You've got to be joking.

The Proudest Day

2008-11-05T06:21:00.007-05:00

Those who know me -- especially my friends and colleagues overseas -- know that I do not always speak highly of America. The direction this country has taken over past several years has left me disillusioned and deeply concerned about its future. The country seemed increasingly cold. The rhetoric seemed increasingly harsh. Minds were increasingly closed.

That all changed last night.

I am not so naive to believe that it'll be sunshine and rainbows for Obama. I know he doesn't have all the answers. I know there are going to be many cases where I don't agree with him. And I am also more aware than most (the "PhD" part of my username) that he will not be nearly as impactful as left-leaning partisans hope -- or as right-leaning partisans fear.

But for the first time in a long time last night hope beat fear. Generosity overcame suspicion. This country showed its very best qualities and, in doing so, also - finally - elevated a man representing an entire people who have existed on the fringes of our democracy for nearly our entire history.

Today I am VERY proud to be an American.

The never-ending search for "balance"

2008-10-14T21:59:00.006-04:00

For many a decade, those of us who find work intruding on our personal lives (or vice versa) have been told to seek "BALANCE." You've got to find the right balance, they say, as if -- like tapping the beam weights on the scale at the doctor's office -- one could locate the precise equilibrium point between work and life by shifting a little something from one side to the other.

Well that's a load of crap if you ask me.

Life is busy. We have work. We have families and friends. We have hobbies. We have stuff we want to do. When you're challenging yourself and are engaged on multiple fronts, balance is an illusion. There simply aren't enough hours in the day for balance if one takes balance to mean "doing all the stuff you want to do."

Fundamentally you have to make a choice:

Do I want to continue doing all this stuff? Is there something I can/want to stop doing?

Hm... let's see. I have a family, a job, and one "hobby."

I like my family. Can't scratch them out of the picture.

I like my job. It pays me money. Money is useful. Not really prepared to quit.

My hobby's not bad either :-) Besides, all work and no play makes JD a dull boy.

So. Now what? All I need to do is divide up my time, right? Just figure out the right proportions and that's it -- eternal bliss through "balance." I mean, it's not like work will ever get busy or something won't come up out of the blue or my son won't get sick or I'll never just want to say "the hell with this" and take the afternoon off.

Real balance is hard work. Real balance means you have to plan and prepare and sometimes just react to whatever work and life throw at you content in the knowledge that you'll do your best and that sometimes, despite your best efforts, shit just isn't going to get done. It's about making short-term and long-term decisions, about doing what's right and occasionally what's necessary, about accountability and responsibility and integrity and about making choices that don't always have clearcut answers.

Anyone who tells you otherwise is selling you mediocrity.

A matter of when, not if.

2008-05-27T09:40:00.009-04:00

There was an accident on the George Washington Parkway, a road we travel quite often, yesterday. A motorcycle went off one of the steep hills that leads down to the Potomac River. The Parkway is a beautiful drive pretty much from start to finish and was one of my favorite rides when I had my motorcycle.

The last ride I took on my motorcycle was with my friend David out by Skyline Drive. He had pulled me over before we got there (an action for which I will be forever grateful) to advise me about the risks of the ride and that I needed to be absolutely prepared -- and that, if I wasn't, it would be no big deal and we could turn back. I said I was ready and we went on.

A couple miles down the road we came upon the accident. A motorcyclist had taken a sharp turn a bit wide at the same time a minivan had shaded the turn close to the lane divide. It was no contest. The biker lay on his back, wracked in pain, desperately and loudly gasping for breath.

I thought to myself that I was about to see a man die.

I don't know how I overcame the fear that gripped me, but I parked my bike and ran over to him. He was wearing virtually the same high visibility 'Stich that I was, though his reflected far more many miles on two wheels. He was on his back. The suit hid the most severe of his injuries -- a broken back or broken ribs I suspected. His left wrist was visibly and badly broken.

All I could do was tell him that he was going to be ok and to try to calm down. His name was Willie and we waited for the paramedics to arrive. I held his helmet and head still as two teams of EMTs cut him out of his suit, strapped him to a backboard and airlifted him to the nearest hospital. I gave my information to the officers on the scene and David and I decided to go home. The only thing I remembered about the ride back was the smell. Ever since that day any time I smell the close fumes of motorcycle exhaust it is accompanied by the melted plastic of the fallen BMW sport-tourer -- and Willie's aftershave.

