Fall Festival and more

Incredibly long day. Especially after a near sleepless night. But, it is what it is. I've learned to just accept the defeat and move along. Anything else is just a waste of time and effort. I'll have plenty of time to rest later.

Gulfport's Fall Festival, this morning. Meg's entire cheerleading team was on their own float. Cindy was tasked with being an official nurse at the First Aid station. So I managed the kids. Had Meg on site by 8A. They rolled out at 9A.

During the wait, Liam crafted some folk art out of random bits of debris. One minute we're hanging out on a curb. Next minute Liam's name is spelled out between us. I don't recall ever doing that as kid. And he cobbled it together so quickly and effortlessly. He was looking for some bugs, either alive or dead to add to the mix. A live bug would have been hilarious. But his debris graffiti was cool and funny. I wonder how long it lasted before the wind or some cruel stranger found it.

The parade ended at Milner Stadium. All kinds of activities for the kids there. Both of them had a great time at some bean bag throwing booth. When they were in line, the ten kids in front of Liam completely missed the targets with all three of their throws. They received some orange bracelet for their efforts. Liam missed his first two throws, then scores a double prize with the final one. Another five kids miss completely. Meg walks up and scores a double prize on her FIRST throw. Super proud of both of them and they both collected some cool prizes.  Then Meg had her face painted. Liam massaged some pig lungs. And they both fired up some remote controlled robots and had a mass melee. Liam's pincherbot wouldn't pinch. But Meg "p0wned some noobs" with her rampbot. Thought we might have to get some kits of our own and build McDougal-style combatants. Liam wanted a working pincher and Meg wanted something that could throw her enemies out of the ring.

A couple of hours at the gym followed. Back, biceps, and 1200 meters of swimming. Then Liam headed off to Bryce's house. Cindy, Meg, my Mom, and I had Mexican food in Long Beach.

And we all lived happily ever after.

Digging

It comes to this: Cindy & I spent our Friday night together digging an amazingly complicated splinter out of our daughter's wounded pointer finger. Started the pre-op in the dining room. Half an hour of feuding with The Red Headed Fireball produced no results. The final confrontation with the villainous fragment took place in Meg's room. Me and Baby Meg comforting her. While Cindy methodically re-open the trail the splinter took. Using an alcohol-cleansed needle. And lots of patience.A mighty battle, of course. Nurse Cindy emerged the victor. Two tiny pieces of broken wood, defeated. On a bed of gauze.

Afterward, Meg thanked us. Profusely. Apologized for the yelling and the tears. Made the adventure worth our effort.

Felt like she was apologizing for all of it. All the yelling. All the tears.

Our adventures with the kids are worth the effort. Even the painful digging.

Road Work

My first real bike ride today. Some real road work for a change!

All told, about twenty two miles for the round trip. From the Super Walmart, in Pass Christian, over the restored Pass bridge, into downtown Bay St Louis, and back again. On the return trip, coming off the bridge, I hit 29MPH. A record for me. Patrick (barely visible ahead of me in the picture) hit 35MPH. Of course he's an avid cyclist (President of the local bike club) and was rocking a tri bike.

A truly spectacular ride. No traffic. Perfect weather. And a good pace, for a beginner like me. Hoping to go again on Sunday. One thing is for sure, I need more water bottles!

Massage, Mistaken Cleats, and Miners. Oh my!

Swimming clobbers my neck. Feels like one of my vertebrae gets nudged off kilter. And the muscles in the surrounding area stage an organized revolt.Not so much painful as uncomfortable. Like knuckle you WANT to pop, but can't, even though you've tried for hours. Fortunately, I stumbled across a  massage therapist with some spare time. And a heated bamboo stick. Real bamboo. Really heated. And this girl beat my neck and shoulders with it like a carnival pony. Which I desperately needed. Okay, it was more like a rolling pin. But eventually the naughty vertebrae popped back into place. And I'm worlds away from where I was only hours ago.

Renewed, I hit the gym. Wanted to try the cleats from my street bike on one of the stationary bikes at the gym. Let us remember that I'm a keyboard jocket. Not an athlete. And not Lance Armstrong. So I wasn't aware that there different types of cleats. The ones on the bottoms of my shoes, which click into the pedals on my street bike, didn't work at the gym. All that hobbling around the room was for naughty. But I still had my normal shoes handy. And still had an amazing ride.

Brief confession. I was slightly offended every time somebody mentioned the "Miracle Of The Chilean Miners," today. Calling it a miracle is to spit in the face of the hundreds (thousands?) of rescuers and engineers who spent almost 70 straight days doing everything humanly possible to get those miners out of the ground. Instead of praising a divine spiritual creator, I think we should praise the human spirit that made it possible for those men to live and rejoin their friends, families, and loved ones. Chile should be proud of its efforts. To call it a miracle only diminishes it. Men and women made this possible. Those men and women deserve praises and the miners' thanks.

A billion people watched the rewards of their labors. For one day, we were all in agreement that something "good" happened by our own hands. We saw what we can do when we band together for a common cause.

If only we could agree more often...

