An image of peace and hope

This photo by Doug Plummer is about as beautiful an image as I've seen on the web in a long time.

Writing

There's no one doing lifestyle blogging on the web today who I'd rather read than Wil Wheaton.

He has the true writer's gift of making the everyday fascinating. Everyone's had the experience of looking at the commonplace and perceiving something special; the frustration comes when you try to share that experience with a reader or listener. The professional writer can do it; the truly gifted writer can do it in a way that seems effortless.

Wil Wheaton got me so excited about poker (he plays competitively, and recently wiped out spectacularly at a high stakes game in Vegas) that I'm activly looking for a weekly poker game in Ballard.

In this blog entry, Wheaton writes about writing in as down-to-earth a way as I've seen in a long time. He shares with the late Northwest writer Stephanie Feeney the even rarer gift of writing well with a positive tone. So much "postive" writing comes across gushy, superficial and Pollyannish. It's much easier for an aspiring writer to sound clever and incisive while carping and whining than to get it together to praise something -- just compare the shrillings of The Seattle Weekly and The Stranger with balanced understatement of The New Yorker or The New York Times Magazine.

Hiatus

The Mysterious Traveler will be on hiatus for a few days while she spends most of her waking hours on hold with Qwest tech support so they can once again assure her that they have no idea why, after their Internet service went down and they grudging admitted it was their fault and restored it, her 1500Kbps downloads are now running at 64Kbps.

Put your cat to work as a sundial

In the summer, our cat Betaille starts on the far left of the semi-circular bench seating in the morning, then follows the shade of the wisteria, reaching the midpoint of the seating by 2 p.m., as illustrated below:

If your cat is too lazy to follow the sun, here's a solution from the Halfbakery.

Inspiration for your next barbecue

African Tales.

Snore-cancelling headphones

Under the competitive influence of two gadget-obsessed colleagues I bought a pair of Bose noise-cancelling headphones for listening to music and DVDs while flying. They're quite extraordinary. Supposedly, they adjust to address and cancel whatever ambient noise is around you, then deliver your audio. Whatever it is they do, it works — to the point that if you just power them up in a crowded exhibition hall, you make your head an oasis of soothing quiet.

(To earphone novices, noise-cancelling earphones rely on battery power to generate the noise-cancelling effect.)

Turns out, Bose headphones also work to cancel out the sounds of nearby snoring. Sounds you might otherwise compare to a snorting bull about to flatten everything in his path are dimmed down to resemble the purring of a big, contented cat.

The only problem I've found with wearing the Bose headphones to bed is that I have to sleep on my back. But at least I'm sleeping.

Worse came to worse

I saw my neighbor's daughter and son-in-law stop by his house today and I went over to see how he was doing at the hospital. The daughter said they have decided that he will go from the hospital (where he went after another fall) to a nearby nursing home, and stay there. They don't want him to come home again because he's so physically fragile.

After they left, I looked over at his house, with his car parked out front, and the confused cat sitting on the front steps, and I felt very strange. It gave me an inkling of what it must have been like in Nazi Germany, or Poland, when your Jewish neighbors were taken away to a concentration camp. Of course Steve will not be humiliated, or tortured, or killed. But he was taken away against his will, and he won't won't be coming back.

I suspect Steve had been hoping that he'd die of a heart attack out in his backyard, among his raspberry bushes, or in his easy chair, watching a Mariners game on TV, or in bed, with Smokey curled up beside him. He is a fiercely independent person, and I can't imagine him taking well to living in a nursing home.

Episodes like this remind me to start studying up on poisonous plants for my own old age.

Vacation

I took a vacation day today, even though it meant missing a day from work during a period with daily deadlines. So many of my colleagues have missed three or four days because of illness that I'm hoping giving myself a three-day weekend may inoculate me against that.

The weekend itself was fairly relaxing, particularly Sunday when Zorg and I went for a long walk through the neighborhood. I came back carrying a beautiful wicker chair, $4 at a yard sale, on my head.

Sunday evening Bob came over to have chili with us, and afterwards we sat around discussing technology and constitutional law.

This morning I went to the dentist to have my teeth cleaned, then went grocery shopping and picked up a dozen tiny cupcakes at Verite Coffee/Cupcake Royale for my mom's birthday. Came home, set the cats free for the day, and enjoyed a few hours out in the yard. My mom came over at 4 with her iBook. I got all her system software updated via our Airport and broadband connection, then showed her how to rip CDs into iTunes. We even downloaded a song from the iTunes Music Store. Once she had that down, I gave her her birthday gift, a silver iPod mini. We had steaks and roasted sweet corn while the mini charged and updated, and then she got to try it out. She left around 8 with all her loot (including various iPod accessories) and my Patsy Cline CD collection, feeling very au courant. I suspect she'll be marching around Edmonds wearing the iPod tomorrow.

Just before dinner, I got a phone call from our elderly neighbor Steve. He's at University Hospital, having suffered another fall. He wanted us to check on Smokey, the cat we share with him. Sure enough, a distraught Smokey was on Steve's steps, wondering why no one was letting him in. We have Steve's keys, so we let Smokey in, where he ate dinner and came to grips with the fact that Steve wasn't there. Then we left, taking Smokey with us. I am going to try to feed him over here, but if worse comes to worse, I guess we can just take him over to Steve's a couple times a day.

Joe Wegstein's chili

Joseph Wegstein is best remembered for his landmark work in early digital image processing, but I associate him with a fabulous recipe for chili.

My mom worked with Joe at the National Bureau of Standards in DC in the 1950s. We're talking the early days of mainframe computing at the Bureau, where Joe served as acting chief of the Office for Information Processing Standards. I was acquainted with him through his recipe for a distinctive and delicious chili with made with ground beef, onions, tomatoes, kidney beans. My mom made (and froze) enormous batches of the stuff. Over the years, I've made dozens of variations of it (hippie-style, with beer; vegetarian; spiced with peppers and cumin; thickened with corn flour; and mixed half-and-half with an Italian tomato sauce, then seasoned with oregano, garlic, and cocoa to create Cincinnati chili). But the basic, simple chili is still my favorite. Brown the beef, add chopped onions and celery, add canned tomatoes, canned beans (and, if necessary, water), and cook for a hour or two.

Thinking liberal, acting like nitwits

Why do so many people think like liberals but react -- and vote -- like nitwits? Here's a theory.

Create your own South Park character

I don't even like South Park, but I couldn't result this wonderful German flash site where you can create your own South Park character.

More garage sale madness

John came over today to QA the berry-rhubarb pie and we walked down the alley to a neighbor's yard sale. She's selling her old farmhouse/beachhouse, probably because the folks on the wooded lot across the street are about to sell their property to a developer who plans to stuff seven new build-to-the-height-limit-and-beyond houses onto the view property.

It was a nice yard sale -- she had charming antiques and reproduction stuff: rugs, lamps, mirrors, and some great garden items. There was a huge, sturdy rectangular wicker basket, perfect for blankets and quilts. The price was high; I tried to haggle; she said the price was high because she didn't really want to sell it. When I offered the full price, she decided she couldn't part with the basket after all, and took it out of the sale. We all laughed.

I wonder how often that happens at yard sales?

Blogger ethics

Results of the Weblog Ethics Survey conducted as a thesis project at Nanyang Technological University in Singapore are now available, and well worth reading. It's a massive study; I'm only part-way through it.

Blues

British blues pioneer Long John Baldry died Thursday in Vancouver, B.C., where he'd lived for the past 25 years.

This article from Canadian Broadcasting describes his career and the enormous role he played in leading the early 1960s British blues scene that by the end of that decade became British rock and roll.

The article briefly mentions the voiceover work Baldry did in children's entertainment later in his career. You can hear him read "The Original Story of Winne the Pooh" on iTunes, where you can also purchase his early, astonishingly eclectic, album Everything Stops for Tea. It's a patchwork of Delta blues, Appalachian folk, gospel, ragtime, and English music hall, and includes a version of the New Orleans classic "Iko, Iko" that pretty much says it all about 1960's England trying to grok American folk music.

For Baldry's strongest blues performances, hunt for the 2005 re-release of his 1971 album It Ain't Easy, produced by Elton John and Rod Stewart.

Pies of summer

Two or three times every summer, my dad and I would set off on a drive to The Pie Lady's house. This was on Cape Cod in the 1950s, when big, turn-of-the-century country houses, always painted white, sat far back from the road, shaded by old oaks and surrounded by blue hydrangeas. The Pie Lady lived in just such a house. I imagined her in a large, sunlit kitchen, wearing an old-fashioned long dress and full apron, making her pies.

We never saw The Pie Lady. A glass pie case stood at the end of her crushed-clamshell driveway, in the shade of an oak, and filled with pies still warm from the oven: fruit pies, cream pies, and lemon meringue. You helped yourself.

We usually got blueberry, leaving payment (I believe it was $4) in a basket in the pie case. The lemon meringue was $5.

