Cornbread Pecan Waffles

In 2012, I wrote about Pecan Waffles, but I was not making Cornbread Pecan Waffles - which are much better than any other kind of waffles.

I think 2012 was a pretty good year.  Maybe pecan waffles help.

Thinking back and looking at what has been written over the last year, 2016 has had the typical highs and lows. The one consistency has been cornbread pecan waffles nearly every morning where I woke up at home but didn't have to work.

I didn't travel as much as I should have in 2016; there were no impromptu trips for a day or three away. But the two big adventures, Hawaii and an epic motorcycle tour out west, were phenomenal. Deer hunting was fantastic, and would have been even if Mr. Big hadn't walked into my 95 grain bullet on Thanksgiving.

The summer was quite mundane - I have no one to blame but myself. I'm in a new job which is either good or bad. There was lots of lawn mowing. The swamp in the back yard continues to be wretched. There was lots of dog walking. There was lots of bike riding. There was a heinous, protracted election, with a very surprising ending. This will either be good or bad, but should have value as entertainment.

Since pecan waffles seem to correlate with reasonably good years, I'll share my secret Cornbread Pecan Waffles here.

Cave quid vis Recipe

*Note:  The world is not exact.  Life is not exact!  This recipe is not exact.

• A couple tablespoons of vegetable oil.
• 1 egg
• Somewhere about a quarter cup of milk
• 1/2 box of Jiffy Corn Muffin Mix
• About an eighth cup of old fashioned oats (NOT quick oats - they are loathsome)
• A heavy eighth cup of smashed up pecans.  More if you are rich.

Combine in a bowl.

Mix with a spatula.  More milk and/or old fashioned oats (NOT quick oats - they are still loathsome) can be added to make the mixture slightly thick.

Let the batter sit for at least a half hour.  The corn meal and oats will absorb some of the liquid, making the mixture thicker and the grains softer - this helps the final texture.

After allowing the batter to sit, lightly spray the waffle iron with oil and heat it up to temperature.

Once up to temperature, you can cook the waffles.  BUT!  And this is important!  Do not goob up the waffle iron by letting batter fall all over the place.  Images like the one below from Waffle House should inspire dread and self-hatred.  Any batter that does spill should be cleaned up immediately.

Cook the waffles.  

Notice that the waffle iron does NOT look like this.

This recipe makes enough for 3 waffles of a size where the iron doesn't spill out all over the place.

Eat the waffles - syrup not needed.

Correlation does not mean causation!

But I still plan on making Cornbread Pecan Waffles into 2017.

Who died?

I turned on the TV as I was getting ready for work on Tuesday and heard a theme song I instantly recognized.  I didn't think I had left the channel on one of the many broadcast rerun channels, so I instantly said, "Wonder who died?"
I probably only watched a couple seasons of Growing Pains.  I was certainly done watching by the time they put the show on life support by bringing in Chrissy (Ashley Johnson) and Luke (Leonardo DiCaprio) as Kirk Cameron and Tracey Gold got too old to be relevant to the show anymore.  About the only episode I actually remember is the one where Mike and dad go to a Bruce Springsteen concert and get caught on TV after - resulting in some teasing by Mike's friends; I was quite surprised this was a very early episode in the series.

This started me thinking about all the other people who died in 2016.  There seems to be an acceleration in the notable people of some level of celebrity who have played a role in my past who are now dying.  Presumably, this will only continue to increase...

David Bowie, January 8:  I can't say I was a huge fan; I sort of saw him as this weird, androgynous performer.  But I recognized his unique contribution to music.  I probably appreciated Ziggy Stardust more later in my life...

Phil Fish, January 26:  I probably only watched Barney Miller in reruns, late at night - and I'm not sure when, since we weren't really allowed to watch that much TV, but I do remember watching Abe Vigoda on the show.  Hard to say now if those memories are good or bad, but there they are.

