Tuesday, April 25, 2006
Friday, April 21, 2006
The Cheney position on diplomatic efforts
There's one photo the World should see this morning - Dick Cheney napping during the Oval Office portion of Chinese President Hu's visit yesterday. The NYPost is the only U.S. paper to run the photo and their permissions policy is preventing me from copying it currently. But I expect we'll see a lot more of it. More important than this insult, the "official" visit with the Chinese was a series of gaffes that will I'm sure piss them off disproportionately while the Bushies remain clueless. Everyone's fixating on the Falun Gong protester getting in her rant to the lowkey consternation of the Chinese. Dana Milbank's piece in this morning's WashingtonPost, however, lists a litany of protocol screw-ups well beyond the high visibility outburst on the lawn. I expect that Cheney would say that nothing went wrong. It appears that his eyes were only a bit more closed than the rest of the Bushies diplomatic corps.
Maya's walkin', poopin' and whoopin' it up like a pro lately. Our nanny, Megan, took her to the zoo yesterday and apparently Maya woke up from her morning nap long enough to take a hearty stab at the petting zoo. No tigers were involved, as far as I know. Hope your own outreach efforts are met with tactile pleasure today. Rock on.
Maya's walkin', poopin' and whoopin' it up like a pro lately. Our nanny, Megan, took her to the zoo yesterday and apparently Maya woke up from her morning nap long enough to take a hearty stab at the petting zoo. No tigers were involved, as far as I know. Hope your own outreach efforts are met with tactile pleasure today. Rock on.
Tuesday, April 18, 2006
San Francisco quakes, Gavin rocks
Today's post is the story of my insanely early morning trip to downtown San Francisco in honor of the 100-year Anniversary of the massive San Francisco Earthquake and Fire. Hope y'all can live a vicarious moment or two in the retelling.
Like thousands of other Bay Area residents and those visiting from their own tectonic neighborhoods, I knew I couldn't let this occasion pass me by without checking out the festivities. Every year since 1919, people have been gathering downtown on April 18 around Lotta's Fountain at the intersection of Market, Geary and Kearny streets to lay a wreath in honor of the over 3,000 people killed and the bazillions of dollars that it cost to rebuild the jewel that is this City. This was my first visit to not only the anniversary but also to the centerpiece of this event, which I've passed on many walks and bike rides down Market Street since we arrived here less than 2 years ago.
The Quake in 1906 occurred at 5:12am. To get there for this Centenuary celebration, I left our apartment at 4am. We live approximately 30 yards from a Muni stop and I looked at the schedule last night. As I approached our stop, I looked West up Judah Avenue and saw my free ride (all day!) descending. Munching on a peanut butter and jelly sandwich to wash down the espresso I'd finished in our apartment, I strode to the stop as an older, puffy-but-sporty woman approached me with the introductory statement that, "you must have checked the schedule 'cause you're right on time." Self-satisfaction firmly established, I assumed the benevolent fellow-traveller position as we chatted briefly before the bus (the off-hours replacement of the typical train) pulled up. She lives "just up the hill - since 1962". And she was not the type to be "on the Street at this hour". So I mugged her. Kidding. As we boarded the bus, a young-enough-to-know-what's-what fellow sitting in one of the front seats offered up his spot for my shared-stop pal. "I guess that's one benefit of being old," she said as the former owner of her seat stood and I scooted ahead of him in the cramped aisle being increasingly squeezed toward the back. Yes, that and free refills at Denny's.
Our downtown bus was full already as we headed through the Sunset toward Cole Valley and beyond. As we approached downtown, it got more crammed full than James Gandolfini's colon. But all around were friendly San Francisco folks. I listened somewhat distractedly to a hippie couple (bad, graying ponytails on both the Mom and Dad) giggle at the description of mosh pit ettiquette offered by their pimply late-teensy son. I was surrounded by folks in fleece with travel mugs in hand, probably full of herbal tea or tasty variations on that theme. During regular service hours, the train heads into a downtown tunnel system slightly less appealing than James Gandolfini's colon (sorry - some jokes just need to be repeated). But this night owl route instead delightfully took us past the homeless doorway squatters on Haight Street before winding onto Market, where we all turned politely away from the more criminal types lining that San Francisco artery.
After getting off a few stops early and walking the remaining blocks down Market, I reached the locale for the ceremony. Lotta's Fountain. A gaudy monstrosity that is beloved nonetheless. Thousands had already gathered. I entered the din. And then reconsidered by view. Eventually, I chose the absolute wrong end of the crowd to join. The North end of Market. Surrounded by high school kids forced out of bed well before dawn by their insistent parents, touristy folks with no perceived balance and their entire lifeswork in their bloated backpacks, 7-foot-tall laggards and the occasional gin-soaked homeless person, I did my best to settle in. And then the speeches began. If I never say this again it will nonetheless forever be true - politicians suck. Even if they're the City's Emergency Planning Agency director who's great-grand-something died in the 1906 tragedy...spilling those details through the conduit of a poorly-crafted, "Webster's Dictionary defines 'tragedy' as" yada yada yada speech makes you sound like a tone-deaf bore. The sole exception on this particular occassion being San Francisco's dreamboat Mayor, Gavin Newsome. This guy's slicker than goose poop. In a good way.
