...and whether or not you can spell

2009-09-23T16:25:00.003-05:00

Seen on a bumper sticker:

It's not where your from
It's where your at

Spaces and sleeping in

2009-09-21T14:08:00.004-05:00

The day before yesterday was the first Saturday of the last four Saturdays that I didn't need to get up at 4:00 am in order to catch a flight. I slept in, until 6:00 am. Bliss.

On a completely different note, I was led to wonder over the weekend about the use of the letter a, by itself, as both an indefinite article and a prefix meaning negation (as in atypical). The indefinite article and the prefix often (usually?) have opposite connotations. For example, "Become a part" means to "join with" while "Become apart" means to "separate from." What a difference a space makes!

Of Operating Systems and Driving on the Left

2009-09-16T11:48:00.004-05:00

I have recently upgraded the operating system in my camera. "What's that?" you say. "Your camera has an operating system?" Yes, I was surprised, too. I was even more surprised to find that my camera has, not one operating system, but two. Although, thinking about it, I guess it makes sense that one would manage the camera (focus, exposure, etc.) and the other the file system (writing to the media, etc.), since those are two very different types of tasks.

Anyway, both operating systems needed to be upgraded, hopefully curing my camera of a tendency to corrupt image files as it saves them.

And why, I'm sure you're wondering, was it so important for me to perform this upgrade?

Because I was going on a trip.

Now I'm back. I was gone for two weeks, which partly explains my long silence on this blog. The first week was spent on St. Thomas in the U.S. Virgin islands. This was the view from our balcony (click for a larger image):

Through the fronds of the palm trees growing just off the balcony, you can see the adjacent marina, and that island in the not-so-distant distance is Tortola, in the British Virgin Islands.

We spent some time snorkeling on St. John, a short drive and a short ferry ride from where we stayed. A really great place to snorkel on St. John is Water Lemon Cay. We saw sea turtles, rays, starfish, a small octopus, and all manner of corals and fish. Oh, and a shark. A shark!!! All in nice, shallow water. The only drawback to Water Lemon Cay is that it's about a two mile hike along a trail from the end of the nearest road. But it's worth it. Here's Judi hiking along the trail:

Remember to carry some water (as Judi is doing).

The most interesting challenge on St. Thomas was driving on the left. Judi was a huge help, yelling "ON THE LEFT! ON THE LEFT!" each time I started driving (whenever I got in the car and started away, I always automatically drove on the right), and also checking the cross-traffic for me when I was trying to make a left-turn-on-red at an intersection. Thanks!

While we were there we also visited the Butterfly Farm (twice). You can read an account on Judi's Butterflies blog here, and some photos from those visits were Judi's Photos of the Day around that time.

That was the first of the two weeks. We'll see if I get to the second.

Speaking of signs...

2009-08-24T10:03:00.004-05:00

...because we were. Recently I began noticing small plastic signs all around town -- you know, the ones stuck into the ground on wire legs that cost, like, $199 for 100 signs? These signs proclaimed "DNA Screening" in big letters. I thought, "Wow, does this mean anyone can walk in and get their DNA screened for, like, diseases and stuff? Has DNA screening become that commonplace?"

And then I got to thinking, "Isn't a cheap plastic sign an odd way to advertise DNA screening? I mean, this is a sophisticated medical procedure, and you'd have to wonder about the professionalism and quality of a company that advertises by placing cheap plastic signs by the roadsides."

Then one day I was stopped at a traffic light near one of the signs, and I was close enough for long enough to be able to read the rest of the sign -- the small lettering that you miss when you're zooming by at 40 miles an hour.

It turns out that DNA Screening is a company named DNA... that does screening. You know, screen doors. Window screening. Build a screen room around your swimming pool. That kind of screening. DNA can do it for you!

Slow on the uptake

2009-08-20T12:13:00.002-05:00

I was driving along a busy road and caught sight of this sign out of the corner of my eye:

The thoughts that went through my head, in order:

1. They're supersizing Lent? Extra-extra-large Lent? What does that mean?

2. Double-X rated Lent? Lent with wild sex orgies? That can't be right.

3. Hey, it's not even the right time of year for Lent! Why are they making such a big deal about Lent now?

::frown::

4. Oh! It must be trying to say "Excellent"! Though, in that case, why are there two X's?

I still haven't figured out why there are two X's. Maybe if I watched TV I'd see a commercial and it would all be made clear.

Containing the opposite

2009-08-11T15:47:00.005-05:00

As part of my day job, I write programs that provide "services" to other programs. These "service" programs don't interact directly with any user, so they run in what I still call a DOS window, though I guess the official term now is command window. Anyway, when these programs start up, the command window opens; the service displays its name, version, and build date; and then it prints this line:

Press Enter to Exit...

It strikes me as almost Zen-like that to exit, one must enter. Though perhaps the opposite relationship would be more Zen-like: Exit to Enter.

Software and meditation don't often go hand-in-hand, so I'll take this opportunity while I have it.

Welcome to Casey Richard Smith

2009-07-27T12:14:00.004-05:00

Northern Bro

I am very pleased to report that at about 3:44 Friday morning Casey Richard Smith joined our family. Mom and baby, as well as Dad and big sister are all doing well, although Mom is a bit sore and sleep deprived. Of course the first thing we did is count his fingers and toes. Everything is there. His color is coming in just fine. Linda pulled out her baby photos, and the little guy looks just like his mom. Oh yeah, did I mention he has quite the set of lungs?

Casey @ 90 minutes old.

We were so happy that we were able to complete our plans to have Casey born at home instead of in a cold institutional setting. I was initially skeptical of Linda’s preference for a homebirth, and didn’t really come around until we had done a lot of research and checked out the options.

So here is how it played out: I was driving home Thursday evening when Linda called to say she thought it might be time, but not to hurry. She is funny that way, what did she expect me to do, stop and go see a movie? So I arrived home at around 5:30, our midwife (Kathryn) showed up about half an hour later. At this point Linda’s contractions were coming fairly regularly, but still about 10-12 minutes apart. Kathryn checked Linda over and while she couldn’t rule out that this might still be a false alarm (as it was the previous night) she thought that this may be it. Then – get this – the Kathryn took off again and told us to call her when the contractions were about 5 minutes apart for at least half an hour. At this point my skepticism about midwives in general and Kathryn in particular returned. I was never really concerned, and of course as it turned out I had no reason to be concerned at all, but it is much easier to realize this now than it was then.

The Smith family on the day of Casey's birth

So Linda and I retired to the living room turned birthing room. I got her a little bit to eat – upon Kathryn’s recommendation - and we started timing the contractions. Backing up a little bit, over the last few weeks Linda and I have practiced relaxation techniques almost every night. The idea is that labor could be made a bit easier if the Mom could let go of the tension and pain of one contraction before the next one came along. So there we were with the timer, Linda was on her hands and knees (this was the most comfortable position for her), the contractions kept coming and we were working on keeping her as relaxed as possible between them.