Chilling

Tested my triathlon "racesuit" today. A single piece, zipper-in-the-front, super tight outfit. Sleeveless. Mid-thigh length trunks. Neither easy to climb into nor notably comfortable. But the seat is slightly padded (for biking) and during an actual race, I wouldn't have to change anything during event transitions. In theory.

First time I swam in more than a week. I don't know if it was the recovery period, the suit, or the fact that the water was cold enough to liquefy helium, but I was carving through the water at a great pace.

Late night, though. The sun had nearly gone. And gnats were prowling. I only put in 800 meters. But they were good, strong laps. Might try some more in the morning, before work. Only hope they aren't so chilling.

Overdue

Hrm. Five months blurred together like chalk on cement after an August rain. Mostly occupied by training, a side project, and a constant state of partial awareness.

The training has been going well. In the pool, I've worked to the point when I can swim a whole mile. I routinely bike 17 - 20 miles. But I'm still working on my form while running. It'll come though. The results? I'm down to 189lbs. (From a high of 217lbs.) The first time I've been below 190 in more than a decade. Sadly, the least I've weighed in my 30s. But my waistline is down from nearly a size 35 to a size 31 (or possibly less by now.)

The kids had a good summer. They're having a great school year. All A's, both of them. And they're both in Gifted Programs.

Cindy's trying to go back to school. Get her Nurse Practioner's degree. Could be finished by December, 2013.

We mark our lives with a series of small victories. But sometimes I lose sight of the path we're trying to take. But I think I've found it. Or something like it.

...and everything.

Interesting moment in time. 10/10/10. 10:10 AM.

It isn't a once-in-823-years event, though. Not sure where that sudden urban myth came from. But this October has the exact same days as 1982, 1993, and 1999. The next October with a repeat occurrence will be 2021.

However, 101010, in binary, represents the number 42. Therein lies the rub.

Creative Three

More than ten years later, old college friends unite. Kim, Sheridan, and Ol' Jon. A decade ago, we were would-be writers. Full of ideas and dreams and wildfire. Nothing we could not have accomplished if we put our minds to it. And now? Kim manages nurses. Sheridan recently returned from a prolonged, multi-year vacation doing cabaret in New York City. And me? I'm a sloppy old geek with too many ideas and not enough spine.

Reunion started at The Hard Rock Casino. Couple of drinks. Laughter. Taunting the server. Reliving old adventures. Figuring out where we diverged. Where life took us afterwards.None of ending up where we planned. Maybe not where we wanted. But all of us on our feet. And mostly sane.

Drifted to Jazzeppi's for some food. Some more drinks. And more laughs. Funny how quickly time can disappear. The space between now and college blurred like chalk drawings on a rain-slick sidewalk. Some four thousand days almost meaningless while we relive would-be golden years. Memories enhanced by booze and carbs. Halloween costumes. Wrestling events. Parties. Teachers. Fellow students. All rehashed in glorious detail for a few fleeting hours.

And then we were done. Not sure when we will meet again. Three completely disparate lives rocketing in different directions. An act of Congress to converge. We want it to be soon. But we know it won't.

Finally

On my fourth trip to the pool, after somewhere between 4 - 8 hours of trying, I finally found my rhythm while swimming! It is like a huge burden lifted off my shoulders. I get it, now! I get it!

When I talked with him last night, Jim (my triathlon coach) said I was breathing bass ackwards. (Keep in mind I spent several years doing advanced yoga moves and taking multiple-hour-long breathing classes.) I was so accustomed to breathing in through my nose and out through my mouth, I never stopped to think about the logistics of breathing while swimming. Jim said I needed to exhale OUT through my nose just before I brought my arm back, and inhale IN through my mouth as my arm came out of the water. And that one piece of advice changed everything.

It comes down to numbers. A four beat count. On the second stroke with my right arm, I exhale through my nose. Follow my hand around with my face. Inhale as the hand comes up. And repeat. Sounds simple. But for an aging computer dork, it was a major breakthrough.

I'm up to ten very sloppy laps. The goal is twelve. That would be six hundred meters. If I can do it in a pool, I can do it in a race. Or that's my theory. We'll see how it goes.

Unforeseen Consequences

The thirty eighth day of  our continued unnatural disaster. We're the victims, but BP has sentenced us to death by slow, lethal injection. Black gold. Texas tea.

Surprisingly, the audience is still watching. Hasn't changed the channel to American Gladiators or the latest installment of New Moon, yet. The media clowns and new hounds still circle. Parading along our beaches with their vans and satellite dishes. Looking for mucked-up corpses and angry locals pointing fingers.

BP is trying the "top kill" option, now. Use a big straw and slam fifty thousand barrels of "mud," into the existing shaft. If they can push the crude back down, they'll clog the works with rubber tires and boomerangs and unsold copies of American Idol's Greatest Hits. 60% chance of success. That's in perfect conditions, I'm betting. Nobody's done it 5000 feet down.

