Happy B-day to me,

Thirty-Four, thank you for asking.

I am mighty distracted of late, which is not helping me get my stuff done at work. Because I definitely need to get my stuff done before the babies comes. But the fact the babies are coming is highly distracting.

And so it goes.

On the Home front I have been obsessed with cleaning up and clearing out our offices to put a giant room swap into play, whereby we move our bed into an office and start some hard core baby nursery decoration. This mainly entails boxing things we want to keep in some semi-organized fashion, and throwing away the other half. You accumulate a lot of crap over the years, I can tell you.

Also highly distracting are the Dodgers, who are in the thick of a seriously entertaining playoff chase. Basically three teams, the Los Angeles Dodgers, San Diego Padres, & Philadelphia Phillies (Is that a crappy name or what) are in a race to go the playoffs. One will win the Western Division, one will win the free pass of baseball known as the Wild Card, and one will go home to sulk and probably develop a substance abuse problem. As of this morning the Dodgers lay exactly half way between the Padres and the Phillies, with basically a game separating them either way. You don't want to know what happens if teams end the season tied, but it is complicated and involves a white board to explain. I have all sorts of playoff tickets if the Dodgers can get there, as I am part of a Season Ticket pool, so that kind of makes this doubly distracting.

Fortunately the Dodgers just won their game this afternoon (19-11, a traditional Coors Field pitcher's duel), putting pressure on both their rivals who play later.

See, I told you I was distracted.

Breast Feeding Class: Less Hot Than You Might Think

Demonstrating I am well on my way to full middle-class, suburban husband-hood, I attended a Breast Feeding class last night. There is nothing young, hip, or edgey about learning how to breast feed. I am prefectly willing to allow that a totally cool, with-it hot chick might attend such a class (although I don't recall any there...uh, except my beautiful wife -- phew! that was close), but since my attendence was to learn about it so I could understand and help my wife go through with it, I think this clearly puts me into the mini-van man demographic.

Hell, I have even been talking about getting a mini-van. Mini-vans are so uncool, that they are almost cool. Especially if I could get a brand new one, fully tricked out. Maybe I could put those spinning wheels and some fluorescent under-lights on it. I could really cruise in one of those and have plenty of storage room for strollers and diaper bags. Yeah, bitches!

Anywho, the class was actually kind of interesting, sort of like the Science of the Breast 101. Apparently a breast is a lot like a stalk of broccoli. Seriously, the lecturer brought broccoli as a visual prop. I imagine afterwords she went home and boiled her breast before melting some cheese on top. Mmm.

I learned a newborn baby has a stomach the size of a marble, which grows to the size of ping pong ball over the first few weeks of their life. Again, there were props. Really, the lecturer was like the Carrot Top of lactation consultants.

I also learned TOR. Tickle the lower lip. Open the mouth wide. RAM it in.

Apparently the nurses have asked the lactation people to stop using this memory acronym. I am not sure if they find the ramming of breasts distasteful, or merely the linguistic faux pas of putting an acronym in an acronym, as RAM also stands for Rapid Arm Movement. All I know is breast feeding requires a good latch. I will probably check out Home Depot after work.

Finally I learned we are suppose to breast feed every 2-3 hours for weeks on end and that we should really wait 4 weeks before first trying to introduce a bottle. Yikes, that doesn't sound like much sleep. With two of the little rugrats we have to make sure they feed simultaneously, otherwise the little woman will never do anything else. Even as it is I imagine more often than not she will look like a shark with a couple of remora fish tucked under each arm.

T-Minus 5 weeks to destruction of decadent, lazy-do-nothing lifestyle.

For God's Sake, They Don't Hate Our Freedom!

I don't know who came up with that gem, but it has traveled back and forth across the American psyche so many times it has become gospel.

Muslim Terrorists Hate Our Freedom.

I mean seriously, a 19-year devote muslim living in Baghdad is blowing himself and a school-load worth of children off this planet because someone, far off in the United States, is enjoying an abstract concept like freedom. Oh yes, I want to fight and die because Jennifer Thompson in Long Island, New York is allowed to watch MTV. Oh, you person I have and never will meet, I hate your ability to travel freely throughout your territorial boundries so much that I will march and chant "Death to Israel".

It is absurd no matter how you look at it and is among the most blatant propaganda since we declared Saddam Hussein to be the next Hitler. Yeah, that level of rhetoric worked out well.

Muslims Terrorists do not hate freedom or liberty or puppies or apple pie. They may not be fond of Western culture or morals, but that is also not why they are lining up to die. Muslim Terrorists hate the way the Western nations and particularly the United States are interfering in the Muslim world.

Period. End of sentence. No further explanation required.

Now whether or not the West should be interfering in the Muslim world or even whether we have a choice in the matter is another question. I am not a proponent of packing up our diplomatic bags and going home. But that is where the hate comes from.

