Look, it's not been six months (or more) since the last post! As usual, I'm demonstrating my passion and devotion for keeping the blog current with the most up-to-date information about my life. La la la.
Quick update: The snowbank, a.k.a. the Merrimac Range, finally melted. It was nearly a couple of months ago, actually - but not before it got a reinforcing shot of snow on Easter Sunday. The weather finally turned more agreeable to spring, in dribs and drabs, but even yesterday morning it was only 30 degrees outside the front door.
Perhaps my lack of enthusiasm for snow melt updates stemmed from the snail's pace progress of the whole affair for what seemed like weeks on end. And even after the snow finally did yield to extinction, it didn't feel like spring. "Below average temperatures" have started to become, well, rather average. It still doesn't feel like spring, except that my old friends Burning Eyes and Running Nose have returned to help me ring in the pollination of every tree from here to Canada.
Speaking of which, I had an allergy test last week. Terribly exciting, sitting bare-backed in the doctor's office, feeling the nurse scratch my back with a whole variety of histamine cocktail solutions. "You'll feel an itch on some of these in a few minutes," she said, "but don't scratch them." Easier said than done; after eight minutes, I was sitting on my hands, squirming, trying not to concentrate on the intense itching radiating across my back. The rule of trying to ignore it is that it gets more intense, and the more you try to fight it off, the worse you feel. When the nurse came back in she said, "My goodness, you're lit up like a Christmas tree!" When I looked at my back in the mirror I saw bright red welts the size of a fist. It was such a classic case of being very allergic, in fact, that the nurse called other nurses in to have a gander at me. Nothing like being a lab rat.
(Just writing about it now is causing my back to itch again.)
The results: I'm allergic to tree pollen (this I knew). Specifically, birch, oak, maple, elm, cottonwood. And grass pollen (news to me). And ragweed, especially so, judging by the 100-millimeter welt that spread across my skin. (Again, news, since I seem to have my most severe allergy problems in the spring.) Also, somewhat allergic to cats. But not dust or mold, nor dogs or birds, so the parakeets that moved in with my wife will have to stay.
After all this excitement - and with Running Nose and Burning Eyes now being a nearly constant presence - I've been holed up inside spending too much time at the computer. But I'm in the process of creating a website about the canoe trip that Jenni and I are planning for September. It's no epic paddle-to-the-Arctic, but it's along a route that is still interesting, notable, and adventurous. And I promise it will be updated more than once in a blue moon.
I'll post a link as soon as the site is completed.
Monday, May 12, 2008
Thursday, March 20, 2008
Merrimac Meltdown, Part 2
Listen to the news today, and you probably heard something about spring arriving at 12-something a.m. The TV newspeople I watched and heard seemed to delight in mentioning not only that spring had arrived, but that it had done so during the first hour of the day. Hark! The sun has finally crossed the equator and is headed back to our hemisphere...which, if you think about it, would be a whole lot more meaningful if the sun was actually in the sky when it happened. Then we could have stepped outside and said, "Wait for it, wait for it, wait...there! It's crossed the equator! Spring, here we come!" On cue, birds would sing and flowers would burst forth from the ground.
Right: Instead, we are under a winter storm watch.
Let's look back a few days. Here's how our crusty, unsightly, unwelcome snow pile was faring last Tuesday, after a day of burning sun and temperatures in the high 40s:
Here's a view of the ugly glacier along the street. Still significant snow, but the banks are waning:
By now, the poor damaged shrub - the calling card of the Plow Man - had emerged. You can see various shurb-parts scattered across the snow.
Alas, poor wounded shurb...will he survive the landscaper's scrutiny?
I felt lousy on Tuesday, and spent the following day in bed. Since then, practically everyone I've called throughout the last few work days is either sick, getting sick, or getting over being sick. Stuffy nose, sore throat, cough, flu, you name it. A week later, I'm still working on blowing my sinuses clear.
Thursday was even warmer than Tuesday. It was 50 degrees out when I snapped this:
Look - grass! And our first artifact of emergent trash, on the boulevard along the sidewalk:
Then our melting documentation experiment goes awry. My wife decided my dad's suggestion of using snow to clean the garage floor was a brilliant idea. On Saturday, she scooped a bunch out of the pile, dumped it on the concrete, and used it to drag the accumulated road filth from the garage floor. Now, it's all over the driveway, where we'll undoubtedly track it back in. I will concede the floor is clean.
At any rate, because of this disturbation, we'll never now just how fast the Merrimac Range would have melted. Then on Monday, as one person remarked, winter called in reinforcements:
The snow was the kind that's almost more water than white, the kind that does goes splish, splosh, slip, slop when you walk through and makes a mess of your pants. By the next day, it had melted, and the sunny weather returned.
Tonight, we're under a winter storm watch again, with a couple more inches of white slush expected by morning. And the forecast for Easter is a pathetic high of 37 degrees with flurries. Fortunately for those of us who live in these uncooperative northern climes, Easter won't come this early again for some 200-plus years.
Monday, March 10, 2008
The sound of melting
Enter daylight savings time; the sun is still high in the sky now that I'm home from work. That's welcome...another sign that spring is on its way. The sunlight is a hot white hue these days, not the warm yellow of mid-winter.
Today was momentous because the temperature finally climbed above freezing - the first time since, what, six months ago? It's 35 outside as I write! Strangely, it doesn't feel as warm as it ought to. There's a brisk west wind, so the air still has a bite. Supposedly, it's blowing in warmer air for midweek, but I'm skeptical.
There's been a bit of melting of our front yard range of snow. Not enough to document, but the damaged shrubbery - what's left of it - is starting to poke through the softening drifts. When I went out to get the mail, I heard the faint-yet-distinct sound of melting. Bend down to the snowbanks, and you hear what sounds like a rag being rung out. Squelch, squelch.
Today was momentous because the temperature finally climbed above freezing - the first time since, what, six months ago? It's 35 outside as I write! Strangely, it doesn't feel as warm as it ought to. There's a brisk west wind, so the air still has a bite. Supposedly, it's blowing in warmer air for midweek, but I'm skeptical.
There's been a bit of melting of our front yard range of snow. Not enough to document, but the damaged shrubbery - what's left of it - is starting to poke through the softening drifts. When I went out to get the mail, I heard the faint-yet-distinct sound of melting. Bend down to the snowbanks, and you hear what sounds like a rag being rung out. Squelch, squelch.
Wednesday, March 5, 2008
Merrimac Range Meltdown
Here at the homestead, I have decided to keep tabs on the arrival of spring, or lack thereof, by monitoring the melting of the Merrimac Range. Today, the TV news reported that we have had at least an inch of snow on the ground - a bit relative, since it's been blown around lately and there's almost none on the lawn but a 2-foot drift on the patio - for something like 90 days.
After it snows at least an inch, the Plow Man and his Crew show up early in the morning and dig the place out. The Plow Man knows how to clear our driveway and the neighbor's in five minutes flat. It's a few quick runs with the plow pickup, and he's on to the next driveway. Most of that snow ends up in my front yard, where it has been piling up for three months. The result is the Merrimac Range, a Teton-esque ridge of ice and snow. The range rises sharply from the edge of the driveway in a tumbled mass of icy crags and snow boulders that make up the south face, while the north slope falls away more gradually to the snowy plains of the front yard.
It was at its most spectacular Christmas Eve:
Weekly, the range is reshaped by the unforgiving, often violent forces of Mother Nature, neighborhood kids, and the Plow Man. In the last couple of weeks, the blazing sun has beaten it down a bit. Here is an aerial shot from late this afternoon:
As it is wont to do, March has arrived with a schizophrenic personality. First warm sun, blue skies, and soft snow under ski. A day later, freezing rain and flakes. Then cold. Then snow again (just in time to muck up this morning's commute). Now, frigid air from Canada has settled over Minnesota for the umpteenth time this winter.
Despite the discouraging weather, we at BlogOLink remain hopeful for the coming of a spring. For the benefit of our readers, and friends in California who don't have seasons other than "sunny and 70 degrees," we will monitor the demise of the Merrimac Range. How long will it take the sun to flatten these mountains? What treasures - or trash - will be revealed? And when will we get a clear picture of just how badly the Plow Man pulverized the shrubs? Stay tuned for regular updates.
Wednesday, March 5, 5:45 p.m. - 16 degrees at sunset. The Merrimac Range is as solid as a rock. At this rate, it's going to be around until July.
Tuesday, March 4, 2008
It's a beautiful day...don't let it get away
So here it is: Jenni has been gone for six days. It's chilly in the house, and it's freaking freezing outside. It's supposed to snow overnight. Below zero by Friday morning.
The house is dark. The silence is so heavy I've taken to talking to myself out loud to fend it off.
Work's been a pain in the ass...long, mentally grueling days for weeks on end.
Sometimes, when your wife is away on a dark winter night, you have snap yourself out of the mood. You sit down at the computer, you pull up You Tube. You find a couple of music videos and crank the volume until the floor vibrates. You close your eyes and let the music carry you to a brighter, warmer place, where the beat's in your brain and the melody is rushing through your veins like a river of bubbly.
When you open your eyes the house is still dark, it's still cold outside, and your wife's still away. But she's only away for a couple more days. The weather will improve. Your job will be easier. And you smile, because it's a Beautiful Day in the City of Blinding Lights.
The house is dark. The silence is so heavy I've taken to talking to myself out loud to fend it off.
Work's been a pain in the ass...long, mentally grueling days for weeks on end.
Sometimes, when your wife is away on a dark winter night, you have snap yourself out of the mood. You sit down at the computer, you pull up You Tube. You find a couple of music videos and crank the volume until the floor vibrates. You close your eyes and let the music carry you to a brighter, warmer place, where the beat's in your brain and the melody is rushing through your veins like a river of bubbly.
When you open your eyes the house is still dark, it's still cold outside, and your wife's still away. But she's only away for a couple more days. The weather will improve. Your job will be easier. And you smile, because it's a Beautiful Day in the City of Blinding Lights.
Monday, March 3, 2008
Epilogue: Republicans are dumb
Before any of you label me a partisan hack, I'd like to offer this follow-up to last week's post about our tax-happy DFL friends at the Minnesota State Capitol.
As you'll recall, the transportation bill that legislators enacted - overriding Gov. Pawlenty's veto in the process - was mostly split along party lines, but not quite. In this instance, it was six House Republicans who broke ranks to go along with the DFL to override the veto. These representatives said they refused to go along with the party line because they felt that passing the bill was the right thing to do.
As I made pretty clear last week, I disagree with them. Vehemently. The transportation bill's tax increases are too many to dump on Minnesotans all at once. But I respect these men and women who made a personal stand and said, "I believe the right thing to do is pass this bill and I am going to vote with my conscience." Assuming we have elected honorable and decent folks to represent us and act in the best interest of our state and its people, we can only hope that all legislators would do the same on this and every vote. (For the record: I'm sure the vast majority of them do.)
The Minnesota Republican Party, however, has made it clear what it thinks about legislators who vote with an independent conscience: They ought to be scolded and embarrassed with a public demotion. This was the response last week. Days later, it's still making headlines.
Clearly, we have state politicians - or political leaders, in any case - who have willingly fallen into two divided, utterly partisan categories. We already know that politics in our country is headed down this road. To see it with increasing boldness in our state government - once known for its civil discourse and progressive approach to civic matters - makes me sick. In terms of the legislature, it seems there's not much to look forward to between now and the end of the session in May.
Then again, who needs the legislature? There are much more exciting things happening in May. In fact, in 79 days, we're going to be in for the treat of the decade: A familiar face is making a return...fedora, whip, and all. Fasten your seat belts, because on May 22 Indiana Jones returns! (Turn up your speakers and watch the trailer here. Nifty countdown clock also.)
Let's hope all of our legislators hit the theaters after the session to take in Indy's latest adventure. Maybe they'll learn a thing or two: Dr. Jones is a role model we can all look up to.
As you'll recall, the transportation bill that legislators enacted - overriding Gov. Pawlenty's veto in the process - was mostly split along party lines, but not quite. In this instance, it was six House Republicans who broke ranks to go along with the DFL to override the veto. These representatives said they refused to go along with the party line because they felt that passing the bill was the right thing to do.
As I made pretty clear last week, I disagree with them. Vehemently. The transportation bill's tax increases are too many to dump on Minnesotans all at once. But I respect these men and women who made a personal stand and said, "I believe the right thing to do is pass this bill and I am going to vote with my conscience." Assuming we have elected honorable and decent folks to represent us and act in the best interest of our state and its people, we can only hope that all legislators would do the same on this and every vote. (For the record: I'm sure the vast majority of them do.)
