January 2007

There were 24 posts published in January 2007 (this is page 2 of 3).

Return to Galactica

When Alan‘s not harassing Tammy, he’s digging up gems like this silly-yet-effective tribute to/summary of Battlestar Galactica:

Fed up with long delays on Netflix, I purchased the first two seasons of the new BSG through the iTunes Music Store. Kris has been joining me as I rewatch them. Actually, I only every watched the first season, so the second season will be new once we reach it. At the moment, we’re stumbling through the first awkward episodes, gradually sinking into the show.

(Note: I think the cancellation rumors are just that — rumors. I wouldn’t put much credence in them.)

Touchstones of Success

Kris and I braved the icy roads — which turned out to be not so bad — to drive down to Canby for dinner with Ron and Kara last night. We were joined by Jenn and the kids. It was wonderful.

Kara prepared a meal entirely from Cook’s Country, the new(-ish) companion magazine to Cook’s Illustrated. Among the goodies were a citrus salad (tossed in an Asian dressing that even I liked — and I hate dressing), Italian pot roast, and a decadent chocolate pudding cake for dessert. Kris and I brought a bottle of wine which we’d received from Andrew and Joann at Thanksgiving. It turned out to be a perfect complement to the meal.

Between dinner and dessert, Ron and Kara gave us a tour of their newly-remodeled home. The house was built in 1891, and has been home to Ron’s family ever since. His family, Jeremy’s family, and my family are all founding members of Zion Mennonite Church, and have a long, intertwined history. When our hosts showed us their new kitchen island, they pointed out the butcher-block countertop. “That came from the old kitchen in the Zion basement,” Ron said. It was a lovely piece of wood, scarred through decades of use: circular burn-marks covered the surface.

“Look at that,” I said. “It’s not too hard to imagine my grandmother in the basement canning with the other women. And maybe Ron’s grandmother is there with her. And Jeremy’s, too.” The thing is: this probably did occur, and on more than one occasion. It’s been a long time since I marveled at the connections of community I feel when in the Whiskey Hill neighborhood, but they’re real, and they are strong. (I can imagine forty years from today Harrison and Ellis and Noah standing around a kitchen discussing the same thing.)

After dinner we chatted and let Hank read us trivia questions from his new book (Guinness World Records for Kids 2007, or something like that). Daphne managed to injure herself when leaping from the bannister-less stairs. I browsed Kara’s collection of old books, and in doing so I found a gem: Touchstones of Success by “160 present-day men of achievement”, published in 1920. The book, which is already falling apart, contains advice on success from business leaders of the era.

The within pages tell what the price [of success] is, and as our ambitious young men read in these wonderfully fascinating testimonies of really successful men they will disovered that the making of money was by no means their chief aim. They got that, and they got it because their main purpose in life was to serve, and work. Integrity, courage, a clear conscience, and a real fine character were the most valued and cherished of all their possessions.

Kara allowed me to borrow the book, and I look forward to mining it for gems — both humorous (to my 21st century eyes) and practical. I don’t that I’ve mentioned it here, but reading through “the success literature” has become something of a hobby for me. I enjoy it. The stories are uplifting, and I’ve found that many of the anecdotes and admonishments have real application to my own life.

(Barbara Ehrenreich, in the latest issue of Harper’s, attacks the personal-development field as purveyors of false hope, as scammers and charlatans. This makes my blood boil, so much so that I’ve not yet been able to set down a suitable well-reasoned response. All I can think to do is call her a disillusioned old bitch, but that’s hardly rational, hardly fair, and just plain stupid. Yet it’s where I am in my response. Maybe by next week I’ll have calmed down enough to craft some sort of rebuttal. (My biggest complaint about Ehrenreich is that “personal responsibility” seems to be a foreign concept to her.))

Site Statistics

This one’s for my little brother, who wanted to know how many people visit my Animal Intelligence site every day.

