Monday Moanin', Volume 2

April 5, 2006
A Vigil (for) Scout
Gasping for heir

    Since we last posted, I managed to install a 128K video card in the Doc’s home computer, hook up high-speed Internet access and update Windows 2000.  As a final operation, I managed to crash the whole the system.  So as to avoid an incident of Kart Rage, I resigned my fate to the Geek Squad which was all too happy to revive our ailing system and relieve us of some extra cash.
    The high-speed access will allow the good Doctor to maintain reasonable communications with her lab rats once she is away on maternity leave.  So, with the recent purchase of a Pack ‘N Play (once they used to call it a bassinet) and the Travel System (a stroller), we now are ready for the arrival of our dear bundle.  Ready and waiting.
    It’s “only” four days past the due date but, after waiting nine months, we are growing anxious.  Of course, one can hardly blame Scout, given the world into which s/he* is about to be born: 

Exhibit A: A President who makes Millard Fillmore look like Thomas Jefferson

 

Here, the most powerful man in the world is doing God knows what. Either he’s foiled another scheme of that zany Wile. E Coyote or he’s wiring the White House with illegal cable.

Exhibit B: A Vice-President who thinks he’s a rock star. 

    It is encouraging to see that he won’t trash the suite if there are any brown M&M’s, but so help him if that diet Sprite has any caffeine or if the droning sycophants on Fox News aren’t on providing him with editorial rubdowns 24/7.  The very notion reminds me of the time one of the self-important investors at Z-bar called on a busy Friday evening to pre-order his drinks, so as to ensure ask that one of my special margaritas would be ready and waiting upon his arrival.  Admittedly, that recipe was considered the Best in Ann Arbor and they were the stuff of legend, narrowly beating out the ‘Mojito’ and ‘Doc Haole’s Jungle Elixir of Youth and Strength.’  Why he wanted them melting and diluted on the bar as he searched for a parking space was beyond me.

Exhibit C:  A Father who apparently thinks it’s cool that his car just received 42 little dents.

Can anyone think of a caption for this photo other than “Hail!”?

    The past few months, we’ve been toying with possible names.  And since we chose not to know Scout’s gender until necessary, we’ve had twice the fun in deciding.  Some thoughts:

In the end, most of our choices have been fairly traditional.  But there were a few that did not simply did not stand a chance:

The Big Ten List of baby names that were immediately dismissed by the Doc

1. John Wickham Gascone Berresford
2.  Malibu Stacy
3.   Sugar Shane
4.   Cash
5.   Dash
6.   Bernard Geoffrey St. John
7.   Thundarr
8.   Cool Moe
9.   Billy Ruben
10.  Britwold the Saxon
11.  Odin 

    Things are likely to heat up soon and I may not write for a bit (again).  So peace out.  And try not to shoot anybody in the face.

Anon,

Daniel 

* It’s like Schrödinger’s Baby.
 

February 20, 2006
Human Dramas: Birth, Death and Athletic competition
Warning:  Contains graphic content not suitable for children

     The good Doctor and I spent last weekend at Augusta’s University Hospital attending pre-birth classes.  In anticipation, she offered two predictions:  that we would be the oldest couple there and that there would be one sixteen-year-old there with her mother/coach, who would proclaim that “it was God’s plan to send us a little angel”.*  Surprisingly, we were not the oldest.  But, there was one 19-year-old mother, who was accompanied by “her partner,” so I’ll have to give Doc an E for effort.
    Despite my initial misgivings, the class was not just about breathing exercises and diaper changing.  Fortunate that, since I’ve had a fair amount of experience in both these endeavors and haven’t had too much difficulty with either.  That is, apart for the time that I pulled on Esta’s hernia stitching, thinking it was a random thread that had migrated into his diaper.  An illustration at the front of the classroom diagrammed the three parts of labor:  Fear, Tension and Pain.  The last of those brought to mind Aunt Tetta’s comment about how babies felt better going in than they ever did coming out.  I knew we were in for an interesting weekend.
    At one point, the class seemed to be an opportunity to demonstrate to the fathers in attendance just how easy we have it.  We were cautioned that the mother might vomit from prolonged labor pains and experience bowel movement during delivery or that the baby’s lungs might get filled with its own stool.  We listed to utterly frank discussions lessons about enemas, diarrhea, foreskin scabs and that the developing baby spends much of its time cyclically urinating then drinking then urinating then drinking.  All this great news was delivered with absolute nonchalance by the nurse-practitioner instructor.**  If this information is not being used as part of sexual abstinence lessons, they are missing a superb angle.  Really, if you aren’t committed enough to discuss bodily fluids, flatulence and afterbirth with your partner, maybe you’re just not ready to be a parent.
    Touring the birthing suites, I kept hoping we’d see “the most expensive machine in the hospital,” but to no avail.  We were told that only two other non-essential, non-medical individuals are permitted to be in the Birthing Room at the delivery.  Of course, I’ll be there, but I’ll sell the extra spot to the highest bidder.  And although I reserve the right to cut the umbilical cord, that too could be negotiated.  Fathers are permitted to stay overnight after the delivery and I was comforted to find out that we could get some–admittedly expensive–room service if we wanted to join the baby when it wakes up for its 3:00 AM feeding.
    The class marked the conclusion of a productive week, where Doc and I accomplished several responsible transactions:  shopping for baby seats and bassinets; registering for baby’s first X-Box; buying life insurance, and meeting with a financial planner.  Next on the list is a Will, a sobering topic which calls to mind an issue from recent headlines:  funeral etiquette. 

