headband (courtesy of and thanks to the P.S.D.F.), 4.22.04
One of the drawbacks to writing a weblog under one’s own name is the fact that you can’t write about everything you’re thinking for fear of co-workers, bosses, or potential employers finding your self-centered griping online. I wrote a whole post about work, life, and some recent developments, and haven’t posted it. I’ll spill this much: I’m unhappy about one particular thing, I could be doing some things better than I am, and I found out what could be the root of the problem. More on that later.
Meanwhile, as if I didn’t know this already, it’s amazing how much better the Tortoise shifts into gear when it actually has oil. I checked the level today as I filled up on gas and was greeted with a naked “ADD 1 QT” marker on the dipstick. These days, because the Ford burns oil at a half-quart a week, I don’t carry single refils around with me—I carry a case of generic brand in the trunk. They are gonna love me at the emissions station. (Interesting trivia: Between my Mazda pickup, Honda CRX, Tortoise, and Scout, the 26-year-old V-8 with 150K+ miles has been the only vehicle to consistently pass emissions.)
We have reservations made for an eight-night stay in Rome at the Palace Hotel, a short walk away from the Trevi Fountain and the Spanish Steps. I am alternately nervous and excited about going to Europe for the first time in my life. This is going to be great!
Bring Out The Gimp. Jen drove me in to work this morning, as my range of motion is still severely limited and turning my head still brings tears to my eyes. (It’s actually much better today—I’m just shamefully soliciting sympathy and cash donations.) I kinda look like Frankenstein, keeping my head squarely on top of my shoulders (the afflicted muscles are between my shoulderblades, the ones that branch out into all the others in my back) and trying not to look down too much. Which makes bathroom breaks interesting, let me tell you.
Meanwhile, downtime on my current project at work means I’ve been switched off to another one, which at first glance is the worst “game” I’ve ever seen. Making something work out of this mess will require either a stroke of genius or a frontal lobotomy, and I know which one of these I can attempt with a cordless drill and some gauze.
Resolution. If I get some time tonight, I’m going to finish cleaning up an HTML divelog I started but never finished last year after returning from Bimini—#153 in the long list of uncompleted web projects. Stay tuned!
Here’s a link to a do-it-yourself steadicam project—for $14 you can build a pretty professional camera stabilization rig and shoot DV like the pros. (via boing boing)
Whiplash. So much for moving furniture today. My neck, which was giving me aches and pains yesterday, feels like it’s going to give way completely and let the rest of my head fall off the back of my shoulders. This morning we moved the doctor’s oak desk, one file cabinet, and my IKEA table into the office before Jen (the Voice Of Reason) told me we were stopping. I don’t know what I did to myself, or why it feels so friggin’ bad right now, but I can’t turn my head in any direction without the sensation of having a ballpeen hammer hitting directly on my spine. Just great.
Flashback. One year ago today, I was on a boat bobbing in the Bahamas, diving on coral reefs for a project at work that has since been cancelled and will most likely never come back.
Ever since I started dating Jen, I learned a lot of things that I hadn’t figured out in three previous relationships and several catastrophic dating experiences; when I met her, I was a 22-year-old with 17-year-old tendencies trapped in a 29-year-old body. Among the many vices and character flaws I sported like a superhero utility belt was the infuriating ability to coast through life with little regard for other people’s feelings. My loving family could sit you down and relate a lifetime’s worth of stories to this effect, and I won’t even mention the volumes of examples Jen could tell you about. Instead, I’ll point to a current issue, and attempt to apologize for my ignorance. You see, when it comes to uncomfortable issues, I have a reflexive habit of sidestepping the whole thing and burying my head in the sand. As you can guess, this is one of the more infuriating character flaws I have, and it’s probably the first one that my fiancée would cite as she stood over my unconscious body with the frying pan.
So I should clarify my post from yesterday: I suggested we put the moratorium on further invitees to our wedding, and she suggested I shut the f**k up and pay attention to what she’s been telling me for three months: we’re over our limit, and only a miracle (or the Almighty) will help us sneak in under or at the budget. My loving fiancée has been wrestling the budget since the beginning, and while I look at it, nod, and blink, she can (and has) recalled the exact figure for the postage on the save-the-date cards like Dustin Hoffman in Rain Man.