Antonin Scalia, February 12:  My Criminal Justice professor in college said that listing the names of the 12 Supreme Court justices would be on the final exam.  With the internet in its infancy at that point, I was trying to find current information and it was not terribly easy.  My boss at the time called directory assistance, got the number for the Supreme Court in Washington DC and got the information from the person who answered the phone.  Seriously!  The list wasn't on the final exam - which I shouldn't be surprised about since the professor had some major problems.  I'm quite sure he at least had an alcohol problem, if not issues with something much more troublesome.  I liked Scalia's matter-of-fact, no apologies style; reportedly when Helen Prejean (Dead Man Walking) ran into him in an airport and she asked him if he was Antonin Scalia, he responded, "Well, somebody has to be..."  The fact that he remained friends with the diametrically opposed Ruth Bader-Ginsburg is something everyone with strong political beliefs should emulate.

Henry Warnimont, February 15:  Punky Brewster was one of several kid-themed Annie-esque TV shows (think Different Strokes and Webster).  I guess we all at some level wanted fabulously rich pseudo-parents to appear out of nowhere - 'cause this happens all the time.  George Gaynes as Punky's "dad" is slightly unmemorable, or maybe I didn't actually (and embarrassingly) watch the show enough to remember it that well.

Harper Lee, February 19:  Too Kill a Mockingbird is a great book, an American classic that is actually worth reading.  I've read enough reviews to know I should probably proceed cautiously with Go Set a Watchman, and it is sad that there was so much controversy surrounding the release of that book.  At a minimum, it was updated from its original form to be more in line with modern political philosophy in a way.

@, March 5:  He may not be a household name, but Ray Tomlinson "invented" email and pioneered the use of the "@" symbol.  One man, one symbol, forever a part of modern technical history.

Nancy Reagan, March 6:  "Just Say No!"  First Lady, Mrs. Reagan, played her own role in the Ronald Reagan White House.  Lots of criticism over astrology or spending of money on household furnishings, but it is without a doubt that President Reagan would not have been who and what he was without her.

Benny, March 17:  I'm not sure if Larry Drake's character on LA Law had a last name, but his portrayal as a functionally slow person was really good.  LA Law had a good run as one of the better of the many 1980's lawyer shows.

Gary Shandling, March 24:  Not my favorite comedian, but I did watch The Gary Shandling Show quite a bit.  I don't recall finding it particularly enjoyable, but his awkward comedic style was done in a such a non-television way that the show was actually quite revolutionary.

Eugene Gatling, March 28:  The premise of  Benson wasn't very strong, but James Noble's character as governor allowed Robert Guillaume to have the self-named show.  Despite the show, the story lines were often surprisingly funny.

Merle Haggard, April 6:  I'm sort of neutral on country music, but broadly speaking, there is a sliding scale from the music's origins to the music now.  Merle lived country music in a way that Garth Brooks is a best a very weak copy of (and his new beard is really, really awful).  When we lose Chris Kristofferson, who is about the same age, it will be a very sad day indeed.

Mildred Krebs, April 17:  Remington Steele was a great show, and paved the way for other flirtatious detective shows (i.e. Moonlighting).  Doris Roberts was a great part of Remington Steele, even if a little over-the-top.  Not as much over-the-top as Everybody Loves Raymond, which was not loved by everyone (and even got a little bit dark for a sitcom).

Prince, April 21:  Probably the death that bugged me the most.  Like David Bowie, I really wasn't a big fan in the 1980s, and also like Bowie, I saw Prince as this weird, androgynous singer.  I may or may not have ever seen the movie Purple Rain, but I listened to the music from it a lot.  "Is the water warm enough?"  He definitely had a very unique role in popular music that will continue to influence for some time.

