Facepalm, Part II

As expected, the Internet heated up over the weekend about hacked/leaked e-mails and other files from the Climate Research Unit in England.

Trot over to RealClimate.org at this link for some interesting information on consdiering the context of the purloined e-mails. Keeping things in context is always an excellent rule of thumb when trying to understand what's going on, especially when, s in most communications you and I send out, we write in shorthand, expecting the recpients of our messages to understand what we're talking about without having to go over everything in excruciating detail. So it's good to read the context that's beign provided, though the haughty "We don't have to respond to this because it's false" attitude generally being taken isn't the way to go. You don't get converts by essentially saying "You all are too stupid to understand what's really going on here" to those posing the questions. You offer context. You explain. A lot. You just gotta HAVE PATIENCE, man (start at 4:59 for the proper scene).



Of course, it also helps if you're not throwing horseshit at the wall to see what sticks (which is what your opponents on the opposite side of any argument expect you to do, and you them).

Meanwhile, over in England, there's word of an inquiry into the matter of the purloined e-mails and the (maybe) hack science. I don't know that it'll go anywhere.

Meanwhile, over in Germany, there's discussion that global warming may have stalled out, or at least that there are other factors besides human activity that are playing not-quite-understood but demonstrable roles in global climate change.

So it's a complicated matter, one that won't be solved here on this humble blog.

What Am I doing to save the environment for the three kids I've broughtinto the world?

We recycle aluminum cans. We re-read (and then burn) newspapers and other paper in our woodstove. (Yes, that puts carbon into the atmosphere. So do I and my wife and three kids. You've got to allow us some carbon, y'see. Besides, we burn waste from a log-home-building company that they would burn anyway. And we use less natural gas in our furnace as a consequence. We don't waste water. We grow a garden and bottle the excess. No guilt here.

Nuclear Bugaboo

A few weeks ago, an explosion at an oil refinery near Woods Cross, Utah, damaged millions of dollars of equipment, shattered windows more than a mile away and blew at least one neighboring house off its foundation.

Yesterday, one sensor at Pennsylvania's Three Mile Island nuclear power plant showed a slightly elevated radiation sample while two neighboring sensors showed no problems whatsoever.

Which incident is going to stir up more gloom-and-dooming about our energy future?

I don't disagree that nuclear power has to be treated carefully. I disagree, however, when doomsayers use minor incidents such as what happened at TMI yesterday into a bigger deal than it has to be. The only thing that irritates me about TMI is that no one has posted the Saturday Night Live-Mutant Jimmy Carter sketch they did of TMI in 1979.

I've worked at a nuclear facility for almost four years now. Part of my training includes recognizing radioactive hazards and being monitored for any radiation does I might pick up as I go about my daily business. The building I work in is checked monthly for its radiation levels. And in the nearly four years I've worked there, I haven't picked up even a millirem of radiation. I've gotten more radiation from dental x-rays and sitting in my basement breathing radon than I have from the nuclear industry (and I'm not in power; I'm in legacy Cold War waste).

What do I worry about more? All summer, not four blocks from my house, the railroad all year stores tankers that are either filled with liquid fertilizer or are partially empty. I'm much more concerned about one of those blowing up than with anything untoward happening at work, or at a nuclear power plant.

This Can't Be Good

I tried to turn my computer on this morning and it wouldn't.

The monitor would. All the little fans inside the CPU and the DVD drive would, and I could hear the hard drive spinning, but the computer wouldn't.

Sweating bullets, of course. At first I thought, well, maybe I did something wrong, because despite enjoying computers and technology avidly, I have a luddite streak that occasionally prompts me to leave the broken-down vehicle on the side of the road and go purchase a horse and cart (which I would also have to abandon on the side of the road because horses and I don't get along). I also did the standard Guy Repair technique, which was to pull the side panel off the CPU to see if I could spot any parts holding and waving little "HELP ME" signs. Nothing but a bunch of dust bunnies, which I dutifully blew out. Thankfully, in my infirmity, I was able to go to the other computer, still happily churring away and connected to the Internet to "diagnose" the trouble. Nothing but horror stories about blown motherboards and melted video cards and other various computer parts hexed and bedemoned, so I abandoned any appeals to the Internet for help.

Then a few minutes ago, my wife came to me in a quandary. She wanted to use our ancient laser printer which was networked through my computer (since mine is the only one with a serial port; who makes computers without serial ports?) So I thought, well, I'll try it one more time. Pushed the button. Five minutes later I was working on this blog entry. Go figure.

Possibilities:

1) Dust bunny in the on-switch area fell out.
2) Demon left to go inhabit the Christmas lights outside.
3) Computer was in fear of my wife needing to print.
4) ?

I'll stick with No. 4. That's the only one that makes sense.

Finding Inspiration

I needed some inspiration this evening. I found it here:



And here:



And here (and the guy directing is my brother-in-law Kevin Brower):

Bums Stuffed with Tweed

The Editors

I just got a rejection e-mail from a Utah literary mag to which I submitted a few poems. I'm fine with that. I've gotten my fair share of rejection notices over the years. That not everyone likes what I write is something I've know for a very long time.

But why do all the rejection notices have to sound, as Terry Pratchett wrote of editorial writers, as if the writers' bums were stuffed with Tweed?

Here's the rejection in its entirety:

Thank you for submitting your poems for publication in [redacted].

Unfortunately, your work doesn't quite match our current needs, but we wish you the best in future poetry endeavors.

Regards,

The Editors.

That always sets me to wondering: What are their current needs? Obviously, they don't want poetry that sucks. That eliminates, in my experience, an awful lot of poetry. Do their needs include hamster-cage shavings? No, because in order to do that, they'd have to print out my poems, which I submitted electronically. It would be easier to just use other sources of paper.

And "future poetry endeavors," which is, of course, code for "anything that doesn't involve future submissions to us." Ouch.

But then I realize, "Hey, this is the Internet age. The age when any hack writer can start his own hack literary magazine to show off his writing to everyone in the world who may be interested in it. Or not." So back in 2006, I started this blog.

{Climatoligist Facepalm}

First off, I have to confess: I'm not a scientist. I don't even have PhDs in psychology and parapsychology. The "kids" do not love me. And there is no way I'm being moved to better quarters on campus.

I do know this: If, as a scientist, a researcher, a journalist, a writer, a whatever noun you want to insert, if you falsify your data because you're not getting the result you expected or wanted, then, indeed, you are a poor scientist, Dr. Venkman. (Go to 3:36 for the "Poor Scientist" speech from Dean Yeager.)


I'm speaking here, of course, of reports that hacked files and e-mails from The Climate Research Unit at the University of East Anglia in England reveal researchers, including some top=flight folks at the American National Aeronautics and Space Administration have colluded to falsify and cloud some climate data in order to support their theories ot anthropogenic climate change (or climate change caused by human activity).

Does this mean Global Warming, with the proper capital letters, is dead? No, I think reports of ACM's demise is premature, at least until, as Gen. Turgidson would remind us, all the facts are in.

If, indeed, the CRU folks have falsified their data and colluded across the Atlantic to do so, their research is at best questionable, at worst, completely worthless. I'm curious to know, however, how they hope to build or retain credibility in the scientific community if their research and methods are called into question. If they have indeed lied, which, it appears, they have, at least to some extent. I'll watch this unfold with much interest, to say the least. I just know that anything that even stinks of impropriety means that there's something rotten in the refrigerator.

Do we need legitimate research into mankind's effects on the environment? Absolutely. However, it's just as foolish to think that mankind's activities have no effects on the environment as it is to falsify data to make that appear to be the case. If these reports (here, (that's the one I recommend) here, (an even better one) and the leaked documents here (it's The Pirate Bay, so don't open this up on work computers and be prepared for safe-for-work but eye-bleach worthy photos of bimbos)) are true, then shame on those who falsified their data. That's not science. That's dishonesty. That's doing your science a disservice. That's telling the world that you are, frankly, a poor scientist.

What will also be interesting to watch is how the climate change true believers take this news. So far, as far as I can tell, there are a lot of folks saying, wow, these creeps ought to be jailed for what they did. And they're speaking of the hackers, not the scientists. Of course, what the hackers did was illegal. What the scientists are accused of doing is merely unethical. There seems to be a bit of denial out there -- this time on the part of the true believers. They may find crow tasty. They may not. It'll still be interesting to watch.

The International Association of "W" Lovers

Frankly, this is one of the reasons I decided to join Facebook, so I could start an International Association of "W" Lovers. After nearly a year on Facebook, I decided this was the morning to do it. Of course, this is also the morning to put up the outdoor Christmas lights, and I'm trying to put that off until it warms up a bit (it's 17 degrees F outside).

So if you're on Facebook, toddle over to the W page there. If you're not on Facebook, join up just to join the International Association of "W" Lovers.

Don't worry. Or despair. This is not a shadow group for the International Association of "Dubya" Lovers. You can pronounce "W" as "dubya" all you want, just don't bring up politics. Come, explain why you love the letter W, post videos and links (G-rated, please) about your favorite letter of the alphabet and enjoy the association of people just like you.

And share your most embarrassing W-related stories. Mine is this: I and another young fellow once belted out the "National Association of W Lovers" song in the parking lot of an Auchan supermarket in Blois, France. We got the attention of quite a few people, a few of whom said "Listen to the crazy Americans." That's the kind of world image we need to promote as a nation.

Be Careful What You Tweet

Be careful what you tweet. It could get you sued, or it could make you look stupid in front of millions.

Sure, 98 percent of what is tweeted is so banal that it doesn't get the attention of your followers, let alone anyone else. But Twitter has been in the news enough to make one think twice -- well, at least once -- about what one tweets just to make sure feet don't suddenly start flying into mouths all over the globe.