The Minnesota Republican Party, however, has made it clear what it thinks about legislators who vote with an independent conscience: They ought to be scolded and embarrassed with a public demotion. This was the response last week. Days later, it's still making headlines.
Clearly, we have state politicians - or political leaders, in any case - who have willingly fallen into two divided, utterly partisan categories. We already know that politics in our country is headed down this road. To see it with increasing boldness in our state government - once known for its civil discourse and progressive approach to civic matters - makes me sick. In terms of the legislature, it seems there's not much to look forward to between now and the end of the session in May.
Then again, who needs the legislature? There are much more exciting things happening in May. In fact, in 79 days, we're going to be in for the treat of the decade: A familiar face is making a return...fedora, whip, and all. Fasten your seat belts, because on May 22 Indiana Jones returns! (Turn up your speakers and watch the trailer here. Nifty countdown clock also.)
Let's hope all of our legislators hit the theaters after the session to take in Indy's latest adventure. Maybe they'll learn a thing or two: Dr. Jones is a role model we can all look up to.
Monday, February 25, 2008
Tax, tax, tax - the mantra of the Damn DFL
I've just finished watching the news and I'm hopping mad - so incensed that I've been pacing around the house and shouting obscenities at the TV.
Why? Because my taxes are going up, at the hands of the DFL-controlled Minnesota Legislature.
Today, the state House of Representatives voted to overturn Gov. Tim Pawlenty's veto of a $6.6 billion transportation bill (Star Tribune story is here). Why did Pawlenty veto the bill, you ask? Because the DFL got greedy.
The collapse of the I-35W bridge last August brought the state's "crumbling infrastructure," as some have called it, into sharp focus. Lawmakers, political leaders, government officials, and media pundits all began jabbering about our chronically under-funded infrastructure. They had valid points - most of us Minnesotans would probably agree that our roads, generally, aren't in the shape they used to be. (Of course, later the NTSB said that, preliminarily, its investigation was pointing toward a construction flaw that would ultimately doom the I-35W bridge, not some negligence of the Minnesota Department of Transportation and lack of funding...but never mind that.)
Even the governor seemed open to the idea of a gas tax increase, and a lot of Minnesotans along with him. A couple of cents seemed reasonable - a compromise between no taxes and the sky's-the-limit attitude of the DFL. But DFL legislators drafted a transportation bill that would raise it a whopping 8.5 cents per gallon by next year (3.5 cents of that is "temporary," for bonds authorized under the plan, but you can bet they'll find some excuse to keep it permanent). In addition, the bill hikes up the license fees on new cars, and - this one really riles me - enact a new quarter-cent sales tax on the seven-county metro area without a referendum.
Translation: In a year, I'll spend an average of an extra 85 cents every time I fill up my car to satisfy the state's appetite for spending. And I'll be paying an extra 25 cents on every $100 I spend here in the metro area - where I live and do 95 percent of my shopping - even though no one offered to let me vote on it.
That's only a few cents out of anyone's pocket, you may argue. On any given day, that's true. But over time, that money adds up. It especially adds up for the Minnesotans who are struggling to make ends meet, who are facing foreclosure with an adjustable rate mortgage that is about to send their monthly payments skyrocketing, who may have just lost a job as the state's economy teeters on the brink of a recession, and who are paying more and more for food, fuel, energy, and just about every basic necessity.
DFLers probably weren't thinking about those folks when they were congratulating themselves today and celebrating "making history" with the first override of a Pawlenty veto. That might be because your average state legislator won't feel the pinch nearly as much as your average Minnesotan. Many of the legislators who represent us are successful lawyers and businesspeople. Many own their own businesses. Many have incomes that can afford these tax increases. Perhaps, as Gov. Pawlenty suggested, they are a bit out of touch with their party's base.
The veto override passed with 91 votes; 90 were needed. It wasn't exactly along party lines, but close. The few Republicans who supported this bill are taking a lot of heat, and defending themselves by saying they voted on conscience, believing that passing the bill was the right thing to do. I don't take issue with that, providing their vote reflects the majority of the people they represent. But I do take umbrage with the DFL as a whole, crafting such a greedy, bloated bill and then foisting its tax increases onto Minnesotans all at once, at a time when milk is $4.30 a gallon.
The DFL bills itself as the party of farmers, unions, and blue collar workers. But its transportation bill will disproportionately hurt those Minnesotans who are most economically vulnerable.
Since Daddy DFL knows best how to take care of Minnesota, there are a couple of logical next steps: (1) It ought to craft a bill regulating the price of milk and dairy products. And, (2) it ought to immediately suspend all government subsidies for the energy boondoggle otherwise known as ethanol. That would free up even more money for transportation, and in the process, decrease the demand for corn, which is driving up the price of all sorts of goods.
I suppose that's too much to ask - unless, perhaps, it involves a new tax.
Why? Because my taxes are going up, at the hands of the DFL-controlled Minnesota Legislature.
Today, the state House of Representatives voted to overturn Gov. Tim Pawlenty's veto of a $6.6 billion transportation bill (Star Tribune story is here). Why did Pawlenty veto the bill, you ask? Because the DFL got greedy.
The collapse of the I-35W bridge last August brought the state's "crumbling infrastructure," as some have called it, into sharp focus. Lawmakers, political leaders, government officials, and media pundits all began jabbering about our chronically under-funded infrastructure. They had valid points - most of us Minnesotans would probably agree that our roads, generally, aren't in the shape they used to be. (Of course, later the NTSB said that, preliminarily, its investigation was pointing toward a construction flaw that would ultimately doom the I-35W bridge, not some negligence of the Minnesota Department of Transportation and lack of funding...but never mind that.)
Even the governor seemed open to the idea of a gas tax increase, and a lot of Minnesotans along with him. A couple of cents seemed reasonable - a compromise between no taxes and the sky's-the-limit attitude of the DFL. But DFL legislators drafted a transportation bill that would raise it a whopping 8.5 cents per gallon by next year (3.5 cents of that is "temporary," for bonds authorized under the plan, but you can bet they'll find some excuse to keep it permanent). In addition, the bill hikes up the license fees on new cars, and - this one really riles me - enact a new quarter-cent sales tax on the seven-county metro area without a referendum.
Translation: In a year, I'll spend an average of an extra 85 cents every time I fill up my car to satisfy the state's appetite for spending. And I'll be paying an extra 25 cents on every $100 I spend here in the metro area - where I live and do 95 percent of my shopping - even though no one offered to let me vote on it.
That's only a few cents out of anyone's pocket, you may argue. On any given day, that's true. But over time, that money adds up. It especially adds up for the Minnesotans who are struggling to make ends meet, who are facing foreclosure with an adjustable rate mortgage that is about to send their monthly payments skyrocketing, who may have just lost a job as the state's economy teeters on the brink of a recession, and who are paying more and more for food, fuel, energy, and just about every basic necessity.
DFLers probably weren't thinking about those folks when they were congratulating themselves today and celebrating "making history" with the first override of a Pawlenty veto. That might be because your average state legislator won't feel the pinch nearly as much as your average Minnesotan. Many of the legislators who represent us are successful lawyers and businesspeople. Many own their own businesses. Many have incomes that can afford these tax increases. Perhaps, as Gov. Pawlenty suggested, they are a bit out of touch with their party's base.
The veto override passed with 91 votes; 90 were needed. It wasn't exactly along party lines, but close. The few Republicans who supported this bill are taking a lot of heat, and defending themselves by saying they voted on conscience, believing that passing the bill was the right thing to do. I don't take issue with that, providing their vote reflects the majority of the people they represent. But I do take umbrage with the DFL as a whole, crafting such a greedy, bloated bill and then foisting its tax increases onto Minnesotans all at once, at a time when milk is $4.30 a gallon.
The DFL bills itself as the party of farmers, unions, and blue collar workers. But its transportation bill will disproportionately hurt those Minnesotans who are most economically vulnerable.
Since Daddy DFL knows best how to take care of Minnesota, there are a couple of logical next steps: (1) It ought to craft a bill regulating the price of milk and dairy products. And, (2) it ought to immediately suspend all government subsidies for the energy boondoggle otherwise known as ethanol. That would free up even more money for transportation, and in the process, decrease the demand for corn, which is driving up the price of all sorts of goods.
I suppose that's too much to ask - unless, perhaps, it involves a new tax.
Tuesday, February 19, 2008
Man versus the manhole
More on the subject of this post in a minute. First, the next installment of my great misadventure to Chicago:
Having just heard the pilot announce our maintenance delay, the plane pulled back into the gate. And we sat. After 15 or 20 minutes, we heard from our captain again: They were thinking it was just the indicator, but were going to look at things a bit more closely just to be sure the hydraulics system was functioning normally. Well, OK - no arguments on that. And, he said, they'd have another update in about 15 minutes.
Meanwhile, a maintenance truck appeared outside the DC-9 and bundled-up mechanics could occasionally be seen walking near the rear of the aircraft. It wasn't too long before the flaps slid out from their bay in the wing and drooped toward the ground, then retracted. The wing spoilers flapped up in a salute, shaking off some snow. These are parts of the hydraulic system - a good sign.
This captain was punctual, and after that 15 minutes had passed, he had another update. They thought they had discovered the issue, and had fixed it. The paperwork had been completed, and after a few more final systems tests, we "should be ready to go." Hmm. Should isn't exactly the same as will.
So we waited some more. I glanced at my watch and say that our delay was stretching past 9:30; I had two-and-a-half hours to get to Chicago to catch my return flight. It was going to be tight.
By 9:45, snow had piled up visibly on the wings. We still weren't moving, and a maintenance truck was still parked conspicuously underneath my window near the starboard engine. We heard from the captain again: The operations people wanted maintenance to look a bit closer at the problem, because they still weren't convinced it had been fixed. In the mean time, the captain had put in a request to look for a new plane, and had called the gate to get someone to come open the door so we could get off if we wished.
This is never a good sign. Some of the teenagers sitting around me, on the way home from a school trip, started to get antsy. One had a college interview scheduled that afternoon. But clearly, this plane was going nowhere.
Shortly after 10 o'clock, we got word: The gate door had been unlocked, and the plane's door was open. Anyone who wanted to get off could do so.
Naturally, everyone stood up and surged toward the front of the plane like snails fleeing salt.
By the time I stepped off the jetway and back inside the terminal, all 22 rows worth of people ahead of me were in line at the check-in counter to re-book, complain, or God-knows-what. It was clear now that I had no chance of making my noon return flight, so I strolled briskly up the G Concourse until I was several gates away.
I got less skepticism than I expected when I explained my predicament to a couple of gate agents who happened to be at the counter of an otherwise empty boarding area. Maybe I'm not the only one who spends part of a Saturday jetting around the country for fun. They rebooked me on a 2:25 p.m. flight out of Chicago - still on a DC-9, fortunately. I returned back to gate G19 to learn that we had a new plane after all, and a new gate. So it was back the way I'd just been.
The plane was just arriving at the new gate, and the agents told us politely, but firmly, to stay out of the way while its passengers deplaned. What, were they expecting a mad rush of passengers storming the gate door?
Waiting, waiting, waiting. We waited while the plane was cleaned and prepared for us. I munched on Nestle Rasinettes - which I'd brought precisely in case of such a delay - and pondered the scene. Throngs of people crowding every available chair at the gate, tapering flakes outside, gusty winds buffeting the window.
Northwest 126 was scheduled to depart at 9 a.m. It was now going on 11 o'clock. Tune in next time as the adventure continues...with photos!
Now, what you've all been waiting for...our voyeuristic videos of the awesome power of the infamous I-35W manhole geyser. If you're not familiar, Interstate 35W south of Minneapolis has a storm water tunnel underneath it that doesn't have enough capacity for the runoff created by a heavy downpour. All that pressure has to go somewhere, and the result is spectacular. Of course, it's nearly as incredible that the traffic whizzing along seems largely unconcerned with what's happening in the median.
On the other hand, I'd probably stop, too, if I saw that giant manhole cover lying in the middle of the road. But get out of the car to look at it? I don't know what this person was thinking - but I'll bet they were soaked by the time they were sprinting away.
This is as good as anything I saw at Yellowstone. If someone charged admission to watch this sucker spout off live and in person, I'd pay it!
Having just heard the pilot announce our maintenance delay, the plane pulled back into the gate. And we sat. After 15 or 20 minutes, we heard from our captain again: They were thinking it was just the indicator, but were going to look at things a bit more closely just to be sure the hydraulics system was functioning normally. Well, OK - no arguments on that. And, he said, they'd have another update in about 15 minutes.
