A Thunderstorm at Dolly Sods

My Mom was an active hiker, backpacker, and trail maintenance volunteer for many years and if it weren't for the MS, she'd still be on the trail as often as possible. She had dearly hoped to turn Sara and me into hikers as well, but our interests lay elsewhere*, espcially as I am happiest when near a good book and a hot cup of tea. (Or, well, in a theater.)

One of Mom's favorite places to hike was the Dolly Sods Wilderness. For several years running, Mom; her boyfriend, Paul, her sister, Dotty, and another friend would hike Dolly Sods every New Years Day. I described it as "jumping from ice-covered rock to ice-covered rock" but as usual, I didn't actually know what I was talking about and, as I always refused to go, I still don't.

As we get Mom ready for the move from Independent to Very Assisted Living, we have found and saved / found and discarded so many pieces of paper from Mom's life. Mom wrote this short essay in 1991 and I found it yesterday as we were going through some stuff. She agreed to let me post it, so today Mom is my "guest blogger."

* What fun it must have been to take two uninterested, complainers on her favorite activity! I'm sorry, Mom.

A Thunderstorm at Dolly Sods

by Ann Hall (1991)

It was hot and sticky in Washington and Cleveland the week before Labor Day. Four of us packed appropriately -- mostly light cotton clothing. Saturday afternoon at Dolly Sods, as we headed across the open spaces around Blackbird Knob a thunderstorm hit fast. Twenty minutes later it was gone, the air was cool and fresh, Dolly Sods was beautiful. The days were cool and bright, the nights were chilly and the the stars were incredible, and we were a little cool in our "light cotton clothing."

Back in Washington, I looked at my new Backpacker magazine where there is an article with suggestions for backpacers. On that page was "my" picture -- a girl sitting on a mountain in a open space in a thunderstorm. The paragraph about thunderstorms described us well. I think we did it right in this storm. Here's what we did being caught in an open field.

First we stopped at a spot that was near some small trees, not under them, and not the higest spot. We took off our packs, put on ponchos and rain suits and settled down (crouched, kneeled, sat on our foam sleeping pads). In a place like that make yourself as small as possible -- don't stand, don't lie down, don't wear a pack. Load your pack with sleeping pads, rain suits and a few large plastic bags near the top. You'll be able to cover up quickly.

The chances for being caught in a thunderstorm at Dolly Sods are good. Avoid these storms if possible. If, however, you are caught in one of these storms make yourself as unattractive to lightening as possible, stay as dry as possible, then enjoy what you see and hear (since you're already there). The lightening strikes in different directions as you watch the storm move fast across the sky. The thunder bounces off the mountains, echoes across Red Creek, echoes from Blackbird Knob and rolls across the flat places. If you're there, take care of yourself first, then don't miss the big event.

Tool box is as tool box does!

Conversation on Wednesday with me boss:

"Okay, I'm off to the post office with my spiffy new purse."

"You know, women always do this. Now, if it were a spiffy new tool box you were showing me..."

"Uh, excuse me?" [Pulls out little "zip top bag" of cosmetics] "Tools." [Pulls out mobile phone] "Tool." [Pulls out keys.] "Tools."

He then conceded that I was, in fact, carrying a spiffy, black leather tool box. Good thing, too.

Shout hello to someone and get naked

My spiffy new Jason Mraz CD (We Sing, We Dance, We Steal Things) has the following quote from Rachel Corrie which (obviously) I really liked.

"I'm building the world myself and putting new hats on everybody one by one... Before I go out I'm gonna have people in tutus, cops wearing sombreros, stockbrokers with viking hats, priests with panties on their heads. In the world I'm building, everybody shouts hello to everybody else from their car windows. People have speakers attached to their chests that pour out music so you can tell from a distance what mood they're in, and they won't be too chicken to get naked when the rain comes."

David and I saw My Name is Rachel Corrie* at the CATF last year (his comments on the production here), so there was the tiny shock of recognition at seeing her name in the quote credit.**


*And, yes, I knew who she was before that. I don't actually get all of my information about the world from plays. Just most of it.

**Which, by the way, reads in part "From Let Me Stand Alone: The Journals of Rachel Corrie by Rachel Corrie, edited with an introduction by the Corrie family."

Find the theater people

Just as you can count the visiting Protestants in a Catholic church just by checking out who tries to go on to the "big finish" in the Lord's Prayer, you can count the theater people in your audience with this simple trick:

1. Slightly mistime the execution of a lighting cue thus:
- Penultimate line
- Go to black
- Last line
- Resume previous lighting as actors exit
- Go to black

2. Count the number of little "hmmmhs" you hear in the audience.

3. (Optional) Note the location of each "hmmmh."

He just got my vote

Between the Electoral College (Americans are not smart enough to elect a president, so we'll do it for you) and Superdelegates (Americans didn't vote the right way, so we'll fix it), I have had less and less incentive to participate in the Potempkin Elections that we have. Yes, I know all the reasons to vote, but more and more they are overridden by the simple fact that my vote doesn't count. Never has. Never will.

But.

If he could just keep this campaign promise, I'd write Denis Leary's name in on every ballot I got near. Forever. I still may.

Have you ever considered going into politics? (Jeroen Grouls, The Woodlands, Texas)

No. They wouldn't want me. I don't think they'd like my skinny-jeans squad. If I'm President, there are going to be government vans that drive around and pick up people who shouldn't be wearing certain clothing. Talk about lack of civil rights - I'm sorry, I'm pulling you right off the street, and we're giving you clothes that you're to be O.K. in. I don't know if hte country is ready for it yet.

10 Questions for Denis Leary, Time magazine, 9 June 08

Denis Leary for President - Freeing America from the Scourge of the Muffintop.

On its way to the Pennyworth

I've never actually seen Mom wear this t-shirt and I know that I won't, so off to the Pennyworth it goes, but I enjoyed the list.

Top Ten Reasons for Being an Episcopalian (according to Robin Williams*, that is)

10. No snake handling.
9. You can believe in dinosaurs.
8. Male and female, God created them; male and female we ordain them.
7. You don't have to check your brains at the door. **
6. Pew aerobics.
5. Church year is color coded.
4. Free wine on Sunday.
3. All of the pageantry, none of the guilt.
2. You don't have to know how to swim to get baptized.
1. No matter what you believe, there's bound to be at least one other Episcopalian who agrees with you.

And, of course, there is the very slight irony that I'm typing this on Sunday morning when the rest of the Frozen Chosen are at church. I'm not sure this counts as a devotional activity.

*Yep, the comedian. It's from an HBO special he did some years ago. Not Rowan Williams the Archbishop of Canterbury, although wouldn't that be interesting?

**If I could edit the list, I'd use the #7 I found as I was verifying which Robin Williams we were talking about here: "Instructions found in BCP" ***

***The Book of Common Prayer - it's more or less the Anglican Owner's Manual for the church.

The power of a name

I keep a couple of laser pointers on hand for my Boss to use during presentations. Whenever I lend him one we have the same conversation as he is testing it about not blinding the accounting staff who work at the opposite end of the hall from me. The other day, however, we were playing the light along that wall and I started joking about seeing if we could make the accountants chase after it as my cat does.

Then I got a great idea.

"We need a kitten!"

"A what?"

"A kitten! If you have a laser pointer, you ought to have a cat around to chase the light dot. We could get a kitten and give it a really cool radar name!"

"There are no really cool radar names."

"Oh yeah? We could name it Swerling."

He thought. "That is a really cool radar name."

"I know!"

And then he thought - for the barest second - that maybe we should get a kitten for the office and name it Swerling. Common sense, tragically, prevailed.

But for that brief moment I nearly got to have a kitten at work solely because I thought up a good name for it.

Zippo

My Mom will be moving from the Independent Living section over to the more nursing home-like section that someone jokingly called "Dependent Living" in the Continum of Care Community where she lives.

The first and biggest part of this process was six or seven years ago when Mom moved out of the 3-bedroom house that she lived in for 30 years and into a one-bedroom apartment. Between my Aunt Dotty and Mom's friend Barbara, much stuff was wrestled away from her and given away, thrown away, left with unsuspecting friends and family, and probably mailed to random addresses. Mom, bless her heart, is a sentimental packrat. Had she time enough and space, she would keep everything that ever entered her life by way of another person, including phone messages and drive-through receipts. Deep in her heart, Mom thinks that the Collyer brothers were right.

When she first asked me what I wanted from the house in which Igrew up, I said the piano, the dollhouse, and the lamp she painted with two ceremic ladies on it who looked a little like Sara and me in that one was blond and the other brunet (known to us as "the Leta and Sara lamp"). I did get those three things and, oh sweet merciful heavens, so much more. So very much more.