And journalists, be careful how you use Twitter. I can see it quickly becoming a lazy reporter's tool for monitoring various attitudes, certainly on les trends du jour, as in this story here.

I get concerned about lazy reporting because I was a lazy reporter. I look back on some of the stuff I produced and think, "Well, yeah, I phoned that one in." Tweeting one in isn't any better. Sure, it's easy to justify in a puff piece like the one I mention, but I have to ask myself -- is Twitter the kind of social platform a reporter can wander into, cull a few quotes and then leave without really doing any more work than cutting or pasting? I'm working on the assumption here, of course, that the reporters don't ask the twits if they can use their tweets in their stories. If reporters are asking, kudos to them. But I'm certain most are not asking at all. Folks on Twitter put stuff out to be heard, so what does it matter if someone in the mainstream media uses a tweet as a quote?

I fell into this trap often as a reporter, using quotes said in public that really weren't meant for public consumption. I pissed a few people off doing that. I learned quickly that for the sake of credibility, it's best to ask. Always ask. Asking almost always saves you from looking stupid, and can certainly help you recognize enough red flags to avoid being sued.

Then there's Courtney Love, who's being sued for libel because of something she tweeted. What's laughable in this situation is that there are experts out there parsing the legalities, saying that the law hasn't kept up with technology. This is what CNN is saying about the situation:

Legal experts say Internet-related cases are being watched closely because they confront new and unaddressed areas of American law.

For example, how should a libel case be handled when it comes to social media? How can society balance accountability with free speech? And if information -- from private thoughts to public datat -- is so readily available, how do we define what constitutes privacy?

Then CNN goes on to cite examples that have nothing to do with libel, accountability, and privacy, such as the passing on of digital property (Facebook profiles, passwords) when someone dies, to deciding what law apply if, for example, someone in England sues someone in Australia for libel. (Read the whole thing here.)

Libel is libel as far as I'm concerned, whether it's written on paper or tweeted into the ethers. If you put something on the web, you cannot argue it's private -- so the social media argument doesn't apply. And the defenses -- truth being the best, opinion being tenable but shaky -- ought to be as applicable to what's written in a newspaper as to what's typed on Twitter. Thankfully, there are folks out there who say the same thing; folks much more knowledgable about the law than I am.

This ties in nicely with the post I wrote yesterday. We sometimes forget in our rush to tell the world what we think about everything that, sometimes, the world really is listening.

Did I Really Write That?

One of my favorite Simpsons epidoses is a parody of Stephen King's The Shining, in which Marge, hoping to figure out if Homer is going to murder everyone in their sleep, decides that "what he's typed will be a window into his madness." I offer the YouTube clip here:

Occasionally, when I read this blog, especially the old entries -- and I have to call them old because, taking the Internet into consdieration, April 15, 2009 IS old -- and occasionally when I read my journal, which, since it stretches back to the year 1993, is ANCIENT per Internet standards, I get a peek into my own madness.

Cultural anthropologists ought to have a field day with the Internet in, say, 30 or 50 years if we don't suffer the same fate as GeoCities. Of course, I'm sure there's someone out there catalogging and archiving the terabushels of crap that the Intertubes produces, so maybe containment and storage of the beast will be one of the specials of the future. This is why I archive my stuff as PDFs every month or so, becuse for posterity to have to live without my Internet remblings would be a sad thing, indeed.

It's a wonder, this Internet thing. In a small way, it's allowing the common man to leave his mark on society in a way that, in the past, has been matched only by graffiti. Yes indeed, not since the days of the scribbling on the walls of Lascaux has the ordinary man been able to leave his mark on society and know for certain that it would be available for the Men of the Future to read, even if 1) The Men of the Future didn't really care to read what's written, 2) It was overwritten by other Men of the Past, or 3) It consists mainly of things like "Me too!" "LOL," or [Insert snotty and gramatically poor invective on religion, politics or the Great Pumpkin here].

Who, for example, is going to care about this (taken from a journal entry of 4 June 2009):

I am such a geek. Part of my onerous preparation for our trip to Oregon is making sure my blogs can handle my being on the road. Yes, you heard right, I’m worried about keeping things updated. That sounds so weird. The Cokesbury Party Blog I’ve got ready to run on autopilot while I’m gone, so I don’t have to bring the book with me. Mister Fweem’s Blog I’ll just update on the road. Whee. Nerd that I am. Because I can’t disappoint my audience. Which consists mostly of me and my brother-in-law Carl. So why do I do it? Because it’s the thrill of owning my own printing press without getting my fingers dirty.

Having read it again, I'm not sure I even care about it, and I wrote it. But it was so important at the time. And so nonsensical. But that pretty much sums up the Internet, right? Thing is, my brother-in-law isn't even reading this blog any more. He's got a teriffic excuse: He's given up blogging himself in order to write his doctoral thesis, which has something to do with Syriac languages. Don't ask me what, because I don't remember. But I might read it. Might be fun. Might be more interesting than reading what I've written.

Leave Sarah Alone

I don't admit to being a fan of Sarah Palin, but at least I don't take every opportunity given to slam the woman.

The mainstream media (and a plethora of idiots on the Interntubes) are ahving a field day with this woman. While I will concede she's not, in my opinion at least, presidential material, likely cost John McCain some votes in 2008 and is, for the lack of a better phrase, not the most mature person in the universe, I have to wonder if the constant attacks on her by the media and by many on the left are really, actually and truthfully warranted.

Sure, she's a lightweight. But the way she's treated in the media, you'd think she was a serious contender for any number of pending, future honors, inside or outside the hardcore group of Republicans who think she's the cat's pajamas.

What gets me most is the media double standard on Sarah Palin. Take Newsweek's treatment of her this week. The rag, if you haven't noticed, published on its front cover a photo of Palin to go along with their cover story on what a liability she is for the GOP. Now, because she's a Republican, Newsweek and the rest on the left can titter and laugh at this photo. If, however, the Weekly Standard or another conservative publication used a photo of, say, Michelle Obama that cast her in an unappealing light -- say it was sexist or a racist caricature, those ont he left would be screaming for blood. But because Sarah is their favorite punching bag at the moment, they can use a sexist photo and get away with it, because, well, you know those on the right are going to scream over whatever photo we use, right, so may as well use the funniest one. And thus the mainstream media continues its struggle to show that they produce fair and balanced reporting.

Now, if I believed Sarah Palin to be a lightweight, I'd treat her as such. By ignoring her. So she wrote a book. Or ghost-wrote a book. So what? Is it going to get her elected to any kind of office, or is it going to be one of those books that I'll find en masse at the dollar store in about six months? I think the latter. So of course the MSM and the left-leaning Intertubes have to pile on the attacks and vilification and sexist photos and everything else as if Palin were a Richard Nixon or a Henry Kissinger, which she most certainly is not.

Their treatment of Palin is obsessive and juvenile. Juvenile is even too kind a word; I should use childish. Yes, she's a public figure. Yes, she's thrusting herself into the limelight. But does that mean that her every breath, her every Facebook post, has to be parsed and discussed and filed in the "Right-wing loony" bin. You, the mainstream media and the left-leaning Intertubes, appear just as childish, obsessive and -- honestly -- stupid as those on the right to cling to Palin as a savior, believe Barack Obama was born in Kenya or believe fluoridation of water is going to sap and impurify our precious bodily fluids.

Grow up, folks. Leave Sarah alone.

One Step Closer to Mr. Fusion?

The New York Times' Green Inc. blog today featured nuclear energy research at the Idaho National laboratory  that could help increase the position of nuclear power on the national green energy radar. In an article titled "A New Reactor Concept Inches Forward," the blog writes about development of a high-temperature reactor that uses graphite-encased uranium to heat steam to 1,500 degrees, a temperature needed to finish refining many chemicals at the nation's chemical processing plants. The reactors, if built, could replace gas- and oil-fed burners used at the plants for chemical refining, thus helping manufacturers cut downo on their carbon emissions.

The graphite-encased uranium has the added bonus of being provided in a vessel that virtually contains all of the waste proudcts from the fission process.

Matthew Wald writes:

Actual construction of such a reactor would depend, in part, on the future cost of the fuels that would be replaced and of the carbon dioxide emissions that would be avoided. The idea of new research and development on small, advanced reactors has considerable support in Congress.

The research is part of the nuclear industry’s efforts to recast the technology as a tool to combat global warming.

Sure, that still leaves us several steps away from having our own Mr. Fusion home energy reactors, but the concept of mini-reactors explicityly being used to provide power in a way that cuts carbon emissions is a leap forward for the industry. I'm excited that research like this is ongoing, because it does say to those worrying about our overreliance on foreign energy sources that we do have home-grown possibilities that can provide the power we need and reduce carbon emissions to boot.

I have to admit that I'm baffled that we here in eastern Idaho don't have nuclear power as an option. Baffled even more that the INL hasn't generated its own nuclear-sourced electricity for decades. That seems a shame at the lab chosen as a nucleus of nuclear research. We ought to be doing more here to bring to pass that atomic-era dream of having electricity "too cheap to meter." I find it hard to believe there wouldn't be enough support here for a nuclear power station. With Areva planning to build a $3 billion uranium processing plant in the area, having a power plant to use some of that fuel seems a natural fit. Maybe with Areva in the area, such a dream can come to pass.

But it's all baby steps, I suppose. We could try explaining the atom in two minutes.

Nosferatu!

Though I’ve yet to read anything in the Twilight series (and, frankly, I don’t plan on it), have never seen Christopher Lee as the count, think Anne Rice is a twit and otherwise don’t care much for vampire films, books, lore or, frankly, any mention of vampires outside of Otto Chriek (okay, Nosferatu. But only because Terry Pratchett probably named his vampire after the actor Max Schreck, who plays Nosferatu in that movie), I may as well be one.

