2006

There were 210 posts published in 2006 (this is page 19 of 21).

He Opened His Mouth and Breathed Out Spring

I am reading Susanna Clarke’s Jonathan Strange & Mr. Norrell for the third time in less than a year. If that is not a high recommendation, I don’t know what is.

I’ve mentioned before (as have several commenters) that there are some brilliant passages in this book. Though Clarke is unable to sustain this peak of quality throughout the entire volume, like an addict I keep going, craving the next hit.

Here is today’s hit:

Strange took the cup and drank the water down. The cup fell from his hand. Drawlight was aware — he did not know how exactly — that Strange was changed. Against the starry sky the black shape of his figure sagged and his head dropped. Drawlight wondered if he were drunk. But how could a few drops of any thing make a man drunk? Besides he did not smell of strong liquor; he smelt like a man who had not washed himself or his linen for some weeks; and there was another smell too — one that had not been there a minute ago — a smell like old age and half a hundred cats.

Drawlight had the strangest feeling. It was something he had felt before when magic was about to happen. Invisible doors seemed to be opening all around him; winds blew on him from far away, bringing scents of woods, moors, and bogs. Images flew unbidden into his mind. The houses around him were no longer empty. He could see inside them as if the walls had been removed. Each dark room contained — not a person exactly — a Being, an Ancient Spirit. One contained a Fire; another a Stone; yet another a Shower of Rain; yet another a Flock of Birds; yet another a Hillside; yet another a Small Creature with Dark and Fiery Thoughts; and on and on.

“What are they?” he whispered, in amazement. He realized that all the hairs on his head were standing on end as if he had been electrified. Then a new, different sensation took him: it was a sensation not unlike falling, and yet he remained standing. It was as if his mind had fallen down.

He thought he stood upon an English hillside. Rain was falling; it twisted in the air like grey ghosts. Rain fell upon him and he grew thin as rain. Rain washed away thought, washed away memory, all the good and the bad. He no longer knew his name. Everything was washed away like mud from a stone. Rain filled him up with thoughts and memories of his own. Silver lines of water covered the hillside, like intricate lace, like the veins of an arm. Forgetting that he was, or ever had been, a man, he became the lines of water. He fell into the earth with the rain.

He thought he lay beneath the earth, beneath England. Long ages passed; cold and rain seeped through him; stones shifted within him. In the Silence and the Dark he grew vast. He became the earth; he became England. A star looked down on him and spoke to him. A stone asked him a question and he answered it in its own language. A river curled at his side; hills budded beneath his fingers. He opened his mouth and breathed out spring…

He thought he was pressed into a thicket in a dark wood in winter. The trees went on for ever, dark pillars separated thin, white slices of winter light. He looked down. Young saplings pierced him through and through; they grew up through his body, through his feet and hands. His eye-lids would no longer close because twigs had grown up through them. Insects scuttled in and out of his ears; spiders built nests and webs in his mouth. He realized he had been entwined in the wood for years and years. He knew the wood and the wood knew him. There was no saying any longer what was wood and what was man.

All was silent. Snow fell. He screamed…

Blackness.

Like rising up from beneath dark waters, Drawlight came to himself. Who it was that released him — whether Strange, or the wood, or England itself — he did not know, but he felt its contempt as it cast him back into his own mind. The Ancient Spirits withdrew from him. His thoughts and sensations shrank back to those of a Man. He was dizzy and reeling from the memory of what he had endured. He examined his hands and rubbed the places on his body where the trees had pierced him. They seemed whole enough; oh, but they hurt! He whimpered and looked around for Strange.

The magician was a little way off, crouching by a wall, muttering magic to himself. He struck the wall once; the stones bulged, changed shape, became a raven; the raven opened its wings and, with a loud caw, flew up towards the night sky. He struck the wall again: another raven emerged from the wall and flew away. Then another and another, and on and on, thick and fast they came until all the stars above were blotted out by black wings.

Strange raised his hand to strike again…

“Lord Magician,” gasped Drawlight. “You have not told me what the third message is.”

Strange looked round. Without warning he seized Drawlight’s coat and pulled him close. Drawlight could feel Strange’s stinking breath on his face and for the first time he could see his face. Starlight shone on fierce, wild eyes, from which all humanity and reason had fled.

“Tell Norrell I am coming!” hissed Strange.