Because when Mom is being forced to give things up, it's easier just to agree to take those things and pretend that they will be cherished forever as she would cherish them. It's rather like telling little children that their dog has gone to live on a farm because many, many of those things went to the Pennyworth some time ago.* Please don't tell Mom.

We are now deep into the second phase, from one-bedroom aparment to one room. Getting one's mother ready to move into Dependent Living is remarkably like sending her to camp for the rest of her life. She won't need furniture or dishes or anything like that, but she will need roughly two week's worth of clothes, which will be marked with her name, and toothpaste and a toothbrush. She won't have a lot of privacy, so valuables are coming to me or going into the safe deposit box. A lot of boxes of stuff are coming to me prett' near intact so that Mom and I can sort it after she makes the move in a couple of weeks.

Thank God for my aunt. She came in from Cleveland for a week and cajoled, bullied, and simply wore Mom down so that lots and lots and lots of stuff was given away. I'm too much of an enabler. I'd ask her book by book what she wanted to keep, whereas Dotty simply points to an entire shelf, announces that Mom won't need them any more and packs them up. We'd never be ready in time** if it weren't for the more Achtung side of Dotty's personality. Bless her.

So Saturday morning we three were going through Mom's jewelry. I asked for a few things, not much because I don't wear a lot of jewelry, mainly rings and earrings, but Mom doesn't have pierced ears and she wears a size 5 1/4 ring and I wear a 7.

But I did find something I wanted. Something I'd asked for more than once over the years that Mom could never remember if she still owned it and if so where it was. When I got cast in Agnes, I asked Mom if she still had her old Zippo lighter. The one that, I think, Daddy gave her when they were engaged. The one with her name on it.

We found it in the jewelry box. And now I have it. Dotty showed me how to fill the lighter fluid reservoir and it works a treat. It sounds like a Zippo, which is the first thing everyone notices when I show it to them in that "lookee what I got!" way - that it make that Zippo sound when you shut the lid.

Mom gave me her engraved cigarette case several years ago which I did use during Agnes but we didn't find the Zippo until the day before closing and introducing a new or different prop late in the run is just a bad idea. And the $1.79 electronic ignition lighters that I bought at the convenience store near the theater did the job just fine and it seemed sort of disloyal to stop using them. I still have one in my purse.***

So I'm very glad to have my new Zippo. And I'm also noticing that for a non-smoker, what with the Zippo, the cigarette case, and the ashtrays I seem to have more than my fair share of smoking paraphernalia. All of it given to me by Mom, who actually quit smoking the day she found out that she was pregnant with me.


* Even though it's very close to both my home and my office, I cannot ever volunteer at the Pennyworth and don't dare stick my nose in the door, lest I start buying back things I've managed to let go of. The packrat gene runs strong.

** And we still might not. The schedule was set by them not by us.

*** Another was given to our stage manager, Frank, as an informal present. He can't light it by snapping his fingers near it the way he can the Zippo,**** but he likes the little built-in flashlight it has.

**** Frank has several interesting talents. Most of them, as I like to point out, are a little useless and a little louche. I probably like to point this out because they are, each and every one, the sort of trick I find fascinating and will never be able to learn how to do.

Like a swim in vinegar

Arthur, the Reference Librarian on Savoynet, found some letters by W.S. Gilbert published in UK periodicals. He gave us a sneak peak of two of as he transcribes them for the Archive. The second one was good, but the first one really captures that cranky old guy side Gilbert's personality that makes him one of my heroes. Somewhere up in heaven, Gilbert, John Adams, and Harry Truman have having a lovely time being acerbic with each other. One day I hope to join them, merely as a delighted auditor.


Gilbert’s letter to The Graphic, April 2, 1870, p. 427

RHYME

To the Editor of The Graphic

SIR, -- I accept Mr. Burnand’s challenge to find a rhyme to “silver,” if he will allow me the license that he himself takes in finding a rhyme to “month.”
If Mr. Burnand is in earnest when he suggests “runn’th” as a legitimate rhyme to “month,” and really believes that when he is at a loss for a rhyme he is at liberty to dispense with any letter that may stand between himself and the fulfilment of his wishes, he will perhaps admit that I am liberty to say—

I have averred—indeed, I will ’ver—
That I have found a rhyme to “silver.”

But allowing, for the sake of argument, that Mr. Burnand is at liberty to rob “runneth” of its only e whenever it pleases him to do so, the fact remains that the u in “runn’th” is, in strictness, no rhyme to the o in “month.” To a careless ear there is, no doubt, a strong analogy between the two sounds, and in ordinary versification they might pass muster as fairly good rhyme; but in seriously discussing a question of nicety in rhyme, we are bound to look at it from a purist’s point of view, and form this point of view “runn’th” is no rhyme to “month.”
I still adhere to “millionth” as the best rhyme to “month,” and I have the authority of the greatest poets in the English language for treating it as a tri-syllable, if I feel disposed to do so. The termination “ion” in such words as “million,” “contagion,” “rapscallion,” “morion,” “pillion,” “vermilion,” has been used indifferently as one or two syllables by every poet in the English language from Chaucer to Tennyson:

Bring forth the parties of suspicion.
Rom. and Jul., Act v. Sc. 3.

--Woe, woe, woe to such communion.
BYRON’s Heaven and Earth, Part i. Sc. 2.

Here are some analogous cases:

And bear the work of Heaven with patience.
Rom. and Jul., Act v. Sc. 3.

And let mischance be slave to patience.
Rom. and Jul., Act v. Sc. 3.

I will do so; but look you, Cassius.
Jul. Caes., Act i. Sc. 2.

Would not Mr. Burnand consider himself justified in writing,

Put a pillion
This little filly on?

Inventors often give arbitrary and wholly irrational names to their inventions, in order to bring them more immediately into notice. Now these ingenious gentlemen would take rank as public benefactors if, in selecting these arbitrary names, they would be so good as to enrich the English language with rhymes to words that are at present rhymeless, or nearly rhymeless. If the inventor of the Rantoone had called it a “Ronth” (explaining in his specification that the o was to have the exact value of the o in “month”), this controversy would have been avoided, and the instrument, whatever it is, extensively advertised, for, as the only unimpeachable rhyme to “month” (except my “millionth”) it would be perpetually lugged into doggerel. I myself am engaged in perfecting an ingenious apparatus for the purpose of extracting sunbeams from the cucumber of commerce (cucumis communis of Linnaeus), and when it is completed I shall call it a “Chilver.” Perhaps my unconditional acceptance of Mr. Burnand’s challenge to find a disyllabic rhyme to “silver,” without the aid of a context, had better stand over until this instrument is completed.
Yours faithfully,
W.S. GILBERT
Junior Carlton Club, March 27


*Burnand = Most likely F.C. Burnand, humorist and editor of Punch.

Wrestling

Ahh, the dinner check.

David and I sort of take turns treating each other, although he picks up the check more often than I do and more often at better restaurants. This doesn't stop me when we are at, say, Panera and he asks if I'm buying him dinner from considering looking at the nice young lady behind the counter in a way to imply that he is some dissolute man-twinkie, whom I am constantly imposed upon to buy things for. That would be fun. I really should do that sometime.

And I have a friend with whom I have dinner every so often who picks up the check unless I can either beat him to it or make a good argument as to why I should be allowed to pay it.*

Larry was in town last week and we had dinner on his birthday. And you'd think that seeing how rapidly he's aging (he is seven months older than I am and is rejoicing in his ever more encroaching senescence), his reflexes would be going, but no, when the check came he got to it before I had finished recognizing that it had arrived. "But it's your birthday!" I protested and his answer was that yes, and I would be celebrating his birthday by allowing him to buy me dinner. I couldn't argue with this logic. (He, after all, teaches law and is very logical.)

But it all worked out. I had lunch a couple of days later with Exploding Dave, who was in town on assignment for a while** and when the check came, I hooked it with Larry-like efficiency. When Dave started to protest I told him that he should just consider this as me supporting the troops. He conceeded graciously.

I'm starting to think of this as the informal law of the conservation of dining out funds.


*The time that he was an hour and half late and every waiter in the restaurant felt sorry for me until he finally arrived and then smirked at him, that wouldn't have been a good occasion to reach for the check. I didn't even think about trying for that one.

**And must be doing a very good job and we have had no ordnance explode in Silver Spring while he was here

Clothes sorting quick tip

Everyone sorts their laundry differently. Not 100% differently, but most people sort their laundry using some slight variation on the method used by the parent who did laundry as they were growing up. So I learned Mom's sort and varied it to suit myself when I took over doing the laundry when I was about 14.*

Mom's method divvied everything into four piles: white, based-on-white***, light, and dark. Underpinnings, delicates, and such in little mesh laundry bags that don't go in the drier but are washed with their color cohort. So Mom is a color sorter. I know other people who do all the denim or all towels separately. Or sorting based on fabric weight.