Another little aside about positioning. One reason I now believe that homebirth is head and shoulders above anything a hospital could even think of providing (except as noted below), is the freedom it gives the woman in labor. When Linda was in labor with our firstborn they had her flat on her back for most of the time, in spite of the fact that it was an extremely uncomfortable position for her. She asked to be able to change positions, but to no avail. The hospital staff loved their gadgets and they had hooked several up to Linda and then said that she couldn’t be moved because of the gadgets. It was all so stupid and inconsiderate. Here is a good example: during both births the attendees monitored the baby’s heartbeat. In both cases – as is common – at some point during labor the baby’s heart rate started to dip a bit. Both sets of attendees said that we had to get more oxygen to the baby. The first time the gadget happy hospital staff slapped an oxygen mask onto my wife’s face and told here that the health of her baby depended on her keeping it there, scaring the shit out of her. To top it off, the oxygen mask was so uncomfortable that Linda had to take it off every few minutes so she could breathe. It was all so stupid. Contrast that with this experience: Kathryn noticed that the baby’s heart rate was dipping. She said that this often means that the baby has just moved around a bit and is now lying on top of the umbilical cord and that if Linda lay on her side things would be alright. Linda shifted a bit to her left side and sure enough the baby’s heart rate went back to normal. No oxygen, no mask, no scare tactics. (Of course, Kathryn had her 2 canisters of oxygen at the ready if they were needed.)

OK, I know that sometimes gadgets are needed, and sometimes traditional highly invasive medical techniques are needed. We were certainly ready to head to the hospital if needed, or to call an ambulance if needed. Also, sometimes a woman simply wants medical interventions such as pain medication. All that is well and good if needed or desired. It is just appalling to me how often modern medicine is shoved down our throats (sometimes literally) when it is neither needed nor desired. Here is something pulled off of the Wikipedia page for homebirth:

As one doctor described birth in a working class home in the 1920s: You find a bed that has been slept on by the husband, wife and one or two children; it has frequently been soaked with urine, the sheets are dirty, and the patient's garments are soiled, she has not had a bath. Instead of sterile dressings you have a few old rags or the discharges are allowed to soak into a nightdress which is not changed for days.

The first time I remember reading this I was disgusted, did they really mean that the main reason to go to a hospital and bring the full crushing weight of the medical profession on a poor woman is because the sheets are dirty? Wouldn’t it make a lot more sense to simply bring a clean sheet to the home? The article goes on to say that the medical profession thought hospital births are necessary because the lighting is better there. Now I realize that flashlight technology in the 20’s wasn’t what it is now, and many homes didn’t have electricity then, but it strikes me that in this day and age this excuse doesn’t hold up either. (Kathryn brought 2 powerful maglights, including a waterproof one in case Linda wanted to give birth in the tub, this was something that wasn’t available in the hospital our first time around).

Enough of the rant, we were in the birthing room and all the 20 or so candles were lit. That was the only light Linda wanted, so that is what we had. By about 9:15 we had a good solid half hour of contractions coming 3-5 minutes apart and lasting 30 seconds, so we called Kathryn back and she was here in about 5 minutes. A few minutes after that her assistant showed up. I, having read the “What to do if the baby arrives before the midwife” pamphlet several times, breathed as sigh of relief. We started filling the birthing tub and in a few minutes that is where Linda was. Except for bathroom trips that is where she stayed for the next four hours or so. Here is where my second thoughts about midwives surfaced again. During the entire time Linda was in the tub I was there with her, holding her hands, putting cold washcloths on her forehead and trying to coach her through the contractions and calm her in between. 90% of the time Kathryn and Sherri were there too helping Linda along, but about 1:00 am I remember looking over and they both were laying down with their eyes closed. I began to wonder if I was going to have to wake them up! No need to worry, it turns out they had done this many times before and knew the importance of resting when possible. The fact was they never once missed a scheduled check of the baby’s heartbeat (once every 15 minutes). Nor did they ever leave Linda wanting for anything or not check on her as needed. After 4-5 hours in the tub Linda was ready to lie down so we moved to the bed. Contractions continued to come and Linda eventually started pushing. The poor little guy was having trouble getting around a little ‘lip’ of her cervix so at around 3:30 Kathryn suggested we move to a birthing stool so gravity could help a little bit. From then on things moved very fast. Linda got on the stool and within 2 pushes Casey was well on his way (although at this point we still didn’t know if it was a Casey or a Molly). Here is were the most amazing transformation took place: So all night our midwives have been checking on Linda, checking on the baby’s heartbeat, doing their jobs, but when I looked at them I still saw two people in their jeans and t-shirts drinking their herbal tea and eating crackers and hummus by candlelight, thinking this is OK, but kind of low key. So Casey’s head comes out and his cord is wrapped around his neck. Yikes! Seemingly out of nowhere a tray of surgical instruments appears. Gone is the attitude of calm reassurance, in its place is practiced professionalism. Kathryn tells Linda to “Push Now!” and in an instant they have clamped the cord, cut it free of the baby’s neck and it was over. The rest of Casey came out and he was beautiful and healthy. Did I mention that when this happened one was attending to Linda while the other was filming the birth (this was also Linda’s preference)? Of course, when clamps were needed then the camera went down to the floor. I also need to say that having attended two births now there is not a single part of me that ever wants to watch a birth video.

As soon as Casey came out I held him while Kathryn and Sherry got Linda off the stool and cleaned up a bit. He was wet, wrinkly, a little blue in the extremities and beautiful. It was so amazing to hold the little guy when he wasn’t even 5 minutes old. Then, of course, he went to his mom. You would have thought Linda had a thousand candles behind her eyes, she was glowing so brightly.

And that is the story of Casey’s birth. Before Evelyn was born the staff at Cheshire Medical Center had promised that our preferences would be taken into account during labor. Of course, that was a bunch of bull. This time Linda was listened to, her preferences were respected and she couldn’t have been happier with the results. And we couldn’t be happier than we are with Casey.

Casey with his big sister on the day he was born, and the little guy 2 days later. (the blog keeps rotating this picture & I don't know how to fix it!)

Honorific

2009-07-20T14:19:00.003-05:00

Today I had occasion to be ordering something online from Harrods, the British department store. I got to the page where I had to enter my billing information. You know how most of these pages have a little dropdown box where you can pick from Mr, Mrs, Miss, Ms, and (usually) None? Well, this was the honorific list in the dropdown on the Harrods form:

Mr & Mrs

Miss

Baron

Baroness

Sheikh

The Honourable

The Right Honourable

Viscount

Viscountess

Begum (A Muslim woman of high rank, often a widow -- I had to look it up)

Brigadier

Captain

Commander

Colonel

Count

Countess

Dame

Doctor

Doctor & Mrs

Doctors

Earl

His Royal Highness

Her Royal Highness (Just in case the Queen is sitting at her computer and, you know, just has to order something from Harrods right now)

Judge

Lady

Wing Commander

Lord

Lieutenant

Lieutenant Commander

Lieutenant Colonel

Madam

Mademoiselle

Major

Monsieur

Prince

Princess

Professor

Reverend

I'm not making this up. Go to Harrods and toss something in your shopping cart and start the checkout process to see for yourself.

But, seriously (or not), a list this extensive cries out for mocking. For example, there's Her Royal Highness, but why isn't there a His Imperial Highness? I'm not sure there are any sitting emperors in the world right now, but you never can tell when one might sprout up and just have to order a stuffed bear. Also, what if the Pope suddenly needed to order from Harrods? Nary a His Holiness in sight. And he can't even delegate the job to a cardinal or bishop, as there is no Most Reverend, only a run-of-the-mill so-not-the-most Reverend.

I do like that Wing Commander made the list, but I find it odd, given that Britain built its empire and eminence on naval power, that Admiral was omitted. Do Admirals not shop at Harrods? Or does Harrods think that Admirals are not capable of placing orders online.