Although both my mother and I bake, we never made berry pies -- or perhaps we tried, and the blueberries were just too drippy? My mother's speciality was peach chiffon, a complicated pie created in stages with components (including perfect fresh peaches) that took most of the day to cook, chill, and assemble. I once started a peach chiffon late at night and arrived at the critical stage where you whip the egg whites at about 3 a.m. My first husband and I were living on the first floor of a multi-tenant Victorian in New Haven at the time; when I set to work with the electric beater it woke up everyone on the second and third floors.

The only time I made peach chiffon for Zorg he gave me a "this is sort of tasteless fluff" look, and I didn't try it again. It is rather subtle.

A year or so ago, I came across a terrific and easy pie crust recipe that one of the winners of the Puyallup Fair baking competition had shared with the Seattle Post-Intelligencer. It produces a crust a lot more elegant looking than the old reliable Crisco crust I've used, and more delicate than the oil-based crust I've employed for hearty apple-and-raisin pies. So when I found myself with 8 pints of extremely ripe assorted berries and four stalks of rhubarb in the fridge, I knew it was time to bake a berry pie.

A Google search yielded dozens of recipes for berry pie filling, but they all seemed to be for canning and using later. Searching under rhubarb and berry pies, I kept coming up with this basic recipe:

5 cups of berries
2 cups of chopped rhubarb
1-1/2 cups sugar
1/2 cup flour

Mix the chopped rhubarb with the sugar and flour, then add the rest of the berries. Put it all in the pie shell, add a top crust and cut a few air holes into it. Bake at 425 degrees (F) for one hour.

It just doesn't get any easier than that. The berry mix was one cup of blueberries, two cups of blackberries, one cup of raspberries, and a cup of yellow berries that look like raspberries. I used an old-fashioned aluminum pie plate with a lip to catch the berry juice, and put the pie plate on a cookie sheet covered in foil to catch any drips. Halfway through the baking, I dropped an aluminum crust shield over it.

The result was a pie with an extremely complex sweet-to-sour flavor and a stunning claret color. Both people who've sampled it licked their plates!

Limbo

Indefatigable Northwest pundit J. Kingston (Jeff) Pierce has launched a blog, Limbo, with typically incisive and thorough essays on "Rove Rage," the death of actor James Doohan, and the historical impact of political wife and advisor Edith Bolling Galt.

I'm up to my ears at work this week, so I'll leave you in Jeff's capable hands.

The Nincompoop Quotient

Perhaps the most irritating quality of nincompoops is their unjustified but nevertheless unflagging self-confidence.

As you stare slack-jawed at the wreckage of their latest get-rich get-thin get-famous escapade, they're already hatching the next bird-brained adventure.

A few years back, the Journal of Personality and Social Psychology published the results of a series of studies by two research psychologists documenting what I think of as "the nincompoop phenomenon." People were given tests of logic, grammar and (I love this) humor, then asked to rate their own performance on the tests. The low performers consistently overestimated their performance, insisting they'd done well, while many of the high performers underestimated their scores.

"Not only do these people reach erroneous conclusions and make unfortunate choices," the researchers report, "but their incompetence robs them of the metacognitive ability to realize it."

Hair-raising as this research is, I can't help but hope that a new personality measure will someday result from it, one far more useful to society than the Intelligence Quotient. The Nincompoop Quotient would indicate the degree to which a person habitually overestimates his or her performance. (Wouldn't you love to see the scores for members of the current administration?)

It's worth reading all the way through the study for the authors' horrifying speculation that a major cause of nincompoopism among their test subjects (college students) is environmental, stemming from lack of feedback about poor performance. It makes sense: If teachers in our culture are reluctant to give negative feedback, and all the students in a classroom get As and Bs, why wouldn't low performers think of themselves as "above average" performers?

Thanks to the always-excellent Netsurfer Digest for unearthing this study. Netsurfer Digest is subscription-only, but they offer a free trial subscription.

Picture this

This meme is adapted from a post by themorgan. For each question, type your answer into Google's image search and see what you get.

My answers:

1. Your age on your next birthday









2. Your favorite color






3. Your middle name









4. The place you lost your virginity









5. A weakness of yours









6. Your favorite fruit or vegetable








7. Your favorite animal










8. The town you live in







9. The name of a pet







10. Your high school nickname


11. One of your hobbies









12. The one you love

Migraine therapy

Six or seven years ago, I used to get migraines that lasted 24 hours (or 48, if I took the experimental migraine medicine that made them less severe) and ended up with me either throwing up or screaming in pain.

After a few months of acupuncture treatment in 1999, I reached a stage where I could get over a migraine in about 8 hours using a combination of Tylenol Sinus, a hot bath in a dark room, and black tea with sugar, followed by few hours of sleep. Now I'm often able to stop a migraine in a few hours using the first three ingredients, with no nap required. Pretty amazing. I come out of the migraine very, very tired and craving a dish of rice. (No idea what the rice thing is about, but it's intense!)

I've even been able, while traveling to and from San Jose, to fight off a migraine with just the Tylenol Sinus and tea, no hot bath, as long as I'm able to somehow get a lot of heat by wrapping up in a blanket on the plane or putting on wool socks and stay away from bright light.

Over the years, I've discovered that a few of our cats are "healing cats" that will stay with me while I'm suffering...or recovering. Kaylee -- usually an aloof cat -- turns out to be a "healing cat." She not only stayed with me during the migraine today, but when I got into bed she came over and put her head against mine, even though it can't have been a particularly comfortable way for her to nap!

I got over the headache just in time to go out and sit in the bright sun on the patio of the restaurant where the family was celebrating Zorg's birthday. I returned home feeling like an absolute dishrag, though. Back in the tub. Off to bed. Surely I'll have more energy tomorrow.

On the light side

"The System Administrator Song" -- warning to Mac users: This could cause flashbacks to your days working in a Windows environment.

Garden salvage rediscovered

pavers
Originally uploaded by Mysterious Traveler.

I'm tired of gagging on the exorbitant prices of pots and statuary at North Seattle nurseries and pretentious places like Lucca. (I knew the original owner of Lucca when it was on Aurora; he'd be appalled by the ugly dreck they're selling now at fleece-the-city-dweller prices.)

After spotting an ad for it in the July issue of Northwest Garden News, I went on a hunt for the eccentric, elusive garden salvage yard that appears and disappears like mirage on Highway 99 near the Lynnwood-Everett border. Several years back it occupied a lot just north of the Petticoat Junction dancewear shop; this time it turned up on the opposite side of the road, near the northwest corner of the Highway 99/148th intersection.

The stock includes estate-size fountains, statues, benches and such from as far away as Los Angeles; large slabs of marble; concrete pavers cast and dyed by the proprietor (see photo); sections of bamboo fencing; kitschy donkeys; sleek ebony African busts; oriental lanterns and pedestals; mermaids in ponds;little snails; huge orangutans and big turtles (Terry Pratchett fans, alert!); dragons; Celtic green men; brightly glazed Vietnamese pots; and slim angular terra cotta planters. In addition to the stoneware, there are several dozen huge pots (some plastic, some glazed terracotta) filled with salvaged plants, vines, shrubs and trees. At the back of the lot is a trailer with two poodles in the yard. In the middle of the lot, a large gazebo is filled with pottery, fountains, lighting, and shabby chic garden furniture.

My mother was with me on this visit and was appalled by the hodge-podge of styles. I was calculating how to get back there with a truck and pick up enough pavers to do a patio in our backyard. (A 12" by 12" paver is $5 in gray, $7.50 in either the green stains or the brown stains.)

Late for work

The glare of my office supervisor, standing in the doorway of my office as I came down the hall this morning, let me know it was 10:30, and I was way late for work.

She's not understanding, particularly about weekends. Being a cat, Sheba expects me to be in front of the computer promptly at 9:30 every morning, typing away and occasionally smiling at her as she hangs out in her faux-leopard bed between the PowerBook and the flat-screen Cinema Display. (Her clue that it's a weekend should be that the PowerBook is closed and I'm working on the iMac.)

What do you want to see happen?

Today I took the "Lominger" competencies assessment (an optional online program offered by my employer).

You rate yourself on 67 competencies, assigning each one to a category: "top strengths" "skilled" "less skilled" or "do not use."

I had more "skilled" areas than "less skilled," but only six "top strengths." Five of my strengths were pretty much natural aspects of my personality, but one was something I've had to struggle with and work on in the course of my career — "Boss Relationships."

The keys to "boss success" I've discovered are these:

1. There is nothing (legal) you can do to change a boss who is a jerk. Get to work immediately on a transfer within the organization or find a job elsewhere, before you are transformed into a whining loser.

2. If you work for a good boss, your job is very simple: Figure out what that boss needs you to do, and do it. Periodically check with him or her to make sure you're on track, and make any necessary course corrections. If your boss starts going around the bend (unfortunately, this happens) refer to Key #1.

3. No matter how wonderful your boss is, there will always be problems and miscommunications. The magic words for those instances, given to me by a former colleague, Julie Swor, are: "What do you want to see happen?" Try it. It really is magic.

