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January 03, 2008

Resolutions to last year's problems

I have reached a resolution to the problems I was having with my many vendor relationships last week.

1. Boston Sports Clubs - I talked to Jennifer, the general manager at BSC Allston, finally. She took my information and offered to collect the fee directly from me and would call the collection agency to let them know to stop bothering me. They have since stopped calling.

2. Verizon after receiving myriad communications from me began responding and apologizing in various media forms. First I received an email that gave me enough information to let me know that the bill was being paid (I had put it on my company credit card) but not how to access it. I next received an apology call from someone for having been put on hold for 30 minutes who let me know a technical support person would help me with my account. I then received a call from a technical support person to let me know the secret Verizon email address/account login I had selected. I will soon work to decode the password but that should be easier than getting the account name.

3. The elliptical runner was delivered and installed in the basement. I have used it 4 times since it was delivered and realized that I am at 193 vs. the 185 I was last year in the spring and also that I need to get my cardio-vascular system pumping again.

4. The sump-pump people from basement technologies came. The sump pumps did have a real problem in that one of the pumps wasn't connecting properly to the pipe going outside so it was flushing water up into the lid rather than out of the house. After fixing this by resetting the pump onto the pipe the guy then played with the plugs between the two pumps and plungers declaring that something he couldn't understand was going on such that the back-up and the main pump can't both work at the same time and something must be broken. It was satisfying to see the pump push out the water at full speed. He also mentioned that the floor of the basement is likely to rot the underside of the washingmachine and dryer without a stand since it can get damp under them causing rust. He recommended a platform.

So with many of my issues resolved I feel like I have some New Year resolutions. Now I just need to get back to 185, make my start-up Recombinant work, and the baby when it is born ought to be a doozy.

June 22, 2006

Mosquito magnet or human magnet?

Because my parents acquired a second home in Marshfield to be near the ocean I took it upon myself to be the official owner of solving pest problems at the seaside location. The primary pest situation due to a town named after a "marsh" are moquitos. They like to breed in the 11 acre lot behind the house and come out in force by the pool. The solution that I had heard about was the Mosquito Magnet. It is a little contraption that eats propane and converts it into energy to run a fan and puts out CO2 along with Octonol from a special insert to lure unsuspecting mosquitos to their death in a trap. It ultimately is like a lobster trap where the bugs can get in but they can't get out.

When I first installed it I had all of the troubles of getting the pieces aligned from a distance. I had it delivered to a location where I wasn't, needed to buy a propane tank, and then had to get it running. The initial problem with the design of the mosquito magnet is that it requires 24 hours of charging the battery before you can start it. So I had to put it together one day, plug it in, go home, and then test turning it on the following week. I did finally get it working after a few weeks going back and forth in year one and it killed a forest full of mosquitos. So I believe it can work.

The following year was also pretty good. Despite the winter meaning I needed to charge it again I did so and then took it out again this year. But this year after I got it running on Memorial day it was dead a few weeks later. So last weekend I spent countless hours trying to figure out how to get it running again. The product comes with two odd gadgets that I hadn't needed to use. The first is a plastic fitting that connects to the propane tank and to the regulator. The instructions for it claim that it purges something. So I tried using that and heard a slight hiss when I inserted the reverse threaded and therefore confusing plastic fitting. Hoping the Magnet would turn on I got it to run for a few minutes and then it crapped out. Now this presents a problem because it is supposed to charge for 24 hours each time, but when it doesn't work it is a nightmare since I can't exactly go back and forth 45 minutes every time I want to charge and test it. So I dragged a different propane tank in and tried again. It worked for a few minutes and then crapped out again. Figuring that I might not need the power to charge as much I dragged everything into the basement so that I could keep the Magnet plugged into the wall charger while testing since it would have constant power (sorta) if it were connected to the wall. I then began a series of tests with it purging with the fitting, plugging it in for a few hours, overnight, while at brunch, and had it going once for an hour and a half until I tried to roll it out the door to where the mosquitos were. At this point it died again.

So out of desparation my dad and I went to the store to see if we could either get a new one or get advice on getting this one to work. At the store they mentioned that I needed to "purge the lines" with the other attachment, a little orange thing that connects to what looks like a bicycle wheel air gauge. I was certain that I had the other attachment because I had seen it hundreds of times so I told my dad we didn't need to pay the $12 for it but did need to pay the $10 for the three special CO2 cartridges that you connect to the orange thing that adapts the CO2 cartridge to the bicycle wheel air guage thing. So when we got home predictably I couldn't find this part, which was the size of a screw and proceeded to wander through all occupied zones of the 11 acres looking for it because I was convinced that I hadn't been stupid enough to lose this essential piece of hardware.

So finally on Sunday I tried a few more times to trick it into running only to have it crap out on me again. So I plugged it in for the week, went home, and vowed to return next week with the orange adapter and CO2 cartridges. The net of it was that I would probably have killed more bugs standing in the field swatting and kiling the bugs whenever they landed on me than I have this year fighting with this difficult to maintain bug execution chamber. But I hate those bugs and I will probably try for the next 10 years to get a better bug trap system in place.

This is a good example of how if someone, me, wants to accomplish a certain task with a product that no matter how ridiculous the user experience is the user will still go through it in order to accomplish the task and if it works after doing all of those painful annoying and ridiculous things to accomplish the task then the user will swear by the product and recommend it to all of their friends. I do urge any company to build a similar device to the Mosquito Magnet that avoids all of this maintenance crap. They could make a killing!

May 21, 2006

Little suicide bombers

Among the benefits of leaving on a vacation for the Bahamas in May and having a deluge of biblical proportions fall upon the Boston area while we were gone is that my status as a prophet has gone way up. The main rationale for going on vacation this year in May was that last year, when we got married in May, we couldn’t help but notice that it rained 90% of the time. This combined with our second date on Memorial day when Sarah was violently sea sick on a whale watch that occurred during a hail and sleet storm. I also add my own past experience of trying to hike Mt. Chicorua in May and accidentally lighting my tent on fire by trying to warm me and Pete Forsythe up from a sleet storm we had hiked in using the camping stove inside the tent. So my personal experience with May in Boston is that it is a violently cold and rainy month, which is why we went away. But I do enjoy hearing that people respect how applying such wisdom could allow us to avoid an enormous basement flooding, sump-pump activating, disaster.

Our own challenge came when we returned home and had unpacked all of our shoes to place them into the closet where we store coats and shoes. Sarah stuck her nose into the closet and discovered that it smelled awful. Given that it had been at 100% humidity for about 6 days and that the rain could easily have penetrated the roof one theory for the horrible smell was that some old sandals, golf shoes, and other sweat filled beasts had gotten activated into smelling terrible. This was my hypothesis. I was in denial.

Sarah’s hypothesis was based on the incident prior to our 4AM exit when we were packing in the early morning for our flight. We aren’t normally wandering about our condo at this hour so it is possible to observe things that aren’t normally visible to us. In this case Sarah was in the kitchen and bumped into a small black mouse. The last time this had happened Sarah had let out a primal shriek that led me to believe, when I heard it from another room, that something terrible had happened to Madeline along the lines of her falling off of the refrigerator. This time Sarah was more calm and she just jumped but the mouse was as frightened as she was and rather than returning to a hole in the wall the mouse ran around the corner from the kitchen and into the open door to the closet with the shoes and coats. I had been rummaging for Tivas so the door was open. We spent a good portion of time on the cab ride over to the airport discussing how we were going to finally take the plunge and commit to purchasing a stray cat or kitten at the animal shelter.

Sarah’s opinion was that the smell in the closet, a musty sweaty rotten smell reminiscent of a basement, was the smell of that mouse dead in the closet. It wasn’t like we had closed the door on that mouse. We had left it open expressly to avoid having a dead trapped mouse in our closet upon return but it was left as a possibility. But I still clung to my musty rain theory. We had been trapped in Miami when we were returning due to massive rain that closed the airport for six hours and I could imagine it activating smells in shoes in the spring time.

We were delayed in Miami airport for so long that we got to listen to Bush’s 8PM speech about immigration reform although we had originally been scheduled to make a 3:30 connection back to Boston. I tend to think of the strategy for immigration reform when it comes to the mice in the condo. Our job is to reduce the opportunity for the mice (don’t leave food around) , seal the borders (plug holes that mice come through), and have appropriate border security forces (a cat), and reasonable penalties for illegal immigration (death by cat or if trapped in a humane trap – return to the wild 5 miles away). They have a five step plan and so do I my problem has been getting commitment, consensus, and resources to execute all areas of the plan. I wonder what the government’s issues are?