In an effort to make right what has been screwed up, I offer my apology in this public forum: Forgive me for making myself ignorant of this issue, and making light of it here in public.
In other news, here’s a great link on the 10 Things They Never Taught In Design School. (via kottke) In heavy rotation on the iPod: Lapdance by N.E.R.D. This track makes me want to buy a drum kit and rock out in the garage.
Today marks the beginning of the fourth year of this humble weblog. Three years ago I sat down at my desk in Washington, and, without a project to work on, wrote a brief entry about coats. Who would have known just how different life would be since then?
I posted a new picture of the office this morning. It doesn’t look all that different, but you’ll see a dramatic change in another week or so when the trim gets painted and the walls get a finish coat.
We may have a photographer for our little party in May—a friend recommended a friend whose portfolio looks very good. The decision has not been made final, but I think it would be money well spent, even if we have to put some stuff in hock to afford it.
I went to the Baltimore County courthouse this afternoon to pick up our marriage license. The whole experience reminded me of a trip my father and I took when I was about 14 to go see the battleship Massachussetts in Fall River. The government had towed this huge monster into the harbor and opened it up for tours to the public, which meant legions of Cub Scouts got to overnight on the ship and scratch their initials into the walls. It had this smell that I’ve found unique to Navy ships: a curious mixture of fire-retardant paint and disinfectant, with a flowery bouquet of asbestos.
The county courthouse is a big cement building filled with tired gray marble and Carter-era brown furniture. It wasn’t until I stepped into the elevator that I made the olifactory connection: It had the same dull gray government paint smell as the battleship. Upstairs in the hallway outside the Clerk’s office, big signs in Times Roman announced the hours civil ceremonies would be performed, and several expectant couples milled around the waiting area. I stood on line behind a young Jewish man with a shock of red hair under his yarmulke as he and his bride got their license. A short woman shuffled slowly out of the ladies’ room past me in a silky dress with a garment bag over her arm. She padded over to the benches in stocking feet and waited with a plump man in a trucker’s vest and bluejeans, talking quietly together.
The Jewish couple turned to leave, and I wished them good luck; they both blushed and smiled nervously, holding hands. The clerk was professional and courteous, and within five minues I had a copy of our license in my hand. Leaving the building, I passed several knots of people in the waiting area: the short couple, a gaggle of Asian folks, dressed impeccably and holding flowers, and a man in a Member’s Only jacket talking excitedly in a Slavic language to a group of serious-looking family.
One of the great things about living outside the city is having a house with a yard. One of the great things about having a yard is that frequently you’ll see animals outside your windows. Hopefully they’re not trying to burrow their way in to get at your food, like the raccoons who occasionally dropped in on Jen’s old apartment, but coexist peacefully in the suburban microcosm that you call home. For us, this means chipmunks burrowing around the tree roots in our backyard, and a helpful neighborhood dog who enjoys digging out great patches of our lawn to try and roust them from their holes. We have squirrels who probably could take on the worst of Central Park’s crack-addled fauna—One morning, while sipping our coffee peacefully on the couch, we saw two local squirrels chase a hawk the size of a dalmatian from the branch of one of ‘their’ trees. We have a feral neighborhood cat with no tail or ears who enjoys beating the crap out of any animal unlucky enough to get close to it, and who dines from our garbage cans.
We also have a pair of cardinals who visit the side yard outside our kitchen window. Back when the Doctor lived there, he had a pole-stand birdhouse in that yard next to a sundial, and when the house changed hands both found their way into somebody’s car or the dumpster they filled in the driveway. The cardinals came by every morning last fall and sat on the scrubby apple tree, waiting for the bird feeder to reappear. Then one morning, they were gone. Today I was cleaning out the coffeepot and looked up to see both of them again, which was a relief. The gray female flitted about in the gray underbrush, looking for something to eat, while the red male sat on the branch looking magnificent, bored, and useless. I’d like to think his presence was the portent of a warm, enjoyable spring right around the corner, but I’m sure his mate was looking in the window at me saying, “make with some birdseed, you cheap prick.”
Another Jungian Test. Jason sent this over to me this morning, and the results were different than the pre-Cana test Jen and I took a few weeks back: ENFJ. Funny how the results change based on which test you take.