I tried to find a mention of the accident in the papers over the following days but I couldn't, although motorcycle accidents are so commonplace out there that it might not have been all that newsworthy. I believe he made it though. In fact I think he's probably ok.

They say (these people) that it's a matter of when, not if. Risk is part and parcel of riding a motorcycle. The risks can be mitigated through preparation, caution, and training. But you will never be able to control the weather, or the inattentive driver on a cell phone, or distracted parent with kids in the car, or the inexperienced teenager, or the fella who reckoned he was ok to drive after beer number 12, or the ordinarily careful driver who just glimpses away for a half second. You cannot but fully accept these risks. The day you can't -- the day the costs become to high and the equation can't be balanced -- you need to put the kickstand down.

That day - my birthday 2004 - was my day.

Judaism: The Official Religion of the World's Pedants

2008-04-25T16:12:00.009-04:00

Two days ago I realized I had a serious problem.

We're throwing a party for Alex's 2nd birthday on Saturday. We've got family and friends coming over, which is all (fortunately) happening after United play Chelsea in the morning in what could be the match that decides the Premiership title.

Except it's Passover.

That means, dear Reader, that all the yummy adult beverages of which I would ordinarily partake the entire day are trayfe. Verboten. No dice.

There has to be a way around this, says I. One that doesn't involve drinking multiple bottles of Manischewitz.

So I did what any determined, technologically-inclined beer-loving Jew would do. I started Googling for kosher for Passover alcoholic beverages. Now to be fair this isn't the first time I've contemplated this issue. I've been aware for some time of vodka made not from forbidden grains, but from potatoes. This seemed like the right place to start. I first found this extremely handy list of generally kosher booze on the Chicago Rabbinical Council's website. It didn't speak to specifics about Passover though. After some more digging I found this kosher blog (meaning "a blog about keeping kosher", as opposed to "a blog that had been certified by a Rabbi as being ok to read") that was right on target: potato vodka was going to be my salvation, even if it did have something-something-amylase-something-whatever (see comment 37). Fortunately for me, the recent craze for super-premium vodkas means that one of these lovely nectars, the smooth and sumptuous Polish creation, Chopin, was available at my local state store. Admittedly it doesn't have a hechsher on it, but the people who make it felt it was important enough to note plainly on the label that it's made exclusively from potatoes, and that's good enough for me.

That got me thinking. I mean, if I weren't merely looking for any port in this week-long grain-free storm to drink, and I were a bit more vigilant, I would have really had my hands full. There is a lot to keep track of. The Laws of Kashrut in ancient times were probably pretty easy to follow. You pretty much ate what was in your backyard or your neighbor's backyard. You didn't have to worry about genetic modification, or sorbitol, or high fructose corn syrup or any of the thousands of things that are now readily available in our global society. This single page is a veritable rabbit hole to stacks upon stacks of information. For instance, did you know that Play-Doh might contain chametz and therefore it is not kosher for Passover? (Presumably it's ok to eat for the rest of the year!)

Then I came across the controversy over kitniyos. Kitniyos are, in broad terms, legumes, which still doesn't help because I have no idea what a legume is. The whole issue turns around whether things like rice, beans, lentils, corn, and even certain seeds like fennel and cumin are kosher. While these foods are definitely not prohibited grains, they've come to be proscribed during Passover because they used to be grown near grains or perhaps used with grains and the Rabbis thought that people would get confused. So they banned the whole lot. Ashkenazic Jews (from Eastern Europe and Russia) say no. Sephardic Jews (those from the Middle East and Orient) say they're ok. (I decided I was on the Separdic side of this equation about 6 years ago when I found myself in a sushi restaurant during Passover.) At any rate, this is no small quibble . There are hard-core factions in this dispute. On one hand you have those who believe the proscription is now basically moot in modern times. On the other, you have the (I shit you not) Kitniyos Defense League who are adamantly defending the custom. It's gripping reading.

I probably spent two hours looking through these lists and reading about the Laws of Kashrut. Then it hit me.

NOW I UNDERSTAND WHY JEWS ALWAYS ARGUE!

It's because we're all a bunch of PEDANTS! In fact, we're encouraged to be this way!

Where else could you study dietary laws for years and still not fully grasp them? We have a mere Five Books in our primary sacred text that was written thousands of years ago, yet people are STILL interpreting them! There are 613 mitzvot, or "good deeds." This is the mother lode! Imagine the following conversation at your next party:

Tevye: No, I'm telling you. The requirement for the Koheyn to brush his hair before entering the Sanctuary is number 445.