Madeline had enjoyed the airport. She liked interacting with the faces of people smiling at her and she discovered that Sarah’s phone was the most fun toy she had ever gotten her hands on.

By Friday night my excuse for not going into the closet to clean it out was that it was dark. We had returned home on Monday night. The real reason was that I was procrastinating the event and didn’t want to get too involved with death. So instead we watched the finale of Season 5 of Six Feet Under. In the end everyone dies in some cool scenes flashing into the future with a great song playing in the background. It was a good ending except for one dumb guffaw killing off Keith through gunshots while he is guarding money in an armored truck. It was just dumb but we played the ending scene with the cool song about 5 times. In one frame you can see Alan Poul, one of the producers, at a funeral for the mother. After that we watched Capote but Sarah fell asleep before they executed the killers by hanging. I had expected more from it, to be super curious about reading “In Cold Blood” but the movie was flat and long. I understood why Sarah fell asleep.

But by Saturday morning after having eaten our ritual breakfast at Brueggers I had run out of options and it was time to clean out the closet. I pulled out both bins of shoes, took out the luggage, and took all of the jackets out of the closet until it was bare. No dead mouse. I threw out a number of shoes that seemed to have offensive smells or were rendered useless due to holes in the bottoms out of my bin of shoes. Sarah went through her bin and that was when she found it, the suicide bomber.

The mouse in her shoe bin was grey. I am not sure whether black mice turn to grey or not so it could have been a different mouse but this was a dead mouse. It was a suicidal mouse trying to drive us out of our apartment with it’s stench. I doubt it was totally conscious of the effect that it has on us. Waichi is moving out of her apartment downstairs. Part of her reason for not buying the condo at a good price from the guy who wants to offload it is that she can’t deal with the mice dying. We bumped into her this morning as she was moving her boxes into a U-Haul in front of the building. She found a dead mouse that had been rotting for a long time behind her sofa two days ago and refrained from calling me to scrape it out because it was two in the morning. She had called me down one day about six months ago to scrape one out from under her radiator in her kitchen. It’s funny to see her needing my help because she is a kidney transplant surgeon and goes on missions with Doctors without borders to war torn or disaster areas but she is disgusted by dead mice.

But the effect of the mice rotting in closets, under floor boards, behind couches, under radiators, in cupboards full of sunflower seeds meant for birds, is the same everywhere. We have a dread of it and makes us want to run away to somewhere else. Nobody likes death in their own home.

April 03, 2006

Traffic from the naked mile

When I went to look at my web traffic today I noticed a sudden blip and the list of referrers were all from the same site. The site listed on the page was Sensations4Women . So I followed the link to see who had connected this flow of traffic into my lonesome outpost. If you visit the site it is clear that it is dedicated to a specific type of pornography called CFNM or Clothed Female Naked Male. Since the referrer didn’t provide the precise context that the links were appearing I had to posit various possibilities why or where within this site I was receiving traffic and I had the opportunity to do this while walking Madeline to acquire a Frappuchino since she wasn’t that interested in my statistical investigation. I settled on three basic theories.

Theory 1: Since this was a site of normal women who happen to fantasize about men that one woman had found my site and thought that I was a great person to focus their energy on because of all of the interesting things that I have to say and all of the great pictures of me, some of which include a good view of shirtless situations. But this was thrown out due to the massive self-absorbed attitude that it came from despite the natural boost to my ego that it would have provided.

Theory 2: I had inadvertently posted photos in the photo library that could be classified as CFNM. While I am not sure who would have taken the CFNM photos given that I or a friend would have to be naked and a woman would need to be clothed but maybe just a naked man would be sufficient enough for making the cut on this site. I decided this was a definite possibility since I had been playing with Riya recently and it had posted a lot of photos that I normally would scrutinize on their way out.

Theory 3: Someone had linked to my New Years Resolution from 2005 that I wanted to become an exotic male dancer. This seemed the most likely and fitting in with the site.

Other theories involving conspiracies of various people involved with April Fools also were considered. But I decided that since curiosity was bound to kill me sooner or later that I would dive headlong into this site of weird female porn revenge to find the point that was driving hordes of alternatively thinking nudists that watch movies where “Three girlfriends have asked a couple of guys to hang out naked with them.” Or a “second video of a garden party where guys have been invited to have their equipment assessed” to my site. How were Coco and Brad involved in this?

The answer was quickly revealed by searching for myself in the little discussion group search engine. The following post labeled Female strippers cfnm includes a link to a post that I had made about my bachelor party in Montreal.

“There are tons of stories on the web about strippers humiliating birthday boys and bachelor on stage. http://www.queensjournal.ca/article.php?point=vol132/issue13/postscript/ lead1 I know that superfluous has posted a few but it would be fun to see more videos or pics from those shows. Its 100 % real. They bring some poor sap on stage strip him naked or to his undies and give him a boner in front of the whole club. Most of the time the guys get spanked real hard with their own belts too. http://danhousman.com/blogger/2005/05/dirty-old-men-maiden-voyage.html

So the mystery was solved and I knew where they were coming from. Well it isn’t a flurry of folks from the New York Times because I broke a big political story like the wire tapping or people from Slash-Dot hailing me as a technical messiah for predicting the rise of Linux but I guess I may some day, with some creative camera work, create a following on Sensations4Women.com.

April 01, 2006

Central square speed metal and a poor man's Vegas

On Thursday night I went out to see Sweet Wednesday play at TT The Bears. A good crew of people appeared for the event including Hattie, who I went to eat a pre-show dinner with at Koreana. Stephanie, James, Robert, Falkoff, and some of Dave’s friends appeared at the show as well. The music was a great set with another rockin’ version of Madeline, sweet as cherry wine, and Wherever You Go to finish it off.

After the music was over it was only about 10:30 and Robert heard rumbling under the folk/rock scene at TTs. So he talked me into investigating the source of the rumbling sounds. At the Middle East next door we asked what was happening at the top of the stairs to the downstairs zone. The music appeared to be on a break below and mostly from what we could see from the view from the top of the stairs the crowd was a large group of people with black dyed hair, black lipstick, and who would likely sun burn under fluorescent light. But we were faced with the major obstacle of a cover charge of $15 per person just to see the bands downstairs and explore the goth/metal scene. The nice woman wearing black and white striped Beteljus stockings suggested that we check out the upstairs area since their cover charge was lower and some interesting bands were playing up there including the speed metal band - Random Acts of Violence.

So Robert and I crossed over to the entrance to the upstairs zone. I was making a fuss about needing earplugs but Robert was insistent that we could purchase them at the bar once inside of the speed metal concert. Robert fronted the $9 cover charge for me and we were inside the small upstairs at the Middle East room with a stamp on our hands allowing us free access to leave and return whenever we wanted.

On stage was a band that is the real thing for speed metal. If anyone has never seen a real death wish hate spewing speed metal band play live before it really is a treat to the senses. The whole time I watched them I found it very hard to suppress a giggle because they looked so much like a comedy troupe trying to do a bad impression of a crazed but musically misguided group of devil worshippers.

The band was comprised of three tattooed dudes with their shirts off. They covered the metal basics of lead guitar, bass guitar, and drums. The lead had a shaved head with short black hair. He got his neck all tensed up and made some unintelligible sounds that sounded like a horror movie villain voice. “ROAAG JHARRA GGODGE GROOK AAAARAFFF”. Meanwhile the fans stood in the front row with their long hair either in fuzzy blond, Napoleon Dynamite style fuzz dos or long black greasy hair bobbing up and down in a full metal thrash while forcing their hands into the air doing the devil’s hand signal. It was some real head banging activity going on while the guitar kept going “deedle deedle deedle twid tweedle” and the singer kept yelling in his dark deep voice “GROK OG CHO ROZ CRAWWWTCH”. While speed metal isn’t melodic it could be classified as a percussive use of the guitar. I found it easy to fit in with the crowd provided I took people’s lead for when to put my hand in the air with the devil’s symbol and thrashed at the right point during each song.

The room had a vending area in the back where they were selling a collection of CDs on a rack from bands that covered the genre that we were listening to. I could have spent a few hours reading through the names of the albums and bands for pure humor value. The albums had names like Leukorrhea, Drown All Retarded Babies, Necromantic, and Dehumanizer along the sides. Most of what I saw aren’t available in the angry speed metal section at cdbaby but it can give you some idea of the type of music that is for sale at this vending station. My guess is that there is a dark sense of humor at play with the Speed Metal crew where they compete for the most offensive song lyrics, titles, and band names.