Finally, I must decry the social inequalities perpetuated on this list. For example, there's a Doctor & Mrs and a Doctors, but no Doctor & Mr (or would it be Mr & Doctor?). And gays are slighted, too. There's a Mr & Mrs for hetero couples, but nothing for gay couples (Messrs for two gay men or Mmes for a lesbian couple). Doesn't Harrods know that gays wield a lot of spending power?

Amazed

2009-07-15T15:23:00.001-05:00

I haven't posted to this blog in a long, long time. Bad blogger. I've been incredibly busy. Thanks to my brother for stepping in, as I'm sure he will again very soon, with news of their new arrival.

In the meantime, I do have something I've found fascinating, that I can blog about. First, you'll need some background: In 2001 I adopted a beagle named Andrea. We knew nothing about her except her name, that her previous owners had kept her tied by a rope in their yard, that she had frequently escaped, and that they dumped her at the Halifax Humane Society because the police were threatening to fine them if she escaped again. Oh, and we knew one more thing her previous owners didn't mention, but was very clear: At some point, probably during one of her escapes, she had been hit by a car and had her right front shoulder and elbow shattered. But this hadn't been treated, and so by the time I saw her, she held that leg tucked under and walked on just the remaining three.

The first thing I did was take her to a Veterinary Orthopedic Surgeon, who thought that it might not be too late to operate to reverse the injury. So Andrea went under the knife. But after she was opened up, the doctor saw that the injury was too old, and there was too much scar tissue to be able to do anything. So she sewed Andrea back up, and my poor girl spent the next forty-five days confined to her kennel -- hard on a free spirit like her -- even though she wasn't any better as a result.

The doctor went on to suggest amputation. I asked why. The doctor said, "Well, that has to hurt," but I disagreed. Andrea used her hurt leg to paw at me, to dig holes (she dug some seriously deep holes), and for other things besides walking. Also, there would be yet another forty-five days confined to the kennel, and I just couldn't bring myself to put her through that again so soon.

Fast forward eight years: We have no idea how old Andrea was when she came to live with me, but the doctors guessed between two and four, so now she's between ten and twelve. Getting on in years for a beagle. And while I didn't notice the day-by-day, gradual passage of change, even I have now noticed that Andrea's hurt leg bothers her more than it did in 201. She tucks it tighter against her chest and never uses it for anything. Once again I thought about amputation, but once again I find it hard to bring myself to that, now because of her age. So I was torn about what to do. Until one day I was at the vet's office and I noticed that one of the doctors there is also a certified veterinary acupuncturist.

Veterinary acupuncture? Really?

Really.

Being open-minded about Eastern modalities (I'm a Reiki practitioner myself), it occurred to me that Andrea might find some relief from acupuncture. We had a consultation with Dr. Craig, the acupuncturist. Dr. Craig said she was afraid she wouldn't be able to restore "full use of the leg" to Andrea. I was dumbfounded that she even considered it, and pointed out that if surgery eight years ago had been unable to restore the leg, acupuncture at this point was unlikely to do so. "All I want," I said, "is for her to find some relief."

"I can do that," said Dr. Craig.

I wasn't expecting miracles, but after just her second acupuncture treatment, Andrea was going out into the yard (there's a little step-down going out the door), and she actually set her right front foot on the ground to help steady herself!

That didn't really happen, I told myself.

But it did. Because she continued to put that foot down to steady herself every time she went out for the next several days.

Wowsers! She hasn't placed that foot on the ground in years!

She had her third treatment yesterday. We'll see how it goes. But so far, I've been amazed.

Homebirth 102

2009-07-11T12:11:00.004-05:00

Northern Bro again: Well, Linda is 6 days out from her due date, and although we don't expect the baby to come early (almost unheard of in her family) it still sent a shock through me when earlier this morning she says "Don't get excited, but I am having contractions". Like, how am I not supposed to get excited? She believed that they were braxton hicks, or false contractions and sure enough they faded pretty quickly. We are filling in the edges of being ready for our planned homebirth (it helps that our midwife is back from her 2 week Tennessee vacation). All the major pieces are in place, we are now just making sure the towels are well stocked, the bags are packed in case we have to go to the hospital and the birthing tub gets a shot of air every few days. The pictures below show Linda and Evelyn checking out the birthing tub; they found it quite comfy. The other picture shows our living room transformed into a birthing room. You can see the bed (sans plastic sheet that will go on later), comfy recliner, the tub, towels, and bowls (to put the placenta in). The cardboard box is the birth kit with antiseptics, gloves and other items. Now all we need is a baby.

Homebirth 101

2009-06-26T20:03:00.002-05:00

Northern bro checking in: Well, if all goes according to schedule, a rarity in Linda’s family where babies tend to come about 2 weeks late, then our newest arrival will make an appearance within the next month. Yikes!! Its strange – we feel both much more prepared for this arrival than the last and at the same time much less prepared. On the one hand we have a much better idea as to what to expect and what we will need. On the other hand, before Evelyn came along we could devote all our time to getting ready for the baby; we painted her room, assembled the crib, bought washed and folded onesies, diapers, etc. We were ready. This time, with a 3 year old to watch and experience under our belt we realize that folded diapers don’t stay that way, and a diaper straight from the clothesline is as good as a folded one anyway.

Of course, the fact that we have chosen homebirth complicates things a bit. Linda was keener on the idea than I. While nothing went terribly wrong with Evelyn’s birth, it was evident throughout the process that our preferences for the birthing process – and Linda had some very strong preferences – took a back seat to hospital regulations and the comfort of the hospital staff for as long as labor lasted. The bed they had Linda on for the final stages of delivery was so uncomfortable (no back support) that she still says that the periods between pushes were more painful than pushing. Not a good sign. So Linda was inclined to try homebirth from the beginning. Then, not to long after moving to our new home a year and a half ago she struck up a friendship with a woman who is… a naturopath and a midwife. Then we toured the local hospitals and saw our choices. That is where I came on board. The closest hospital was the one in which I was born all those years ago, and I swear they haven’t done anything to improve it in the intervening years.

So homebirth it is, and we are getting ready. We have had the orientation from the midwife. Our birth kit has arrived. A month ago I didn’t know what a birth kit was but – get this – you can place an on line order and viola, a few days later a box shows up that has all the antiseptics, latex gloves and other items I won’t mention needed to facilitate a home birth. We have the receiving blankets ready. The midwife is ready, complete with monitors, oxygen and who knows what else. We are in the process of turning the living room into a delivery room. We have the plastic sheets for the futon/bed that Linda will use when not in the birthing tub. Did I mention that we borrowed a birthing tub from another friend? Now all we have to do is figure out how to set it up….

I think if the baby were to arrive today we would be all set, even if a little startled by the early arrival. As Linda is fond of saying, pregnancy/birth is not a disease; there is not need to go to the place sick people go to when it is time to give birth. Of course, it doesn’t hurt that the hospital is less than 5 minutes away just in case.

Talk about an adventure.

Definition

2009-06-16T15:46:00.002-05:00

ERUCTILE DYSFUNCTION -noun An inability to burp

What a difference a letter makes.

Godspot

2009-06-11T07:42:00.002-05:00

While I'm on an "as heard on All Things Considered" kick (look back a few posts), several weeks ago they ran a series on the science of spirituality, and one of the segments was about an area in the brain that seems to be active when people experience visions or other spiritual revelations. It turns out that this area is stimulated by some mental illneases and produces symptoms such as seeing visions and hearing voices. One scientist has even invented a "God Helmet" that stimulates this area magnetically to create artificial visions. The speculation is that when ordinary people (meaning those without mental illness) have spiritual revelations, it's due to activity in this part of the brain, which has been nicknamed the Godspot.