With the end of Daylight Savings Time, I rarely see the sun. I board the bus for work shortly after 5 am and get to work shortly before 7, just as the sun is barely beginning to peep over the horizon. I board the bus to go home shortly after 5 pm where, if I’m lucky and it’s cloudless, there’s just enough time to read a page or two in a novel before the sun sets as I’m waiting in line for the bus transfer. And I’m a desk jockey. I do have a window, but it has a view of the trailer next to mine, plus debris from the staircase they tore up but have yet to replace. I get a little sun that way. I try to take a walk every day at lunch. But other than the sunlight I get on a few trips to the bathroom in the building next door, I don’t get to see the sun much.

November and December are the worst, as the days are shortening away on their march toward the vernal equinox. Plus there’s the cold. But maybe that’s good and bad. Sunlight, at least for me, tends to intensify the cold, since it’s typical of an Idaho winter to be very sunny but butt cold, as if the sun were there just for light, not for warmth. I swear there are some days the rays from the sun don’t even make contact with the ground; what light we get is mere reflection from all the cold molecules flying around in the atmosphere.

I do have a bright spot of sunlight shining on some papers I have scattered on my desk right now. It’s very bright, and I love it.

And i love that I have allies in working "the night shift." Behold:

Oh How Spoiled We Are

So Digital Bridge Communications, my internet service provider, gets a B from pingtest.net. Or a C. Or a D. Depending, as General Turgidson would say, on the breaks. One particular server in Orem, Utah, I get the B. Another, the C. Cheyenne, Wyoming, however, D territory.

Download and upload speed, half and half. Slightly better than average download speed, according to speedtest.net. Upload speed, however, I won't be changing fuses faster than a jackrabbit on a date.

Everything these days is measurable and measured. And doesn't really tell me much of anything, with results vascillating so much. With speed and reliability basically relying on a Las Vegas-style slot machine pile-o-randomness on which server I get, quality will vary from excellent to really, really poor. Wish it didn't hafta, but that appears to be the case.

So should I worry that my Internet isn't as powerful as others? Probably not. Because I'm spoiled. Heck, a few years ago we were still on dial-up. Dial-up, for heaven's sake, forcing ourselves to listen to that patented modem squeal every time we wanted to check our e-mail. So, definitely, my Internet is fast enough for what purposes suit me. I could use a bit better speed and quality to make iVisit work a bit better, but I don't think I'll get it, not at the prices I'm willing to pay.

Elusive Dog, Exclusive Pictures

I've written some on this blog about the dog we're caring for this winter. He showed up earlier this year and has proved to be rather gun-shy, and that's saying something because we don't have guns. He lives in the alley behind the house in a little dog house I built for him a few weeks ago. (His house is the little slanty shanty you can see in the first photo. Just in time, because the snow and cold weather has come, and we both hate to think of the poor thing sleeping in that patch of grass out in the weather.

He runs from Michelle, tolerates me but still won't let anyone get close.

Today, Michelle took pictures, just so we can prove that we are caring for a dog, not just a figment of the imagination. Here he is. We may, in another year or two, gain its trust enough to see if he's got a name and number on the collar he wears.

He is a rather handsome dog, if you ask me. His elusiveness makes me wonder what's ahppened in his life to make him so shy of humans. I hope before the year is out that he'll trust us enough to allow a pat or two. If he plays his cards right, he could spend Christmas indoors this year.

I just know it's cold enough out there that if I were a dog, I'd be sucking up to whomever I could, just to get that warm spot by the fire.

So, if anyone you know is missing a dog that looks like this, let us know.

The Davidson Lexicon: A Primer

 You'll Shoot Your Eye Out, Kid. Merry Christmas.

It's a Davidson thing, I suppose, to communicate by metaphor. Or at least in cipher, using one idea to convey a completely different idea that is only discernable to those who have the key. For us, most of the keys lie in movies. If we want to communicate an idea, it's easier to use the shorthand of film than to launch into a lengthy explanation. So to clear things up on this blog, I'll offer a bit of a primer for the Davidson Lexicon. Hope you enjoy it.

Vinz Clortho. This is what we call any of our kids when they're handing us stuff, over and over and over again, like a movie they want to watch or a book they want read to them. Named, obviously, after Rick Moranis' character in Ghostbusters. Mostly shortened to "Vince," as in "Thank you, Vince." Also, if we see something that's utterly gross, of course the first line that pops into our heads is "Ugh. Disgusting blob!"Another great Ghostbusters line is one we use if we're engaged in some activity of an official capacity and we say or do something that gets us rejected or otherwise opened up for further abuse: "Ray, whenever anyone asks you if you're a god, you say YES!" One final line: If we tell each other not to do something but end up doing it anyway, we have to say "I looked at the trap, Ray."

This movie is rich in the Davidson Lexicon. Other lines:

"You're right. No human being would stack books like this." Used mostly by my wife on me when she sees my attempts at cleaning out the shed.

"That's a big Twinkie." Used any time something very big is being discussed.

"You will perish in flames!" That's one we use when we're embarrassed because we just did something stupid (like kicking over a lady's groceries) and want to cover our tracks.

Mr. Hilltop. Mostly, we don't call each other Mr. Hilltop, but instead use Gene Wilder's line describing Mr. Hilltop from Young Frankenstein -- "Nice hopping." -- whenever we want to describe someone in a pyhsically awkward situation, such as falling off the couch (this happens in our house more often than you'd think). And, whenever we're in a situation where people are either getting too formal or are arguing about how to pronounce something, Michelle and I just look at each other and say "Eye-gor!" "Froederick!"And it goes without saying that any time we want to emphasize just how scary we want ourselves to be, we simply say "Blucher!"

"Good. Take him into bowels of hotel in case of screaming." This line, from the Bill Murray film The Man Who Knew Too Little, is used most often when one parent is forcibly removing a child from the presence of the other, so the other can get a break from the, well, child in question. Another great line from this movie is "Forget about Nikita. He was vicious. He's in a better place." That's one we use whenever we're discussing a sad or disappointing situation in which someone or some thing has left our lives.

"I am a championship kick . . . box . . .errrr." This line, spoken by Spongebob SquarePants' Patrick Star, is used whenever we're not having luck trying to explain something complicated to someone who doesn't have a clue or didn't really want as much detail as we're offering.

"It's uh, Mr. Uuatsum. He, uh, frrrrpt." This is both a line and visual, because as you deliver the "frrrpt," you have to make a slashing motion across your neck, just like Tim Conway does in The Private Eyes. Any time we have a defunct appliance, a broken toy that cannot be repaired and thus must be relegated to the trash can after the kids go to sleep, this is the line we use. Another favorite from this film is one I don't get to use very often because it grosses Michelle out. Whenever she's tasked with doing something unpleasant, I ask her, "Do you want another glass of pus?" Not often, though, because she REALLY gets mad.

"I like the dark. I love the dark. But I hate nature. I HATE nature!" This line, delivered by Chunk as he's scrabbling through the wilds of Oregon trying to find help for his buddies who just went after the buried treasure, is one of the highlights from The Goonies, and a line we use whenever we're going about an unpleasant task.

And, of course, there are the lines from A Christmas Story, such as:

"Not a finger!" I'm the one who uses this mostly, when I'm upset about something and want to come up with a real crusher.

"Dad gummit, blowout!" Again, one of my favorites. Whenever soemthing int he house breaks, this is my line.

"Shaddup, Ralphie." Dad gets all the good liens in the movei, so I get to use them in real life. Whenever one of the kids is being slightly more than really annoying, they get a "Shaddup Ralphie." They just laugh and keep on talking.

And the best one: "You'll shoot your eye out, kid. Merry Christmas." This is one I use on my kids all the time when I tell them no about something. Usually, this isn't the first no, but comes after at least a dozen nos have been issued. I only wish I could push them down a slide with the toe of my boot after I deliver this line.

"The whole world has to know our business!" Again, this is a verbal accompanied with a visaul. One must fling one's arm in a large clockwise circle when saying this, to evoke the proper Fiddler on the Roof vibe. This is used particularly by myself and my older brother Albert when family secrets are being told. A companion line, of course, is "We'll be staying with Uncle Avram. We'll be staying with Uncle Avram!"

And three final lines, this time from the Star Wars canon: "Can someone get this walking carpet out of my way?" Used mainly by my wife when I'm in the way and walking slowly. "Hurry up, Goldenrod, or you're going to be a permanent resident!" I use this on my kids a lot when I need them to hurry. "We're fine, we're all fine. Everything's fine here. How are you?" This is one that's leaked out of the Davidson clan and is now being used at Uncharted mostly -- in both cases -- to describe a situation that's getting out of hand but over which we want to maintain that illusion of control. It's not much of a credit to George Lucas' writing skills that these three lines were ad-libs, not part of any script.

Thanks for reading. I don't know if this'll make dealing with me and mine any more comprehensible, but at least you can join in the fun.

Yzma's Plan

Once and a while, as I'm pulling a plan together for something, Yzma's plan comes to mind. One of these days I'm going to find the perfect plan that somewhere along the line allows me to put something in a box, that box inside another box, then mailing it to myself and smashing it with a hammer.

Update: Unfortunately, since this kind of thing enters my brain, occasionally I get sidetracked into going over Yzma's plan over and over again and I forget to plan my own plan. Sometimes, I swear my brain is working against me.

Ennis Cafe, Montana

Next time you're in southwestern Montana -- and let's face it, in this day and age, we're ALWAYS going through southwest Montana for some reason or other -- stop to eat at the Ennis Cafe. It's a great, clean greasy spoon that's actually pretty light on the grease. And your kids will love the sign. Even the big kids. Especially the big kids who drive the little kids there. Read about it here.