Since I didn’t want to look too conspicuous or commit myself to purchasing a copy of the Dead Body Fuckers latest opus by spending a long time with the CDs I decided to move onwards to the t-shirt vendors. In the background with nobody selling it was a T-shirt of a ball gagged and bound bleeding naked woman who appeared to have been stabbed in many ways with some illegible text behind it. It would have made a good workout shirt but I worried about the resulting riot that might occur if I ever wore it to anything other than an event like the one I was at. The folks peddling t-shirts had some more innocuous shirts as well. There were two vendors representing two of the bands playing. The first one had a shirt that was a screen print of the bands name on it written in a very artistic fashion shaped like a spider or bat bug squiggled to a lightning edge. It was completely illegible. I mentioned this to the vendor because her illegible shirt would be $10 while the person next to her had a shirt with a nice impact font in front of some eyeballs shooting rays at skulls that was completely readable for only $8. If I were to purchase a shirt at a speed metal concert I would want people to be able to read the words “Corpsicopia” clearly. I promised to return with my decision once the vendors started to vie for my attention and Robert and I left to return to TTs to report back on our experience.

Lisa and Dave were still there and the band taking the stage included DJ Swan and her male counterpart. DJ Swan is a very attractive six foot tall blond woman who plays a Macintosh computer connected to a keyboard by turning knobs and dancing in high heeled shoes. Her partner has a tightly cropped, George Michael style, beard and he riffs at an electric guitar that looked a few sizes smaller than the average one while singing. I pondered the possible off stage relationship between these two people after enjoying the performance with the knobs and tried to explain to Dave and Lisa what we had experienced in the upstairs venue before deciding that we had to take a look at another speed metal band.

On returning to the upstairs area we found a new band taking the stage. They looked like high school students or recent graduates from high school. They looked like the kind of angry kids at school who were likely to get into fights or be mean bullies. Their friends and mothers were in the crowd which seemed to like them and know them personally. The lead singer was probably named Davidson since the crowd kept calling out his name. He made announcements explaining the songs including the first tune that was “about a coroner who falls in love with a woman ---- BUT SHE’S DEAD!!!!”… begin speed metal and ranting screams into the microphone “ACK OOPP GRAAAH BRAAAP”. His last song was an old tune but a good one “about a robot who takes over the world and kills everyone… GRAAAP BRRRAA GRRRAGGG CRA FUUCK”. The bass player was doing a good job of the speed metal intense crouch but he seemed annoyed by the lack of a full commitment by the crowd. He mentioned after the first song that the bass was too soft so it would be good to turn the bass up in the monitor. After the second song he chastised the crowd by saying – “God – I feel like I’m bombing out here. You guys have to do some more head banging.” The nerdy guy with thick glasses in the front row took him seriously and started thrashing as did the bald, potential skinhead next to him.

Robert and I took a break from the metal again to return to TTs. At this point we were generally enjoying the idea of mixing between two worlds through a cover charge as if we were in a movie where time travel was possible and you could get warped between the planet of the lizard people and back to the love planet at any time. After pondering whether DJ Swan and her cohort were romantically involved we played a second game of pool and I lost to Robert by sinking the 8 ball.

Our cue had come to return to the death metal. On the way in I congratulated Davidson and the bass player on having done good work as they were out hanging out with fans having a smoke. The band was taking their time getting the stage together and looked like a bunch of Jewish guys from the burbs with long hair, big beards, and a punk attitude. The bass guitarist had rolled-up the sleeves of his long sleeve shirt to show off his tattoos. One of them was written in large block Hebrew letters. The lead guitarist had a large hand print tattoo in the style of an orc branded by the hand of Saron. This band identified themselves more with the orcs than with the band of hobbits when they watched the Lord of the Rings. So we watched them thrash their hair and head bang through a song before it was clear that we had to follow our inspiration and sample some alternative styles of music throughout the square.

Our next stop was Zazu where the Hats and Heads were playing. They were a British sounding group making riffs that reminded me of The Beatles. Robert had thought from outside looking through the window that they might be an all girl band but they only had one girl in their band. Their last song was “Take off your slippers” which was catchy enough for us to sing along to. Among the fine sights at Zazu was the bartender. She was a demure looking blond woman with dainty steel balls pierced into each of her cheeks. She looked like the girl next door but with an attitude. The Hats and Heads finished playing and as they went over to Robert and me we realized from their group that they were all communists because they were dressed in communist military jackets or were wearing communist styled hats. Central Square is in Cambridge!

Hats and Heads were followed by a two man band taking forever to set-up. The lead singer looked promising to Robert because his clothing was far too small including floods shorts and a long sleeve shirt that only covered half of his wrists. But after announcing that the rest of the band was missing today and that they would make up for it we were disappointed by the attempt.

We moved outwards next door at the ground level Middle East to find a small party of about twenty dancing in the front by the small stage. What they lacked in volume of people they made up for with enthusiasm for Latin dancing. The band playing was four roving Latino dudes singing along using wireless microphones in Spanish in front of a drumbeat generated by an automated machine. Seeing enthusiastic dancing I dove into the rolling crowd with my best solo Latino style dancing with a little death metal dancing mixed in. Two very skinny girls were dancing in a wild grinding salsa style with their friends. One of the singers was a Roberto Benini looking dude trying to encourage dancing and sporting a sign to recruit folks for a bigger event some other night. The benefit the singers had from the small stage and wireless microphones was that they mostly were in the crowd singing while encouraging people to dance. One short, under five-foot tall college freshman with two friends wandered past. She was caught by the roving DJs and got into dancing. She went outside and when she returned she decided she wanted to grind her ass for 10 minutes with the darker Dominican looking guy wearing David Ortiz style sunglasses. Her friends stood outside smoking and then returned to take a few memorable digital photos of the event. The Dominican guy had a happy smurk on his face as he was singing and pressed into the wall by her as though to say – “This is why I do this!” Robert had disappeared to the bar but I didn’t notice it while dancing in the group. He had moved away apparently because a not so desirable woman had been inspired by the teenager to try to grind with him in a similar fashion. So I was just hanging out on my own for a while before sitting down.

When Robert returned from the bar we concurred that it was time to move onwards to a new genre. I was hoping for some blues or jazz but the nearest thing to the Middle East was the Drums and Bass playing at Phoenix Lounge. The bouncer wanted $5 per person but we just let him know that we were migratory drinkers and weren’t likely to pay it. Then he offered $5 for two people but finally he just let us in for free because we didn’t seem like we were going to pay another cover. On the dance floor we were in the typical trance, electronica, music scene. Two short Asian girls with pig tails dancing at break neck speed in the pattern similar to the video game Dance Dance Revolution. A blond woman, and there always seems to be one at every electronic dance rave style DJ situation, was moving in a jump suit standing at the front ramping-up as though she was in the first five minutes in a well timed Jane Fonda workout. An older man was keeping-up with the Asian girls to the Dance Dance Revolution style motions and a smooth looking guy doing a highly organized trance dance of his own. Is there a school for this stuff? Behind the DJ they had a projector playing low grade CGI animations including cheap King Kong and a robot graphics flashing in the background that transitioned into 80’s video games hashed along with screen saver style graphic that synched with the music. Robert said “I’ll bet this is a lot more fun on ecstasy.” Before we moved on again.

At last we went on a final last ditch search for brass. I wanted to head out to Wally’s in Boston but we settled for the Cantab Lounge because it was contiguous with our route. For a Thursday night the Cantab had an all white brass blues band, except for the drummer, singing songs like Mustang Sally. The woman that Robert had fled from at the Middle East salsa Dominican singer location was grinding with the lead singer. We left because they took a break to play a great song for couples to cuddle to and headed to our cars on foot.

March 17, 2006

Red cups on the frat boy crossing signs

If fraternities were to need a universal symbol for a sign the symbol would be the red plastic cup made by the Solo corporation. On Friday night some friends and I went out for a DOMC outing and we began the evening with the red cups filled to the brim with 75% vodka, 24% cranberry juice, and 1% crappy Limeade from Minutemaid. Upon bumping into our first friend for the evening at the St. Paul C line T stop she remarked “Where are you going’ with those red cups?”. Since we hadn’t planned a destination, just a journey we asked her opinion of where we should look for fun on a late winter Saturday night. Her suggestion based on the plastic cups was that we would fit in fine at a fraternity party. We considered the frat party route but changed course in favor of meeting up down at the Rattlesnake.

