The Tortoise has been running on a suspended registration for longer than I care to admit. I got pulled over in front of the stupid Royal Farms on Fleet Street last year by a city cop who apologetically wrote me a ticket for a busted taillight, saying that the state poopers were cracking down on them. I got caught up in moving and so forgot all about the ticket until I realized that the sticker on my license plate was a month out of date. At this point, every time I got behind the wheel, I became Steve McQueen in The Great Escape, constantly searching over my shoulder for the cops on motorcycles to chase me over the hill firing guns. So this Saturday I got the work order inspected, and ventured down to the MVA this morning to get my new registration. I brought three books, figuring I’d be trapped in the usual Soviet-era queue hell, but surprisingly I was in and out in twenty minutes—the longest I waited was for a parking spot.
Thoughts on the Superbowl.
- Good frickin’ game.
- Who the hell is Puff Daddy and why is he famous?
- The commercials, which were hyped as much as the game, were mediocre.
- No, seriously. Puff Daddy? My Dad could rap better than that guy. And who the hell is ‘Nelly’?
- Adam Viniateri is breathing a huge sigh of relief this morning.
- Jen’s brother Rob called me right after the halftime show to ask me if I had also seen Janet Jackson’s boob pop out. Unfortunately I was washing a bowl at that time, so I missed it.
- The Panthers, who I was not rooting for, played a hell of a game.
berarducci brothers galette iron
Back in the dot-com days, Dave, Jen and I all worked together in a cube in a big empty building in Laurel. Jen would make us all kinds of tasty foods (she thought that I was too skinny and Dave’s meals too bland) and share them with us each week, and one day she brought in some little waffle-looking things. She explained that they were called galettes, and her ancient Pennsylvanian ancestors had made these while carving out a living mining coal and making moonshine. The recipe calls for prodigious amounts of butter, sugar, eggs, and most importantly, Four Roses whisky, which give the galettes a certain holiday flavor.This recipe is a family secret, passed down from her grandmother on a handwritten index card (now half-obliterated with butter) and guarded jealously, almost as much as the galette iron itself.
It’s made by an outfit called the The Berarducci Brothers Mfg. Co., from McKeesport, PA; it’s Model G1-3, “French, Belgium Iron”, size Large, and I can’t find a fricking thing on the Web about it other than the fact that the Brothers have long since ended production. More sleuthing to be done.
Jen and I celebrated our first Christmas together in our new house, and we had a great time together. After rushing around for last-minute gift ideas we returned to home base to get pies baked, presents wrapped, clothes washed, dinner made, and our yuletide on. She bought me the Cadillac of Norelco shavers, the kind with the goo and the attachments and a mirror and all kinds of other gear. It’s probably more powerful than my laptop, and it shaves my face smoother than a baby’s bottom. She also bought me the first book of Maus (mine has been AWOL since college) and a copy of O Brother, Where Art Thou on DVD, which is super-keen, and then she went nuts at the store and bought me some swank Kenneth Cole and DKNY shirts, for which I must now practice my Blue Steel.
I got Jen an iPod of her own this year as well as a day of beauty at a local spa: 2 hours’ full-body and scalp massage, manicure, pedicure, shampoo and blow-dry. I think she’ll be well taken care of there.
We then packed up the cars and headed south to the Lockard family home for the first of two openings, where we have been practicing our Christmas-Fu. Let us just say that our technique is rusty, because we needed to leave the dojo to seek the comfort of sushi and multiple bottles of Sapporo last night. Christmas-Fu makes you thirsty, we have found—or could that be the Christmas ham….?
Today Jen is leading an expedition out into the wilderness to look at bridesmaid dresses, which will most likely end up resembling a recreation of the Donner Party massacre. I’m trying to find something to pack half of my Christmas vodka into to send along with her, but being in a strange house limits me to empty Windex bottles or just sending her out with the whole fifth tucked in her pants like a pistol. Which, in retrospect, wouldn’t be a bad thing, really.
We hope you’re all having a wonderful weekend with your loved ones.
Jen and I walked across Frederick Road last night to a lot next to the Presbyterian church where the Boy Scouts have been selling trees. After a few minutes of indecision, we settled on a short-needled tree about five feet high and carried it back across the street. Jen started dinner, I trimmed the bottom (note to self: buy an arbor saw) and we stood it in the hall next to the stairs to wait until the boughs fall.
The grading is done for my MICA class, although I have tonight to look at stuff and modify grades—I’m hoping that some of the students have really used the time to improve their designs. I took a page from Jen’s book and wrote out a page of comments for each of them to review, so I’m feeling pretty good about it overall. meanwhile I’m crashing from a bloodsugar low after lunch, so I may not be conscious for the next half hour or so.