Morely Safer, May 19:  60 Minutes is no longer the show that it once was.  Now more pop-political than anything else and while I like Scott Pelley as CBS News anchor, I think this has weakened both the CBS News and 60 Minutes.  Morely Safer's interview with Salvador Dali has to be one of the best people interviews ever, and the Homer Simpson/The Shining/60 Minutes blurb from TreeHouse of Horrors V is a great brief tribute.

Mohamed Ali, June 3:  An arrogant man if there ever was one, yet oddly humble at the same time.  His place in American culture goes beyond boxing.  Somewhere I have a book of jokes - oddly 1980's jokes that are ethnic without being racial - one of which references him.  "How can I preach against violence when I just plunked down $200 to watch Ali and Frazier pummel each other for a few hours?"

Mr. Lebowski, August 2:  David Huddleston was the other Mr. Lebowski from The Big Lebowski - yet another cult Cohen Brother's movie.  "I'm just going to go find a cash machine..."

The Waco Kid, August 29:  Blazing Saddles could not be made today - and both Gene Wilder and Cleavon Little (1992) made that movie what it still is today.  I also sort of remember watching Young Frankenstein after it was accidentally grabbed at a VHS video rental store instead of Young Einstein.  Einstein may have been more topical at the time, but in retrospect, Frankenstein was probably the better choice.  See No Evil, Hear No Evil with Richard Pryor (2005) would have been the better topical choice...

Janet Reno, November 7:  Quite glad the Clinton (Bill) Administration has ended and no fan of Janet Reno as Attorney General.  But she played a major role in politics during a formative time in college.  I guess I'll probably remember her Dance Party from Saturday Night Live as much as anything else, and her willingness to play along after she left office.  Hopefully she got a chance to see much of the country in her red pickup truck too.

Gwen Ifill, November 14:  I wasn't a fan of the News Hour and I saw her as unnecessarily partisan, but she was also very smart.  She seemed so very young, cancer is a bitch...

Mrs. Brady, November 24:  The mom nobody had, which was probably a good thing.  Why a stay-at-home mom needed a live-in house keeper still baffles me.  The Brady Bunch was seemingly always on in the afternoon, so I watched a lot of it in reruns at friend's houses.  It is nearly unwatchable now - and it may have been then as well.  Perhaps Florence Henderson's demise seems somehow tied to the slow, painful death of Crisco.

Fidel Castro, November 25:  Revolutionary, Dictator, Celebrity Ruler, Tyrant, the list goes on.  Those of us who grew up in the Reagan era still miss the cold war.  In a world where Russia could no longer be the bad guy, Cubans were still able to play that role in the movie Red Dawn.

John Glenn, December 8:  An American hero, but I just didn't like the guy.  I wrote him a letter when he was our Senator (also when I was less realistically cynical about politics) and the letter I got in return was quite condescending.  I still have it somewhere, although I'm not sure where it is.  In retrospect, the return letter was almost certainly written by some flunky staffer and not something he ever even saw.

Which brings us to Jason Seaver, December 13:  Dad from the formerly mentioned Growing Pains, Alan Thicke - a show when sitcoms still allowed the dad's to more than just the buffoon of every joke.

It is transitionally sad to see all these deaths of "notables" from 2016.  Still, the year isn't over yet!
And it makes me start to think ... how many people who were actually important in my life, but who I've lost touch with over the years are continuing to pass?  Maybe that is the real lesson from a list of celebrity deaths.

Belated Edit:  The death of the very influential Princess Leia occurred after this was published.  Starpuff hairdo, "Into the garbage chute, Flyboy" and "It's not funny anymore James" (Big Bang Theory cameo).  'nuff said...

No, Virginia, There Is No Santa Claus

Dear Editor:  I am 40-something years old.
Some of my colleagues say there is no Santa Claus.
The Boss says, ‘If it is on the Internet it’s so.’
Please tell me the truth; is there a Santa Claus?