The T ride over was one of the new Kinki trains filled with drunk 14 year old girls. Quite a treat. But we then continued our journey through town. RF had a hankering for the Lennox where we debated who the singers were for the song “I would walk 500 miles…etc.” It turned out that it was the Proclaimers, two twins and not Midnight Oil. But we did manage to get a round of Guinness in. Then it was onwards to Central Square for a visit to the Cantab Lounge to see Little Joe Cook. I’m not sure if Little Joe Cook is the same guy who has been playing at the Cantab Lounge for as long as I can remember. I wonder if he is like Darrin from Bewitched or the Dr. from Dr. Who, replaceable by a new Little Joe Cook at any time provided he keeps yammering about his cheeseburgah’s and hamburgah’s and belting out James Brown tunes late into the evening. We made friends with a bunch of ladies who were taking photos of each other kissing. They were class of ’95 which in my state of mind made me think we had some kinship of common high school graduating class years until I realized that I didn’t graduate in the high school class of ’95 – I graduated in the college class of 1995. It’s tough getting older. We did some dancing and I took some pictures along with our friends. When I gave them the camera to look through they scrolled through the pictures including the ones of Madeline and Sarah at which point I let them know that the pretty baby in the pictures was mine. That made it much easier to dance since nobody had any false illusions of who anyone was. Out of nowhere came Lena, Sarah’s friend from work. She was out with some friends so we did some dancing as well and got a nice crazy picture.

We had to get some pizza a few doors down and I explored the streets while others were acquiring the pizza. On the streets I got into a nice conversation with someone standing in front of a supermarket shopping cart about the oddity of the bank advertisers on the cart. After a minute or so of conversing about the cart advertiser someone ran at top speed, grabbed the cart, and took off down the street. That was my cue to go get the pizza. After the pizza we took a tour of China town, had a nine dollar beer, and then ate some late night Korean food. A group of guys next to us were trying to explain that you could order “cold tea” and they would give you liquor. The genious – How could I live so long without knowing that. DK was falling asleep and kept apologizing for his lameness. We went home at about 3 AM and it put a dent in my regular routine of working out every Sunday.

March 11, 2006

Six not so easy pieces

Jeremy and I were disheartened regarding our hopes of becoming the world's preemininent podcasters when Jeremy ran into this site, Bikini calculus which is a couple of attractive women that explain calculus to dorky guys who watch podcasts. So we were figuring we'd be better off doing a hot chick version of Six Not So Easy Pieces by Richard Feynman. But we are still putting out the same old stuff until then on the Entropy podcast with a long argument between Jeremy and me about the war in Iraq.

March 06, 2006

Broken bones and missing parts

In my all encompassing wisdom to replace the missing part from Babie's 'R Us I failed to notice that step 11 required another major part that we were missing. So we are once again stalled in our effort to assemble the Exersaucer. It looks like we are going to go with the government contractor route with the delivery of the replacement unit to Bedford later this week. Why build one when you can build two for twice the price?

In other news Jeremy is stuck at Emerson hospital after having tried to learn to snowboard at Nashoba Valley. Amazingly Emerson hospital has a large team of people dedicated to emergency head injuries, torn ACLs, and broken wrists. In Jeremy's case he fractured his wrist after falling on it instead of falling on his head like I told him to when he asked whether to go snowboarding or skiing. Snowboarding is not a very kind sport to the newbies. So he's getting repaired with pins tomorrow that should have his hand out of action for six months with an injury similar to the one that I had when I was playing basketball. Since us Jews tend not to tattoo he'll at least get a great scar out of it. He was probably just jealous of my scar.

Broken bones and missing parts

In my all encompassing wisdom to replace the missing part from Babie's 'R Us I failed to notice that step 11 required another major part that we were missing. So we are once again stalled in our effort to assemble the Exersaucer. It looks like we are going to go with the government contractor route with the delivery of the replacement unit to Bedford later this week. Why build one when you can build two for twice the price?

In other news Jeremy is stuck at Emerson hospital after having tried to learn to snowboard at Nashoba Valley. Amazingly Emerson hospital has a large team of people dedicated to emergency head injuries, torn ACLs, and broken wrists. In Jeremy's case he fractured his wrist after falling on it instead of falling on his head like I told him to when he asked whether to go snowboarding or skiing. Snowboarding is not a very kind sport to the newbies. So he's getting repaired with pins tomorrow that should have his hand out of action for six months with an injury similar to the one that I had when I was playing basketball. Since us Jews tend not to tattoo he'll at least get a great scar out of it. He was probably just jealous of my scar.

February 23, 2006

Hunter wasn't doing drugs?

In my reading of Fear and Loathing in America my interest in Hunter’s letters increased significantly as he approached the dates that covered writing and publishing Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas. F&L in America gives plenty of references to Hunter doing plenty of interesting drugs including his firm stance that a part of his candidacy for Sheriff of Aspen was that he would continue to do mescaline on a regular basis. But the volume of mind-altering substances referred to in F&L in Las Vegas was incredible. On the back of the Las Vegas book it summarizes the basic premise that a gonzo journalist and his lawyer had a crazy adventure in Vegas that the average traveler out on a bender could only look at with awe as a religious achievement to bent living:

“We had two bags of grass, seventy-five pellets of mescaline, five sheets of high-powered blotter acid, a salt shaker half-full of cocaine and a whole galaxy of multicolored uppers, downers, screamers, laughers…. Also a quart of tequila, a quart of rum, a case of Budweiser, a pint of raw ether, and two dozen amyls. There is nothing more helpless and irresponsible than a man in the depths of an ether binge…”

When I first met Sarah two weeks after we had met I had a business meeting in California that took me through Las Vegas on a flight where I met her for some fun in Vegas. We sat by the pool at the Excalibur, sipping drinks and listening to the dim sound of the repetitive Disney style musac in the background, and I read F&L in Las Vegas to Sarah using my best impression of Johnny Depp in the movie who was probably doing his best impression of Hunter himself.

At night we went out to Nephrotite’s lounge in the Luxor tower and drank until about 2 am although we were having trouble getting drunk because of the extra oxygen pumped into the air to keep people from falling asleep while gambling. We left Vegas on a Sunday night skipping our original flight because we were busy playing black jack and drinking free booze on the floor of the MGM Grand which we learned was originally designed to resemble the emerald palace from the Wizard of Oz complete with the yellow markings on the rugs guiding drunken gamblers to the tables to represent the yellow brick road.

I don’t owe the Fear and Loathing book anything with regards to having a continued long term relationship with Sarah. But it is something like a favorite song that I can get a little sentimental about to remember the care free and more wild state of mind I was in when we first met. It's only buddy in the first books that Sarah and I read is Tom Robbin's 'Still Life With Woodpecker, "yumm", that I loaned Sarah because she is a red head.

While Hunter’s Vegas story as a whole smells of hyperbole, and Hunter helps because his style is always hyperbolic – like when he thought the only way to get rid of a girl was to feed her to the lizards in the desert - the amazing thing to learn in F&L in America is that by his own admission: Thompson wasn’t on drugs while working on F&L in Las Vegas.

He wrote in a letter to his publisher – “The only thing that vaguely alarmed me about your letter was your statement to wit: ‘You know it was absolutely clear to me reading Las Vegas that you were not on drugs…’ This is true, but what alarms me is that Vegas I was very conscious attempt to simulate a drug freak out – which is always difficult, but in reading over I still find it depressingly close to the truth I was trying to create.”

So while this isn’t as big of a discovery as the guy who dragged Oprah through the muck with a thousand little pieces I did find it interesting that Hunter, one of the more interesting authors, generally wrote sober even if he did get twisted from time to time.

February 08, 2006

Fear on Superbowl Sunday

It was good to see the Steelers win the Superbowl on Sunday. We had a little gathering in Newton but it wasn’t nearly as intense as the past few years with the Patriots in the big game. Before the game Sarah and I took a walk around Crystal Lake with Madeline. At one point on the lake just after getting off of Beacon street there is a cove where you can climb into the water. I have some good memories of that cove like the time that I went skinny dipping with Ami and Ilana after college and getting covered with leeches. It also was the site of the closest I ever came to getting arrested.

A friend and I were swimming in the late evening on a hot august day. A police officer spotted us swimming in the lake outside of the designated public swimming zone. He waved us in and then gave a long speech about how illegal it is to swim in the lake and went over the potential for it to go onto our permanent records and ruin our future lives. The officer then called my parents to let them know that I had been breaking the law. My father had a chuckle about it when he received the call since he is no fan of the policy that people can’t swim in lakes. I think the officer was just collecting every high school student in town into his little arrest book. I bumped into him at a wrestling meet a few years later and he bragged that he had every student in the high school in his book with the crimes they had committed. I challenged him because I thought I was enough of a goody-goody to be in his book. Sure enough he had me in the little notepad with the date and time of the lake swimming incident.