In the past few hours, I’ve listened to this passage three times. I’ve read it on paper three times. I’ve copied it from the book to the text editor. It retains its dark hold on me each time I read it, enchants me. I wish that I could write like this.

When I have finished with Jonathan Strange, I will move onto a book that Kris recently read and loved: The Time Traveler’s Wife. And then I will re-read another book that captivated me last spring: Cloud Atlas. This is a golden age of fantastic fiction. There’s some wonderful stuff being produced by strong writers, stuff that’s accessible even to those disinclined toward fantasy and science fiction, stuff that’s quality literature by any measure. For children, there are the Harry Potter books and Phillip Pullman’s His Dark Materials trilogy. For adults, there are the three books I’ve cited and several others. It is a great time to be a fan of speculative fiction.

Kentucky Fried Kitten

On the way to pick up dinner tonight, I came up with a brilliant business idea. Kris thinks it’s doomed to failure, but I don’t know. What do you think?

Here’s the concept: Kentucky Fried Kitten, just like Kentucky Fried Chicken (which was where I was headed to pick up dinner), but with kittens. And better!

Imagine your typical fast food restaurant, but with a special glassed-in cage area in which hundreds of kittens romp and play. While the parents are ordering food, their brood can paw at the glass wall, admiring the furry little scamps inside. “Which one do you like, Johnny?” asks Mom, and Johnny points to a little calico in the corner. A smiling teenager grabs the calico kitten, gives a wave, and vanishes to the kitchen.

A few minutes later: voila! Dinner is served. Deep-fried kitten. Crisp and juicy. Crazy delicious.

Some other key ideas regarding this exciting business opportunity:

  • BYOC! Customers will get a discount if they bring in their own cat.
  • A number of delicious dipping sauces will be available, from standards like honey mustard and barbeque, to more exotic flavors like spicy thai and yellow curry.
  • Customers can create a wide variety of combo meals, with popular sides such as mashed potatoes and cole slaw, and new favorites like goldfish crackers. Also, customers will be able to opt for white-meat only meals for a nominal surcharge.
  • Toys with the meals? No way! Each child gets to keep the skin of the kitten she eats. While the meat is coated in a mixture of secret seasonings and then dunked in bubbling vegetable oil, a specially trained employee is mounting the kitten’s skin for the customer to take home. Johnny’s little calico is a treasure for years to come.
  • Think of the low overhead. The Humane Society is always whining about how there are too many kittens. KFK takes care of that problem and provides delicious, nutritious meals in the process. (It may even be possible to charge the Humane Society for taking the kittens of their hands!) This is a meal that even Bob Barker would be proud to eat.
  • This is an opportunity for people to have closer contact with the food they eat. You always hear people preaching the importance of this, but do you ever see it put into practice? Now you will!

As you can see, this is a revolutionary concept, and the franchise opportunities are endless (as are the potential profits). I need to do some more brainstorming — you can help — before I move on to a business plan, but I think we’re close to a go here. I’m thinking of brining in Ken Lay as CEO.

Kentucky Fried Kitten: coming soon to a street corner near you.

Mmmmm…Finger-lickin’ good!

The Waters of March

It was cold this morning, and a thick layer of frost clung to the car, the road, the trees. Traffic moved slowly, wary of ice.

Climbing the hill next to the mill in Oregon City, I could see billowing frothy clouds of steam from the falls. Entropy. The mist roiled outward, fog-like, making the road slightly more slippery.

Down the hill, past Canemah, I saw the full moon, bright white and glowing, hanging like a low fruit in the cerulean sky. Its light fell silver and shimmering on the smooth surface of the river, forming a road of white from the far bank to this. I was mesmerized. I could not look away. My attention ought to have been focused on the iced road in front of me, but instead I was drawn to the light on the water.

Later in the morning I found a fabulous song: Aguas de Marco by Antonio Carlos Jobim. (Jobim, a Brazilian composer and poet, produced such gems as “The Girl From Ipanema”, “How Insensitive”, and “Desafinado”. He also wrote the English lyrics for many of his songs, including this one.) The song stuck in my head, the melody repeating again and again. I googled the lyrics.