Dude, your colleagues are right.  They have been given insight, which is not a product of education per se, but a result of critical skepticism.  Facts are a result of what can be seen, what can be measured.  Humans have been given the gift of rational thought, which allows us to understand what we see and in some cases learn what we cannot directly see.  In this great universe, our planet is one of only billions of planets.  But no intelligent person has ever seen Santa Claus, neither direct nor indirect evidence of him.

No, Dude, there is no Santa Claus.  He does not exist.  This is actually good, because there are, in fact, enough good people in the world to make up for 100s of mythical benefactors.  The world is a better place because there is no Santa Claus.  It is better because there are people who can think, maybe even like you, Dude.  The world is also made better by people who excel in the arts, making things like Santa Claus exist noisily only in the world of fiction.  People should be enlightened early on the difference between reality and fiction, while still enjoying both of them in the appropriate setting.

No, you should not believe in Santa Claus.  You should also know that the Tooth Fairy, the Easter Bunny, goblins and Care Bears do not exist.  It is impossible to prove the negative, but over the course of all human history, no one has ever observed Santa Claus and controlled studies giving evidence have never produced data suggesting his existence.  Yes, following the scientific method, we are able to consistently show that the theory of Santa Claus is unquestionably incorrect.  Do not be sad in this, for this frees up time and energy to spend observing some of the real wonders of the world:  From Quantum Mechanics to Chemistry to Astronomy to Geology to Biology; the world is a wonderful place.

We can tear apart the car's transmission to see how it works.   And while there is a veil covering everything, that veil can be made more transparent and eventually lifted through learning.  But still, do not forget faith, poetry, love, literature, music are also available to open up a uniquely different part of life.  Is this other part real?  Yes, it is real in that it exists for everyone to enjoy, Dude, but do not confuse myth and legend with what is fact!

No, Dude, there is no Santa Claus.  And Thank goodness!  He may forever remain mythical.  And your presents – and happiness – come from friends and family members who you interact with every day.

1 Tire : 2 Weeks : 3 Punctures

The aluminum alloy wheels on my 2009 Toyota Tacoma are horribly corroded.  All alloy wheels corrode, and as I've been paying attention to other vehicle's wheels, my non-scientific observation is that Toyotas in general seem to be worse, with only Fiat-Chrysler vehicle wheels showing more oxidation.  But very few Taco's seem as bad as mine.  I'm baffled by the level of corrosion, as while I don't wash my truck frequently, I am sure that I'm not alone in this.

Because of the wheel corrosion on my Taco, all my tires have very slow, persistent leaks.  This is only mildly aggravating; every couple weeks I check them and top them up.  Having an air compressor in the garage and pole barn, plus a portable air tank makes this tolerable.  For whatever reason, the driver's side are worse than the passenger side.  Given road crowns concentrate corrosive salt and other flotsam and jetsam to the outside, it would be more easily explainable if the passenger side were worse.
I'm not sure if the difference is due solely to metal, but I've had rusty 40-year old steel wheels still hold pressure just fine.  I understand the benefits of aluminum for wheels, but isn't there better metallurgy available without huge cost increases?  My underpowered truck isn't a Maserati, I can't help but think steel might have been a better option.

The first puncture:
On my to-do list before the opening day of the deer season, was to check my tire pressure.  This would be one less thing to worry about going wrong when focused on sitting in a tree for hours on end.  That afternoon before opening day, my driver's rear tire was alarmingly low.  Looking around the tire, I spied the tell-tale shiny spot of metal embedded in the tread.  A quick test with soapy water showed that it was leaking, followed by a worse leak after a yank with needle-nose pliers.

No worrys, Stop&Go to the rescue.

The Stop&Go is by far the best emergency tire repair system I've used.  The hole is reamed out to an appropriate size, and the tools in the kit are used to force a mushroom shaped plug into the hole.  I much prefer the mechanical fixture of the mushroom plug, over the (hopefully) sticky and stringy plugs widely available.  Having done this too many times over the years, the whole process only takes a few minutes.