Sarah noticed a beautiful house across the street from where I had been stopped for swimming. I remember that house because it was Anna Rosenblum’s house. Her father was a famous sculptor and in 9th grade during French class I had developed a crush on my partner – Anna Rosenblum. We had gotten together to study, practice, write a sketch or something in the house. It had been the closest to a date with a girl that I had been on so I was flush with hormones, pheremones, and insane developmental illnesses. She was wearing a pair of 80’s pre-faded and pre-torn blue jeans. Due to an intense mixture of fear in all directions I panicked and pretended to hate Anna in front of my friends to avoid embarrassment. I then played a prank on her that roughly equated to providing an imaginary secret admirer. Since I was too chicken to actually be the secret admirer it was easier to make it into a mean prank than to be straightforward about it. The massive fear in all directions is the odd thing about being in 9th grade. You are afraid of girls, being unpopular, failing in school, disappointing your parents. It’s a scary time. You do very strange things that one would only expect to see in a bad teen movie. For this reason alone I am willing to believe any motivation for a character in a bad teen movie.

I have been thinking often about fear lately. Maybe it is because the US is so focused on these people called “terrorists”. Terror is the extreme of fear. But using fear to control behavior is nothing new. In marketing we don’t focus on what products can do but what pains the products can alleviate. People don’t buy things –five blade razors, luxury motor cars, political mantras, or enterprise software unless they are convinced that the purchase will alleviate a fear that has been nagging them for ages. So us marketing folks try to highlight the chronic pain that they or their organization is in and suggest the potential circles of hell that they will land in if they don’t purchase our product. Some people tend to think that only a dictatorship can be run on fear but a pure democratic capitalist society with everyone marketing their own personal messages of fear are bound to accumulate a large collection of fear. So do we really fear the terrorists because of the murderous crimes that they perpetrate or because of the media machine, politicians, and corporations have something to sell and the fear is the easiest way to get us to buy?

So just to return to the big marketing event - the Superbowl. We do get some football sugar to help the medicine go down. But the medicine this yaer is to buy cars that run on corn power. Somewhere hidden between the State of the Union and the Superbowl is some secret pact between the politicians, the farmers, and the automotive industry to give our American car manufacturers an edge. We're moving to corn power according to the Superbowl advertisements and it is coming too fast for the foreign car companies to make better cornmobiles. Since we control our own super economy we may as well take advantage of the monopoly by adjusting the scales. Maybe we can avoid some foreign wars this way. Isn't that the idea behind the cornmobile. Go daddy go!

February 02, 2006

Return of the mouse, not working with a baby

Nothing keeps me from sleeping like one of those dreams where a giant cockroach the size of a large rat tries to climb-up my pant leg and then refuses to die even after it is split in half while still inside of my pants. The smell was something like bean dip. The dream was likely spurred on by the return of our unwanted guests in the kitchen. The mice are back and partying harder than ever. We are in dire need of another cat and I intend to use the promised Christmas gift from Nick, Sarah’s sister’s husband, which was to use his household tools and knowledge to block the open mouse holes in the kitchen. We also will be investigating our options with regards to borrowing cats again in case anyone is going on vacation and needs a cat sitter for a month.

On Monday I took care of Madeline by myself for the day for the second Monday since Sarah has returned to work. When Yuval told me that they hired a nanny to watch Gabriel when he worked from home I had at first thought that I would not have a problem multi-tasking between my work and a sleeping, quiet, and easily distracted by shiny objects young being. I was very wrong about this. Wrong enough to eat my computer screen. It is not just difficult to get work done while watching a baby it is nearly impossible. At least it is nearly impossible to design a web site including graphics, text, and messaging. I was working on a new site to talk about the healthcare data warehousing that we are doing and made some progress but about as much as had I been working during hurricane Katrina in New Orleans. I don't think it would be frustrating to just watch Madeline but to try to work and watch Madeline is a constant challenge. So I will need to concede that watching a baby for a day is a full time job and try not to get frustrated if I don't get as much work done while I am spending the day with her. I also want to avoid singing that Harry Chapin Cats in the Cradle song.

I did get some good quality smiles out of Madeline during the day. The smiles are almost impossible for me to get snapshots of. They happen mainly when I do things like talk in the language of Jabba the Hut and then swing my tongue around wildly. Then when I get the camera out to take a picture her eyes roll up into her head when the red focus thing fires and she looks like a shocked mammal rather than a smiling baby. It is my new goal in photographing Madeline to capture more smiles. I have enough non-smiling pictures now and am willing to go on a smile photo safari with her.

The Superbowl is this Sunday. Here is my prediction. Steelers 24-Seahawks 17. Go AFC. I am a Steelers fan and if the Patriots were to be carted off to another city then I would be a Steelers fan over any other random team. I like the teams that wear black and seem mean. That is what a football team should be. I like the old style Madden Raiders. The Steelers have some of that hard hitting style. I also always love the irresistible force running back and not just some tall guy but a man like Jerome Bettis who charges right into a stack of people and moves them backwards or at least they think to themselves – this is really going to hurt when he hits us. Bettis is the guy who would win at Red Rover-Red Rover and he is a nice guy too. This is in contrast to a team like the Colts who showcase a quarterback who gets paid more than anyone else in the league and waves his hands in the air to change plays at the line of scrimmage. I wouldn’t be a Colts fan even if I lived in Indianapolis. I don’t have a big problem with the Seahawks and they even have the son of Mosi Tatupu playing for them but I am rooting hard for the Steelers on Sunday and despite seeming not to care about the game because the Patriots aren’t in it I’ll still be able to pay a lot of attention to the game.

August 19, 2005

Buying cigarettes from Mr. Tattoo

I had nightmares that I was smoking in front of my mother last night.

I think they were a result of my odd experience people watching yesterday. I was sitting looking out the window of Perks, a coffee shop in Norwood Center, waiting for my dad to meet me so we could carpool our way to the Patriots pre-season game and save $30. I could watch the world outside the window from the high perch of my stool and the article in the Globe about kayaking wasn't holding my interest very well. A man was sitting outside with a cigarette in his mouth and a tattoo on his arm. He had thinning blond hair and his left arm was painted with fading tattoos that had been aging for at least ten years. I wouldn't have paid him any mind but a pair of young looking girls walked-up to him and sat down with him. They were dressed in Delores, Lola, Lolita, fashion with the blond one looking more confident than most. She was smoking a cigarette along with mr. Tattoo. I have trouble telling the precise ages of young girls, especially ones wearing mascara, mini-skirts, and smoking. I was willing for a minute to convince myself that they were actually short women and he was their friend or lover. Then came the transaction. The smoking blond opened her wallet and pulled out some crumpled dollars and handed them to mr. tattoo. He then walked with the money into the next door convenience store. He popped back out to bark out a question about what the girl really wanted. When he returned looking mildly guilty and secretive he handed the blond smoking girl three packs of cigarettes. She flashed them in her hands, did a jumping jack of excitement, and worked to get the more timid brunette sitting in the seat excited as well at their lucky conquest. All three of them sat together, smoking girls and mr. tatoo chatting and enjoying each others company.

I was thinking to myself. Could my daughter become that smoking Lolita? Yikes. I was turning paler by the minute. Then a man stood hunched over a runners sipping bottle who either had CP or DT. He was shaking his hands enough to spill half of the two cans of Pepsi onto the ground as he was coached by a friend to pour the contents into the sipping cup. He came inside Perks and sat down shaking to drink his beverage.

August 10, 2005

Nesting instincts cleaning house

This weekend was dedicated to nesting activities in preparation for the impending birth, in November, of baby Madeline. The big plan for months has been to finally paint the condo, after seven years of living here the only time the place has been painted was when I moved in. Painting is a sport also known as opening Pandora’s box because you need to clear each room before painting it. That was part of our plan. We wanted to try moving items around in order to determine whether we needed them or not. That way we could chuck the things we don’t need out the window, give them to family members, or move them to offshore locations. The first room we decided to paint was Jeremy’s old room. It sounded like a small size Pandora’s box since it was supposedly an empty room after Jeremy moved out. But it actually still had a closet full of items, three bookshelves with drawers and cabinets, and an entertainment center that I have been trying to get rid of for over 12 months now. Want one?

It is unbelievable how much stuff is hidden in bookshelves and closets. The living room is now full of all the junk that was formerly in the empty room. I called my parents to ask if we could drop off the many photo albums that we had borrowed for making the wedding photo montage. My dad let me know that he had rented a truck from Zip car, the place that gives you wheels when you need ‘em. Apparently he and my mother had also been infected with nesting instincts due to the coming second generation. They were clearing out all of their bookcases and having all of the floors sanded down and stained in their Newton house. Sarah and I saw this as an opportunity to unload our three not too attractive bookcases so when we dropped off the sixty-two photo albums in boxes in Newton we also looked at the fourteen or so empty book cases that they had emptied out into their significantly larger piles of boxes into their living room, study, and bathrooms.