I crunched some numbers this morning, just for the fun of it. At my four active web sites (active as in “I post to them at least once a month”), I receive the following traffic.

foldedspace.org: ~35,000 visitors/month, ~1200/day over the past month, 9200 in the past week [traffic at foldedspace is holding steady — on the rare occasions that I have an entry picked up, traffic soars for a month or two, but then it settles at around 35,000/month again] — foldedspace has ~350 subscribers (who are all you people?)

fourcolor.org: ~1100 visitors/month, ~40/day over the past month, 280 in the past week [traffic at Four Color Comics is holding steady — traffic would improve substantially if I actually posted content] — I don’t track Four Color Comics subscribers yet

animalintelligence.org: ~800 visitors/month, ~30/day over the past month, 310 in the past week [traffic at Animal Intelligence is growing slowly but surely — I am happy with this site’s current state. It’s working exactly as intended. I post to it when I find something good (or when people send me things — Frykitty, I’m saving your cockie story for Valentine’s Day), and don’t feel bad if weeks go by without something to put up] — Animal Intelligence has ~25 subscribers

getrichslowly.org: ~105,000 visitors/month, ~4000/day over the past month, 42,500 in the past week [traffic at Get Rich Slowly is growing quickly — there’s no question that this is my primary focus now] — Get Rich Slowly has ~5,000 subscribers

In an ideal world, each of these sites would be growing quickly. But an ideal world doesn’t have all sorts of internet distractions. Or people wanting boxes. Or grapes to prune.

One of my goals for the next month is to actually bring Vintage Pop online. I just got Bibliophilic renovated the other day! Then I’ll have six seven active blogs (plus the flotch, plus my top-secret personal blog).

I’m a madman.

Addendum: In the past few days, I’ve resuscitated Bibliophilic and Money Hacks, which is a companion to Get Rich Slowly. Bibliophilic is averaging 4 visitors/day and Money Hacks is averaging 6 visitors/day. Bibliophilic has 2 subscribers; Money Hacks has 20.

17″ MacBook Pro: Six-Week Review

I’ve been using my new 17″ MacBook Pro for about six weeks now. How do I like it? That’s a difficult question to answer.

I purchased the 17″ model because I’ve become increasingly reliant on screen real estate. In order for me to work efficiently, I need a w-i-d-e screen, one on which I can fit a browser window and a text editor side-by-side. My old 12″ Powerbook didn’t allow me to do this. Its screen resolution was 1024×768.

In this regard — and many others — my new machine is like a dream. Its resolution is 1680×1050. That extra 556 pixels in width makes a HUGE difference in the way I work. Also, the MacBook Pro is zippy. I loaded it with 3gb of RAM and, except for one notable complete melt-down (which Nick witnessed), the machine has run without a hitch (or restart) since I received it at the end of November. As a computer, it’s wonderful.

But.

But a 17″ laptop is a big machine. It’s bulky. It’s unwieldy. It’s not nearly as convenient as my old 12″ laptop. To port the MacBook Pro around with me everywhere I go (which I do) requires planning and effort. Hauling the 12″ Powerbook was simple.

There are some subtle — but very real — aesthetic differences, too, all of which fall in favor of the smaller computer. For the past few years, I’ve been impressed with the fit and finish of Apple’s products. The iPods and laptops and desktops are all wonderful to work with: they’re solid, polished, and beautiful. Everything is molded to fit smoothly and work fluidly. However, my new iPod and my new MacBook Pro both suffer from little defects that detract from the pleasure of use, remind me that I’m using a machine instead of just experiencing it.

The biggest nuisance on the MacBook Pro is the lid — it won’t stay open. On the Powerbook, the lid is stiff — if you open it, it stays in place. You can swing the computer around in all directions, and the lid won’t budget at all. But on the MacBook Pro, the lid moves at the slightest provocation. I often write in bed. This is difficult to do when the lid of your computer falls shut when elevated even a tiny bit. My MacBook Pro’s touchpad is poorly fitted, too. On the left side, it sits below the case, but on the right side it rises above it. The differences are slight — fractions of a millimeter — but noticeable in daily use.

I’m torn. I want to love my MacBook Pro unconditionally, but I don’t. I love it as a computer, but not as a product that I hope to live with for several years. I love my Powerbook, and yet it doesn’t meet my needs.

Are other people as obsessed with their computers as I am?

Low-Tech Comfort

I have to admit that I rather like this cold, clear weather. At least the sun is shining.

Yesterday morning, Kris and I sat in the parlor — she with her book, I with my laptop — and basked in the sunlight, which filtered through the tall windows. All four cats joined us.