Wow. I want to go here. I love finding things like this collection of pictures, not only because they’re aesthetically beautiful, but because I have about a million different stories I’m writing in my head about the subject.
following a link on the MacNN site, I found iCal-mail, a handy little helper for all us folks who don’t or can’t use Mail.app as our default client. I use Eudora because it supports APOP, and I’ve always wanted to take advantage of the email alarm feature in iCal—now I can. After a quick install, I tested out the alarm feature and it worked flawlessly. Thanks, Mike.
Colors. Check this link out: it’s a color scheme selector. Very slick.
Huh. Elliott Smith is dead. That sucks.
You Can Leave The City, But You Can’t Leave The Jerks. Somebody broke into (well, opened the door I left unlocked—sorry) Jen’s car last night; they went through her change cup and left the door open. That didn’t make me feel good.
Tasty. Last night Jen and I drove into the city for one of our first catering tastings, at Sascha’s. New to this whole thing, we sat down and went over the menu with our helpful planner Tara, sipped cocktails and sampled a plate of hors d’oveurs. We also met Sascha, who popped in the room with one foot in a cast and the other in a leopard-print boot; apparently she had a slight dancing accident with a cute extra on the latest John Waters movie. We left with a menu selection, a contract, and a pleasant buzz. Next up is the Brass Elephant, scheduled for next week.
Sweet.On other fronts, Apple just announced new G4 iBooks. The fastest model (1Ghz) with Airport and a 60GB drive is a little under $1,500. What a steal. Especially considering this 3-year-old G3 Powerbook (400Mhz), in the configuration it’s at right now, is fetching around $7-800 used on eBay.
A. Looks like our basement flooded last night; Jen just called me to let me know. There’s a set of stairs down to the basement door, ending in a little concrete pit with a drain at the center. Water runs down the side of the house and into this pit. The drain is clogged with crap (and I have no idea where it drains to anyway), so the incoming water came under the door and across the basement floor. Looks like it’s not too bad, but that’s a pain in the butt. B. Along with that fun, we lost power again last night at about 10:30. As old pros at this stuff now, we lit the Dietz lamps again and laid down to read. It came back on at 9:30 this morning as we were climbing into the shower. C. I found myself scratching a particular spot on my hand last night, and thought that was odd. On further inspection, it seems I’ve got some poison ivy happening on both hands. Now, for most people, this isn’t a big deal, but for me, it’s like trying to rid yourself of the hair on your scalp—it just keeps growing back. I’ve doused it with calamine and I’m ignoring the millions of other itchy spots that have popped up now that I’m paranoid about the stuff spreading; if I don’t shake your hand you’ll know why.
Right the hell on. Brought to you by Senator Max Cleland.
Nominees for the Moist category:
- Antonio Banderas – Lis (sorry, can’t find the Helmut Newton pic you speak of)
- Jake Busey – Lis
- David Copperfield – John P.
- The late Doug Henning – Mine. (you can’t have Copperfield without Henning.)
My personal take on Jake Busey is that he’s sort of a jerk/jock hybrid (loved you in Starship Troopers, babe); Todd says he’s more of a residually famous person, like the Baldwin brothers. David Copperfield is immediately in the running based on Jazz Hands alone, and Doug Henning—what else can you say about a Canadian in legwarmers, a leotard, long hair, and that dopey smile?
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Looks like we’re probably (but not definitely) grounded by the storm, so we most likely won’t be going to Houston tomorrow. Dammit. I was really looking forward to meeting the Masso clan and watching our friend JP get hitched (and getting out of town, for that matter.) Sorry, friend. Luckily Southwest has a pretty cool cancellation/refund policy, so we may be able to get our dinero back, or at least get a credit for a future flight.
In other news, that company I ordered plaster washers from, and who sent me a confirmation email, has no record of the order I placed. When the dude on the phone told me this, I hung up in disgust, but will most likely have to call back and place an order over the phone to make sure it goes through. What a hassle.
(Update: Some dude called the house and mumbled something about not having me in their system because the order already went out, or something stupid like that. So I guess the stuff is on its way.)
I was one of the last retards out on the roads this afternoon, picking up some final things before heading home; I got food, beer, and clean-burning propane. I’m going to go dig out my camping gear and dust off the portable grill, just in case. We already have large tree limbs down in the back yard (as well as next to the Scout) and the power has blinked off about four times already—thank god for laptops.
Remember everyone, tomorrow is Talk Like A Pirate Day. Yarrrr!