A couple of "What If" situations. Some unforeseen consequences of failing in these Sisyphusian efforts.:

• Hurricane season starts in four days. What happens if a CAT3 - CAT5 strolls through, picks up several million gallons of goo and deposits them on top of everything within half a mile of the coastline? How many folks will have to be evacuated due to that toxic hazzard? And for how long? Cleaning oil off of a beach is one thing. Cleaning it out of backyards and out of flood-savaged remains of semi-demolished buildings is something else entirely. Nearly five years after Katrina, we're still rebuilding. Try that after a Category Five Toxic Avenger does the two-step on your vacation community and see how long it takes the tourists (ie: income) to return.
• Speaking of tourists. The five affected Gulf states have a combined $2.2T economy. What happens if 10% of that is shuttered? A $200,000,000 loss at this stage in the Great Recession isn't going to help anyone. BP isn't going to give up a single penny more than it has to. And our government can't possibly print up more money to cover that gaping wound.
  
  Extend that damage to Georgia? The Carolinas? How about if our spill affects Cuba?
• Has anyone considered what this will do to already-suffering home owners along the coastline? The value on their homes isn't bad enough? If they're "under water" now, they'll be subterranean by the time the last seagull is degreased.Can anyone see that affecting the currently-terminal housing market? The lending industry?
• And what about the MS river? Has anyone considered the notion that a blob of crude will float over to the mouth of it and put the entire shipping fleet at risk? We can't have ships covered in oil motoring back UP the MS, sloughing off toxic love every couple of miles.

Almost forty days later. Shouldn't we start talking about these unforeseen consequences? 

It Will Be Horrific

A month has passed. At the edge of our sight, the next nightmare grows by the hour. Nobody has good numbers any more. BP says 200,000 gallons per day. Others say a million per day. The truth is somewhere in middle, I hope.

BP's sole success (a 4" pipe siphoning off some of the flow from one of the leaks) is diminishing the horror by 20%. At most. Perhaps a fraction of that.

At this moment, they're lowering a "kill" rig in place. To pump 50,000 gallons of "mud" into the pipes. Hoping to gum the works. A technique which has never succeeded at this depth. And the attempt could take upwards of two days. While everyone on every coastal city watch the grainy Internet feed from a mile down and pray to our prospective gods for salvation.

But the sad truth is that the cleanup is destined for failure. It will be horrific. We know from recent testimony that the cleanup of the Exxon Valdez was futile.  Dr. Jeffrey Short of Oceana testified in a 2009 hearing that:

Despite heroic effects involving more than 11,000 people, two billion dollars, and aggressive application of the most advanced technology available, only about 8 percent of the oil was ever recovered. This recovery rate is fairly typical for a large oil spill. About 20 percent evaporated, 50 percent contaminated beaches, and the rest floated out to the North Pacific Ocean where it formed tarballs that eventually stranded elsewhere or sank to the seafloor. 

8% success rate? Our ecosystem will drown in the rest. Wildlife. Commercial fishing. Tourism. All of it needs to learn to swim in crude, or die trying.

Tri Training - Week One - Swimming

A confession. Outside of survival purposes, I do not swim. Never had the need nor the desire. But to prepare for a future triathlon, I swam laps last night. Ugly, pitiful ones. A pale, pudgy, 39yr old computer jockey flailing through the water in a long pair of skin-tight Spandex trunks. More of a spectacle than a swimmer. 

Despite my frightening appearance, glaring imperfections and sloppy mechanics, I didn't really care if anyone was watching. Or laughing. I gave it my best effort. Almost two hours of effort. Thankfully my instructor was more patient than I was, and helped me move towards the proper form I should be using. I'm nowhere close. But I can only improve between now and July 10th.

My conclusion? Swimming sucks. I doubt any races are won by perfect swimming. I have to work up to 600m. That is down and back (a lap) twelve times. I can do it. Or die trying.

Graduation 2010

The kids "graduated" today. Somehow, they had back to back ceremonies. Helped diminish the burden on my schedule.

Meg went first. She made it to the rank of top three readers in her class. Was awarded the "Most Creative Writer" award. And was awarded "Super Reader - 10." At the end of second grade, she's reading on a sixth grade level. Very very proud of our baby girl and gave her some spending money for all her efforts.

4th grade went next. And by some trick of the light, Liam went first for his class. He received top reader in his class. And #3 reader in the whole fourth grade. Then he gets the "Bill Nye Science Award," and makes the honor roll. Proud of that kid. At the end of fourth grade, he's reading at an ELEVENTH grade reading level. He absolutely 0wnz. Gave him some spending money, too.

Cindy and I are truly blessed. Both of my kids are MUCH smarter than I was at their ages. Both have huge potential and make us proud on a daily basis. They're bright, glaring lights that steer me through my storms. With them in it, my life is complete.

Not The Same

My, my, my, that whole thing sucked. But, I did it.

Running, actual jogging in my case, is not the same as spending time on an elliptical machine. I can grind out a 5K on the elliptical without too much grief. But today, I ran. No machine. Did two miles in twenty four minutes. Had to fight for every stride after the first mile. But I did it. And I have 10 weeks to train for one more mile.