One question that the ATC segment asked is whether this discovery calls into question the credibility of spiritual revelations -- whether or not revelations are merely expressions of mental disturbance in the Godspot. One scientist stated flatly that the Godspot "proves there is no God" (or words to that effect).

Really?

If you've been reading this blog for a while, you know I'm an atheist, so I don't have an axe to grind here, but at the same time I have trouble abiding stupidity and illogic. If I were a theist (which I'm not), the discovery of the Godspot wouldn't shake my faith in God. Rather the opposite: If no Godspot had been discovered, I would have considered that a challenge to belief in God's existence. The Godspot strengthens the argument for God's existence.

Why?

Well, let's look at an example vision. It doesn't matter which one -- let's take the angel's appearance to Mary to announce she would become pregnant with Jesus. Any vision will do, but we'll use this one:

Looking at this revelation from a theistic point of view, the angel is a supernatural manifestation. The angel exists in the supernatural world. However, when it's all over, Mary's experience of the angel resides in her memory -- a biological and chemical state in her brain which is natural, not supernatural. So what's happened is that the experience of the angel has bridged over from the supernatural world -- a world that Mary can't access under normal, every-day circumstances -- to the natural world -- the chemistry in Mary's mind. Since Mary herself is not a supernatural being and does not have supernatural senses, there has to be some mechanism that allows the supernatural manifestation to translate into a natural manifestation. Call this the "Natural/Supernatural Interface," or, since I'm a geek, the NSI.

Now, if you aren't thinking this completely through, you might say that there's no need for an NSI -- that God just "communicates." But that's simplistic. The end result of the communication is a chemical state in Mary's brain, and somehow that had to be brought about. That "somehow" is the NSI.

So, what is the nature of the NSI? Well, the simplest NSI that I can imagine is that the supernatural angel emits natural light and sound which is perceived by Mary's eyes and ears. So Mary sees and hears the angel the way she would a natural person. But there's a couple of reasons why God would consider this NSI to be subpar. First, we are very limited in the depth of experience that we can perceive through only sight and sound, and I assume that the supernatural world is even richer and more intense than our natural one, so relying only on sight and sound would require a big dumbing down of the supernatural experience. Also, we know from studies where groups of people are exposed to the same event and then asked what they saw that the experience of sight and sound is pretty unreliable; different people perceive the same scene differently, which hardly makes it a great choice for receiving God's communications.

Another possible NSI is that the supernatural being simply made the chemical changes necessary in Mary's brain so that she "remembered" experiencing the angel. But this seems awkward to me, especially for real-time communication, as Mary would have to first recall each step of the experience in order to form a response.

No, it seems to me that the most effective way for God to ensure that He and His supernatural agents could communicate with natural beings would be to provide a Godspot -- an area of the brain where the supernatural could "draw" the experience directly into the brain of the natural being, as on a slate or blackboard, but affecting many senses and on many levels. That God would create in us a Godspot makes perfect sense.

Well, you might say, if the Godspot is a Divine creation, then how does it become diseased (in people with delusional mental disorders)? Wouldn't God make it immune from disease and reserve it solely for his use?

Um... no. The Godspot is, after all, on the "natural side" of the Natural/Supernatural Interface, and so, like all natural things, it must be subject to disease. If it weren't, it would be, well... unnatural. It also makes perfect sense that the Godspot, being part of the natural brain, would be subject to artificial stimulation that would create false revelations.

So I would find vindication of my faith in the discovery of the Godspot. If I were a theist.

But I'm not.

Evelyn Update +

2009-06-07T19:57:00.004-05:00

There can be no denying that I have neglected posting notes of Evelyn’s development on this blog, and for that there are many excuses, and maybe even a reason or two. Suffice it to say that when Evelyn became mobile about 2 years ago we realized that the golden days when it was easy to keep track of her were all but gone. She is now a wonderful 3 year old who continues to brighten our lives, except now she is more akin to a firefly who flits from place to place than a candle providing light from a single location. Finding time to write is not as easy as it used to be.

Independence looms. We still, of course, accompany her to the neighborhood park, but this year she is just as likely to find some playmates to go down the slide with as she is to ask us to follow her from one device to the next. Every time I begin to tire of pushing her on the swing I remember that next year she probably won’t want Dad to push her on the swing anymore, and that will be not be good.

Of course, the big news is that in approximately 6 weeks she will become a big sister. (We are planning a homebirth, so I'll probably write about that soon). All is going well on that front, both Mom and the baby are doing well. Evelyn is also doing well. We are about 4 months in to reading her the ‘I’m about to become a big sister’ books that we collected a while back. We have been describing the joys of big sisterhood to her, and for the most part she is looking forward to it. About once a week she tells us that a ‘little tiny baby’ is coming to live with us while holding her thumb and forefinger about half an inch apart. We tell her the baby won’t be quite that little. It is so interesting to see her regress a bit, which we hear is very common. She occasionally sticks a pacifier in her mouth (something she NEVER did as a baby), taking it out to tell us “I’m a little baby”. It is very cute.

Speaking of cute, occasionally I still have to sing her to sleep and recently I have been singing songs to her that she doesn’t know to minimize the chance that she will sing along, and thus stay awake longer. The result, or course, is that she has now learned most of the words to both “American Pie” and “City of New Orleans”. So this evening we came back from a drive and I was carrying her across the driveway to the front door when she belts out at the top of her lungs “…and the good old boys are drinking whiskey and rye, singing this’ll be the day that I die”. As Linda says, we will have a lot of explaining to do next time we bring her to a sing-a-long at the city library.

Underdogishere's Fourth Annual Welcome to Hurricane Season

2009-06-01T09:41:00.004-05:00

Those of you that have been reading this blog for a while (I think there's one of you) may remember that I have an annual tradition called the Renaming of the Storms. It started in 2006, when I realized that the official system of naming hurricanes is boring and just plain lacking in imagination. Since then I've been proposing alternative names, each sharing a common theme. We've had the Season of Cheeses (2006), the Season of Greek Gods (2007), and the Season of Flowers (2008). (Click here to see my previous hurricane-related posts.) My names are designed to be not only interesting, but educational. And this year's group promises to be the most educational and thought-provoking yet:

Ladies and gentlemen, on this, the first day of the 2009 Hurricane Season, I bring you...

...The Season of Mayan Gods.

The Mayans had a really startling pantheon -- startling at least to those of us reared on tamer European gods. But the Mayan gods are an especially appropriate choice, because the word hurricane is derived from the name of their god of gale force winds, Huracan, who also represents H on this year's list.

I've included what these were gods (or goddesses) of, and many make great hurricane names -- check out Muan, "messenger bearing unwelcome tidings," for example. And after the hurricane is past, you can always de-stress with Ekchauh, god of chocolate.