One would presume that, after the first debate against Senator Kerry, Mr. Bush would’ve latched onto this notion: If there are cameras in the room, there’s a good chance that--as President of the United States--at least one will be directed at you.

    In anticipation of actually talking with our lawyer, I’d like it to be known that, if by chance some important dignitaries deign to attend my last rites, you should feel free to say any damn thing you like about them and not be bothered by what others deem appropriate.  Anyone who claims that I would not have approved should be invited to shut their festering gob.  And anyone who objects to using a funeral speech to forward some political opinion should be encouraged to review the text of this obscure speech delivered on November 1863.
    On an equally monumental topic, the first week of the Olympics has solidly illustrated why I don’t care for sports and its loudmouths who garner all the press.  Some effete figure skater was more concerned about demonstrating the he could wear fur, than about checking the bus schedules and getting to the rink on time.  For all his drunken bluster, one particularly prominent skier hasn’t delivered.  Some other speed skater had hoped to sweep his several events, yet couldn’t be bothered to congratulate his teammate who’d beat him to the gold.  Perhaps they, and the wee lassie pictured below will learn that a little humility is a good thing, but I doubt it.  As a result, the whole affair has been a lesson in Usonian Schadenfreude. 

    Of course I feel moderately sorry for our darling snowboardette, since she seems to be a normal person (at least as normal as any other 20-something, Visa spokesperson who has been marketed by NBC as one of the “Snowboard Grrls.”)  That she was hot-dogging for her loyal fans is of little consequence.  Finish the race and then celebrate, Lieutenant Colonel Penobscot.

    And now, Your Moment:

What do you suppose EGB’s first question would be if he were shown this picture?

1. Who is visiting Doc and Dan?
2. Did she actually buy another Chrysler?
3.  Why is that Ford so dirty?

By the way, it’s got yellow (dare I say maize?) cables under the hood.  Or as its owner would say, “under the bonnet.” 

Anon,

Daniel

* Too bad this didn’t happen, because I really wanted to tell them that, to my knowledge, God has ‘willed’ only one unassisted pregnancy.
** Which served to reinforce Doc’s theory about nurses.  Her Gran was a nurse, and I’m told she exhibited a superhuman obsession with bodily fluids and waste.  To my mind, Doc’s theory notion was soundly proven by a fellow birthing classmate – also a nurse – who kept asking for clarification about the kind of catheter that would be used for an epidural versus a Cesarean.  The answers are, respectively, ‘In and Out’ and ‘Foley.’  If you care.

January 30, 2006
To Zeb!  To-morrow!  L’chaim!
We'll raise a glass and sip a drop of schnapps

    But before our celebration, a little face recovery is in order.  I appreciate that I have finally garnered a little back chatter from “the elder.”  As you may have noticed, he has chosen to mock our long suffering self with cuts about my diet and exercise regimen.  And while I generally defer to his wisdom (he does run the show, after all), this time, I cannot.
    The fact is, low or non-alcohol beers do not have the same calories as the fortified varieties.  As an accomplished barman , I know of which I speak.  And it doesn’t take too much digging to find out the truth.  Here.  And here.  BD’s comments aside,* it is one thing to be mistaken – quite another to be willfully ignorant.  Though there are plenty of individuals who select the latter course – from the ivillage idiot, to the clown who assembled a table divided into Beer, Light Beer and Non-alcoholic (why bother).
    Really, “why bother” drinking if you’re not going to get pie-eyed?  In my experience, the attempt to capture and sustain “the glow” without crossing over to “the flame” can be a very tricky.  Besides, I would rather enjoy one or two good, flavorful beers than spend the evening working on a buzz from rusty water and olive brine.
    Plus, I have it on good authority (from one of my favorite Assistant Professors of Physiology), that alcohol reduces the liver’s ability to metabolize fat.  The reduction of the intake of alcohol would presumably increase (or at least not hamper) the body’s fat eradication.  So, fewer alcoholic calories means there’s excess capacity for my peanuts and pecans.
    And to support that conjecture, I have conducted my own experiments: 

Inquiry One:  Objective method

Narrative

    In deference to the Teeming Masses, I support the initial goal of maximizing the alcohol to calorie ratio.  Presumably more calories are okay, as long as you are getting more alcohol in the exchange. 