Gavin finally connected with the crowd when he began to interview the "survivors" who were approximately 80% fabulous. Everyone loves someone who's passed the Century Mark. Their self-decrecation alone endears them to youngins like me and, well, everyone younger than them. But the dozen or so creaksters herein were often hilarious, even if the sound system in my smelly seats section often required translation even for the most obvious recollections.
As with so many of these "managed events" you can expect only so much spontaneity. Not much occurred during the actual ceremony, which dragged on from the intended 4:30 to 5:30 timeline until nearly 6:30. If you check my accompanying photos closely, you'll see a shot of the "countdown clock" used to spur the crowd's excitement that they finally stopped spinning just before 6:30. But when things died down and everybody on stage got their chance to uncork their tired shtick, the real fun began.
This is San Francisco, after all. Goofballs are everywhere. One of my favorites - the obscure "12 Galaxies" guy was nearby throughout. As was the Ganga Chieftain freak. I soaked up plenty and decided to head down toward the Ferry Building to catch the sun rising over the Berkeley Hills. This morning like so few others recently was crystal clear. There was a man smoking a stinky cigar beneath the Gandhi statue. The Bay couldn't have been more glassy and reflective. But - and please excuse my scatological referencing - I soon realized that I needed to meet with my cabinet. To align my chi. To take a dump. Thankfully, the Ferry Building has a wondrous handicapped stall and no waiting list, so to speak. My bidness done, my glow restored, I waited at the crosswalk outfront, distracted by two Financial District athleto-leano-fascisto types with their Peet's Coffee Venti low-fat latte cups when one said, "there's The Man Himself". I turned to see none other than Gavin Newsome striding confidantly from his Lincoln Towncar. He bounded up the exterior stairs to the banquet-level floor of the Ferry Building before I could even give him advice about his political future. The band inside began playing before the door "swooshed" shut behind him. I asked one of the then breathless 20-ish interns checking off names on a clipboard what event was occurring. It was the "1906 Commemaritive Sponsor Breakfast", she cheerfully responded. I should have had a joke ready. But I didn't. This City suffered enough a Century ago.
So I rode the free Muni back from downtown after returning to Lotta's Fountain to see just how surreal the dismantling of such a spectacle can become. I stepped up to the podium (moved aside and now facing the Fountain) and gave my best Nixon salute. I watched huddled crowds of TV production techs chain-smoking and obviously lamenting that it was barely 7am. Random folks in period dress meandered away from this prior center of activity. 100 years ago this City was beat around like rented Yugo before being thrown into the chasm of reconstruction. Today...well, today's just another beautiful, surprisingly poetic moment in the Life of an astonishing City. I will leave this place in a matter of months. But I feel as though I have seen enough to always draw my heart back. Today will always be a special moment in that reflection.
I'll throw up a pile of pics later. Hope your own day began with a surge and continues on 'til the wee hours. Rock on.
Like thousands of other Bay Area residents and those visiting from their own tectonic neighborhoods, I knew I couldn't let this occasion pass me by without checking out the festivities. Every year since 1919, people have been gathering downtown on April 18 around Lotta's Fountain at the intersection of Market, Geary and Kearny streets to lay a wreath in honor of the over 3,000 people killed and the bazillions of dollars that it cost to rebuild the jewel that is this City. This was my first visit to not only the anniversary but also to the centerpiece of this event, which I've passed on many walks and bike rides down Market Street since we arrived here less than 2 years ago.
The Quake in 1906 occurred at 5:12am. To get there for this Centenuary celebration, I left our apartment at 4am. We live approximately 30 yards from a Muni stop and I looked at the schedule last night. As I approached our stop, I looked West up Judah Avenue and saw my free ride (all day!) descending. Munching on a peanut butter and jelly sandwich to wash down the espresso I'd finished in our apartment, I strode to the stop as an older, puffy-but-sporty woman approached me with the introductory statement that, "you must have checked the schedule 'cause you're right on time." Self-satisfaction firmly established, I assumed the benevolent fellow-traveller position as we chatted briefly before the bus (the off-hours replacement of the typical train) pulled up. She lives "just up the hill - since 1962". And she was not the type to be "on the Street at this hour". So I mugged her. Kidding. As we boarded the bus, a young-enough-to-know-what's-what fellow sitting in one of the front seats offered up his spot for my shared-stop pal. "I guess that's one benefit of being old," she said as the former owner of her seat stood and I scooted ahead of him in the cramped aisle being increasingly squeezed toward the back. Yes, that and free refills at Denny's.