The Waters of March
(aka Aguas de Marco)
by Antonio Carlos Jobim

A stick, a stone, it’s the end of the road,
It’s the rest of the stump, it’s a little alone,
It’s a sliver of glass, it is life, it’s the sun,
It is night, it is death, it’s a trap, it’s a gun.
The oak when it blooms, a fox in the brush,
The knot in the wood, the song of the thrush.
The wood of the wind, a cliff, a fall,
A scratch, a lump, it is nothing at all.
It’s the wind blowing free, it’s the end of a slope,
It’s a beam, it’s a void, it’s a hunch, it’s a hope.

And the riverbank talks of the water of march.

It’s the end of the strain, it’s the joy in your heart,
The foot, the ground, the flesh, the bone,
The beat of the road, a slingshot stone.
A fish, a flash, a silvery glow,
A fight, a bet, the range of the bow.
The bed of the well, the end of the line,
The dismay in the face, it’s a loss, it’s a find.
A spear, a spike, a point, a nail,
A drip, a drop, the end of the tale.
A truckload of bricks in the soft morning light,
The shot of a gun, in the dead of the night.
A mile, a must, a thrust, a bump.
It’s a girl, it’s a rhyme, it’s the cold, it’s the mumps,
The plan of the house, the body in bed,
The car that got stuck, it’s the mud, it’s the mud.
A float, a drift, a flight, a wing,
A hawk, a quail, the promise of spring.

And the riverbanks talks of the waters of march.

It’s the promise of life, it’s the joy in your heart,
A snake, a stick, it is John, it is Joe,
It’s a thorn in your hand, and a cut on your toe.
A point, a grain, a bee, a bite,
A blink, a buzzard, the sudden stroke of night.
A pin, a needle, a sting, a pain,
A snail, a riddle, a weep, a stain.
A pass in the mountains, a horse, a mule,
In the distance the shelves rode three shadows of blue.

And the riverbank talks of the promise of life
In your heart, in your heart.

A stick, a stone, the end of the load,
The rest of the stump, a lonesome road.
A sliver of glass, a life, the sun,
A night, a death, the end of the run.

And the riverbank talks of the waters of march

It’s the end of all strain,
It’s the joy in your heart.

Through much cleverness I discovered and downloaded a wonderful video recording of a 1973 performance of this song by Elis Regina, which I am hosting here:

Elis Regina and Antonio Carlos Jobim — Aguas de Marco

Enjoy it. May it make you as happy as it has made me.

(p.s. There are many versions of this song available for purchase from the iTunes Music Store, both in English and in Portuguese. I bought the entire album called Elis y Tom because I liked this music so much.)

Grizzly Man

We haven’t seen any Best Picture nominees recently, but we did get a chance to netflix Grizzly Man, a highly-regarded documentary from last year.

Grizzly Man tells the story of Timothy Treadwell, a ne’er-do-well, a drug addict, and notorious liar, who, after his acting career failed, began to spend his summers in Alaska, camping in Katmai National Park on the Alaska Peninsula: the very heart of grizzly territory. Beginning in 1991, Treadwell lived in the bush with the bears, the foxes, the birds, and the bugs. He named the animals around him. He learned their personalities. He spoke with them. In 2003, because of an argument with an airline ticket agent, Treadwell and his girlfriend stayed two weeks longer than normal. All of the bears they knew had already migrated toward their hibernation locations, and strange, new bears had taken their place. Strange, new, hungry, aggressive bears. Strange, new, hungry, aggressive bears that killed and ate Treadwell and his girlfriend.

During his last five years in Alaska, Treadwell used a couple of video cameras to film himself interacting with the animals and the world around him. His intention was to produce some sort of extended work about the grizzlies. One hundred hours of footage survived, and it is from this raw material that the bulk of the film is drawn. We see what Treadwell saw. We hear what he has to say about it.

Much of the footage used in Grizzly Man is gorgeous. Treadwell had a fine eye, and he had beautiful scenery at his disposal. He was unafraid to use wide angles, and this allowed him to capture the grand scale of the land around him. His footage of the animals — the bears and the foxes — is also great stuff, and I cannot help but admire his work.

Was Timothy Treadwell a hero or was he a fool? Was he an idealist or was he an idiot? Did his “work” promote the health and safety of the bears or did it endanger them? This film asks — but does not answer — these questions.