Meanwhile, a maintenance truck appeared outside the DC-9 and bundled-up mechanics could occasionally be seen walking near the rear of the aircraft. It wasn't too long before the flaps slid out from their bay in the wing and drooped toward the ground, then retracted. The wing spoilers flapped up in a salute, shaking off some snow. These are parts of the hydraulic system - a good sign.
This captain was punctual, and after that 15 minutes had passed, he had another update. They thought they had discovered the issue, and had fixed it. The paperwork had been completed, and after a few more final systems tests, we "should be ready to go." Hmm. Should isn't exactly the same as will.
So we waited some more. I glanced at my watch and say that our delay was stretching past 9:30; I had two-and-a-half hours to get to Chicago to catch my return flight. It was going to be tight.
By 9:45, snow had piled up visibly on the wings. We still weren't moving, and a maintenance truck was still parked conspicuously underneath my window near the starboard engine. We heard from the captain again: The operations people wanted maintenance to look a bit closer at the problem, because they still weren't convinced it had been fixed. In the mean time, the captain had put in a request to look for a new plane, and had called the gate to get someone to come open the door so we could get off if we wished.
This is never a good sign. Some of the teenagers sitting around me, on the way home from a school trip, started to get antsy. One had a college interview scheduled that afternoon. But clearly, this plane was going nowhere.
Shortly after 10 o'clock, we got word: The gate door had been unlocked, and the plane's door was open. Anyone who wanted to get off could do so.
Naturally, everyone stood up and surged toward the front of the plane like snails fleeing salt.
By the time I stepped off the jetway and back inside the terminal, all 22 rows worth of people ahead of me were in line at the check-in counter to re-book, complain, or God-knows-what. It was clear now that I had no chance of making my noon return flight, so I strolled briskly up the G Concourse until I was several gates away.
I got less skepticism than I expected when I explained my predicament to a couple of gate agents who happened to be at the counter of an otherwise empty boarding area. Maybe I'm not the only one who spends part of a Saturday jetting around the country for fun. They rebooked me on a 2:25 p.m. flight out of Chicago - still on a DC-9, fortunately. I returned back to gate G19 to learn that we had a new plane after all, and a new gate. So it was back the way I'd just been.
The plane was just arriving at the new gate, and the agents told us politely, but firmly, to stay out of the way while its passengers deplaned. What, were they expecting a mad rush of passengers storming the gate door?
Waiting, waiting, waiting. We waited while the plane was cleaned and prepared for us. I munched on Nestle Rasinettes - which I'd brought precisely in case of such a delay - and pondered the scene. Throngs of people crowding every available chair at the gate, tapering flakes outside, gusty winds buffeting the window.
Northwest 126 was scheduled to depart at 9 a.m. It was now going on 11 o'clock. Tune in next time as the adventure continues...with photos!
Now, what you've all been waiting for...our voyeuristic videos of the awesome power of the infamous I-35W manhole geyser. If you're not familiar, Interstate 35W south of Minneapolis has a storm water tunnel underneath it that doesn't have enough capacity for the runoff created by a heavy downpour. All that pressure has to go somewhere, and the result is spectacular. Of course, it's nearly as incredible that the traffic whizzing along seems largely unconcerned with what's happening in the median.
On the other hand, I'd probably stop, too, if I saw that giant manhole cover lying in the middle of the road. But get out of the car to look at it? I don't know what this person was thinking - but I'll bet they were soaked by the time they were sprinting away.
This is as good as anything I saw at Yellowstone. If someone charged admission to watch this sucker spout off live and in person, I'd pay it!
Thursday, February 14, 2008
The blog is back, Jack
Finally!
We're up and running again. BlogOLink is back.
For a while, it was going passably well: Quasi-regular updates, musings on this and that, and the tale of the saga of the air conditioner. But then came the Great Black Hole...an information blackout that has descended for nearly seven months.
Well, I'm back, and I have a good excuse: Life is what happens when you have other plans, but getting married prevents you from making them in the first place. You must focus, concentrate, and Obey Your Wife.
You fall into new routines, once you're married. You come home at the end of the day, and have dinner together, or watch TV and eat, or watch TV. And you talk. Time on the computer -especially for the man of the house - becomes a string of stolen moments. You have to hop on when your wife isn't paying attention, lest she drag you off, or you must get there before her, or she'll spend the whole night gawking at pictures of dogs in need of adoption on Craigslist.
Eventually, you find your happy mediums. She realizes that she will never keep you away from the computer as much as she prefers, despite her pleas that you exercise more (well, we're working on it). You resign yourself to the fact that you will never be as buff as she, and you feel OK about it. She gives you time for silly hobbies like home computer flight simulator, and you accept the fact that, sooner than later, she's going to bring home a dog.
This is marriage, and so it goes. But you know you'd never be as happy - or enjoy life as much - without her. And so coming home is a pleasure every day.
Perhaps the sign that things in the new marriage are off to a good start, at least, is when you come home from work one evening and say the following to your wife:
"I just had this crazy idea at work today. There's an airfare sale on, and fares to Chicago are dirt cheap. I think I might go there on a Saturday next month...just to fly there and back. It will cost me $110. What do you think?"
About now, the average husband might expect to get a frown, a disapproving look, or an exclamation: "What? You moron! Why would you want to do that?!"
But not my lovely wife. She said, "I think you should go! I think you would appreciate it a lot, and you would have fun."
Score!
Here's the backstory: I wanted to catch a ride on a DC-9. They're a familiar sight to those of us Minnesotans who travel through Minneapolis-St. Paul International Airport: slim jets with twin engines at the back of the fuselage and a red T-tail (not to be confused with the much smaller, and much newer, CRJ). Why? Because Northwest is the only airline in North America that still flies the DC-9 on regularly scheduled passenger routes. You'll see a few DC-9s working as cargo haulers, and you'll find them on just a handful of passenger airlines elsewhere in the world. Today, Northwest is the world's largest operator of DC-9s...significant because these planes were built before I was even born.
They're being phased out now, like the 727 before them, in favor of newer, more fuel-efficient aircraft. These are your Airbuses, your next generation Boeings, your Embrarer E-jets, and a new yet-to-be-developed line from Bombardier called the "C Jets." Northwest has the oldest fleet of any of the major U.S. airlines, and the DC-9s are a big reason why. Many of these planes were delivered from the manufacturer more than 30 years ago, to airlines like Eastern and Republic that don't even exist anymore. They're still flying today thanks to a regimen of regular and thorough maintenance checks...the same that any airliner in the U.S. undergoes.
DC-9 pilots have said the jet is built like a tank and flies like a sportscar. But within a few years, you won't hear them thundering through the skies above Minnesota any longer. Every era of aviation eventually comes to an end. And with a looming (possible) merger between Northwest and Delta, there was speculation that the retirement of the DC-9s might be moved up significantly. I didn't want to miss out on another chance to fly them.
So I took advantage of a cheap airfare and bought a round-trip ticket to Chicago for last Saturday. Departing Minneapolis at 9 a.m., and turning around at O'Hare and coming back to MSP over the lunch hour. Both flights on a DC-9. Now that's passion.
Saturday morning saw me up in the pre-dawn hours, and out the door at 7 a.m. for a drive to the Ft. Snelling LRT station park-and-ride. No sense paying to use the ramp at the airport when the park-and-ride was two minutes and $1.50 away by train. Snowflakes swirled through the air as I boarded. True to the schedule, two minutes later I was stepping onto the platform at the airport's cavernous underground LRT station. Up several flights of escalators, I found a check-in kiosk. Going through security was a snap, though I overheard one of the TSA guards tell another that what she was looking at in my bag, via the x-ray machine, was a big camera lens. Fortunately, no one asked questions.
I was at Gate G19 a few minutes later, and settled in a chair by the window to watch the snowflakes fall on the lineup of morning departures. When it was time to begin boarding our plane, the gate agent announced a 10-minute departure delay because of a problem with the plane's PA system. It was fixed by the time we boarded, and everything was squared away for a nearly-on-time pushback of flight 126. The engines spooled up to a throbbing roar.
Then we sat. Two minutes went by. Then the pilot's voice crackled over the PA: "Folks, from the flight deck, we have a hydraulic indicator here, and we need to figure out if we actually have a problem with the system or if it's just the indicator. So we're going to taxi back to the gate and get this figured out. It's probably going to take us 15-20 minutes. We apologize for the delay, and we'll update you as soon as we have more information."
I glanced at my watch. Just under three hours until my return flight from O'Hare was scheduled to depart. And now, another delay. Outside, the snow was falling harder, and the flakes were getting bigger...
We're up and running again. BlogOLink is back.
For a while, it was going passably well: Quasi-regular updates, musings on this and that, and the tale of the saga of the air conditioner. But then came the Great Black Hole...an information blackout that has descended for nearly seven months.
Well, I'm back, and I have a good excuse: Life is what happens when you have other plans, but getting married prevents you from making them in the first place. You must focus, concentrate, and Obey Your Wife.
You fall into new routines, once you're married. You come home at the end of the day, and have dinner together, or watch TV and eat, or watch TV. And you talk. Time on the computer -especially for the man of the house - becomes a string of stolen moments. You have to hop on when your wife isn't paying attention, lest she drag you off, or you must get there before her, or she'll spend the whole night gawking at pictures of dogs in need of adoption on Craigslist.
Eventually, you find your happy mediums. She realizes that she will never keep you away from the computer as much as she prefers, despite her pleas that you exercise more (well, we're working on it). You resign yourself to the fact that you will never be as buff as she, and you feel OK about it. She gives you time for silly hobbies like home computer flight simulator, and you accept the fact that, sooner than later, she's going to bring home a dog.
This is marriage, and so it goes. But you know you'd never be as happy - or enjoy life as much - without her. And so coming home is a pleasure every day.
Perhaps the sign that things in the new marriage are off to a good start, at least, is when you come home from work one evening and say the following to your wife:
"I just had this crazy idea at work today. There's an airfare sale on, and fares to Chicago are dirt cheap. I think I might go there on a Saturday next month...just to fly there and back. It will cost me $110. What do you think?"
About now, the average husband might expect to get a frown, a disapproving look, or an exclamation: "What? You moron! Why would you want to do that?!"
But not my lovely wife. She said, "I think you should go! I think you would appreciate it a lot, and you would have fun."
Score!
Here's the backstory: I wanted to catch a ride on a DC-9. They're a familiar sight to those of us Minnesotans who travel through Minneapolis-St. Paul International Airport: slim jets with twin engines at the back of the fuselage and a red T-tail (not to be confused with the much smaller, and much newer, CRJ). Why? Because Northwest is the only airline in North America that still flies the DC-9 on regularly scheduled passenger routes. You'll see a few DC-9s working as cargo haulers, and you'll find them on just a handful of passenger airlines elsewhere in the world. Today, Northwest is the world's largest operator of DC-9s...significant because these planes were built before I was even born.
They're being phased out now, like the 727 before them, in favor of newer, more fuel-efficient aircraft. These are your Airbuses, your next generation Boeings, your Embrarer E-jets, and a new yet-to-be-developed line from Bombardier called the "C Jets." Northwest has the oldest fleet of any of the major U.S. airlines, and the DC-9s are a big reason why. Many of these planes were delivered from the manufacturer more than 30 years ago, to airlines like Eastern and Republic that don't even exist anymore. They're still flying today thanks to a regimen of regular and thorough maintenance checks...the same that any airliner in the U.S. undergoes.
DC-9 pilots have said the jet is built like a tank and flies like a sportscar. But within a few years, you won't hear them thundering through the skies above Minnesota any longer. Every era of aviation eventually comes to an end. And with a looming (possible) merger between Northwest and Delta, there was speculation that the retirement of the DC-9s might be moved up significantly. I didn't want to miss out on another chance to fly them.
So I took advantage of a cheap airfare and bought a round-trip ticket to Chicago for last Saturday. Departing Minneapolis at 9 a.m., and turning around at O'Hare and coming back to MSP over the lunch hour. Both flights on a DC-9. Now that's passion.
Saturday morning saw me up in the pre-dawn hours, and out the door at 7 a.m. for a drive to the Ft. Snelling LRT station park-and-ride. No sense paying to use the ramp at the airport when the park-and-ride was two minutes and $1.50 away by train. Snowflakes swirled through the air as I boarded. True to the schedule, two minutes later I was stepping onto the platform at the airport's cavernous underground LRT station. Up several flights of escalators, I found a check-in kiosk. Going through security was a snap, though I overheard one of the TSA guards tell another that what she was looking at in my bag, via the x-ray machine, was a big camera lens. Fortunately, no one asked questions.
I was at Gate G19 a few minutes later, and settled in a chair by the window to watch the snowflakes fall on the lineup of morning departures. When it was time to begin boarding our plane, the gate agent announced a 10-minute departure delay because of a problem with the plane's PA system. It was fixed by the time we boarded, and everything was squared away for a nearly-on-time pushback of flight 126. The engines spooled up to a throbbing roar.