Yossi: Dude. You're wrong. Hair brushing is number 444. Torn clothing is 445.

Tevye: NO! I'M CERTAIN OF IT! Hair brushing is 445!

Yossi: Listen, it's been a long night and you've had two bottles of Slivovitz already. We'll check in the morning. Let's get going.

Tevye: You're just trying to change the subject. You know I'm right.

It all makes sense. Now if you'll excuse me, I'm going to go fix myself a drink.

Paris by picture

2008-02-19T06:21:00.001-05:00

I just walked out of my hotel to see this.
Sent via BlackBerry from T-Mobile

Vindication, irony, and a little bit of payback...

2008-02-12T20:11:00.002-05:00

Paid for by
Friends of Mike Huckabee

A little over a month ago, I pondered the far-too-possible and disconcerting prospect that, in its ineffable wisdom, the American Bible-banging right-wing might actually nominate a candidate for the post of Godbotherer-in-Chief. On the eve of the Potomac Primaries (as only those who seem to live outside Maryland, Virginia, and the District of Columbia are calling them), that likelihood is -- thankfully -- virtually gone. But not quite.

At 8:30 with about 50% of the votes counted, they're neck and neck in Virginia. The good news is that, if the Washington Post's fancy maps are to be believed, the major portions remaining to be counted include Northern Virginia counties which are decidedly more moderate and some of the military-laden areas along the Chesapeake Bay. Virginia's a winner-take-all state too. I'm beginning to regret my anti-Hillary vote for Obama, who has quite literally whooped Hill-dog's ass. I should have stuck with my "cancel-out-a-conservative" strategy and voted for McCain. If he loses by one vote, I'll be feeling terribly guilty.

Not a conservative.

In the bigger picture, however, things are looking up. Having realized it's his own money he's pissing away on a longshot (viz., his own candidacy), Mitt's seen the light and called it a day. The GOP is slowing coming to grips with John McCain as the presumptive nominee, yet Mike Huckabee is still lurking. The most gratifying aspect of all of this is that the evangelical conservatives are getting their comeuppance. Blind, knee-jerk, it's everyone else's fault give me everything I want and reduce mah taxes 'cause I'm gonna git to heaven without dyin' conservatism has run out of gas. What emanated from guys like Adam Smith and Friedrich Hayek has been bastardized to the point of unprincipled unrecognizability. Hell, the only Hayek these people know has big tetas and an accent. In fact, I'm relishing Pat Buchanan's desperate hand-wringing as he contemplates a little political hari-kari. Assholes.

In a pleasant turn of irony, I just spent the last hour watching Tony Bourdain's No Reservations, an hour-long feature on the Travel Channel where the iconoclastic executive chef of New York's Brasserie Les Halles visits some fantastic places and enjoys culture and cuisine that is well off the beaten path. This week's episode finds him on the Texas-Mexico border. The message is clear: everyone he speaks to -- from politicians to tour guides to the cooks he meets on both sides of the border are against The Great Big Wall and see the issue of immigration as being far more nuanced than the inane amnesty versus punishment rhetoric spouted principally by people who've never met a Mexican and aren't the least bit affected by the issue at all. Gee. What a surprise.

News flash: 9:20pm ET - The Washington Post is calling it for McCain in Virginia. There's are times when, in moments of extreme vitriol, I launch into an obscenity-laden tirade that ends in "and I hope they nominate Huckabee so they get fucked in the general election," but even I have to find cause for optimism. Because maybe -- just maybe -- the vast majority of the American voting public will have an election that's not about voting against someone, but voting for someone instead.

I will not be holding my breath though.

The Flowers of Manchester

2008-02-06T01:16:00.000-05:00

Recorded by the Spinners
Lyric by Eric Winter (1958)

[mp3 download]

One cold and bitter Thursday in Munich, Germany,
Eight great football stalwarts conceded victory,
Eight men will never play again who met destruction there,
The Flowers of English football, the Flowers of Manchester.

Matt Busby's boys were flying home, returning from Belgrade,
This great United family, all masters of their trade,
The pilot of the aircraft, the skipper Captain Thain,
Three times they tried to take off and twice turned back again.