Which means I'm a color sorter, too, in my own way. And because I merely absorbed Mom's system rather than putting it to any kind of rigorous questioning, I'm not always sure what counts as a dark vs a light. Especially as lights are often also lighter fabric, so if a towel is a kind of medium blue, but it's a towel and therefore heavy, does it go with the jeans (dark) or the t-shirts (light)?

Problem solved. I now have a sure-fire test to determine whether something is dark or light in color. Remember when Jack Germond compared writing editorials to wetting one's self while wearing a dark suit? "You get a nice, warm feeling, but nobody notices."

So if you want to know which of Mom's laundry piles you garment goes into, spill some of your dessert on it. Then walk down the hall to the kitchen, remove the stain with wet paper towels, and walk back to your desk. If your co-workers are making an obvious effort to keep their gaze at your shoulder height or above, you are wearing light-colored clothing.

The grey skirt that I am wearing today, as it turns out, is not dark.

To figure out if the garment is just kinda light or really light, drop a Necco wafer on it after you get back to your desk. Compare/contrast the white sugar mark with the rest of your garment.

The things that I do just to provide you guys with handy tips, I swear.

* A very helpful phrase to know when you are going to take over a chore from someone else is "Do you want me to do this? Then I'm doing it my way. Why don't you go read the paper or do a crossword or something"?** See? Two handy tips in one blog post.

**Updated for these modern times "Why don't you go update your Facebook status or play sudoku or something?"

***Like checks and houndstooth and stripes and such.

Honor

"You have kept me at your beck and call for fifteen years. I shall never again do what you demand of me. By every rule of single combat, from this moment your life belongs to me. Is that not correct? Then I shall simply declare you dead. In all of your dealings with me, you'll do me the courtesy to conduct yourself as a dead man. I have submitted to your notions of honor long enough. You will now submit to mine."

Armand D'Hubert, The Duellists

Graduation

My niece Angela graduated from Radford University this month. And because we are a very modern family, here is the list of her cheering section:

me (her maternal aunt)

Daddy (maternal grandfather)
Audrey (maternal step-grandmother)

Bruce (step-father)
Jennifer (step-father's girlfriend)

Cheryl (sister)
Brian (sister's boyfriend)
Brie (sister's boyfriend's daughter, about 10)
Emmie (sister's boyfriend's daughter, about 6)

Travis (step-brother)
Heather (step-brother's girlfriend)

Samantha (step-sister)
Amaya (step-niece, about 4)
Shania (step-niece, about 2)

Valerie (step-aunt)
Taylor (step-cousin)

Jean (step-grandmother)
Les (step-grandfather)

Christina (father's ex-wife, so former step-mother)
Joshua (half-brother, about 7)

The sharp-eyed reader will notice a couple of things:

1. That her mother and father weren't present. My sister, Sara, passed away unexpectedly a few months before Angela graduated from high school. But she was there in spirit. Angela's father couldn't be there, although I don't know why, but not for so unhappy a reason.

2. That of the 20 of us, only four are related to her by blood which was one of my favorite things about the whole affair. We don't normally spend too much effort remembering exactly how people are or aren't related unless I'm playing Southern Chess* and my thought for the day was that we just make that vague circle-waved-at-shoulder-height gesture and lump us all as family if anybody asked. The only ticket for admission was loving Angela and wanting to celebrate this milestone with her.

It was a lovely day and the University made some very good decisions:

The graduation started with a plenary session on the lawn, so when there weren't enough seats, the late comers (or the just before the Pomp and Circumstance comers, like us) could just plop down on the grass in the sunshine. Or the shade. Which also meant that during the speeches, the little kids could run around on the lawn every so often without bothering anybody.

Of course, it also meant that when Travis was near to fainting from hunger, he and few others (including some of the smaller children) could sneak off to IHOP for breakfast. This only became a problem when Angela found out about it, although she was somewhat mollified to learn that they didn't bug out until after she marched and the speeches (please contribute to the alumni fund, please don't forget the alumni fund) began.

Then there was a recess which allowed everyone to meet back at Angela's apartment - right across the street from campus! - before we headed over for her college's graduation.

There was a reception before her college's graduation with sandwiches, chips, a veggie & dip platter, and a cake. The cake had a picture of Angela and her class mates on the top and enough sugar in the frosting to keep the children jazzed through the end of the day. We got to meet several of Angela's friends and their families and we got to sit in chairs at tables which are much better for juggling plates and drinks than a big, open room.

Angela pointed out her favorite professor, who, she said, totally changed her attitude about school. "How?" she was asked. "Well, she was really hard on me which I hated at first but then I got to like it." It seems she liked having expectations to meet and sometimes exceed. Good on her!

She officially graduated from the theater, so I felt right at home. And she graduated with two of the other small colleges, so there were only about 140 or 150 names to go through, rather than everyone's.

Her degree, by the way, is in Recreation, Parks and Tourism,** so I'm assuming that the National Park Service looms large in her career goals. And her favorite professor is also the favorite professor of most of her college so the ovation when she was introduced was long and enthusiastic.

And every single ceremony was Mamet-ianly short and to the point. That was the best choice of all.

Congratulations, Angela!!


* Southern Chess is when you sit around figuring how people are related and I'm actually pretty good at the generations and the removeds.

**I would have punctuated that with the terminal comma so that Parks and Tourism doesn't look quite so much like a subtitle, but they didn't ask me.

Miracles

"We no longer have any sort of ... primative wonder. The closest we come to a miracle today is in bed. And we give up everything for it."

Mother Miriam Ruth - Agnes of God by John Pielmeier

Still not buying the t-shirt though

Alert friend Lori found a piece in the City Paper about the gluten-free options at Nationals Park. My favorite sentence, of course, was this one: People with [Celiac] can’t process gluten and are thus condemned to order many T-shirts celebrating this fact. And, of course, there are links to the Cafe Press's Celiac Couture Collection.

I should note that the Beltway Bar at the Park is also stocked with gluten-free treats in bottles...

And maybe I can stop by the Noah's Pretzels in Gaithersburg on my way to the theater this weekend and try one for myself.

Article Something or Other

I think that I have previously mentioned that my Capital B Boss* likes to talk to me in military and I like to reply in theater. We understand each other pretty well, largely because these cultures share some deeply held beliefs and traditions.** Like "hurry up and wait" which well captures Tech In. Sure the military likes to do things very early in the day and theater people like to do things very late at night, but those two times often overlap, so my comparison holds.

Anyway, I was smirking smiling about something or other a couple of days ago and Boss pointed out to me that I could be charged under Article 131 for "Silent Contempt." He wandered off to do something important and I wandered over to Google.

The next time he was near my desk I got his attention and pointed out that Article 131 covers Perjury.

"Oh. Well, try Article 133."

"Conduct unbecoming an officer and a gentleman."

It seems that the UCMJ may have been revised and/or expanded, so we have settled on my being prosecuted under Article 134 which is actually referred to as the General Article, but I informally call "Things That Annoy Your Boss." It reads thus:

Though not specifically mentioned in this chapter, all disorders and neglects to the prejudice of good order and discipline in the armed forces, all conduct of a nature to bring discredit upon the armed forces, and crimes and offenses not capital, of which persons subject to this chapter may be guilty, shall be taken cognizance of by a general, special or summary court-martial, according to the nature and degree of the offense, and shall be punished at the discretion of that court.

As you may have guessed, it is the phrase good order and discipline that really speaks to my Boss. He loves that phrase. And he did tell me a story about someone who was Court Martialed during the war in Viet Nam for "making a gesture of silent contempt" while in the line.

So I told him about a book that Brett owns called (I think) Summer Soldiers and Sunshine Patriots which includes a listing of all courts martial during the American Revolution. One gentlemen, who shares my surname and I desperately hope is a relative, was brought up on charges for "refusing to follow the order of a superior officer and threatening to shoot any soldier who follows same."

And no, he can't get me under Article 88. That only applies to contempt against public officials, not one's Boss.


* Winner Best Boss Ever '05, '06, '07, '08.

** No, no, no. Not rum, sodomy, and the lash. Or, well, maybe....

Radar for English Majors

When I was at Maryland (and maybe still now) a few courses were offered to try to lure people from in other disciplines. Our general name for these was Physics for Poets. I took one and enjoyed it. IIRC, it was a the physics glass that involves dipping a rose in liquid nitrogen and then smashing it on the counter. Or maybe I just heard a lot about that one. It's been a while.

Anyway, this week at work we had what I've been calling "Radar for English Majors." Greg inherited the job of organizing our noontime lecture series which is sort of continuing education for the technical staff. Over the past year or so he has arranged for speakers from various disciplines from both inside and outside the company to present a (half-hour, 45-minute + question period) talk to the MATLAB crowd, who consume company-purchased pizza and learn something.