Method

    A selection of thirty beers, ales and stouts was selected from a list consisting of Zanzibeers, plus some common domestics and imports.  Sprite was introduced as a control.  In a method I learned in Business School – appropriate or not – the values for ‘% Alcohol’ and ‘Calories per 12 ounce serving’ were squared to accentuate their differences and to make things more “sciencey.” 

    The resulting numbers were arrayed in a matrix and analyzed using the theory of the Efficient Frontier.  (Another thing I learned from B-school whose application may not necessarily be appropriate here.)  The theory is summarized in the following diagram:

A Nobel-nominated Economic concept that some guy diagrammed on his Macintosh.  And which I will proceed to further desecrate by replacing ‘risk’ and ‘reward’ with ‘calories’ and ‘alcohol.’

Data

    The Efficient Frontier (also known as “The Bullet”) is shown in blue marks.  Beers with higher alcohol to calorie content are found above and to the left of their competition.  If your beer of choice is found on the interior of The Bullet, you would be as well selecting a brand that is either higher than (more alcohol for the calories) or to the left of (fewer calories for the same alcohol) your choice.  Shown above, the following are the Efficient “Front-beers” (in blue, from the upper right):  Red Hook Double Black Coffee Stout; Red Hook Ale; Killians Irish Red; Miller Genuine Draft Light; Lite Beer from Miller; and Clausthaler.  Found on the underbelly are the Inefficient three (marked with yellow, from the right):  Pilsner Urquell, Bass Ale and O’Doul’s.

Conclusion

    These results are regretfully unsatisfactory.  Setting aside the fact that Bass finds itself significantly removed from the Frontier, it is obvious that all that is necessary to place a brew on The Bubble is to screw the percentage of alcohol to the maximum, as in the case of the Double Black Coffee Stout (6.6% alcohol, 240 calories).  A tasty, if overly heavy beer, it is rather like that chocolaty stuff that Brother JB brought to Thanksgiving a few years back.  Enjoyable, but you’d hardly want to grab one after mowing the lawn. 

Inquiry Two:  Introduction of the Subjective

Narrative

    Proceeding with an effort to mollify the dominant effect of alcohol percentage, I posit that “non-alcohol calories” are equivalent to “alcohol calories” only if taste is not a factor.  But, introducing a purely subjective measure of would tend to skew the results.  So I to tempered the purely personal “Taste” by factoring it with the objective “% Alcohol.”  As in the previous study, “Calories Squared” remains along the abscissa, providing a handy measure between the two studies.

Method

    Same beers.  Same Sprite.  Taste was ranked from 1 to 100, with a Median of 55

Data

    The Efficient Frontier now provides a much more satisfactory curve, featuring seven selections:  Red Hook Double Black Coffee Stout; Sierra Nevada Pale Ale, Anchor Steam Ale; Boddington’s Pub Ale; Guiness Stout; Lite Beer from Miller; Clausthaler and Kaliber.  And the Inefficient Three has switched to a more reasonable selection:  Blatz**, Bud Light and O’Douls

Conclusion

    I’m inclined to extend the selection using the logarithmic trend line shown above in red, which opens up the pack to a more broad range of tastes.  Everything below the line, which will henceforth be referred to as the “Listerine Line,” is to be considered out of play.  Because, there are some things that – despite the fact that they contain alcohol – we simply do not drink.   

    With the upcoming State of the Union speech, I surely picked a bad time to limit my inebriant intake.  As an alternative, I’ll plan on mixing up a delicious Boston Cooler.  And I intend to pair the high calorie of the ice cream with diet Vernors®.  Why?  ‘Cause that’s just 150 calories, I’m not dealing with.

And now, Your Moment

    Recently, there’s been a collection of implausible “facts” about Chuck Norris and Mr. T circulating through the ether.  Here’s my addition to the genre, with slightly more humble accomplishments (as is befitting the humility of the subject) on the eve of his 40th year.

The Big Ten things that you probably didn’t know about Zeb

1. Can identify all the countries in Central America and their capitals on an unmarked map.
2. Wrote the theme song to “The Colbert Report”.
3. Ate the whole thing.  Believed it.
4. Convinced The Jam to reconsider their original plan to call the town “Alice”.
5. Constructed a 1:100 replica of the Ambassador Bridge in his backyard.
6. Can clog toilets while urinating.
7. Fails to see merit of getting a tattoo to commemorate his time “in the joint".
8. Has composed a fugue based on Newton’s early studies of calculus.
9. Was the first person to suggest feeding babies garlic so they could be found in the dark.
10. Has been referred to as “a human toy”.
11. Is never without a jackknife, a source of fire and a method of water purification.