B & E. I was gonna be quiet about this, but it looks like Dave has fessed up to locking his keys in Clifford with the engine running on Sunday. I’ve carried around a pair of Slim Jims in my trunk since the days of old and my parents’ reposession business, so it was a pretty easy deal to find the linkage in the door and pop the lock (I would have thought it would be harder these days, but I guess some things never change). I have decided to keep them out of the trunk and leave them at home, though, considering they’re illegal (OK, Mom?) but man, those things have come in so handy in the last ten years…
Stopping in the Catonsville Post Office this morning to mail off my LL Bean watch for a new battery, I spied a plaque describing the WPA murals on the walls, painted in 1942 by a man named Avery Johnson. Google is flooded with entries for an NBA star of the same name, but I found another entry for this artist (3rd row from the right, 5th image down) on a Java-tacular site put together by the University of Central Arkansas. More information as I get it.
Spaceman Spiff, Where Are You?!? The Cleveland Scene ran a story about Bill Watterson, the reclusive man behind Calvin & Hobbes. The story has no real new information, mostly speculation, but raises the question Why quit? Having dreamed of being able to create some kind of marketable artistic story for years, I have to say I’d probably try to do what he did and go out on top, instead of beating a dead horse for cash. Why does anyone have to make T-shirts and coffee mugs if they’re already rich? My guess is that his books still do a brisk business on Amazon to this day; how much money is enough? Interestingly enough, Berke Breathed has just started running Opus in the weekend comics pages again, and in a Salon interview he pokes at comics-as-licensing juggernaut, saving most of his jabs for Tom Davis, better known as Mr. Garfield—who hasn’t drawn his own strips for years. For Breathed, though, you get the sense that he has something to say again, instead of trying to cash in one last time—recent world events bring to mind the dark days of the early 80’s, when he was just hitting his stride.
My personal connection to this story: Back in ’87 or so, I attended my cousin’s wedding in Ohio and was fortunate enough to meet a thin, kind man in a yellow coat and glasses, who sat down and talked to me about cartooning. (Unsurprisingly, he looks a lot like the father in the C&H strips.) As it turned out, Bill Watterson lived across the street from my aunt and uncle, and used to hang out with my cousin. That Christmas I was given a signed copy of Calvin And Hobbes, which I still treasure, as I was told that he didn’t like to sign books too much. I have a lot of respect for him, because he had a clear shot at millions in revenue, and took the high road to creative expression instead.
Technology Giving Me The Finger. Last night I formatted the iMac and loaded Panther on the drive; upon reboot the hard drive has dissappeared completely, so I have to crack the case to figure out what’s going on. The PCMCIA adapter card for my CompactFlash media seems to be corrupting data—I lost all the pictures I took of Jen’s family visit last weekend as well as some other shots. I was able to retrieve the other stuff after plugging in the SanDisk USB adapter. And Office X for the Mac refused to run on this machine. It got to the end of the “optimizing font menu performance” thing—yeah, right—and then crashed. When I upgraded the version and plugged in my serial, it refused to accept the old number.
Meanwhile, Microsoft Word still sucks ass.
Class went well again last night, although one guy didn’t show and another is sick; I also bumped into Whitney and she introduced me to Jose Villarrubia, whose name I recognized but couldn’t place until I Googled him. Nice guy.
Dangit. Turns out I missed A Charlie Brown Christmas Again this year. Thanks for promoting that so well, CBS.
leaf, frederick road, 11.9.03
Thanks to Jason for Panther; I’m kind of nervous about installing it just yet, but it’s great to have ready.
Additions. Renie reminded me to add another cherished memory from childhood:
Don’t forget about the William Tell Overture and HOURS of hauling firewood—nay, large dead trees—to the green Ford F150.
(My Dad, in a well-meant bid for lower fuel bills in the gas crunch of the late 70’s, decided to install a wood stove in the basemen of our house. Which, naturally, meant we had to go chop wood, drag it to the truck, haul it to the house, split it, stack it down by the shed, and carry wheelbarrowfuls to the basement window each night after dinner. Ah, the memories. Don’t get me started on the time he made me climb a ladder to throw a brick down the flue to clean it…)
The 1812 Overture. One of the wonderful things about living in Catonsville is the number of old trees that surround the neighborhood. Unfortunately, all good things must come to an end, and our yard has been looking like a vacant lot for about two weeks. My father, in the old days, used to wake us for raking duty by putting records on his 1950’s era console record player and blasting the volume; usually it was Tchaikovsky, and he would roust us from bed in the hours before dawn, prop us at the table in front of bacon and eggs, and then kick us out the front door with rakes in our hands to clean the yard. Being young and stupid, we would complain, fool around, and make the job last until long after lunch, when he would stick his head out of the garage or from under the car to tell us to get back to work. I quickly developed a dislike for raking and a Pavlovian response to Tchaikovsky. When I moved to the city and bought a rowhouse, I said a prayer of thanks for the lack of lawn to mow and rake. When we bought the house in Catonsville, I knew what I was getting into, but found that mowing was actually kind of satisfying; unfortunately I’ve confirmed that my dislike of raking is still alive and well.
(To be fair, doing the front yard was kind of fun. About halfway through the backyard, I got sick of it suddenly.)