I offered my mom a swap and she said she wanted to see our bookcases. When she arrived in Brookline she decided she didn’t want ours but did offer a couple sets of theirs for us to take. So my dad and I schlepped an old recliner that I bought at the giant church yard sale across the street in the back of the truck they had rented back to Newton thinking we might take it out to Marshfield. On reaching Newton we decided to throw it out so we just left it under a lilac bush near a fence.

According to my parents there is an underclass of scavengers in Newton who professionally take furniture left on the street by wealthy Newtonians and sell the furniture on eBay, craigslist, or in showrooms. I can imagine that these strange third wave, think Alvin Toffler renewable usage of energy, people will ultimately get highly organized and become a major corporation themselves similar to the Kentucky Fried Movie company that makes energy from pimple oil, used combs, and farts from Mexican restaurants. So my dad was confident that one of these people would take the dingy old recliner despite the fact that it was really second hand garbage.

Once in Newton we carried out two heavy, long, and attractive bookcases into the back of the pick-up truck and realized that they were longer than the flat bed of the truck. The only way to fit them was to take the gate down and tie them in. Tying them used to require lots of skill with knots but the truck came with some odd screw things where you can thread rope through them and tighten them. A secondary rope looked like a good insurance policy to avoid having someone behind the truck have their last memory be of a large bookcase flying through their windshield.

Figuring that I was a sailor I tried to make a useful knot but realized that I was hopeless. I called Jeremy because he is a real sailor and he let me know that it would be impossible for me to get walked through a trucker’s hitch knot while on the phone. He said it was two half hitches and a bowlin’ or something like that. I turned to the Internet hoping that a trucker’s hitch was doable by a mere mortal. I found scary animations that looked like this.

I tried to do this for about twenty minutes after printing out a copy of it. My dad then helped me try as well claiming that he had been a boy scout as a child. But we finally both gave up after making the realization that it was a good thing neither of us went into a profession where we needed to make knots regularly. So I tied a granny knot and called it good enough and we trucked the newer book cases over making sure that I wasn’t driving behind the truck in order to avoid having my last memory being of a large bookcase flying through my windshield.

June 27, 2005

Big Papi days

Summer is blurring away fast. I’ve been living on the fast forward button for a week now. Every day there was something leading to the next thing and onwards.

On Thursday night we went out to the Parrish Café to meet with a crew of people to celebrate Canadians in America day. It was a beautiful night but also too busy of a night so we had to wait for a few hours to get a table outside. I decided to go on a mission to the Rattlesnake across the street to ask about their upstairs patio. The bouncer at the door decided to give me a hard time because I was wearing a red construction paper maple leaf on my chest. Once past him I found the line to go upstairs. The bouncer in front of that door was useless and being a jerk. I asked him how long he thought the wait would be and he told me he didn’t know but I could look at the line and figure it out for myself. I then let him know that his job is partially to answer questions and that it was a reasonable question. Based on his experience, he had admitted to working that door for five years, I asked him, could he estimate how long it would take for the line to pass through to upstairs. He told me no. So I told him that it was fine. I didn’t need to buy beer from their establishment if they didn’t want to be helpful. The next time it is a crummy night and empty at the Rattlesnake I’ll be going anywhere but there.

Sarah and I drove back from work on Friday and then to Olive’s for a fantastic dinner with Hattie, Jose, Matt, and Kate. Kate’s friend Meredith is a chef there, actually an apprentice chef who used to be an intern who works the pasta station. Meredith sent over a sampler of pasta after we had our appetizers including some pasta with truffle oil. I don’t know what is in truffle oil but I am surprised that nobody has made it into a narcotic. I was then far too full to eat my short rib until the next morning but did make room for the assortments of desserts that Meredith sent out after the meal. Kate has been going to art classes where they ask her to draw with non-traditional media. This boils down to decorating with beard shavings, drawing with celery, or making a picture out of the sharp end of thumbtacks. It sounded fun but won’t help in my quest to be a better digital artist.

At the wedding on Saturday afternoon I was looking forwards to a long day of meeting and greeting strangers playing the role of new but unfamiliar to everyone husband. I didn’t know anyone there but Sarah since it was her college roommate’s wedding. We got lucky and sat next to some fun people at our assigned table. I chatted for hours with an animator who worked on the movies Ice Age, The Polarbear Express, and Robots. His job was to move the models like a puppeteer to create the sequences to look realistic. He answered all of my questions about when they do the sound, how they inspire the actions. For example, in a board room scene with Ratchet, the actor pounded his hand down on the table when he delivered the line. The animator saw the tape of this and edited the motion to mirror what the actor had done. He wasn’t a big fan of how they did the Polarbear Express with the motion capture stuff because for him it wasn’t really animating. They were just trying to fix the jerky strange movements from what they had captured. Another wedding highlight was the fountain of chocolate. A company in Waltham rents out a chocolate fondue fountain where they send an attractive college student to help you dip an assortment of items including marshmallows, strawberries, pretzels, whatever into the chocolate. We drove from the wedding to the Marshfield house at 11:30 after trying to dance to some music that we weren’t very fond of. Sarah was feeling a bit self conscious about being pregnant. I kept looking at the little girls dressed in their formal wedding dresses dancing with their fathers and cousins and thought to myself. When I have my little daughter I’ll be dancing with her whenever I can.

In the morning when we awoke in Marshfield we decided it would be easiest to go to town for breakfast. We found a nice place that had a deck overlooking the water and an all you can eat buffet. After that we went back with our bellies full and made a full assault on cleaning the swimming pool. The pool was murky and had leaves at the bottom and flies floating on the surface of the water. The pump didn’t seem to be clearing most of it. Mom went after the flies from the edge and I figured out, while in the murky water, how to set-up the water vacuum attachment. Even that wasn’t working too well so I checked out the big hole in the bottom of the pool where the water gets sucked through and it was clogged by leaves and twigs. So I did some little dives to clear it and that started to move things along. The pool should eventually filter itself through but it needs to be able to pump the water through the bottom to get all the organic material that settles to the bottom. I think that next time we go the pool will be very clean.

Lisa and Dave came out to Marshfield as well. It was Big Papi Day, F-Day, however you need to put it. We were there because of dad. Lisa was learning some Dylan songs from Dave. Sarah and I put the bed together in our designated room. From our construction method of using a drill to screw in and strip the 40 wood screws holding the slats together I think the bed will need to be disassembled using karate. Mom and dad were discussing whether to take the architects advice and put the kitchen where the living room is or to go with their instinct and leave the kitchen where it was. Sarah was working on an eval using my laptop that needed to print on our dysfunctional printer this morning.

A barn swallow had moved back into the porch so mom wasn’t allowing people to walk out the back door to disturb the barn swallow and her four babies. The swallow was moving back and forth into the woods every thirty seconds to return with a new live insect for her children. Mothers work hard to keep their children alive. Dad made some tasty margaritas in the blender with fresh limes.

We grabbed some BK on the drive back to Brookline and then hurried over to the MilkyWay in JP to watch Faith Sollaway’s latest schlock Opera – The F-Word. We arrived about twenty minutes early and given that Sarah and I weren’t the core audience segment, lesbians, we were mainly just sitting in our seats trying to look as normal as possible in a room packed with women wearing shirts like the one that said “Dykes against Bush”. I was surprised by the wide variety of lesbians in the room and thought it would be interesting to perform a anthropological study on the whole society of lesbians in JP to understand the culture. All cultures are formed out of a common bond and a need to band together to protect that bond. In the case of lesbians it is a sexual preference.

This means that their rituals like going to the Milky Way to see a Schlock Opera are bound to focus on this common bond. The show delivered on this promise. During the introduction to the musical faith did a little audience participation where she asked “Only the lesbians” to sing the line from the song then she asked “Just that guy in the corner” to sing. They also had some choice visits to the sexy OB/GYN office where the female doctor was asking questions normally delivered in a professional manner with cruder terminology. The schlock included some funny bits about repressed Jewish memories of uncle Hyman and some cruel angry Chasid telling a little girl that she would never get gimmel on the dreidel. We exchanged gifts for dad’s day after the show as the crowd was dying down.

June 16, 2005

Kate Spaide

Behind hidden doors...