Test your brakes

If you drive I-5 between Bellingham and Seattle, you know what's going to happen as you approach the city of Everett, don't you? Even at 2 in the morning. Geoff Duncan's Theory of Everett-thing explores the phenomenon.

More ice cream

I had a vacation day today. Much of it was spent scratching my head over problems with phone and internet wiring, and moving furniture in the basement den, but I got to have a Thai lunch with the lively Fremont noodle group (a gathering of home office folks) and dinner at Sam's Sushi with Zorg.

I'd parked at the west edge of Fremont for the lunch this noon and walked in. On the way back, I stopped at the new soft-serve ice cream bar next to Deluxe Junk. (Not to be confused with the gelato place, just around the corner by the statue of Lenin, which I haven't tried yet.)

The soft-serve is real high-quality dairy (not the scary plastic does-not-melt stuff) and delicious. They have kid-size servings (bought one) and those waxy chocolate and butterscotch dips (didn't try one), plus they do floats. Very cool. I asked if they might have frozen custard this summer; the manager said the machines can handle it, but extra egg and butterfat in frozen custard would make it difficult to clean the machines. Frozen custard from Kopp's, Ted Drewes, Sheridan's, and Culver's, is a midwestern obsession, but pretty rare in Washington state.

Sheridan's has a store at 14389 SE Mill Plain Blvd. in Vancouver, WA, and the P-I reports that Snoqualmie Gourmet Ice Cream will be producing frozen custard for sale at Larry's Market soon. Chocolate frozen custard is on my list of 10 favorite foods.

I'm melting!

Start the holiday weekend off with a seasonal meme: What flavor ice cream are you?

I'm chocolate chip!

New Blogger feature...

...easy uploading of images from your computer or from the web (by URL). Here's a recent portrait of Zoe (Big Stripe).

Let's go out for cold dead fish

To read the New York Times online, you must register. But registration is free, and David Pogue's weekly Circuits column (also available to Times members by email subscription) is one of the reasons to sign up.

This week, Pogue presents readers' comments about his June 13 column on the inanity of technology product names such as "IEEE-139" and "802.11."

"Engineers are responsible," one reader said, hypothesizing: "If HP were selling sushi, they would describe it as cold dead fish -- accurate and unappetizing."

"No matter what anyone else tells you, PCMICIA stands for People Can't Memorize Computer Industry Acronyms," another quipped.

Pogue also heard from Michael Jonas Teener, one of the engineers who named FireWire, and passes along the story-behind-the story of how that engineering team got it right.

Finally, Pogue offers a link to Scott Kelby's new spoof ad for the iPod Flea and its many, many accessory kits, including the Flea Collar. The spoof video hasn't turned up anywhere else online, so, once again, Pogue has the exclusive. (For whatever reason, I had to click on the link three times, but it launched eventually, and was worth it ).

The mysterious fava

One of the signs of early summer at the vegetable market is fava beans. They look a bit like limas and come in big, soft, downy pods. Once you release the beans from the pod, the light green outer hull (which is bitter) has to be peeled to reveal the darker green bean inside. (It's important to get fresh local beans, as tired favas can be dull or bitter all the way through.)

Where I lived in Italy (Genoa), the spring favas were shelled, peeled and eaten at the table with coarse dried salame, cut into chunks, accompanied by a robust olive oil and bread.

Dolce Vita, a website on Italian travel, describes several ways to enjoy fresh fava beans. They don't mention the Genoese style, but they describe a Tuscan presentation, using thin shavings of parmesan in stead of salame, that's similar.

Before the "discovery" of the Americas, favas were the only beans available in Europe. A small percentage of people of Mediterranean ancestry have a condition (G6PD deficiency) which can cause them to have an unpleasant, even dangerous, reaction (called hemolytic anemia) when the eat favas, so I remain a little reluctant to feed them to guests.

I bought favas at the Ballard Farmers Market this morning and we had them at dinner. They were delicious, and Zorg seems none the worse for the exposure. Bon apetito!

Need a charming bungalow?

Friends of ours are selling their Craftsman bungalow in South Green Lake (Tangletown). It's on a side street just a few blocks from Zoka, and very convenient to the bus line to downtown.

Glow, little kitty

Betaille is back from her radiation treatment at the Feline Hyperthyroid Clinic in Shoreline. I can't imagine that the treatment takes effect so quickly, but Betaille certainly seems a much improved cat. Instead of huddling under the porch with a desperate, disoriented look in her eyes, she's coming in the house, curling up in one of the cat beds in my office, and ignoring Zoe's bullying. Perhaps she's just grateful to be back from the clinic, which must have seemed like a strange place to her. A number of our cats have been strays and accustomed to changes of scenery. Betaille has been with us since she was 5 weeks old, and her only adventures trips to the vet (the same vet for 15 years).

Betaille, who is quite small and has had impaired kidney function all her life, was given a low-end dose of radiation therapy. Our vet will check her in a month or two to see if her thyroid levels are down to normal and her kidneys are "normal" for her.

It's nice go out the back door and see her sitting happily on her cedar bench in the yard.

10 years

Zorg and I celebrate our 10-year wedding anniversary today. We also celebrated it last night, when we went out on the town for a fabulous dinner at Ruth's Chris steakhouse followed by an off-beat comedy show (Margaret Cho's "Assassin") at the Paramount.

A heart-felt "thank you" to all the friends who have supported us, individually and as a pair, in our marriage!

The 10th anniversary commemoration is traditionally tin or aluminum. Must be why the cats had us several cans of Fancy Feast waiting for us in the kitchen this morning.

More lingerie

I was in San Jose for a meeting last week and was astonished when I glanced across the conference table and saw one of the women marketing execs wearing what looked like a nightgown: a low-cut camisole in shiny lavender satin with spaghetti straps. Since she was wearing it with designer jeans and a casual beige cotton jacket, my first thought was that perhaps she was having a nervous breakdown and had forgotten her bra and shirt while getting dressed.

My concerns about her mental health (though not her business sense) were allayed by a Cox News Service article in today's Seattle Post-Intelligencer reporting that satin camisoles are now the dernier cri in officewear.

I now find myself trying to think of a situation in which a low-cut, bras-less satin camisole would be appropriate for the workplace. Perhaps if you worked in a bordello? Or perhaps if you had the body of a movie star? My colleague, unfortunately, falls into neither of these categories. She just looked like a desperately single business bimbo who's been reading too much Cosmo.

Girls only

A few months ago the online community of women folkdancers to which I belong had a discussion of bras. It wasn't pretty. The marketing line about bras is that 50 percent of American woman wear the wrong size of bra; the consumer line is that no manufacturer makes bras that are comfortable and attractive and actually fit (if they accidentally do, they seem to promptly discontinue that model).

I didn't leap into the online discussion because I didn't have much to contribute except more gripes: I'm small but busty and almost all the bras available in my size make me look like I should be wearing a horned helmet and singing Wagnerian opera. The rest of them look good only if I don't try to move or breathe.

Well, I finally found a no-wire bra that has support but doesn't look like it was designed and constructed by Orcs in Mordor.

Chico's, the boutique chain that sells sort of ethnic/slinky stuff for middle-aged gals has started a lingerie line called Soma.

The Soma line includes the no-wire "Agnes" bra that is just drop-dead gorgeous: a smooth, silky fabric; seamless cups; and it even comes in black! They also have several underwire models. Not cheap, but not as expensive as Wacoal bras at Nordies. (And if you're a Chico's Passport member, they've always got coupon deals going.)

I can't image that any guys have been reading a blog entry on bras, but, if you have, feel free to pass the info along to the woman in your life. If you want to order one for her yourself, you're either very experienced at that or completely out of your mind. Anyway, here's the eHow guide to buying lingerie as a gift. Step one of that ought to be enough to keep you busy for a while.

Wired

Qwest now offers ultra-fast DSL in our area and it turns out to be cheaper than the moderately accelerated (but increasingly flakey) DSL we've been getting via Covad. Taking no chances, we ordered the Qwest DSL for the fax line while keeping the Covad DSL live on the phone line until we could make sure the Qwest service was working for all our various ethernet and Airport configurations.

Finally got it nailed down this a.m. when my VPN service for work was configured, and now it's farewell to Covad. I just checked the download speed using CNET's bandwidth test and it tested faster than a T1 line.

Now to do something about the Ethernet cables running up and down the hall. Zorg got some longer cables from Radio Shack and we'll run the cables through the basement this weekend.

Kudos to our ISP, Seanet, which told me about the Qwest deal and stayed on the line while I dealt with the Qwest sales airhead who said things like:

"Is this for Windows 2000, or Windows XP?" (Me: "No.")

"With this service, you get MSN as your ISP." (Me: "I think not. Did you notice this call to you was placed by the ISP I already have, Seanet?")

I just got the Qwest bill, replete with hidden costs like the $9.95 shipping and handling charge for the modem I purchased from them. Grrrr.