Here we go:

Acan (wine and intoxicating beverages), Bacabs (four giant brothers who hold up the four corners of the sky), Chiccan (four rain serpents -- Gods of Rain), Dubdo (corn), Ekchuah (chocolate), Frog-God (frogs?), Gucumatz (agriculture), Huracan (gale force winds, root of our word hurricane), Ixpiyacoc (creator), Jurupari (a god from the Tupi people of the Amazon: tried and failed to create a totally male-dominated world), Kawil (lightning and fire), Lahunpel (sacrifices), Muan (messenger bearing unwelcome tidings), Ndoyet (death and sacred objects), Oxlahuntiku (thirteen-gods-in-one of the Upper World), Pichana-Gobeche (healing), Quiabelagayo (pleasure and pain), Ramac (an Inca god: "He who speaks"), Sotz (bats), Tohil (fire), Uayeb (five unlucky days), Votan (warfare and death), Wonomi (from the Maidu people of California: creator), Xquic ("Miss Blood"), Yaluk (lightning), Zipacna (Earth's crust)

I wasn't happy with F (Frog-God -- apparently the Mayan name for him is unknown), but that was the only F I had. Also, I had to raid other Native American cultures for J (Tupis), I (Incas), and W (Maidus), because the Mayans didn't have any good candidates of their own. But aside from that, how great is Uayeb -- god of five unlucky days? I've been through hurricanes like that. And isn't it interesting that the same god, Quiabelagayo, is the god of both pleasure and pain? I can see lots of interesting discussions in classrooms all along the Florida penninsular and the Gulf Coast. Also interesting pronounciations -- exactly how do you say Xquic anyway?

Many thanks to the awesome Web site God Checker, which documents thousands of gods, goddesses, and god-lets from scores of religions and cultures. Check them out while you wait for Hurricane Acan, and, oh, by the way, be sure to stock up on hurricane supplies like wine and intoxicating spirits!

The Front Page Test

2009-05-25T06:56:00.001-05:00

My employer makes us take a series of on-line training classes every year. The classes cover topics like the company's diversity policy, and protecting intellectual property. One of the classes is about business communication. It includes tips on what constitutes "proper" business communication, and what is not proper, but of course it's impossible to cover every possible need to communicate, so one of the broad guidelines that the course includes is the Front Page Test. The Front Page Test is, very simply, this: Would you feel comfortable if what you're writing appeared on the front page of the newspaper? Because, you know, it's only a subpoena away from doing just that.

The Front Page Test always made a lot of sense to me. Let's say I'm writing an email message to a colleague, and I type, It doesn't matter if this feature in our product works or not, since we're only adding it because the customer's CEO is a retarded bonehead. Hmmm. On the front page of the newspaper? Okay, delete that.

Then a couple weeks ago I was listening to an interview on All Things Considered with one of the psychologists (or psychiatrists -- I didn't get which, but definitely an MD) who developed the torture techniques used by the US on terrorist suspects. As you know, doctors are supposed to heal people, not pioneer ways to do them harm. I think they may even take some sort of oath to that effect. When the interviewer asked this particular doctor about that , the doctor who helped refine torture techniques said something to the effect of, "My patient is the United States, the people of the United States. That's who I'm helping. I don't care about the physical or mental well-being of the person being interrogated. He means nothing to me. I don't care about him at all."

Of course there's the obvious arrogance of this statement, beginning with the assumption that anyone who is tortured using the techniques this doctor developed has been implicitly anointed as deserving of torture, without any consideration of his well-being, even though there is no impartial review of evidence, much less a fair trial*. But beyond the arrogance, there's also the question that, having, as a doctor, departed from the code of ethics that defines what is and is not right for doctors -- heal, not harm -- then how does such a rogue doctor decide what is unethical and what is not? If you are promoting harm, how do you know how much harm is too much?

The interviewer asked the doctor this question, something like this: Given that you are studying, as a doctor, the best ways to cause people the greatest harm, then how do you know when to draw the line? How do you decide what is right and what is wrong?

The doctor answered that he and his colleagues used the "Front Page Test": We asked ourselves, would we be comfortable seeing what did on the front page of a major newspaper?

Ah! I thought. The Front Page Test! I remember that from my company training. It seemed reasonable.

Well, continued the reporter, now your work is on the front page of every newspaper, so how do you feel?

And the doctor replied that...

...he felt completely comfortable. Fully vindicated. Not ashamed in the least.

In that instant I realized that the Front Page Test is worthless. Completely worthless. Because it relies entirely on the judgment of the applier, and there will always be some, like this doctor, who will rationalize however they must to make themselves feel vindicated. The test is actually worse than worthless, because while perhaps most people can apply the Test correctly, to the rationalizers who can't, it reverses and a becomes a shield for unethical or even evil activity. It's an easy defense of immorality.

Of course, torture isn't a part my my day-to-day life, so I thought about how this lesson might apply to my own company. I thought about the email example above: It doesn't matter if this feature in our product works or not, since we're only adding it because the customer's CEO is a retarded bonehead. I asked myself, "Self," I said, "is there anyone at our company that you know who would not only approve that message using the Front Page Test, but, if it actually did appear on the front page of the newspaper, would be happy to see it there?"

It didn't take me two seconds to think of the first employee: A first-line engineer who would not only send something like that, but if it appeared on the front page, would boast about it -- I can see him saying, "It's true, and someone needs to tell that customer's CEO the way it is, and I'm the only one who had the guts to do it!" He'd be proud.

Just like the torturing doctor is proud.

The Front Page Test, is only as good as any single human's nature. Unfortunately, as the torturing doctor has shown us, that's not enough.

* Perhaps the doctor is convinced that his torture techniques give their wielders a superhuman window into the human soul that allows them to separate the evil from the innocent.

Showstopper

2009-05-18T15:11:00.002-05:00

On Saturday Judi and I went to the Cocoa Beach Art and Craft show, and we took her new little beagle, Stormi, with us. She was a showstopper. I lost count of how many children came up and asked if they could pet the puppy. One woman was so taken that she told her son to "Forget about the dachshund and the jack russell, we're getting one of these," and then said to her husband, pointedly, "If you ever loved me, you'll get me one of these."

While Judi was browsing in one booth, the proprietor at the next booth called Stormi over. "Can I pick her up?" she asked. I noticed she was wearing white slacks.

"Her feet are dirty," I said. "It'll get all over your clothes."

"I don't care," she said, scooping Stormi into her lap. "I just have to hold her."

Stormi took all the celebrity in stride.

We had lunch at Murdock's, which is a nice place in Cocoa Village that has outdoor seating for people with dogs (that's Judi, and Stormi is in her stroller):

By the way, we had to explain to everyone about blue-ticked beagles.

Here are some more pictures of the little showstopper:

Kiss the Pig: Outcome

2009-05-02T20:39:00.002-05:00

About a month-and-a-half ago, in this post, I announced that I was taking part in a contest to see who among fifteen contestants -- fourteen managers and me -- could raise the most money for the American Cancer Society's Relay for Life and, in doing so, earn the right to kiss a pig. Specifically, a pig named Wanda Jean.

In that post I lamented that all of my competitors, being managers, had subordinates who would rally around to donate to see their boss kiss a pig, while I had no employees to hate me so much. I lamented... but, dear reader, in my heart of hearts, I didn't think it would be such a big deal. I mean, some employees would empty their pockets of spare change to see their managers kiss a pig, but surely I coud match that!

I had no idea what I was getting into.

The employees of these managers didn't simply empty their pockets. They ran bake sales, book sales, popcorn sales. They held silent auctions and rubber-ducky drawings. One awesome employee raised hundred of dollars selling her hand-made bracelets (you go, Bobbie! And kudos to Manager Dave --everyone knows how great you were). And more. They went all out.

I despaired. How could I, a lowly worker with no employees to despise me, compete against this kind of passion and organization?