The third time down the runway disaster followed close,
There was slush upon that runaway and the aircraft never rose,
It ploughed into the marshy ground, it broke, it overturned,
And eight of the team were killed as the blazing wreckage burned.

Roger Byrne and Tommy Taylor who were capped for England's side.
And Ireland's Billy Whelan and England's Geoff Bent died,
Mark Jones and Eddie Colman, and David Pegg also
They all lost their lives as it ploughed on through the snow.

Big Duncan he went too, with an injury to his brain.
And Ireland's brave Jack Blanchflower will never play again,
The great Matt Busby lay there, the father of his team,
Three long months passed by before he saw his team again.

The trainer, coach and secretary, and a member of the crew,
Also eight sporting journalists who with United flew,
and one of them Big Swifty, who we will ne'er forget,
the finest English 'keeper that ever graced the net.

Oh, England's finest football team its record truly great,
its proud successes mocked by a cruel turn of fate.
Eight men will never play again, who met destruction there,
the Flowers of English football, the Flowers of Manchester.

Did you know Duncan Edwards, Dad?

2008-02-05T06:50:00.000-05:00

From a post on the Manchester United fanzine Red Issue...

Did you know Duncan Edwards, Dad, I mean really really know?
It’s just you’ve kept so many cuttings from all those years ago.
And were the babes the greatest, the greatest ever team?
Or just enshrined here in this history, just a bygone boyhood dream.
Now I know you idolised them, Dad, you gave each one their own page,
the pictures are well faded now, but I suppose that comes with age.

Dad, did Tommy Taylor really head a ball against the bar,
which Harry Gregg collected, it had rebounded back so far?
And was Duncan Edwards really, the greatest of them all,
with silken skills and feathery touch, thirteen stone and six foot tall?
Now there’s a contradiction surely Dad, but I’m going to let it pass,
but Billy Whelan must have played once, without first going to Mass.
And was Harry Gregg a goalkeeper supreme?
Were Eddie Coleman’s hazy runs like red blurs on swards of green?
And Dad can you explain to me how it ever came to pass,
that Roger Byrne, just five foot nine, covered every blade of glass?
Or how David Pegg whose swerving runs, like a scorpion you said,
always struck the ball with venom, yet left no one for dead?
Or how it was that big Mark Jones could soar into the sky,
yet still patrol his area, so that nobody got by?

Then there’s the team of Sixty Eight, and Dad I’d like to know,
how George Best was always missing, yet played five hundred games or so?
And how was it Bobby Charlton, who played so many vital roles,
could be both a great goalscorer and a scorer of great goals?
Or how Denis Law had chipped a ball from forty yards or more,
it came back off the crossbar, and yet Law was there to score?
What use was it that Pat Crerand could split defences with one pass,
when the ball only ever landed on a sixpence on the grass?
And was Stepney’s save at Wembley, the best you’ve ever seen,
or was it just that it resulted in the fulfilment of a dream?
So now to Matt Busby, or Sir Matt as he’s now known,
from a mining town in Scotland, yet still one of our own?
Then finally there’s the Munich clock, the disaster time still shown.
why do people say that they never intended coming home?

The boy looked up with pleading eyes, and his father gently said.
There’s a lifetime of old memories in the scrapbook you’ve just read.
And of course there is some fiction, most fact, some strange yet true,
that’s what makes players into legends, now I’ve passed them on to you.
Those pictures may be faded son, but I can see them all so clear,
as if it were just yesterday, and I hold each memory dear.
Now I’ve passed this scrapbook on to you, to treasure for all time,
And you too will find your heroes and build to them a shrine,
and you’ll add your bits of fiction, but don’t worry son that’s fine,
to make legends of your heroes and then place them alongside mine.
And you’ll understand in years to come, as you watch great United teams,
why it is we call Old Trafford, The Theatre of Dreams.

Going home

2008-01-17T13:46:00.001-05:00

It's been a good few days in New York. I'm on US 2177 headed for home.
Sent via BlackBerry from T-Mobile

Ruthless

2008-01-14T20:35:00.000-05:00

I don't know when it happened, but at some point over the past many months I became someone with too much to do.

Gabby and Alex. Work. MUST. Family. The little niggly bits of life, like replacing a lost mobile phone, registering a car, cleaning the house, painting an office. Individually these things were challenging, but they were manageable -- even when one or the other flared up.

It used to be that a little bit of extra industry on my part would take care of it. A couple hours after work, a late night... all at the expense of a little free time or decompression, and sometimes even the family. But that's just not sufficient any more.