Anon,

Daniel

*--Which I realize was intended as a joke

**--This outlier is only on the list of thirty selections because the last (and quite possibly the first) time I drank it was at a shake bar in Alabama with my father.  Fascinating story, really.  And one that I wish I would’ve had remembered to include at his retirement party…

January 16, 2006 (Martin Luther King Day)
What I did on my vacation
And why it’s hard to come back

    Back in December, I got scooped again by B.D, with his comments regarding the Christmas police and their misguided caterwauling.  I feel like I’d written about the episode better, since I would’ve explained what it meant to agree with Моть, and offered that if someone were to wish me a Happy Hanukkah or Yo Saturnalia, I would thank them and wish them the same.  I wouldn’t boycott their store nor alert Faux News.
    But alas, it was not to be.  The carefully crafted writing you are now savoring takes precious time.  And regretfully, writing took a back seat to Florida conference junkets – to Miami and to Seaside.  Then the holidays.  Then prepping the house to get in on the market.  And now I’m back with pent-up material.
    The problem with letting things go too long is that some stuff gets stale pretty quickly, as in the holiday Christmas comments above.  Plus, all the ideas that I end up jotting down with the intention of writing about them, tend to get bunched up.  And it takes a while to sort them out.  So, instead of whinging about New Urbanism (which we’ll hold for a few weeks), I’ll offer a great time waster and my latest guilty pleasure:  www.flickr.com
    If you are a visual person, the site is addictive–like following random threads when the internet was young.  Big color.  Fantastic forms.  And all kinds of people.  For my taste, there are probably too many pictures of people’s precious pets, but there are some truly stunning subjects too.  Like the guy who photographed his lunch every day during National Sandwich Month for the past three years.  And I’ve found (as you will see if you take a look at My Favorites ) that, as much as I enjoy a really good building, there is no building that is as delightful or interesting as the image of a human being.  Naturally, houses still come way before other peoples’ cats.  Of course, I think I’d prefer a sucking chest wound to pictures of cats.
    Admittedly, a couple of My Favorites are a bit provocative, but I’ll make no apologies.  All are safe for work, which most decidedly cannot be said for the remainder of the site.  So, as in the past, tread lightly.  I found the following particularly fetching; for some inexplicable reason, the Doc did not. 

© Peter Christian

    Presumably like the woman above, the good Doctor has been refraining from the sauce.  And until recently, she was alone in her abstention.  But I reached a critical point in late December, where my waist size caught up with my inseam, and drastic measures were called for.  In a show of solidarity with my beloved Doc, my liver and my belly, I am eschewing inebriants on weekdays (baby steps, folks).  And, when I’m not hanging from my ankles in an attempt to stretch my legs a bit, I’ve been sampling various non-alcoholic adult drinks, thus:

Daniel’s Big Ten adult beverage alternates (in order of preference)

1.  Clausthaler--expertly recommended by Mona’s husband JB.  It actually tastes better than some beers I could name; since it costs more than some real beers, it had better.
2.  Becks NA
3.  Fre Champagne
4.  Kaliber
5.  O’Douls amber
6.  Fre Cabernet
7.  Sharps
8.  Virgin Screwdriver (also good for breakfast)
9.  Fre Chardonnay
10. Extra dry Вода martini with lemon
11. Bong water

    Note that, all of the above are improved by pairing them with food.  I may even consider extending the partial abolition beyond the due date, currently set at March 27, 2006.
    While I’m on the subject of adult beverages, my pitiful delays meant that I missed observing the birthday of my good friend and best man, whom I’ve long referred to as “Mike the Bartender”.  So, in belated homage:

Celebrity Chemistry #2 – Mixology
The Molo-tomich Cocktail

Collect the following from your well-stocked bar*:

INSTRUCTIONS

Place a toilet roll in the refrigerator.  Fill soup bowl with ice.  Put two dashes of each Vila-mouth in a glass – enough to wet the cubes.  Pour off excess liquid.  Mix in equal parts JAGrmeister, Brandy and Vodka.  Top with several dashes of Tabasco.  Chase with a six pack of Stroh’s.  Offer the following traditional toast:

Thank YOU!  Thank YOU!
Good night!  Good night!
And get high and have a good time.
Thank you!

But, don’t drink too many, or you’ll no longer be allowed to sleep on the couch.