Normally, these fly right past me because: 1) I'm not supposed to eat pizza any more; and 2) the subject matter would be way over my head. I mean, come on, half the time here I don't understand the titles of the projects let alone the engineering/physics/math behind them.

But they got me with this one because they were clever enough to phrase the invite thus:

Dear Silver Spring and the Navy Yard:

The noontime lecture for the month of May will be presented by [senior staffer] and [brilliant, talented not-as-senior staffer, who reads this blog] of TSC's Silver Spring office.

Details follow:

Title: Monopulse 101 [substitute for actual title. I like working here.]
Speakers: [Senior Guy] and [Not-as-Senior Woman]
Date: Monday, 19 May 2008
Time: 12 noon to 1 PM
Location: 8th Floor Conference Room, Silver Spring office.

Abstract

We plan to present the topic at the Radar 101 Level and include a flashy engineering tool demonstration. We hope this forum will attract a broader audience and result in a lecture that is both interesting and entertaining. As such we would like to extend a special invitation to everyone, but especially the Corporate Staff to participate in this Radar-over-Lunch session.*

* Perhaps we should call these RAP sessions, that is, "Radar And Pizza".

Needless to say (and yet I am saying it because that's just how I am), I am a member of the Corporate Staff. But I am also a dilettante and I can find prett' near any subject interesting for 15 minutes or so. And because there was a piece of wedding cake on my desk Monday, I already knew that I was having a gluten cigarette, so I might as well have the pizza, too. So! Learning something and flouting the rules. It's too much happiness.

I have attended educational experiences that were outside of my official "area of information" before. Like the time that I was visiting Larry down in Tallahassee and sat in on his contracts class at the law school. I didn't understand everything, of course, but it was pretty spiffy to watch him get all pedagogical in a setting other than a G&S rehearsal.

And we did hit on something I actually knew. The question that he asked the class involved placing restrictions on a check. From the Introduction to Banking class I had taken a few years before (no, really), I knew that restrictions written on a check by the payer (eg, this check not valid until or unless or some condition had been met) are not legally enforceable. In my banking class I was taught that this is - very generally, of course - because bank managers have no interest in enforcing your outside conditions. Checks are "demand instruments."

Okay, so I could have answered the question and for an instant I considered raising my hand. Then it occurred to me that Larry would call on me, would allow me to answer the question, and then would say "Yes, that is correct. Now, as you remember from last week's reading, ...." and then he would ask me a follow-up question that I would have no possible way of answering. So I kept my hands in my lap. Not always as dumb as I look, am I?

So my goal for this lecture was to listen carefully, learn what I could, and not embarrass the Corporate section. I got there a couple of minutes early in order to snag both a good seat and some sausage pizza (my favorite). I was, in fact, sitting right next to Not as Senior Staffer which meant that I could share my pizza with her and could benefit from any stray muttered comments she might make.

And thus began the lesson. Knowing that there were accountants and admin folks in the room, the presenters actually did keep it pretty easy to understand with a reasonable amount of engineer-specific terminology.* Even so, I understood about one sentence in three and would nod when I got something.

Sort of like when I was in France about five years ago. Theresa, Howard, Les, and I went to church mass and as I had been in the country about a week, my "French ear" was more or less up to speed, so I understood about a third of what I heard. Sermons Homilies are really good for ear training because the priest speaks fairly slowly, so I was doing even better than usual until we got the point were he implored us to avoid peaches. This seemed odd to me (as it might to you, depending on how you feel about peaches) so after mass I double checked the word in my French-English dictionary which David thoughtfully gave me before I left on the trip.

Ahhhh. Yes. Pêche does mean peach. It is also (as pêcher) a verb meaning "to fish." And - more to the point - péché is also a verb meaning "sin."

So in the same spirit of learn what I can, try not to get too much wrong information, I did a reasonable amount of nodding. And was grateful when one of the accountants asked a fairly basic question that I thought I understood because when my interpretation was confirmed and I did my little headbob, Not So Senior Woman leaned over and whispered "which you knew." And I did!

So now I know a little bit more about radar and what some of our acronyms mean, I was duly impressed with the flashing engineering tools which has some of the same properties as the sort of flashy computer tools you see on crime dramas, I had a yummy lunch, and I didn't embarrass the Corporate side.

Not bad for a Monday lunch.


*Did you know that while Delta is represented thus: Δ, double Delta is represented so Δð. I didn't, but I do now. I'm looking for opportunities to use this new knowledge.**

** Hmmmm. Another engineer told me that Δð means "delta difference." Perhaps I will seek out further information before I start tossing that around. Perhaps I won't.

*** I can see why my father is not a Catholic if he might have thought they would inveigh against fishing. Better safe than sorry and not allowed to fish.

FAI

I normally suffer from a bit insomnia but now I suffer from the far more pernicious FAI - Feline Assisted Insomnia. I don't always know when to expect a FAI event but they all start out more or less the same: I go to bed and hope to get some sleep. I need to cut that out, clearly, as it must be the cause of my problem.

I read for a bit and just after I've turned out the light and drifted off, Pekoe (the fabulous orange tabby) will find a way to make some kind of noise that I either can't identify or can't ignore. So I wake up and have to deal with stopping him from making that noise and then I'm all awake and alert and can't get back to sleep for quite some time. Considering that he's often in another room when it happens I am impressed at how well he times my nodding off.

A couple of Thursday nights ago, though, he kicked it up a bit. Instead of the usual vaguely annoying* or unidentifiable noises, he made a sound that was all too identifiable - smashing glass. And when you've drifted off a couple of minutes before and then hear smashing glass, you don't think "Hmmmm. I wonder what that was. I guess I'll find out in the morning. NTS: Wear slippers or walk carefully." No, you leap fully alert out of bed thinking "What the hell?!" and wondering 1. what he had managed to smash; 2. how much you will/won't miss that thing; and 3. if the smash was first in a series.

Let's hope that the answer to 3 is "no" because what he managed to smash - which I will only miss until I replace it - is the glass in the front of the china cabinet. From the circumstantial evidence, he was trying to jump from the table (where he's not supposed to be) to the top of the china cabinet (ditto), didn't quite make it, and managed to kick in the glass front to the cabinet. According to my Dad, Mom's parents bought the dining set sometime in the late 30s or early 40s, so that glass is 65 or 70 years old minimum.

It survived several of my grandparents moves, Mom and Dad's moves, and my moves but when a cat is determined that I not sleep, well something has to give.

And so, here for the Peekster, is the first song I've come across that he could have written.


*Like when he plays "small object on the dresser hockey"

I Love the Sound of Breaking Glass - Nick Lowe

l love the sound of breaking glass
Especially when I'm lonely
l need the noises of destruction
When there's nothing new
Oh nothing new, sound of breaking glass

I love the sound of breaking glass
Deep into the night
l love the sound of its condition
Flying all around
Oh all around, sound of breaking glass
Nothing new, sound of breaking glass

Oh all around, sound of breaking glass
Nothin' new, sound of breakin' glass
Safe at last, sound of breaking glass

I love the sound of breaking glass
Deep into the night
I love the work on it can do
Oh a change of mind
Oh change of mind, sound of breaking glass
All around, sound of breaking glass
Nothing new, sound of breaking glass
Breaking glass, sound of breaking glass

Recruiting Post

As sometimes it may happen (or does happen, no "may" about it) a post was sent to Savoynet* attempting to recruit men for someone's local G&S production. As I have pointed out previously in this space, community theater is a great way for men to meet women* and thus I was well pleased with the following correspondence:

John Lanigan-O'Keeffe suggested the following:

Dear Rob,

Put this ad in your local paper or in The Independent lonely hearts and definitely in your programme for every production.

Men! Do you want to meet women?
Join your local operatic society.

There are twice as many girls as guys.

Half the guys are gay.

Half the guys are married.

There are all these women and just you.

Listen to the Voice of Personal Experience:- "I and several others I could name solved their search for love by joining the men's chorus. I met my first girlfriend in Orpheus in the Underworld, my late wife through Utopia, Ltd and my fiancee in Eugene Onegin. In rehearsals and performance, you see the ladies warts and all, and choose the best. You see who's selfish, who's considerate, who laughs at frustration and who blames the nearest person, who listens and who's a compulsive talker, who has a sense of humour and who is up themself. I observed for several weeks and chose the best to be my onstage partner. Soon she was my life partner. Men, don't give up. Reach for that phone and join St Albans Operatic Society today!"

Which sparked this post from Clifton Coles:

Ahem!

Men! Do you want to meet men?

Join your local operatic society.

Two-thirds of the guys are gay.

One-third of the guys are married.