Incidentally, the Mac OS X Tiger install on the PowerBook last night went smoothly. Take Control of Upgrading to Tiger included Joe's Compromise Method, midway between an archive-and-install and an erase-and-install, and it worked for me. I haven't even had to use the Restore Missing Files advice.

Yet.

Great writing

One of the nicest pieces of writing I've come across in a long time is Joe Kissell's introduction to his new book Take Control of Upgrading to Tiger for (Take Control Publishers).

"Upgrading your Mac's operating system is a bit like removing your house's existing foundation to add a new garage underneath -- something that happens frequently here in San Francisco," he begins, and goes on to describe the processes.

This works well for most home owners (and Mac owners) but can, on occasion, go wrong. Kissell, who says he installed Mac OS X 10.4 Tiger 44 times while developing the book, promises his readers "a fanatastic experience" upgrading their own computers. "This ebook is your anti-anxiety guide to every step of the process," he says.

I used Kissell's earlier Take Control of Upgrading to Panther while upgrading my iMac and PowerBook to 10.3 (Panther). When 10.4 came out, I worked without a net, simply making a bootable copy of the iMac hard drive and installing Tiger using only the disk's guidance. However, I'm approaching the upgrade of the PowerBook a good deal more cautiously, and am going to study Joe's ebook before clicking any irrevocable buttons. And, of course, I made a bootable copy of the existing 10.3.9 PowerBook hard drive. Should it turn out that any essential apps on the PowerBook don't work in Tiger, I can always hook up the hard drive and boot into 10.3.9.

FireWire external hard drives. Backup software. Don't leave home without them.

Animals, wild and domestic

As the animal control folks remove an army of squirrels from our friend Geoff's attic, our next door neighbor has apparently achieved a humane end to our local raccoon infestation. Yesterday he caught the second raccoon in a large "live trap" and carted her off to the same park where he had earlier released her mate. A happy reunion, we hope.

Meanwhile, on the domestic pet front, we had good news that our elderly prima donna cat Betaille qualified for radiation treatment for her hyperthyroid condition. We went through this with Bosco the Mystery Cat eight years ago, and were very pleased with the results.

Bosco, a happy hypochondriac, apparently thought his three days at the cushy hyperthyroid treatment facility were a spa vacation (they cost about as much). Betaille, who is set off by the most minor changes in her environment, will probably not be such a happy camper. She is currently in a snit, in part because of the raccoon battles next door, and in part because one of our year-old kittens, Zoe (Big Stripe), is bullying her.

Zoe doesn't hiss or swat, she just "bumps" other animals, sort of herding them around. She is now taking this to an extreme. I told Zorg last night that I'd seen her bump a life-size concrete cat statue in the garden and knock it flat. Zorg looked mildly surprised, and said "But I picked it up!" Apparent she is now bullying the concrete statue repeatedly. Either she's not very bright, or she's using it as some kind of warning to real cats.

Betaille's snit involves refusing to eat unless I keep the kittens out of sight and sit beside her while she dines. I guess it could be worse.

Whatever makes you happy

In celebration of the 2-year anniversary of The Mysterious Traveler Sets Out, here is a meme about posessions that I developed based on a "Domains" profile in a recent issue of The New York Times Magazine.

Most treasured object in the house:
What is always with you:
Broken item that you can't part with:
Most recent bargain or yard sale find:
Newest gadget:
Best award:
Most distinctive family heirloom:
Best recent gift received:
Next big purchase:
Most-read book:
Most valuable possession:
The object you most identify with:

If you use this meme, please email me either a copy of your answers or a link to your blog entry.

Here are my responses:

Most treasured object in the house:
My computer's hard drive.

What is always with you:
My glasses. I don't think I've ever left the house without them. (I certainly wouldn't get very far.)

Broken item that you can't part with: The red and blue quilt I made for myself in college. Some of the material is too worn to wash, so I can't use the quilt. But I can't get rid of it, either.

Most recent bargain or yard sale find:
A Northwest Indian-motif green glass paperweight.

Newest gadget:
iPod shuffle. It was a gift from my employer.

Best award:
Framed poster of an Apple "LP" commemorating the 1,000,000th download at the iTunes Music Store. (I was on the Music Store launch team.)

Most distinctive family heirloom:
An antique wooden spelling toy that my father used as a child.

Best recent gift received:
Silver earrings my mother bought for me at the Folklife Festival.

Next big purchase:
Some sort of hutch/buffet for our dining room.

Most-read book:
The Bone is Pointed, by Arthur Upfield. I read through Upfield's Napoleon Bonaparte detective series every two or three years. The Bone is Pointed is one of my favorites.

Most valuable possession:
My engagement ring.

The object you most identify with:
Definitely the iMac!

Another raccoon ruckus

After we installed the raccoon-proof cat door, the two raccoons that had been plundering our basement for cat food moved on to our neighbors' basement for easier pickings.

Well, the guy next door wasn't going to take any shit from a raccoon! He put a catch-and-release trap in their basement and caught one of the coons Wednesday night. He then drove it over to the park on the other side of the Cut (our local canal) and released it.

Tonight at 10 there was the most horrible screaming out back. It wasn't a cat; it sounded like a dog yelping. I turned on the back porch light and made sure our cat Betaille was OK. Looking over to the neighbors' back yard, I saw two green eyes up in the air. The neighbors flipped on their porch lights and I realized it was a raccoon up in their apple tree, shrieking piteously.

The poor thing obviously knew that its mate had gone into their basement and never come out again. It was hard not to feel bad for the bereaved raccoon. I hope it will go into the basement, get trapped, and be released in the park and be reunited with its mate. I didn't mind two friendly raccoons in the neighborhood, but I'm definitely disturbed by one frantic one.

Bird identified; news of the day

Nina tells me that the bird whose photo I posted on Flickr is...a flicker. Too funny!

Quick update: Started the day at the annual Camp Fire Boys and Girls breakfast at the Westin, then walked over to the Seattle Art Museum to attend Jesse James Garrett's web architecture seminar, The Elements of User Experience. At lunchtime we dashed upstairs for the opening of the museum's Isamu Noguchi scuptural design exhibit. It's a small but dramatic exhibit and the museum has a special exhibit store with Noguchi lamps and furniture reproductions and Noguchi-inspired fountains, dinnerware, jewelry, etc.

I arrived home just in time to take delivery of my vintage patio furniture, which had been electro-painted at New Finishes. The shipment included a stray retro patio chair I'd spotted at the shop and asked them to throw in with my order. Pictures to come soon!

Can anyone identify this bird?

Bird
Originally uploaded by Mysterious Traveler.

This large, colorful bird sat on top of the shed outside my office window for 10 minutes this morning. Anyone have any idea what kind of bird this is?

Is this the solution?

I am now a couple weeks behind in my life and despairing of ever catching up.

Is this the answer?

Visitors

coons
Originally uploaded by Mysterious Traveler.

We took quite a few pictures. Two cameras, both with flash. The raccoons could have cared less.

Gardening

That's about it.

Watergate revisited

I was born in Washington D.C. in 1954 and lived there until I went away to college in 1972 and my folks retired to Cape Cod a year later. I was just a few years too young to be of the Vietnam generation. If any one national event characterized my coming of age, it wasn't the war -- it was Watergate.

I grew up in a family of federal employees. My father was an official in the National Aeronautics and Space Adminstration. An agency of the visionary Kennedy-Johnson era, N.A.S.A. was considered a costly frippery by the Nixon White House, a group never known for setting its sights high. My mother was a systems analyst with the National Bureau of Standards, and she saw her star rise when she was assigned to the Nixon White House to work on system to track the administration's controversial wage-price freeze. When her team received a commendation from vice president Spiro Agnew, my (increasingly left-wing) father was appalled. At about this time his brother, a senior official with the Department of Health, Education and Welfare, retired and devoted himself to volunteer work with a number of liberal organizations, including Common Cause.

When Watergate (the scandal was named after the upscale Watergate office complex where the initial illegal break-in masterminded by the Nixon gang took place) unfolded right in the pages of our local newspaper, my father and my uncle were avid followers of the story. I always imagined that Watergate source the Washington Post had nicknamed "Deep Throat" was someone much like my uncle -- a bright man who had grown cynical about government and who decided to have his fun by using what he knew to orchestrate the downfall of Nixon and his gang of thugs. I wondered if my dad or my uncle knew him.

When W. Mark Felt, a former top official at the FBI, revealed today that he'd been Deep Throat, I was delighted. Now 91, Felt was exactly of my father and uncle's generation. A handsome, slim man, he even looked like them. His witty, understated way of speaking reminded me of them, as well.

Too bad they didn't live to see Deep Throat's identity revealed. Felt's motives were his own but, where they intersected with those of Woodward and Bernstein, they made history, elevating journalism and exposing corruption at the highest level of government. Now the pendulum is swinging the other way (decreasing scrutiny of the government, and revelations of corruption in journalism) but it's heartening to be reminded of the heady days of Watergate.

This 1992 article from The Atlantic sets Felt's story in context.