I thought and thought, but ideas come to me slowly, dear readers. And, honestly, I didn't want to follow the model of the managers who were competing against me, who, almost to a man-and-woman, didn't lift a finger to raise money for themselves. Most just went about their daily manager-business and let their employees do all the heavy lifting. (Most, but not all -- Nabeel, you rock!) I wanted to feel as though I deserved the money I raised.

I confess I did allow Ronnie to raise money for me by selling Easter baskets. But I did get a lot of donations just because I was me (thank you Mike and Paul!). And some of my coworkers dumped their daily change into by Kiss-a-Piggy-bank (thank you Tammy!).

And then I began to have ideas of my own. Or rather, we did. First, the Princess offered to help by selling dog treats to remind everyone that pets need a cure, too:

To be honest, I was a little nervous that people who had lost family members to cancer would be offended that I was putting canine cancer on a par, but in the end many people thanked me for calling attention to cancer in animals, and telling me how they had lost a beloved pet.

Then Judi kicked in to my cause by contributing her timeshare week in Daytona for a raffle. Unfortunately we rolled this out with only a couple of weeks to go in the contest, but it did very well just the same.

The cutoff for the contest was Tuesday, April 21st. The announcement of the winner was to be on the 22nd, Earth Day. But... there was one final twist:

On Wednesday the 22nd, all fifteen contestants -- the fourteen managers and me -- would sit together with Wanda Jean, while all the employees in the plant would gather around, and the totals of dollars raised would be announced. And then...

...there would be one last appeal for donations, and at that time any last-minute contributions to anyone's campaign would be added to their totals from Tuesday. Then the final winner would be announced.

I arrived that Wednesday morning anxious to see where I stood in the tally. I was in fifth place. Honestly, I was happy. It had been a huge struggle against the managers and their massed employees, and to be ahead of ten of the fourteen managers was something, I thought, to be proud of. In the very beginning I had wanted to win, but facing the odds that I faced after that, fifth felt pretty good. Fifth place meant I had raised almost $700 -- more than half of that from the raffle of Judi's timeshare week.

By the way, first place that Wednesday morning belonged to a manager named Bernard, who had made it known far and wide that he loathed the idea of kissing a pig. This, of course, had made him a donation magnet. He had more than $1,200.

So then the appointed time arrived, and hundreds of us gathered by the pond in the middle of our complex:

Wanda Jean was there:

The fifteen of us sat facing the crowd. Bernard was so desperate that he was holding his checkbook in hand, ready to write a big one if he needed to. Our totals to that point were called out. I was, as we know, in fifth place, and Bernard in first, $500 ahead of me. The appeal was made about last-minute contributions. Envelopes were passed around. Three volunteers sat at a table opening the envelopes and retotaling the standings. The results were passed up to the announcer.

The results were announced from lowest to highest, in true Miss America tradition. The managers who couldn't even raise $300 were disposed of quickly -- I mean, what's wrong with you wimps? We worked our way up to eighth place... seventh... sixth.... As we got to fifth, I expected to hear my name, but...

...I didn't. Another contestant was in fifth now.

So someone had made a contribution for me. It needn't have to be big, because $20 would have put me ahead of of number four, which is where I expected to be, but...

...number four was someone else.

Wow! I had had one or more big last-minute contributions. There were only three of us left now: Me, Bernard, and Andy. I was expecting to hear my name next -- it would have taken a $500 contribution for me to surpass Bernard -- but insanely I still held hope in my heart. And then they announced the third-place winner:

Bernard!

This was the manager who was terrified to kiss the pig (as you will remember), and hearing the announcement that he had lost the contest sent him into a paryoxsm. He jumped out of his seat and clapped and danced around and around.

All this action (captured on video), gave me a chance to reflect: There were only two of us now. Me, and Andy. Neither of us had been in the lead before. Obviously, we had both had major last-minute contributions. Which one of us would it be? This was so not how I had been expecting things to turn out just a half-hour before. I wasn't even sure I was still breathing.

After Bernard calmed down, they announced:

"The second place funds raised, with $1,700, is...

...Greg Smith!"

Oh... and Wow!

Oh... I didn't win. Instantly, all the attention focused on Andy, and I was like first runner-up at Miss America: Ignored.

But Wow! I came in second! By less than $100! Someone donated, at the last moment, $1,000 to my cause -- I went from almost-$700 to almost-$1,700 just like that. From fifth to second, and really close to first.

Wow!

Although I didn't win, I'm really pleased to have done so well. It was way better than I expected as the fund-raising was going on. Who was the benefactor who wrote that last $1,000 check? I don't know. Ronnie insists that whoever she is, she wants to remain anonymous.

Thank you to everyone who helped me out along the way: Anonymous Benefactor, my home-girls Judi and Princess Sunni, Ronnie, Tammy, Mike, Paul, and everyone else. It was a great ride, for a great cause:

"New Hampshire Senate Passes Gay Marriage Bill"

2009-04-30T06:51:00.002-05:00

I am so proud of my birth state!

It seems especially dramatic because I remember that when I was growing up there, it was one of the most radically, virulently conservative states in the Union. The state's banner newspaper, the Manchester Union Leader was run by the poisonous, vindictive, and just plain vile conservative William Loeb, a man Faux News -- oh, I'm sorry, Fox News -- would be honored to have on its payroll today.

I'm sure Mr. Loeb is spinning in his coffin today, and all I can say to that is this:

Is there any way we can harness his spinning to generate green electricity?

Rock on, New Hampshire! Lead the way.

Baked mashed potatoes. (And an interesting butterfly photo.)

2009-04-20T10:07:00.004-05:00

Judi hasn't made mashed potatoes for a while, so she decided to put them on the menu for Easter Sunday. But instead of boiling the potatoes, she decided to bake them -- baked mashed potatoes.

They were awesome.

No, this blog isn't going to turn into the Food Network, but I do want to post the recipe, because they turned out so great:

She started with a bag of plain-white-trash potatoes. We washed them, and then rubbed their skins first with butter, and then with salt. Then we individually wrapped each one, tightly, in a sheet of aluminum foil.

Judi baked the potatoes at 400 degrees for an hour and a half, and then turned off the heat and left them in the oven for another two hours, just to make sure they were good and soft. While baking, a great deal of the salt oozed out of the foil wrappers and made a huge mess in the bottom of the oven. So...

Note for next time (or for you): Bake foil-wrapped potatoes on a cookie sheet, to contain the mess.

Anyway, I cut the still-hot but very soft potatoes into rough cubes, and Judi mashed them. The flavor was terrific! I don't think we'll ever make boiled mashed potatoes again. You can add milk for traditional mashed, but Judi "loaded" hers with sharp cheddar cheese, crumbled bacon, and sour cream. Gosh they were good!

BTW, we did all this on Saturday, the day before Easter, and just had to heat them in the microwave for Easter dinner, which was a lot less stressful than trying to make them on Easter.

Heads up: There's a great Photo of the Day today over on Judi's Butterfly site, JudiButterflies.com. As you may know, a Monarch chrysalis turns clear just before the butterfly emerges, and today we have a photo of a chrysalis that's half turned clear, but still remains half opaque. In case you don't get to it until "tomorrow" and the Photo of the Day has changed, you can see all the past Photos of the Days by clicking on "Photos of the Day" under "Photo Galleries" over on the right of her site.

Twitter-ers

2009-04-17T06:26:00.002-05:00

Those who twitter have
discovered haiku. Only
now? Such a great fit!