Not all of the married guys are straight.

All of the women are married.

All of the women are gay-friendly.

Some of the women have gay husbands.

Drinks every Friday after rehearsals.

Testimonials: "I met my first husband and the love of my life by joining the men's chorus. I met my second husband and the love of my life building the set for the show. I met my present husband and the love of my life when he was accompanying rehearsals for the show on the piano." "I was third peer on the right, baritone. He was fifth peer on the right, tenor. I made sure he was at my elbow at 'though our heart she's badly bruising' and we've been inseparable ever since."

Men, don't give up! Put that cocktail down, reach for the phone, and call the State-Operated Dramatics Operatics Musics. I'll readily bet it, you'll never regret it!

****

In loving jest,

Uncle C
(perceptively intense and consummately utter)

If enough groups follow these models, we should have no further trouble maintaining the strength.

*Savoynet is the international e-mail discussion list for G&S anoraks fans to which I have cheerfully subscribed for a dozen-ish years.

Because it's raining

"[It] refers to Meher Baba's one time comment that rain was a blessing from God; that thunder was God's Voice." Those nice strangers on Wikipedia quoting Mr. Townshend.

Love Reign O'er Me - The Who (Pete Townshend)

Only love
Can make it rain
The way the beach is kissed by the sea
Only love
Can make it rain
Like the sweat of lovers
Laying in the fields.

Love, Reign o'er me
Love, Reign o'er me, rain on me

Only love
Can bring the rain
That makes you yearn to the sky
Only love
Can bring the rain
That falls like tears from on high

Love Reign O'er me

On the dry and dusty road
The nights we spend apart alone
I need to get back home to cool cool rain
I can't sleep and I lay and I think
The night is hot and black as ink
Oh God, I need a drink of cool cool rain

Like we didn't suspect as much

From "A Real Fairy Tale," a preview article about a production of the Fraser Valley G&S Society's Iolanthe in the BC Local News:

After so many happy experiences working together they’ve honed their communication to a virtually psychic level, they said, which may explain why [director Rick] Harmon is now willing, with [choreographer Carol] Seitz’s permission, to divulge one of their long-standing verbal secret codes (former cast members beware).

“Whenever we used to say ‘It’s wonderful, I love it!’ that meant ‘It needs to be fixed right now’ “ he chuckled.

Well, here's the problem

According to Chris Rock in a performance of his that I ran across on the hotel cable:

Women need food, water, and compliments. And the occasional pair of shoes.

Men want food, sex, and silence.

Scary, scary fact of the day

I heard on Morning Edition (or the Marketplace morning report...) that half of Americans have less than $50K in retirement savings.* A few years ago I read that the average 40-year-old woman has about $7K in retirement savings.

Pause for Implication Percolation.

I think I'll start investing in companies that make cheap cat food.


*I have more than that because I believe in my 401(k) possibly more than I believe in the three paragraphs of the Nicene Creed.

Real Friends

How to tell real friends from merely friendly acquaintances:

When you do something dumb, your real friends will never let you forget it. Sort of like my belief that if you slip and fall on your butt the latter will rush over to help you up, but the former will point and laugh first.

Sucking up

How to congratuate the person who will directing a show you'd like to be in. Send the followng e-mail. Try to use a sincere-looking font.

My, don't you look handsome. Nice haircut. Have you been working out?

But isn't this against everything they stand for?

Well, yes. But sometimes ya gotta do what ya gotta do.

- So first there was Google - clean white page with a catchy logo;
- Then there was Google with the special logos for special days;
- Then there was iGoogle where you could crap up the clean white page with widgets and gadgets and stuff. (Mine has the weather and my reader and a few other things. I am weak.)
- Then there was iGoogle with "artist themes" where you could add a picture to the top of the formerly clean white page. I largely ignored that option because Google is supposed to be different. It's the clean white page! Or the clean white page with some stuff on it! But not a lot! Just some! Some useful stuff! But not a lot!

But. Today while trolling through the artist themes just for fun and thinking the title of this post, I found that one of the themes is by Dale Chihuly.

I like art. Art is nice. I love glass art. I love it more than chocolate. And Dale Chihuly was the first "glass artist" with whose work I became familiar. I usually have to be pried away from exhibits of his work.*

And so, / although / I wish to go, / and greatly pine / to brightly shine.... (oops, sorry, G&S distraction.) Ahem. And so, although I do believe it's against all that the clean white page stands for, I have added the Chihuly theme to my iGoogle page. It makes me shiver with pleasure to look at it. And it'll update during the day showing me new and different pictures of Chihuly pieces. It's too much happiness!

And - in the back - behind the widgets and the gadgets and the artist's theme - somewhere back there - is the Clean White Page.


*And, yes, of course other glass artists have told me that the man in person is - how shall I put this? - a butthead. Suffers from severe cranial-rectal inversion.** I don't care. It's not like I spend any time with him. I just love his work.

**Unless Dale Chihuly reads this blog***, in which case, no one ever said that to me and are you free for coffee or drinks or something sometime?

*** Yeah, like that happens. Whatever.

The upside to insomnia

I get lots of reading done in the middle of the night.

Other than that, it's not so great. Today is Thursday and the fact that I can tell you that is kind of surprising as my sleep schedule for the week has looked like this:

Monday night - Got to sleep by midnight. Awake from 4:30 to 6:30.

Tuesday nght - Got to sleep by about 12:20. Awake from 3:30 to 6:30.

Wednesday night - Got to sleep by about 11:30. Awake from 1:30 to 6:00

So that's pretty much it. 13 hours of sleep in the last three nights. And this during a week when I read an article in a back issue of Time telling me that being sleep deprived will make me fat, diabetic, and heart disease prone.

Great.

One I'd definitely take

Back when Bill and Emily were engaged, Ceirdwyn did her valiant, feminist best to convince Emily to keep "own" name rather than take a "man's" name.* At one point, as the discussion was starting to repeat itself (and was heading downhill a bit), I said that I had already given great thought to whether I would change my name if I got married and that I had a two-point list of criteria:

1. Whether or not my husband's name would sound weird with mine, and a surprisingly large number of surnames do sound weird when combined with Leta; and
2. Whether or not my future mother-in-law would have daily conniptions if I didn't take my husband's name.

"Leta," quoth Ceirdwyn repressively, "those are very silly reasons."

Well, yes, but who cares?

I actually rather like my name as it stands because, among other things, it's balanced and symetry is the way things have to be.** My first name is four letters, my middle name - Madeline - is eight, and my last name is four.

But when I saw this article, and specifically this sentence Assistant United States Attorney David Leta is prosecuting the case I saw my destiny. I will marry that man, take his name, and be Leta Leta.*** Look at all the good reasons for doing so:

1. His first name is David, so the transition will be very easy for my friends and family;
2. He's a lawyer and I like most of the lawyers I know. And I have lawyers on both sides of my family;
3. As a couple we would be introduced as Leta and David Leta; and
4. On official paperwork I'd be listed as Leta, Leta Madeline which sounds very poetic.

The downside is that people who have trouble remembering that my name is pronounced Lee-tah, not Let-uh will have the opportunity to mispronounce both my first and last names instead of just my first. Ditto for those who insist on misspelling it.

And true, David Leta and I have never met, he seems to live in Georgia, and for all I know he's aready married or loves reality tv or has some other impediment to our union, but following the example of the Duchess of Plaza-Toro, I should not allow such minor considerations to stand in my way.

And if he won't have me, then perhaps Frank Leta has an eligible son.


*One can - especially if one wishes to wind up Ceirdwyn, which is always fun - point out that Emily's "own" name was also a man's name and that if she changed her name when she married than she was taking the name of a man she had chosen rather than one who was more or less assigned to her.

**You can't chop down the symetry.

*** Or rather Leta Madeline Leta.

By the Birthday Boy

And for Sallie, the birthday girl.

Sonnet 104

To me, fair friend, you never can be old,
For as you were when first your eye I eyed,
Such seems your beauty still. Three winters cold
Have from the forests shook three summers' pride,
Three beauteous springs to yellow autumn turned
In process of the seasons have I seen,
Three April pérfumes in three hot Junes burned,
Since first I saw you fresh, which yet are green.
Ah yet doth beauty, like a dial hand,
Steal from his figure, and no pace perceived;
So your sweet hue, which methinks still doth stand,
Hath motion, and mine eye may be deceived:
For fear of which, hear this, thou age unbred,
Ere you were born was beauty's summer dead

I've been targeted

And like the heroes in all those action movies, I'm saying "Bring. It. On." Because I can take it.

General Mills cereal goes gluten-free

Global food manufacturer General Mills last week said its US Rice Chex cereal will from now on be gluten-free, as part of the firm's plans to target the ever expanding free-from market.