Our downtown bus was full already as we headed through the Sunset toward Cole Valley and beyond. As we approached downtown, it got more crammed full than James Gandolfini's colon. But all around were friendly San Francisco folks. I listened somewhat distractedly to a hippie couple (bad, graying ponytails on both the Mom and Dad) giggle at the description of mosh pit ettiquette offered by their pimply late-teensy son. I was surrounded by folks in fleece with travel mugs in hand, probably full of herbal tea or tasty variations on that theme. During regular service hours, the train heads into a downtown tunnel system slightly less appealing than James Gandolfini's colon (sorry - some jokes just need to be repeated). But this night owl route instead delightfully took us past the homeless doorway squatters on Haight Street before winding onto Market, where we all turned politely away from the more criminal types lining that San Francisco artery.
After getting off a few stops early and walking the remaining blocks down Market, I reached the locale for the ceremony. Lotta's Fountain. A gaudy monstrosity that is beloved nonetheless. Thousands had already gathered. I entered the din. And then reconsidered by view. Eventually, I chose the absolute wrong end of the crowd to join. The North end of Market. Surrounded by high school kids forced out of bed well before dawn by their insistent parents, touristy folks with no perceived balance and their entire lifeswork in their bloated backpacks, 7-foot-tall laggards and the occasional gin-soaked homeless person, I did my best to settle in. And then the speeches began. If I never say this again it will nonetheless forever be true - politicians suck. Even if they're the City's Emergency Planning Agency director who's great-grand-something died in the 1906 tragedy...spilling those details through the conduit of a poorly-crafted, "Webster's Dictionary defines 'tragedy' as" yada yada yada speech makes you sound like a tone-deaf bore. The sole exception on this particular occassion being San Francisco's dreamboat Mayor, Gavin Newsome. This guy's slicker than goose poop. In a good way.
Gavin finally connected with the crowd when he began to interview the "survivors" who were approximately 80% fabulous. Everyone loves someone who's passed the Century Mark. Their self-decrecation alone endears them to youngins like me and, well, everyone younger than them. But the dozen or so creaksters herein were often hilarious, even if the sound system in my smelly seats section often required translation even for the most obvious recollections.
As with so many of these "managed events" you can expect only so much spontaneity. Not much occurred during the actual ceremony, which dragged on from the intended 4:30 to 5:30 timeline until nearly 6:30. If you check my accompanying photos closely, you'll see a shot of the "countdown clock" used to spur the crowd's excitement that they finally stopped spinning just before 6:30. But when things died down and everybody on stage got their chance to uncork their tired shtick, the real fun began.
This is San Francisco, after all. Goofballs are everywhere. One of my favorites - the obscure "12 Galaxies" guy was nearby throughout. As was the Ganga Chieftain freak. I soaked up plenty and decided to head down toward the Ferry Building to catch the sun rising over the Berkeley Hills. This morning like so few others recently was crystal clear. There was a man smoking a stinky cigar beneath the Gandhi statue. The Bay couldn't have been more glassy and reflective. But - and please excuse my scatological referencing - I soon realized that I needed to meet with my cabinet. To align my chi. To take a dump. Thankfully, the Ferry Building has a wondrous handicapped stall and no waiting list, so to speak. My bidness done, my glow restored, I waited at the crosswalk outfront, distracted by two Financial District athleto-leano-fascisto types with their Peet's Coffee Venti low-fat latte cups when one said, "there's The Man Himself". I turned to see none other than Gavin Newsome striding confidantly from his Lincoln Towncar. He bounded up the exterior stairs to the banquet-level floor of the Ferry Building before I could even give him advice about his political future. The band inside began playing before the door "swooshed" shut behind him. I asked one of the then breathless 20-ish interns checking off names on a clipboard what event was occurring. It was the "1906 Commemaritive Sponsor Breakfast", she cheerfully responded. I should have had a joke ready. But I didn't. This City suffered enough a Century ago.
So I rode the free Muni back from downtown after returning to Lotta's Fountain to see just how surreal the dismantling of such a spectacle can become. I stepped up to the podium (moved aside and now facing the Fountain) and gave my best Nixon salute. I watched huddled crowds of TV production techs chain-smoking and obviously lamenting that it was barely 7am. Random folks in period dress meandered away from this prior center of activity. 100 years ago this City was beat around like rented Yugo before being thrown into the chasm of reconstruction. Today...well, today's just another beautiful, surprisingly poetic moment in the Life of an astonishing City. I will leave this place in a matter of months. But I feel as though I have seen enough to always draw my heart back. Today will always be a special moment in that reflection.