I Want A Moonsicle

NASA photo shows a plume from the LCROSS crash

NASA researchers are all ecstatic this morning, announcing that the LCROSS crash into the Moon on Oct. 9 revealed there is water on the Moon's surface.

Somehow, I feel like this announcement is coming a bit late. After all, science fiction writers from John Christopher to Arthur C. Clarke predicted -- or at least wrote about -- water on the Moon. One has to wonder, however, how Matthew Looney and company feel about the discovery, seeing as they distrust water almost completely, except as a cleanser for murtles. Some of the Moonsters up there are probably still upset about the bad Earther driving, crashing those two satellites into the Moon in the first place. Freeholy has got to be looking better and better.

Yes, I'm babbling.

It's exciting to find water on the Moon. It means available raw material for scientists if we ever get a Moon base going up there. Not that it's going to happen in my lifetime, but a guy can dream. It's like knowing you can go halfway across the Earth and not have to mail yourself cinder blocks in order to start building as soon as you get there.

Uncharted Goes to Virginia City

Virginia City, Montana, is a cowboy town full of names. Kiskadden. Buford. Dance and Stuart. Sauerbier. And a town full of old-timey textures, from weathered planking to bleached, mortised logs. It's a fun place to explore if you love the shantytown, put-em-up-quick buildings that epitomized frontier America.

It's a fun place. Go read about it at Uncharted here.

'Grassroots' Bend With the Wind

Citizens for a Clean Idaho is turning tail.

The Rexburg-based group, opposed to disposal of about 50,000 tons of rock and soil lightly contaminated with radioactivity from Missouri at a state-regulated facility owned by Boise-based American Ecology, has pulled its website in the face of defamation lawsuits filed by the company. You can read about that here, and my blog post about the group and its odd behavior here.

I still have my suspicions about the group. It seems odd to me that they should be so worried about a radioactive waste landfill all the way across the state, yet be willing to ignore the 70-plus-years nuclear legacy at the Idaho National Laboratory (where I work) just on the group's doorstep. Nor do they oppose Areva, Inc's plans to build a $3 billion uranium enrichment facility in Bonneville County, even closer to home.

If you're in the right, you don't shut down your website just because someone's suing you, at least in my opinion. Citizens for a Clean Idaho's organizer, Stephen Loosli, says the website has been pulled on the advice of his attorneys, who plan to countersue the company for infringing on CCI's First Amendment rights.

Aye, there's trouble. Because defamation, if American Ecology can prove it, isn't protected speech under the First Amendment. Thus CCI is being pretty cagey in stripping its site from the web. The Idaho Statesman reports, additionally, that CCI hasn't responded to a federal Nuclear Regulatory Commission report that called into question some of the group's claims about American Ecology's proposed plans.

I salute Citizens for a Clean Idaho's efforts to keep an eye on nuclear waste in the state. There's just enough off about what they're doing, though, to make the situation stink.

Variation on a Theme of Mice, Part III

Palco wore the waistcoat
Palco wore the feather
Palco stabbed the tabby cat
Hiding in the heather

Palco with the swishing tail
Palco with the eyes so bright
Palco singing arias
Singing through the starry night

Palco twists his whiskers
Waxed into a great mustache
Palco fears no dogs or cats
Just tips his purple, gay panache

Palco lives on farms in fields
Palco lives on water
Palco knows the backyard ways
Palco does not falter

Palco loves the peasant
Palco loves the lord and lady
Palco loves his bread and jam
But Palco hates his Swedes in gravy

Call for Palco, call for help
Palco comes a-flying
Palco never fails to come
When the mice are crying

I have to confess that I have no idea who Palco is, or what he is doing inhabiting a Brian Jaques/Redwall world, but he's there nonetheless.

Variation On A Theme of Mice, Part II -- Or Yet Another Writing Exercise

OK, I admit the first two paragraphs of this are a mess, but I subscribe to the Ray Bradbury theory of writing: Most of what I write is crap, so I have to write a lot in order to get something good.

The sun shone cold, and the field was white ice. Stubborn stubs of leftover wheat poked like naively optimistic spring shoots out of the frozen earth and through the windblown crust. Where the wind had found enough snow, there were drifts; piled up against irrigation furrows, sweeping like sand dunes around abandoned bales of straw and built into icebergs in ditches and canals. Tracks of errant rabbits and hungry housecats crisscrossed the narrow corner of the field bunched into the armpit formed by the highway and the county road. Tiny sparrows sunned themselves on the rotting scaffolding holding up the faded billboard that faced optimistically to the southwest. Under the drifts, mingled with discarded beer cans and broken v-belts and dead roadside weeds, the mice carved their world.

After the spring thaw, their furrows and burrows and pathways and crossroads, carved out of the wood-hard drifts and lined with soft dead grass, their traces resembled the odd Indian writings under pine bark that turned out to be the freeways of burrowing insects and grubs that thrived between skin and flesh. Spring, the time of rebirth, renewal, regreening and preening, is also a time of cleaning up, of closing up the frivolous entries to the underground world that were opened in winter to facilitate surface travel. How the tiny mice longed to be able to carve their protective surface tunnels through the clear bright warm sun of summer, fearing not when the leaf or cigarette packet crackled underfoot; to be able to continue along the path with a normal pace and heart rate when the shadows of birds passed overhead. To enjoy year-round the muffling effect the deep snow had on the noise of traffic and little boys and cats and bb guns. Safety. Bliss. Yet mixed with uneasiness and discomfort. As painful as it can be, losing a relative or loved one to the occasional cat, owl or foot was nothing as compared to the relative misery of the long white darkness imposed on the tiny kingdom. Warm dark is pleasant; the press of the neighbor's fur, the smells of familiarity, the full stomachs and the long tails twitching sometimes in dreams. Cool dark, the white dark of snow-carved tunnels that link burrows and traces that fill with the stuffiness and dank and dust of winter; cool dark is a different matter altogether. Occasional floods that swept away the familiar smells, the poor offerings of a stingy Mother Earth, and the whiteblind anxiety that greeted any mouse who ventured to the surface in hopes of finding something a bit fresher to nibble on for dinner.

Theeg was that kind of mouse. Born the summer before in a feather-lined burrow under a discarded corner of plywood left in the vacant lot near the Red Tower, he longed for the warmth and plenty of summer. Vague memories, half-remembered dreams of that dark warm place; soft everywhere with the smell of pigeon and blistered wood glue and his brothers and sisters clawing over him to crowd their mother when her plump shadow blocked all the incoming light. That bright blue hole, where his mother went sometimes in the morning but most of the time in the late afternoon, fascinated Theeg. Mother said the world was indeed much bigger than the familiar, cozy burrow she had built, and that everything did not smell of pigeon. "What is the blue? What is the blue?" he had squeaked (and a baby mouse's squeak has got to be the most pathetic noise on the earth, except to a mother mouse).

"The blue is the blue, that's all I know," his mother said as he and his seven siblings quibbled and scratched each other for access to her nipples.

"Is it big? What does it look like?" Theeg had his full (he was an aggressive child, more willing to pose questions than anything else). He knew his mother knew everything: when the cat was gone, how to line a burrow, how to sneak and how to paw at seeds to see if they were ready to eat.

"Ouch!" mother peeped, and gave one of her tiny daughter a swat. "The blue is rather big; the biggest thing out there, I'd say. As for where it is, that's difficult to say. It's everywhere and nowhere. You can touch it with your whiskers but never reach it by walking. It's above, mostly. Above the Red Tower, above the Arch and above the Blocks, sort of like this wood is above us now, but then again,"

"But mother, I can touch the wood," Theeg whined, stretching on his hind legs until his tiny fingers scraped at the burrow ceiling. "I can smell the wood. Does the blue smell?'

"I tell you, you'll never touch it. I'm not sure, but I don't think it likes mice. Wipe that milk off your chin, Ezmerelda." She stared until Ezzy complied. "Something smells up there, but I'm not too sure it's the blue the source. Do you remember the smell last week, Theeg?"

"Um, I think so. That heavy smell, the dry one that made our fur all tingly. Sort of like dust, but a bigger smell, a cooler smell. And it got darker. And louder. And wetter."

"That's the only smell I could honestly say comes from the blue," his mother said, pushing Ronssasance and Phred, their stomachs bloated, away from her feet. "Of course, the blue was different. Darker, like you said. That blue, I swear it was closer, though still too far away to reach. It curled and rolled as if it were alive, and great blobs of it formed and seemed to come closer, turning from white to black. But then the grass started moving and crying, so I never did get to see if that blue came any closer.

Theeg loved that circle of blue he could see out of the burrow entrance. "Don't you go near that door, Theeg!" his mother warned him every time she left the burrow. "You're much too small for exploring as of yet."

"You tell me that every time you leave, mother!" Theeg complained. "I'm getting bigger, you know! I'm no longer a child."

"Child you are and will be for a while," mother chastised. "I tell you that every time I leave, because every time I leave, five minutes later I see your little face edging up the tunnel, seeing everything but your old mother hiding not six scampers away in the Rubble. I've whiskers in your cheeks, and will have for a time to come, little Sneaker!" Her speech over, mother scampered up the tunnel, casting a final "Don't you go near the door, any of you!" over her tail as she went.

"Whiskers in my cheeks, indeed," thought Theeg as he combed his bristly face. Ezzy pulled limply on his tail, her eyes already half-closed for their evening nap.

"Come on, Teeg," she yawned. "Bellin's already 'sleep on Ronssas-Ronssa-Rons' belly, and yours makes th' better pillow. You're all squishly." His nose wrinkled in disgust at the cutsey manner of his little sister, but he followed her to the heap anyway. He lay on the far side, watching Ezzy's head bob in rhythm to his breathing. He stared out the door; stared at the blue.