Q&A

My Boss: Which industry would you say has made the greatest innovations in the last century?

Me: Porn.

I think that perhaps his question was a hypothetical so my answer took the discussion in rather a different direction.

I wonder why I own this book

Over the years I have acquired all sort of books, I know not when or how. And sometimes I know not why, except that I've always been prone to reading whatever I could get my hands on.* The books can sit on my shelves for decades and be dutifully packed up and moved every few years until I get around to them, which for some of them is looking to be well after I retire. Sometimes I read one only because I think that I'll end up getting rid of it and thus freeing up that bookshelf space. Imagine my chagrin when I end up loving it and having to keep it forever.

So I am currently reading Herbert O. Yardley's** The Education of a Poker Player, a book Yardley clearly assumed would only be read by people already conversant with the language of the game. I am not. I haven't played poker in years (and years) *** and even then I think that I only knew the poker terms that were commonly used on epiosodes of The Odd Couple.

On page 27 I have finally come to a poker-related sentence that I understand with no explanations needed:

A card player should learn that once the money is in the pot it isn't his any longer.

*Including somthing I found in Mom's bookcase when I was around eleven or twelve called, iirc, The Jane Castle Manuscript which was .... very educational. More benignly, I found my first Dick Francis book in Dad's bookcase a few years later.

**Yardley is best known as a World War I-era cryptologist and the author of The American Black Chamber, a book that made Philip Agee and Peter Wright the modern-day Herbert Yardleys. Or at least allows me to make that comparison.

***I think I last played at a BaltiCon and I remember being a little disturbed at how much money I won off of my lawyer - who should be smarter and a better strategist than me if I'm paying him to do stuff - until I realized that dilettantes such as myself have no discernable strategy and thus cannot be out-thought because we are not thinking we are just reacting.

Mine, too

The reader of [my] Memoirs will discover that I never had any fixed aim before my eyes and that my system, if it can be called a system,has been to glide away unconcernedly on the stream of life, trusting to the wind wherever it led.

Giacomo Casanova

Introverts and Extroverts

An observation I keep making over and over to myself. And to others. Because a) I'm an extrovert; and b) apparently I really don't believe in having an unexpressed thought.

Statistics indicate that most Americans are extroverts.* The problem for many introverts is that introverts treat extroverts the way that extroverts treat people that they don't like. And that extroverts bond by hanging out and talking about how rude and unfriendly those introverts are.

Thanks and a big, smoochy extrovert kiss to Andy for his recent post that reminded me of this really deep thought of mine.

*Americans, the Golden Retrievers of planet Earth.

No, really, it's my *badge* photo

And possibly one of the more flattering pictures taken of me recently.



Well, except maybe for this one taken by Brett on our recent clamber around the Billy Goat Trail. After getting over one particularly interesting boulder we were considering calling it "Last Known Photo of Leta."



And it would surprise no one that in the last known photo of me before I fell off of a cliff or was eaten by bears or whatever that I am smiling my "camera smile."

Shock of recognition

I saw this show last night and as Alma's father was ranting to her about how weird she was, I realized that Dad could have given the same speech to me when I was a teenager. Or even more recently. Probably did, come to think of it.

The thing for you to give up is your affectations, Alma, your little put-on mannerisms that make you seem – well – slightly peculiar to people. It isn’t just your singing I’m talking about. In ordinary conversation you get carried away by your emotions or something, I don’t know what and neither does anyone else. You, you, you – gild the lily! – You express yourself in – fantastic highflown – phrases! Your hands fly about you like a pair of wild birds. You, you get out of breath , you – stammer you – laugh hysterically and clutch at your throat! Now please remember. I wouldn’t mention these things if I didn’t know that they were just mannerisms, things that you could control, that you can correct! Otherwise I wouldn’t mention them to you. Because I can see that you are upset, but you can correct them. All you have to do is concentrate. When you’re talking, just watch yourself, keep an eye on your hands, and when you’re singing put them in one position and keep them there. ………Alma, little mannerisms, little — peculiarities of behavior — they are what get people known, eventually, as — eccentrics! And eccentric people are not happy, they are not happy people, Alma.

Rev. Winemiller, The Eccentricities of a Nightingale by Tennessee Williams

Sorry. I'll try to keep it down

Sally and I went to see Last of the Killone Players on Friday night. It was a small audience* and we were in the second row. While we were waiting for curtain, I was telling Sally about an e-mail I sent recently that contained the plea "ohplease, ohplease, ohplease"** and as I was quoting that bit the woman in front of me turned to me with one of those "would you please not be so loud" glares. I didn't think I was all that loud, but made a mental note that maybe I could be quieter.

Of course, I thought that only applied to my own anecdotes. Turns out that I was wrong.

The show opens with a very funny monologue and one that is especially funny if you've spent any time in community theater, so I was, you know, laughing. Not laughing hugely as if I were the Rich Councillor in the story about the Poor Wit and the Rich Councillor, but laughing.

And I got the glare again.

I actually considered not laughing any more for a second or two there. I really did. And how crazy is that? Then I considered how much actors like having people laugh at the funny bits and decided that I'd rather annoy this woman than disappoint this actor, especially as I am more likely to see him in the future than her. And, besides, there were enough empty seats that she could have moved had she chosen. Looking back on it, I sort of wish that I'd spent the second act lightly kicking the leg of her seat, but that would have been childish.

And, anyway, after the show the actors asked me and Sally and Jim if we were the good laughers and we were proud to say Yep! So I clearly made the right decision.


* Which was a pity as it was a very good show. Room shoulda been packed. I hope it was for the other performances.

**The person I was e-mailing said "yes." Thank heavens.

Perhaps we should send a card

NPR tells us that DARPA is turning 50 this week.

My company has a contract or two with DARPA, so we're considering a tasteful bouquet. And maybe some chocolates.


Of course, as one of the tech staff pointed out: We would only want to do that if there was a low probability of success for getting the card out the door, and a high payoff if we did happen to succeed in getting the card to them.

How to win at chess and poker

And why I don't often.

I found out the way your mind works and the kind of man you are. I know your plans and expectations - you've burbled every bit of strategy you've got. I know exactly what you will do, and exactly what you won't, and I've told you exactly nothing. To these aged eyes, boy, that's what winning looks like!

Henry II in The Lion in Winter by James Goldman

Precious Lord

Take My Hand, Precious Lord, usually the version recorded by Mahalia Jackson, is often the music playing as a button for public radio pieces on the death of Martin Luther King, Jr. Written by a man who had just lost his wife and child, the song asks for strength and comfort in a time of loss and despair.

I first encountered Precious Lord while singing with The Metropolitan Chorus, which performs a beautiful arrangement for solo and chorus composed by music director Barry Hemphill.

It's a lovely, lovely piece and hearing those tiny snippets on the radio made me want to hear the whole thing, even if only in my head. For those of you not as familiar with the tune, there's a midi on Cyberhymnal.

Take My Hand, Precious Lord
Lyrics by Thomas A. Dorsey
Music, Maitland by George N. Allen

Precious Lord, take my hand,
Lead me on, let me stand,
I am tired, I am weak, I am worn;
Through the storm, through the night,
Lead me on to the light:

Refrain

Take my hand, precious Lord,
Lead me home.

When my way grows drear,
Precious Lord, linger near,
When my life is almost gone,
Hear my cry, hear my call,
Hold my hand lest I fall:

Refrain

When the darkness appears
And the night draws near,
And the day is past and gone,
At the river I stand,
Guide my feet, hold my hand:

Refrain

Intention

".....remembering so many things as he waited, and wishing he had always been as good as he had intended to be."

Tender is the Night, F. Scott Fitzgerald

Motivation

I wasn't too excited about the new Doctor Who series. More of a "oh, that's nice." I saw one episode because I happened to be home and didn't worry about the ones I was missing otherwise.

But now I am motivated to watch. Felicity Kendal will be guesting. And, you know, - along with her talent and my nostalgia for long-gone television shows - the thinking man's crumpet is still pretty dishy.


"...last month, we came across a moon shaped like Felicity Kendal's bottom. We flew around that one a couple of times". Holly on Red Dwarf

Fingers crossed

I sent the e-mail below to the person in our company who can make this decision. I am moderately green myself* and do a lot of in-office recycling, so this choice seems pretty obvious to me but what's obvious to me isn't always to everyone else.

Wish me luck. I could get the two-letter answer or the six-letter answer ("no" or "hell, no") but am hoping for the three-, four- or seven-letter ones ("yes," "sure," or "go ahead").

Dear [VIP] ~

I was prepping this month's newsletter and appreciated [location's] article about greening their offices. I was thinking that if you'd like to get [company] a bit greener, we could distribute the newsletter electronically.