One of the main draws of New York City are the Broadway shows. So the first thing that we did when we arrived at the Hotel Pennsylvania across the street from Madison Square Garden was to ask at the ticket desk whether any of the great shows like Spamalot or Chicago had tickets available for Saturday evening or Sunday. They came back with a bunch of offers for shows that sounded like they had finally put the music of Brittney Spears into a musical (actually that would be pretty cool). So Sarah and I checked into our non-smoking but smoke ridden coffin of a room, the door looked like the entrance to a mausoleum, and opened the window to air it out. We then rushed back downstairs to where James and Stephanie were waiting for us in the car so that we could go to the other major attraction in New York city – illegal knock-off bag shopping. I better get used to the world of designer bags since I am going to have a daughter.

After parking in a faux little Italy in SoHo we walked the fifteen blocks in a sudden torrential rain shower that was a good change from the hot 90 degree weather. We did manage to buy two umbrellas for the four of us and I had to hold the one for Sarah and me because I am the taller one. I tried to cover mainly her because she is pregnant and might dissolve in the acid rain of New York.

Upon arriving at Canal Street we began the quest for the knock-off bags. As someone who doesn’t understand bags as a fashion statement I mainly was there as a consultant on illegal activities and getting into trouble, which I am better expert for. I was also the only one who had seen the illegal bags before so I was an expert on the process. My former experience was in the winter of 2003 during a massive blizzard that buried the PT cruiser for a week. In 2003 the shops had giant rooms full of knock-off bags. During that blizzard there had been one incident when we were in a big store full of bags and the police came past and the store had completely closed with us trapped inside for five minutes before some fashionable and Jewish looking fashion label enforcement police had busted into the door and started yelling at the proprietors. Times had changed and the stores were tiny and brandless so I figured that either the Internet bust had broken down demand for these bags, the shops shrunk in an inverse proportion to the temperature, or the crack down by the Prada police was taking it’s toll on the industrious Nextel phone and walkie-talkie wielding immigrants of Chinatown.

So we entered a number of these smaller establishments and looked at their bags but unlike the last time I was there the bags didn’t have any labels on them to identify that they were Prada, Kate Spade, Gucci, or Coach. You had to know the style before-hand to figure out which was which. Sarah was quite unimpressed and was looking for a black Kate Spade diaper bag and would settle for nothing less. You have to have standards in these things. We entered a number of shops with all four of us but the bags just weren’t the knock-offs we were looking for. Disappointed we split apart for a while. James and Stephanie ate Lychee nuts. One industrious illegal bag salesman popped out of a basement door bulkhead and started waving a catalog of bags in front of a fashionable teenager in front of us. Sarah walked past and let me know that she didn’t want to go down into a bulkhead to buy a bag. We then found Stephanie and James wandering in a daze and since the heat had returned we stopped into the local Chinatown Hagen-Daaz outlet for some smoothies because James and Stephanie couldn’t find the place that had the perfect Boba-tea drinks.

After the refreshing tropical mango smoothie we were considering leaving Chinatown when we stopped in one last shop to see if there was a chance that they had different merchandise. It was the same crap but this time Sarah asked the magic question. “Do you have any Kate Spade bags?”. The small Asian woman put her finger to her lips and told us to be very quiet. She then pointed to the wall and told us to follow her. We followed and in the wall was a cut-out shape of a hidden door. She opened the door and Sarah, Stephanie, and I all walked into the secret room filled to the brim with illegal knock-off bags of all kinds along with another woman who had been shopping there before we arrived and we had never noticed. So the reason why the stores had gotten smaller was because they had subdivided them into the legal storefront of bags without labels and the illicit labeled back-rooms with hidden doors.

Stephanie wasn’t looking for a bag but she found a shiny gold bag that matched her shoes and was probably a thousand dollars retail. She paid $30 bucks for it and the woman carefully wrapped it and warned her to tell nobody about what had transpired. Sarah was inspired by this but she hadn’t found her Kate Spade black diaper bag yet so we had to press on throughout Chinatown seeking out the illegal door with the secret brand name password in every shop we could find. We had to leave Stephanie and James to eat more Lychee nuts on the street while we pursued our mad lust for this bag.

We tried over twelve shops and found back rooms in so many different shapes and sizes all filled with various Whitman’s samplers of bags. I envisioned that there might be other rooms behind these rooms where the illegal activities kept getting more illegal. If you asked once in the bag room for drugs a smaller door would open. Once in the drugs room you could ask for prostitutes and climb into the basement. Finally you could ask to be transported to another dimension and a strange portal would open taking you to Zeta-7, the planet in a distant solar system where all stolen articles go.

Eventually we came upon a shop that had hanging above the counter a bag that looked just like the Kate Spade black diaper bag that we were desperate to find. So we asked the Asian woman if they had Kate Spade and walked through a display area filled with clothes and through a door behind it into a large back room with two mothers with their two daughters. The back room also contained someone in a hidden toilet who walked out of a wall so I asked whether I could go to the bathroom. The back room didn’t hold the bag we were looking for so Sarah asked her specifically for what she wanted and the woman though about it and said that we needed to wait for five minutes. We spent the five minutes discussing the features of diaper bags with the two mothers who had been through the experience since they had their daughters in the back room with them ready to be sold into white slavery. The Asian woman buzzed someone on her walkie-talkie in Chinese and after five minutes the same tagless bag we had seen came back with a Kate Spade label carefully superglued to the front. Sarah examined it with the mothers for quality and compliance with the standards of the manufacturer and then negotiated a $35 settlement with the woman. We left the store and found Stephanie and James.

I highly recommend the experience.

June 07, 2005

Garbage search

It was Monday night and I was on my way back from the KIS audition down at the puppet theatre. I had made the third callback along with four other folks. I was really tired from having stayed-up late creating a powerpoint presentation for an analyst at Forrester. So during the KIS audition I made what I believe to be the fatal mistake of making an offer for a scene inspired by “Bald at 15” in the foreign film exercise that related to one of the two people on stage having cancer. It was the main reason why I could justify a bald girl at 15 but afterwards I think it got me into enough trouble as an auditionee to get some black marks. The highlight of my audition was when we were playing worlds worst, but called Die, and coming-up with fake names for cereals and mine was “Chunky bits of Steve”. So it is on to another future audition. I’ll hear that I didn’t make the troupe by Wednesday. How humbling!

But I do have an audition with IB next Monday with my wonderful instructors. It was somewhat uncanny that the feedback that I got from KIS from the first two auditions was pretty much identical to the feedback that I got from the IB classes. I look out into the audience too often for approval, talk too much/mime too little, take on too many high status characters, and don’t explore a wide enough range of characters. My guess is that these things are embedded in my personality but I should try to change them for the good of my adoring fans, mainly Lisa my sister.

So I was walking home from the audition feeling that about to be rejected feeling that is similar to standing under a piano held by a fishing line. Next to the used television store/ mob front money laundering service, on the corner of Harvard and Aspinwall I saw some books in the garbage. The one that caught my eye was a big hard cover Combat and Survival book. That caught my interest and digging a little further I also found a stack of large format hard cover art books with VanGogh, Matisse, Cezanne, and Dali. So I called Sarah and grabbed the stack of books. Then I saw two boxes labeled the Playboy Centerfold Collector Cards The January Edition Collector’s Case. Since I have this belief the collector cards and beanie babies are highly desirable by crazy obsessive compulsive people on eBay I grabbed the two boxes of January edition cards.

I then tried to figure out what they were worth but it was almost impossible to do so. Instead I found some choice other items including a person who collects Alf trading cards, a useful tidbit about sugar packet collecting. Still no information on the value of my found artwork collection.

June 06, 2005

Broken pumps

Does everything always have to break?

I had annoying car troubles on Friday night. I was pulling my standard freakish 180 degree U-Turn to park on St. Paul street in front of the condo when I heard a loud pop and suddenly could barely turn the steering wheel. I managed to get it into the space and was grateful that I had car trouble near home so that I could go inside and ignore the problem for a while. Later in the evening I tested the car and got it to drive all the way to the parking lot but with great effort to turn the steering system. It didn't take the folks at car talk for me to know that the most likely culprit was the power steering system somewhere. I figured a belt, gear, pump, or something like that had slipped or broke.

On Saturday morning I decided that I needed to fix this problem so I called the local mechanic at the Gulf Station and he said he couldn't look at it until Tuesday. So I decided to enjoy the weekend. Sarah took her car to Valvoline and they took 40 minutes changing her oil, checking an engine light that was on because the gas cap wasn't screwed on tight enough, and finding an oil leak that had been going on for years. I drank a big Coolatta from the neighboring Dunkin Donuts along with a bagel. Because the Valvoline folks were helpful and useful I decided that I would take my car to them to fix my belt, pump, fluid, whatever problem. They identified that there was a belt that fell off it's pulley in the power steering and changed my oil. Unfortunately they couldn't fix the belt and told me to go to a mechanic. I had another Coolatta during this experience as well so I was pretty high on caffeine at this point.