Theeg had been born earlier than his mother's present litter. His had been a litter of five, but he was the only one to be named. He really didn't know what had happened to his brothers and sister, but he did remember the air suddenly getting cooler and louder and fuzzier. An odd weed, a bouncing, frenzied creature had levered the plywood off the ground and thrust its probing snout, horrid black nose, smelly breath and white teeth in the middle of the burrow. Mother had grabbed Theeg, the nearest child to her, and shot like a sparrow through the grass. She dropped him unceremoniously a thousand scampers off, next to a wilting cardboard box. She returned a few minutes later with his sister and left again. His sister was wailing, silently wailing through vocal cords not yet developed enough to make more than a hoarse rasping. Something was wrong with her; her pink skin was all red, but Theeg was too frightened and disoriented to do anything but silently wail himself. Their mother came back and hunched in a ball next to the only two of her litter she had managed to save from that enormous, ferocious weed that had turned their burrow topsy-turvy. They spent the night under the cardboard box, and left his sister there the following morning to slowly return to Mother Earth. The burrow was disheveled, but the plywood was back in place and some lucky bits of rubble had fallen on top of it from the nearby pile, thus rendering it more impervious to another attack. Father was there as well, fidgeting at the new entry hole he had dug. He and Mother had spent a frantic, tearful night reconstructing the rubble of the burrow and re-lining it with new, unstained feathers. They cowered most of the day, all three of them, in their strange new burrow that smelled more of bird than of mouse, and there his parents named him Theeg, the Remainder. Theeg had stopped his wailing, and soon after, stopped asking after his brothers and sister.

"Is that what Mother is so frightened of?" he wondered as his little brothers and sisters slept in bliss around him. "It wasn't the blue that killed my litter. It wasn't the blue that made Father never come back. There must be something else out there, something bigger, something meaner, something we can touch." He tried to reconstruct a picture of the beast that had destroyed his burrow, three months but so long ago, but all he could recall was the smell and the teeth and the frenzied noise it made. His spine shivered, and Ezzy murmured in her sleep:

"Teeg, quit farting. It makes your belly wigglish."

He thought non-spine shivering thoughts as his gaze returned to the circle of blue, slowly turning crimson, that he could see out the tunnel door.

Save The Clock Tower . . . Uh, I Mean the Teton!

A cross-section of the failed Teton Dam

I love the Teton River. I love it from the smelly little meanders it makes through Rexburg to the site of the failed Teton Dam to the wilds of the river upstream that I've never even seen. One of these days when I'm braver and the kids are a little older, we'll float the river, like I did a loooooong time ago when we floated the river as a church group and ended up coming out near the Driggs sewer lagoons.

I'd rather not see the Teton Dam rebuilt, and not for the scaremongering reasons so many bring up. I'd just like to see the river remain free in its confining canyon, a wild little spot I can go visit when I want to.

Now Trout Unlimited is pushing an effort to get the river declared a wild and scenic river. Good on them:

I've got to be honest, the Teton really resembles Patrick F. McManus' description of a crick rather than a creek, especially the parts I'm most familiar with:

First of all a creek has none of the raucous, vulgar, freewheeling character of a crick. If they were people, creeks would wear tuxedos and amuse themselves with the ballet, opera, and witty conversation; cricks would go around in their undershirts and amuse themselves with the Saturday night fights, taverns, and humorous belching. Creeks would perspire and cricks, sweat. Creeks would smoke pipes; cricks, chew and spit.

Creeks tend to be pristine. They meander regally through high mountain meadows, cascade down dainty waterfalls, pause in placid pools, ripple over beds of gleaming gravel and polished rock. They sparkle in the sunlight. Deer and poets sip from creeks, and images of eagles wheel upon the surface of their mirrored depths.

Cricks, on the other hand, shuffle through cow pastures, slog through beaver dams, gurgle through culverts, ooze through barnyards, sprawl under sagging bridges, and when not otherwise occupied, thrash fitfully on their beds of quicksand and clay. Cows should perhaps be credited with giving cricks their most pronounced characteristic. In deference to the young and the few ladies left in the world whose sensitivities might be offended, I forgo a detailed description of this characteristic. Let me say only that to a cow the whole universe is a bathroom, and it makes no exception for cricks. A single cow equipped only with determination and fairly good aim can in a matter of hours transform a perfectly good creek into a crick.

That doesn't mean I don't like the "creek" part of the Teton; it's just that I can't really walk alongside the creek part. I'm not much of a fisherman or boater, you see. I like my rivers from the shore. But I like the idea of the creek part being held in reserve, because of how sometimes the crick part looks. In Rexburg, for example, the south fork pretty much dries up, becoming a poor chain of pools as the water is diverted for irrigation. Rexburg likes to brag about its little pathways along the river, but until there's water in the river year-round, who wants to take the pathways to see huge stinking piles of dead fish? You don't need the pathways anyway; you can just walk on the dry river bed.
 
So let's save the Teton River. Don't dam it up.

Variation on A Theme of Mice, Part I

Years ago, I wrote a poem similar to the one you will soon read in this post. It has since, unfortunately, been lost, though whether that's unfortunate or not is a matter of conjecture. Here is the poem, as I have recreated it: What remains of the original is the general meter and the first and last lines of the first stanza. The rest is of new cloth.

When a mouse gets et by a cat
and don’t return to its homes
does the widder come a-lookin’
and scrub the poop from his bones?

When a mouse is digested and lumpish
all femurs and tibias and fur
does the family seek out the turd he’s in
while cursing the evil-fanged cur?

And mourned for its sad, brief existence
grieved for as Mother Machree
lost, and sorely lamented
as a sailor dead and buried at sea?

Or is the mouse, quietly defecated
blamed for its messy demise
and the bones left to moulder with feces
with no tears in the widder’s wide eyes?

I don’t know, I don’t know hisses Tabby
while Tiddles and Morris just laugh
When I eat, I just eat, don’t be churlish
I don’t think on my meal’s sad behalf.

Maybe this poem is better off lost. But it is part of the mouse-themed writing I've done for years. Don't ask me why. Well, go ahead. It's Robert C. O'Brien's/Mrs. Frisby and the Rats of NIMH's fault. I read that book in the fourth grade and since then have been entranced with mice that talk like humans. But this poem seems a bit dark for anything child-related.

Planned Obsolescence

If Sharp had had its way this year, we would have bought TWO new microwaves this year. But because, as Dave Barry once said of his wife, we come from a small, sheltered community in which we believe things can be repaired, we have thwarted Sharp's desire to get our cash.

There have been paybacks, though.

Way back in January, our microwave broke down. We took it to a neighbor who happens to be the guy the regional "authorized repair" shop sends their stuff to be repaired to, so we figured we were in good hands. We were. He got the machine working again, though we went without a microwave for about a month as he waited for parts. Then last month it broke again. We were excited this time, because the broken part -- the magnetron -- is still under warranty. Yay! Free part.

But then the wait came. First, my wife called Sharp to get them to ship the part. She was on the phone with them for ten minutes, giving them information, serial numbers, et cetera. After then ten-minte chate, the lady on the phone said, "Oh, I can't ship that to you. The repair shop has to order it." It didn't matter that my wife was ordering the part to go to the repair shop. The shop had to order it. So we went to our neighbor again -- who was going to fix the thing anway -- to get him to order the part. He can't, either. The shop has to order it. And we all know how high a priority shops put on warranty replacements that don't technically earn them any money. We're still waiting for the part, a month later.

I almost caved in and said we ought to buy a new machine. My wife said, no, this one is under warranty, we'll get it fixed. I just hope we get it back before the new year.

I think, in part, manufacturers count on people being frustrated with how long it takes to get things fixed. Rather than getting things fixed, just buy a new unit and toss the old one in the nearest convenient landfill. That's wasteful of resources, I think. But my green thinking still has us waiting a very long time to get our functioning machine back. That's planned obsolescence working for you.

Images and Quotes, 9 November 1989

"What kind of a system is it that can only exist by keeping the thorns in their own bailiwick? The wall was an actual symbol of defeat. Of inferiority."

Stefan Heym, writer, German Democratic Republic

"The use of force had discredited itself completely. It was no longer possible to stabilize the world by military methods."

Mikhail Gorbachev

"I knew that the communist system was finished. The only problem was what would be the best way to get rid of communism?"

Lech Walesa

"In short, we were speechless, because we were helpless."

Gunter Schabowski, East German Politburo

"She called me. I’m still in my nightgown. [Crowd laughs and cheers] It’s a most wonderful day."

Unidentified German woman, on the night the gates to West Berlin opened.

I Don't Understand Any of This

So, is social media doomed to lose money?

Don't go away. I'm not another social media expert. I barely know how to spell social media. But I just think that sometimes, you know, the folks who think social media is all the buzz have the business sense of a pair of ditry tube socks.

Dilemma: You have a popular "social networking" site. You'd like to actually make a living at what you do, so you start with the advertising. Click-through rates, even for sites that attract millions, produce pennies. So there are a few other things to try. Digg, say, tries "sponsored links," allowing folks to pay for a link to repeat and repeat on their front page.

This is the result.

Fans love Digg so much they don't want it to make money? They want every thing they get on the Internet free of advertising, free of anything that they object to, because we all know how open-minded the average Internet user is.

YouTube is doing sponsored links. Is there a rebellion brewing there?