Also noticed that I'm back up to 199lbs. From 195lbs a couple of weeks ago. Have to blame my lack of attention to my diet and a LOT of Mexican food as of late. High calorie. High fat stuff. Just scarfed it all down with no regard to consequences.

I'm heading back to Daily Burn to track everything. Cut back on the Mexican food. Shift my training into high gear for the triathlon. Extend my running. Add swimming. Add biking. I can hit 185. It'll happen.

When It Rains

All weekend. And today. Rain. Down here in South Hell, when it rains, it pours. As if the sky is broken.

Shakespearian stuff. The gloom of oil creeping across our horizon. This whole ungodly Race To The Courthouse as people and lawyers line up to collect from BP. The oil giant pointing their fingers at the owners of the rig. The rig owners pointing their fingers at Haliburton, who poured the concrete. And Haliburton claiming they did what they were paid to do, using the regulated specs, which was all approved by some slackjawed inspectors. All of them stumbling over each other to dodge the blame and proclaim their innocence in this disaster.

In the background, Greece is in a shambles. The European Union & International Monetary Fund are printing up a $1T check that is backed by empty promises and buckets of spit. America still fights two wars. State governments are making cutbacks and layoffs faster than the paint on their ever-shrinking budgets can dry. While banks (which we bailed out) and oil companies are making record profits. (BP alone cleared $5.6B in profit just last quarter.)

When it rains, it pours. And we can't build arks quick enough or big enough.

End Of The Week

Wrapped up an extremely tiring week with chest & triceps at the gym. Did 260lbs x 6 on my fourth set. Look, I know I'm a clown. My records aren't records anywhere except in my mind. But for a nearly-forty, full time computer dork, I think I put in a serious effort. By my previous standards, for sure. I veto getting older. I opt to get better.

Anyway, two corp IT amigos were in town from Las Vegas. I never once made it home before 6PM. I'm working my normal glut of issues, a missing coworkers issues, and delving into problems which have risen the ire of the corporate team. I need a week off to recover. I won't ever get it.

Dinner with Cindy and Mom and Jason and the kids tonight, at  Juan's, in Long Beach. Liam tried and declined buffalo wings for the first time. Mom burned her finger. Jason arrived for the last quarter of the meal, but I was glad to see him. And Meg had Fried Ice Cream. Good times. Family times. Enjoying them while they last.

A long weekend. At least I'm never bored.

Sleep beckons.

Ink On The Inside

Party at work today. Second Anniversary of the opening of our Customer Care Center. Good people. Good times. Lots of food. (I ate a bit.) Lots of soda. (I drank none.) Rock Band. (I played Bass.) And plenty of temporary tattoos. I insisted on a RHCP logothingy. Plus some knuckle ink that reads: THUG LIFE when I made angry-computer-dork fists and threatened to delete your email. That'll learn ya.

Won a couple of rounds of Name That Tune from the late 80s. Standy, by R.E.M. and Turn This Motha Out, by McHammer earned some prizes for the kids. Of course, I left them at work. So there's a spiky pink ball and a spiky blue ball waiting when I return.

Had fun with the RHCP  tattoo. From a distance, it fooled the eye. Of course I'd never have the sack to get such a visible one. I wear my ink on the inside, away from prying eyes.

Can I? Let's try!

I spent years thinking I was incapable of so many things. Didn't think I could bench press my own bodyweight. I was wrong. Didn't think I could run 5K. I was wrong. Didn't think I could advanced back bends in yoga. Wrong. Couldn't leg press 500lbs? Wrong. Wrong. Wrong.

I have a new goal: finish a triathlon.

I've never thought I could do it. Until now.

There's one in about nine weeks. July 10th. Under a burning MS sun.

Can I? Let's try!

Nuke The Sight From Orbit

I was joking the other day when I suggested we nuke the remains of the Deepwater Horizon from orbit. But then a friend of mine said that the Russian have used nukes to seal leaks on several occasions.

The theory is that the blast shifts the sea floor and/or fuses the mud and rock, preventing uncontrolled oil from escaping into the water.

The traditional methods aren't working. Time for the non-traditional.

I'd also like to suggest we use our Earthquake weapon to seal the leak.

Or find a way for HAARP to fix it.

Plan C? D? And E?

The 100-ton, 4-story-tall, steel and concrete container failed. Pressurized natural gas combined with the freezing seawater and gave birth to some kind of icy spooge that clogged up the whole thing in a manner of minutes. The oil is seeping out around it, unfazed.

BP says that Plan C is to use a smaller widget. A "top hat" shaped device that will cover one of the leaks because it is less likely to clog. My money says the pressure will effectively keep it from sitting in place properly.

Plan D is to pierce a lower portion of the piping with a "hot tap" and siphon off the oil. Not sure if that's ever been done effectively before now. And if it has, I doubt it has been done at 5000'.

And Plan E is to keep jamming objects into the pipe until it is so clogged it stops. Tires and golf balls and sponges made of hair. Seriously. That's their plan.