I then drove to the Mobil station and they seemed very busy but interested enough to take a look under the hood. They poked around and then told me that the pump for the power steering had broken, which had caused the belt to slip off. It was a $500 job minimum and they couldn't even see how anyone could get access to remove the pump so they instructed me to call the dealer instead and had me drag my power steering-less car in a painful three point turn back to the top of the long driveway to the garage.

The people who I rented my parking space from called to hassle me because I hadn't mailed them the check on time and continued to give me a lecture about how it isn't worth their time to track down parking space renter checks. I profusely apologized and promised that I would impress them with the promptness of payments in the future. I may need to do another parking search soon enough. I actually turned down a parking space offer today while I had fifteen minutes to prepare for a presentation to an analyst and was on the line via Skype to a partner in the Netherlands. I did manage to patch together a miraculous pair of people offering spaces, one who had one from the first through the fifteenth and the other who had the fifteenth onwards to replace the evil space we were renting. The space was evil both because the woman who owned the space got into an argument with Sarah when Sarah complained that the 24hour spot was blocked by deck construction 10 out of every 24 hours during normal parking hours. We then got late notice that we were going to be towed on June 1st if the car wasn't gone so we hunted the new spaces using a cheesy sign I made in Illustrator and an agressive hunt on Craigs list.

On top of all this trouble my mom was mad at me for not having responded to the pictures that she had sent me and the folks at the video store only had the VHS copy of Attack of the Clones which was crappy. Sarah and I went to Home Depot and bought lots of home fix-up stuff like new lamps, dimmers, and a screwdriver bit. It was a really long Saturday. So today I am off to the dealership to get answer#3 on the broken power steering. My guess is that it will be about $900 to fix the damn thing and they will determine that my flux capacitor is also broken and that will cost even more.

June 03, 2005

One too many of these

On Wednesday night I met with an influential potential business partner and Aaron in Concord over dinner by the bar. It was unfortunate that I had to skip out on my Improv group practice for this occasion but it was a case where prioritization worked out. The guy was the number two person at a start-up in California with venture financing and their CEO was on the cover of Newsweek last month. At dinner Aaron and I learned all sorts of interesting stuff about our potential business partner. He was an eccentric man including a stint in military school as a child, then becoming an Olympic jujitsu fighter in Korea, getting shot in the gall bladder as a paramedic, working as a recruiter for Cisco stock per hire when Cisco had 35 employees, owned a fight gear clothing company, and finally became a good buddy of the venture community by rescuing some failing start-ups. He also would go crazy if he didn't work 20 hours a day, said "GOT IT" whenever he understood something and loved the restaurant we went to in Concord because to him it was the Cheers of Chinese restaurants.

Upon arriving the partner was drinking a fruity looking beverage in a tall blue Chinese restaurant mug with a naked woman embedded in the side of the mug. I asked him what it was called and he called it a "One of these". This was the name that had been given to it by Paul the bartender, a tall Asian man with large Elvis sideburns who had created the drink for my new friend the partner eleven years ago when the partner was just a kid. The partner used to come in with the most beautiful woman he had ever met but they then moved to California and she had stumbled into a Less than Zero situation before marrying a biker. The partner was now married to a Dolche-Gabana Japanese model who he couldn't love any more and is now living atop Pacific Heights in San Francisco. He only was attracted to Asian women and spoke fluent Japanese. At one point he picked-up his Treo phone and answered is "Moshi Moshi" because the ring was the one for a Japanese country code call. It turned out to be an engineer for his company working in Japan who didn't speak much Japanese. He was sending his kindergarten age kid to a fancy school that cost $30,000 a year and the partner thought the kid would be getting the same education back in Concord. That's why I got in touch with the partner. I filled out a form and despite there being a lot of forms being filled-out on the web site, mine came with a 781 area code. So I guess I won the lottery?

I decided that I had to try the unique concoction in the girly glass so I ordered a "One of These" as well. The "One of These" was a potent drink and despite it being a unique concoction for the partner it was very similar to a Scorpion bowl in an embarrassing Chinese restaurant mug. Aaron arrived and soon we were all drinking these beverages and chatting away about the adventures of the partner, who he knew in common with Aaron. We did talk enough about business for me to get that the partner felt we had a good shot at success but that we should raise some money to execute faster. "GOT IT".

Paul, the bartender who has the Elvis sideburns, is an amateur singer. The partner had taken his Dolce-Gabana Japanese wife to this restaurant and Paul had sung for her and she had cried for three days. We had gotten there at 5PM but by about 7PM we had already imbibed two "One's of these" and were ordering dinner including a the partner special and an Earl special. Earl was the guy that the partner brought to the restaurant when he owned a landscaping company in the area eleven years ago and was cutting his teeth in business. Earl's claim to fame, other than the aforementioned Earl special was that he could drink 48 beers at a sitting. Now this is quite impossible and he would likely die. Earl's secret was that he would drink them and would throw-up in the middle of the drinking multiple times in a Romanesque vomitorium style. Both of these dishes were off the menu and had been created those 11 years ago when both the partner and Paul the bartender were just starting out and the restaurant had just opened. The Earl special was a seafood dish with scallops and shrimp in a viscous sauce with vegetables including mushrooms and chinese broccoli. The partner special was a fried chicken dish also with vegetables in a viscous sauce.

When the third "One of These" arrived the glass was changed from the blue naked woman to a flesh colored Fu-Man-Chu bearded guy mug. The drink itself was getting stronger and Aaron dropped off drinking, his 50 years experience kicking in. We were chatting a bit with some executives at a table next to ours and it was fun to see the partner talking to an executive who had never heard of their company. That was when I learned about the Newsweek article. The partner convinced Paul the bartender to serenade a woman drinking at the bar and he sang what seemed to be an Elvis song with a great southern twang to his voice. Around 9PM Aaron brought the leftovers home to his kids and the partner and I moved to the bar.

We chatted a bit more about life and getting married. I could tell we weren't birds of a feather because he thought he would slit his wrists or jump off a bridge without working for 20 hours a day and wasn't that involved in his home life. I gave Sarah some glowing marks for having her head where mine was and us both wanting to chill out and enjoy being parents a bit. After the fourth "One of These" it was 10PM and time for the restaurant to shut down for the evening so we parted ways. Paul gave the obligatory warning to drive home safely and I walked out to my car smelling like I had just raided a liquor cabinet. My calculations were that I had four drinks in five hours so I was probably not so drunk to drive but might be close enough to play it very safe.

So as I started to drive home I felt nice a paranoid that I was going to get pulled over by the local police out hunting for DUI cases to throw in jail. Because of this I switched to the slow lane on Rt. 2, which was the only route I could figure would lead me home. Being in the slow lane is an interesting experience because you see more police in the slow lane. They hide in the bushes, pass you in the fast lane, and generally make a very good appearance when someone is up late and night and praying to not get pulled over. One of the police cars that looked like an SUV drove in front of me and then pulled himself over to the side to form what looked like a speed trap. I sighed a good sigh of relief because if he wasn't there when I passed then he probably wasn't looking to catch me speeding or swaying like a snake on the road or whatever else I might have been doing to alert someone that it might be fun to make me blow into a DUI tester or walk a straight line while touching my nose. I don't think I can do that sober. But the same police car appeared behind me only thirty seconds later with lights flashing to pull me over.

I have seen the show Cops many times and I always wondered why any criminal when pulled over by the police for an unknown reason, except for Timothy McVeigh, would get out of their car and run as fast as they could into the woods of Lincoln. The answer was suddenly clear to me as I was pulled over, not for speeding, with alcohol coming out of my sweating pores. Adrenaline! I don't often get shocked with an extreme dose of adrenaline but this was a case of pure fight or flight super-high. I was ready to pop someone in the face, run away from the saber tooth tiger, do whatever it took to get out of that situation as fast as possible. My life could be ruined. This was going to be the most embarrassing incident of my young and foolish life. There goes the presidential nomination. I had just been thinking about how I could try to run for president as an atheist and I could at least say that I didn't have DUI charges like George W., wasn't a coke addict, and after eight days of marriage, hadn't proved to be a serial adulterer. Granted all of those traits actually qualify you for the presidency so I shouldn't have been worried. Now here I am, my own deep throat admitting everything anyways.

So I fumbled my license out of my wallet and tossed the walle