Many people, including the film’s director, Werner Herzog, are critical of Treadwell’s actions, and of his anthropomorphized view of the natural world. I cannot help buy sympathize with the man. I respect him. The classical view of nature says that the world of the animals is a wild kingdom, and that the world of man is wholly separate from it. I am not convinced this is true. It may be that each species operates according to unique principles, with specific evolutionary motivations for behavior, but I believe that it’s possible for species to overcome these mental structures and learn to communicate, even to co-habitate. This isn’t pie-in-the-sky environmentalist “love-the-earth” New Age bullshit; I sincerely believe that, given time, humans will learn to communicate more effectively with animals. I believe that animals are, in general, far more intelligent than most people credit, and that individual creatures are capable of rich emotional lives.

But that’s not really what the film is about. Grizzly Man is about Treadwell, about his deep, conflicted soul, and about the solace he finds among the bears. It’s not clear what Treadwell does when he’s not living with the bears. Part of his time is spent doing educational presentations for grade school children, but what does he do with the rest of his time? Interviews with friends and family make it obvious that he didn’t have a lot of money. Was he employed at all? He helped found and run Grizzly People, “a grassroots organization devoted to preserving bears and their wilderness habitat”, but was that all?

A final note: I love the song used to close the film, “Coyotes” by Don Edwards. If you know of any other songs like this (“Cold Missouri Waters” by Cry Cry Cry is an example), please share them with me. These are country/folk story songs with sparse instrumentation, songs that are all about the voice of the singer and about the story he (or she) is singing.

Knife Skills

“Girls only want boyfriends who have great skills.” — Napoleon Dynamite

Though I love to cook, the truth is I have no real skill in the kitchen, no formal training. When I heard that Kris and Craig planned to take a knife class together, I asked to tag along.

Our class was held at In Good Taste, a kitchen store located in the heart of Portland’s Pearl District. The store, which comes highly recommended by food maven Amy Jo, features a fantastic selection of cookbooks, wine, and knives. It sells lots of other kitchen gadgets, too. Between In Good Taste and the nearby Sur La Table, a home cook can find a lot of fun toys!

In the center of In Good Taste is a vast kitchen island, the store’s cooking school. Available classes range from knife skills (basic and advanced) to hearty winter soups to hands-on sausage making. Our class was taught by Chef Lucy, who was both knowledgable and patient. She introduced various knife cuts, demonstrated them for us, and then allowed us to practice on a bin of vegetables. Each of the fourteen students was rather raw, and Lucy took time during each cut to walk around and examine our progress. (We were all raw except for Craig, that is. “You’ve done this before,” Lucy said, examining his finely julienned carrot. My julienne was less good, though Lucy did admire one of my orange supremes.)

I was pleased with the class. Even if the only long-term skill I take from it is a better way to dice onions, it’s worth the time and money, but I hope to be able to retain the other skills we were taught.

“I really like this knife,” I told Kris as we were mincing garlic. “It’s better than anything we have at home.”

“Our knives are very good,” she said, attempting to dissuade me. She knew where I was headed. “We have a nice Henckels and a Wüsthof.”

“You know,” I said, undissuaded, “my birthday is coming up. And we get ten percent off anything we buy here after this class today.”

“Okay,” Kris said. “You can have a knife for your birthday. But you can’t use it until your birthday!”

While Kris browsed the kitchen gadgets, I picked out a 6.5-inch Shun Santoku knife, the very knife we used in the class. It was a tough choice whether or not to purchase a scalloped blade; I opted for a smooth edge.

When we got home, I took out my knife and my cutting board (I have a special J.D.-only cutting board that I love — this same cutting board was used in the cooking class) and, just for the hell of it, I diced an onion. “I thought I told you that you couldn’t use your knife until your birthday,” Kris mumbled, but she relented when I reminded her that she was allowed to use her Christmas present — a new food processor — to prepare for Friend Thanksgiving.

I enjoy cooking (and, especially, eating) and it pleases me to acquire good kitchen equipment and good kitchen skills.

Winter Olympics 2006

The Winter Olympics begin today, which is a Big Deal in our household. I love the Olympics, but I hate the media’s U.S.-centric coverage. How well does the U.S. really do at the Olympic Games? I have the answer.

First, here are some general Olympics-related links:

We will soon be bombarded with medals charts showing how well the United States is doing. I’ve always believed these medal charts are deceptive. What does it really mean that the United States earned 34 medals at the 2002 Winter Olympics? Is a bronze medal just as good as a gold? Which is more impressive: that the United States won 34 medals or that Estonia won three?