Personally, I don't mind the sponsored links. Digg has got to figure out a way to make money, just like the next guy, or they'll shut down. Then where will all the social networking geeks who hate advertising go next? Yeah, some other site where you can do the same thing, but the nobles there won't bow to corporate pressure or put up ads or anything like tha . . . wait a second. This is COSTING me money, this social network thing? All these eyeballs aren't paying the bills? I could -- gulp -- use a little bit of sponsored advertising to make more money, make this site better? BACK, SATAN, BACK! If I believed in you, that is. I don't, of course. I'm enlightened. Rational. I will bow to the new demands on business that they do everything to please the consumer, even if it leads the company to financial embarrassment. That's the new Internet mentality.

Maybe it's more of a question of knowing where the lines are between acceptability and deplorability, and not crossing that line? Not looking like MySpace, obviously, is a start, if the comments on the Digg thread are anything to go by.

The S.S. Washington

A long while ago -- I don't quite remember when -- I decided I wanted to find the immigration records from my father's side of the family. They came into the United States from The Netherlands in 1950, long after the big wave of immigration washed over this country but not long after World War II, which they survived. I found them, and they're fun to see.

Above, you can see the entry record for my father Marinus and his brother, along with their mother Dirkje. They were placed on medical hold at Ellis Island along with their father, as you'll see on the next image.

The entry record says "suspected tuberculosis," but the real problem was that enroute, his chest x-ray got folded. He did not have tuberculosis, and the family were allowed entry in mid-November, 1950.

I know their stories fairly well, as we've discussed them in family sessions and in a book I wrote about my Dad a few years ago. One of these days I think it would be interesting to see what happened to some of the people who entered the country at about the same time they did.

They came to the US aboard the SS Washington:

This is what I know of the ship they came on:

Built at New York Shipbuilding Corp.
Yard #406
24,289 GRT
705 x 86.3 feet
Twin screw, Parson geared turbines from builders
20 knots, max 22.7 knots
580 Cabin, 461 Tourist 196 3rd class passengers, 475 crew

Launched August 20 1932. Completed in April 1933. Maiden voyage New York - Southampton - Hamburg, May 10 1933. At the outbreak of war the liner was heading for Europe, so after calls at Cobh and Le Havre, she returned to New York. She then made two round trip voyage to Bordeaux in Western France to repatriate stranded Americans in Europe. After the neutrality act was signed, her voyages to France were cancelled. The Maritime Commission granted permission for MANHATTAN and WASHINGTON to operate a passenger and freight service from New York to Italy which commenced January 13, 1940 calling at Genoa and Naples. However, after Italy's entry into the war the service was ended. WASHINGTON made one special voyage to leaving New York May 30 to Le Verdon, France and to Lisbon, Italy, she picked up 939 and 836 passengers respectively. Off the Portuguese coast she was halted by a German submarine, passengers and crew were ordered into the boats, the Captain insisted that his ship was not American and the submarine departed. At the request of the State Department she made two more transatlantic voyages from New York one to Galway, Ireland and again to Lisbon arriving back in New York July 18 1940. She then sailed New York - Panama - California July 26. First voyage New York to San Francisco July 26.

In 1941 WASHINGTON and her sister MANHATTAN were both taken over by the US Navy, WASHINGTON sailed for Manila 1 April as a troop transport. July 16 she was renamed USS MOUNT VERNON (P 22) and official entered U.S. Navy troop service. Bought by U.S. Government September 26, 1942. Altered to 22,846 GRT. She was renamed WASHINGTON in 1945 and released from service in January 18, 1946 and handed over to the U.S. Maritime Commission and laid up.

April 2, 1946 she began her first post war voyage New York - Southampton to bring back war brides and children. In February United States Lines chartered her for New York - Cobh - Southampton service as a consort to AMERICA. Reconditioned in 1948. Remeasured at 23,626 GRT with 1,106 passengers in tourist class. Remeasured in 1949 29,627 GRT. Continued in New York - Cobh - Southampton - Le Havre - Hamburg service until handed over to the U.S. Maritime Commission in October 1951 for Military Sea Transportation Service. Laid up in Hudson River February 1953. Sold for demolition June 30, 1964 to Union Metals & Alloys of New York. Arrived Kearney, NJ June 28, 1964 and broken up by Lipsett Inc.

They also appear on the ship's manifest of passengers. I'd like to recreate their ocean voyage one of these days.

Domino Theory

I have this theory. It has nothing to do with Communism, or any other kind of ism out there.

It has to do with furniture.

We were given, today, a rather large couch. It kind of resembles one of those snake Rubik's Cube puzzles that were so popular in the 1980s: We have it twined like an "L" on two walls of the family room, really sucking up the space like our old furniture never could.

The theory is this: Given new furniture (it was given to us, and we took it, gratefully, by Michelle's parents) you realize how small your house is and how out of place the old furniture you're replacing is. So we got rid of the two-seater love seat downstairs to make room for the new couch. We also had to move the recliner upstairs, because with the new couch, there just isn't room for the recliner. Moving the recliner meant getting rid of the poofy chair upstairs. So all of it went into the truck, which we drove to the new home of the father of one of our neighbors, who needs furniture. Luckily for them, they did not have stuff they had to get rid of, so the Domino Theory of Furniture ends there.

Michelle's folks have one more chair they wish to give us. We may have to move one of the toilets out.

Uncharted Visits Fort Clatsop

I'm sure Sacagawea's kids NEVER behaved like this.

Yes, I strike at Uncharted once again, drawing on my fourth-grade knowledge of Idaho history to comment on an Oregon historical site. No, I don't understand it either. Just go enjoy the story and photos here. 

The Myths of Peace

I’ve read a lot of books about Richard Nixon. He’s a fascinating character, intelligent, resourceful, and, ultimately because of his faults, one of the most human presidents the United States has ever had. But with “Real Peace,” I read my first book by Richard Nixon.

It’s an eye-opener, more fully cementing in my mind the drive Nixon had for world politics. Most importantly for our day and age, it’s a book in which Nixon deplores quick, political solutions to international problems that only benefit candidates seeking quick wins, and advocates a more long-term, paced approach to real peace through long, thought-out, deliberate action that takes place over decades, not necessarily during one president’s rule.


He writes:

Lenin was fully aware of how helpful naïve Westerners could be to the communist cause. He contemptuously called them “the useful idiots.” More out of ignorance than by design, the useful idiots uselessly plug ridiculously simplistic answers to our most complex problems. They are the sloganeers whose idea of thoughtful analysis is often limited to what will fit on a t-shirt or a bumper sticker. “Make love, not war.” “You can’t hug your kids with nuclear arms.” “Honk if you want peace.” Much of this fatuous nonsense is harmless, but unfortunately not all the useful idiots occupy themselves by marching and honking for peace. Some teach in our universities; some write newspaper columns; others pontificate on television.

The complexities of the modern world are so baffling to them they seek comfort in simple answers., What they fail to recognize is that for every complicated problem there is always a simple answer – and it’s usually wrong.

Building a real peace will be arduous, frustrating work, and it is not surprising that some fall for shortcuts that promise to get them what they want quickly, painlessly, and cheaply. These shortcuts never work, and we should not expect them to work.

In his heart everyone knows that the only people who get rick from the “get rich quick” books are those who write them. But just as there are countless “get rich quick” schemes there is also a wide array of seductively appealing “get peace quick” schemes.

These are the myths of peace.

Though this book was written before the fall of Communism in Eastern Europe and is primarily centered on the Cold War conflict, Nixon’s thoughts easily and ably apply to our current state of international conflict between the West and the Middle East. Nixon goes on to advocate what he calls “hard-headed détente,” which, simply put, is a rephrasing of Teddy Roosevelt’s “Speak softly and carry a big stick.” Not a war hawk by any means, Nixon reveals himself in this book to be a hawk for economic assistance and military aid that falls short of war but goes a long way in assisting troubled nations to find their own footing. I’d be interested to see what he’d think, for example, of dealing with the Taliban or Iraqi opposition forces in our current conflicts. I’m sure he’d look at the application of military might and say, as he did of American interests in Latin America:

Meanwhile we have left the impression that we become actively involved in Latin America only when our interests are threatened by communist aggression. We must now develop policies which also address their interests. Even if there were no communist threat millions of Latin Americans would justifiably demand reforms to lift the burdens of poverty, injustice, and corruption that have been their lot for generations.

In other words, it’s time to end marching into countries because of what we want to do. We ought to be asking, and forming policies, that help the people in those countries decide what they want to do.

I, of course, am no genius at this. I’m very content to hide in my little corner of the universe.

Time to Eat the Dog?

You know what? I’m a little weary of everything in this modern life of ours being reduced to its impact on the environment.

For example, I’ve written on this blog about our family caring for a stray dog that’s wandered into the neighborhood. The city has no resources to come take it away, so rather than let it starve or be cold, we’ve put out food for it and built it a little shelter in the alley, leastwise until it sheds its timidity and allows us to get near enough to it to read the tags on its collar.

It appears I’m going about it the wrong way. To be environmentally sound, according to Robert and Brenda Vale, architects and experts in “sustainable living” in New Zealand, I should kill the dog and eat it. But not barbecue it. Presumably I should bake it in a solar oven or something, and then eat it, so as to not add to my own carbon footprint cooking the beast.

Think I’m kidding? Read here.

If this craze catches on, you know where it’s going to lead us, don’t you? Right. Planet of the Apes.