Then we sat. Two minutes went by. Then the pilot's voice crackled over the PA: "Folks, from the flight deck, we have a hydraulic indicator here, and we need to figure out if we actually have a problem with the system or if it's just the indicator. So we're going to taxi back to the gate and get this figured out. It's probably going to take us 15-20 minutes. We apologize for the delay, and we'll update you as soon as we have more information."
I glanced at my watch. Just under three hours until my return flight from O'Hare was scheduled to depart. And now, another delay. Outside, the snow was falling harder, and the flakes were getting bigger...
Tuesday, July 10, 2007
Welcome news from Moscow
It was in the midst of whipping together a pot of chili Sunday evening that I happened to glance out the window and see this:
I’ve seen my share of freaky-looking skies, but never anything quite this well endowed. These are mammatus clouds, which form on the underside of thunderstorm clouds where pockets of cool air are sagging into the warm air beneath. “Mammatus” translates roughly as “breast-cloud” in Latin. The sky was the aftermath of another glorious summer storm front moving through, which rained hail the diameter of tennis balls near St. Cloud and caused all sorts wind and flooding havoc around the metro area. As usual, Maple Grove’s Copper Marsh neighborhood was spared of all but a few good downpours. These were more than just the air-cleansing rainstorm; it rained torrents, as though Water had declared war on Oxygen and Nitrogen and was determined to blast every atmospheric molecule back to the random atoms from which they came.
(The weather gods have not always treated our neighborhood with mercy; the window screens on the north side of my house are dimpled, no doubt the enduring calling card of some long-ago hail lashing.)
The air conditioner fix-it man arrived on schedule Friday morning. He dragged all sorts of mysterious looking equipment out of his truck, and the hefty box that contained my new condenser. Soon the old beater was dragged from its languid plastic pad, rattling and groaning and leaking oil like a wounded beast. A clean, level, freshly scrubbed concrete pad replaced it—an altar for my shrine to R-22 Freon—and on the pad, the sparkling, gleaming, spectacular York air conditioner. The old Concept A/C (when they stop at the concept stage and turn it into a brand name, you ought to know you're in trouble) looked like some poor neglected piece of flotsam, dumped behind the house and left to bake in the sun for the last 10 years.
I’ve seen my share of freaky-looking skies, but never anything quite this well endowed. These are mammatus clouds, which form on the underside of thunderstorm clouds where pockets of cool air are sagging into the warm air beneath. “Mammatus” translates roughly as “breast-cloud” in Latin. The sky was the aftermath of another glorious summer storm front moving through, which rained hail the diameter of tennis balls near St. Cloud and caused all sorts wind and flooding havoc around the metro area. As usual, Maple Grove’s Copper Marsh neighborhood was spared of all but a few good downpours. These were more than just the air-cleansing rainstorm; it rained torrents, as though Water had declared war on Oxygen and Nitrogen and was determined to blast every atmospheric molecule back to the random atoms from which they came.
(The weather gods have not always treated our neighborhood with mercy; the window screens on the north side of my house are dimpled, no doubt the enduring calling card of some long-ago hail lashing.)
The air conditioner fix-it man arrived on schedule Friday morning. He dragged all sorts of mysterious looking equipment out of his truck, and the hefty box that contained my new condenser. Soon the old beater was dragged from its languid plastic pad, rattling and groaning and leaking oil like a wounded beast. A clean, level, freshly scrubbed concrete pad replaced it—an altar for my shrine to R-22 Freon—and on the pad, the sparkling, gleaming, spectacular York air conditioner. The old Concept A/C (when they stop at the concept stage and turn it into a brand name, you ought to know you're in trouble) looked like some poor neglected piece of flotsam, dumped behind the house and left to bake in the sun for the last 10 years.
But the new York? Ah, it carries the appearance of a magnificent piece of equipment. Sleek and shiny, with a three-bladed fan. This is a machine…my bride’s ticket to a comfortable, livable home for her parakeets.
Incidentally, when Carlos from Standard Heating & Air Conditioning ripped the coil—the real indoor guts of the system—out from its housing above the furnace, it was covered with corrosion and rust. This, it seemed, was the likely place of the leak. Is this sort of wear normal? I asked. “I’ve seen much worse,” he replied with a chuckle. Hmm. Well, anyway, it is done.
This marvelous installation occurred just in time for the weekend’s blast-furnace heat: 98 degrees on Saturday! And 103 in and around the car at a church parking lot; I ventured out for a wedding—another friend from high school is hitched. Now I’m the next “another friend from high school.” Saturday’s wedding was a major reality check, for Sunday was the official two-months-to-go mark. With Jenni away, I celebrated in the best fashion possible under the circumstances: a major water change in the fish tank; clipping coupons; and taking an online defensive driving test (“Now available in Spanish!”) to get a lower rate on my car insurance (Did you know, for instance, that if you decide to pass a car going 50 mph in a 55-mph zone on a two-lane road, you will be in the oncoming lane of traffic for two miles? What’s that, you say? Why would it take that long, and why on earth would anyone drive in the oncoming lane for two miles? That’s crazy! Well, you’d be right…but our friends at the National Safety Council certainly do not want you to break the law by speeding. Thus the two-mile-long passing maneuver, because you can only legally go 55 mph. But I also learned some useful facts: between 10 p.m. and 2 a.m. on weekend nights, and average of one in every five drivers on the road is intoxicated. Think about that next time you’re cruising down 35W or I-94 late on a Saturday night. Shudder.).
And then mid-morning Monday, the Greatest Thing All Week took place: An E-Mail From Jenni! This showed up spontaneously around 10 a.m.—or 7 p.m. Russia time. The subject: “I’m Alive!” Yes, she arrived alive and with no problems. And she’s fine. Having a good time, working with the kids, seeing some sights, and feeling safe. Apparently, she went into Moscow to see St. Basil’s with her counselor counterpart, a guy named Branndon, who is “very nice” and has “traveled a lot” and “knows what he is doing.” So, no worries! My fiancée is seeing the wonderful sights of Europe with a guy she just met who is well traveled and very nice.
Well. Three cheers for that. But it is better that he is well-traveled than not, I suppose.
Of course I know that everything will be fine. I appreciate your intention of telling me so, but I know that. It’s just my job to worry—as both the left behind fiancé, and because Jenni rarely ever worries about anything. I feel a bit obligated to pick up her slack.
Truly, though, I am relieved that she is OK doing well. Regrettably, she added that it took her 45 minutes to log on to the Internet and write a short e-mail, so she would not be doing so again and we will have to hear from her again until she arrives at MSP next Wednesday evening.
RIP, Concept 10.
Incidentally, when Carlos from Standard Heating & Air Conditioning ripped the coil—the real indoor guts of the system—out from its housing above the furnace, it was covered with corrosion and rust. This, it seemed, was the likely place of the leak. Is this sort of wear normal? I asked. “I’ve seen much worse,” he replied with a chuckle. Hmm. Well, anyway, it is done.
This marvelous installation occurred just in time for the weekend’s blast-furnace heat: 98 degrees on Saturday! And 103 in and around the car at a church parking lot; I ventured out for a wedding—another friend from high school is hitched. Now I’m the next “another friend from high school.” Saturday’s wedding was a major reality check, for Sunday was the official two-months-to-go mark. With Jenni away, I celebrated in the best fashion possible under the circumstances: a major water change in the fish tank; clipping coupons; and taking an online defensive driving test (“Now available in Spanish!”) to get a lower rate on my car insurance (Did you know, for instance, that if you decide to pass a car going 50 mph in a 55-mph zone on a two-lane road, you will be in the oncoming lane of traffic for two miles? What’s that, you say? Why would it take that long, and why on earth would anyone drive in the oncoming lane for two miles? That’s crazy! Well, you’d be right…but our friends at the National Safety Council certainly do not want you to break the law by speeding. Thus the two-mile-long passing maneuver, because you can only legally go 55 mph. But I also learned some useful facts: between 10 p.m. and 2 a.m. on weekend nights, and average of one in every five drivers on the road is intoxicated. Think about that next time you’re cruising down 35W or I-94 late on a Saturday night. Shudder.).
And then mid-morning Monday, the Greatest Thing All Week took place: An E-Mail From Jenni! This showed up spontaneously around 10 a.m.—or 7 p.m. Russia time. The subject: “I’m Alive!” Yes, she arrived alive and with no problems. And she’s fine. Having a good time, working with the kids, seeing some sights, and feeling safe. Apparently, she went into Moscow to see St. Basil’s with her counselor counterpart, a guy named Branndon, who is “very nice” and has “traveled a lot” and “knows what he is doing.” So, no worries! My fiancée is seeing the wonderful sights of Europe with a guy she just met who is well traveled and very nice.
Well. Three cheers for that. But it is better that he is well-traveled than not, I suppose.
Of course I know that everything will be fine. I appreciate your intention of telling me so, but I know that. It’s just my job to worry—as both the left behind fiancé, and because Jenni rarely ever worries about anything. I feel a bit obligated to pick up her slack.
Truly, though, I am relieved that she is OK doing well. Regrettably, she added that it took her 45 minutes to log on to the Internet and write a short e-mail, so she would not be doing so again and we will have to hear from her again until she arrives at MSP next Wednesday evening.
RIP, Concept 10.
Wednesday, July 4, 2007
No fireworks this Fourth
Thirty minutes to fireworks. Another Fourth of July...er, Independence Day...is about to culminate with colorful, thundering explosions spreading across the night sky. And my fiancee is a thousand miles away.
As I write, Jenni is sitting inside a Boeing 767, hurtling through night at 600 miles an hour 34,000 feet above the North Atlantic. She's on her way to Russia, where she'll be spending two weeks at a camp, leading activities for Russian children to help them learn English and a little teamwork, too. It's quite an adventure for her, while those of us left behind are worrying about bribes, kidnapping, corruption, stolen passports, and all of the other wonderful things Russia is known for. If all goes according to plan, Jenni's plane will touch down at Moscow's Sheremetyevo Airport about 2:30 a.m. Minnesota time. Then she's off to the Mr. English camp. Yes, that's the name of the organization that runs this camp. Apparently it's a large, well-known English school over there. Not exactly the sort of name that instills confidence.
My Fourth began at the dew-soaked hour of 5:45 a.m. Jenni woke me up so we could chow breakfast, say au revoir to her parents, and head off to the airport. Between stupid "express" check-in kiosks that didn't work, questions about frequent flyer miles, and attaching luggage tags, it took us nearly an hour to get squared away at ticketing. We steered away from the huge heard of sheep in the security screening line by the Delta counters and headed over to Northwest ticketing territory. Then it was a teary goodbye, and off Jenni went. Into the line...through the screening gate...belt off, back through again...beyond to collect her things, then one more wave goodbye before she disappeared into the terminal.
I stood there for a minute, thinking about her adventure ahead. It's never fun to be left behind. But that's life...and so it was back to the car to grab the camera. As a dutiful husband-to-be, I wasn't about to leave without watching Jenni's plane climb into the haze. So I wandered around until I found the elevators up to the top of the parking ramp. Level 7. Hot up there, under the already burning sun. Lots of long-term cars, but no people. Strangely deserted, even though nearly every spot was full. I found a great vantage point where I could see the plane at the gate and fired off a few shots. Watched it push back, heard the howl of the engines firing up, and watched it taxi. I've never see the airport so quiet. The Delta MD-88 had a wide-open taxiway and was first in line for departure. Ten minutes after it started to push back from the gate, it was rolling down Runway 30R (that's pronounced "three-zero-right"). I watched the jet, trailing smoky exhaust, until it disappeared into the haze. Jenni was off to Atlanta, where she'd connect through to Moscow.
Back to the car again, and a quick exit from the airport after forking over my $7 tariff for the goodbye and the departure spotting. Here was a holiday, a day off, and so far I'd kissed my fiancee goodbye to the clutches of the Soviets and paid seven bucks to do it.
As I write, Jenni is sitting inside a Boeing 767, hurtling through night at 600 miles an hour 34,000 feet above the North Atlantic. She's on her way to Russia, where she'll be spending two weeks at a camp, leading activities for Russian children to help them learn English and a little teamwork, too. It's quite an adventure for her, while those of us left behind are worrying about bribes, kidnapping, corruption, stolen passports, and all of the other wonderful things Russia is known for. If all goes according to plan, Jenni's plane will touch down at Moscow's Sheremetyevo Airport about 2:30 a.m. Minnesota time. Then she's off to the Mr. English camp. Yes, that's the name of the organization that runs this camp. Apparently it's a large, well-known English school over there. Not exactly the sort of name that instills confidence.