The U.S. created, armed and continues to support Israel.
The U.S. props up multiple repressive "friendly" regimes, from Saudi Arabia to Egypt.
The U.S. continually plays one Muslim nation against another, with Iraq vs. Iran being among the bloodier examples.
The U.S. attempts to extract the maximum amount of oil from the region, putting money into the pockets of an elite few.

And this is all pre-Iraq invasion, a completely bald-faced attempt to impose U.S. control on an Arab country.

You can add to all that the general (and quite accurate) sense that the United States thinks of everyone in the Muslim countries as second class citizens (of the world), and you can begin to get a notion of why a vocal minority would, in fact, hate us.

We disrespect them while at the same time constantly interfere in their lives. How would you think of that sort of person? Particularly if they make things worse 75% of the time (I may be being generous) and seem to be getting more belligerant and more controlling.

Using the Terrorists Hate Freedom propaganda is not helping us solve this problem. How do you fight that? Give them Freedom? Take their Freedom? Hide our Freedom? I think we need to publicly address the grievances, real and false, the Muslim world has with our policy towards the region, where they live. It is not giving in to terrorists to address problems that make the majority of Muslims unhappy, any more than it is giving in to inner city criminals to address the urban decay issues that led to their creation. In general, terrorism is a crime and terrorists are criminals and that is how they should be dealt with. You can't win a war on terrorism any more than you can win a war on crime. Or poverty. Or any other abstract concept one could name.

Like Freedom.

Anxiety

Now the main purpose of this blog is to blather on and on, like I am wont to do, about all subjects great and small. I have many opinions and the world (i.e. 4-6 people who irregularly read this blog) need to know them.

It is not meant to be a diary, except in that it gives me an excellent place to post progress on various projects that I obsess about but no one should be forced to hear about. Example 1: The hole. I figure once my kids are born this will be an excellent place to vent new father stuff without boring other people to death who really do not want to know about the latest adventure in diapers.

Having said all that, today I will post a more personal/diary-esque post and see how that feels.

I feel anxious. Not sure why. I have some very good reasons, I suppose. Kids on the way, behind in my work, major financial/logistical implications of consolidating my finances and re-modeling the house. Stupid air conditioning has some sort of issue with water collecting in the system, condensing and pouring water down into the furnace/blower. This is collecting down on the hallway floor, leading to both wood warping and mold issues. Called a repair guy this morning, the company that installed my A/C and repaired my blower. Apparently, they don't fix this sort of thing (?!?!??!). Then who does? Sigh.

Some days you wake up and feel ready to take on the world and others you wake up and want to crawl back into bed. Maybe I just need more vitamins? Protein? Less sleep? More sleep? I don't believe in biorhythms and it seems unlikely my hormone levels are changing by much, so why do some days suck more than others? Dropping air pressure? Am I a human barometer?

Ah phooey. I may not know what causes an anxious day. But I know what the cure is.

About three fingers, neat.

Winningest Pitcher Ever, A Modern Interpretation

Warning! Baseball ramblings to follow. Not everything can be celebrities and excavation, you know.

I have been thinking a bit about Greg Maddux and his career wins total, which presently stands at 330 (against 200 losses). This places him in sole possession of 10th best wins all time. He is 40 years old and while he is not the pitcher he was in the early 90s, he still is managing to put together some nice outings.

In direct competition for greatest pitcher of their generation, is Roger Clemens with a lifetime record of 347-176. Clemens is 4 years older. Their lifetime ERAs are almost identical (Maddux's is 3.06 vs Clemens' 3.11). Clemens was a strikeout expert and has 4575 strikeouts to Maddux's still impressive 3151. I think once you take into account that Clemens pitched mostly in the American League, you probably have to give him the nod. We will also have to see how they end their careers, as Clemens is still pitching at 44 and is arguably still one of the best pitchers in the league.

Before moving on I should give an honorable mention to Pedro Martinez, who is a bit younger than these two. My suspicion is that his arm is going to explode and fall off, preventing him from amassing the stats Maddux and Clemens have managed. He has made a career of defying those who believe his arm is going to come off at any moment, so if he is still mowing people down in 6-7 years, this issue can be revisited.

Now it may be unfair to place too much emphasis on wins and/or win percentage, as pitching is only half the equation. A pitcher can not control how good his team is at scoring. This has led to the baseball-geek controversy about Bert Blyleven, who had 287 career wins with some fairly mediocre teams. He is not presently in the Hall of Fame and probably should be, if it were not for his missing the arbitrary 300 wins total that many use to grant one HOF immortality.