VARIATIONS

The Gibby – garnish with a pearl onion
Abe’s Special –‘blind’ garnish with mustard and onions
The Shnoodle – substitute Bourbon** for the Brandy

Anon,

Daniel

*  I particularly like the way that Vila’s hair has tracked a course that parallels “the Bartender.”  And it goes without saying that Darth is the preferred spirit of Lucas and Lia’s father.
** The selection of Bourbon is particularly important:  Use Old Granddad if you are planning on staying up late with a half gallon and several friends, Woodford Reserve if you plan to let the drink “breathe” overnight before enjoying, or Maker’s Mark if you plan on forcing it on your sleeping friend.
 

7 November, 2005  (Slurpee Day in Britain)
Bonny Annie’s Gone Awa’
The Completion Bathroom Principle (by The Chube)

    The good Doctor took some time away from work this past week to visit her family in Anstruther.  Unfortunately, I was not able to join her.  I generally try to mask my disappointment at her periodic absences because–truth be told–they can be a welcome change.  When I tell colleagues about it, I usually act like I’ve been granted the freedom sought by William Wallace and make the most of the time.   

With a week’s worth of “my time,” I fashioned the above ambigrams (of four entirely random names) whilst observing the following:

The Big Ten Things I do when The Doc is gone away
1.      Attempt a bunch of reading, writing and sketching.
2.      Go into work before 7:00 AM.
3.      Rent a movie with at least one of the following words in the title:  Blood, Sorority, Vampire, Monster, Girls, Saw, Slash, Axe or Moulin.
4.      Unwind most nights with a hot appetizer and a cocktail.
5.      Linger at one of the local bookshops.
6.      Enjoy the following for dinner, often repeated on multiple nights:  Pizza, Taco Pie, Chicken and Dumplings, Whopper® Sandwich, Chicken Tacos, Kitchen Sink Burrito* or Macaroni and Cheese.  Nearly all are preceded by a very large salad and accompanied by Manchester’s finest.
7.      Perform a modicum of yard or house work and a fair amount of tidying, if for no other reason than to prove that I can accomplish something without having been told to do it.
8.      Practice one of the following:  gardening, zymurgy, my short game, archery, ritual sacrifice, PhotoShop.
9.      Sit outside in the evening and listen to music.
10.  Stay up later than normal (which is already later than I should).  Especially if she is gone over a weekend, when I call upon some game for company and attempt–usually failing–to push on through.
11.  Sleep with a night light.

    This year, Doc’s departure coincided with the convocation of The Order of the Glass and we ran so hard that I literally made myself ill.  I see the lads so infrequently, so when they are around, I try to get in as much time with them as possible and that usually includes staying up too late.  Like the disembowelment and decapitation scene in “Braveheart,” I’d lost my head and often felt like my innards were being forcibly removed.
    Perhaps I might be forgiven the poor judgment, given that this time, the stakes were higher.  All too soon, I’ll have better reason to play nicely than “it’s not good for you.”  Namely, “it won’t be good for the bundle of joy we are expecting next Spring.”  Like the admonition from Corinthians offered to us by B.D. just over four years ago, this marks the time to set aside childish ways, as well as an additional urgency to finish things in the bathroom.  So to speak.
    Another ambigram is in the works.  But, like its recipient, it is WIP, since we have not yet decided on a name.  Doc has suggested either Peach or Callum.  I generally refer to the developing baby as Scout, but am trying to convince Doc that if the child is born on March 20, we should name it Equinox.  And then prepare it for the life of a lonely, but powerful Arcadian wizard.  Though I’ll concede that it is probably unfair to saddle poor Scout with an additional burden, since (s)he will start out with one strike against:  with the local dialect and the Doc’s brogue, that child is going to have one screwed up accent/drawl. 

    And with that, I’ll leave the closing to Scout, who is presumably enjoying a nice nap:

"Awa’ and bile yer heid, y’all.  And dinna come back ‘til a fortnight after Monday week or I’ll slam ya’ll to the flow-er.*”

And now, Your Moment:

Anon,

Daniel

*Generally eaten generally standing up and while doing something else besides eating.
**Rhymes with “blower”

November 3, 2005
Filling Spacetime
A continuum worthy of Al E. himself
(Note from Mark→: Dan sends this along with his assurance that there will be more Moanin' next week.
His take on this entry: "Not exactly 'published',  but getting there.")

October 3, 2005 – The First Moanin’ in October
The National Mall and the Mall of America
Travels with Charlie and the Doc 

    Last weekend, I met the good Doctor in Washington, D.C, where I finally had the opportunity to see some long-studied, never-visited sites.  By my rough estimate, I walked about 10 miles on Saturday, and it’s pretty well established that there is probably no distance I wouldn’t consider traveling to see a beloved work of architecture.  On my first trip to Oak Park, Illinois, I walked 4 miles to see the Winslow House.  (At a party later that evening, I was literally referred to as “that guy who walked to the Winslow House”).  Other remote sites include the Jefferson Memorial (which was my first DC stop), Notre Dame (the cathedral, not the South Bend grammar school), Fallingwater and Lincoln Cathedral.  And in each of these above cases, the buildings were at least partially obscured by scaffolding. And not Michael Graves or Piet Mondrian scaffolding, but grey utilitarian platforms and sawhorse barricades.