We will kill off our pet population in order to reduce our own guilt over carbon footprints, forgetting, of course, that animals in the wild are also eating meat and pooping and doing all sorts of carbon-related activity. Once we kill off the pets, we’ve got to have something to enter our empty little lives, since similar studies also urge strongly against anyone having children any more. (As Child No. 7 out of 8, I find such thinking, well, unthinkable). But back to apes as our masters. We’ll domesticate the ape, teach him environmental responsibility, feed him on home-grown corn and solar-baked cat kibble and then, once we all realize we don’t want smelly, feces-flinging apes living in our homes we’ll nuke ourselves – well, that’s not entirely progressive is it – maybe we’ll just stop breeding entirely and witness a population crash but not before sending a few intrepid yet carbonlicious astronauts into space for a few thousand years so they can come back to Earth in the far distant future to be hunted along with the cave-dwelling, klucke-dragging meat-eating SUV-driving Neanderthals who managed to survive the population crash because they were too busy enjoying the companionship of their large families and their pets to notice that the progressives were saving the planet by using their bodies as compost after they ate their pets. But there’ll be less carbon! And more happiness! Sure, there’ll be fewer actual people (not to mention dogs and cats) to enjoy all the happiness and carbonlessness, but that’s kinda the price you pay for living a progressive agenda.

So do these people APPLAUD species extinction? Of course not. It's because we're producing food for our pets, in the form of pet food. If we let them roam and eat the birdies and the fishies and the mousies and such, maybe that would take the curse off it. But then we'd have Che. That wouldn't be all that bad.

Does that mean I live a horribly carbon-filled lifestyle? Probably, compared to how these nuts would have me live. They obviously won’t be happy until humanity is so scared of releasing methane into the air from farting that we hold it all in, bloat, and eventually explode – once, of course, we’ve climbed the space elevator so we can do our exploding in outer space, where no one can be polluted by our carbon.

Of course, I’m going overboard with this. So are the Vales. Coldly calculating the benefits of getting rid of our pets because of their carbon impact is patently progressive, and patently foolish. I have had much more joy in my interactions with pets (dozens of dogs, dozens of cats, as well as chickens, over a lifetime) than I have had with most human beings.

What it all comes down to is justification. And a misplaced desire to help. Want to help reduce carbon emissions? Encourage nuclear power rather than coal-, natural gas-, or oil-fed power plants. But that’s not Progressive with a big P. Let governments dilly with carbon offsets and solar power, what can WE do to help? Oh yeah. Have fewer (or no) children and barbecue our pets. Thank you for allowing me to justify my childless existence, or at least find solace in the fact that Tiddles or Fido emit less carbon than Kenneth or Julia might, so, since I have a dog rather than a kid, that takes some of the carbon curse off, right? Right? Save us, Dr. Zaius!



On second thought, I wouldn't mind having a breakdancing ape. . .

EAR of Doom!

A year ago -- on Oct. 21, to be precise, and precise Iwill be -- I started a review at work on a new emergency alarm response (EAR) document, meant to replace four other such documents that had similar, if not the same, required responses. This afternoon, it looks like that document may actually be approved for use on humans. This is good news, as we're opening soon (soon, I tells ya, soon) a new waste processing facility, and it would be jim dandy to have this new document in place.

It's been a long, strange odyssey. Not all bad. In fact, given what we've done with this EAR and other documents that it impacts, we'll have a much better package of changes to deal with than we would have had even three months ago. Credit goes to Emily, one of my co-workers who really has her head wrapped around the intricacies of the facility and how the different documents ought to interact.

On a trivial side-note, I should tell you that people who have attached earlobes (as in this picture, and as with me) carry recessive genes for earlobe attachment. Dominant ear genes do not include the attachment feature.

Want Balance? Go to Bangor

I thought it would be interesting to see how well the national news media fared this morning in offering balanced reporting on the gay marriage issue in Maine – at least on their Web sites; I’m not analyzing the late-breaking news or morning blab shows on television). For sake of comparison, I also tossed into the mix the Bangor (Maine) Daily News, just to get a feel for how the local media handled the vote on Question 1.
I looked at the following news outlets, in addition to the Bangor Daily News:

http://www.foxnews.com/
http://www.abcnews.go.com/
http://www.nytimes.com/
http://www.msnbc.com/
http://www.latimes.com/
http://www.usatoday.com/
http://www.ap.org/
http://www.cbsnews.com/

The results?

If you want a truly balanced report, gotta go to Bangor.

Here are the rest of my rankings, from most balanced to least balanced:

Bangor Daily News
ABC News
(tie) Fox News, MSNBC
CBS News
USA Today
(tie) LA Times, NY Times, The Associated Press (various sources, the USA Today story seems closest to the AP copy I've seen)

I judged balance on three factors, two quantitative, the other qualitative.

First, I looked at the quoted sources in each story, noting the number of pro-Question 1 versus anti-Question 1 quoted by each news source. A balanced story, then, had a close to or equal number of sources from either side of the Question.

Second, I looked at the word counts in each story, separating content into three categories: Neutral, Pro-Question 1, and Anti-Question 1.

Third, I looked at word choices, story organization and other qualitative tells that reveal (few conceal) the writer’s or the news organization’s bias on Question 1. Putting both the quantitative and qualitative analysis together brings me to the final rankings.

I will disclose my biases forthwith. I have written on this blog in support of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints’ stance on gay marriage. I am a member of this church. However, after more than a year of contemplating the issue, I have to confess my opinion on the issue leans more towards allowing gay marriage, simply because I don’t regard such as a threat to heterosexual marriage and because I don’t wish to impinge on the free agency, or the ability to choose, of others.

But back to the rankings.

The Bangor Daily News does a bang-up job of reporting in a balanced fashion. Of the news organizations I analyzed, they quoted the most sources, with three in favor of Question 1, three opposed, and one (a state official commenting on voter turnout) as neutral, or at least neutral in the comments reported by the paper.

Their lede:

Voters on Tuesday repealed the state’s same sex marriage law after an emotionally charged campaign that drew large numbers to the polls and focused national attention on Maine.

With 87 percent of precincts reporting, the campaign to overturn Maine’s same-sex marriage law won with 53 percent of the vote vs. 47 percent opposed to Question 1, according to unofficial results compiled by the Bangor Daily News.

It’s neutral to the issue and reports the facts, making it the best lede of those I’ve read. The story, written by Kevin Miller and Judy Harrison, is just as balanced and admirable. A word count of quotes and supporting material on both the pro- and anti-Question 1 sides in this 1,086-word story shows a remarkable balance, with 375 words written in from the pro camp, with 410 written from the anti camp. The remaining 301 words are of a neutral nature, reporting on voter turnout and some background on the gay marriage issue in the state.

All of the news organizations in the middle seemed to have phoned in the results from Maine, relying primarily on reporting by the Associated Press. Each news outlet, obviously, played with the content of the AP’s story, most notably changing ledes as you’d expect from each organization. Fox went with this:

Maine voters dealt a severe blow to the gay rights movement by repealing a state law that would have allowed same-sex couples to marry.

The vote was close but nonetheless a huge defeat for gay activists in a corner of the country considered most sympathetic to their cause.

Not necessarily balanced from the qualitative point of view, but better than others, as you’ll see.

ABC News gives the story similar treatment, spinning slightly to the left as Fox spins slightly to the right:

The tide of extending marriage rights to same-sex couples -- which has swept across New England in recent months -- has stopped at Maine.

Voters rejected a state law Tuesday that would have allowed same-sex couples to wed. The repeal comes just six months after the measure was passed by the Maine legislature and signed by the Democratic Gov. John Baldacci.

What is telling is that these outlets in the middle managed to improve their scores mainly by trimming the AP story down, not through any original reporting of their own. Such copperplate reporting may be easy to do, but it doesn't serve readers well. I know. I've done plenty of such copperplate reporting and paid the price for it.

Those in the bottom tier clearly show their biases.

The New York Times leads with this:

They had far more money, volunteers and political support, and geography was on their side, given that New England has been more accepting of same-sex marriage than any other region of the country. Yet gay-rights advocates suffered a crushing loss in Maine when voters decided Tuesday to repeal the state’s new law allowing gays and lesbians to wed, setting back a movement that had made remarkable progress nationally this year.

Maine became the 31st state to block same-sex marriage through a public referendum, a result that will force supporters to rethink their national strategy at a crucial time for the movement. With 84 percent of precincts reporting early Wednesday, the repeal proposal had 53 percent of the vote, even though polls had indicated the race was a dead heat.

USA Today chimes in thusly:

The stars seemed aligned for supporters of gay marriage. They had Maine's governor, legislative leaders and major newspapers on their side, plus a huge edge in campaign funding. So losing a landmark referendum was a devastating blow, for activists in Maine and nationwide.

In an election that had been billed for weeks as too close to call, Maine's often unpredictable voters repealed a state law Tuesday that would have allowed same-sex couples to wed. Gay marriage has now lost in all 31 states in which it has been put to a popular vote — a trend that the gay-rights movement had believed it could end in Maine.

Of these outlets, only the New York Times did original reporting; the rest simply ran an Associated Press story (which ranked pretty low on the scale), changing things here and there but otherwise leaving the AP stuff alone. (I do like the image of geography being “on their side,” which made me think of Terry Pratchett’s definition of geography: Physics slowed down with trees stuck in it.)

As the Bangor Daily News shows, truly balanced reporting isn’t hard, but it does take a conscious effort. Those who spin the story to the right or to the left – or to the far left – sell themselves short as reporters and do their readers a disservice, especially among newspapers, which are struggling to retain readership at the moment.

Am I a paragon of balanced reporting? Hardly. I know I can do better. Just as the news can do better as well.

This analysis is, of course, completely unscientific. I haven't documented all of my analyses. But this is a blog, not real news.

He . . . Has . . . Returned

Alan came back from his Uncharted presentation at Columbia University in New York a bit less -- well, a lot less -- battered than Thorin Oakenshield came back from the Battle of the Five Armies, which is good news.

Better news: He's been asked to go back to Columbia, when they have a heck of a lot more students crawling around, in the spring. And since he's got his presentation through at least the first used draft, he's taht much further ahead in knowing how to do things when he gets there. What would be fun would be to arrange it so Michelle and I could go to New York along with him, ostensibly as support but more along the lines of tourists.