Here is the BBC’s final medal chart from the 2002 Winter Olympics:

This chart is sorted by the number of gold medals earned by each country, but I feel this doesn’t accurately reflect how well each country performed. I want to know how well a country does in relation to its population, or how well it does based on the number of athletes it sends to the Olympic Games.

Four years ago I created a spreadsheet to track exactly this sort of information. What did I find?

Though the U.S. finished second in total medals won, its accomplishments were actually rather mediocre by any other measure. To my mind, the country with the best performance at the 2002 Winter Olympics — and by a huge margin — was Norway. Norway only earned 24 medals to the United States’ 34 (Germany finished first with 35), but Norway is a much smaller country, sent fewer athletes to the competition, and has a smaller Gross Domestic Product. Norway kicked ass.

Here’s how I would sort the medal chart from the 2002 Winter Games:

More detailed information is available from my full spreadsheet.

I intend to keep detailed information regarding each country’s performance again for the 2006 Winter Olympics. When this information is active (which is not the case as of this moment), you’ll be able to find it at the foldedspace.org 2006 Olympics medal tracker page. Check back throughout the Olympics for updated standings.

I have vivid recollections of watching the Opening Cermonies in 2002 at Mac and Pam’s house. The two Ice Queens huddled beneath blankets, and the four of us kept a running banter regarding each country’s outfits, etc. We spent the night. The next day MacDaddy and I went for Mexican food at La Costa. While we ate, we watched the luge and cross-country skiing. Good times. Good times.

Good Night, and Good Luck.

We saw our fourth Best Picture nominee last weekend, the superb Good Night, and Good Luck. I knew little about the film when we entered the theater, and thus was pleasantly surprised to find it tautly written, well acted, and filmed lovingly in grainy black-and-white.

Good Night, and Good Luck. tells the story of reporter Edward R. Murrow‘s campaign against Senator Joseph McCarthy. The film wisely avoids providing detailed background to McCarthy’s crusade against communism; it assumes the viewer has a basic grasp of this piece of American history. Instead, the film focuses almost exclusively on the offices of CBS News and on the men (and few women) who risk their careers to confront McCarthy and his dogmatism. These men are not painted as heroes, but as ordinary fellows doing their jobs. The film uses actual archival footage of McCarthy, letting him damn himself.

This is an excellent film, my favorite non-documentary of the year. (Kris still prefers Crash and Brokeback Mountain.) Granted, there are a couple of opaque points — who is this Don Hollenbeck and why should we care about his story? — but on the whole, the film is tight and cohesive in a way that most modern Hollywood films, with their loose stories and superfluous subplots, are not.

Some other quick points:

  • I adored the sets.
  • A person could get lung cancer just from watching this film. There’s more smoking than I can recall ever having seen in any other movie. (Is this why there was a trailer for the upcoming Thank You For Smoking? If so, very funny.)
  • Alex Borstein plays a young woman named Natalie in this film. Kris and I both thought she looked like our little Aimee Rose.
  • Why is this film rated PG? I can’t remember anything that warranted this. Maybe it’s all the smoking.

More than anything, Good Night, and Good Luck. moved me. It was inspiring to watch the story of a small group of people standing up to a narrow-minded man abusing his power. There are some clear parallels between McCarthyism and the machinations of the current administration. This film made me realize that I need to do more than just complain in this weblog; I need to do something.

Kris was in a foul mood all weekend.

That’s not true: she started the weekend in a stellar mood. We had dinner with Marcela and Pierre (and their beautiful children), which left us craving more of their company. Kris, in particular, finds their conversation stimulating. While Louis and Ella showed me how to play their favorite games (Peanut Butter & Jelly being the #1 choice), the other three adults sat at the dinner table, discussing politics with wine and candlelight. Kris loves this sort of thing: adult conversation about adult topics.

Recently, Kris has been watching a The NewsHour with Jim Lehrer. “I love this show,” she tells me. “Everyone is so smart: the commentators and the guests. It’s great to see intelligent people discuss the issues.” (She’s also become a fan of of the Cursor linked news summaries, which you ought to visit if you haven’t already.) I don’t watch the show with her, but she often gives me condensed versions of each night’s stories.

Last weekend the news had overwhelmed her. “I have this seething anger that no one seems to be PAYING ATTENTION,” she told me.