And a reminder that butterfly posts have moved to JudisButterflies.com, where new posts are being posted. The most recent descibes a successful operation to repair a butterfly's broken wing. Take a look!

A big Easter surprise!

2009-04-12T19:04:00.003-05:00

World, meet Stormi!

Stormi, meet the world.

Yes, on this day when we celebrate rebirth, after a season of death and despair, we are announcing that Judi has a new beagle puppy, a blue-ticked beagle (different from the usual tricolored beagle) named Stormi. Stormi is a little bundle of charm, nerve, confidence, attitude, temper, and... oh yes... love. She clearly believes she owns the world. Perhaps she does. But she's more than willing to share it with the rest of us. And she loves everyone. You included.

How, you ask, could Judi bring a new beagle into her life so soon after losing her most beloved Princess Sunni? Well, that's a good question. Unfortunately, the answer, while wonderful and uplifting, is too revealing to post here, and so to see it you will have to jump to my other blog that I mentioned a while back. To read that story, click here. You will need to be approved to read that blog (reason explained in the aforementioned post), but if you would like to be approved, all you need to do is ask. Click here and send me a message. That's all you need to do. I will approve you (as long as you're not Certain Someone). I promise.

And here's another picture:

Many more will follow. I promise.

Drumroll, please....

2009-04-07T18:06:00.003-05:00

If you've been a follower of this blog, you know that for the past year Judi has been in a passion about butterflies. I've posted from time to time on this blog -- very very inadequately -- about this passion, but Judi has so much more to say, not only in blog posts but in photographs and links to other sites and descriptions of her gardens and... well, lots of stuff, that...

...she now has her own Web site:

JudisButterflies.com

Yay, Judi!

I invite you to click on over and take a look. Not everything is working yet. Actually, probably most is not working yet. But the big pieces are there:

There's a blog, called Updates From the Garden. All butterfly posts from this blog have been migrated over there (that was a lot of work), and you can subscribe to a feed if you're that kind of person (as I am). It will be updated frequently, and to entice you, there's a new post there right now which is not on this blog, so you have to click over there to read it, about Polydamas caterpillars and a Big Surprise. Go read it!

There's a Photo of the Day, which will change every day, and will always be stunning, I promise.

There's a Guestbook, where you can leave your comments. Thanks! We love comments.

Other bits work, and more will be added day by day, as I dig into it. This is my first Web site that I've built using a Content Management System (CMS in geek-ronym), and the learning curve has been kind of steep. Take into account that I am an old dog, and you know what they say about old dogs and steep curves, and you'll get my drift, but I can see the top of the hill. If you run into any problems, please please send me a message at greg at judisbutterflies you-know-the-punctuation-mark com. And let me know what kind of computer and browser you're using, because a lot of times it's just that I didn't test that feature on that browser.

Thank you!

And do visit Judi's Butterfly site. A visit is guaranteed to move you up several spots on Santa's "Nice" list for next Christmas.

Phishing in Phrench

2009-03-26T08:13:00.003-05:00

Now I'm getting phished for in languages I don't even understand:

Subject: S'il vous plaît rétablir votre compte d'accès

Chers membres PayPal: Attention Votre compte PayPal a ete limite !

Dans le cadre de nos mesures de securite, Nous verifions regulierement l'activite de l'ecran PayPal.
Nous avons demande des informations a vous pour la raison suivante:

Notre systeme a detecte que votre compte PayPal utuliser sur plusieurs adresses ip differentes que la votre,nous avons essaye de vous contactez sur votre mobile sauf que vous etiez injoignable.apparament vous etes victime de fraude internet.

Numero de Reference: DK-129-158-XN (Tentative de fraude)
gardez cette references.

C'est le dernier rappel pour vous connecter a PayPal, le plus tot possible.

Une fois que vous serez connecter. PayPal vous fournira des mesures pour retablir l'acces a votre compte.

une fois connecte, suivez les etapes pour activer votre compte .et veuillez marquer un numero de telephone valide,car des que nous receverons vos informations l'un de nos agents vous appelera pour verifier avec vous les dernieres utulisations de votre carte de credit.Si vous constatez le moindre defauts sa sera pris en compte et vous serez rembourser par virement bancaire

Cliquer ici pour commencer la verification
Nous vous remercions de votre grande attention a cette question. S il vous plait comprenez que c'est une mesure de securite destinee a vous proteger ainsi que votre compte. Nous nous excusons pour tout inconvenient..

Departement de revue des comptes PayPal

Copyright c 1999-2009 PayPal. Tous droits reserves.

PayPal (Europe) S.a r.l. & Cie, S.C.A.
Societe en Commandite par
Actions
Siège social : 5eme etage 22-24 Boulevard Royal L-2449,
Luxembourg
RCS Luxembourg B 118 349

Email PayPal numero PP086

I assume this is a phishing expedition, because the link (removed above) to "Cliquer ici pour commencer la verification" (whatever that means) is clearly a phishing site.

Sorry, French dudes. Even if I took your bait, I can't read the labels on the form, so I don't know what personal information to spill to you in what fields.

Polydamus Swallowtail sighting! And laying!

2009-03-25T15:06:00.002-05:00

Today we watched a Polydamus Swallowtail lay eggs on the Dutchmen's Pipevine!

How grand!

To top it off, I inspected another pipevine and found a lot more eggs. I mentioned this in an earlier post, but the Polydamus is unique among butterflies in that she lays her eggs in bunches, rather than singly and scattered. The caterpillars move together in bunches, too. The reason for this is not known for certain, but one theory is that they are trying to appear like a single, much larger creature, to make them less appetizing for predators.

Judi's, of course, don't need to worry about predators: They've already been placed in protective custody. She expects to have Polydamus Swallowtails to release at some point, after having raised some truly ugly caterpillars. You can see a picture of one of her earlier Polydamus butterflies in this post, and some pictures of their truly ugly caterpillars here.

In other news, Monarch eggs are hatching in the milkweed gardens, and Judi has been harvesting a half-dozen or so Monarch caterpillars every day. Lots and lots of Monarchs on the horizon....

Sign, sign, everywhere a sign

2009-03-23T19:57:00.003-05:00

This is the northern bro who, upon seeing the most recent entry by the southern bro fought and then gave into the urge to note a sign that we saw over the weekend.

Neither my wife nor I are fans of big box stores. With book stores in particular we will often browse in the mega-stores and then go to the locally owned independent bookstore to order our books. It is the least we can do to support those hardworking souls who keep our communities alive and vibrant.

So we both got a kick this weekend when we saw the sign posted on the back of the door leading out of the lower level of the excellent Millworks used book store in Montague MA (the slogan of which is "10,000 books you don't need in a place you can't find"). The sign read:

"If you must steal then steal from Barnes and Noble"

Seen, on a bumper sticker....

2009-03-23T03:58:00.003-05:00

Imagine a day when our schools are fully funded, and the Air Force has to hold a bake sale to pay for a bomber.

Imagine....

The Waters of March

2009-03-16T11:27:00.001-05:00

This weekend we saw multiple Gulf Fritillaries flying in the gardens. Yay! Spring has definitely arrived. And a week or so ago Judi saw a Giant Swallowtail -- our first spotting of this enormous (at first Judi thought it was a bird) butterfly in her gardens. She has three citrus trees -- host plant for the Giant Swallowtail -- so we hope to see more.