My Fourth began at the dew-soaked hour of 5:45 a.m. Jenni woke me up so we could chow breakfast, say au revoir to her parents, and head off to the airport. Between stupid "express" check-in kiosks that didn't work, questions about frequent flyer miles, and attaching luggage tags, it took us nearly an hour to get squared away at ticketing. We steered away from the huge heard of sheep in the security screening line by the Delta counters and headed over to Northwest ticketing territory. Then it was a teary goodbye, and off Jenni went. Into the line...through the screening gate...belt off, back through again...beyond to collect her things, then one more wave goodbye before she disappeared into the terminal.
I stood there for a minute, thinking about her adventure ahead. It's never fun to be left behind. But that's life...and so it was back to the car to grab the camera. As a dutiful husband-to-be, I wasn't about to leave without watching Jenni's plane climb into the haze. So I wandered around until I found the elevators up to the top of the parking ramp. Level 7. Hot up there, under the already burning sun. Lots of long-term cars, but no people. Strangely deserted, even though nearly every spot was full. I found a great vantage point where I could see the plane at the gate and fired off a few shots. Watched it push back, heard the howl of the engines firing up, and watched it taxi. I've never see the airport so quiet. The Delta MD-88 had a wide-open taxiway and was first in line for departure. Ten minutes after it started to push back from the gate, it was rolling down Runway 30R (that's pronounced "three-zero-right"). I watched the jet, trailing smoky exhaust, until it disappeared into the haze. Jenni was off to Atlanta, where she'd connect through to Moscow.
Back to the car again, and a quick exit from the airport after forking over my $7 tariff for the goodbye and the departure spotting. Here was a holiday, a day off, and so far I'd kissed my fiancee goodbye to the clutches of the Soviets and paid seven bucks to do it.
So why not spend more money? I did just what Jenni recommended: Went to PetCo and bought another fish. A guppy, with a leopard-print tail and beautiful iridescent coloring. This brings the total number of fish in the tank to 15, after adding a rosy barb, dwarf gourami, and some little algae-eater, whose scientific name I can't remember, last Friday. Then went to Cub to buy ice cream at a BOGO-with-a-coupon sale.
Back at the homestead, the guppy was released into the tank. The zebra danio, self-appointed welcoming committee, chased the hell out of the guppy, who made a hasty retreat to the protection of the fake plants. He's been there all day.
Later, I went to St. Cloud for a family gathering and delicious food. Saw two bald eagles soar down the river valley at eye level - very appropriate for today. Back home this evening, checked the progress of Jenni's flight on Flight Aware several times, and eventually dragged myself out for a quick jog at nine o'clock.
The neighborhood was typical Fourth in suburbia. Clouds of smoke hung over backyards; I caught whiffs of tangy sulfur as I ran. Through the park, the path bore the scars of pyromania: white-gray burn marks and blown-up bits of cardboard. Further along, a backyard family gathering was in full swing. Some bright-witted adult gave all the kiddies - some who were clearly not older than kindergarten-age - sparklers. They pranced and squealed while sparks flew. Injury seemed inevitable.
Later on, I saw more "fireworks"...the legal (boring) kind that spout vibrant glowing embers onto the driveway. When will Minnesota's legislature stop saving us from ourselves? I say, legalize all of the fun fireworks (bottle rockets, roman candles, low-grade explosives, you name it), give us the annual lecture about being careful, and turn us loose to let natural selection take its course. We swim at our own risk...why can't it be the same when it comes to blowing things up?
It's after 10 now. Full-swing firework time. Time to click on the news. Meanwhile, Jenni's plane is well off the Newfoundland coast, six hours out of Atlanta, with another four to go.
Think I'll have some ice cream.
Thursday, June 28, 2007
Off the treadmill
Finally, back to the blog. I thought I was lax in not posting for a few days earlier this month. And now here it's been two weeks. But I shall plead having good reasons, namely in the form of socialization and particularly wedding planning, that have kept me running on the scheduled-to-the-hilt treadmill. This isn't just an ordinary treadmill, but a turbo powered model. And it's sitting on the edge of Palisade Head. (For the untraveled, this is a 300-foot sheer cliff towering above the icy waters of Lake Superior. If the fall doesn't kill you, the frigid lake surely will.) So this is how it's been for the last couple of weeks: Run on the treadmill of work and commitments, and don't stop, or it's over the edge you go. There, certain death waits, because your wife-to-be won't stand for you falling behind on your Important Pre-Wedding To Do list.
It doesn't help when it's irritably boiling hot outdoors. Seems like it was near 90 degrees for a week straight. We were saved by a cold front that rippled through on Tuesday. The wind picked up out of the northwest and swept the heat and humidity back to the south. The last two mornings I have awoken to a chilly room and the sound of rustling leaves outside. Almost like early fall. Fantastic. The Canadian cold front and the cool "exhaust" that follows it after a summer heat wave are one of the best experiences of summer.
Anyway, here's rundown update:
Thursday, June 14 - Standard Heating and Air Conditioning sent an air conditioner life-support technician out to the house. I expected to come home from work, let him in, and watch him work his magic in short order. Oh, but the news wasn't good. He explained most expertly that the system had a coolant leak - one so severe that there was hardly any freon left in the system. Freon, of course, is what gives the air conditioner its coldness...so no R-22, no cold air. This explains why I'd run the system for 24 hours to find that the house had actually gotten warmer. And the news got worse: A freon leak is the equivalent of advanced, malignant cancer that has spread to the brain, heart, lungs and extremities: We're talking weeks, not months. Leaks are usually in a worst-case-scenario location - although it would cost nearly $300 to locate and even then, probably wouldn't be a simple fix. The technician was able to perform a tune-up to get the AC running temporarily, but the end diagnosis was grim: Given the age of the system, and the likelihood that other components would fail in the next five years, replacement was undoubtedly the best option. Today's systems are built to be replaced, not repaired. With these glad tidings, thus began my three-day weekend.
Friday-Sunday, June 15-17 - Took work off on Friday. Just for fun. Jenni and I went to St. Cloud to house-sit for my dad and Jamie, who were in Wyoming. The house-sitting gig is a good one; hang out at home, water the grass and mow the lawn, and enjoy the surrounding woods and big-screen TV. We also ventured out for a 30-mile bike ride on the Lake Wobegon Trail, riding from Avon to Albany to Holdingford and back. My friend Kristen used to work across the street from Albany's landmark Kraft cheese plant, so I related to Jenni Kristen's experiences of coming out to her car after work to fine small bits of cheese dust coating her car, not unlike a light coating of orange snow. One memorable day the plant suffered a malfunction and large chunks of cheese went blowing out of its stacks, causing the Kraft folks to send a clean-up crew out to Railroad Avenue and sweep/shovel/wipe of the clods of cheddar that had decorated downtown. A good episode for Garrison Keillor's Lake Wobegon, if anything. Leaving the cheese factory behind, we pedaled past picturesque farmland, shady forests, and fragrant meadows underneath the expansive prairie sky. (We also biked past a flock of sheep; Jenni baaa-ed. My response: "No pets!")
Monday, June 18 - New fish came home! My aquarium hit the up-and-running-for-a-month mark, so I brought a sample of water to PetCo and got the green light on water quality. Time to add a few residents to the tank! I brought home two albino corydora catfish and three vibrant neon tetras.The corys are a type of catfish; by scouring the bottom, rocks, and plants looking for food, they keep the tank clean. The neons are pure eye candy. Their iridescence, flashing electric blue and red, makes me smile every time I enter the dining room.
Tuesday, June 19 - Had another wedding meeting this day. We sat down with our church's musical director to figure out songs for the ceremony. I thought this was going to be long and difficult and almost didn't go. But Jenni prodded gently, so along I went. Actually, it was enjoyable. The musical director had good suggestions, and I rescued our opening hymn from a somber-sounding "Joyful Joyful We Adore Thee" (sung to "Ode to Joy") to something more contemporary and cheery ("Gather Us In," a song I'm sure Catholic readers know well). Marriage is about compromise, but sometimes you have to stick to your guns. (Jenni still got her "Ode to Joy" music in a delightful arrangement that will be our processional.)
The rest of the week - It flew by. Jenni's friends Kay and Jake joined us for dinner on Wednesday. We've entered that stage of grown-up-ness where we often hang with couples, and more and more of them are married. Not that I mind, because Jake and Kay are loads of fun. They returned the favor by having us over on Saturday evening for steaks. And mutual friends Amy and Brodie joined us. Our group of six then romped around the yard until dark playing bocce ball. The women won; luck was on their side.
Also brought more new fish home on Saturday. Two gold dust mollies - small fish aptly named for their color - are adding another burst of color to the tank. And two more neons joined the mix. The neons are a shoaling fish, meaning they are happiest in a school, and preferably at least five, thank you. The new neons immediately joined up with the fledgling school, and the new group seems happier now that they are a more legitimate size.
This week's free time has been devoted largely to wedding prep, getting invitations ready to go out the door. I used Adobe InDesign - purchased for our computer with Jenni's educational discount at Minnesota State University Mankato - to design a whiz-bang invitation insert with a top-notch map. Finally, I am contributing. I was most pleased with the result.
Now, as this week is drawing to a close, I have to get install crew from Standard Heating scheduled. A superbly knowledgeable and helpful guy name Zack came out to to the homestead last Friday to give me the official estimate on a new air conditioning system. Ouch. These things aren't cheap. So ironic that a week after I get a raise, I learn that it will be all spent - and then some - on keeping the house cool. But the upside is that we will have a brand-new system, expertly installed, that is more energy efficient and comes with a five-year warranty.
My only consolation is that the current system is old enough and cheap enough that we would likely have to replace it anyway before we sell the house. So there it is. Some things you just don't wait on.
More fish coming home tomorrow!
It doesn't help when it's irritably boiling hot outdoors. Seems like it was near 90 degrees for a week straight. We were saved by a cold front that rippled through on Tuesday. The wind picked up out of the northwest and swept the heat and humidity back to the south. The last two mornings I have awoken to a chilly room and the sound of rustling leaves outside. Almost like early fall. Fantastic. The Canadian cold front and the cool "exhaust" that follows it after a summer heat wave are one of the best experiences of summer.
Anyway, here's rundown update:
Thursday, June 14 - Standard Heating and Air Conditioning sent an air conditioner life-support technician out to the house. I expected to come home from work, let him in, and watch him work his magic in short order. Oh, but the news wasn't good. He explained most expertly that the system had a coolant leak - one so severe that there was hardly any freon left in the system. Freon, of course, is what gives the air conditioner its coldness...so no R-22, no cold air. This explains why I'd run the system for 24 hours to find that the house had actually gotten warmer. And the news got worse: A freon leak is the equivalent of advanced, malignant cancer that has spread to the brain, heart, lungs and extremities: We're talking weeks, not months. Leaks are usually in a worst-case-scenario location - although it would cost nearly $300 to locate and even then, probably wouldn't be a simple fix. The technician was able to perform a tune-up to get the AC running temporarily, but the end diagnosis was grim: Given the age of the system, and the likelihood that other components would fail in the next five years, replacement was undoubtedly the best option. Today's systems are built to be replaced, not repaired. With these glad tidings, thus began my three-day weekend.
Friday-Sunday, June 15-17 - Took work off on Friday. Just for fun. Jenni and I went to St. Cloud to house-sit for my dad and Jamie, who were in Wyoming. The house-sitting gig is a good one; hang out at home, water the grass and mow the lawn, and enjoy the surrounding woods and big-screen TV. We also ventured out for a 30-mile bike ride on the Lake Wobegon Trail, riding from Avon to Albany to Holdingford and back. My friend Kristen used to work across the street from Albany's landmark Kraft cheese plant, so I related to Jenni Kristen's experiences of coming out to her car after work to fine small bits of cheese dust coating her car, not unlike a light coating of orange snow. One memorable day the plant suffered a malfunction and large chunks of cheese went blowing out of its stacks, causing the Kraft folks to send a clean-up crew out to Railroad Avenue and sweep/shovel/wipe of the clods of cheddar that had decorated downtown. A good episode for Garrison Keillor's Lake Wobegon, if anything. Leaving the cheese factory behind, we pedaled past picturesque farmland, shady forests, and fragrant meadows underneath the expansive prairie sky. (We also biked past a flock of sheep; Jenni baaa-ed. My response: "No pets!")
Monday, June 18 - New fish came home! My aquarium hit the up-and-running-for-a-month mark, so I brought a sample of water to PetCo and got the green light on water quality. Time to add a few residents to the tank! I brought home two albino corydora catfish and three vibrant neon tetras.The corys are a type of catfish; by scouring the bottom, rocks, and plants looking for food, they keep the tank clean. The neons are pure eye candy. Their iridescence, flashing electric blue and red, makes me smile every time I enter the dining room.
Tuesday, June 19 - Had another wedding meeting this day. We sat down with our church's musical director to figure out songs for the ceremony. I thought this was going to be long and difficult and almost didn't go. But Jenni prodded gently, so along I went. Actually, it was enjoyable. The musical director had good suggestions, and I rescued our opening hymn from a somber-sounding "Joyful Joyful We Adore Thee" (sung to "Ode to Joy") to something more contemporary and cheery ("Gather Us In," a song I'm sure Catholic readers know well). Marriage is about compromise, but sometimes you have to stick to your guns. (Jenni still got her "Ode to Joy" music in a delightful arrangement that will be our processional.)
The rest of the week - It flew by. Jenni's friends Kay and Jake joined us for dinner on Wednesday. We've entered that stage of grown-up-ness where we often hang with couples, and more and more of them are married. Not that I mind, because Jake and Kay are loads of fun. They returned the favor by having us over on Saturday evening for steaks. And mutual friends Amy and Brodie joined us. Our group of six then romped around the yard until dark playing bocce ball. The women won; luck was on their side.
Also brought more new fish home on Saturday. Two gold dust mollies - small fish aptly named for their color - are adding another burst of color to the tank. And two more neons joined the mix. The neons are a shoaling fish, meaning they are happiest in a school, and preferably at least five, thank you. The new neons immediately joined up with the fledgling school, and the new group seems happier now that they are a more legitimate size.
This week's free time has been devoted largely to wedding prep, getting invitations ready to go out the door. I used Adobe InDesign - purchased for our computer with Jenni's educational discount at Minnesota State University Mankato - to design a whiz-bang invitation insert with a top-notch map. Finally, I am contributing. I was most pleased with the result.
Now, as this week is drawing to a close, I have to get install crew from Standard Heating scheduled. A superbly knowledgeable and helpful guy name Zack came out to to the homestead last Friday to give me the official estimate on a new air conditioning system. Ouch. These things aren't cheap. So ironic that a week after I get a raise, I learn that it will be all spent - and then some - on keeping the house cool. But the upside is that we will have a brand-new system, expertly installed, that is more energy efficient and comes with a five-year warranty.
My only consolation is that the current system is old enough and cheap enough that we would likely have to replace it anyway before we sell the house. So there it is. Some things you just don't wait on.
More fish coming home tomorrow!
Thursday, June 14, 2007
Wherefore art thou air conditioning?
Please accept my apologies for not posting in nearly a week. I have been having an indoor climate emergency at the homestead. Since I am dashing off a quick update from the office this morning, I must be brief. These stolen moments we have together! How they make my heart pound with anticipation! And what if we're caught?! Oh, the intensity of it all.
Anyway. The office is as dead quiet as a morgue. So here it is:
We did make it to the top of the Rainbow Foods in Richfield. Pictures later. New experience: Picnic dinner on the roof of a grocery store. I'm glad I had the camera along. Probably a once-in-a-lifetime experience.
Pre-wedding discussionfest - a.k.a. Engagement Encounter - was long, but Jenni and I had some good discussions. Plus our hosts served us burgers and some tasty prone-to-squirting-liquid-butter-out-of-the-center breaded chicken a la rice pilaf (separate meals, obviously). Arm ached all weekend from the tetanus booster. Oh, well. If I step on a nail anytime in the next 10 years it will be worth it.
Not feeling so well Monday. Got through the workday, came home to a hot house, turned on the fans. Long story short, decided to click on the air conditioner before bed to cool down the indoors. Woke up still feeling like I had the flu coming on, so I called in sick. Strangely enough, the blower fan and air conditioner were still running. Groggy, I tumbled back into bed. Hours passed. I finally emerged early in the afternoon. I felt better, but hot. The house was stuffy. The air conditioner was still running, the vent still blowing lukewarm air, and it was HOT in the house. Eighty-three degrees in the dining room, where my theromostat presides over the household.
The awful truth: something in the homestead's HVAC system was drastically wrong. I had run the air conditioner for 14 hours - constantly, it seemed - and the indoor temperature had actually gone UP. Of course, by the time I figured this out and called the fix-it man, the splashes of sunlight on the living room floor were lengthening. The earliest I could get a repair? Thursday afternoon.
By 6 o'clock Tuesday it was 87 degrees in my living room. Thankfully Jenni had arrived and we dashed off to a wedding planning meeting at our (air conditioned) church. When we returned, thus began the regimen of the last couple of days - open every window in the house as the sky turned dusky, turn on the fans, and hope for the best overnight. In the morning, turn off the fans, close the windows, close every shade and curtain, and hope the house can retain some relative coolness. I say relative because it hasn't gotten much cooler than about 70 or the high 60s at night, which isn't enough to keep the house cool when its 90 during the day.
I considered updating the blog last night, but my computer's cooling fan was whirring angrily and I feared that if I ran it much longer it would melt into an oozy puddle of circuitry and colorful mutated plastic. So alas, no updates until today.
The fix-it man should be along this afternoon. I shall leave work early to meet him. Fingers are crossed that all will be comfortably cool in a few hours...
Anyway. The office is as dead quiet as a morgue. So here it is:
We did make it to the top of the Rainbow Foods in Richfield. Pictures later. New experience: Picnic dinner on the roof of a grocery store. I'm glad I had the camera along. Probably a once-in-a-lifetime experience.
Pre-wedding discussionfest - a.k.a. Engagement Encounter - was long, but Jenni and I had some good discussions. Plus our hosts served us burgers and some tasty prone-to-squirting-liquid-butter-out-of-the-center breaded chicken a la rice pilaf (separate meals, obviously). Arm ached all weekend from the tetanus booster. Oh, well. If I step on a nail anytime in the next 10 years it will be worth it.
Not feeling so well Monday. Got through the workday, came home to a hot house, turned on the fans. Long story short, decided to click on the air conditioner before bed to cool down the indoors. Woke up still feeling like I had the flu coming on, so I called in sick. Strangely enough, the blower fan and air conditioner were still running. Groggy, I tumbled back into bed. Hours passed. I finally emerged early in the afternoon. I felt better, but hot. The house was stuffy. The air conditioner was still running, the vent still blowing lukewarm air, and it was HOT in the house. Eighty-three degrees in the dining room, where my theromostat presides over the household.
The awful truth: something in the homestead's HVAC system was drastically wrong. I had run the air conditioner for 14 hours - constantly, it seemed - and the indoor temperature had actually gone UP. Of course, by the time I figured this out and called the fix-it man, the splashes of sunlight on the living room floor were lengthening. The earliest I could get a repair? Thursday afternoon.
By 6 o'clock Tuesday it was 87 degrees in my living room. Thankfully Jenni had arrived and we dashed off to a wedding planning meeting at our (air conditioned) church. When we returned, thus began the regimen of the last couple of days - open every window in the house as the sky turned dusky, turn on the fans, and hope for the best overnight. In the morning, turn off the fans, close the windows, close every shade and curtain, and hope the house can retain some relative coolness. I say relative because it hasn't gotten much cooler than about 70 or the high 60s at night, which isn't enough to keep the house cool when its 90 during the day.
I considered updating the blog last night, but my computer's cooling fan was whirring angrily and I feared that if I ran it much longer it would melt into an oozy puddle of circuitry and colorful mutated plastic. So alas, no updates until today.
The fix-it man should be along this afternoon. I shall leave work early to meet him. Fingers are crossed that all will be comfortably cool in a few hours...
Friday, June 8, 2007
Cold, moist carrots
Went to the doctor's office this sunny mid-day. Can't get enough of these half-day Fridays. Is there anything more glorious than breaking free of the working world at noon on a Friday when it is 73 degrees and there's not a cloud in the blue, blue sky? I was living in the moment, until some pungent bubble of sewer gas belched its way up to the street on the corner below the curved monolith of 225 South Sixth. The rank stench of wet, slimy decay has a way of snapping you back to reality.
Nostrils tingling, it was on across the government center plaza, toward the Metrodome, to my ramp and into the car, escaping the city for the weekend. As expected, traffic was heavy. Heavier than this morning's rush hour, in fact. I'm glad I only had to go to Maple Grove, and not points west. Lots of campers and trailers and big trucks. And a giant oversized load rig with a backhoe that seemed uncomfortably close as I passed. Then exit, wind through the construction obstacle course that is northwest Maple Grove, and to the doctor's office. Easy to find, and just a mile from home.
My childhood memories of the doctor's office go something like this: Show up for your appointment and wait. Kids cough. And wait. Babies scream. Then wait some more. About the time you're sure you're going to die of germ exposure, starvation, or boredom, the nurse calls you back. You end up in a room, sitting on that bed-like thing, nearly naked and freezing. And you're lucky if 45 minutes later, just before hypothermia sets in, the doctor arrives for a three-minute look-over. He looks, he listens, he pokes, he prods, and then sends you on your way with a Tootsie Pop. (Because, note, he is not the dentist.)
My how things have changed. I filled out a form and was whisked back into the bowels of Park Nicollet Clinic by a friendly woman in colorful scrubs. She directed me to the insurance desk where another woman in a purple fleece vest had to look over all of my insurance stuff. Apparently the clinic has to process your insurance to see if it will be paid before you get to see the doctor. She didn't say much, just sat typing and not looking at me. So I looked around. A long hallway traversed the center of the building; we were in a bright atrium of sorts. There were numerous signs with arrows hanging above hallways: "A" "B" "C" "F" and so on. What is it about the interior of a clinic that screams "clinic"? You could look at one corner, one reception area, one piece of art, or some chairs, and you recognize immediately where you are: A Building of Healthcare. Is it subliminal messages in the wallpaper? Subtle color combinations? Practically, the interior decor in most non-healthcare offices and clinics or hospitals is similar. But you'd never confuse the two.
Eventually, the she gave me a piece of paper with "A 101" written on it. Hooray! My insurance is approved! Now walk to the "A" hallway, turn left, go to the end, and find Room 101.
My physical was so slick. Almost no waiting. Nice, friendly nurse (again, colorful scrubs). Slick flat-screen computer monitor over the doctor's desk area. When it came time to undress, they had a gown for me. Not some papery thing, either...real fabric. The doctor was prompt, talkatively friendly, and informative, too. And the room wasn't too cold. Everything checked out; I am healthy. All-in-all, it wasn't a bad hour. Even when I had a tetanus booster. (Speaking of which, arm soreness is setting in. Hadn't noticed that until now. Oooh.)
Now it's back home to pack for...drumroll...a pre-wedding retreat! This begins in Eagan or somewhere over that way this evening. The retreat comes highly recommended, and if you go, the state knocks $50 of the cost of your marriage license. We will be a captive audience from 7 o'clock this evening until 9:30 Saturday evening. Yes, 9:30 p.m. I have no idea. I hope it is fun.
But first Jenni and I are going to Richfield, where Jenni's dad Dan, a detective with the Richfield PD, is "camping" out atop a Rainbow Foods. He's helping raise money for Special Olympics Minnesota by taking part in Cop on Top. Rumor has it we're going to get dinner and bring it to him up on the roof. I am skeptical: Is Rainbow going to let a whole passel of people, including a two-year-old, wander around on a store roof? I smell a 10-mile long list of liability issues. I suppose we'll find out. I'm going to bring my camera just in case.
Speaking of photos and grocery stores: It appears the Cub Foods is moving toward some kind of genetically engineered carrot-potato hybrid. I plucked this out of a bag of baby carrots yesterday:
Here's a closer look. See what I mean? Potato skin. Clearly.
Cub carries two brands of baby carrots: Bolthouse Farms and Farm Fresh. The Bolthouse Farms carrots are always just the right amount of moistness. Perfect carrots, really. Farm Fresh, naturally the cheaper brand, has more questionable-looking carrots (as it turns out, Farm Fresh one of Supervalu "Signature Brands," meaning these are the "Cub brand" carrots) . Sometimes they are funny shapes. And the bags are always very wet inside. I leave mine open in the fridge to dry it out, and even that doesn't work. I know I shouldn't whine, because it is my choice to buy them. And buy them I do, because they are cheap. But when I saw the carrot above I was a bit alarmed. Are our friends at Supervalu, er, Farm Fresh trying to slip these new cotatos past us unawares?
Not this sharp-eyed masticator. But in the end, I suppose I'll eat it anyway. Off to the Richfield Rainbow, then on to learn how to be an obedient husband.