Scaffolding, Jefferson, and a lethargic janitor who capitalized on the brief tourist lull (and my ideal photo opportunity) to dust the statue, thereby ensuring himself a place in my personal pantheon(!) of image-ruining troglodytes.

    The various monuments and memorials appear remarkably close – until you have to walk from one to another.  I presume their considerable size tricks you into thinking they are only a block apart.  The walk along the Reflecting Pool between the Lincoln Memorial and the WWII Memorial* was particularly taxing, as the Pool is experiencing serious eutrophication thanks to the ducks and geese who have selected the National Mall for use as their privy.  If I am ever named Secretary of the Interior, I’ll direct the National Parks Service to introduce a few foxes and other natural predators on the west end of the Mall.  Then I’ll eliminate those ridiculous Smokey Bear hats from the rangers’ uniforms. 

    The night before my grand tour, I was warned by the worldly Doctor to avoid the Mall if possible on Saturday, since a sizeable anti-war protest had been planned.  So I skirted the area at the appointed time, but so did the protestors, whose event was located further north on the Ellipse.  Later, Doc joined me and we walked past the Forbidden Area together.  Only then were her sinister, ulterior motives made clear.  The 2005 Library of Congress National Book Festival was taking place on the east end of the Mall.  Or more appropriately, had taken place, and – lover of books that I am – I missed it.  What’s more, two of the authors assembled to give talks were George R. R. Martin and Giada DeLaurentiis.  Their talks ended and their signing appearances over, there was naught to do but visit museums.

    The Museums were free – at least those that we visited – so we hit as many as time and our tiring legs would allow.  I missed the Museum of Native American History, where I’d hoped to donate a $20 bill.  But we did see the Holocaust Museum and the Smithsonian Museum of American History.  I strongly recommend the “Star Spangled Banner” exhibit, if for no other reason than the opportunity to hear a recording of "To Anacreon in Heaven."

Upon our return, I repacked a bag and the next day I was off for Minnesota and the Andersen Window campus therein.  Busy week.

And now, Your moment:

The winning wager of this weekend’s U of M game, arranged by an MSU graduate who called North Augusta, South Carolina from Bayport, Minnesota and somehow convinced the local Domino’s to spell “U of M” in pepperoni.  Note particularly the care taken with the “of.”

Anon,

Daniel

 *I admit that I opposed the placement of this monument in such prominent location.  That is, until I saw it.  I still think it is Albert Speer-ish, but it breaks up the walk from the Washington Monument to the Lincoln Memorial quite nicely. 

September 19, 2005
Shades of Bob
He’s back.  And he’s brought Potpourri

    Since my good Bro-Doc has seen fit to post several provocative memos in his last several attempts, I have decided to respond in kind to some of the more poignant comments.  Frankly, I’ve always liked the idea of a “call and response” I see in actual Blogs.  But, lacking the capacity for a “Comments” section, I’ll settle for the following, which I liken to that moment when the celebrant tags Deacon Bill to cover him for the Gospel reading.
    If memory serves, when I was reprising B-D’s role as High School Editorial Editor, I recycled one of his ideas when I came up short as deadline approached.  You gotta admit, he’s got some great ideas.  And he once mentioned that my efforts were not all that much like Bob Talbert, who tended to change topics at will and generally kept his comments brief.  And again, B-D is right.  So I’ll try to hit a number of his old subjects.  Brevity, however, I cannot promise.      

Professional legacy/sibling rivalry
    While I don’t feel the need to keep up, I do harbor a small amount of professional jealousy with the man “across the fold.”  So, lest you think otherwise, things Bollmanic are also associated with things architectural:  the Bollman truss, which bears a frightening resemblance to my Master’s final project.  Whereas B-D can now claim at least two movies about “maths,” (featuring Jennifer Connolly and Gwyneth Paltrow, no less), I am enjoying a new serial about an architect who deliberately goes to prison to free his brother who has been wrongly accused of murder.  Having designed the prison, he presumably is in a unique position to know where the secret passages are.  Plus, the guy has an apparent capacity for origami.  If it weren’t for a character named Fibonacci, my triumph might be complete.