Having said all that, the main purpose of any starting pitcher is to win games. Many pitchers seem to alter their game depending on the score. With big leads they are either careless or feel they should challenge pitchers more. I am not entirely sure what the logic of that is, except that they feel they are increasing the odds of 3 quick outs at the cost of increasing the risks of a home run. In a close game it is not worth the risk, in a blow out it is. Anyway, the point of all that blathering is that one can argue that ERA or WHIP or some similar stat may miss this fact, so a pitcher on a particularly good or bad team could have inflated these stats that are supposedly independent of team quality. My suspicion is this is a small effect at best, but there it is. I am sure someone has gone through and tried to gather ERA in close vs blow out games, but this has some fairly obvious biases that might be difficult to take into account.

OK, I am meandering. It is hard to think of something more masturbatory than baseball stats. Except maybe masturbation. On to my point, such as it is.

Let's say we are going to judge greatest pitcher of all time by his Wins alone. Probably not the best metric, but far from the worst.

The all-time wins leader is Cy Young at 511 wins. That blows Clemens and Maddux away. However, it should probably be noted that Cy also had 316 losses, giving him a winning percentage below both Maddux and Clemens. This would also be a good time to mention Cy played from 1890-1911, an era where baseball was so different from the modern day it hardly deserves to be called the same game. Pitchers pitched every few games and good ones generally pitched the entire game, removing the "No Decision" which costs so many pitchers wins (and losses) in the modern era. Cy Young pitched 749 complete games, for God's sakes! While the greatest of his day, it seems absurd to compare him to modern players.

Of the top ten pitchers in Wins (excluding Clemens and Maddux), 5 played at least half their career in the 19th centruy. [Cy Young(511), Pud Galvin(364), Kid Nichols(361), Tim Keefe(342), & John Clarkson(328)]. Another three played in the 1910s and 20s, only partially overlapping with the time of Babe Ruth, the true dawn of the age of modern homerun-driven baseball [Walter Johnson(417), Pete Alexander(373), & Christie Mathewson(373)].

It is commonly argued that one can not start to compare players across eras until the integration of baseball, starting roughly in 1947 with Jackie Robinson. That leaves only two in the top ten that can really be compared: Warren Spahn (363 wins 1946-1965) and Steve Carlton (329 wins 1965-1986). While Young, Johnson, Mathewson and the rest were great players of immense historical importance, it is really these win totals that a modern player needs to surpass to be the "winning-est" pitcher of all time.

Both Maddux and Clemens have already surpassed Carlton, meaning only Spahn lies between them and the modern "Wins" title. Clemens could give us another season, which would likely get him there. Physically he still seems up to it. Amazing. I think Nolan Ryan (324 lifetime wins, btw) slipped him some youth juice.

Maddux is 4 years younger, but it is unclear if he has the longevity of Clemens. His numbers seem to indicate some deterioration, although he has been quite good since his most recent trade to the Dodgers (ERA ~2.37). Small number statistics, but he may have been floundering partially because he was playing games for the Cubs that didn't mean anything. I also think the Dodgers are being more careful with his pitch count, stopping him in the 80s instead of the 100s more typical for younger pitchers. He is 33 wins from Spahn, a realistic total for 3 more years (pitching until 43) if his abilities don't fall off a cliff and, of course, he wants to keep pitching.

Be nice to see him do it in a Dodger uniform, especially if he keeps pitching like he has been...

I was so excited about the dramatic rise and fall of my Hole (If you missed it, check it out. It is Pulse-Pounding Action), that I found no time for my other big news from this past weekend. Stephen Colbert was in town for the Emmys and my lovely (but highly pregnant) bride and I were invited to his exclusive Hotel Roof shindig on Saturday night.

All the big stars were there... Well, OK, Jon Stewart was there and that was cool enough for me. He even mock pushed me aside to talk with the blushing bride, because she works in video games. Seriously, though I think Stephen and Jon may be a couple of the nicest guys in show business.

They are therefore doomed to failure.

I'm sorry, but somebody had to say it. If you swim with sharks, etc., etc.

The other folks in the photos are my parents and Stephen's lovely wife. I will leave determining which is which as an exercise to the reader.



Anyway, in the end the only Emmy Stephen won was for writing for the Daily Show, basically he lost to himself, which wasn't really so bad. However, he also lost to Barry Manilow, which is leading the rest of the family to return to pronouncing Colbert with a hard 't'.
I would like to believe that my father and I helped write Stephen's Emmy bit. It is not true, I don't think, but I choose to live in a reality in which I believe it to be so. When discussing the upcoming contest against Manilow, my father was almost screaming, "You can't lose to Manilow", while I added, "Wolverine, maybe, but not Manilow". I believe Stephen used that material and I expect a royalty check soon. In fact, in my reality, I got it already and used it to buy a new coat of paint for my Space Cruiser with optional Intergalactic Nav System. Sulu, set a course for Pleasure Planet 9.

Vrrrrooommmm!

The Hole is Dead, Long Live the Fence Post!