I'm gong to suggest Plan F will be to train some dolphins to plunge themselves, Kamikaze-like into the pipe. They'll do anything for us. And Plan G will be to nuke the site from orbit. It's the only way to be sure.

Meanwhile, we've got upwards of four million gallons of Earth's finest oil floating in the Gulf of Mexico. Thankfully, it hasn't touched ground in MS, yet. LA has some on its beaches. AL is waiting for us to get our toes dirty. And FL is hoping the power of prayer defends them from the worst of it.

I'm guessing we have another week or two in the headlines. After that, Americans will want something new and interesting to keep them worried. Maybe the stock market. Or a government sex scandal. But this whole "oil in the Gulf" thing is rapidly starting to bore them. See how quickly they've already forgotten about the 11 dead oil workers?

Solutions & Answers

So, the brave, tireless heroes at BP have positioned a four-story, 100 ton, steel-and-concrete condom over the grave of the Deepwater Horizon. And meter by meter, foot by foot, they are lowering it down over one of the three broken pipes.

If it works, I guess they're a third way toward getting everything capped. Then they can focus on cleaning up the mess they created. If the giant condom doesn't work, we all have to shave our heads and create a giant absorbent pad to stuff into the pipes. So. Pray, people. Pray!

In the meanwhile, the folks over at NOLA.com have put together a great explanation of What Happened On The Deepwater Horizon.

The short version is that the rig was about to temporarily cap a well it had dug, and hand the whole operation off to a permanent pipeline or production rig. But the disconnect process went completely sideways. The Halliburton-constructed cement casing blew up like a glass pinata. A thunderous  blowout belched a boiling motherload of pressurized natural gas into the bottom of the rig, where it exploded into a raging fireball and eventually sank the Deepwater Horizon to  bottom of the sea, leaving behind three very angry pipelines that are currently spewing two hundred thousand gallons of crude from the bowels of the Earth each day.

And here we are...

A Widening Gyre

Two weeks of waiting finally over. BP scored a glorious touch down. Their oil washed ashore. The Chandeleur Islands and New Harbor Island, LA. Only a couple of hours west. Both natural wildlife preserves. Makes it a two point converse for BP. Go team!

Apparently, the sludge looks like spongy orange cornflakes. All clumped up from the disperants. As if it wasn't toxic before? But, hey, even with indisputable proof that the additional chemicals are only making a bad situation worse, a good corporation never lets a little thing like evidence interfere with their public efforts to paint their efforts as viable.

Meanwhile, we've got three million more gallons turning and turning in a widening gyre. Surely some revelation is at hand. And what oily beast, its hour come round at last, slouches towards Bethlehem to be born?

(My apologies to Yeats! But hey, it worked. Didn't it?)

Wildlife Goes First

We started finding the corpses.

Pitiful, helpless birds washing up. An hour west of me. In the bays and harbors of Louisiana. Nothing most folk can do. Except find them and report them. Apparently, volunteers aren't supposed to do ANYTHING with wildlife, without being trained and certified to do it. Not that I'd dip gunked-up avians in Palmolive, but how about making some training and certification available to us so we can put a stop to their suffering?

Then, in Pass Christian, MS, just 15 minutes west, the dead sea turtles. None are covered in crude. No apparent physical damage, either. But they are most definitely dead. Perhaps food poisoning? Or something in their lungs? I'm no marine biologist, but the timing of these deaths is uncanny. If it isn't due to fallout from the Deepwater Horizon disaster, I'll be stunned.

Poisoning the environment is one thing. Coating our beaches in a grim layer of raw crude is another another thing. But being responsible for the slow, miserable death of hundreds upon thousands upon millions of innocent animals is not only unforgivably offensive but (hopefully) criminal.

And it is only just starting.

50 Ways To Fail

I have no room in my philosophies for pessimism. Doing something is better than doing nothing. Ere on the side of action. And Results kick Planning's ass every single time.

But I also believe in admitting when I do not know something. I support those that know enough to ask for help. And people ought to know when something is destined for failure.

Case in point: these feeble, wasted efforts by BP to mitigate the damage from their Deepwater Horizon oil spill. They've abandoned the robotic repairs. In the open sea, with the weather being what it is, burning the oil is not going to work. 12" tall plastic booms are not going to provide a defense against any waves over two feet. And using chemical dispersants to fight an oil spill is nothing but doubling the amount of pollutants we're releasing into the environment. We've got 50 Ways To Leave Your Lover, and BP is paying to prove there are 50 Ways To Fail in an oil cleanup.

Surely they have hired men smarter than I am? Don't they have some professionals on their payroll? Aren't they running simulations on their ideas? How can they not see that the chance of failure exponentially exceeds the chance of success? And why is BP going at it alone?

Frustrating. Frustrating. Frustrating.

The good news? We have no oil on shore.

Yet.

Oil Updates

Our thirteenth day. Some dead fish in LA. Couple of questionable sea turtles over here. No oil on our beaches. But there's a ten day ban on commercial fishing. Tourism already suffering, too. Hotel cancellations. Won't improve any time soon.