Sports
    In what will probably be the only sports related rant you’ll ever hear from me, I wholly concur with B-D’s thoughts about Sports vs. Athletics.  To be considered Olympic-worthy, an activity must be both sporting and athletic.  By definition, there has to be serious physical exertion, or it is not athletic. To me, this means that there must an expenditure of human energy (not equine, not bovine, not gasoline).  “Sport” is a bit trickier, but I echo B-D’s thoughts (naturally) that if you’re not trying to be Swifter, Higher or Stronger, you don’t make the cut.  Finally, I posit that, you must not be guilty of a crime if you were to attempt the activity outside its approved venue (Auto racing, Boxing, Dancing).  Anyway,

1. Things that are sports, but are not athletic
Auto racing.  I’m certain that there will be many people, especially in this region, that will take great exception to this notion.  But, as far as I’m concerned, if it’s not athletic when I’m putting in the miles during my commute, it doesn’t count when Jeff Gordon is sputtering around in a really big loop.  And I dismiss the nonsense about the “sport” requiring precision timing or extreme concentration.  Try getting in front of a room of students and see if that doesn’t test your mental acuity.  You don’t see anyone clamoring for Olympic medals for teaching (more’s the pity).  Unfortunately, the sort of  person that goes for this “event” is not likely to listen to reason or logic.  And if you don’t believe me, have a look at this and remove all doubt.
Darts. (And pretty much activity that can take place inside a pub.)
Golf. (Which I enjoy.  Which does not change my opinion.)
Bowling (Ditto.)

2. Things that are athletic, but are not necessarily sports
Judged stuff:  Boxing, Dancing, Skating, Gymnastics, Skiing, most X-games, etc.
Speed walking.
That cycling event where they don’t go fast until the end.

3. Things that are neither sporting nor athletic
      Poker.
       Chess.
      Bass fishing.

Most people would call these things games, pastimes or even sustenance.  And reasonably balanced people could continue to enjoy them without the need to seek accolades in the form of medals for their “accomplishments.”*

Litter
    Most years after Halloween, Mr. Gump would threaten to get the stores to stop selling a particular candy if he continued to see its wrappers scattered about the schoolyard.  Looking back, I realize that it probably would have been difficult to pull that one off.  But, if his decree were somehow carried over to (and actually carried out in) the grownup world, lottery tickets would be forever banned from my neighborhood.
    And cigarettes wouldn’t be far behind.  Because I always seem to find myself behind some poltroon in a grocery schooner** who, after enjoying his last drag, casts the stub out on the road in front of me.  I used to keep a small stash of Lady Fingers in my own ashtray in case I ever had the opportunity to throw a lit one of those back into their window.  But, I stopped when my passenger started calling me Walter Mitty.

And finally, the big two:

Religion
    On the way to work each day, the Doc and I pass church with a marquee that you can read from the Interstate – obviously a very large church.  Lately, they’ve been advertising an Adult Bible Study.  Just what is that?  Can I get study materials at an Adult Book Store?  And if I fall behind in my reading, can I catch up at the Adult Movie Theatre?

and Politics
    Part of the problem with procrastinating is that some material that is too good to omit, becomes less timely the longer I wait.  When I first started assembling the above, she-banshee Katherine Harris had recently announced her bid for US Senate.  If I were absolutely honest, I’d have to say that I find her to be an attractive woman, especially in her new “tipsy co-ed” persona.  But just prior to the announcement, she embraced an obvious lie about having had her face Photoshopped, presumably by political enemies.  Take a look at the following photos of her.  On the left, she was still with Jeb’s junta.  On the right, a photo from her campaign website.

See any difference?  Taking a page from my father’s playbook, I might enquire why her eyes aren’t brown anymore.  Must have been one astonishing evacuation.

And now, Your Moment:

How is this even possible?  And why, since he’s not asking a question, does he end it with a question mark?  It reminds me of that scene in “Spies Like Us,” where Dan Aykroyd asks, “I have to pee?”

Anon,

Daniel

*Which reminds me of a bit by Louis Black regarding “The Lewinsky” (an apt label that I really would have like to have seen gain wider use) as an Olympic event:  “It’s very difficult to do.  And if you’re any good at it, you deserve a medal.”
**A co-worker asked me help her return a loaner that the garage provided while her car was in the shop.  The vehicle they gave her was the Nissan Armada.  One presumes that calling it a boat, or even a ship didn’t accurately portray the obscene immensity of this juggernaut.

August 8, 2005 (Only two weeks late)
The Goddess of Architecture, City Squares and the Game of Real Estate Development
Now with 50% less snark 

    By now you’ve probably read Brodoc’s account of our “new” celestial neighbor.  It is at least 50 percent larger than Pluto, but it is farther away and it needs 560 of our years to complete an orbit.  As my sib has astutely stated, once its existence is confirmed, it’s going to need a name.  And while I have absolutely no bearing on the final outcome (like that’s ever stopped me) I’ll gladly offer my two cents:  Vestia.  To the Romans, she was the virginal Goddess of the Home and Hearth, which is close enough for me to being the Goddess of Architecture.  And given her lineage, she’s gotten pretty short shrift, forever tagged to some asteroid. 