I'll throw up a pile of pics later. Hope your own day began with a surge and continues on 'til the wee hours. Rock on.
Monday, April 17, 2006
Friday, April 14, 2006
Forever Young...'cause someone has to be
Expect the trashing of the incomparable legend that is, remains, will always be Neil Young to begin almost immediately. He's got a new protest album coming out. Doesn't exactly sound like he wrote and re-wrote and re-re-wrote the songs over the last 5 years given that he recorded it over three days. But the song "Impeach the President" is getting wacko press all over the spectrum this morning. Pre-ordering doesn't yet appear available. But stayed tuned and add this to your well-worn library of his past masterworks. Your kids will thank you. Eventually.
I'm having serious troubles with a part of urban life that I've always loved. Coffeehouses. I dig the din of activity and have spent mornings these past few months in yet another in a LONG series of places where I can get my double-espresso and just get weird, on my own. I always present an aloof appearance in a good cafe. Above all else, I prefer to let the action swirl around me and use it as background for other pursuits. But I always walk a fine line that dimishes over time since gregarious people in such places always eventually approach the silent stranger. For those of you without such habits, think of a bathhouse without all the nudity and imagine the vulnerability of being secretly friendly. Alas, herein - @ Java Beach in the farthest Outer Sunset right off Ocean Beach surrounded by locals, surfers, homeless people and the occasional hipster that appreciates astonishingly good service and damn good people watching - I've been officially outed. Too many people now know my gig and I got approached with friendly intent by 3 people this morning. So I must move on. Sadly. But if you're looking for one of my Top 10 All-Time Coolest Coffeehouses, head way out to this version of yonder. As of next week, you'll need to track me down elsewhere.
Hope your own pickin' leaves you constantly a grinnin' through SneakyBunny Weekend. Rock on.
Thursday, April 13, 2006
Generally clapping my hands and enthusiastically saying "Yeah!"
I'm overdue on a few entertainment reviews. I restarted Netflix even though I love our local vid store (Le Video in the Inner Sunset). And I've been working their warehouse system to a comfortable max. If you don't use Netflix, try them out. No advertisement - just a general appreciation. When we lived in Vermont, it didn't have the repeat volume efficacy of our current connection with their system here in San Francisco. But it still presents an amazingly efficient way of getting vids that you request. A few days of lag time ain't a bad thing if you only watch a few movies a week.
"Junebug" surprised the crap out of me. Some folks don't care so much for the quirky North Carolina dysfunctional family seen up-close-and-personal in this true indie. And Amy Adams got all the positive press even though the entire cast acted their asses off. My rating - a sentimental B. During dinner last night, I gave it a B-plus. That prior upgrade - while entirely defensible on the film's merits - was the wine talking. Still, a frickin' strong B.
"Good Night and Good Luck" was one of those movies that we all need to see. Even Bill O'Reilly. I rate it a B-plus. Most freaky liberal types will decry my assessment not being in the A-range. David Straithairn was phenomenal. Aside from all the range and eloquence of his protrayal, he made the chain-smoking Edward R. Murrow look cooler than a battalion of Joe Camels (too bad Murrow died of lung cancer). And George Clooney has every right to be "smug" as the "South Park" guys opined recently on a generally stupid episode. McCarthy once again saddens me with the realization that he once was the Junior Senator from Wisconsin, even if the actual news footage of his horridness is astonishing real and masterfully edited. But I saw a few problems. Namely, the payoff is slight. For a period of history so abhorent, it just missed that massive pay-off. Maybe that's what made this film so real - no need to have the symphonic denunication of an infamous era. Still - my standards require that I respect the rating system that I've miraculously pulled fully formed from my butt.
"Paradise Now" - not worth the hype. C-plus.
Music-wise - my new absolute-favorite song - "Upon This Tidal Wave of Young Blood" by Clap Your Hands Say Yeah. A delightful reincarnation of The Talking Heads at their most relevantly beautiful and aware stage. This band was supposed to be a massively-overloved "It Band of the Week" before I read that they beat the bloody cynicism out of the crowd in Austin at this year's SXSW festival. Listen to these people. They's smart.
Hope your Maundy Thursdays are anything but mundane. Rock on.
"Junebug" surprised the crap out of me. Some folks don't care so much for the quirky North Carolina dysfunctional family seen up-close-and-personal in this true indie. And Amy Adams got all the positive press even though the entire cast acted their asses off. My rating - a sentimental B. During dinner last night, I gave it a B-plus. That prior upgrade - while entirely defensible on the film's merits - was the wine talking. Still, a frickin' strong B.