Yay. I got up at 6:15 to be at the park & ride by 6:50; we drove immediately into traffic and were stuck fast until 9:45. After finding someplace to park and signing into the building, we were sent through a metal detector and escorted upstairs directly into the meeting with no chance for a bathroom break. Swell.
One thing about driving through DC—there’s a ton of excellent architecture in the Northwest corridor and a lot of great photo potential; everything from arts and crafts bungalows to ornate Victorian brickwork to Spanish-style apartments to Bauhaus inspired apartment blocks. Walking to the meeting through Chinatown was great from a diversity standpoint; all the professionals walking the streets are stylish to a degree not seen in Baltimore. I do miss working down here, even if I don’t miss the commute.
The first year I lived in Bolton Hill, my two roommates and I decided it would be great fun to drink National Bohemians, sit on our front stoop and hand out candy to the kids in the neighborhood. After a half hour, we realized what a drag that was, because all the kids that came to our door neglected to dress in costume, preferring to just grab a handful of candy and then… grab another handful of candy. Even more charming were the thirty-year-old people who were getting candy for their “brother who’s home sick in bed.” After hearing that same story five or six times, we stopped filling the bowl, unscrewed the light bulb in the foyer, and walked down to the Tavern for drinks.
This year is a totally different experience, and I’m looking forward to a new start. The house is kind of spooky on its own (without outdoor lights in the driveway, it’s very dark) but with the lights on it’s more cheerful. I went to the Target this afternoon and dropped $20 on ten pounds of candy, and hopefully I can throw together some kind of spooky costume tomorrow. Kids? Bring ’em on. I got yer candy right here.
In other news, I have found that it’s impossible to purchase a standard Humanitarian Daily Ration (what they’ve been dropping by the thousands in vacation spots like Iraq and Afghanistan) unless you have recently had the crap bombed out of you. I’ve been on the phone—thanks again for that VoIP phone, John— all day, and the most success I got back was a polite but firm no way. I’m going to have to figure out another way to describe this to my class.
Looks like Nissan is using one of my favorite Morphine songs to sell SUV’s. I can’t begin to tell you how bummed out I am about that. Although, I suppose, if I was a reasonably successful underground band, and the founder and lead singer died suddenly of an untimely heart attack, I might be tempted to sell a song or two to put the kids through college. It isn’t getting any easier to afford, that’s for sure.
Crap. According to this chart, the 17-year cicadas are due to rise in 2004. For folks planning an outdoor wedding (or reception), consider this page. I can’t seem to find any pages on the brood cycles of Maryland, but we have a yard full of deciduous trees as well as a mature oak in the backyard. This is going to be fun…
Word of the Day. Autodidact: n. 1748 a self-taught person.
Etymology: Greek autodidaktos self-taught, from aut- + didaktos taught, from didaskein to teach (courtesy of the Miriam-Webster dictionary)
Feelin’ Groovy. Day three of the annoying cold. Grr.
We Couldn’t Be Prouder. This morning I sat on the dining room floor, adding CD’s to our iTunes library and sipping my coffee, and I glanced over at a gray blob on the floor by the table. Normally, there are about five of those kitty mice (a plastic rectangle covered in colored rabbit fur, with two plastic eyes and a rawhide tail) laying around the house at any one time, so it wasn’t anything new. This one was different, though, because it looked, well, roughed up. I looked closer and realized it was a real mouse, and somebody had obviously worked it over for a while before killing it. I picked it up and put it in the trash with a big smile, not only because our cats are fearsome warriors, but because it didn’t wind up in one of the beds with us this morning. “Look what I brought you, Mom!”
My pop sent a picture of our old house in Jersey to my sister and I. I lived there from 1st to 5th grade, and I mostly remember this house as the one I grew up in. It looks a lot different—they cut down the weeping willow tree I fell out of and broke my arm under; they resided it with white clapboard (or a reasonable facsimile); they put a basketball hoop up in the driveway and got rid of my Dad’s circular flower bed in the side yard. Other than that, it looks really good, like the family who lives there takes care of it. I think every so often about that house, and whether the pool we dug is still in the backyard, if there are still matchbox cars buried in the driveway (it was dirt when we lived there) or Star Wars figures under the grass in the backyard. I wonder if anybody I know still lives there, and what ever became of the kids we played pickle and flashlight tag with.
Jen Rocks The World. That is all.
Grrr. I was able to figure out what the deal with dyndns was this morning, after spending about an hour laying in bed feeling like I was going to hurl. Internally at the house I can see the web server and mount the shared volumes but I’m still not able to see it from work. Perhaps I have to wait until the DNS is updated throughout the land. I watched a funny old-time movie on AMC while waiting for a killer headache to go away and enjoyed two cats sleeping on either side of my chest. Not a bad way to start the morning.
I’m moving all the Dyndns stuff to a different page, so that it stays off this log- you didn’t want to read about all that boring crap here anyway, right?