The truth is that things didn't just spontaneously go tits up. They've been on an inexorable slide though. And now I've got to do something about it.

Of course the answer is as plain as the nose on my face. I need to be ruthless with my time. I need to delegate. And I really need to start saying no.

So let me apologize in advance if there's something you need from me. I'll try to get to it, but please understand if I don't.

Exercising

2008-01-07T11:28:00.000-05:00

I never thought of myself as either terribly sporty or health conscious. With the exception of an uneventful season on the junior varsity basketball team (I was the second to last man off the bench - Greg Zona was the last), a month on the freshman crew team at Penn (Beer 1 Sport 0) and about a year lifting weights during my sophomore year, I've been pretty sedentary. Sure I had jobs where I was on my feet up to 15 hours a day, but if I remained trim it was through the luck of metabolism and an affinity for restaurant work.

So when a regular paycheck and a desk job became my daily lot in life I did what every red-blooded American male in his 20s does. I drank my face off and ate everything in sight. Why not?! Never hurt me before!

Flash forward a couple years and I was a pack-a-day smoker pushing 200 lbs (14 stone for you Brits). Something had to be done.

It was then Gabby and I went on Weight Watchers. I actually quit smoking then too. We had gone out on a real bender for my birthday in 2003 and I had gotten absolutely shitfaced and probably smoked two packs at my old hangout, a calculated measure designed to really put me off cigarettes for the first tenuous days. (It worked - we won't talk about the side effects though.)

Those were the last cigarettes I've smoked since, and I subsequently lost about 30 pounds. Since then we had Alex, and I - like my wife - gained some pregnancy weight. The only difference is that she lost hers and I kept mine. I figure I could stand to lose a good 10 pounds. Even though I had the discipline back in 2003 and 2004 to lose the weight and keep it off, something's happened since. I am easily maintaining my current weight, but basically every time I get started losing a couple pounds I find an excuse to either: a) go out drinking with the boys or b) lose my motivation and eat a whole pack of cookies.

About six months ago my boss, who was training for the NYC marathon, suggested I get into running. He said he found it not only kept him in decent shape, but really helped clear his mind. So I went out and bought some shoes and found a training regimen I could follow to get started. It worked for a while, until I (quite foolishly) over-did it and hurt my knee. By the time it started feeling better it was October and things were pretty hectic on the home front. It was only toward the end of December when I picked it back up.

Anyway, I'm doing it again and it seems to be working. I haven't lost any weight, but it's early days and I'm not concentrating that much on my diet at the moment either. It feels good though. If I make it through another month or so I might just get myself a present.

&amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;lt;a href="http://www.mapmyrun.com/run/united-states/va/alexandria/363404855"&amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;gt;Week 3 - out to Fern street&amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;lt;/a&amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;gt;&amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;lt;br/&amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;gt;&amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;lt;a href="http://www.mapmyrun.com/find-run/united-states/va/alexandria"&amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;gt;Find more Runs in Alexandria, Virginia&amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;lt;/a&amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;gt;

Why Carmax will thrive...

2008-01-04T14:00:00.001-05:00

On December 27th I dropped off our 2002 Mercedes Benz C320 wagon at the dealer. We brought it in to get a "Service B" checkup (every 20k miles) and to have a flat tire replaced. We also asked them to give us a quote on getting a couple little annoyances fixed.

EIGHTEEN HUNDRED DOLLARS later we got the car back with a new battery, new fuel filter, and the promise of at least $2000 in imminent service that we decided to put off. SIX HUNDRED DOLLARS of that was to perform the Service B check, which amounts to little more than changing the oil and topping up the fluids.

I was INCANDESCENT. I complained to anyone that would listen, including the Service Manager. I calmly explained how fucking ridiculous it was to charge $600 to change some fluids and asked him point blank how they could charge me $100 in labor to replace the battery. I was told that costs were costs. The decision to sell the car was made before I left the repair shop.

After Gabby stopped crying (she really liked the car, but knew getting rid of it was the right thing to do), our next decision was what to replace it with. My criteria had fundamentally changed. Cheap. Reliable. Low maintenance. How about a Honda or a Toyota? Too small though. We enjoyed being able to chuck the Pack-n-play and Alex's stroller in the back and luggage for the family for a week at the beach.