Nemo sat on a bench, squinting and smiling into the sun. Meatball lounged on the floor. Simon sniffed the furniture to be sure that nothing had changed. Toto stood around and glowered at her brothers.

It was a warm feeling, both in terms of temperature and emotion. My toes were cold (because our floor is never warm), but I was wearing slippers, so that mitigated some of the discomfort. I wrote. Kris read. The cats were cats.

At one point, Simon decided he had had enough of sniffing furniture, so he turned his attention to his little brother. He walked to the bench, stood on his haunches, and grappled with Nemo. Nemo squeaked and tried to fight back, but ran in retreat after Simon hopped up and applied the full weight of his sixteen pounds. (Though Simon only weighs sixteen pounds — a fact we verified yesterday afternoon — he seems to way twenty. Or more. He’s a fat boy. I’ve begun to call him “Jumbo”, which he doesn’t appreciate.)

Time passed.

Simon wandered off to watch birds out the kitchen window. Meatball took his place on the bench. Nemo hopped on the love seat, looking for a place that he might escape Simon’s notice. Toto glowered. I wrote. Kris read.

Simon returned from his bird-watching duties and looked at the bench. He seemed disappointed to find Meatball in Nemo’s place, but then he decided, “What the hell.” He walked to the bench, stood on his haunches, and grappled with Meatball. Meatball has not yet learned his place. He’s deferent to the other cats. So when Simon whapped him, Meatball didn’t know what to do. He whapped back, but without much conviction. Poor Meatball.

The temperature dropped to -8 degrees centigrade at home last night. According to my weather station, it’s -8.8 degrees centigrade here at the shop even as I type. This wouldn’t be so bad if it were warm in my office. But it’s not.

My office is warmed by a tiny space heater. If it’s left to run around the clock, it can generally handle the heating chores on normal January days. But when it’s this cold, and when the thing has been turned down for the weekend, my office turns into an icebox. It was barely 10 degrees centigrade in here when I got to work this morning. It’s only 13.0 degrees centigrade now. My fingers are cold. They’re not numb, but they’re cold. Periodically, I set the heater on my lap and hug it to my chest. Ouch. It hurts so good…

Pastoral Winter

Ah, winter. It’s cold in Oregon. Very cold.

The older I get, the better able I am to predict the regular, natural flow of the weather patterns. (This is frustrated somewhat by the gradual shift caused by global climate change, but the general trends hold true.) The last few years have each been unusual in some way or other. Last year was very wet, for example. This year, however, had been a by-the-book Portland winter, and that trend is continuing.

We had a light dusting of snow late in the week, and then the cold weather set in. I expect this in mid-January. I expect the coldest snap to reach us later in the month or at the beginning of February. That’s also the most likely time for good snowfall.

Then, in mid-February, the sun will begin to exert its presence, and the clear days won’t just be clear — they’ll be warm, too. I remember those days fondly from my years at college: everyone traipsing around in shorts because the high temperatures approached sixty degrees, people lounging around the plaza. Good times.

Now the clear, bright days of winter — whether cold or warm — mean yardwork, especially on the weekends. There are fruit trees to prune, grapes to prune, berries to prune, roses to prune, hedges to prune. I could spend my whole life pruning.

It’s nice, though, to be working in the yard with the birds, and the cats (who like the birds), and my wife (who likes the cats and the birds). It’s a pleasant, relaxing thing, and a fine change of pace from my constant connection to the computer.

Yesterday morning, I spent some time outside with the cats. Simon, Nemo, and Meatball helped me prune the grapes, the apple trees, and the berries. They thought it was great fun. I thought it was cold. My fingers and toes were numb within minutes — how must their paws have felt? I’m at something of a loss when it comes to pruning. I have a book that is intended to guide me, but actually raises more questions than it answers. I should check to see if the extension service has better information.

Simon had some excitement while he was out. The new renter across the street has the annoying habit of letting her dogs loose without supervision — she opens the door and lets them roam free. They’re nice dogs, and I like them, but I don’t like the way they come tromping through our yard. Yesterday the larger of the two spied simon and chased him up the cedar tree. sigh He was stuck about twenty feet up, cold and frightened. We left him there for about an hour before I decided to coax him down. He scooted down butt-first, squeaking his whiney little cry the entire time, until he was within reach if I stood on tip-toes. Then he wouldn’t come any further. He kept looking down at me, squeaking. I managed to grab his fat ass and pull him down, and he ran inside where it was safe and warm.