“You know,” I said during one of her sour patches, “you really ought to give Dave a chance. He’s educated, intelligent, and keenly interested in world affairs. Of all our friends, he’s probably most able to carry on the sort of conversation that you crave. When we were at lunch Friday, we had a fine discussion about the decline of oratory in this country. He told me about the book he was reading, a biography of Lincoln. He’s well-informed.”

Kris sighed.

She wishes I were more keenly interested in world affairs. Like Pam, I bury my head in the sand. I purposely avoid exposure to the news because:

  • I can’t influence it;
  • it’s always the same thing over-and-over;
  • it only makes me depressed.

The truth is I do have strong opinions about most social and political issues. My views aren’t always popular, however, and I find it pointless — even destructive — to argue about politics, so mostly I am quiet. (This is especially true in-person. I am not a good debater. Unfortunately, many of the people who want to debate — Kris, Dave, Dana — are formally trained in the art so that it’s frustrating to argue with them. Even when they’re wrong, they win the argument.) It’s not worth it to me to speak my mind about, say, abortion, if the price of speaking my mind is a strained (or lost) friendship. I speak my voice in the polling booth, and in the money I contribute to various causes. (Although it is true that most of my causes are non-partisan entities like the Oregon Historical Society and the National Trust for Historic Preservation.)

I guess what I’m trying to say, though poorly, is that I’ve been thinking recently about my relationship with the world, especially regarding politics and social activism. I’ve tried to suppress these sorts of thoughts, most of all in this weblog, aside from the usual angry tirade about our President. Maybe it’s time for me to change. Maybe it’s time for me to become more informed. Maybe it’s time for me to care.

Maybe it’s time for me to voice my opinion, the consequences be damned.

Four Things

Ah, it’s a good day for a meme. I don’t do these often, but sometimes they’re fun. And since Frykitty asked, how can I refuse?

Four jobs I’ve had
1. Cauliflower planter
2. Christmas-tree shearer
3. Door-to-door insurance salesman
4. Box salesman

Four movies I can watch over and over
1. Alien
2. When Harry Met Sally
3. Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon
4. Star Wars (the first original one)

Four places I’ve lived
1. Canby, Oregon
2. Salem, Oregon
3. Oak Grove, Oregon
4. There is no fourth place (well, I lived in Portland til I was two, but I don’t remember it)

Four TV shows I love
1. The Wire
2. Battlestar Galactica
3. Sports Night
4. Freaks and Geeks

Four places I’ve vacationed
1. Minnesota
2. British Columbia
3. Alaska
4. Crater Lake

Four of my favorite dishes
1. Pepper-crusted filet mignon in port sauce
2. Mussman beef curry
3. Jenn’s barbeque beef brisket
4. Three-cheese Hamburger Helper

Four sites I visit daily
1. AskMetafilter
2. MacRumors
3. Comic book forums
4. ORblogs

Four places I would rather be right now
1. Home
2. Together with a group of friends
3. Reading comic books
4. Isn’t it strange that I don’t have answers like “Hawaii” or “Europe”?

Four bloggers I am tagging
1. Nicole
2. Lisa
3. Tammy
4. Joel and Aimee

And just because I’m difficult, I’ve made up another small list of four things. Who cares what television shows people like? I want to know what books they like! (Maybe Cat can add these to her list…)

Four jobs I’d like to have
1. Novelist
2. Magazine editor
3. Bookstore owner
4. Grade school teacher

Four places I’d like to live
1. New York City
2. British Columbia
3. London
4. Hubbard, Oregon

Four books I love
1. My Antonia
2. Cold Mountain
3. Jonathan Strange & Mr. Norrell
4. Bleak House

Four places I’d like to vacation
1. London
2. Kenya, Ethiopia, and Zanzibar
3. Thailand
4. Antarctica

Four more of my favorite dishes
1. Plain chocolate chip cookies
2. Hostess Sno-Balls
3. The lamb platter at Nicholas’ Lebanese
4. Kalamata olives with goat cheese

Scheduled for tomorrow: what the hell is wrong with the world today?

My eBay auctions are going well. I’ve posted twenty-four items now. Eighteen have bids for a total of $530.23. I’ve taken photos for a bunch of other stuff and will post it soon. I’ve got to be careful, though: this whole process is addictive (it’s like free money!) and I’m not exactly sure what sort of burden shipping is going to be. I don’t know how much time and effort it will involve, and I don’t know what it’s going to cost. (I’m offering free shipping on all my auctions.)