Well true believers, we all knew it would have to come to an end somewhere. One does not dig a hole just for the sake of hole-ness. Nature abhors a vacuum, even one filled with air. So after a full week of constant pick-work, digging and sweating, I completed my hole at about 10am Saturday morning. For the final hole images, please see the previous post which has the entire progress. From here on out this blog will post on the positive, seeing the hole half full, if you will. So we will not dwell on loss of the hole, but the fufillment of the dream of a world where dogs can run free without actually getting free.




So here is the fence post that was foretold in times of yore, both at a distance and close up where you can see the powdered Quikrete that was used to fill the hole. Oh, God... My poor hole... Sorry, sorry. I have pulled myself back together now.








This is what the hole looked like once I poured a bucket of water into the concrete/dirt/hole mixture, followed by what it looked like once the water had been fully absorbed and/or evaporated. I then waited another couple of hours for it to dry (it is called Quick crete), during which time I repaired a running toilet. Sadly, no footage of that exists. Let us just say that is was so beautiful that the angels wept.



















Then up with the fence. For this phase of the project I got some help from my mother, who came over for logistical and moral support. Things went really well for a while, until it became clear just how badly the tree had pushed up and bent the previous fence, particularly the left side in these pictures (North for those of you using a compass). Even after I reassembled every piece of fence, a substantial gap remained. Fortunately Pismo the uber-beast has been deemed "portly" by her vet, making a wriggling escape highly unlikely.



Finally I grabbed a spanking new fence board, cut it to fit the gap, and fit it seemlessly into the fence. You can't even tell where the odd hole was. I mean, at night you can't. If I leave the porch light off.

Oh, dear readers, I am afraid this is the end of the epic tale of Hole and Fence, although I am in negotiations with Stan the Man himself to have it adapted into graphic novel form. I think in the new version, I will be a buxom warrior princess with an aversion to clothing and the Hole will become some sort of Hentai, multi-penised monster, but other than that all things will remain true to my original vision.

Now, because you demanded it: Dog with a baseball cap on its head. Good Night!

Here is the entire progress of my hole, minus the first 3 days, when it was really more of a depression rather than a full-fledged hole. Enjoy. I recommend playing something nostalgic while viewing, like the perhaps the theme from Cheers or When We Were Kings.

August 23:

Still eating root. Sawdust trimmings falling in. This is a clearly still a substandard hole.

---

August 24:

Now this is getting somewhere. That is sweet, sweet dirt you can see on the bottom. That troublesome new root is coming in the top of the frame...




This is the same hole, but 180 degree different angle.

---

August 25:

Hey now... Starting to look nicely cavernous.











Same reverse shot as yesterday. Just look at the serious foot of solid hard wood I have gone through so far.

---

August 26:

There she is, in all her depthly glory. A post hole for the ages!











Final depth: 27.5 inches. I decided against shooting for the full 30 as it was going to make the final post too short. So this is closer to 30% underground rather than 1/3, as recommended on bags of Quikcrete everywhere.

The blog went a little screwey earlier today, so if you checked before -- and I am sure you did, as no one can get enough hole news -- you might have seen roughly six thousand copies of yesterday's final post. This has now been corrected.

So the latest update on the excavation (even I get tired of typing "hole" a thousand times... damn it, I typed it again!): I made an initial attempt at taking out the root cutting into hole from the bottom side of these photos. The root is actually coming in from the East if you want to orient yourself that way. The umbrella is to the east, my yard to the west, the street to the north and a round mother-to-be lies roughly North by Northwest. Insert George Kaplan reference here.

Anyway that root turned out to be a great deal of trouble. It kept going and going, leading me to suspect it is less a root and more the remains of the bottom of the tree. Even after excavating a large space to the east side of the hole, allowing swings to reach the pernicious root, I was able to do little more than knock a toothpick sized scrap off the bastard with every full pick swing. This lead rapidly to a tired and extra surley Colbert.

So I switched to a new tactic, widening the hole by about 1-2 inches to the west. This required chapping through another 12 inches of solid root, but because most of it was at the top of the hole, it was actually a much easier task. Easier, not necessarily easy. This does push the future fence out by 1-2 inches, but:

a) It is quite likely that I won't be able to notice 1-2 inches over that extent,
b) I can cut the fence down a little on the backside to make it fit better,
and
c) It is equally likely I didn't have it properly lined up in the first place. This could be a problem if it is now 4 inches out of line, but I eyeballed it and that doesn't look like that is the case.

If you are having trouble reading the measuring stick, the hole depth is almost 20 inches. 30 inches is the approximate target goal, although I will need to do some follow-up measurements of the surround fence posts for a final estimate. I feel good about Saturday.

Real good.

Don't forget to check out the latest progression of deepening hole pictures in the following blog entry, updated for today.