The Mysterious Traveler eats out

This morning I had breakfast in an shabby greasy spoon in a semi-industrial area of a small town in Eastern Washington. No, wait, the place was in Ballard -- it just looked, felt, and smelled like a greasy spoon in some dead-end town in the sticks.

The water glasses are smudged, the mugs unmatched and dinghy, the counter is worn, and the stove looks like it hasn't been cleaned since the World's Fair was in town. Chipped knick-knacks are scattered all over the counter. The only thing new in the place is a coat of Pepto-Bismol pink paint on the wood-paneled walls.

This was not my first time in the dive I'll call the Time Warp Cafe. I had breakfast there in January, and was absolutely fascinated. I expected to walk out the door and be back in 1962. But no such time shift ensued.

Somewhat to my surprise, the place is still in business. This time I ordered two eggs scrambled and an English muffin. They tasted the way food used to taste back before anyone knew about cholesterol. The tea is good, and, since I'm not a coffee drinker, some day I'll have to bring someone along to test that out. It's definitely not Starbucks.

Since much of what I'm saying about the place could be construed as pejorative, and would surely hurt the feelings of the woman who recently re-opened the place, no name or location will be given. Curious? Not particularly fussy about decor? Ready to enter the culinary time warp? Contact me and I'll take you there some morning.

Smartass or Starving Artist?

"The Personality Defect Test will provide an accurate analysis of your true personality, but it will do so in a manner that is very insulting, cynical, and intentionally humorous."

I came out mid-way between a Haughty Intellectual and a Starving Artist and, of course, I'd just love to see everyone else's scores. On second thought, if you score as a Sociopath, don't feel you have to share.

Sun rain sun rain sun rain

The Berrymans, a Wisconsin folk duo, have a song called "Bird, Bird, Bird" in which they chronicle driving through a rural small town. The portion about the outskirts runs:

House, house, trailer, yard sale
Trailer, trailer, yard sale
Tavern, high school, bike trail
Gas pump, trailer, yard sale
Road construction, EAT NOW
Strip mall, pig farm, sow, sow
Silo, tractor, barn, plow
End construction, cow, cow.

This same narrative technique, applied to the Seattle weather of the past seven days, would sound like:

Rain rain rain rain sun sun
Clouds rain clouds rain sun sun
Rain rain rain rain stars rain
Stars rain stars rain sun rain.
(repeat daily)

Weeds grew three feet this week, and the grass, about six inches. (In the case of our rather enfeebled grass, the grass grew only three inches while the invasive weeds spread like oil slicks across the yard and plunged their roots down several feet.)

Attempting to garden on Saturday, I spent more time rushing my tools to shelter in the shed and lugging them out again than I did actually gardening. My major garden project, setting out soaker hoses in the flower beds, seemed outright bizarre, though I'm sure there'll be a use for them this year -- perhaps by August.

As the skies darkened for the second or third downpour late yesterday afternoon, I was amused to see three neighbors, who had been away on errands earlier in the day, emerge from their houses (clad insanely in shorts and t-shirts) and start their gasoline mowers. They then all mowed right through the rainstorm.

I suspect that the shaggiest lawns in the neighborhood belong to people with electric mowers who have been too cautious to risk electrocution.

Oops -- sun's out -- gotta run.

Extending the olive branch

I bought a small olive tree today from a Ballard neighbor who sells them on Craig's List.

Since our yard is small, the plan is to put the tree in a large terracotta pot and keep it pruned to a flame shape rather than letting it spread. This meant removing one shoot that was coming up alongside the main trunk.

I snipped the shoot and found myself in the unusual position of being able to literally extend an olive branch. I went inside and extended it to Zorg.

"Did we have a fight?" he asked.

I asked Zorg, who has a background in religious studies, where the expression "to extend an olive branch" comes from.

Zorg explains:

The ideas of offering an olive branch as a sign of peace, and the dove as a symbol of peace, come from the story of Noah. The story begins in Genesis 6 and tells how God looked down on the world of man and found it corrupt and wicked, but "Noah found favor in the eyes of God." So God decided to wipe the earth clean of corruption and begin anew with Noah and his family.

God told Noah about his plan and gave him the instructions for a boat (or ark) that would hold 2 of each animal on earth. He said, "I will send rain on the earth for forty days and forty nights, and I will wipe from the face of the earth every living creature I have made." Noah was 600 years old when he built the ark.

Another interesting biblical factoid is that before the flood, men lived long lives. Noah was still middle aged by those standards. Ultimately, he lived 950 years. (The oldest man of course, was Methusaleh who clocked 969 years. Look at Genesis 5 to see how long the patriarchs lived. ) After the flood, the span of a man's life was whittled down to "three score and ten years" (70 years), according to Psalm 90:10. The psalmist laments of folks living four score and ten years that "yet is their strength labour and sorrow; for it is soon cut off, and we fly away." In other words, it ain't no fun to get old.

In Genesis 8:6-12 the story goes, "After 40 days Noah opened the window he had made in the ark and sent out a raven, and it kept flying back and forth until the water had dried up from the earth. Then he sent out a dove to see if the water had receded from the surface of the ground. But the dove could find no place to set its feet because there was water over all the surface of the earth; so it returned to Noah in the ark. He reached out his hand and took the dove and brought it back to himself in the ark. He waited seven more days and again sent out the dove from the ark. When the dove returned to him in the evening, there in its beak was a freshly plucked olive leaf! Then Noah knew that the water had receded from the earth. He waited seven more days and sent the dove out again, but this time it did not return to him."

The interpretation I heard was that the dove did not return because it had found sufficient land and foliage to sustain itself. Thus, Noah knew that the flood waters were receding.

In Genesis 9:7, after Noah and his family have come out of the ark and released the animals, God repeats the first commandment he gave to Adam and Eve, "be fruitful and multiply." He then promised that he wouldn't destroy the Earth again, and in Genesis 9:12 he set the rainbow as a sign of the covenant.

Genesis 9:18 tells us, "The sons of Noah who came out of the ark were Shem, Ham and Japheth. (Ham was the father of Canaan.) These were the three sons of Noah, and from them came the people who were scattered over the earth." If you're feeling sorry for their wives over having to do all that work, at least they only had to do 1/3 of what Eve had to do!

In Greek mythology predating the Bible, the olive branch symbolized wisdom and peace, and is often associated with the goddess Athena, who gave an olive tree to the city that was to become Athens. Historically, Greek ambassadors offered an olive branch of peace to indicate their intentions.

The olive branch appears in flags and symbols in many Westerns and Near Eastern countries and organizations, including:

• the United Nations symbol, with the world flanked by a wreath of crossed olive branches;
• the Great Seal of the USA, where the eagle carries in its right talon an olive branch with 13 leaves to represent peace between the original member States (this also appears on the flag of the Virgin Islands);
• the flag of the league of Arab States, which has an upturned crescent encircled by a gold chain and olive wreath;
• the flag of Cyprus, which has crossed olive branches beneath a map of the island to represent peace between the Greek and Turkish populations; and
• the flag of Eritrea, which includes a golden olive wreath and stem, originally inspired by the flag of the United Nations

The olive branch also appears on the US Presidential Seal, where the eagle clutches the branch in one talon and a group of arrows in the other talon. I found it heartening to read that in 1945 President Harry Truman had the seal redesigned so that the eagle no longer faced the arrows but now faces the olive branch.

I'm in love

with my personalized Google start page. Want one?

48 hours behind

Would everyone else please just hibernate for 2 days so I can catch up?

A little wish list

I wish that

1. Bombich software would update CarbonCopyCloner so it would work in Mac OS X Tiger
2. All my Weblog Meetup friends would put RSS or Atom feeds in their blogs (you know who you are!)
3. Betaille, our elderly cat, would stop being such a prima donna

Something new and different

Most gadgets that purport to be revolutionary improvements over a traditional tool rarely live up to their reputations, and those that actually do the job a bit better (such as Cuisinarts) usually turn out to be fragile, difficult to clean and maintain, or prohibitively expensive.

One of the few exceptions is the Oxo Smooth Edge Can Opener.

It's an innovative manual opener that offers three advantages over the traditional can opener:
• As the name suggests, it leaves a smooth edge when it separates lid from can (no jagged edges to handle as you wash or dispose of the can).
• After the lid is cut, you use a little pincer tool on the edge of the opener to lift the lid completely off the can (eliminates the spraying of the contents of the can that usually occurs when you flip a lid back).
• The cutting mechanism rarely comes in contact with the contents of the can, so it needs minimal cleaning.

It was the third point that sold me, since I loathe cleaning tuna fish juices out of the gears of a traditional can opener. That always seems to take repeated scrubbing with lots of soap and hot water, and once the gears stop smelling fishy, they start smelling soapy. And, in a few weeks, the frequently washed can opener has unattractive (and probably unsanitary) corroded gears.

The Oxo is so subtle to use that the first time I tried it I didn't realize that the lid had been separated from the can. Eventually, I took a chance and applied the little pincers and the lid lifted completely off, leaving me staring into smooth pool of olive oil filled with Italian tuna. Yum!