"Good Night and Good Luck" was one of those movies that we all need to see. Even Bill O'Reilly. I rate it a B-plus. Most freaky liberal types will decry my assessment not being in the A-range. David Straithairn was phenomenal. Aside from all the range and eloquence of his protrayal, he made the chain-smoking Edward R. Murrow look cooler than a battalion of Joe Camels (too bad Murrow died of lung cancer). And George Clooney has every right to be "smug" as the "South Park" guys opined recently on a generally stupid episode. McCarthy once again saddens me with the realization that he once was the Junior Senator from Wisconsin, even if the actual news footage of his horridness is astonishing real and masterfully edited. But I saw a few problems. Namely, the payoff is slight. For a period of history so abhorent, it just missed that massive pay-off. Maybe that's what made this film so real - no need to have the symphonic denunication of an infamous era. Still - my standards require that I respect the rating system that I've miraculously pulled fully formed from my butt.
"Paradise Now" - not worth the hype. C-plus.
Music-wise - my new absolute-favorite song - "Upon This Tidal Wave of Young Blood" by Clap Your Hands Say Yeah. A delightful reincarnation of The Talking Heads at their most relevantly beautiful and aware stage. This band was supposed to be a massively-overloved "It Band of the Week" before I read that they beat the bloody cynicism out of the crowd in Austin at this year's SXSW festival. Listen to these people. They's smart.
Hope your Maundy Thursdays are anything but mundane. Rock on.
Wednesday, April 12, 2006
Dubya on Passover - I suggest giving him an extra large heap of bitter herbs.
Just a few thoughts to offer this morning before actually getting segwaying into fiction. This morning's discussion by Terry Gross from NPR's "Fresh Air" with Seymour Hersh regarding his latest "New Yorker" stunner was chilling. And fascinating. If you've not read that piece about Dubya's moronically-approved-and-scandalously-motivated plans for targeted strikes in Iran...just cut the crap and read it. Seriously. If we allow this Adminstration to follow through on their disasterous "operational" thinking, we are all collectively guilty. And screwed. If you have half an hour, listen to Sy plainly state in full why we're all so seriously in danger thanks to this Adminstration.
Big feastin' planned on our Coast this evening - besides being the first night of Passover, it's also Sarah' Birthday. So I put a SERIOUS hunk of brisket into the CrockPot this morning and intend to doctor-up a matzo ball soup this afternoon. Hope your own menus today are equally succulent. Rock on.
Big feastin' planned on our Coast this evening - besides being the first night of Passover, it's also Sarah' Birthday. So I put a SERIOUS hunk of brisket into the CrockPot this morning and intend to doctor-up a matzo ball soup this afternoon. Hope your own menus today are equally succulent. Rock on.
Tuesday, April 11, 2006
A Nation of Immigrants must also be a Nation of Historians
Like much of the nation, I'm flummoxed by the whole debate over immigration that's now flooding the nation's airwaves and spilled over into massive, organized protests. But like all of those without Native American blood, I'm a descendant of immigrants - largely from Scandinavia in the 19th Century. If my father's family hadn't been able to assume the right to 160 acres in Northernmost Wisconsin thanks to Lincoln's Homestead Act of 1862 which they had to settle and improve for 5 years before having to "prove up" their claim to that property...I'd probably be typing this entry from a internet cafe in Lillehammer sitting on a crappy IKEA couch instead of the plush leather number I'm fully sunk into just a block off the beach in beautiful Cullyfoneeya. So the claim that immigrants who live and work here shouldn't be able to "prove up" their desire to become citizens of a different generation strikes me as utter zenophobia. This, however, is not my area of even casual debate. I'm just stunned by the organization we're all seeing that's already gone into this on-the-fly movement in reaction to typically horrid legislation from the GOP attack monkey-led House.
The Brewers lost a tough one last night in St. Louis, 6-4. They've got the day off today. I suggest they rent some DVDs, order in BBQ, and get some rest. No hookers or 'roids in the butt, boys - we're in the Race for real this year! After all, they won't have another day off until April 27th. Gotta love the ironman aspect of MLB. Hope your own schedules today also allow you time for reflection. Rock on.
The Brewers lost a tough one last night in St. Louis, 6-4. They've got the day off today. I suggest they rent some DVDs, order in BBQ, and get some rest. No hookers or 'roids in the butt, boys - we're in the Race for real this year! After all, they won't have another day off until April 27th. Gotta love the ironman aspect of MLB. Hope your own schedules today also allow you time for reflection. Rock on.