BP is using "dispersants" to break down the oil. But I don't trust that stuff. Let's use potentially toxic chemicals to clean up an already deadly oil spill?

No luck with the robots, thus far. Nothing is shut off. Still spewing 200,000 gallons per day. Short term solution is likely stillborn.

A steel-and-concrete sleeve is supposed to be in place this weekend. In theory, it will collect the oil from one of the three pipes and funnel it into a vessel of some sort. The technique has worked before. But not at five thousand feet. Odd physics going on there. I don't have much faith it will go as planned.

The long term solution? Unimaginably distant. It can't come to that...

MOVIE: Tony

Tony is a strikingly (pardon the pun) curious and offensive movie about a week in the life of a sad, repugnant, lonely, terrifying Englishman named Tony. It is the low budget, bastard offspring of American Psycho and A Clockwork Orange. The accents. The violence. The lack of details and motives surrounding Tony. Great dialog. Odd, but intriguing pacing. Few special effects. Fantastic writing. Spot-on acting.

But this isn't exactly a date flick. I wouldn't recommend it for anyone younger than VERY late teens. And it is not for the faint of heart or those prone to paranoid thoughts.

Takes a few minutes before the story really unfolds. But then it goes off like an Irish hand grenade. Worth the wait. And the price of a rental.

Book A Week: Drood By Dan Simons

I read. Voraciously. Every night. Throughout the day. Cindy loathes the piles of books and printouts that  accumulate around my side of the bedroom. When the insomnia is bad, I can tear through two novels a week. And I usually keep at least half a dozen books at arms length. So I figured I'd write about one book each week, then stick it in storage.

Dan Simmons is one of my favorite authors. I honestly idolize the guy. He was a teacher who dipped his toes into the fiction pool and out-of-nowhere produced some of the most amazing stories I've ever read. Song Of Kali, Carrion Comfort, and Children Of The Night were staggering master pieces of Horror. Then came The Hyperion Cantos, which brought Chaucer's Canterbury Tales into the realm of Science Fiction. And now he has given us another brilliant break-out novel: Drood.

At its core, Drood centers on the long-time friendship of Charles Dickens and Wilkie Collins. They were not only friends, but also co-contributors on many literary works of the time. Wilke is attributed with writing the first detective novel ("The Moonstone") and Dickens was working on a detective novel entitled "The Mystery Of Edwin Drood," which he did not complete before he died in 1870. In Dan Simons' novel, Charles Dickens survives a train wreck, and while crawling out of the debris he bumps into a tall, gaunt man in a heavy dark cape, with a "shockingly pale, skull-like visage," and lidless eyes... Drood.

Wilkie Collins is the opulent,  gluttonous narrator of the adventure, as the two seek out the original and intentions of this new mysterious. There's a journey to the underworld. A constant struggle to plumb the full depth of Drood's history and nature. And a complex love/hate relationship that unravels between Wilkie  and Dickens, up until the moment of Dickens' death, and beyond.


Simmons masterfully re-creates the world and life of Charles Dickens while introducing the reader to the equally interesting Wilkie Collins. Drood, of course, is an epic villain that swirls around the two protagonists like a bad hangover.

Even at more than 700 pages, I could barely put Drood down. A fantastic read and a glorious new medal on Dan Simmons' belt. It is also rumored that Guillermo DelToro immediately picked up the movie rights after reading it. I'll be there opening night!

Deepwater Horizon

We're watching a slow motion disaster. Just beyond the horizon. Out of sight but always in our minds. Where's the oil? Will it start washing up on the beach today? Tomorrow? When? How many birds will it kill? How long will our commercial fishermen be unemployed? What will it cost to clean up? When will they stop new oil from spilling into our Gulf? And a thousand other questions. None of which have real answers.

For now, eleven families have lost their loved ones. For now, there is a ten day ban on commercial fishing. For now, projected clean up costs reach $12B. For now, projected fishing losses reach $3B. For now, projected tourism losses reach $4B. And for now, there is no projected animal body count. We have to wait to see how that goes.

As for repairs? For now, six non-stop teams of remote-controlled robotic subs have failed to stop the flow. For now, it could be two more weeks before concrete-and-steel sleeves are put in place to cap the three gushing lines. For now, it could take $100M and three months to get a relief rig in place to tap the feed to the open lines.

And for now, the corpse of Deepwater Horizon continues to spew two hundred thousand gallons of raw crude into the Gulf each and every day.

That's roughly two million gallons of oil released, so far.

And it won't be stopping any time soon.

Rib Meat

Even though I slacked on my own autobiography for a while, I didn't neglect my health. I put in 3 - 5 days a week at the gym. I watched what I ate. And I avoided junk food / fast food with a passion. At some point, I hit 195lbs. First time since 2005. But that was due to 3 days without power (ie: Air Conditioning!) Three days of stress and terror. Three days helping other families recover in the wake of Katrina. Since then, I went up to 217. But now I've cut 22lbs, and I'm at (or below) 195lbs. Ten more to go. I'll be at my fighting weight. 185. A weight I haven't seen in more than a decade.