Alan plans to do an update on the convention at the Uncharted blog, but in the meantime I thought I'd do some horn-tooting here.

Firefox: Heal Thyself

Mozilla, fix your browser.

Something has gone terribly wrong with the latest version of the Mozilla Firefox internet browser, or I'm a lizard. And since I'm not all green, scaly and heavily armed above and below except, old fool, for that bare patch in the hollow of my left breast that is as bare as a snail out of its shell, I know there's something amiss.

This is the error of concern:

For me, I started getting this error, cascade fashion, this weekend, after I upgraded my Firefox browser to version 3.5. At first, I thought, well, I do have a lot of stuff crammed on my computer, I do have a lot of things running, and it's been a leetle while since I ran an anti-virus check. So I got to doing some long-overdue maintenance.

But this is a virtual memory problem, not a hard drive problem. Scratch the first thingy.

Yes, I have a lot of things running. But I did not get this error prior to upgrading to the 3.5 version. Scratch the second thingy.

And the virus scan checked out. No problems there.

So, Firefox, what's broken?

Firefox forums are not all that helpful. There are, obviously, a ton of people cramming the message boards with pleas for help, and the moderators, it seems, are getting snippy. They break the first cardinal rule of tech support, or at least the first rule in my book. They're telling us they can't reproduce the problem.

Why is that my problem?

I'm sorry I don't have a fancypants ocmputer like you probably do, you know, the one that cost you more than a grand because you're really into this stuff, as opposed to folks like me, who buy cheapie off-the-shelf systems and just go with them because, hey, we can't all be computer geeks. Surely, O Firefox gurus, someone out there in open-source land has a K-car computer like mine and can run a few tests without getting snippy in the forums.

Like all geeks, they want more information. So here's mine:

It doesn't matter what URL I go to, I get the error. Sometimes multiple times. Gmail seems so far to be the worst one for me, and tell me that takes up a lot of virtual memory. But truth be told, I have hit that error on every site I've visited, from CNN.com to Facebook to my blog to local news channels to Yahoo Mail. Telling you what URL I'm on won't help; I may as well send you an entire list of the Internet.

What plugins amd I running? IT DOES NOT MATTER. Firefox pre-3.5 was running just fine with the plugins I had running. Now it's broken.

I know this is open source. I know there are people out there doing this for the hell of it, that they;'re not getting paid. You signed up for that. I did not. I'm telling you want I know, and all we are getting is "we need more information, just saying 'Me too!' won't solve the problem.

Here's my solution: Go to Wal-Mart. Buy a K-car computer. Load up the newest version of Firefox and then you tell me what happens. I'll bet you'll be able to reproduce that error under those circumstances.

I am, by the way, reverting to using Internet Explorer to write this post and to check my e-mail. I'm not getting any errors.

Firefox, heal thyself.

Update No. 1: Am now downloading Firefox 3.5.4, in the hopes that will fix the problem.

Update No. 2: So far, so good. I'm now using 3.5.4, but I had to re-start my computer to get it to work. So far, no errors. Will continue browsing and see what happens. I'd really like this to work, because Firefox is preferable to IE. Safari's okay, but Firefox is what I like.

Update No 3: Watching "Whose Line is it Anyway" on YouTube. All seems well.

Final Update: OK. Things look good. But could I find a suggestion anywhere from the Mozilla folks to try to upload again? Nope.

November 9, 1989

Thank you, Leon de Haan, wherever you are.

Back in 1989, I wasn't the brightest guy in the world -- but at 17, who is. But I should have been. After all, Dad survived World War II as a civilian in Holland, just young enough not to be of interest to the work conscription parties. He never did talk much about what he saw, but World War II was a constant theme in our house. If foul weather made working outside with the family bricklaying company nasty, he'd always comment that what we were doing was a lot better than what happened "to those poor devils at the Russian front." What food we had was better than what they had during the war. And on. And on.

We agreed, but in that half-assed teenager way that causes one to agree with what your parents say just to jolly them along, I suppose. Youth knows callowness, after all.

But no Nov. 9, 1989, and in the days beyond, maybe a little bit of that callowness went away. Thanks to Leon.

Leon was an exchange student from The Netherlands living with us. When reports of the fall of the Berlin Wall came in on the television, he insisted we tape record them. "This is historical, this is historical," I remember him repeating. And it was. Though blind me did not recognize it much at the time.

Now I do.

Watching these videos gives me chills:





As does this one, when I hear that famous line:



And this one, that perhaps gave folks in Eastern Europe what J.R.R. Tolkein called "hope without guarantees":



People want to be free. And when a door opens, they take it, consequences be damned. That would be a good thing to keep in mind considering our current debates on freedom, including some on which I've commented here maybe not in the best, free light. But I won't comment on those, not today.

Freedom, we've seen, doesn't bring an end to struggle. Though we have seen democracy flourish in Eastern Europe, the shadow of the Cold War still exists, though faded. Mankind produces more ugliness that besmirches the victories. But always, there are people wanting freedom. I pray we find it. We still have that hope without guarantees, but at least we have hope.

DRILL!

The good news is, the drill at work is over.

The bad news is, I suck.

But that's okay. I volunteered for this program to learn, and learning I shall do. But sometimes I feel like poor Homer:



So I fear in the future we'll have more frequent drills in order to hammer this stuff into our heads. And that's okay. If you learn a skill and then apply it only occasionally, that's asking for trouble. That is, in fact, asking for and inviting an error precursor into your life. Sure, it's nice not to have drills with brutal frequency, but it is also nice, once a drill comes, that you actually remember how to do things.

This comes down to the difference between book smarts and street smarts. All of us in the room have had the training by the book, but sometimes it's a whole different ballgame when you go to apply things in a real situation. That's why, for instance, they have you actually get behind a wheel when you're in drivers education. Doing otherwise might be less stressfull, but infinitely more foolish. So I should look forward to the drills so I can apply what I've learned. Though the drills are not fun, after each successive drill, they'll get easier because I'll become used to what is supposed to happen.

Hermitage

First of all, it's surprising how difficult it is to find pictures of hermits on the Internet.
Second of all, I'm surprised at my surprise at this difficulty, since hermits by nature are way off in the boondocks or tulies and are generally camera-shy. If anyone out there knows of a hermit Web cam site, let me know.

But back to hermits. I think I'd like to be one. Temperamentally, I'm already a hermit, and so is my wife. Our oldest is also very hermit-like, in a Petey Otterloop kind of way. The life of a hermit would, however, stultify the lives of our youngest children, especially Isaac, who, I'm afraid, would turn out to be one of those overly loquacious and bubbly hermit-like individuals you only meet in fairy stories, you know the ones, they instantly become your best friend and will follow you through the dragons' lair and the spooky cave and through battle to the bad guy's castle and then throw himself into the cauldron in order to save your life and you're really sad until you realize that in sacrificing himself he's actually saved himself and everyone else and if you go back to the fairy colony you'll find him there fully cured and just chatting the damn fairies' ears right off their skulls. I don't know that I could do that to luckless passers by.

Why be a hermit? Because it's a cop out. An easy way to run away from the troubles of this world. Sol it's actually quite a selfish act, once you consider it. Running away rather than trying to solve problems. But doesn't the act of trying to solve a problem sometimes result in selfishness as well -- because it's my solution I'm imposing on your problem. Maybe my solution to your status as an orphan on a farm where you're overworked and underfed and forced to sleep in an empty stall in the barn next to the horses, huddling with the sheep for warmth, is to drag you off the farm, filling your mind with thoughts of "this is your destiny, to fight tyrrany" and forcing you to learn swordplay and then actually taking you into situations where swordplay is the only option besides dying a quick, bloody, horrible death at the hands of the Death Ninjas, and maybe all the while when you're killing the bad guys and then running away, questing and otherwise knowing that you're only putting off the inevitable showdown with the bad guy you're thinking, damn, maybe life on that farm wasn't all that bad. Ol' Grub and his stupid son are probably dead from liquor by now, and that farm would be MINE. And I'd be the one looking for an orphan.

So maybe Marge Simpson was right: "We can all make a difference but we're better off if we don't."

I think I've got the nucleus of a book here, technically.

Battening Down the Hatches

One of my duties today included taking down our homemade lighted spider Halloween decoration, in order to give the orange lights on the house and in the trees a more festive, harvest feel. For me, the dismantling of the wire-frame spider that hangs on the side of our house is a harbinger of doom. Or at least winter.

Because we are firmly in the caste of suburban goofballs who have tons of excess folderol in their yards in order to tout their middle-class status, there is a lot of battening down of the hatches once winter menaces on the horizon. Today, in addition to the spider, I put the following into winter storage:

• An all-metal miniature tricycle bearing a tin we're supposed to plant flowers in but haven't yet in the two years we've had it. This resides in the flower bed on one side of the stoop.
• A plastic faux-ceramic statue of two kids swinging in a hammock. This resides in the flower be on the other side of the stoop.
• One river rock in which our name has been sandblasted. This resides on the stoop itself. One of these days I'm going to exchange it with the McNabb's sandblasted rock next door.
• One hunk of pink whateverstone, which was taken from the ruins of the burned-down Spori Building on the Ricks College campus. This also resides on the stoop.
• Other various sundry rocks, including a bit of lava I pulled out of the desert. They all lump together on the stoop.

All that stuff is now safely ensconsed in our shed, which is probably going to explode from all the crap we've got stored in there. As for the stoop, it's looking a bit bare, but the stuff there will soon be replaced by a snow shovel and a small bucket of ice melt that the incontinent dog next door will again likely use as a wee-spot.