Pastoral lifestyle, indeed!

Breaking Internet Addiction

This probably won’t come as a shock to those who are close to me — or even those who barely know me — but the internet has become something of a time sink for me. It’s true that I now view blogging as my vocation, and this, by its very nature, requires me to stay well-connected; but it’s also true that I fritter away hours every day with what are essentially prolonged repetitive distractions.

  • I check e-mail. Constantly.
  • I monitor my site statistics. Constantly.
  • I keep tabs on my RSS feeds.
  • I check my favorite sites for updates.
  • I google or wikipedia anything that occurs to me to google or wikipedia.
  • I play mindless games.

There’s nothing wrong with doing these things once-in-a-while, but they’re constant distractions for me. They’re not productive. I have now gone eight minutes without checking e-mail or site stats. It’s astounding that I know this. It’s sad that I know this. And yet in a couple more minutes, the urge will be so strong that I’ll stop what I’m doing here to check again. And then I’ll check again in another few minutes.

The writers guild met last night. (Have I mentioned how much I’ve come to value these meetings?) I go to the pub early so that I can be frugal and purchase food at happy hour prices. This gives me an hour on my own. (Sometimes Paul shows up early, too, and we can chat.)

Last night I took my laptop. The pub has no internet connection. For one full blissful hour, I was working on my computer as I normally do but without a connection to the net. You would not believe how productive I was. I responded to sixteen pieces of e-mail and queued them for later sending. (In fact, I started the evening with 76 pieces of e-mail in my inbox; when I finished, I’d whittled that to 24 pieces.) I figured out how to use iCal’s to-do list and began to add things to it. (AmyJo, you’ll be happy to hear that I added: “Fix AmyJo’s blog” to the list!) I created a schedule for upcoming entries at Get Rich Slowly. I even wrote outlines of a few of these entries.

I was able to get more done in an hour than I usually do in a day. It was awesome.

“I need to find a place like that in Oak Grove,” I told Kris when I returned home. “A place where I can linger, but which does not have an internet connection.”

“What about the library?” she asked.

“That’s good, but it has its own distractions. The place I need can’t have other stuff to tempt me away from the task at hand.”

The quest is on. I need to find a spot I can sit and work. I wonder if the Chinese restaurant I like so much would mind if I took up a booth for a few hours on mid-Friday or mid-Saturday afternoons?

(Hooray for small victories! I managed to write this entire entry without checking stats or e-mail. That’s eighteen minutes of discipline. Discipline that ends right now…)

Totally Tomatoes

Kris is crazy. She’s crazy for tomatoes. Here we are, in the coldest darkest corner of the year, and she’s conspiring with her cronies to order tomatoes. She’s itching to get them planted. She feels like she’s running late.

With Craig and Amy Jo, she buys specialty seeds from an outfit called Totally Tomatoes. This year the three of them ordered:

  • Black From Tula
  • Aunt Ruby’s German Green
  • Bloody Butcher
  • San Marzano
  • Dr. Wyches Yellow
  • Box Car Willie
  • Red Star
  • Rutgers VFASt

Kris just spent $25 on tomato seeds (which will work out to less than $1.50/plant between the three). She also spent $60 for a set of five super-deluxe tomato ladders. “If they work, I’ll get five more,” she told me. “I’m hoping that these will prevent some of the tomato crises we had last year.” (I’m hoping they will, too. Tomato crises are, well, crises. And of major proportions.)

Soon our parlor will be a mass of growlights, potting soil, and plants. Nosey law-enforcement could be forgiven for suspecting she was growing pot. She’s not. It’s just tomatoes.

She’s totally tomatoes.

But so are her friends. Witness Amy Jo:

I finally opened one of the jars of roasted Black Tula tomato sauce last week…oh, my, yum. Paul isn’t much of fan of typical tomato sauces but this one is meaty and smoky, perfect for hearty pasta dishes…

And Craig:

Mmmmmm, tomatoes.

You can count me out of the Raad Red, my tomato roster is full, full, full. I’ll try any pepper though, I actually had some success with them last year.