Instead of sending paper copies to be handed out, I could forward the pdf to all [company] staffers directly, thus saving the printing costs (paper, toner, copier use), the mailing costs (usually FedEx), and reducing the paper that goes into the recycle bin or (worse) the trash can. The average newsletter uses two reams of paper. And after all, costs associated with the newsletter are overhead expenses.

This would also allow us to get the newsletter into our staffers' hands in a more timely way.

I would still print paper copies for [other VIPs], of course, and could print paper copies as needed for any other purpose. And if anyone would prefer to receive a paper copy, I'd be happy to send them.

The pdf is posted on the [internet] site once it's ready, so staffers already have the option of viewing it there and/or printing it out.

In these days of rising costs and with the national push to be more environmentally aware, I think that is a solution that can both save us money and reduce our "footprint." Or, as Tom Lehrer put it, doing well by doing good.

Leta

Update: He agreed! The newsletter is going green!

* Any savings I generate by turning off the lights, adjusting the thermostat, driving a small car, etc are wiped out or equalized by the number of miles that I drive for theater and by having a boyfriend across a state line. Some weekends all I do is shuttle back and forth between Maryland and Virginia.

Coming with me, even if I have to run back into the burning building

Behold - Erasable highlighters.

That's right. Erasable.

Highlight. Unlight.

When I told the guy at the Office Depot what I was looking for he said he was getting all shivery just thinking about it. As I already was.

I've shown my Erasable Highlighters to people who were instantly convinced of the amazingness of the Erasable Highlighter.

O brave new world that has such markers in it.

The Silver Lining

Gas prices are up. Food prices are up, especially grain prices. So here - at last - is an article about the benefits of using rice flour* instead of wheat flour to cut calories, fat, sodium, and cost. I have hopes that if wheat prices climbed high enough it will lose its universal ingredient status.

And I'm sure that the "please stop putting high-fructose corn syrup in every damn thing" lobby will be following this with great interest. Of course, if the nation's supply of corn ends up in gas tanks, then there will be less of it in our food.

Go Rice flour! Go Rice bran!


*Yes, I noticed who paid for the study.

Sorry, Mollie

"Taking to the Backstreet Boys is time out of my life that I'll never get back."
Trace Adkins

And with such a lovely baritone did Mr. Adkins dis my former housemate's favorite child band.

Thoughts for the day

Any community's arm of force - military, police, security - needs people in it who can do necessary evil, and yet not be made evil by it. To do only the necessary and no more. To constantly question the assumptions, to stop the slide into atrocity.
Lois McMaster Bujold, "Barrayar", 1991


War is not its own end, except in some catastrophic slide into absolute damnation. It's peace that's wanted. Some better peace than the one you started with.
Lois McMaster Bujold, "The Vor Game", 1990

How to avoid answering that question

Warning - if you have delicate sensibilities, you might want to stop reading after the word "whew." Just a suggestion. Because mental images? They could form.

I am not a smoker. I did smoke some clove cigarettes in college because I thought that they smelled nice and (probably) because I thought that they were cool. And because I thought that they weren't really cigarettes.*

So to prep for Agnes, I am taking "smoking class" with one of my co-workers, which is the source of much conversation around the office. (Possibly the only thing that I could do to evoke more comment would be to get pregnant. And, no, I'm not willing to do that for my art.) The cigarettes that I am using for the show - in compliance with the Maryland Clean Indoor Air Act, are tobacco and nicotine-free. They are made from "lotus leaf, corn silk, licorice root, and plant extracts and essences," and, according to my co-worker, smell and taste worse than actual cigarettes. They also have health warnings on them because they are still a lung irritant-delivery system.

Every day for the next few weeks, I'll go downstairs with my co-worker when she takes her 3:00 break and we will hang outside the back door and smoke together. Yesterday I learned not to smoke like a novelty item, and every day in every way I'll get better and better.**

So, as I say, this is the source of much interest around the office. One of my bosses has offered to teach me to chew tobacco should it ever be necessary for a role (uhm.... thank you?) and today we had this exchange:

You don't have to inhale, do you?

Yeah. It's a hundred-seat house, so fake smoking looks like fake smoking which is distracting.

So is that the most unsavory thing you've had to do on-stage?

Uhm... no.

Oh?

Yeah. And one of our co-workers saw that show. And told me I did a good job.

(pause)

You're blushing, so I think I won't ask any more questions.


Whew.

Because I cannot come up with a scenario where I explain the (fully dressed) fake oral sex that I had on stage during Rosencrantz & Guildenstern Are Dead without both of us being weirded out for the rest of the day. Minimum.


*They are real cigarettes. With oil of clove sprayed on the tobacco. And no filter. How I was ever admitted to an institution of higher learning remains a mystery.

**Émile Coué -- Tous les jours à tous points de vue je vais de mieux en mieux

Happy Easter, Part II

For me, it ain't Easter until we say

"Alleluia! The Lord is risen!"
"He is risen, indeed! Alleluia!"

I feel spunkier just typing that, actually.

David is not a practicing Christian* but he does come to church with me on a few special occasions, like Christmas Eve. He listens politely to the service, sings the hymns, and (appropriately) declines to go up to receive communion. He does not mock religions he doesn't accept, nor does he rolls his eyes in silent "oh boys." He is a very good guest.

So I think that I will have to dedicate some time to tracking down a copy of "Anything Can Happen" for him me, which I will lend to him.

Especially as I like to describe most days as "Anything Can Happen Day" after The Mickey Mouse Club's designation for "the day that is filled with surprises... Nobody knows what's going to happen..."

Ohhhh. Found it. Ordered it. Score.

Christos Voskrecé.
Voistinu Voskrecé.


*And, sadly, he rejects my suggested label of Godless Heathen.

Happy Easter!

Westley: I told you I would always come for you. Why didn't you wait for me?
Buttercup: Well... you were dead.
Westley: Death cannot stop true love. All it can do is delay it for a while.
Buttercup: I will never doubt again.
Westley: There will never be a need.

from (of course) the movie of The Princess Bride

A lovely view from up here

"Where a goat can go, a man can go; and where a man can go, he can drag a gun"
- Maj. Gen. William Phillips, as his men brought cannon to the top of Mt. Defiance in 1777

On Friday I got a nice e-mail from Brett saying that he and son Charles would be hiking Section A of the Billy Goat Trail on Saturday morning and would David and I like to go? David was nursing a case of the sniffles, but I was free and so I rounded up my hiking shoes and we met up at the Visitor's Center.

In general, the best way to get me to do something is to make the information about the activity available and then assume that I won't actually look things up or figure out what I'm getting myself in for.

Like, for instance, that time we were at DisneyWorld and - as I hadn't read up on any of rides, a rather interesting choice for someone who is afraid of heights and has a poor sense of balance - I wandered blithely past the sign saying how tall, how not pregnant, and how free of heart conditions one must be to go on the ride. In fact, I believe that my exact comment as I sashayed by was "Oh, I'm definitely that tall. I'm more than that tall." La, la, la.

And just as I realized that I was in line for a roller coaster and started to try to figure out how to get out of line, Brett, Stacey, and John started telling me that we were in line for the Happy Train to Mickey's Birthday Land or something. I'm not all that bright sometimes, so even that didn't actually cause me to realize what was up. Or rather, way up. And once I did, they just hustled me on board cheerfully talking over my pitiful cries for help.

Not that the DislandWorld folks were going to rush to my rescue; they found the whole thing hilarious. Humphf. I am so put upon.

So anyway, yeah, all I knew when I signed on was that Brett would be there and Charles and that we would be outside on what was supposed to be a beautiful day.* So I followed the link that Brett sent and confirmed that, yep, the visitors' center was the one that I was thinking it was, and went on about my business. I suspect that Brett could invite me to spend six months with his family in a bathysphere**, send me the plans for the vehicle and a list of necessary supplies and health warnings and my brain would file it thus: Brett! Charles! Cate! Something about the beach!

Cate, sadly, couldn't join us this time because she would rather scrub floors than go hiking with me.***

So on Saturday, we met up at the visitor's center and set off on our hike. The first part, which is, well, which is the tow path is very easy. Then the trail breaks right and we leave what's pretty much a semi-paved road and start scrambling over little rocks. No sweat, I can do this. Just keep alert so that I don't turn an ankle and I'll be fine. Heck, this is probably good for my knees! La, la, la.

Then the rocks started to get bigger. To turn into boulders, actually. Around this time, Charles started scrambling up them and announcing how easy they were, which was almost precisely not what I was thinking. The boulders looked like this:


Around the time that the boulders were getting big enough to make me hope that Section A is a loop and that I wouldn't have to meet these rocks coming back the other way, we came round a bit of trail and I saw this:



The Wikipedia caption for the photo calls it the "Billy Goat Trail Cliff." After I got to the top of it, I named it the Cliffs of Insanity**** and began to hope in earnest that we were on a loop. We were and the Cliffs of Insanity was the most "strenuous" part of the trip.