A good day

Nothing, but nothing, can make you appreciate a quiet Sunday morning, cornflakes and tea at the kitchen table, than a 9 a.m. call from a friend who is somewhat blearily asking for a recommendation for an emergency plumbing service!

I sent them to a service we'd summoned three years ago to remove a backlog of dead rodents from the sewer pipe of the new house we'd just purchased. (Phew!)

If I'd been able to find a copy of Checkbook, the local consumer magazine we subscribe to, I'd have activated my account for their website and checked their ratings. Unfortunately, you need your number from the mailing label to set up a web account. Grrrr.

We have an fine regular plumber, but he does remodeling projects and is not likely to zip over on Sunday morning to troubleshoot an emergency unrelated to a current project.

Steady rainfall appears to preclude another day of gardening, but I am enjoying the sunshine vicariously. I can see it, across the Sound, on the Olympic mountains, and am thinking of some lucky Bainbridge Island gardener having coffee out in her garden.

Weekend visitor

Zorg is in Eugene for the weekend at a family event; I stayed in town to do some volunteer work for the upcoming Folklife Festival, get my mom's condo ready for her return from Florida next weekend, and get the soaker hoses set out in the garden.

I got back from Folklife and the condo work around 3 and gardened until 8:30 p.m., aided by all the cats and the neighbors' 2-year-old. Then I took a shower and set about preparing a salad for dinner. The arugula has pretty well bolted, so I decided to go out and cut it all down and add it to the salad. Of course, as soon as I stepped out the back door, Betaille dashed for the cedar bench -- her "designated petting place." I sat down with her and, while petting her, admired the garden. It was nearly 9 p.m., but between the bright sky, the quarter moon above the pear tree, and the back porch lights, I could have read a book out there.

I certainly had no trouble noticing the 40-pound raccoon sauntering toward us across the back yard. He looked right at me, and just kept on coming. Betaille glanced at him, then went back to getting petted, which didn't reassure me at all. If they were friends, he might come right over to the bench and say hello to us. Or he might hang a right at the back stairs and go up to see if there were any cat food on the porch. All I could think was: This is a huge raccoon.

"Help!" I squeaked, although there was no one to hear me.

Hearing my voice, the raccoon stopped six feet away. He looked a bit disappointed, as if thinking "I'll have to swing back by here later." He wheeled around and began to stroll back the way he had come, disappearing into the side yard. I jumped up, grabbed the greens, and scurried up the stairs into the kitchen. If Betaille wants to share her dinner with the raccoons, I don't want to know about it.

Test your geekiness

I want so much to write about good and bad fences, but have to wait until I've take some pix to illustrate that entry. I'm headed up to Edmonds to do some work on my mom's condo tomorrow; if I take back roads through North Seattle, that should yield some fence pictures.

In the meantime, how geeky are you?

My scores:
Academic Geekiness: Highest
Internet Geekiness: High
Geekiness in Love: Moderate
SciFi Geekiness: Moderate
Fashion Geekiness: Low
Music Geekiness: Low
Gamer Geekiness: None
General Geekiness: None
Movie Geekiness: None

Wedding portents

The afternoon before Zorg and I got married, I saw a huge rainbow in the southern sky. The night before Nina and Mike got married last summer, Zorg and I saw a buck beside the highway in Bellingham. And the night before my cousins Alex and Mary's wedding in Phoenix, we saw a coyote by the roadside.

I was trying to remember if I saw anything the night before my first wedding, to the wrong husband, 20 years ago. But all I can remember is that during the ceremony itself the sky turned black and a huge thunderstorm erupted over the chapel. And I thought I heard a voice say "This is a mistake."

Pain in the...

Don't file a workman's comp claim in Washington unless witnesses saw a stack of the company's servers fall on you. If I'd said I'd injured my wrist gardening, I'd have had surgery by now to remove the cyst from my tendon. As it is, I'm stuck in painful limbo and likely to remain there for many weeks.

After booking an appointment for me and taking the number of my workman's comp claim over the phone, the incredibly crass and insensitive staff at the surgeon's office informed me when I showed up for my appointment that I couldn't see the surgeon. The reason: I didn't bring a letter from workman's comp saying that they would pay for my surgery.

I pointed out that they hadn't asked to me bring such a letter, that I was there for an assessment, not the surgery, and that my excellent health insurance will pay for the surgery if workman's compensation denies coverage. And I offered to pay for the assessment in cash.

They could have cared less. The rude nurse who bustled me out of the waiting room into the hall seemed to take pleasure in assuring me that it would likely take up to three months ("or more, if they extended the claim review" she said gleefully) for the state to either decide that I'm eligible to have treatment or deny the claim so the health insurance will kick in.

In the mean time, I can't use a scissors, a hammer, or garden clippers without searing pain in my wrist. Needless to say, when the workman's comp insurance issue is eventually resolved, I will not be returning to that surgery practice for the operation.

Divorce, office style

I admit that I sometimes confuse my work life with my home life. And, from that perspective, I just went through an amicable divorce. A recent re-org, though minor from the company's perspective, split my team.

We were a team that had been serving two increasingly disparate business groups. I went through each workday tormented by the impatient toe-tapping of whichever group was not being served at that micro-second, and interrupting any project longer than an email reply to deal with some mini-crisis from the "other" side.

Mercifully, the re-org has me re-focused on just one group's priorities, and already it feels much better -- though I'm still peeling away the tentacles of the other group from various directories, databases, and corporate travel and expense systems.

My boss went with the other group, and one of my favorite colleagues is my new boss. Now that the split is complete, there are only two of us left from the original team I joined five years ago. I feel like a tribal elder.

Off to Phoenix

We leave tomorrow for my cousin's wedding in Phoenix. This'll be my first time in Arizona. I'm told we'll have time to explore a bit on Saturday, since the wedding isn't until evening. Stand by for pictures of those stereotypical cactus.

Birthdays, weddings and anniversaries

I haven't been blogging much because of wrist pain. It's finally been diagnosed as a cyst on my tendon, and I'll be seeing a surgeon Thursday to talk about having that removed. Not only has this been cramping my blogging style, it's been getting in the way of my gardening. To say nothing of slowing me down at work.

We are into the birthday season. Tonight Zorg and I went to a dinner party at the local community center in honor of the 90th birthday of our neighbor Steve, the retired police detective with whom we share Smokey the cat. Steve's family and friends had a great photo display, including pictures of Steve as a young police officer in the 1940s. I collected some great neighborhood stories. Quite a few people well into their 80s, but all in fabulous shape.

Poor Smokey. We returned home from the party to find him wandering sadly up and down the street, wondering where all his owners had gone. He had been reduced to playing with the children across the street, and came in with us for a while to visit the kittens. And, speaking of birthdays, the kittens are now officially cats, having turned 1 this week. They are full grown--Zoe (Big Stripe) weighs 9 pounds and Kaylee (Little Stripe) weighs 6.

We continue with birthdays in May with Zorg's mom and his aunt, and move on to his nephew and his grandmother (she'll be 102!) in June. I bought a heap of cards at Bartell (including cards in Hebrew and Russian!) and will tackle the presents after we finish with Mother's Day and my cousin Alex's wedding this weekend. Zorg and I celebrate a big wedding anniversary (10) in June. Fortunately, we don't do anniversary gifts. We just go out to a nice restaurant celebrate over martinis, or Manhattans--anything but Zombies.

Geek humor

Collision detection offers this hilarious story of an arrogant hacker who escalated a geek chatroom dispute by claiming he could wipe his opponent's hard drive. Given his opponent's IP address, "bitchchecker" did indeed take down the computer's hard drive, posting gleeful incremental damage reports to the chat as he proceeded.

"you're so stupid," he taunted, "never give your ip on the internet."

Funny he didn't recognize the IP address. It was his own machine, which promptly expired and logged him out of the chat.

Sharp idea

Here's one kitchen gadget I think I'll skip.

Attention, foodies

The new olive oils are in at Gustiamo. And they are having a half-off sale on six-bottle cases of last year's Sicilian and Tuscan olive oils, and a North/South combo.

Gustiamo is a rather eccentric etailer that has been around for five years, bringing obscure Italian delicacies to the US. The selection is best described as "what's good, and exportable." The service and shipping are expert--definitely "satisfaction guaranteed." (They once overnighted me bufala mozzarella from Naples!)

Most of what's offered on Gustiamo comes from small farms and producers. There is very little overlap with anything you'd find in even the best gourmet stores in the states. The site is arranged by region, which makes perfect sense, since Italian food differs so dramatically from region to region. Prices are quite a bit better than in the gourmet stores, and the products are likely fresher (the bottarga--pressed fish eggs that you grate over pasta--is a good example).

I've ordered a case of the discounted Sicilian oils--strong, peppery and pungent. If you order the discounted Tuscan case and would like to trade two bottles of yours for two of mine, and you're in the Seattle area, let me know. Bon apetito!