I set a personal best on the way to work this morning. It was a three skunk morning, by which I mean I passed three different dead skunks between Canby and the shop. All three skunks were within a mile of each other. My car reeked by the time I made it to work…

Eternal Sunshine

Lisa recently bemoaned the month of February as “the long dark teatime” of the year. I would like to respectfully disagree: February brings the first glimmers of life, is like waking from a long winter nap. Sure some grey days remain and there’s plenty of rain, but at least we have days like today.

Today is beautiful.

It’s sunny. The sky is clear. It’s nearly ten degrees centigrade, and it’s supposed to reach fifteen by the end of the week. I want nothing more than to mow the lawn. Early February in Oregon always features a few days like this, and by the end of the month they become a regular occurrence.

What other harbingers of spring does February have to offer?

  • Bulbs begin to blossom. The camellias bloom. Roses are pruned, and the caneberries too.
  • The rains decreases from an average of 5.35 inches in January to an average of 3.85 inches.
  • The average daily high temperature increases from 7.5 degrees to 10.5 degrees.
  • The days grow longer: we gain 42 minutes of light in the morning (by the end of the month, my commute is no longer in darkness) and 40 minutes of light in the evening.
  • Spring Training!
  • And much, much more!

It’s not February but January that is the long dark teatime of my year.

Super Bummed

I’m not one who generally complains about the officiating of sporting events. Referees and officials have a tough job and they take a lot of grief. I’ve seen poorly officiated games both in favor and in opposition of teams I’m supporting. However, this year’s Super Bowl is the second most poorly officiated game I’ve ever seen.

It makes me angry.

Let’s enumerate the grossest absurdities:

#1 At the end of the first quarter, a Matt Hasselbeck touchdown pass to Darrell Jackson was called back due to pass interference. Was there pass interference? Technically yes, but it’s not anything that would ever be called under any other circumstance. The Seahawks settled for a field goal. (Though admittedly, they still had first-and-twenty after the call, so they had plenty of chances.)

#2 At the end of the second quarter, Ben Roethlisberger scored a touchdown on a third-down run. Or did he?

Roethlisberger fell to the ground with football at his side, the ball behind the plane of the goal. Only after he was on the ground did the quarterback whip the ball forward into the end zone. The official made a delayed call: touchdown. The play was subject to automatic review and was left to stand because the replay was “inconclusive”. You know what? If it had been called the other way (no touchdown), the replay would have backed the call, too. Why? Because there was no touchdown! The Steelers ought to have been held to a field goal and the halftime score should have been 7-3 in favor of the Seahawks. (And yes, the Seahawks could have helped the situation by tackling Roethlisberger a foot or a yard back.)

#3 A few minutes into the fourth quarter, Matt Hasselbeck threw an interception. On the return, he was forced to make a woeful quarterback-esque tackle of the defender. Again the official made a delayed call: Hasselbeck was guilty of blocking below the waist. What the…? This one makes no sense at all. The Steelers were given a bonus fifteen yards, fifteen yards that led to a Pittsburgh touchdown. (On a beautiful play, the prettiest play of the game.)

There were several other questionable calls that went against the Seahawks, and the Steelers were given free passes on a few others. I’m not saying that the Seahawks would have won the game, or that they played well (they did for most of the first half, but not so much in the second), but the Steelers’ lead should have only been 17-14 at the end of the game, and the Seahawks should have been playing for the tying field-goal, not trying to accomplish some sort of miracle comeback.

(I’m not the only one who thinks this Super Bowl was poorly officiated.)

For the record: the worst officiated game I’ve ever seen was the 1995 NFC Championship game between Dallas and Green Bay (actually played in 1996). That one was mind-boggling. Over and over and over calls went for Dallas and against Green Bay. Michael Irvin might be throwing a defender to the ground but the penalty would go against the Packers. Green Bay did its best, but ultimately lost 38-27. To this day I complain bitterly to Sabino (a Cowboys fan, and at my side as we watched) about that game.

Call me a conspiracy theorist, but it sometimes seems to me that officials (in all sports) have been given a mandate from their leagues: “Let this team win. It makes a better story.” For example, in the 1995 NFC Championship, I wonder if the officials were not told: “Let the Cowboys win. We want a Dallas-Pittsburgh Super Bowl that hearkens back to the olden days.”

Just wait ’til next year!