And as I got used to scrambling I got better at it. Not great, but better. I stopped overthinking every step and just took them. And I started treating the relatively flat tops of the boulders more like sidewalks and less like tightropes. It's possible that I am the only person who noticed this blossoming surefootedness, but it still made me feel better.

Especially as while Brett is one of the best people you can have at your side for this sort of thing - supportive, non-judgmental, patient - Charles is, after all, ten years old and being better at things than adults is like getting two desserts and no green vegetables for dinner. So it made him pretty happy to tell me about every blaze he beat me to (most of them) and every rock he climbed better than I did (prett' near all of them).

At one point he was outlining his system for continuing to destroy me, blaze-wise, and I pointed out to Brett that Charles seemed to follow the example of the sort of criminals that Batman always sends back to prison because they'd rather talk about their plan than actually kill Batman. "Yep," agreed Brett, "he's a monologuer." Of course, your average Batman villain stands more or less in place while monologuing and Charles can do it while scampering up a boulder pile in a way that reminds you why both children and young goats are called kids.

I will be revenged, however. Some day Charles and I will be lost in the trackless desert or shipwrecked or something and my contribution will be to smirk and say "Oh, you're so smart -- you get us home" and then go back to reading whatever script was in my purse when the disaster happened. I'm kind of looking forward to this, actually. The best revenge is revenge against harmless small children. (The next best revenge is when someone who is always right - and I know many of them - has to admit in front of other people that you were right and they were wrong. This happens far less often that I would like.)

Anyway, after our exhilarating hike - and it was, I worked up a bit of a sweat and definitely met my target heart rate at least once - we walked back to the car and headed off for a nice lunch with ice cream for dessert. I was also able to give Brett the box of Girl Scout Cookies I had bought for him, which made us both happy.

And I have a picture of the Cliffs of Insanity taped to my hutch at work to remind me that I actually climbed those rocks. And lived to tell the tale.


*It was a beautiful day, just as advertised. Don't worry - this isn't some kind of foreshadowing.

**I'm also not really a fan of small, enclosed underwater spaces.

***Truthfully, she had a prior commitment to help with some pre-Easter Spring cleaning at her church, but that's not what Brett said. Not does it make the best story.

**** I know, not very original, but it seemed pretty accurate to me.

Screechy 80s Band

I like Rush, Canada's major contribution to the world of music. And I particularly like this Rush song, which I haven't heard for eons.

David is not so big on Rush, whom he calls a screechy 80s band. He tried to call them a screechy 80s hair band, but I argued that hair bands are glam rockers like Cinderella or Ratt or Poison, not Rush, who in comparison to Cinderella, et al, are downright somber. And he saw my point.

Rush is a progressive rock band, according to those strangers on Wikipedia, who have written about Rush the most glowing tribute to living people that I can remember seeing.


Freewill

There are those who think that life has nothing left to chance
A host of holy horrors to direct our aimless dance

A planet of play things
We dance on the strings
Of powers we cannot perceive
'The stars aren't aligned
Or the gods are malign...'
Blame is better to give than receive

[Chorus:]
You can choose a ready guide in some celestial voice
If you choose not to decide, you still have made a choice
You can choose from phantom fears and kindness that can kill
I will choose a path that's clear
I will choose freewill

There are those who think
That they were dealt a losing hand
The cards were stacked against them
They weren't born in Lotusland

All preordained
A prisoner in chains
A victim of venomous fate
Kicked in the face
You can't pray for a place
In heaven's unearthly estate

[Chorus]

Each of us
A cell of awareness
Imperfect and incomplete
Genetic blends
With uncertain ends
On a fortune hunt that's far too fleet

[Chorus]

Gluten-free Pop-Tarts

Nope, I don't know where you can find them. I have, however, written to the Whole Foods Gluten-Free Bakehouse suggesting that gluten-free toaster pastries would probably sell pretty well. You can, too. Glutenfree.Bakehouse@wholefoods.com

Or you can make them at home. Celiac.com has a recipe here.

How to get cool stuff for your desk at work

Today's e-mail:

Leta,

Is the schedule for the meeting in April set enough so that we can get reservations? Are you arranging hotel rooms? Enquiring minds want to know.

-----------

Yep, the dates are firm and I've made the reservations. I have your [hotel rewards] number, so that'll already be applied to your reservation.

Are you going to bring me a present from Alabama?

-----------

Sure, you want a lump of red clay or a model space rocket. I haven’t found much else there in Huntsville.

-----------

Either is fine with me. Of course, I'll have it on my desk and I'll tell people that you gave it to me.

-----------

I’ll go with the space rocket, then.

Skanky factlet

In all the hoopla regarding the Eliot Spitzer unpleasantness, I heard this interview on All Things Considered:

Michele Norris talks with Martin Monto, professor of social psychology, at the University of Portland. Monto did a study on customers of prostitutes. His research shows that many of the assumptions of why men seek out prostitutes are accurate. They are seeking greater variety, something simple, no commitment. He says many are also attracted to the very illicit nature of prostitution. This risk-taking on behalf of people in the public eye can have several components.

The part that caused me to stare at the radio, grossed out? That would be the part where Professor Monto said that about 20% of men have used prostitutes. That would be 1 in 5. That would mean that I must know several of them. Or lots and lots.

If you are one of them, please don't self-identify. I don't want to know.

Ick. Ick. Ick.

And if I misheard that statistic, what with driving and paying attention to the road and all, please feel free to correct me. Or rather, correct me if the number is lower as that would make me feel a bit better. If it's higher then I really, really don't want to know.

A first

I just heard an ad for some kind of Dietz and Watson prepared chicken that used the phrase "gluten-free."

Right there on the radio!

I think that's literally the first time that I've heard, not read, the words "gluten-free" in any media. Next: television! And after that - movie theaters! After that - who knows!

So I went to their website and found this on their FAQ page:

Q: Are Dietz and Watson meats gluten free?

A: Nearly all Dietz & Watson Meats are gluten free except: Rotisserie Style Chicken, Scrapple, Bockwurst, Fat Free Beef Franks, Gourmet Lite Franks, Gourmet Lite Beef Franks, Chicken Cordon Bleu, Chicken Florentine and Chicken Portabella. All the rest of our meats are free of wheat, rye, barley and oat proteins.

Guess whose deli meats I'll be buying the future.

Out of practice

Part of an e-mail exchange between me and Melinda, Agnes of God's producer. An important plot point in the show is Dr. Livingstone's chain smoking.

"Leta -- I have to purchase herbal cigarettes for you. We have to keep the smoke to a minimum, so we're going to get packs from a few brands to see which works best. A distributor for Ecstasy Cigarettes has offered to let us have their factory seconds at a reduced cost -- the cigarettes themselves are find, but the packaging was dented. That brand only has one flavor, but some others have a variety. One brand has Regular, Cherry, Vanilla, Clove, and Menthol. Since I'm going to get some test packages, do you have any flavor preferences?"

"Clove sounds best to me - it'll remind me of my college years."

SPOOG!

Today, March 4th*, has been declared National Grammar Day and I nearly missed it. I love grammar! I use it all the time!

So it was with great delight that I read about National Grammar Day and joined SPOOG (the Society for the Promotion of Good Grammar, of course). I have printed out my membership card and noted the fine print that warns me that my membership is "null and void if bearer uses myself instead of me," which right there shows you why it's my kind of organization.

Grumpy Martha makes an excellent pitch for good grammar but this may be her most motivating argument:

There are benefits to speaking and writing grammatically. Besides having proof that you're not Courtney Love, ...

This is even more compelling than calling good grammar sexy or implying that its absence will make your life unlivable.


*Why today, March fourth? Because it's a complete sentence! How cool is that?!

For Noah

I have to watch tv on Sunday evening.



Especially as I think I recognized someone in the trailer.

So unless you're Johnny Depp, I'm not taking your call during the show.*

With thanks to Silver Spring, Singular


*Some exceptions possible, but I wouldn't count on it.

Or *what*?

I'm listening to Weekend Edition and Liane is interviewing Edward Lucas about his book "The New Cold War." At least, I think that was the subject of the interview because I was surfing around and not playing close attention. I know they talked about Gazprom, the Russian oil company, though, because shortly before he said "Gazprom," Mr. Lucas said the phrase that caught my attention..."three things, gas, cash, or...." and I don't even remember what the third was because my brain was too busy jumping up and down like an hyper eight-year-old insisting the rest of his sentence - in his lovely British elocution - was going be "or ass, nobody rides for free."

And, yes, I know that the best version of that bumper said "gas, grass, or ass" but even so.