What about an SUV? Hey - there's a flash new hybrid Ford Escape SUV! Even Kermit likes it! It gets good mileage and good reviews, although I probably would've mangled my legs in a head-on collision.

WHOA. Sticker price of $33k and people are paying two and three grand above sticker without batting an eye? OK. Maybe it's worth it. So I put my "let's be prudent and try to reduce expenses rather than increase them" mentality aside and we got ready to make a deal. We were ready to go and signed the paperwork. The vehicle was delivering Jan 1st. We'd just come in and pick it up.

It became obvious that there was something wrong when the dealer and the salesman started dodging our calls. Turns out they had already sold the car to someone else. A day passes, my frustration growing exponentially, as they continue to avoid me claiming they are trying to find another vehicle. Finally I got tired of it and went into the dealership. (I'm very difficult to ignore in person.) They pulled out all the stops. Can we try this? What about this? Not interested, says I. We ended up tearing up the contract.

Gabby and a couple of our friends will know the knots I tied myself into over this. It really wasn't the right financial decision, and I'm glad it didn't work out. In fact I kinda feel like it didn't work out for a reason. Lesson learned.

Meanwhile we had been to the Carmax in Laurel to offload the Benz. For those who don't know, Carmax operates on a very simple premise: there's no negotiating. You may not get the best price, but you'll get a good deal -- regardless of whether you're buying or selling. And they do a decent inspection of the cars too. Edmunds and Kelley Blue Book suggested I could probably get $14k for it and we had tried to trade it in for the Ford. The reason we went to Carmax is because the dealer offered me $10,500 at first and it was all I could do not to tell them to fuck right off.

It tooks us one hour at Carmax to wrap everything up. They gave us a respectable $13.5k. While that forced us to cough up a couple hundred to pay off our note, there was no way that car was going to remain in our possession. My conservative estimate was that we were looking at $2000 for the next two years in service at least.

After some discussion, we decided to go back and look at the Passat Wagon. Gabby had been wanting one since we had bought the Mercedes, but at the time they were out of our price range. Plus we had already had a positive experience with a '99 Jetta, a car we'd only gotten rid of it because a) we wanted something bigger with Alex coming and b) an automatic transmission was key to Gabby getting her license. We found a couple that were certified pre-owned (which meant the car was basically reconditioned to new and we were getting the balance of the factory bumper-to-bumper warranty plus an extra two years or 24k miles) at our local dealer and test drove one. Nice car. And in the low 20s, the price was definitely right. Meanwhile the salesman, who did generally seem to be a nice enough guy, was kind of giving us the hard sell. We had mentioned we were looking at a couple cars and he was definitely keen to get us on the hook. Yet somehow an afternoon of calling up yesterday resulted in no call back, and he neglected to tell us he wasn't going to be in this morning when we told him we were going to come in to check out another car that hadn't been on the lot yesterday.

Anyway, we turned up around 10:30 this morning and met Joseph, a nice Polish man, who in a very Eastern European way gave us the hard sell.

So. You drive car. If you like, you come back and we make deal.

And that's exactly what we did. Armed with my printouts from KBB, we haggled on price for a little bit, which entailed Joseph leaving the room to see the sales manager and coming back twice. Finally the sales manager came out and we worked everything out with him. We found out that we could finance through VW Credit for less than the credit union, which resulted in us meeting Derek the Finance Manager, a nice Irish lad from Dublin and a Spurs fan. We spent about 45 minutes in his office, mixing what should have only been about 15 minutes of paperwork with a half hour of amiable chat about football, Irish sport (hurling and Gaelic football), travel, and pubs. Top guy Derek. Now we're just waiting for them to finish an oil change and a cleaning and we'll pick it up later today.

The entire experience has left me both angry and awestruck by the car industry. They're desperate. I mean really desperate. And if you're not paying attention they will get you coming and going. Which seems to be exactly what they're doing. Gabby and I were blown away by the number of people we saw who clearly had not done any research on costs. And even if you are somewhat savvy, they're still going to try to put the squeeze on you. Undercarriage sealant anyone?

Out of this entire experience there have been only two positives.

One was Carmax. There is truly something to be said for their business model. Loads of cars. No negotiating. Good deal. Tell me there isn't a need for that amongst the vultures and the sharks that usually circle dealership sales floors.

The other was Derek. He's offered to buy the first round this evening. Job's a good 'un!

Because America'll be a better place if we stop the gays and bring a little Jesus to the good boys and girls.