Mmmmmm, tomatoes.

Albert and I have been spending 1/2 hour each evening in the attic setting up the grow lights and plant shelves. The urge to grow stuff is hitting me early this year.

Mmmmmm, tomatoes.

These e-mails were intercepted and used without permission, which may get me into trouble with the tomato fanatics. I’ll take my chances. Lisa’s aware of the madness, too. When I smiled knowingly at these poor souls via e-mail, she replied:

There’s a long list of tomato varieties on our kitchen counter even
as I type.

She snapped this photo of Craig and Albert planting early seeds:

Good man, Craig — it looks like you’re using Territorial.

This morning I was razzing Kris again about her tomato fixation. She became indignant. “You don’t know,” she said. “People are jealous of our tomatoes.”

I laughed. “That’s going in the entry, too,” I told her.

“Don’t you dare,” she said. “Remember: I have veto privileges. If you post that you may lose your rights to write about me.” I laughed again, but she was serious. (I’m taking a risk by posting this, obviously — I believe it’s for the greater good.)

We talked some more about tomatoes and her exclusive tomato club. “How come Rhonda’s not in it?” I asked. She buys starts. “And Jenn?” Starts again. Plus kids. “Pam?” More starts. And a kid (with another coming). And too far away.

Kris turned to me. “Tomatoes are not toys,” she said, in a tone that indicated children precluded sensible parents from growing tomatoes from seed. (Except for Craig, apparently. But then Craig is Craig, and he could grow tomatoes from seed even if he had a dozen children.)

Maybe she should start a tomato blog.

Bonus: Maybe Kris needs this?

605 BZT

My drive to work Monday morning was typical: a slow, winding jaunt through Oak Grove, Gladstone, Oregon City, and then to Canby. Traffic moved smoothly. There was nothing out of the ordinary.

All that changed, however, once I turned onto Ivy for the final stretch to the office. When I entered the school zone, the car in front of me slowed to 20mph. This is annoying, but it’s not uncommon. For some reason, a few people don’t realize that a sign which reads SPEED 20mph 7-5 School Days doesn’t apply to traffic at 6:50am. What was annoying is when the driver in front of me didn’t bother to increase speed after the school zone ended.

The driver did accelerate once we hit the 40mph zone, but rather than increase speed once we passed the End 40mph sign, continued to putter along at 40mph for mile after mile, out past Lone Elder, out past Four Mile Nursery, all the way to Gribble Road. I hadn’t been late to work before, but I was pushing it now. (Being late to work once in a pay period costs me $50.)

My drive to work yesterday morning was typical: a slow, winding jaunt through Oak Grove, Gladstone, Oregon City, and then to Canby. Traffic moved smoothly. There was nothing out of the ordinary.

All that changed, however, once I turned onto Ivy for the final stretch to the office. When I entered the school zone, the car in front of me slowed to 20mph.

“What the—?” I said out loud. I looked. It was the same car as Monday: an older white sports car with the license plate 605 BZT. I groaned and resigned myself to the exquisite torture ahead of me. I checked my clock. It was 6:53, which left me seven minutes to get to work without losing my on-time bonus. Normally this would be a four or five minute drive. Now? It was hard to say.

Again the driver maintained 20mph even after he school zone. Again the driver stayed at 40mph all the way to Gribble Road. Again I barely made it to work on time.

My drive to work today was a little unusual, though it was never quite fun: my slow, winding jaunt to Canby was enlivened by the first mush snowflakes of an expected one-inch accumulation. My wipers didn’t actually handle them well for some reason. I listened to my audiobook on my iPod, and enjoyed the white stuff.

All that changed, however, once I turned onto Ivy for the final stretch to the office. When I entered the school zone, the car in front of me slowed to 20mph. “It can’t be!” I said to myself. But it was. There in front of me was my friend, 605 BZT.

I actually have a hypothesis about drivers like this. They’re not uncommon around Canby. I suspect that they’re recent Mexican transplants who are not familiar with English or the traffic laws. New arrivals are tentative drivers who only see the numbers and don’t understand the text of the sign. I have no way to test this hypothesis, of course. (Also, I know it sounds vaguely racist. Trust me — it’s not.)