Your inner European

This one is fun (my "inner European" is French)! Try it and let me know.

Geek talk

First, jot down your definition of a Turing Test. Then read this post on Collision Detection.

Happy Earth Day

I'm ready to go out and celebrate Earth Day, thanks to Carbon Copy Cloner. A few days ago, prompted by Software Update, I had done a routine upgrade from Mac OS X 10.3.8 to Mac OS X 10.3.9. Today I discovered (via trial and error) that a proprietary application I rely on for my work had not yet been upgraded to be compatible with 10.3.9. After freaking out for an hour or so, I remembered that the most recent bootable backup of my system on my Firewire hard drive was in 10.3.8. So I simply switched the preference for my startup drive, restarted, opened the proprietary application in the old OS, and life was back to normal.

This is the third or fourth time the La Cie external Firewire hard drive and Carbon Copy Cloner backups have saved my bacon. The drive was about $150, and CCC is free. Highly recommended.

Catching up

Here are some highlights from what awaited me in the blog newsreader when I got back from New York:

• From kung fu squirrels to mysterious county inspectors, Geoff Duncan is having far too much fun checking out his new neighborhood in North Seattle.

• John Hedtke has discovered an online etymology dictionery.

• A Gardener's Notebook ponders why some L.A. neighbors have painted their lawn.

• Clive Thompson's superb blog Collision Detection notes that an English college student has compiled a comprehensive online guide to destroying the earth.

• Amazon changed its user interface (at the item level; check out any of the books). An improvement on what was becoming an increasingly chaotic page. While you're there, have a look at my cousin Earl Rovit's new book Hemingway and Faulkner in Their Times.

Perfect ending to the NY trip

I found a lahmejun stand one block from my hotel! I haven't had real, fresh lahmejun in more than 20 years. The popular wisdom is that you find it only in Belmont/Watertown, Massachusetts, and in certain Armenian areas of Central California.

The Sahara Grill spells it "lamecun," which is the Turkish take on this Armenian delicacy, but the pronunciation is the same, and so is the food: A crispy bread (like an ultra-thin pizza crust) covered with ground spicy lamb, tomato, onion, and herbs. $2.50! There was a nice little kadayif for dessert, hot Turkish tea with mint, and a sample of their fresh-squeezed orange juice.

A hole-in-the-wall two blocks south of Times Square, the tiny Sahara Grill is also a fruit and vegetable stand, a juice bar, and a popular neighborhood hangout. Their big sellers are chicken gyros and lamb/beef gyros, but the lamecun is listed at the bottom of the menu, and they were delighted when I ordered it. While I was there, perched on one of five well-worn stools at the counter in back, a number of friendly gangsta types came in and bought fresh fruit--and soft drinks. Interesting combination.

The Upper East Side

Lexington Avenue at 77th. This is the upper East Side. Think "Seinfeld." Think New Yorker magazine. You have to be rich to live here. Not recently rich, but raised rich, and so rich that everyone else you know is rich and you rarely rub elbows with anyone who isn't. Except the servants and the shopkeepers, many of whom are white Europeans--Irish building contractors, Swedish au pairs, and Southern European shopkeepers.

Anticipating my visit to New York, and wanting to blend in, I'd purchased a bright fuchsia Perlina purse with fashionable white stitching and silver strap buckles. For the past few days, I've been puzzled, since all the women in mid-town and on the upper West Side are carrying serviceable black purses. Stepping out of the subway at 77th, I realized my purse had found its home: I saw pink bags, lime bags, and mango bags--just like in the catalogs!--and every woman had a purse with long straps so it could be carried on her shoulder, leaving her hands free to tote multiple designer shopping bags.

Ray's Pizza has an little outpost on the upper East Side and I stopped in for a slice of plain Neapolitan pizza. As I was sitting there nibbling, a very young couple came in pushing two babies in a vehicle that I guess could be called a doublewide stroller. Both doors of the restaurant had to be opened to get it inside. I realized I was looking at one of the $2,000 European baby carriages I'd read about in the Wall Street Journal.

I headed back to the subway, trying not to stare at women in pastel tweed suits and pointy-toed high heels, men wearing $400 chinos, and beautifully dressed children trotting dutifully along with their nannies. But then I saw something even more eye-catching. Standing at the corner beside me as we waited for the light, was a Satmar. A young man in his 20s, he was wearing a brown fur hat the size and shape of a small merry-go-round, a mid-calf-length shiny satin overcoat, knickers, white stockings, and black formal shoes. And, of course, payess.

This being the self-absorbed East Side, none of the locals even looked up from their cafe au lait and brioche as he strode across Lexington, hat flapping, and headed down 77th toward Central Park. That was perhaps the most New Yorker moment of all, for what would New Yorker be without the cartoons?

Reunions

50 turns out to be a good age for attending reunions. Those of us with wrinkles and graying hair look happier than the ones with the face-lifts and dye jobs. Our memories are still sharp enough to recognize faces, come up with names, and recall choice anecdotes. Grudges, if there were any, seem to have had a much shorter shelf life. So, at the first get-together tonight it was all handshakes, hugs, and enthusiastic reminiscences. Apparently some 70 members of our class are expected to show up for the dinner party at a classmate's West End Avenue home tomorrow night.

This evening's cocktail party in the Low Library rotunda followed the annual alumni association's awards ceremony. The first award, to an earnest, prize-winning social issues reporter from the New York Daily News, was bestowed by her husband, an editor from the New York Times. The second, to the Associated Press foreign correspondent who has covered Rome and the Vatican for some 20 years, was awarded by a retired foreign correspondent who reminded us that once upon a time the American news networks had maintained substantive foreign bureaus. The third award went to one of the creators of the TV documentary, a man who retired mid-career to become an acclaimed journalism instructor at the University of Southern California. The final award went to my classmate Tom Rosensteil, who is credited for leading the movement to bring journalism into the 21st century through the Project for Excellence in Journalism. Check out Tom's book, Warp Speed: America in the Age of Mixed Media.

New York soul food

The plane trip to Newark was uneventful. The travel agent I was seated next to got bumped into first class, giving us an extra seat in our row of three, which always makes traveling nicer. Got the Super Shuttle from Newark right to the hotel in Times Square for $20, and was in my room trying out the broadband connection by 6 p.m. Hotel 41 at Times Square is next to "Rent" on 41st Street, just off 7th Avenue, and across the street from the stage door of "The Lion King." There was a huge sale tonight at Macy's so I headed down there and stopped along the way for a quick bite at the Jerusalem 2, an ultra-kosher Israeli cafeteria in the garment district, Broadway near 37th. The pita bread is baked on the premises and, as is often the way with traditional Jewish cuisine, is a little heavy but very tasty. I had the baba ganoush plate with falafel, a salad of chopped tomato, cucumbers and onion, and pita. Most of the diners in the place were orthodox families and couples who work in the garment district. All the men were wearing yarmulkes (kipput) and all the woman had long-sleeved sweaters, and most wore skirts. One group of young men sitting in the back had brought chess boards with them. The couple next to me seemed to be on an informal date. The food was vivid tasting and truly delicious, with nice crunchy crust on the falafel. I felt right at home in the place, which is awfully nice when you are traveling.

Shopping at Macy's was a trip. It's the original Macy's, on 34th Street, and when you get up to the third floor, the escalators are the old wooden ones, with slats. The petites section was vast, and I got to try on DKNY petite clothing, which I don't think I'd encountered before. Lots of stuff was 50% off, so the store was pretty much a madhouse. It was too much for me after a long day of traveling, so I walked back up to Times Square, remembering all that I like about New York. This is not, of course, the New York I knew in 1980, but a much cleaner, friendly post 9/11 city. Biggest shock: Finding a Washington Mutual Bank one block from the hotel.

Off to New York

I'm off to New York for a few days for my Columbia J-School reunion. I have an hour to hang out while waiting for my Continental flight from Seattle to Newark and, having found seat near an electrical outlet, am charging the PowerBook. And wishing I had a 12" PowerBook for travel. (I wonder when someone will come out with 12" travel screens for people who want to travel with a Mac mini?)

A super-sized genial young loudmouth in de rigeur black polo shirt and black jeans is sitting across from me in the waiting area, bellowing into his cell phone about contracts, installing Microsoft security patches, and the need to talk with Accounts Payable. His name is JASON. His cellphone has an earphone, but too bad it can't have some kind of mouth device as well. Like an electronic gag.

I'd thought this would be the opportunity to use my Boingo wifi account, but, though Boingo recognized the robust signal from the terminal's Wayport wifi hotspot, it wasn't able to connect me. And it somehow blocked access to the WayPort sign-in process. So I ended up signing on through the Cingular wifi network.

This past month, Macworld magazine ran a great article on traveling with a laptop. Adam Engst, Joe Kissell, and some other technorati listed the equipment they pack. I picked up quite a few tips, though I haven't implemented any of them yet. Incidentally, did you know that most computer hardware manufacturers never use the word "laptop" in their marketing materials? That's in case you put what they prefer to call a "portable" on your lap and your lap gets toasted.