Speaking of Spring, I received this email message from my brother in New Hampshire. He could have posted this himself, but didn't, as he explains below. However I did get his permission to post this in his name:

I was going to post this to your blog but couldn't do it as we now live too far from Smith College....

You see, although I do enjoy the change of seasons, every year about this time I, and everyone else around here, gets really tired of winter, white snow, hibernating trees, etc. When we lived in Vermont we were just an hour's drive from Smith College and their wonderful collection of greenhouses. They have about half a dozen huge greenhouses, one is done up as a tropical rainforest, another is a temperate forest, then there is an orchid room, fern room, etc. It was a good cure for the late winter blues since I could go there and pretend, just for an afternoon, that the world was not cold and dead.

Well, now since we can't easily drive to Smith College your website fills that void. I have enjoyed the butterfly updates at so many levels. As we sit up here in this cold white dead world it is very reassuring to know that somewhere there is new life. I just couldn't bring myself to pollute the experience by posting something about snow, so instead of posting my thoughts I’ve sent you this email.

It's March, which means that every warm day I sing a verse or two from one of my favorite songs, The Waters of March (I have the Susannah McCorkle version, I am sure there are many):
And the riverbank sings of the waters of March,
It's the promise of life, it's the joy in your heart
I am convinced that the song is about the coming of spring; that the waters of March are the waters of melting snow which does indeed bring the promise of life and joy to the heart, just like your butterfly pictures. My belief is not shaken by my recent discovery that the song was written in the southern hemisphere. Oh well....

So last weekend it was 65 degrees on Saturday. We took our chairs out to the driveway and let Evelyn walk around in 'bare piggies' as we call them. Here is a picture of her working away at the pile created by months of snowblowing, and the moisture on the driveway? That's the waters of March.

And just for kicks, a picture of Evelyn helping her mom at the stove.

Evelyn and the Bare Piggies

Evelyn and Mom Cooking

Help me kiss the pig

2009-03-09T09:32:00.003-05:00

My employer is supporting the American Cancer Society's Relay For Life campaign, and one of the fundraising events is a competition among fifteen employees to see who can raise the most donations for the cause. The one who raises the most money gets the prize, which is... er...

...he (or she) has to kiss a pig.

Wanda Jean - Isn't she cute?

Yes, the local organizers have procured the services of a porcine beauty named Wanda Jean, and the candidate who raises the most money is required to give her a big smooch, in front of the entire workforce and recorded on video for posterity and YouTube.

Dear readers, I am proud to say that I am one of the fifteen candidates. And I'm crazy enough to say that I want to kiss the pig.

Why, you ask? Well, there's the glory. That's a draw. More important, though, we recently lost Princess Sunni to cancer, and so I have a special, personal motivation, because research into human cancers carries over to canine oncology. So go me!

Except.... There's one small problem. Of the fifteen candidates vying to kiss the pig, fourteen are managers. Only one is not. Guess who: Me. You can see that this puts me at a huge disadvantage: All fourteen of my competitors have employees who work for them, and these employees are highly motivated to donate so they can force their to boss kiss a pig. I mean, who wouldn't get a lot of satisfaction out of watching their boss kiss a pig? I, on the other hand, am a lowly helot with no subordinates to lord over, so I don't have anyone who reviles me enough to donate.

At least, I don't think I do.

So you can see my dilemma.

Dear readers, I know finances are tight out there, and times are tough, but if you can see it in both your heart and your wallet to donate a few bucks to help me defeat those oily-voiced, shifty-eyed managers and earn the right to kiss the pig, I would be grateful. Again, I know times are tight, so I don't want to pressure anyone. Just if you are able.

If you want to donate $10.00 or more, you can give directly to Relay For Life (link and instructions in a moment), but Relay for Life requires a $10.00 minimum, and so for those of you who can't go that high I've set up a PayPal account at RelayForLife@beaglewriter.com, and you can use PayPal to send me as little as you like. Believe me, no donation is too micro. You'll have to trust me, but I promise that all Paypal donations will be converted to cash and stuffed in my "piggy bank" collection jar at work. Just go to PayPal and "Send Money" to RelayForLife@beaglewriter.com.

On the other hand, if you can spare $10.00 or more, then you can also donate directly through Relay for Life's Web site. Go to this link: http://main.acsevents.org/goto/Smooch. Here you will see a picture of Wanda Jean, and also a list of the fifteen candidates, including me, Greg "The People's Choice" Smith. Click on the "Donate" button. For some reason, you must type my name -- which is "Greg Smith" -- in both the Recognition Name and Personal Note boxes on the donation form -- I don't know why, but it sounds like bad software engineering to me. Remember: Greg Smith.

Thank you! Even if you can't donate, I would appreciate your well wishes. I would appreciate your well wishes even more if I knew about them because you left them in the comments on this post. Thanks again. I'll keep you posted. :)

What a difference a year makes

2009-03-07T20:51:00.003-05:00

Today the local university, Florida Institute of Technology, sponsored its annual Botanical Fest. It was at last year's Botanical Fest that Judi conceived the idea that she wanted to plant a butterfly garden, and purchased her very first butterfly plants. At the end of that day, just a year ago, all we had were a bunch of plants in pots, for which Judi had paid too much (we were just learning), sitting on her deck. That was it.

Now, a year later, we have Butterfly Garden 1, Butterfly Garden 2, Butterfly Garden 3 (aka the Native Garden), Milkweed Gardens 1 and 2, the Herb Garden, a couple of grass gardens, a bed of bidens pilosa, a bed of Partridge Peas (where, just this past week, I watched a Cloudless Sulphur lay eggs), an extensive series of plantings in a Shade Garden (hoping to attract Zebra Longwings), and three citrus trees (Giant Swallowtail hosts). Not to mention the huge mesh enclosure that houses an entire Cassia tree in a pot, and numerous smaller mesh and screen houses that shelter plants, caterpillars, and butterflies when needed.

Since Judi started with nothing more than that assortment of overpriced plants in pots on her deck a year ago, she has raised and released 359 butterflies, comprising nine different species.

On the one had it seems like she has come so far. On the other, it seems like she's just getting started....

Some Sulfurs

2009-03-05T13:10:00.000-05:00

The yellow Sulfurs haven't been emerging in the same volume as the Monarchs, but there's still been a bunch of them. This is a Cloudless Sulfur on Judi's fingers:

And for her next trick, Judi has two Cloudless Sulfurs on her fingers at the same time!

It's very hard to get pictures of the overwings of a Sulfur, because they typically fold their wings at the instant they land, and so the overwings are only visible when they're in flight. But we did manage to get a picture of the overwings of this Orange Barred Sulfur. The underwings don't have any orange markings, so when you see these flying, they flicker orange, as the wings open and close:

Monarchs, Monarchs Everywhere

2009-03-05T13:03:00.001-05:00

Judi has released scores of Monarchs over the last couple of months. Here's a crowd of caterpillars devouring a milkweed (remember you can click on any of these pictures to see a large version):

Some of the favorite places for the caterpillars to forms chrysalises are the roofs of the mesh enclosures that Judi uses to protect them:

When chrysalises can't be left in their original locations, for whatever reason, they are transferred to skewers, and the butterflies emerge there, too:

Four newly emerged Monarchs hanging in a row:

And finally, I like this picture of a male Monarch (look on the lower wings -- see that black dot in the veining on each side? That's how you know it's male) on Judi's rainbow jammies:

I just like this picture...

2009-03-05T12:28:00.001-05:00

...of a Black Swallowtail in the sunshine: