Five Not So Easy Pieces

Possessed either by the living ghost of Jack Nicholson or the imaginary ghost of obsessive-compulsive Adrian Monk, last night I walked away from a fast food stand in desperation.

I have a theory, it goes like this. Fast food sells because of two primary factors: predictability and limited choice. Both factors make the fast food transaction as fast and pleasant as possible for both the buyer and the seller. Fast food joints that haphazardly ignore these core business factors will cease to remain in business under a fast food model.

I was working online in a public space. One of our local malls, keenly aware of the growing "mobile office" trend, has set up quite pleasant work spaces scattered throughout the mall, usually near a store that sells coffee or chocolate. I spent the day in a comfortable chair with a small desk, WIFI, and power, sipping a iced chai latte from the nearby Starbucks stand. As a departure from my normal mobile office, the "Teashop Office" as I call it, it was nice.

El Cigarro Grande appeared in the late afternoon with his duo of Seussian spawnlings, adorable boys (Pix and Pox) pleasantly happy to see me and beg me to take them to the Apple Store (which was 20 paces away). I packed up my things and we visited the Apple Store, where I discovered Pix and Pox's fascination with Apple computers had more to do with the "child's table" and less with anything else. After a brief browse for new iPod earplugs (Shure, $299? You must be joking...) we made our way to the food court to find something resembling dinner.

The spawnlings gravitated towards the Sonic for burgers while I wandered the food court looking for something else. I found a little sandwich place, Which Wich, looked up at the menu, spied "#1 Turkey, Turkey Reuben" and made my choice.

I approached the "Order Here" sign and stood for many seconds, 30 inches in front of employee staring down at some kind of inventory report. After many seconds, the other employee who was manning the sandwich line, called out the order taker's name to alert her to the presence of a customer. She looked up at me glumly and the obligatory first question slithered out.

"May I help you?"

I was prepared. "Yes, please. I would like a turkey reuben."

"What would you like on that?" she responded.

"Well, just a turkey reuben, please."

"Do you have your sack?"

At this point, it dawns on me that her line of questioning did not coincide with my expectations. A turkey reuben, like a BLT or a grilled cheese, is one of those sandwiches that comes fait accompli in my realm of experience. And what was this sack she was asking about?

So, I asked. "My sack?"

"Yes," she said, jabbing her pencil at a row of numbered sacks off to one side of the counter. "You need a #1 sack for turkey."

The ground began to tilt beneath me.

"I need a #1 sack for turkey?" I repeated, trying to understand.

"Yes, you need a #1 sack for turkey. Then you write on it what you want on your sandwich."

"Ah, but I just want a turkey reuben." I pointed at the menu board. "Right there, it says '#1 turkey, turkey reuben'."

"Yes, it does," she agreed, "but we need to know what you want on it. You need a #1 sack for that."

"I just want a turkey reuben, though." I pleaded.

She sighed heavily and pulled out a sack from behind the counter. With her pencil, she scribbled a large "#1" on the sack. Then she asked, "What kind of bread do you want?"

I supplied the obvious, world-wide, need I say only, answer: "Rye, please."

She sighed again and pushed the sack towards me. She jabbed her pencil at a printed line on the sack which read "White" and "Wheat", which check boxes next to them.

"We only have white or wheat."

"But, I want a turkey reuben..." I retorted.

She stared at me.

I surrendered. "Alright, alright. Wheat, please."

"OK, what else do you want on it?"

Now, I am getting a little annoyed. "Well, traditionally, a turkey reuben has turkey on it."

"OK, turkey. " she said, "That's a #1. Is that it, just turkey, then?"

"No," I said, "in addition to turkey, a turkey reuben has three other things on it."

"We normally make it with saurkraut." she admitted.

"Yes, yes," I nodded vigorously, "a turkey reuben has saurkraut on it." Now I was breaking through!

"Do you want saurkraut on it?"

I stared at the girl for a long moment. Then, I slowly repeated "I just want a turkey reuben."

"OK, a #1 with saurkraut." she concluded, scribbling on the sack.

"See that board up there?" I asked, pointing behind her.

She didn't turn her head when she answered patronizingly, "Yes."

"Well," I continued, "it clearly lists 'turkey reuben' and next to 'turkey reuben' it also clearly lists three ingredients: swiss cheese, saurkraut, and thousand island dressing. Now, I won't quibble with the lack of rye bread or whether or not russian dressing is or isn't the same thing as thousand island, but you obviously already know what goes on a turkey reuben."

"Yes," she admitted, "but those are just suggestions."

"I was not suggesting I wanted a turkey reuben, though. Ordering a turkey reuben should not require me to fill out a questionaire on my personal turkey reuben preferences. This is a fast food restaurant in a mall food court. I did not come prepared with a #2 pencil or the appropriate mind-set for test taking. A turkey reuben is a sandwich with a well- known and rather rigid recipe of precisely five invariable ingredients, two of which you've choosen to vary and the other three you seem to want to pretend don't matter. I did not come here to order some kind of improvised sandwich jazz medley on the turkey reuben. I wanted a turkey reuben because I knew exactly what I would get with a turkey reuben. So, right now, I am going to walk away from you and not order a turkey reuben, or anything else. Have a good day."

I strolled across the food court to the Chik-Fil-A, where I ordered a chik-fil-a sandwich and an iced tea. The only question I was asked was "Sweet or Unsweet" (answer: unsweet). Within moments, I had given the helpful cashier a small sum of money in exchange for exactly what I ordered and expected. Kudos to Chik-Fil-A for understanding and meeting with such precision the nature of the fast food business transaction.

Fine Food

As I have stated before, I like to eat. One of my favorite past-times is discovering a great new place to eat with the Brain, and then sharing our discovery with our gaggle of friends. I love to cook, too, and I often try to cook dinner for friends as well. Just last Sunday, for example, I made up a batch of tomato and pea risotto for a small dinner party. Risotto is one of those "foot intensive" dishes - the cook (or some unlucky helper) must stand at the stove, stirring and slowly adding liquid to the rice continuously for about 30 minutes. However, the ingredients are almost always simple. Arborio rice, butter, onion, garlic, broth, and parmesan form the foundation, while the cook's improvisation floats above it. The adjuncts rarely involve more than a handful of additional ingredients -- you could add saffron and wild mushrooms or truffles, or just some lemon zest and lemon juice, or, as I did, some tomatoes and peas.

It's the ingredients, of course, that matter. Take my butter for example. Central Market has recently started carrying Reggiano butter. This is butter made with the same milk, from the same cows, as Parmesan Reggiano. It is absolutely fantastic, with a delicate parmesan aroma and tang. I've been serving it at room temperature, sprinkled with smoked Spanish sea salt and a hunk of bread. And I've been using it in my risottos.

Between the dining and feeding my friends, I derive some of the most intense happiness in my life. There is something so very primally pleasing about ensuring that a person gets not only nourishment of the body, but an experience that nourishes the mind and spirit as well.

Anyway...

Let's talk about the Chinese. I have always maintained - in fact, I've been told by Chinese friends - that the Chinese do not often eat something because it is good, but because it is expensive. I've been to two Chinese weddings, massive affairs of eating these, and this "fact" was borne out. The most awful things served - the things even the Chinese guests only nibbled politely at before turning to tastier stuffs - were, yes, the most expensive.

Of course, Europeans and their descendents spend inordinate amounts of money and time consuming rotted milk. Who am I to judge?

Well...for your enjoyment, I present the following AP wire snippet:

Chinese Eatery Sold Donkey in Tiger Urine

September 08,2005 | SHANGHAI, China -- A restaurant in northeastern China that advertised illegal tiger meat dishes was found instead to be selling donkey flesh -- marinated in tiger urine, a newspaper reported Thursday.

The Hufulou restaurant, located beside the Heidaohezi tiger reserve near the city of Hailin, had advertised stir-fried tiger meat with chilies for $98 as well as liquor flavored with tiger bone for $74 a bottle, the China Daily reported.

Isn't that delightful?

Ride: The Jacksboro Loop

On Saturday, I did a solo ride from Dallas to Fort Worth to Jacksboro. This was one of those "I'm bored" rides. I had originally only intended to go over to Lake Worth to discover if Vance Godbey's still existed (it does). Then I found myself on Jacksboro highway and I just sort of decided to see where it went. Well, Jacksboro, d'uh.

Here's the first leg (Dallas-Love Field to Downtown Ft. Worth). This is pretty boring flat-top.

At downtown Ft. Worth, at the Courthouse, I turned up Jacksboro Highway to find Vance Godbey's.

Once I found Vance Godbey's, I just sort of kept going, all the way to Jacksboro, where I stopped at Herd's Burgers (see this and this). Nummy!

After stopping at Herd's Burgers for a burger and a coke, I headed back to Dallas via Bridgeport and then Bridgeport to 114 back to Love Field.

All in all, a pretty nice ride. About 200 miles, just shy. The area around Jacksboro is lovely, I'll have to take ECG and TLB out there, maybe next week? And a trip to Vance Godbey's is certainly in order...

Hog? No, Rat!

I got rid of the Harley this weekend, happily trading it for a Triumph Rocket III. I am quite content with the switch. To quote what I said to ECG Saturday, I didn't realize how bad off I was until I rode the Rocket.

You can compare the two bikes here at PowerSports Network.

I had always intended to get a Rocket, but my timetable was accelerated by events last week. The Lord Bastard, who owned a first-model-year V-Rod, had decided to trade his bike in for a BMW K1200LT, a bike that both he and the missus could ride comfortably together. I'd like to point out that up to this point in his life, the thoughts Triumph and Rocket had never crossed his mind. However, after his visit to the BMW dealer on Thursday, which also happens to be our local Triumph dealer, he sends me an email on the order of:

Blu! I went to look at the BLW K1200LT today and I saw this amazing bike, the Triumph Rocket III. I am going to get me one!

My response was, having basically controlled my desire for almost a year with regard to the Rocket was, and I quote:

If you get a Rocket before me, I will kill you.

Not that I ever thought I would be playing keeping up with the Joneses with anybody. But, it became a matter of honor to me. TLB only had 700 miles on his three-year-old V-Rod and was now about to poach the bike I had been coveting, but denying myself, for months while I "did my ass time" on a Harley.

So on Friday, I took the Harley down to the dealer and made a deal for the graphite Rocket they had in stock. Then I made plans with TLB to show up on Saturday and look at the bikes with him, as he contemplated his purchase. I made no mention that I had, already, closed the deal on my own Rocket.

On Saturday, at the appointed hour, I rode into the dealership on my new Rocket. As it so happens, the Lord and Lady Bastard were standing in the parking lot, having just finished their own test ride of the beemer. The Lady Bastard saw me coming. The conversation was reported to me as follows:

Lady: Here comes somebody on a Rocket.

Lord (glancing up): Yup, that's a Rocket.

(pause)

Lady: That sort of looks like Blu on that Rocket.

Lord: Nonsense. Blu has a Harley.

(pause)

Lady: I think that's Blu on that Rocket.

Lord (paying attention now): Yeah, looks like it. I guess he test-rode it.

(TLB waves at Blu as Blu pulls up)

Lord: So, what do you think?

Blu: I like it. In fact, I think I'll keep it.

(Blu puts keys to Rocket in his pocket and smiles. The truth dawns on TLB.)

Lord: Why you gaddam-son-of-a-bitch!

(TLB proceeds to punch Blu, lovingly of course.)

Of course, the above scene, so carefully planned and explained to even the staff at the dealership, paled in comparison to what transpired when ECG showed up at the dealership, fully expecting TLB to have a new Rocket, but not expecting your humble narrator to also have one.

I believe, had I a video camera, I would have had documentary proof of what exactly a conniption is. This video, had I been able to make it, would have replaced all previous definitions, printed or otherwise, and then been enshrined in the Library of Congress for posterity. All future references to the word would have simply read:

Conniption, see El Cigarro Grande Learns the Truth, Saturday, July 30th, 2005, 3:03 PM, Library of Congress, Video by Blubrik

I work with boobs every day

"Sen. John McCain, R-Ariz., is defending his cameo appearance in 'Wedding Crashers,' the sexy comedy the Drudge Report called a 'boob raunch fest.'

'In Washington, I work with boobs every day,' joked McCain during an appearance on NBC's 'Tonight Show with Jay Leno.'

McCain was responding to Leno, who noted Matt Drudge ran a headline last week screaming that the Republican was starring in a 'boob raunch fest."

-- WorldNetDaily: McCain on sexy film: 'I work with boobs every day'

Now the sycophantic, blow-hard gadflies like those at the Drudge Report are projecting their morals onto what films a Republican senator, veteran and prisoner of war should and shouldn't appear in? The man spent seven years in the Hanoi Hilton. He's earned all the boobs he can get.

I'd not lift a finger to save a single Republican currently in office except John McCain.

Big Mother

"The irony is that, although news reports paint a bleak picture, independent statistics show that life has become less dangerous for kids in recent years -- with violent crime in particular dropping by 38 percent since 1975. The short spin cycle of cable TV may anoint a new child victim every week, but the actual numbers are far less grim: of the 800,000 kids that go missing each year in America, only 150 cases involve what the Justice Department calls 'stereotypical kidnappings,' in which a child is taken by a stranger and either held for ransom, abused or killed. Scores more 'missing children' are teenage runaways or 'throwaways,' abandoned by their parents. 'Truly, the real news story of the last 10 years has been the astonishing decline in crime,' says Dr. Alvin Rosenfeld, a New York City child psychologist. 'But we are assaulted by a media that is more interested in scaring people, so it is almost impossible for parents to assess the real level of risk. And of course, there is no shortage of people willing to sell products based on those fears.'"

-- Salon.com Life | Big Mother is watching

It has been my contention for years, without any proof other than simple reason, that crimes against children have not grown in past years. There are not necessarily more murderers and pedophiles stalking our children than there were, oh, 25 years ago. What we do have more of, however, is the 24-hour cable news cycle, which didn't exist before. With nothing to report, CNN and its ilk will report whatever tragedy last occured, no matter how long ago, to fill airtime. Look at Fox News and its dubious fixation on the disappearance of this teenager in Aruba, what, eight weeks ago now? While tragic, it's not news anymore, and yet Fox is still dedicating plenty of airtime of talking, smirking heads to it.

Parents can lower their anxiety not by monitoring their children more, but by controlling their own consumption of the 24/7 news cycle. If you really want peace of mind, turn the TV off, or at least off of Fox and CNN.

Crappy Happy Face

I've begun a new obsessive-compulsive behavior at work. As I walk around people's cubes and offices, if they have a white board with any space on it, I draw a crappy happy face.



I have no idea why I feel like doing it (utter boredom?) or what it means. But, there's definitely something going on inside.

Loving Weird and Weirder

It scares me that I actually live near people like this.

In Fort Worth, Texas, an intoxicated woman involved in a collision got out of her car to investigate and was killed when a beer truck accidentally rammed one of the cars into her (and the truck driver, too, was found to be intoxicated) (January).

-- NEWS of the WEIRD - Current News

Still, gotta love NotW.

I'm still on my Scientology kick. Today, while waiting for my computer to finish some work, I decided to read Wikipedia's entry on L. Ron Hubbard. Fascinating. I was particularily impressed with his ignoble career in the navy during World War II. Still, he pulled down, according to Forbes, $40 million a year; not bad for a hack with a navy fetish.

Contegrity

Chuck the Eater is a member, or at least participant, in Contegrity. He sends me little daily quotes like this one...

I think that some major human relational alterations are going to be due before too long. There is a need for fundamental, strategic alterations in our relationships from I'll get mine to We all need to get ours. And if that alteration doesn't happen, things will get worse and worse until it does.

If we're going to have a base for resolving pollution, disease, war, poverty, crime, and so on, we need to give up the base for exploitation, cheating, dominating, protection, and avoidance. Otherwise, we cannot resolve these issues.

Ken Anbender from Belonging To Life
(Special Program, January 2002)

...every now and then. My respect for Chuck is pretty high, so there must be something to these guys. Check it out: Contegrity.

Of course, my fear is that Contegrity is a Scientologist front organzation for recruiting Xenu worshippers...but that's just crazy-thought...

Wonkamaniac

An op-ed just appeared on Salon.com which I really empathize with. You can read the full text at Salon.com Arts & Entertainment | Me & the chocolate factory.

I am in almost complete agreement. Although I don't have a candy fetish like the author, I did wish, when I was 10, that I was Charlie Bucket. I felt like Charlie Bucket, after all. I saw in him what I wanted to see in myself, and how I wanted to be. When my classmates were into the Wizard of Oz, I was into Wonka and Oompah-Loompahs. And the movie has remained fresh and true for me ever since.

Just a week ago, over the July 4th weekend, I watched Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory for the upteenth time with some friends in a beachhouse filled with adults and children. I still felt my chest tighten with hope when Grandpa Joe uses his tobacco money to buy Charlie a Wonkabar, then deflate with terrible sadness when they don't find a golden ticket and Charlie resigns with "The ticket probably makes the chocolate taste funny, anyway." I still smiled when "crippled" Willy Wonka (Gene Wilder) stumbles and then gracefully tumbles when he first appears. I still chuckled everytime Wonka confuses a parent with his twisted logic or warns one of the awful children that their choices are about to cause their doom (his quiet, bored pleading with Veruca, "Please...Don't...Stop...", which can be read two distinctly different ways, as she throws a tantrum and falls to her demise, causes me to burst out laughing). And I still fought back sobs when Charlie gives back the Everlasting Gobstopper saying nothing but "Mr. Wonka...?" and laying the candy on the table next to him.

Charlie Bucket is my model on how a person should act, with fecund decency and deep kindness, even when faced with his own mistakes and errors. My fantasies are fulfilled, just like Charlie's, when he wins what he most wanted in the world.

Sniff.

Bad Review

Sometimes, you find gems in some of the most amazing places. Take this well-written diatribe from an Audible subscriber regarding L. Ron Hubbard's Battlefield: Earth bloat-a-thon:

Believe it or not, John Travolta's career-wrecking bomb of a movie is actually better than this book. What makes the movie better is that they cut out most of the dumber plot elements (90% of the book's 1000 pages). I kept reading this book thinking that there must be something in it worth reading, because it has sold millions of copies. Turns out there isn't. Most of the story is just plain stupid. It insults the intelligence of anyone who reads it. It is honestly very difficult to explain just how terrible this book is to anyone who hasn't read it. There are just too many long rambling chapters that expect you to accept ludicrous and poorly written events and characters. For example: bad guys who are made up of colonies of intelligent bacteria, who are lead by a royal caste of former circus performers and who explode in the presence of radiation. After their defeat we are introduced to a shark-headed banker alien who likes to chew mint, which he picks from an old lady's garden in England somewhere. Anyways, you're expected to believe a primitive human from Colorado acquires all the knowledge of the bacteria-people (with their help no less), teams up with a group of Scotsmen and leads a massive and very boring rebellion against a race that has conquered dozens of galaxies. Then the humans of course win and acquire the bacteria-people's assets and become really really wealthy. Wondering why this wasn't in the movie? Because it's stupid that's why, but it really is the plot. Don't believe me? Really bored? Try reading this and be thankful it's the abridged version, the full one is worse.

-- "Aaron", Reviewing Battlefield: Earth

I've never read B:E, nor will I ever. I did go see the movie, dragging friends along for what I knew was going to be a really awful experience. But then, I actually like bad movies -- it's so bad it's good kind of movies. While some of my friends merely groaned and squirmed, wishing for the pain to end, I laughed mirthfully at the ridiculous plot, characters, costumes, events, and special effects. It was awful. It was wonderful.





Speaking of Mr. Hubbard, Salon has been running some interesting articles on him, Tom Cruise, and Scientology:

Stranger than fiction -- A Review of Dianetics

Missionary Man -- Tom Cruise and Scientology

The Press vs. Scientology -- A look at the relationship between CoS and the Press

Scientology's War on Psychiatry -- self-explanatory

More Cool This American Life - Godless America

A fascinating episode discussing whether or not this country is founded on an idealogy of the seperation of church and state.

Most fascinating is the discussion of the history of Christian activists' attempts, for over a hundred-fifty years, to amend the Constitution to include various "Christian" amendments (five times since the Civil War such an amendment has come up to Congress, and five times these failed, voted down by Congress).

And Julia Sweeney's monologue at the end, about her attempts to explore her spirituality by attending church and reading the Bible, pretty much sums up my feelings entirely. And it's really funny, too.

This American Life - Godless America

Just Cool - The Sanctity of Marriage

I subscribe to This American Life podloads from Audible. Last night, as I couldn't sleep for coughing and choking on snot, I decided to catch up on my backlog in my iPod. As the hours crept into the early morning, I listened to the Sanctity of Marriage episode. It was absolutely fascinating. If you have any interest in marriage (I think anyone human does), go take a listen.

You'll need RealAudio (or get an Audible subscription) and an hour of earspace.

And, while you're there, listen to anything else. This is one of the best programs in American media today. My absolute all-time favorite is Fiasco!, which I think I've mentioned before.

Big Bird Saved -- But...

Big Bird and National Public Radio won a reprieve Thursday as the House restored $100 million that had been proposed as a budget cut for the Corporation for Public Broadcasting.

The 284-140 vote demonstrated the enduring political strength of public broadcasting, whose supporters rallied behind popular programs such as 'Sesame Street,' 'Postcards From Buster' and 'The NewsHour With Jim Lehrer.'

The Public Broadcasting Service undertook a high-profile campaign to rescind the proposed cut. Lawmakers were flooded with letters and phone calls.

The vote came as the House worked on a $142.5 billion spending bill for health, education and labor programs for the budget year beginning Oct. 1.

-- Salon.com News | House won't cut public broadcasting funds

Woot, but at the same time, the CPB is still under attack by right-wing apparatchiks:

The Corporation for Public Broadcasting, whose chairman is under fire for complaining about what he considered liberal bias at PBS, chose a former Republican Party co-chairman Thursday as its president and chief executive.

Patricia S. Harrison, the assistant secretary of state for educational and cultural affairs, was selected after three days of closed meetings by the corporation's board of directors. She was co-chair of the Republican National Committee from 1997 to 2001.

-- Salon.com News | Public broadcasting names new president

So we still have to remain wary and protective of one of the few remaning truly unbiased sources of public news and information left in this country.

Broken Beak

I was recovering from a losing bout of the flu. I'd been cooped up in the house, alone with an ancient diabetic cat in more dire straights than myself and a crippled dog, limping from an old injury she sustained to her leg as a puppy. Enough of this, I thought to myself, I'm bored and hungry. I showered, dressed shabbily in a bright blue hawaiian shirt, and, already woozy from the effort, shambled out of the house and made my slow way to the nearest cafe for a late, light lunch al fresco. The sunshine and modest exercise would do me good, as would a helping of food of reasonably decent quality. I'm no doctor, but I do know there's nothing healthy about sitting in a dreary house all alone with nothing eat, even if you are still tinging at the corners with influenza.

The cafe was nothing special, although it had an excellent patio shaded by an enormous wisteria trained to a lattice above head. I turned in my order for some pasta and salad, then went outside with a glass of tea and a few breadsticks to find a table in the warm shade. The breadsticks I took for the local grackle and sparrow population.

After seating myself, I began breaking the breadsticks into tiny morsels. A young grackle, canny to what was going on, hopped up on the edge of my table directly across from me, eyeing me with his left, then his right eye expectantly. I carefully tossed a crumb at his feet, which he snatched up immediately and swallowed, looking back at me, asking for more. I obliged him with a larger piece that he had to fly away with to break into smaller pieces. I tossed some handfuls of crumbs to the ground, and the other birds came flocking out of their hiding places in the shrubbery, chittering and chirping excitedly at the prospect of a meal.

My pasta and salad arrived, and the young grackle came back to the table. He perched on the edge and watched me just out of arms reach. I ate the salad, but left four small cherry tomatoes, which I don't care for much anyway. I popped these open with my knife, then slid the bowl over to the bird. He danced back, then moved forward to the bowl as my hand withdrew. He inspected the tomatoes carefully with both eyes, then prodded them. Grabbing one of the pieces, he cackled with what I could only assume was complete delight and flew away. I turned my attention to my pasta, glancing up to watch the other birds still nervously attacking the numerous crumbs on the ground. Every minute or so, the young grackle would return -- I could recognize his scrawny body and green-black head now -- to steal another piece of tomato, cackle merrily, and fly away. I paid him no more attention.

My prescription for curing the flu wasn't that efficacious, although it did feel good to get outside in the warm air and sun. I walked home, feeling both better (warmer) and worse (more tired) than before. I put myself to sleep early, hoping that upon waking the next day I'd find myself rid of the obnoxious virus once and for all. Sadly, I woke the next morning more stuffed than before and looked forward to another dull day locked away in my house sick and alone once more.

As the late afternoon approached and the pangs of hunger with it, I again decided to stroll down to the cafe and get some more sun on the patio beneath the wisteria. I showered, dressed in the same loud blue shirt since I had hardly worn it at all the day before, and once again dizzily walked down to my little cafe. Too sick or lazy to change, I repeated my order for a simple bowl of pasta and a salad, grabbed a glass of tea and a few breadsticks, and settled myself outside in the warm shade of that lovely wisteria vine.

My food came quickly, really before I'd had a chance to begin feeding the birds. No sooner had my plates arrived, than that certain young grackle landed on my table. His beak was wide open, as if he was panting. Fearlessly, he stepped right up to the edge of my salad bowl and looked in. I greeted the young bird politely with a tip of my tea glass, welcoming him to lunch once again but firmly demanding that he refrain from poking at my salad until I had finished with it. I moved the bowl away from him, yet he did not dance away in avian wariness as expected. He simply stood there, open-beaked and silent, looking at me.

I looked back, and wondered about his wide-open beak. I examined him closely. I could have reached out and scooped him up in my hand as easily as I could grab my glass of tea, he was so close. I frowned, drawn in by sadness, when I realized his beak was open because the lower half was snapped and broken, dangling down from the bird's face at a slight angle. Blood crusted the base of the beak where it had become detached from his skull. He couldn't move it, broken as it was. I supposed he'd flown into plate glass window and broken it.

The bird moved closer to me. I reached into the salad bowl and offered him a morsel of lettuce. He nudged it with his broken beak, but having lost the ability to pinch anything between the two halves, tossed his head right and left in pain and frustration. I removed the cherry tomatoes from the salad and smashed them open with my fingers, setting the exploded orbs at the bird's feet. The grackle poked at them, wiggling his exposed tongue in the juices, but he couldn't lift anything up to swallow.

I grimaced and tried to ignore his struggling while I ate my pasta. I glanced up at him once or twice, considering what I could or should do. I could easily grab the bird, as he stood less than a foot away from me on the table and showed no fear of my hand when I offered him food. I imagined that if I did grab him, he'd panic and injure the beak further, perhaps ripping it off entirely. And if I did manage to grab him safely, I wondered if I could repair the beak at all. I'd saved small birds -- blue jays specifically -- before, long ago as a child. I had nursed them back to health with eyedroppers of milk, cornmeal, and powdered multi-vitamins. So, though I could certainly feed the young grackle with an eyedropper of mush, I couldn't imagine how I could reattach the dangling bloody beak.

The grackle serenely closed his eyes while I ate in contemplation. He must have realized he couldn't eat the food I offered him. Perhaps he was reflecting on his dire situation for the first time. So I marveled at him, skinny, green-black, and dangling beak. I wondered what he was trying to communicate, if anything at all. He had no fear of me. He stood there, next to my plate making no move to steal food, with an air of patient calm. He recognized my bright blue hawaiian print, I decided. I looked like some brilliant blue grackle god to him. I posed no threat to him, perhaps even could offer him succor. After all, I'd fed him the day before. He was so calm standing next to my plate, eyes closed, so resigned, so sad.

I reached out towards the bird. He opened his eyes, a little nervous as my hand approached, then he shuddered and closed his eyes again. He stood stock still while I closed my hand across his back and looped my fingers around his neck and under, ever so carefully, his broken beak. His tail feathers spread in anticipation. I held my hand and fingers loosely about his warm, soft, fragile body. He squinted one eye, glancing at me again, then closed it. His tail feathers relaxed like a sigh. I gave him a name then, whispering low so only he would hear it -- Sebastian.

I answered Sebastian's silent prayer with the smallest amount of pressure and an unflinching moment of humanity.

No Brainer

In the first study to map brain function during orgasm, scientists from the Netherlands also found that as a woman climaxes, an area of the brain governing emotional control is largely deactivated.

'The fact that there is no deactivation in faked orgasms means a basic part of a real orgasm is letting go. Women can imitate orgasm quite well, as we know, but there is nothing really happening in the brain,' said neuroscientist Gert Holstege, presenting his findings Monday to the annual meeting of the European Society of Human Reproduction and Embryology.

In the study, Holstege and his colleagues at Groningen University recruited 11 men, 13 women and their partners.

Holstege said he had trouble getting reliable results from the study on men because the scanner needs activities lasting at least two minutes and the men's climaxes didn't last that long. However, the scans did show activation of reward centers in the brain for men, but not for women.

-- Salon.com Life | Brain areas shut off during female orgasm

A Helpful Hint

Salon.com News | Goss claims he has idea where Bin Laden is: "Asked whether that meant he knew where bin Laden is, [director of the CIA] Porter Goss responded: 'I have an excellent idea where he is. What's the next question?'"

Destroying PBS

"The Bush administration is introducing a political agenda to public broadcasting. They are using the lame pretext that PBS is somehow liberal to justify it into a propaganda organ for the government. That is precisely what the board of CPB was set up to prevent 40 years ago; it is there to be a firewall between public broadcasting and political pressure. Ken Tomlinson is a disgrace to the purpose of that board, he has a political agenda and is engaging in a raw display of ideological bullying. The right-wingers in the House of Representatives are backing his power play with a threat to cut off funding for PBS entirely."

-- Molly Ivins, Destroying PBS (AlterNet)

Help save PBS from the Radicals in Washington. There is nothing biased about PBS. This is just one more grope for absolute power by the Right.

Write your congressperson and tell them you support PBS as it is.

Anecdote #2531-B

Today at lunch, the Brain demanded that he get a new phone. He is traveling to Las Vegas next week and, having lost his phone on his last business trip, needed a new one. Chuck the Eater was driving, since my truck was in the shop getting a tow-hitch installed.

Trying to be practical and responsible (to work), I suggested that we eat near the Cingular Wireless store to save time. This left us with pitiful and pitiable choices for lunch.

We narrowed our poor choices down to the Corporate Burito Palace (aka Chipotle) and the Dreary Salad Bar (aka Souper Salad). We deferred the choice to the Brain, who despises both. He selected the Dreary Salad Bar.

Lunch was predictably dull, consisting of lettuce. Sigh. We chowed down quickly and almost silently, all three of us not really enjoying the food and in no mood to talk about it.

After eating, we skipped next door to the Cingular store to get the Brain a brand-new Motorola Razr. As we entered the store, a handsome young man behind the counter called out to us, "Welcome to Cingular über Alles!"

I was a bit shocked, not expecting to run into any national socialists in my daily grind, but I let it pass. The Brain and I began chatting with one of the drones, when another customer walked in the door and the cheery young man called out again, "Welcome to Cingular über Alles!"

This must stop!

"Excuse me," I said, addressing the young man. "What did you just say?"

He looked a bit surprised, but he answered, "Um...welcome to Cingular Wireless?"

Chuck looked at me similarly confused (Why are you accosting this harmless young man, Blu?), but had a good laugh -- being german-light himself -- when I told him what I thought the fellow had said. The young man, of course, didn't understand at all.

If you are more like the young man than Chuck, you may edumacate yourself here.

Swallow Hard

I had posted a scathing indictment of the Christian Right's obscene use of Terri Schiavo (and the lies they told about her condition in order to further their agenda). I removed the post after I read it in a calmer state and I realized that I had fallen into the same trap -- using a suffering woman's condition and death to score political points. Needless to say, however, I was completely disgusted by the Right during the whole affair and by the schoolyard-bully-excuses Right idealogues are scrambling to now that the autopsy report is available. I strongly urge anyone who paid even passing attention to this circus to read the entire report. Now on to something lighter...

Yesterday afternoon, the unthinkable happened: my linux workstation locked up. Not only did it lock up, but my graphics card came crashing down in ruins. I must admit that I should take some blame for this myself, as I had tried to patch the kernel to install graphics drivers for my nVidia card a day earlier, and something tells me the two were related. As having a working workstation at work (how poetic!) is extremely important, I knew that I needed to replace my video card toot-sweet, as Truly Scrumptious would say.

Fry's, the huge (and rather crappy) electronics super-store is about 1 minute away from my workplace. So, I grabbed Chuck the Eater by the collar and told him were going to Fry's for a meeting, a video card, and a cup of joe -- all, frankly, quite true.

Once at Fry's we found the video card section and I started combing for something appropriate for a linux box. I selected an ATI Radeon 9200 for $79. It even had "linux" as a supported operating system listed on the box. Box in hand, we went to the coffee shop in the center of the store to have our meeting and get some coffee. There were two employees there -- an older woman in a green smock behind the counter and a younger woman near the cash register in the middle of the shop. Neither of them were within 10 feet of the gigantic "Order Here" sign with an arrow pointing at an empty counter. Minion-like, I stood were I was silently commanded to and waited for one of them to take my order.

The girl at the cash register blinked and smiled doe-like at me. The woman behind the counter fiddled with the espresso machine. After a minute or so, the older woman croaked at me, "She [the younger woman] can take your order."

I nodded and approached the younger woman at the cash register.

"I'd like an espresso and a poppyseed muffin, please."

She blinked. "A poppy...seed...um...muffin...ok..." Fumbling, she rang up a muffin. "What else did you want?"

"And an espresso."

"Um, ok." The young girl looked at her cash register, then back at me. She picked up a laminated piece of paper covered with barcodes, flips it over once or twice, scanning for espresso, I presumed.

"What did you want again?" she asked, putting the sheet down.

"I'd like an espresso and a poppyseed muffin." I repeated.

Pain crossed the pretty doe-eyed girl's face. A slightly older man, also a Fry's employee, came over and started chatting with her going to see Batman Begins. She turned away from me to acknowledge him. After a few moments of chit-chat, she seemed to remember that I was a customer and turned back to me.

"I'm sorry, what did you want?"

"An espresso and a poppyseed muffin, please." I repeated. Again.

The pained look returned. She glanced at the beau. He shrugged and looked at me, trying to force a polite smile.

Finally, she said, "What's that?"

Had my eyes had legs they would have jumped from their orbits. I was standing in a coffee shop. Behind me, a woman was cleaning an espresso machine. Above her, a gigantic, clearly legible menu began with the word espresso, just above cappucino and latte.

"It's an espresso." I said tersely, reveling in the tautology.

The young doe-eyed girl called across the shop to the older woman. "Can you help me, please" The older woman sighed heavily, as she must now stop adjusting the espresso machine and come help this girl who I surmized was the village idiot of Fry's Electronics. The woman stomped over, a flabby cigarette dangling from her lips even though she had no cigarette dangling from her lips.

"Yeah? What?" she growled at me.

"I'd like an espresso and a poppyseed muffin." I repeated. Again.

The older woman pressed a button and the register rang up an espresso. She marched back behind the counter and began to pull one while I paid the girl. I turned, walked over the counter, and the older woman presented me with a large styrofoam cup containing a thimble of hot black sludge.

"Anything else?" she croaked.

"And a poppyseed muffin."

"You want that heated?"

"Please."

She plodded over to the muffin case, selected a muffin, flung it into the microwave for a few seconds, and then gave it to me. Muffin and espresso in hand, I sat down with Chuck to try to enjoy them.

I lifted the cup to my lips and took a sip. My face contorted in pain.

"Too hot?" inquired Chuck kindly.

"No! It's awful!" I sputtered. "That's the worse espresso I've ever had in my life. It's like she just scraped up some tar off the blacktop outside and mixed in some stagnant water." I hand ed the cup to Chuck. "Here. Try it."

That -- offering some foodstuff just stated as terrible to a dining companion -- is an interesting phenomenon. It is obviously instinctual. It must be something like Great Thundering Monkey God! This thing I have just tasted is really bad! It must be poisonous. Yet, I have survived and can help my tribe with this hard-won knowledge. Here, member of my tribe, taste it, too, so that you will know it is bad and not eat of it again, if you do not die tasting it.

Chuck, having evolved slightly further than myself, sniffed it and refused. I took a few more sips to confirm that this was indeed the worst espresso on the planet, then turned my attention to sharing the muffin and talking shop with Chuck. We solved the problem (a work-related problem involving how to script around bad software), left the shop, paid for the video card, and returned to work.

The espresso hung around though, having tarred my tastebuds thoroughly, and hours later at dinner it required the better part of a liter of San Pelligrino to finally wash it away.

More Fun at Fry's can by found at the following sites:

• Fry's Tales of Horror
  
• Your Worst Buys are at Fry's