Nostrils tingling, it was on across the government center plaza, toward the Metrodome, to my ramp and into the car, escaping the city for the weekend. As expected, traffic was heavy. Heavier than this morning's rush hour, in fact. I'm glad I only had to go to Maple Grove, and not points west. Lots of campers and trailers and big trucks. And a giant oversized load rig with a backhoe that seemed uncomfortably close as I passed. Then exit, wind through the construction obstacle course that is northwest Maple Grove, and to the doctor's office. Easy to find, and just a mile from home.
My childhood memories of the doctor's office go something like this: Show up for your appointment and wait. Kids cough. And wait. Babies scream. Then wait some more. About the time you're sure you're going to die of germ exposure, starvation, or boredom, the nurse calls you back. You end up in a room, sitting on that bed-like thing, nearly naked and freezing. And you're lucky if 45 minutes later, just before hypothermia sets in, the doctor arrives for a three-minute look-over. He looks, he listens, he pokes, he prods, and then sends you on your way with a Tootsie Pop. (Because, note, he is not the dentist.)
My how things have changed. I filled out a form and was whisked back into the bowels of Park Nicollet Clinic by a friendly woman in colorful scrubs. She directed me to the insurance desk where another woman in a purple fleece vest had to look over all of my insurance stuff. Apparently the clinic has to process your insurance to see if it will be paid before you get to see the doctor. She didn't say much, just sat typing and not looking at me. So I looked around. A long hallway traversed the center of the building; we were in a bright atrium of sorts. There were numerous signs with arrows hanging above hallways: "A" "B" "C" "F" and so on. What is it about the interior of a clinic that screams "clinic"? You could look at one corner, one reception area, one piece of art, or some chairs, and you recognize immediately where you are: A Building of Healthcare. Is it subliminal messages in the wallpaper? Subtle color combinations? Practically, the interior decor in most non-healthcare offices and clinics or hospitals is similar. But you'd never confuse the two.
Eventually, the she gave me a piece of paper with "A 101" written on it. Hooray! My insurance is approved! Now walk to the "A" hallway, turn left, go to the end, and find Room 101.
My physical was so slick. Almost no waiting. Nice, friendly nurse (again, colorful scrubs). Slick flat-screen computer monitor over the doctor's desk area. When it came time to undress, they had a gown for me. Not some papery thing, either...real fabric. The doctor was prompt, talkatively friendly, and informative, too. And the room wasn't too cold. Everything checked out; I am healthy. All-in-all, it wasn't a bad hour. Even when I had a tetanus booster. (Speaking of which, arm soreness is setting in. Hadn't noticed that until now. Oooh.)
Now it's back home to pack for...drumroll...a pre-wedding retreat! This begins in Eagan or somewhere over that way this evening. The retreat comes highly recommended, and if you go, the state knocks $50 of the cost of your marriage license. We will be a captive audience from 7 o'clock this evening until 9:30 Saturday evening. Yes, 9:30 p.m. I have no idea. I hope it is fun.
But first Jenni and I are going to Richfield, where Jenni's dad Dan, a detective with the Richfield PD, is "camping" out atop a Rainbow Foods. He's helping raise money for Special Olympics Minnesota by taking part in Cop on Top. Rumor has it we're going to get dinner and bring it to him up on the roof. I am skeptical: Is Rainbow going to let a whole passel of people, including a two-year-old, wander around on a store roof? I smell a 10-mile long list of liability issues. I suppose we'll find out. I'm going to bring my camera just in case.
Speaking of photos and grocery stores: It appears the Cub Foods is moving toward some kind of genetically engineered carrot-potato hybrid. I plucked this out of a bag of baby carrots yesterday:
Here's a closer look. See what I mean? Potato skin. Clearly.
Cub carries two brands of baby carrots: Bolthouse Farms and Farm Fresh. The Bolthouse Farms carrots are always just the right amount of moistness. Perfect carrots, really. Farm Fresh, naturally the cheaper brand, has more questionable-looking carrots (as it turns out, Farm Fresh one of Supervalu "Signature Brands," meaning these are the "Cub brand" carrots) . Sometimes they are funny shapes. And the bags are always very wet inside. I leave mine open in the fridge to dry it out, and even that doesn't work. I know I shouldn't whine, because it is my choice to buy them. And buy them I do, because they are cheap. But when I saw the carrot above I was a bit alarmed. Are our friends at Supervalu, er, Farm Fresh trying to slip these new cotatos past us unawares?
Not this sharp-eyed masticator. But in the end, I suppose I'll eat it anyway. Off to the Richfield Rainbow, then on to learn how to be an obedient husband.
Monday, June 4, 2007
Blathering about films: Pirates of the Caribbean
Sorry I haven't posted in a few days. Busy busy busy. You know the drill - phalanxes of schedules march on across the weeks, laying waste to the paradise known as free time.
Actually, part of it has to do with summer hours. My office has a sweet little deal where we work an extra hour Monday through Thursday. Fridays, "the man" frees us at noon, and we scatter like schoolchildren who have just discovered the courage to cut classes for an early start on the weekend. It is wonderful, but it means I am getting to clobber the snooze button on my alarm a good 45 minutes earlier now. Five-thirty a.m. It's the new Waking Hour. ("Spoiled brat," you parents with young children are thinking.) Even the sun wasn't up when I lurched out of bed this morning. Or it was still crouching behind one of the neighboring homes. Early, in any case.
Funny how 5:30 when you are camping doesn't seem all that unreasonable. The sky is bright. The birds are wide awake and greeting the new day with morning song. The dew-soaked grass is calling you to play, to explore, to call in sick and have an adventure. Even at the cabin 5:30 is a most agreeable time. Perfect for padding down to the dock and watching the mist burn off the lake.
Not here. No, I must dash off to the bus, where I slouch, close my eyes, and pretend I'm back in bed for the half hour trip into downtown Minneapolis. I shouldn't complain. I don't have to touch my car most days; it stays safe at home in the garage and I get in and out of downtown round trip for what it would cost me to park at the cheapest, farthest-from-the-office parking ramp.
Summer hours mean my efforts at getting to bed "early" go from pathetic and worthless to half-hearted. Mountains of laundry are beckoning even now...
But oh - the reason I decided to post this evening in the first place. This weekend Jenni and the parents and I went to the latest incarnation of Pirates of the Caribbean, number three, subtitled "At World's End." Since they never let me be a film critic at the college newspaper, now I get to unload on all of you faithful blog readers (all three of you?). This movie was pretty good. It certainly was not bad. Well. Actually I don't know what it was. I had fun, I can tell you that. But I feel like I saw this huge movie, yet I can't relate much of it. I have read that you have to see it twice to fully appreciate it. That's probably true, because the beginning was a minefield of subplots. For the first half hour, I had no idea what the hell was going on, and I read a synopsis of the Pirates II plot before I went so that I would be up to speed. Eventually it settles into place. And even then, there's still a lot going on. One thing I did miss was the rollicking good time that permeated the first two movies. There's still a tone of that in III, but things are a lot more serious this time around. That's not without reason - the whole world as our yo-ho-hoing friends know it is at stake. I did miss the unexpected plot twists common in previous movies that were inevitably followed by some character scowling "Pirates!" (much like Jerry Seinfeld says "Newman!") or Johnny Depp saying "Pir-ate!" in his oops-I-got-'ya-again tone. I do have to give two bumbling East India Trading Company guards some credit (you'll remember them from the first movie where Jack Sparrow steals a ship from right under their noses) for a great scene in which they completely distract themselves from their guard duty by arguing about whether the crew of "fish people" aboard a ship has lead to a lapse in standards.
If for not the reason that I am, by film snob standards, extremely unqualified, you may also want to take this review with a grain of salt because of the teeny boppers that sat behind us. They were prone to fits of whispering and giggling, particular during some of the intense scenes. I nearly turned around and threatened to skin their gullets, savvy, but ask yourself...would that have accomplished anything? Probably not. Really, though. Some people's kids.
So Pirates is plenty of bang for your buck. Just don't be surprised if you find yourself a bit confused. Don't worry. The plot pulls together enough for plenty of naval battle ship carnage and swashbuckling at the end. I'm sure it's easier to appreciate everything the second time around.
Ask.com's Ninja was much less kind (but I think his review is better).
Now I must go make a sacrifice to Whirlapoola, the great god of agitation and the spin cycle.
Actually, part of it has to do with summer hours. My office has a sweet little deal where we work an extra hour Monday through Thursday. Fridays, "the man" frees us at noon, and we scatter like schoolchildren who have just discovered the courage to cut classes for an early start on the weekend. It is wonderful, but it means I am getting to clobber the snooze button on my alarm a good 45 minutes earlier now. Five-thirty a.m. It's the new Waking Hour. ("Spoiled brat," you parents with young children are thinking.) Even the sun wasn't up when I lurched out of bed this morning. Or it was still crouching behind one of the neighboring homes. Early, in any case.
Funny how 5:30 when you are camping doesn't seem all that unreasonable. The sky is bright. The birds are wide awake and greeting the new day with morning song. The dew-soaked grass is calling you to play, to explore, to call in sick and have an adventure. Even at the cabin 5:30 is a most agreeable time. Perfect for padding down to the dock and watching the mist burn off the lake.
Not here. No, I must dash off to the bus, where I slouch, close my eyes, and pretend I'm back in bed for the half hour trip into downtown Minneapolis. I shouldn't complain. I don't have to touch my car most days; it stays safe at home in the garage and I get in and out of downtown round trip for what it would cost me to park at the cheapest, farthest-from-the-office parking ramp.
Summer hours mean my efforts at getting to bed "early" go from pathetic and worthless to half-hearted. Mountains of laundry are beckoning even now...
But oh - the reason I decided to post this evening in the first place. This weekend Jenni and the parents and I went to the latest incarnation of Pirates of the Caribbean, number three, subtitled "At World's End." Since they never let me be a film critic at the college newspaper, now I get to unload on all of you faithful blog readers (all three of you?). This movie was pretty good. It certainly was not bad. Well. Actually I don't know what it was. I had fun, I can tell you that. But I feel like I saw this huge movie, yet I can't relate much of it. I have read that you have to see it twice to fully appreciate it. That's probably true, because the beginning was a minefield of subplots. For the first half hour, I had no idea what the hell was going on, and I read a synopsis of the Pirates II plot before I went so that I would be up to speed. Eventually it settles into place. And even then, there's still a lot going on. One thing I did miss was the rollicking good time that permeated the first two movies. There's still a tone of that in III, but things are a lot more serious this time around. That's not without reason - the whole world as our yo-ho-hoing friends know it is at stake. I did miss the unexpected plot twists common in previous movies that were inevitably followed by some character scowling "Pirates!" (much like Jerry Seinfeld says "Newman!") or Johnny Depp saying "Pir-ate!" in his oops-I-got-'ya-again tone. I do have to give two bumbling East India Trading Company guards some credit (you'll remember them from the first movie where Jack Sparrow steals a ship from right under their noses) for a great scene in which they completely distract themselves from their guard duty by arguing about whether the crew of "fish people" aboard a ship has lead to a lapse in standards.
If for not the reason that I am, by film snob standards, extremely unqualified, you may also want to take this review with a grain of salt because of the teeny boppers that sat behind us. They were prone to fits of whispering and giggling, particular during some of the intense scenes. I nearly turned around and threatened to skin their gullets, savvy, but ask yourself...would that have accomplished anything? Probably not. Really, though. Some people's kids.
So Pirates is plenty of bang for your buck. Just don't be surprised if you find yourself a bit confused. Don't worry. The plot pulls together enough for plenty of naval battle ship carnage and swashbuckling at the end. I'm sure it's easier to appreciate everything the second time around.
Ask.com's Ninja was much less kind (but I think his review is better).
Now I must go make a sacrifice to Whirlapoola, the great god of agitation and the spin cycle.
Wednesday, May 30, 2007
Germs and snakes on a plane
Quick food for thought this evening:
The next time you're shoved into the back of an airplane like a sardine, proximate to both Coughing Guy and Screaming Baby, count your lucky stars. First, take some Airborne. (Oooh! Web Fun! Follow the Airborne link. Which diseases you think the three germy characters on the Airborne homepage represent? We have Pink Amoeba Thing, Hungry Purple Blob, and Stripey Suction Nose. Post your thoughts in the comment section. Personally, I think Hungry and Stripey look normal enough for germs, but Pink Amoeba looks rather deranged.)
Back to our unfortunate situation in coach. Hacking and crying aside, be thankful you aren't sitting next to a dude with a bunch of snakes. I can see why they stopped him. A couple hundred snakes...no big deal. Just call in Samuel L. Jackson to lay down some smack on those slitherin' reptiles. But 700? What was he thinking?