Monday, April 10, 2006
Boys vs. Girls vs. Other Girls vs. Hemaphrodites vs. Barry Bonds's 'roid-headed kids - we still like Maya's chances
Dubya gave a speech at Johns Hopkins foreign service school this morning. I just saw some choice bits in which he reluctantly took some overly bookish questions. In typical grad student fashion, the money shot question he was asked (dealing with the Valerie Plame "declassification" disclosure from last week) gave the Wiggler in Chief way too much room in response. But Dubya still managed to muck it up. Saying that his aim was to give us all a chance to "see the truth" (a phrase he repeated like a picked-on autistic kid with a stutter), Dubya continued to wear away the beach beneath his feet as he almost simultaneously managed to say that he couldn't comment on an ongoing investigation. And the curtain is pulled back just a bit more...
After starting 5-0, the New Brew Crew got shut out by the Diamondbacks yesterday. 5-1 is an tasty start, even if the teams they upended at home were far less than the class of the League. So now Milwaukee leaves the well-protected confines of Beer City and heads to St. Louis, home of Budweiser, the tough tough tough Cards, and, um...19th Century dreams of national importance. I couldn't be happier with the way the Brewers have entered the Season. I'm sure y'all feel the same way.
Megan watched Maya last evening so that we could go out to dinner at the Slanted Door with family. Maya's doing great - increasingly vocal and confident in her walking. But we're trying hard not to compare Maya's physical and mental development with that of her contemporaries. Because, let's face it, all new 'rents are horrendously biased. For example, one of the two Birthday parties we brought Maya to on Saturday was for her friend, Aidan, who's approximately 6-weeks younger yet climbs over obstacles like Robert Conrad on his best day in the "Battle of the Network Stars" back in the late 70s. Did we mind that Maya's more timid and less boisterous than Aidan? Not at all. Maya's more of a delicate flower and not a prick like...well, let's just stop the comparison right there. After all, girls are different than boys. Better. But different, too.
Hope your own comparisons are equally impartial today. Rock on.
After starting 5-0, the New Brew Crew got shut out by the Diamondbacks yesterday. 5-1 is an tasty start, even if the teams they upended at home were far less than the class of the League. So now Milwaukee leaves the well-protected confines of Beer City and heads to St. Louis, home of Budweiser, the tough tough tough Cards, and, um...19th Century dreams of national importance. I couldn't be happier with the way the Brewers have entered the Season. I'm sure y'all feel the same way.
Megan watched Maya last evening so that we could go out to dinner at the Slanted Door with family. Maya's doing great - increasingly vocal and confident in her walking. But we're trying hard not to compare Maya's physical and mental development with that of her contemporaries. Because, let's face it, all new 'rents are horrendously biased. For example, one of the two Birthday parties we brought Maya to on Saturday was for her friend, Aidan, who's approximately 6-weeks younger yet climbs over obstacles like Robert Conrad on his best day in the "Battle of the Network Stars" back in the late 70s. Did we mind that Maya's more timid and less boisterous than Aidan? Not at all. Maya's more of a delicate flower and not a prick like...well, let's just stop the comparison right there. After all, girls are different than boys. Better. But different, too.
Hope your own comparisons are equally impartial today. Rock on.
Sunday, April 09, 2006
Friday, April 07, 2006
Thursday, April 06, 2006
Boil it down to JUST THIS ONE question, America
So...there now appears to one and ONLY ONE question that someone, ANYONE PLEASE, must ask Dubya at the first opportunity. And here it is:
"Mr. Prezidunt, did you authorize anyone to release the identity of Joseph Wilson's wife?"
Until someone asks that, no other story holds the trump card. Aside from the Milwaukee Brewers. Rock on.
"Mr. Prezidunt, did you authorize anyone to release the identity of Joseph Wilson's wife?"
Until someone asks that, no other story holds the trump card. Aside from the Milwaukee Brewers. Rock on.
If Rove is such a history buff, where was "Dubya will do, and Cheney, too!" in '04?
Today for me represents one of those beautiful nuggets of American history that's hopelessly forgotten. Our 10th President, John Tyler, was sworn into office on this date 165 years ago, marking the first time a Vice President ascended given a President's death (or disgraceful resignation in the case of Nixon). Tyler and William Henry Harrison ("Dubya Double H" to all his homies) ran in 1840 using little other than the most famous campaign slogan of all time - "Tippecanoe and Tyler, too!" Apologies to all of those that believe "I Like Ike" is the best example of such shorthanded shtick ever - you're just wrong. Tyler also had the ignominious honor of being the only President to ever leave office without a Party affiliation (he tossed the Whigs aside). And his entire Cabinet minus Sec. o' State Daniel Webster resigned in protest because of, um, the quality of horse meat in the White House kitchen or something equally ancient in principle. Here endeth today's history lessoneth. But I hope we all take a moment and silently cherish the idea of our 19th Century Presidents. They were largely a bunch of weak, compromised, utterly-corrupt children of privilege. Nothing at all like our modern moment of reference.