To help recover from some workouts, I visited April today. Hands like a pneumatic vice. Therapeutic massage, she calls it. Borders on torture. Not the least bit romantic or relaxing. But incredibly refreshing once it is all done. Except once. Near the beginning, she was dragging an elbow down the length of my spine, and she hit a land mine in my back. Lights went off behind my eyes and my legs wanted to twitch like an electrified frog. Whenever she would knead a certain knot, I'd all but pass out from the pain. Turns out that it wasn't a knot. It was a rib. My 8th. And it was "out of alignment." Dislocated rib meat. Probably slipped off while I was moving a fridge last weekend. Required a lot of directed breath, some forced relaxation, and a phenomenal amount of sharp edged pain. But I felt exponentially better after April wrangled it back in place. A weight lifted off of me.

But the odd thing was not knowing it was out of place until she caught it. How long would that have jabbed me if April hadn't found it?

Three New Friends

During my long absence I found a couple of new friends. Some technology. I'd been resisting for a while. Fear and funding my main opponents to change. But I took a series of leaps and found myself bearhugging 2010 computing.

Windows 7 - To a computer junkie like me, changing your OS is akin to changing your soul. We spend years getting everything the way we like it. We get comfortable. Everything is fine tuned. All our widgets are tweaked for optimal performance. Our systems all but purr. Then a newer version of our beloved (or loathed) operating system comes out. Nobody I know seriously dives into the change. We usually make tons of excuses. Drag our feet. Resist. Resist. Resist.

But I finally dipped my toe in the waters of Windows 7. And I liked it. First my netbook. Then a PC at work. And finally my home PC. It wasn't easy or pleasant to make the transition, but I'm really enjoying it. The OS is snappier. Cleaner. More productive. Sure, sure, sure, it probably borrows heavily from Apple. But it is a truly magnificent change. And I'm still finding my way around this new monster.  But I'm a fan. Very big fan. And I'm encouraging everyone to make the switch.

HP Mini Netbook - I've had this thing for a while. But I've only recently started tweaking it. As a hard core computer junkie, I'm usually multitasking for hours. Dual monitors. A horde of applications cascading across all my desktops. Downshifting to a lower gear with this netbook took a few tries before I saw the benefit. It is ultra portable and fairly powerful (for its size) but the screen is quite limited. It forces me to slow down. I have to monotask. And that is a big big change for me. I'm not used to only doing one thing. But I like it. Especially when it comes to cleaning out an Inbox.I'm able to gnaw through my tasks quicker. And I feel less distracted.  Won't give up my desktop, but I do use the netbook more than every.

Wireless networking - But the biggest luxury of the netbook is that it is wireless! I installed (and secured!) a wireless access point. And now I can sit in bed and catch up on email. I can soak in the tub and listen to Pandora. I can get some sunshine and still work on projects or place orders on Amazon. Very very very liberating.

One day soon, I'll get Meg's pink Sony Vaio fixed. (She dropped it and broke the power port.) Maybe upgrade her to Windows 7. And the two of us can roam the house like giddy digital nomads.

Changes. Difficult to commit initially. Yet well worth the effort. No regrets.

The Fix Is On

Watching C-SPAN. Bunch of financial executives getting grilled by Congressmen. Villains questioning other villains. A grand, farcical comedy put on to appease the sheeple. There won't be any serious reform. Nobody in power wants it. Obama has surrounded himself with former Wall Street dupes. Geither, Poulson, Gary Gensler, Rahm Emanuel, Mark Patterson, Larry Summers. So on. So forth. All alumni from the Blood Sucking Vampire Squid (aka Goldman Sachs.)

Further proof? Check the stock market. All the mavens and quants and brokers see the covert writing on the wall. While all the mewling sheeple were watching Senator Levin bravely taunting Dan Sparks by repeatedly saying "shitty deal," on C-SPAN, the traders bought more and more of Goldman's stock. The result? A one-day gain of $549M in the investment giant's market value.

We're watching smoke and mirrors. Wall Street has already bribed their way into a successful end game. The fix is on.

Ab Aeterno

Blink. Six weeks later. Side projects. House work. Chaos at the office. Earth Day. Personal issues. Raising kids. Consoling my lone brother. Teaching a class. Green drinks. The gym. The car. A little of this. A lot of that. I honestly don't know where the time went.

I feel better when I write. It is a private exorcism. All these dead memories in my head. After too long they clump together. In thick grey patches. Clogging the pipes.

I'll catch up. Somehow. Someday. Before I forget. Before the dead have moved on. Ab aeterno. Into eternity.

New Favorites

I held onto Firefox for a long time. I liked the add-ons. I liked gestures. I liked tabs. Chrome caught up. Chrome is faster. Chrome is cleaner. And I think Chrome is smaller. I like being able to pluck pages out of the tab bar. I like being able to merge lone pages into a shared tab bar. I like being able to search in the address bar. It's an all around slick browser. And I've been slowly migrating to it for all my daily use.