Back to our unfortunate situation in coach. Hacking and crying aside, be thankful you aren't sitting next to a dude with a bunch of snakes. I can see why they stopped him. A couple hundred snakes...no big deal. Just call in Samuel L. Jackson to lay down some smack on those slitherin' reptiles. But 700? What was he thinking?
Random photo for today: The downtown Minneapolis Mill District, snapped by me this afternoon from beneath the graceful curve of the 120-year-old Stone Arch Bridge. That's the new Guthrie Theater on the left, next to the Mill City Museum, the ruins of an exploded mill, and some new condos.
Tuesday, May 29, 2007
Lurking Turtle-Monster prompts call to cops; domesticated bunny devours grass, shrubs
It was quite the weekend for animal encounters in my neighborhood. Fauna isn't uncommon; our homes are clustered cozily among patches of woods and wetlands (a.k.a. "swamps" in the parlance of not-so-polite company). Birds are everywhere, the frogs are deafening-loud in the spring, and some rather cottontail large rabbits hop across my patio from time to time. All of these are delightful. Who knew there was still wildlife in the manicured suburbs?
I have tried my hand at photographing some of these critters, with below-average-to-poor results...as you'll see in a moment. But first...
The wildlife "encounters" of the spring began with the robins in April. As I was yanking my Christmas lights out of the pine tree near my front door, orange feathers and flapping wings exploded out of the spruce's midsection. (If you're wondering...yes, they are environmentally friendly LED lights. If I'm going to go through the three-hour hassle of untangling them next fall while cursing like a sailor, they might as well work.)
I leaped back, but curiosity got the better of me. A peek through the branches revealed, a nest, with several robins-egg-blue eggs. A few weeks later these eggs hatched and there were large, hungry mouths poking out of the nest. My frequent checking seemed more along the lines of suspicious prowling to the robins, which flew low-level reconnaissance missions overhead while chirping bloody murder: "Danger! Level III bird molester within sight of the nest!" They left several reminders of their feelings on the sidewalk, patio, and living room window.
Thankfully the babies grew fast. Last time I saw them - last week - the speckled fledglings were hopping about the yard and learning to fly. Mom and pop robin were relaxing a bit. My yard was my domain again.
Strolling back from the bus Friday afternoon, I was witness to a most curious scene. Three people - one of them a law enforcement officer - were lugging a large dog carrier across the street toward a wooded area a half block from my house. The carrier was obviously heavy. Reaching the far side of the street, they hefted it toward the woods, pulled the top off, and attempted to empty the contents. No one wanted to get too close to whatever was inside, and the "it" made some sort of aggressive move toward the man who was not the cop, causing him to jump back. It seemed likely it was not a raccoon at this point. A skunk, I hoped. That would be exciting.
Playing the curious gawker, with my tucked-in shirt and briefcase, I wandered over. By this time the thing in the dog carrier had been coaxed (well, dumped, really) into the woods. So I inquired as to what it was. The answer: a monster snapping turtle. It had landed or crawled into some brush so that its head was nearly hidden. Its time-worn shell, jagged around the edges and stained green with algae and swamp filth, was larger than a dinner platter. A leathery six-inch tail prehistorically reptilian tail protruded from the rear of the shell. The turtle lay quietly, unmoving...waiting for something. Fortunately he was not in much of a hurry - so I had time to run home, change into shorts, a t-shirt and sandals (really, in hindsight, the sandals were not a prudent thing to wear in the vicinity of a snapping turtle), and grab my camera my camera to return from some photos.
I have tried my hand at photographing some of these critters, with below-average-to-poor results...as you'll see in a moment. But first...
The wildlife "encounters" of the spring began with the robins in April. As I was yanking my Christmas lights out of the pine tree near my front door, orange feathers and flapping wings exploded out of the spruce's midsection. (If you're wondering...yes, they are environmentally friendly LED lights. If I'm going to go through the three-hour hassle of untangling them next fall while cursing like a sailor, they might as well work.)
I leaped back, but curiosity got the better of me. A peek through the branches revealed, a nest, with several robins-egg-blue eggs. A few weeks later these eggs hatched and there were large, hungry mouths poking out of the nest. My frequent checking seemed more along the lines of suspicious prowling to the robins, which flew low-level reconnaissance missions overhead while chirping bloody murder: "Danger! Level III bird molester within sight of the nest!" They left several reminders of their feelings on the sidewalk, patio, and living room window.
Thankfully the babies grew fast. Last time I saw them - last week - the speckled fledglings were hopping about the yard and learning to fly. Mom and pop robin were relaxing a bit. My yard was my domain again.
Strolling back from the bus Friday afternoon, I was witness to a most curious scene. Three people - one of them a law enforcement officer - were lugging a large dog carrier across the street toward a wooded area a half block from my house. The carrier was obviously heavy. Reaching the far side of the street, they hefted it toward the woods, pulled the top off, and attempted to empty the contents. No one wanted to get too close to whatever was inside, and the "it" made some sort of aggressive move toward the man who was not the cop, causing him to jump back. It seemed likely it was not a raccoon at this point. A skunk, I hoped. That would be exciting.
Playing the curious gawker, with my tucked-in shirt and briefcase, I wandered over. By this time the thing in the dog carrier had been coaxed (well, dumped, really) into the woods. So I inquired as to what it was. The answer: a monster snapping turtle. It had landed or crawled into some brush so that its head was nearly hidden. Its time-worn shell, jagged around the edges and stained green with algae and swamp filth, was larger than a dinner platter. A leathery six-inch tail prehistorically reptilian tail protruded from the rear of the shell. The turtle lay quietly, unmoving...waiting for something. Fortunately he was not in much of a hurry - so I had time to run home, change into shorts, a t-shirt and sandals (really, in hindsight, the sandals were not a prudent thing to wear in the vicinity of a snapping turtle), and grab my camera my camera to return from some photos.
Here's the turtle's shell (yes, in the center; the thing that looks like a shell).
Turtle tail. (Call the Science Museum; dinosaur spotted in Maple Grove.)
The turtle seemed to enjoy having a stare-down with my camera. This reminds me of a TV commercial: "I see you're in my daughter's Five. I'm in there too. In fact, my picture's right next to yours. It's kind of like I'm watching you...all the time."
These are lousy photos. But cut me some slack: I was working with an ornery, dangerous subject that had just been through capture-and-release hell, half obscured by brush, in a tick-infested woods. And my toes were exposed.
When I returned home, the neighbors were out on their deck. I waved and mentioned the monster turtle. Big exciting news, after all! My neighbor Rocky said with a bemused tone, "Oh, he comes through here every year. We think he's old and a little confused."
Confused? Mr. Monster Turtle may be older than the city of Maple Grove. Is it his fault someone came along and put up a whole slew of townhomes around among his domain of sloughs?
While I was ruminating over this and what I might have for dinner, I noticed my yard had a visitor. This was the rabbit's second munch-fest in my yard in as many days; he made his first mysterious appearance the previous evening, emerging out of the shrubs adjacent to my driveway. He was a head-turner for one obvious reason:
Not a skunk, but the right colors. I puzzled over his appearance with a couple of neighbors. Obviously, he wasn't wild...or else we were coming face-to-face with the reality that we were surrounded by toxic, genetically altering swamp gas. More probably, he escaped or was "let go" by an owner. In either case, he seemed to enjoy our corner of the neighborhood. Perhaps we have the tastiest shrubs.
Jenni, too, was witness to the bunny on Saturday morning. She left out a few pieces of lettuce and carrots on the patio - for "Flopsy," she said. (This set off wild alarm bells on my internal About-To-Have-Another-Pet-Alert-O-Meter.) The rabbit has not appeared since, but I then I haven't been home much. Maybe he had an unfortunate chance meeting with Mr. Monster Turtle.
Thursday, May 24, 2007
Off and running
Whew. I am so glad to have gotten that first posting out of the way. The inagural blog posting can't just get us off to a limping start. It has to make some kind of a Statement: "This Will Be A Great Blog So Read It Often And Even Better Bookmark This Page!"
Really, I could have just said that in the first place and saved us all the blather about blog history. Well, it is what it is. I aspired to begin with some kind of a Beginning. It's like the gunshot at the beginning of a race. If a guy just shouted "Go," it wouldn't have quite the same momentum. People would wander past the starting line like a bunch of wayward sheep, stopping to nibble at grass along the way. But BANG, and we're off and running into those five kilometers as if the devil himself is chasing us with a pitchfork.
Anyway, I do have something useful to offer to those of you traveling folks. Yesterday, WCCO-TV did an interesting report on how to find cheap airfares. These aren't your typical I've-already-heard-that-before-why-are-you-wasting-my-time tips: They seem to hold the promise of saving a few bucks. Or at least being smarter about airline ticket shopping online. You can check out the story here:
http://wcco.com/topstories/local_story_143130641.html
That's it, off to work on a rainy day.
Really, I could have just said that in the first place and saved us all the blather about blog history. Well, it is what it is. I aspired to begin with some kind of a Beginning. It's like the gunshot at the beginning of a race. If a guy just shouted "Go," it wouldn't have quite the same momentum. People would wander past the starting line like a bunch of wayward sheep, stopping to nibble at grass along the way. But BANG, and we're off and running into those five kilometers as if the devil himself is chasing us with a pitchfork.
Anyway, I do have something useful to offer to those of you traveling folks. Yesterday, WCCO-TV did an interesting report on how to find cheap airfares. These aren't your typical I've-already-heard-that-before-why-are-you-wasting-my-time tips: They seem to hold the promise of saving a few bucks. Or at least being smarter about airline ticket shopping online. You can check out the story here:
http://wcco.com/topstories/local_story_143130641.html
That's it, off to work on a rainy day.
Wednesday, May 23, 2007
If you can't beat 'em, join 'em
Well, shoot. Isn't this ironic?
Once upon a time in the not-so-distant past, when blog still had to be explained as slang for "Web log," and the "blogosphere" was an alien world that had a penchant for catching mainstream media with its pants down, I scoffed. I dismissed blogs as the latest techno-fad, something that would fascinate the talking heads of the world for a while until they stumbled onto the next latest advancement. Self-cleaning toilets, perhaps.
Sometimes, you completely miss the bus. Sometimes, you completely miss the bus stop and wander out into the street like a doofus until WHAM! And there's your reminder that you not only failed to catch that bus-o-trends, you never saw it coming.
Case in point: From day one, I condemned the iPod as a piece of trash because it carried the Apple logo. I still believe thusly. Yes, I do understand the world sees me as a quaint imbecile. History and 99.999% of the world's population has proven me wrong. This is why I am not a millionaire living in Silicon Valley.
My point: Blogs have not only lasted, they have flourished. They are part of the latest chapter in this ever-evolving creature we call the Internet. You can debate until the cows come home just how useful or important the blogosphere is, but at least it is getting people talking. That is a good thing.
Enough with the high-minded civic lesson. Here begins BlogOLink. Let me be clear in my selfish goal: If I post often and enough, I just might improve my writing. That's what we scribes are always aiming for..."to become a better writer."
All fine and good, as long as I can spew random observations and commentary into the world. And ranting. And maybe a few useful things, too. Nothing is off limits here. There it is...think of me as a ranting drivel-spewer. Mostly.
Doesn't it sound fun?
Once upon a time in the not-so-distant past, when blog still had to be explained as slang for "Web log," and the "blogosphere" was an alien world that had a penchant for catching mainstream media with its pants down, I scoffed. I dismissed blogs as the latest techno-fad, something that would fascinate the talking heads of the world for a while until they stumbled onto the next latest advancement. Self-cleaning toilets, perhaps.
Sometimes, you completely miss the bus. Sometimes, you completely miss the bus stop and wander out into the street like a doofus until WHAM! And there's your reminder that you not only failed to catch that bus-o-trends, you never saw it coming.
Case in point: From day one, I condemned the iPod as a piece of trash because it carried the Apple logo. I still believe thusly. Yes, I do understand the world sees me as a quaint imbecile. History and 99.999% of the world's population has proven me wrong. This is why I am not a millionaire living in Silicon Valley.
My point: Blogs have not only lasted, they have flourished. They are part of the latest chapter in this ever-evolving creature we call the Internet. You can debate until the cows come home just how useful or important the blogosphere is, but at least it is getting people talking. That is a good thing.
Enough with the high-minded civic lesson. Here begins BlogOLink. Let me be clear in my selfish goal: If I post often and enough, I just might improve my writing. That's what we scribes are always aiming for..."to become a better writer."
All fine and good, as long as I can spew random observations and commentary into the world. And ranting. And maybe a few useful things, too. Nothing is off limits here. There it is...think of me as a ranting drivel-spewer. Mostly.
Doesn't it sound fun?
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