    Doc and I traveled to Savannah again this past weekend.  After an active day of collecting images of architectural details, we met up with Zeb and his family, who were in the area for a wedding.  The day concluded with a wander along the river, “all fulled up” as we were with that day’s catch.  River Street is a relatively family-friendly tourist lane by day, but it slides into increasing frivolity once the sun sets.  As we sat and watched the developing Bacchanal, a pixilated, but otherwise harmless souse sat down with us.  He struck up a brief conversation, and then proceeded to take off his shoes to display his prized corn collection.  At that point, he challenged our Zeb, saying, “You wanna race?”  Zeb insouciantly removed the stogie from his mouth just long enough to offer his response: “Nope.”  So with Diana’s orb smiling down upon us, we all bolted back to the hotel.

    And so to close with a return to another domestic goddess.  In fashioning a birthday tribute (now much belated) to my younger sister, I realized that I’d never mentioned either Mona or Bitsy by name in these pages.  The younger, whose name is similar to the shortened version of Elisabeth, (which is also not her name) has a practice of self-mockingly attaching a string of alphabet soup after her name, to designate her many and varied degrees, professional associations and accomplishments.  Such playfulness is not appropriately acknowledged with math, or even math puzzles.  Better to note her love of games, particularly a board game at which she excels and which features real estate development at its core.  Select your token*:

Happy Belated Birthday, Bits

Anon,

Daniel

* The Marth A’ Lantern presumably comes with one of these. 

July 18, 2005
Rants
Remember when Danny used to write about architecture? Now he just seems so shrill.

    The Doc and I seem to keep pretty long hours at work, mostly because I find that the beginning and end of the day tend to be the most productive. This situation has its benefits: the coffee gets made to my exacting standards and I get the first shot at any Krispy Kremes remaining from the previous day. Although we’re pretty busy, we fit in regular trips to the gym and stay in touch with national news on the radio during the commute. Upon arrival at home, we get the fake news–via the Daily Show–before the local news at 11:00, which gives us an interesting perspective on which source is actually providing the "real" news.

    Recently, Jon Stewart hosted Bernard Goldberg, who is currently working the talk shows with his list of the 100 People Who Are Screwing Up America. Based on his quaint notion that the cultural arbiters are causing cataclysmic societal degradation, Goldberg deigns to establish his tally of society’s worst. As expected, the list follows the national bias and is strongly slanted against the left*, naturally targeting Hollywood’s elite makers of national mores. If the country is in serious moral trouble (a notion that I dismiss), then maybe, just maybe, Mr. Goldberg and his peers in the popular media ought to look to the seats of power for more fertile fodder. If I am troubled by our condition, it is because the Home Team and our formidable Skipper aren’t giving me a whole lot for which to root.

    Take for instance the latest tumult over Karl Rove**, which serves as one of a long string of questionably ethical dealings, most of which get pitched into the Memory Hole. Scott McClellan, the Pugsley-esque Press Secretary nearly tripped over his own forked tongue while trying to dance around the pointed questions (finally) aimed at him by the White House Press Corps regarding Rove’s exploits. Just watch. Or read. My eight-month-old niece–whose sole form of communication consists of a deep, sustained wail–makes more sense than the pap that’s being forced through the Republican puke funnel.  And it made my heart sing with great, Broadway-sized, Schadenfreudische lyrics to see that apologist weasel squirm through his copious flop sweat.

    With that bit of catharsis, I’ll close with the following AP photo stories:

The Redneck Games 

You may have seen this before, but this is just too choice not to post, especially since the Games just finished last week. The relative calm of this ample dame just hanging in the air stands in stark contrast with the entropy that follows moments later. And if you look closely, you’ll see her shoes on the right hand side (wouldn’t want to get those dirty) just in front of the guy with a microphone in one hand and a trophy in the other.

Mrs. Mike Tomich and Mr. Sala Nadir seen here at a charity function to raise money for Ms. Hilton’s integrity transplants.

When exactly did our Mrs. Tomich and Mr. Nadir meet Paris Hilton?  More importantly, why didn’t either of them seize the opportunity to tear out her carotid? Since they are at a department store, I presume that Mr. Tomich is away for the moment selecting this year’s swimsuit, which will no doubt display the subtle, reserved colors that have become his trademark. 

Anon,

Daniel

* Even I have to agree with one of his picks: Every time I see that Nobel Peace Prize recipient Jimmy Carter (#6) it makes my skin crawl. Building houses for the underprivileged: how very un-presidential. How very compassionate. How very odd that those two traits be set at odds with one another.

** A man who reportedly undergoes hours of makeup to keep his ill-fitting artificial flesh from falling off his lizard scales in huge ungainly chunks

Volume One of Monday Moanin' may be found here.

 

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