2008-01-03T07:27:00.000-05:00

Fuck me.

If you're not anxious about the leading Republican candidates as we head into the Iowa caucuses tonight then you need a lesson in American politics.

We've got a Baptist Minister and a Mormon and a couple garden variety free lunch conservatives each trying to out-God each other as they pander to the evangelical conservatives.

Let's be very clear here. Not only do I not care what religion a presidential candidate follows, I devoutly believe that they're entitled to whatever faith they please. (Except for baby murdering and other forms of sociopathy.) Their religious convictions are their own.

And that's the point, isn't it.

Belief - or lack thereof - in GOD - however you perceive Him/Her/It to be (or not to be) - is not required. It doesn't fucking belong in the discussion. Period. The separation of Church and State is enshrined not just in our Constitution, but in the intellectual heritage of democratic theory. And Creationism and "Intelligent Design" (which is nothing more than an updated marketing campaign for Creationism) DO NOT BELONG IN OUR PUBLIC SCHOOLS. Apparently America's problems can be solved by stopping the gays and otherwise finding feet at which blame can be lain for society's ills. Yeah. That's it. Assholes.

Ariana Huffington reckons this is a "reap what you sow" scenario, and I can't say I disagree with her. But I don't agree with her expected outcome. She thinks the Grand Old Party will go down in flames when they nominate one of these guys.

I'm not so sure.

Hell I might change my registration and vote for John McCain in the Virginia primary just to cancel someone out.

Desperate times call for desperate measures.

Ah Gare-on-tee!

2008-01-02T06:58:00.002-05:00

While I've forgotten the circumstances surrounding my first taste of Cajun food, I'm quite certain that my introduction to Cajun cooking can be exclusively traced to a little weekend cooking show on public television. Justin Wilson's lessons were very clear:

The foundation of Cajun cooking is green pepper, celery, onion, cayenne pepper, and Looozie-ana Hot Sauce.
All Cajuns wear string ties and use words like "wondermous."
Wine comes in one gallon glass jugs, and each recipe calls for about half the bottle.

If there is fame to be gained by being a fat Southern or Southern-inspired cook whose culinary dexterity is just as much a function of bonhomie and audience pandering as it is genuine technique and real cheffing, then Justin Wilson is clearly the original seed. OK, so maybe that's not fair to Emeril, who really is classically trained, but now he just yells and throws food to the delight of overweight hausfraus.

My point in all this is that I made jambalaya yesterday for the first time in years. I didn't put any wine in it, but it had andouille sausage, shrimp, the "trinity" of green pepper, onion, and celery, and plenty of good spice.

Hooo it was wondermous! Ah gare-on-tee! Alex liked it too.

Bruce Willis and I share something in common...

2007-12-20T20:00:00.000-05:00

(No, Demi never really did anything for me.)

In the early 90s Bruce Willis and I both reached the conclusion that we were becoming inescapably bald and chose to deal with it in the same way. Admittedly he did it first. But when I saw that he looked ok and had the same shaped head as I did (I already knew we had similar male pattern baldness), I thought to myself, "Self!" And then I thought "Bruce Willis looks pretty good with it, maybe I will." So I did.

I'm reminded of this because that great 80s classic Die Hard is on TV. Back when Bruce was cool. And young. And had hair.

Seems like there have been a lot of 80s movies on lately. Earlier this week Tequila Sunrise was on - in HD no less - as if that somehow would compensate for a terrible script and even worse acting by a slicked-back Kurt Russell, a young pre-apocalyptic-and-anti-semitic-bile-spilling Mel Gibson, the cute-but-awful Michelle Pfeiffer, and a still-breathing Raul Julia.

The great part about 80s movies is their instant recognizability. The clothes. The styles (warm pastels - think "dusty rose"). The cinematography (moody soft focus and an over-reliance on lighting effects). But the best of all is the sine qua non of 80s movies, the abundant use of synthesizers in the soundtracks. Oh yeah, and that David Sanborn saxophone-laden schmaltz just when the boy kisses the girl. Barf-o-rama. Man that takes me back.

Anyway - that's all for now. Alan Rickman's just made his appearance as the irrepressible Hans Gruber, a guy who makes was Severus Snape look like a real pansy. It's his seminal performance as the bad guy with the British accent if you ask me. In fact... BLAM! There. He's just blown the back of a guy's head off.

Now THAT'S acting.

Yippee kai-yay, mother fucker.