I'm not sure if y'all are struggling to adjust to Daylight Savings Time. We're all such thoroughly modern creatures, so I assume the added length of the evening daylight is making many of us truly feel that Spring is here or at least just around the corner. But for Maya, this whole shift hasn't really taken hold. She's now going to bed later, getting up later, and making no excuses for her lack of familial schedule adherence. Sleeping through the night - whenever that may be - is still reason enough to give her all the slack in the world. Still, I'd love to reset her clock and get this baby on the Spring Thing! Hope your own schedules leave ample time to appreciate that the Brewers swept their first series of the Season against the Pirates! Rock on.
I'm not sure if y'all are struggling to adjust to Daylight Savings Time. We're all such thoroughly modern creatures, so I assume the added length of the evening daylight is making many of us truly feel that Spring is here or at least just around the corner. But for Maya, this whole shift hasn't really taken hold. She's now going to bed later, getting up later, and making no excuses for her lack of familial schedule adherence. Sleeping through the night - whenever that may be - is still reason enough to give her all the slack in the world. Still, I'd love to reset her clock and get this baby on the Spring Thing! Hope your own schedules leave ample time to appreciate that the Brewers swept their first series of the Season against the Pirates! Rock on.
Wednesday, April 05, 2006
Barry Bonds clumsily tries to convince the World he's only occasionally the biggest jerk anyone's ever met.
Partly due to the Milwaukee Brewers frenzy soon-to-be engulfing the nation after their second win in as many tries to open the Season, I got into an exchange yesterday defending the honor of our closer, Derrick Turnbow. The fray was contained on a San Francisco collectively-published blog (SFist.com) that I have had great synergistic connections with in the past. But their Giants guy was WAY outta line when he tried to tag Turnbow as a 'roid-head somehow on par with the mutated-humanoid that currently calls itself Barry Bonds. Turnbow tested positive for an "andro" derivative back in '03 while auditioning for the '04 U.S. Olympic baseball team. For those of you that remember, androstenedione is the stuff that supafreak Mark "I'm not here to talk about the past" McGuire tested positive for taking. It's illegal for international competitors. As it should be. Turnbow took his suspension like a man (2 years of ineligibility for international competition). Bonds, meanwhile, was rubbing the "cream" and the "clear" all over his 'nads while doing all manner of unmentionable crap to his horribly-disfigured body. But the point I hope to make here is simple - San Francisco is the only place in the world that retains defenders of Barry Bonds, often while pointing fingers everywhere else. If it came out tomorrow that Brett Favre drank bull adrenillin and rubbed pixie dust on his balls, I'd be the first to go against my genetic make-up and criticize this legendary Packer. Will Giants fans actually do the same, albeit not in hypothetical terms? I'm not so sure. Regardless, the ESPN reality show "Bonds on Bonds" is TV crack - the money goes to the worst people, any alleged payoff evaporates in a wispy moment, you'll hate yourself immediately thereafter. My TiVo almost walked out on me after being asked to record last night's premeire. But I'm watching this train wreck, through and through.
Hope your own buzz today is legal, yet boffo. Rock on.
Hope your own buzz today is legal, yet boffo. Rock on.
Tuesday, April 04, 2006
The latest DeLay delay of his Ken Lay-like downfall - don't believe it for a second.
Tom DeLay's out. "Retiring" to the lobbying and the speechifying circuit. In pre-disgrace. And his home District is still in play. Wowza. My take on all of this is simple, contrary to what many newzers are saying - DeLay's facing a probable Federal indictment based on the actions of his Office securing votes for bribes. This step was an anxious sidestep, entirely intended to surprise the chattering class and hopefully undersell the problem. But I'd bet my third nipple that The Hammer's got that much more to fear than just the possibility of losing re-election for his seat in the House. I think he's looking at the prospects of a seat in the Big House. I'm reminded of my favorite "why DeLay is gonna eat it Big Time!" story from a few years ago. After drunkenly trying to light up cigars (I'd bet they were Cubans) in a DC Ruth's Chris Steak House housed in a Federal Building where smoking is not allowed, DeLay protested that "I AM the Federal Government." Or rather, you "WERE". I look forward to "The Hammer" being listed just after MC Hammer in history's tabulation of those fallen from the loftiest of heights sometime very, very soon.
Baseball season started yesterday. The New Brew Crew won a great home opener against the Pittsburg Pirates, 5-2, after some smart moves by the Brewers' increasingly smart Manager, Ned Yost, and a welcomed returning player, Jeff Cirillo. The SF Unnaturally Large and Increasingly Awkward Giants lost in front of unusually caustic crowd in San Diego (a fan threw a plastic syringe at Barry Bonds in the most clever display of inappropriate fan protest in years). Beats getting hit with a snowball packed around a D-cell battery. But not by much.