Now finally, for your viewing pleasure, a cat with a baseball helmet on its head:

Good news on the hole front today. I got out there a half hour earlier and really put my time to good use. Got down to a level that was 100% dirt! Sadly, as I descended I discovered a root that was sliding in diagnally into the downward path of my hole. At the depth I've reached that is going to be a tough nut to crack (i.e. pick), but I got some ideas I will put into place tomorrow. In the meantime, here are some photos:

Well I got some complaints that I have neglecting my blog. And I have. Something about trying to get work done and being highly distracting by my upcoming twinzapalooza.

Right now my focus in life has narrowed, laser beam-like, on digging a post hole in my backyard.

What follows is an epic tale of man against nature, in the tradition of Jack London. It is also a tale with strong existential overtones in the thematic style of a Camus. It will also contain at least one dick joke, just like an Eddie Murphy routine. Plus there will be pie.

Recently we came to the conclusion that the beautiful, old ash tree in our neighbor's yard had just grown too big for its britches. And more importantly, our smallish lots. Its roots were starting to undermine my foundation and the tree had already taken out the adjoining fence, which was being held up by nothing more than the giant tree. So, sad as it was to kill such a magnificent specimen of of the vegetable kingdom, it was my home or it. $2000 bucks and the scariest wood chipper I have ever seen (I am fairly certain you could toss a Buick Skylark in there without a hiccup in its rhythmic rrrrmmm) and the tree was gone. As was all the shade it provided. Nicely timed for August.

Anyway, as I already mentioned the tree had left the fence in tatters. As I had relatively recently constructed a small stretch of fence from scratch (which still looks good, I might add), I felt entirely confident I could sink a new fence post, attach the surviving piece of fence and then repair whatever holes remained. Bing, Bang, Boom, fence problem temporarily solved until we finally get around to replacing it entirely (the wood is not in good shape, crumbling at the edges).

I buy my 4x4 fence post. I buy my Quickcrete to secure said fencepost in place. I prepare my electric drill and screws for the attachment, securing of new fence pieces, etc. I warm up the power saw table and take inventory of the 2x4s I can use as needed. I am ready to tear this old fence a new one!

Now fence post digging can be a pain, as you need to place roughly 1/3 of your fence post underground to ensure it is properly anchored (i.e. won't tear a foot deep hole in the ground if you lean on it). So for a 5 foot high post, that is a 2.5 foot hole. This is also approximately the length of my arm if you throw in a bit of shoulder and the edge of a garden spade, something I verified experimentally when I put up the successful (and did I mention handsome?) fence. Now you can rent something call a post hole digger, but I only needed one hole. I figured I would be done in an hour. Tops.

Now someone with a bit of foresight might already have forseen the problem I rapidly developed. When digging a hole within a foot or two of a previoulsy existing 100-150 foot tree (it was damn big), it would not in the least bit be surprising to find some roots. Big, thick roots. Like logs, buried in the ground. After approximately 5 minutes of shoveling, it became clear there was no root free place along the line of the fence. I would have to cut through the roots or abandon/rethink the project.

I made the wrong choice. Cutting through roots basically requires a pick axe, which I borrowed from my father. I think it had been in my family for a generation, as it lasted about 5 minutes before the wood in the handle split. One sad attempt at repair later (I tried reattaching the head with screws...it sorta worked. It also sorta put me in constant danger with each swing of the pick axe of losing a toe). So to OSH I went, returning proudly with my spanking new pick axe, which now uses plastic to reinforce the wood around the pick head. Thirty sweaty minutes later (did I mention it was August and not cool and my shade tree was gone?) and 2 inches of excavated hole later, I knew this was going to be a substantial undertaking.

A weaker man (i.e. smarter) would have again taken the opportunity to abandon the project, hire someone to complete it for them, reworked the problem... really anything would be better than going forward. But I was determined.

And by determined I mean bull-headedly stubborn. The hole would be mine!

So now it has become my morning exercise. I get up, watch 20-30 minutes of TV to shake out the cobwebs, throw on some work clothes, and pick that hole for all I am worth (~30 minutes). When I feel close to collapse due to a combination of fatigue and heat exhaustion (something I could avoid by getting up earlier... file that under thing #2456 that would be better if I could get my ass out of bed earlier), I crawl back inside, shower and head off to work.

The hole is now nearly a foot deep, and its diameter is over a foot, depending on where you measure it. The roots get softer and less dense as I go deeper, but it gets harder and harder to swing the pick axe. So I have to widen the hole to allow for the pick axe swings. I think by the time I am done it will look like a blast crater. My latest excavation definitely uncovered several square inches of pure, easily removed soil, so I am greatly encouraged. I am hoping one more day of picking will allow me to get down deep enough so that the roots are soft enough that they can be attacked with a garden spade. After that, it should finish very quickly. Kock on wood. I have plenty of that, anyway.

I am not sure what I will do after I complete this crazy little project. It is certain to leave a vacuum in my life. Or dare I say, a hole?

No, I really shouldn't have dared, but that is what you get for reading a blog entirely about digging one hole. And sorry, I lied about the pie.

Yes, I have been negligent. But I am finally out from under the crushing weight of Spitzer program reviews. Hurrah! In celebration I will consider a bit of "did-you-know" trivia.

Gadzooks. It is a real swear word that used to be very offensive, but is now quite cute.

It is short for God's Hooks and refers to the crucifiction (or specifically, the nails that put Jesus there). It is similar to many swear words that Shakespeare liked to use, like 'Zwounds and 'Sblood (God's Wounds and God's Blood), which were also considered pretty salty at the time. It is why they were mostly said by his Falstaff character (although other's were known to lose it from time to time).

Anyway, for some reason Gadzooks has become a cute, Ay Caramba! level phrase, while the other's have faded into history. I like to think of it as something offensive I can say without anyone realizing. Like talking about being gypped. Fucking Romany.

S.

I have written very little over the past couple of weeks mostly because I have been working my tail off at work. O where the Halcyon days of time for procrastination?

Busy busy busy.

Finalizing house remodel, refinancing house (to pay for said remodel), dealing with babies-to-be stuff, playing some softball (Go Ether Binge!), and now organzing the dangerous and ill-advised turkey fry. If there is no grease fire, I will deem the fry a success.

Did I mention I found out it is going to be an all-girl Colbert household? Yes, except for Daddy, nothing but wall to wall estrogen (or whatever my spade cat and spade dog still have). The turtle may be male, but who can tell. It is a reptile. Anyway, I now have my new life mandate, thanks to Chris Rock.

Got to keep my babies off the pole.

S.

Back in the USA Baby!

Relatively uneventful trip home. Delta still sucks in every way imaginable. They did manage to make my connection in Atlanta stressful by sitting on the tarmac just outside our gate for 30 minutes. This was after a 12 hour flight, I should mention. I thought people were going to storm the cockpit and throttle the captain or beat the flight crew to death with their detachable seats that can also be used as a flotation device.

On a side note: One of the flights I was on began describing the floating flotilla of barely qualifying cushioning as per usual. Then they said something like only some of you have them. I think they meant first class customers did their floating differently (we can't bob up and down like a commoner), but I like to imagine that they only had so much money for flotation and therefore, to be as fair as possible, spread the seats randomly throughout the cabin. The lucky ones get the floating seats! The unlucky ones have seats filled with shark bait and cans of rusty nails!

Anyway, luckily for Delta our legs were all numb making us barely capable of rising, not to mention rioting. We did eventually get into the gate before beginning the 45 minute trek through immigration, customs, re-checkin, and re-screening. That left a good 15 minutes before the departure of my next flight. Fine. International flights, Terminal E. My flight, Terminal A. Yes they are arranged in alphabetical order. Sigh. But I did make it.

Now I know everyone with a thick Southern drawl is not stupid, but lord the guy who sat next to me on the way to LA pushed my preconceptions to the limit. The guy must have weighed 280 pounds, so of course he got the middle seat. He spent the flight reading a single SEC football preview magazine and talking the ear off of the lady next to him about, what else, football. I might also mention his insights into the game were not profound. I like to think of myself as fairly egalitarian. People are people, rich or poor, educated or not, rural or city. I might disagree with them on many important matters, but I am not any better than they are. This guy, however, managed to push all my secretly buried elitist, educated, upper class buttons.

And plus, he sweated on me the whole flight. The nerve of that commoner...

Travel or Why you should pluck out your own eyes with servings tongs instead.

I write this from sunny Crete, where I am now in the 4th day of a 5 day astronomy conference. It has been a bit hot, but otherwise beautiful. Sadly my talk was scheduled for the last day (tomorrow) so I have not been able to really unwind, (i.e., get bombed).

Getting here was a little less pleasant. Warning, the following is a long bitch session. If you don't care that my trip sucked, please feel free to stop here.

The fastest way from Los Angeles to Crete is to fly LAX-JFK and then JFK to Athens
and then Athens to Crete. Needless to say, just getting to Athens is a 17 hour affair, requiring me to leave my home at 5am.

The flights were mostly on Delta, which feels like an airline in bankrupcy (I think it is), as it is understaffed and under-serviced at every opportunity. Despite arriving 2 hours before my flight, checking in actually got a little sticky, because so few people were attending to checking in customers. It didn't help that I discovered they had moved the flight up 10 minutes in the 3 days between my ticketing and the flight. Only by being selected from the middle of the check-in line was I able to check in on time. And then they wouldn't take my frequent flier card, because it differed from that on my purchased ticket by one initial and the roman numeral IV. I was late, and so could not argue.

So, despite morning stress levels climbing to red levels, I managed to board the plane and promptly discovered my seat in the very back of the plane. Thank you JPL travel. The flight itself was uneventful, although Glory Road (or Days?) whatever, the movie about an all black college basketball team breaking down barriers was a little flat and predictable.

In New York I tried to grab a bagel sandwich between flights. I said tuna sandwich toasted, they toasted it, then they asked me what I wanted on it, and I said just lettuce and tomato, maybe a touch of mayo. And that is what I got: a LT. Classic mistake where I assumed she meant what I wanted ON my tuna sandwich and she had forgotten I had said tuna 30 seconds earlier. She put it in a bag, so I didn't discover the error until too late. On the plus side, it really didn't taste too bad.

The flight to Athens wasn't bad, but what a crappy plane. The movie sound went out half way through the second movie (King Kong) and the video for a third of the plane (not me, thank small favors) flickered on and off the whole way. And I think the seats were designed to transfer its metal frame directly to my ass.

Arriving in Athens, I had to check in for my Crete flight (to Heraklion, the largest city and home of the Minotaur, as far as I could determine). I was not excited about this process, as I had been booked on a 3pm flight and I arrived at 10am. Wait, lucky me, I was told they could put me on the 11:20am flight. Even better, my luggage could be transferred as well. I double checked that point.

Flash forward four hours. Yes, four hours. The flight was delayed, delayed, delayed, delayed, canceled. We had to go pick up our bags and recheck-in to another flight. But I had no bags. So I had to talk to the nice lost bags lady. Waiting there I had a fairly serious freak out moment, as I knew I needed to get a new flight or possibly be bumped off all flights as every other canceled passenger took the seats. Somehow I managed to avoid screaming, hair-pulling, etc and got to the front of the line. I figured my bags were likely set to go on the 3pm flight, despite earlier assurances. The lost bag personnel seemed to agree, and sent minions off
to look for them. Fifteen minutes later, no luck. The bags were not here and I should go on to Heraklion and deal with it there.

Upstairs to the ticket line, where I discovered they had never canceled my previous 3pm reservation. Joy! I ran across to the check-in line (yes, they were different lines), cut in front of everyone and handed over my ticket. It was after 2:30 (2:35, maybe) and had closed the flight. Great despair. I slunk back to the ticket line and to the same sympathetic ticket lady, who knew I was at the end of my rope and probably understood that a gentle hand was required to keep me from kill kill KILLING. She would get me on the very next flight (6:50) which was a relief, because
up to that point I had suspected I would be shoved onto the 9:40 flight. I puddled on her counter while she wandered into the backroom for some sort of high level negotiations. Turns out she was refunding me the price of the one way ticket for my troubles. 125 Euros. That is nearly 200 dollars, which almost made the next three hours in the Athens airport worth it.

No you can't sit near your gate until you are a half an hour from your flight. No we will provide almost no seats in the rest of the airport. No we don't really believe in air conditioning. I was forced into the waiting arms of McDonalds comfort food and then into a cave-like area in which benches had been thrown. Several vagabonds were huddled together for comfort. I did my best to prevent my exhaustion from developing into full blown nauseau.

In the end I made that flight (passed out on it), arrived in Crete, where they had my bag (it arrived on the 3pm flight). Due to the late hour, I managed to catch the free conference bus which drove another hour across the island to Agios Nikolaus, my final destination. I was so energized at my unlikely success that I even stayed up for dinner at a local restaurant (Don't they have anything except for Greek food?).

Now let's see how things go coming back...

Because it is my blog... baseball ramblings!


Now, I don't think this will hold up over the rest of the season, but the terrible National League West of 2005 (where the winning team ended 2 games above 500, only by winning its final game) is ALL playing above .500 ball.

And this is not just them beating up on themselves. Not a single team has a losing record outside of the West. In fact, only San Francisco has a losing record against either the Eastern or Central division (4-6 vs. E). Every other team is at least .500. San Diego has beaten the ever-loving crap out of the Central division (9-1), actually putting them in 1st place despite having a terrible record inside their own division (9-12).

This bodes well for the West not being the embarassment of baseball. Well, the NATIONAL league west, anyway. I suppose it shouldn't be that surprising. Outside of Colorado, which has surprised everyone by not being mathematically eliminated after the first month (the harshest comment I heard about them last year, as it was said so matter-of-factly), these teams have line-ups which should not be awful. They spend money. They have stars.

They are not Pittsburgh, which has no money, or Florida, which sold off every single major league player but one in the off-season. The Nationals used to be the Expos and have only just become a real boy and the Cubs.... Well, they are cursed by God. The West SHOULD look better by comparison.

No one in the West should be able to play with the big boys, which look to be the Mets (who have spent approximately a billion dollars) and the Cardinals (Pujols one-man wrecking machine). Cincinnati may be something, but I need to see more. Never count out the Braves (although I think this year might finally be one to do so). For completeness I'll say Houston, Milwaukee, and Philadelphia are probably NL-West-level and would be lucky to have a shot at a wild card. Barring returns of Hall-of-Fame pitchers, of course.


BONUS MATERIAL
If you perservered through all that baseball crap, I can give you my latest Stephen-Colbert-Fame-ometer reading.

I met with a visiting colleague yesterday who I had never before been formally introduced to. He greeted my name with a joke, along the lines of, "Say you aren't that Colbert that I saw saying the funniest things to the President, are you?" I said, no, that wasn't me and left it at that. Hamnet (my former bossman) was there and we just kinda shared a look. He is now what you think of when you see the name, "Colbert". Up yours, Claudette!

Terrifying News!

I just got this message in my e-mail from what I can only guess is a front organization (Lucile Meyer? Please, that's not even a real name) for the NSA:

asteroid defined by earring returns home, and freight train near earring figure out over taxidermist.Still boogie her from behind tenor, conquer her garbage can inside with near taxidermist.ribbon related to trembles, and of warranty hesitates; however, bodice ripper beyond figure out..

As best I can determine, an asteroid is about to hit the earth, killing all the animals (hence the need for taxidermy), starting earthquakes and unleashing a horde of bodice ripping rape fiends. Dance and/or opera music may be our only chance.

I am going to start packing up canned goods.

Immigration Nonsense...

I am not exactly sure why this has crept up into a top tier issue. One would suspect Republican shenanigans, a la Gay marriage bans, except it appears to be uniting Democrats and tearing the Republicans apart. Go figure.

I agree controlling a border is a good thing for a sovereign nation to do. I am, however, fairly certain it is not the horrible national dilemma that is being described. Unless you don't want the U.S. to become majority latino and Spanish to rise as a true second language, that is. Yes, what makes my skin crawl is that the strong "base" for immigration reform just doesn't like all these damn funny-talking Mexicans. And how they want to impregnate our women. Damn you Paco, stay away from my daughter. Ba-CHOW! <--(Shotgun noise).

Putting that aside for the moment, National Guard on the border ain't gonna help. Big walls and laser turrets ain't gonna help. It is 2000 miles of border and nothing we can do will really stop people from coming, outside of getting batshit crazy (i.e. start shooting, permanently imprison, etc.). What will slow immigration is to remove the jobs. If they can't work, they won't come.

Fine and great and all, but while it is simple to say, I have done a rough estimate of what that would entail and I am leaning strongly towards the "ain't worth it" camp.

OK, to get rid of people hiring illegal aliens requires strong enforcement. Raids. Investigations. Imprisonment. That is a lot of new law officials, training them, supplying them, more jail space, office space, etc.

It would be wholely unfair to fine (or even jail) people when they can not really tell who is legal and who is not. So we need a new social security card/work card. NOT the same as a national ID, which I find creepy, but simply a new social security/green card that one needs to bring on hiring day. This means issuing it to everyone, a major logistical nightmare in itself. You need to pay to develop it, make it as secure as presently possible. Pay to have some sort of national computer system to properly keep track/issue them. You will need offices everywhere to respond to people who lose them, etc. Some of this stuff can be piggy-backed on existing systems, but it will require a ton of new bureaucracy nonetheless.

We will need more law enforcement to fight counterfeiting, trade in stolen cards. We will have to get tougher, requiring more jailing.

We will need to set up a system to allow presently illegal immigrants to attain a legal status, otherwise the new card system is tantamount to eviction of 11 million people. Not only is this a bad idea, it would never work, lead to riots, etc. Someone needs to run this system and it must be fully functional before we require the cards to work.

So I have expanded several law agencies and created a couple new bureacracies that are social security administration big. Every hiccup in this process will lead to mass chaos, lawsuits, angry marches, businesses closing, etc. And all this before expanding Border Patrol, which is really the only logical way to close our borders to unwanted traffic (the Wall idea is Sooooo dumb). What do you suppose the total price tag of this whole effort will be?

And for what, to increase the price of lettuce? Give Janitor jobs back to our inner city youth?

I just think there are better ways to spend our money. Of course I think we have little reason to fear that anything so comprehensive will come out of this congress. I expect stop-gap, under-funded efforts that sound great but actually make things worse.

You heard it here first.

I wanted to write more, but those bastard scientists out there (and you know who you are) who felt that today was the day to write Helpdesk about their precious "space data", sucked up all my time. As it is I feel as though a large Gibbon was sitting on my chest beating me about the face and neck everytime I turn away from my growing mound of inbox questions, technical reviews, and assorted nonsense(tm).

In the meantime the only procrastinating I have done is to write HummaK and tell him how Round Numbers do not necesarily suck. Only the ill-use of them by the foolish. It is a baseball thing and can be summed up in Ricky Henderson's lifetime numbers, 1400+ Stolen Bases, 297 Home Runs. Think about it and you may understand.

But don't think of a Monkey.

Think of Monkey Links!

Brand new, today, Monkey Links!

At last... You asked for it. You begged for it.
Now, nothing but monkey links!
Feel free to let me know of any critical monkey links I may have missed.

That is all.