Also digging me some Caprica. Those guys at Sci-Fi (SyFy!) have done it, again. Top notch writing. Great acting. With a light dusting of technology to give it some flavor. But the science doesn't over-power anything. It fleshes it out enough to make it extra interesting. I have to admit I didn't like some of the plot lines at first. But now I see the light. The slow development was like an appetizer. And now the main course is starting to be delivered to the table.

Of course, I watch it on Hulu. Which is another new addiction of mine. I don't even DVR shows any more. Hulu's got that covered, too....

Oh, sweet, sweet technology. I don't know how to quit you!

To Fix A Ticket

Back in December, I received a speeding ticket. Yes, I was speeding, but I think it was an understandable reaction. He was in an unmarked car. Riding in your blindspot. For a mile. Speeding up as you speed up. Slowing down as you slow down. I thought he was a car load of methed-up teenagers. I stomped it. He lit me up. A speeding ticket followed.

Rolled to Covington, LA, this morning. DA wouldn't talk on the phone. Had to show up in person. Cruising through some sleepy little bayou town. Spanish moss. Locals-only cafe. Dirt roads. And WHAM. A three-story, bruick and courthouse. Couple million square feet. And no parking. Had to cruise down back roads and park a half mile away from the building.

The DA finally called my ticket number. I hand him the paperwork. He says we can talk in his office. Points me to his have a seat. Hands my ticket to his admin. She types in the number. Types in my SSN. I don't say anything. And the DA says, "How about if I reduce it to a non-moving violation? Won't show up on your insurance." I nod. "That was my goal. Thank you."

Takes me longer to walk to the car than it took to settle the ticket.

Blues & Beer

Some folks are in town from Detroit, MI, for training. Wanted to take them somewhere that speaks to the flavor of the South. Food, decor, music, service. Some place unique that they could not find within 600 miles of their home town. So I took them to The Quarter, in Gulfport. A favorite hangout of mine. Top notch on all fronts. And surprisingly affordable.

Luther Wamble & Buzzin Cuzzins was playing. I swear I saw Luther 15yrs ago, in Moble, AL. He's improved with age. Makes blues look effortless and beautiful. Over, these guys are dark blues Gods. An unholy trio of funktastic swamp-bred awesomeness. Missing their performance is akin to missing the second coming of Jesus. If Ray Charles, Jimi Hendrix, and Bruce Lee had a baby with Lemmy from Motorhead, it would be a triple delivery starring Buzzin Cuzzins.

And the bass player has a 'stache so cool it could halt the Recession. I want my goatee to marry that sweet 'stache and give birth to a thunderous   Lemmy-style lovechild.

And the food? Gumbo, oysters done four ways, voodoo shrimp, crab cakes, and some nummy sammiches. All of which met with high praise. Not a crumb was left behind. Detroit loved it. Bob even said, "I want to make love to this bowl of gumbo!"

A fine night. Beer, blues, good food, and friends. All that is good in life.

From The Driveway

Most of this came out while we were in the driveway, about 20' from the front door:

• Wishes she had worn long sleeves instead.
• Wishes she had brushed her teeth again.
• Forgot to bring the oranges (which are inside) for her Mom (who we're going to see in 5min.)
• Can't wait to go to sleep tonight. Even though it is 5PM. Except the Emmy's are coming on.

Weekends. Love 'em!

Longest Day

Started with a visit to First United Methodist Church. Liam was Acolyting. Then he sang. We took communion. (Yes, me too! (Gotta set the right example for the kids. (No, I didn't not combust!))) Moved on to a side trip. Me & the kids. (She was off doing whatever she does when she's off.) Picked up my Mom and drove to see Great Grandma. She had just received an unannounced visit from some strangely-overweight hobo decked out in brown gloves and a "turban" (which you and I would call a dew-rag, but Great Grandma has decided to call a turban.) Upon seeing the stranger, Great Grandma immediately pointed to the neighbors house and say, "You want to go over there. Not here!" And as the confused tramp slowly walked away, she called the cops. A few minutes later, as we drove to Subway for some super nummy five dollar foot longs, we spotted two cops and an ambulance crowded around said-wayward-traveler. Some quick sammiches and we stopped by the Cajun Crawfish Shack to get something for Mom. But she nearly withered to a retiree husk before the cook went out into the Gulf, caught the shrimp himself, cleaned it, and cooked it nearly an hour after it was ordered. Aunt Mert showed up. Cousin Bobby showed up. We left Mom and her fresh shrimp behind to chat them up. Then stumbled across Grave Digger. Yeah, the real one. Alcohol-injected 1500HP monster truck that surprising parks outside Autozone and lets pre-pubescent kids sit inside while their carpet-burned parents can take their. Home again. Briefly. Liam visits a friend. Meg and I travel to Blockbuster for chocolate-covered Peeps and Julie & Julia. Home all too briefly to re-assemble the team. Before heading off to a talent show / pot luck dinner. Meg does the alphabet backwards. Liam plays his upright base. Cousin Alex does interpretive dance.

After an 11hr day, we're done. Just hope the hobo didn't land in jail. But he shouldn't tangle with Great Grandma.