We're back from Seattle, feeling damn good about the sort of places we started seeing to move into upon our return. No slam dunk yet. Not even a lay-up yet. More of a good dribbling drill. One assessment I can offer, though - the suggestion that the demise of realtors is imminent is premature. Over the past few months, we've religiously used Redfin.com and Zillow.com to search for homes. They're great search tools, to be sure. But not exactly ready for prime time. Still, we met two really nice agents, one of which we're going to utilize and one who we feel somewhat guilty about cutting out of any prospective deal. And we met one DEEEECK of an agent who tried to play us a tune on a kiddie piano (so to speak) that sounded shallow and utterly ridiculous. Case in point - if your real estate agent gets lost on numerous occasions "leading" you around the neighborhoods you're interested in, he might be a redneck (apologies to all of humanity for the Jeff Foxworthy reference). Or at least a cheeseball. Regardless, we feel damn good about what we might find, even if the market there won't deflate anytime soon given the influx of new folks and re-strengthening of the local economy. Compared to San Francisco, Seattle's Boise. Stay tuned for more of our stories of real-ity estate travails.
Hope your own searches bring well-targeted results today. Rock on.
Baseball season started yesterday. The New Brew Crew won a great home opener against the Pittsburg Pirates, 5-2, after some smart moves by the Brewers' increasingly smart Manager, Ned Yost, and a welcomed returning player, Jeff Cirillo. The SF Unnaturally Large and Increasingly Awkward Giants lost in front of unusually caustic crowd in San Diego (a fan threw a plastic syringe at Barry Bonds in the most clever display of inappropriate fan protest in years). Beats getting hit with a snowball packed around a D-cell battery. But not by much.
We're back from Seattle, feeling damn good about the sort of places we started seeing to move into upon our return. No slam dunk yet. Not even a lay-up yet. More of a good dribbling drill. One assessment I can offer, though - the suggestion that the demise of realtors is imminent is premature. Over the past few months, we've religiously used Redfin.com and Zillow.com to search for homes. They're great search tools, to be sure. But not exactly ready for prime time. Still, we met two really nice agents, one of which we're going to utilize and one who we feel somewhat guilty about cutting out of any prospective deal. And we met one DEEEECK of an agent who tried to play us a tune on a kiddie piano (so to speak) that sounded shallow and utterly ridiculous. Case in point - if your real estate agent gets lost on numerous occasions "leading" you around the neighborhoods you're interested in, he might be a redneck (apologies to all of humanity for the Jeff Foxworthy reference). Or at least a cheeseball. Regardless, we feel damn good about what we might find, even if the market there won't deflate anytime soon given the influx of new folks and re-strengthening of the local economy. Compared to San Francisco, Seattle's Boise. Stay tuned for more of our stories of real-ity estate travails.
Hope your own searches bring well-targeted results today. Rock on.
Saturday, April 01, 2006
Cleaning the Grunge off
For those of you keeping track of our travels (I'm talking to you, Mr. Best Damn Parole Officer in the World - I'll touch base next week), we're up in Seattle. The Emerald City. The Queen City. Formerly GrungeCity. The City just to the West of Microsoftalvania. Our soon-to-be again-and-new City. Being back in this context is a treat we've waited a number of years to be able to boldly embrace. So we're looking for new homes, and seeing old haunts. On a concentrated realtor tour today, we hit a number of highlights - Capitol Hill, Madison Park, Green Lake, Wallingford. More of the same and otherwise to come. And even though our "guy" today started off with the rather cheesy veneer of someone who wanted to up-sell or sideways-sell or dork-sell us on the claims that "everything's just dandy in the market" and "demand is still soooo darn high" and (essentially) "you're sweet people but you've got soooo much to learn"...we had a good day. And I've not even touched on the silly anecdotes we feel are worth noting thus far. Such as the woman sitting in the row ahead of us on our flight up getting called up for an early exit after landing to be arrested for "failure to appear" at a court date regarding a prostitution charge. Or Maya commandeeering a cellphone (her new favorite toy, to our dismay) and ACTUALLY dialing Aunt Katie somehow for a short and silly conversation. Or Maya figuring out how to unscrew the top off a half-full water bottle and showering herself with it without us even noticing while walking through U-Dub's glorious campus yesterday afternoon. Or my conversation with a 'Sconi guy yesterday who'd noticed my ubiquitous Milwaukee Brewers cap - he came up with THE tagline for this year that I'd not yet heard. Every 25 years, Milwaukee baseball makes an impact - 1957 (Braves beat the Spankees), 1982 (Brewers made their only World Series), 2007 (Brewers...?). Stay tuned.
However you slice it, an eventful trip thus far. More later. Rock on.
However you slice it, an eventful trip thus far. More later. Rock on.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
Posts