What folks are doing in the waiting area: Drinking fruit juice; reading a book; eating grapefruit sections; drinking water; staring at the morning news show on the overhead TV (6); sleeping while listening to an iPod shuffle; listening to an iPod mini; listening to an unidentified MP3 player; fiddling with a digital camera; yakking on a cell phone (3); typing on a laptop (me). Interestingly, for a workday morning, not a single person is reading a newspaper.

What people are wearing: athletic shoes (many), 3" high heel dress pumps (1 older woman), walking shoes (several), flip flops (the man with the iPod shuffle). Jeans (nearly everyone, including the woman in high heels and the man with flip flops) and chinos.

About 30 teenagers clutching large whipped cream-topped Starbucks drinks have just entered the waiting area for our flight, raising the noise level by several decibels. They are accompanied by three teachers, one of whom sounds like he might be the school football coach. This promises to be a livelier than usual flight.

Please, don't let one of my seatmates be JASON. We're boarding.

The winner

The new blog Don't Ask Me; I'm Making This Up As I Go Along raises a good point about Commander Riker and the Star Trek: Next Generation poker games.

Rock the house

Last night I judged a national high school journalism contest. The category was Reviewing, and the contest was rather clever: The organizers hired an up-and-coming indie rock band and had them perform for the 110 student journalists. The students had 70 minutes to write the reviews. Then the judges--an assortment of working journalists, high school teachers, and college journalism students--sat down and evaluated the pieces. I'd imagined we'd discover the next Cameron Crowe, but it didn't happen. Most of the pieces were well-written formal essays or nice feature articles, but only two qualified as actual "reviews" with a strong, critical voice and well-supported opinions. And, predictably, both of them were humorous and negative (that being the easiest type of review to write).

Soggy shuffle

A friend of mine who shall remain nameless emailed to report that he'd washed his iPod shuffle (twice) and it had survived the washing machine...sort of. A Google search revealed that he is not alone. iPods have been washed, and they have survived. Does this qualify as a meme?

Considering what one pays for the Whirlpool Duet and Maytag Nepture, perhaps high-end washers should come with a pre-wash scan for electronic devices.

More tales of the cat door

Betaille is afraid of her new, raccoon-proof, automated cat door and won't come in the basement.

I think it's the whirring sound that did it. As the cat wearing the magnet approaches the door (that would be Betaille), the door raises up magically (think: a reverse guillotine) with a little whirring sound. It stays open about 20 seconds, and then comes down.

I carried Betaille up to the door, and her magnet triggered it. It whirred and opened. I tried to push her through, but she began flailing around. When I released her, she fled.

I went inside and turned off the motor, propped the door open, put a big bowl of food just inside the door, and left things that way all day. But she didn't venture in. This evening I removed the wood I'd had blocking the door and switched on the automatic features again. All was fine until I turned on the nearby clothes dryer. It triggered the new cat door, so that the door began going up and down in a 20-second cycle. Betaille sat outside in her heated box, staring at this performance with an expression of incredulity and disgust.

Fetching the cat door directions and a screwdriver, I adjusted the cat door to decrease its sensitivity to magnets and clothes dryers. It quit whirring. But now I have a vision of the raccoon down there tonight, waving a big piece of metal in front of the door...

It's official

Zorg has relocated his blog to thezorg.typepad.com/thezorg/. All Zorg, all the time.

Hardware nirvana

Imagine an operation the size of Home Depot with the ambiance and expertise of the old-time local hardware store. That would be Ballard Hardware, housed in an old, multi-story brick building just off Leary Way in Ballard. While the store's name, painted atop the building in old-fashioned factory style, is visible at a distance, Ballard Hardware doesn't have much street presence. Its brick walls face Leary Way and Ballard Avenue, and its small storefront faces its parking lot (and Ballard Sheet Metal). If you visit Ballard much, chances are you've driven by and not noticed it.

I can spend hours in a hardware store, and have several favorites in Seattle, including the Greenwood Hardware and Glass (True Value) on Greenwood, the Stone Way Hardware (True Value) on Stone Way North, Tweedy and Popp Hardware (Ace) on N. 45th St. in Wallingford, and Maple Leaf Hardware (Ace) on Roosevelt. For lumber, I won't consider anything but Limback in Ballard.

Although I've known about Ballard Hardware for years, I've been timid about going there. This is serious hardware, and most of it is behind the counter--you need to ask one of the staff to fetch it from the multi-story warehouse. Which means I need the vocabulary to describe a particulary machine screw or a drill attachment I'm sure must exist, but which I've never seen.

Today I went there, in my hand a piece of plastic that needed to be re-attached to a suitcase with a couple of machine screws. The original screws were missing, and I had no idea what to ask for except "screws that fit this." I stepped into a high-ceiled main floor full of beautiful hardware (neon-colored extension cords!). Everyone in there was male, except for a cashier.

After skulking around the aisles and realizing that even the extra-long 1/8" drill bit I wanted was behind the counter, I went up to the front and waited for a hardware guru. Ballard Hardware does not have lines. You just stand there and exude awareness of your place in the order. When my turn came, I started with the screws, handing the plastic piece with the screw housings to to fellow behind the counter. He vanished, and returned shortly with two little bolt-ended screws attached to the piece. Then I asked for the drill bit. He told me to wait, and went out the front door, heading for their basement warehouse area. And he came back with the drill bit. I was delighted, and chatted a little with him as he wrote up my ($8) receipt to take over to the cashier. Turns out he's an alt-rock musician, and just produced an EP.

I was thrilled that I'd gone to one of the world's most serious hardware shrines, had been taken seriously, and had obtained some obscure hardware items that would have had them the shaking their heads at the smaller hardware stores (or, in the case of the big chains, scratching their heads and rolling their eyes). We are so fortunate to have Ballard Hardware right in the neighborhood!

Monday Madness

Catching up with the a recent diversion from Monday Madness. Fill out this survey in your own blog, and leave a comment at Monday Madness. (Scroll down if you want to see my answers.)

How Many........
1. ...computer-related gadgets do you own?
2. ...pictures on your living room walls?
3. ...magnets on your refrigerator?
4. ...reference books in your bookshelves?
5. ...boxes of cereal in your cupboards?
6. ...lamps in your house?
7. ...times a week do you shop for groceries?
8. ...magazines do you subscribe to?
9. ...tv programs do you watch on a regular basis?
10. ...items on your bathroom counter that don't really need to be there?

How Many........
1. ...computer-related gadgets do you own?
More than a dozen. Lots more than dozen.
2. ...pictures on your living room walls?
Just one (an oil painting by a Russian I met at a crafts fair).
3. ...magnets on your refrigerator?
None. It's stainless steel refrigerator door, and therefore not magnetic.
4. ...reference books in your bookshelves?
Well over 100. Perhaps more than 200 if you count my gardening and crafts reference books and Zorg's reference books. Argggh.
5. ...boxes of cereal in your cupboards?
Eight, but that includes hot cereals like grits and Zoom.
6. ...lamps in your house?
Eleven; fourteen if you include nightlights.
7. ...times a week do you shop for groceries?
Three. I'd prefer to do it every day, the way I did when I lived in Italy.
8. ...magazines do you subscribe to?
Ten or 12.
9. ...tv programs do you watch on a regular basis?
Hmmmm. On a regular basis? Two. And those are via TiVO.
10. ...items on your bathroom counter that don't really need to be there?
None. I am really aggressive about counter clutter. Keep stuff in the cabinets!

Catblogging

Kaylee: Here she invited us to do the Friday catblogging, and she's posting it a day late. Sheesh!

Zoe: Hey, it's probably because of her tendonitis. That's why we were invited to do the catblogging in the first place, remember?

Kaylee: I thought it was because we're cats.

Zoe: We're CATS?

Kaylee: Let's get to the blogging.

Zoe: OK. It's been a great week. Towels, still hot from the dryer, got piled on the diningroom table and we got to them before they could be compressed into those unappealing little rectangular layers.

Kaylee: I beg to differ. That big 20" monitor Sheba's been napping on for four years vanished from the office and was replaced by a 23" flat monitor. Sheba had to knock the PowerBook off the iCurve and walk all over the screen, then chew on the powercord of the new monitor, before they did anything about it. They've replaced the 20" monitor perch with a basket covered with a faux fur throw rug. It's not as warm, but at least we can see out the window again.

Zoe: A new flavor of Fancy Feast, flaked fish and shrimp, has appeared on the menu. It's excellent. No more of that insipid Turkey Feast.

Kaylee: On behalf of Betaille, I have to report that they still haven't installed the new cat door in the basement, so she is without access to basement at night. As a result, she has been forced to take shelter in the house with Sheba and us a couple time in the past week.

Zoe: And it's been so much fun hiding behind the curtains and leaping out at her.

Kaylee: I think we've reached the word limit for blog entries.

Zoe: There's a word limit?

Kaylee: Look! It's a piece of dental floss! Go for it.

CRASH.