Most, but not all leaks, are effectively sealed and it is instantly effective (or not) without needing to wait for glue to dry (or not).  The worst leaks that are not completely sealed, are at least dramatically slowed down.
Now I KNOW!!!!!!! that any repair done from outside of the tire must be considered temporary.  I've yet to see one seal a leak and subsequently releak, and I've never seen the plug come apart or come out when correctly installed.  So I still consider it temporary, just sometimes temporary for a very long time.  Temporary might be shorter in a motorcycle however, depending on the nature of the actual tire damage.  Margins are always thinner when dealing with only two wheels.
The leak in my Tacoma tire was repaired, and hunting season progressed.

The second puncture:
After a few days of hunting, I noticed my driver's rear tire was still losing pressure at an atypically high rate.  My first thought was that the rim was the issue, since disturbing the bead while repairing the last puncture in the face of the heinous wheel corrosion can cause an increase in the rim leakage.  I've slowed this down in the past by letting all the air out of the tire and cleaning the bead as best as I can without dismounting the tire.  A small amount lubricant can also help slow leaks and minimize ongoing corrosion.
Once I pulled the tire off the truck, it was sadly easy to find nail number 2.

The leak was again quickly and effectively plugged by the Stop&Go system.  The rim was cleaned up and the tire was doused with soapy water looking for any other tell-tale bubbles.  All looked good and I was able to merrily go on down the road.

The third puncture:
Leaving for work a few days later, the TPMS light came on my truck.  Again, it was the driver's rear tire.  A quick look in the morning darkness found predictably nothing.  I grossly overinflated the tire, and put my portable air tank in my truck for the drive home from work if needed.  As an aside, the portable air tank is basically a pressurized bomb.  I am made quite nervous by having this enclosed next to me in my vehicle, should it become self-mobile during any unexpectedly rapid trajectory changes.
Three tire issues within two weeks is starting to feel like more than a coincidence.  Maybe the rims are beyond oxidative hope?  Maybe someone has it out for me?  Maybe someone doesn't like where I park?  Maybe the deer have a ploy to keep me out of the trees?
The tire was low enough after work for the TPMS light to come on again.  I stopped by a tire store on my way home and they were too busy to look at it, but did air up the tires and give the low tire a wet down with soapy water, unsuccessfully.
Back at home, I was able to find the leak, another puncture, but this time without anything in it.  It also wasn't a nice clean puncture, but more of a short slit in the tire, and right near the edge of the tread where repairs should be attempted cautiously, if at all.  Stop&Go was not able to stop this leak, but did slow it down.

I thought about taking this as a sign that it was time to do something more permanent about my wheels and tires.  I have good tread left, but the wet grip of my tires sometimes makes me wonder if they are made out of slippery eels or something.  I drove to my local tire shop that I've had good luck with in the past (local as in 10s of miles away), to see what they could do for wheels and tires.
En route, I changed my mind.  My spare, while original to the vehicle, was the same type of tire as the current road tires.  I could swap the spare to the road, replacing the now leaking tire (with at least three "temporary" plugs) and buy the cheapest new tire available as a spare.

This was done, with the warning from tire guys that the formerly spare tire was getting old.  Noted - and thanks for doing it anyway.

The fact is, I know I'm on borrowed time.  Hopefully I'll be able to continue to borrow that time until my tire tread shows Lincoln's head and at some point in the future, I'll be able to reboot my contact patch with new wheels, tires and TPMS sensors (the sensors are all original to the vehicle, and with 8 years on the batteries, I'm expecting a failure soon).
Whether I run out of the borrowed time or I impulsively get rid of the Taco first is still to be determined.  Hmmmm, a new Honda Ridgeline probably wouldn't have corroded wheels....

Where the rubber meets the road, it has been a tough year.  I think there was one other truck tire effectively repaired by Stop&Go.  One massive gash unrepairable on another car, along with a repairable drywall screw in that same car.  There were also at least two, maybe more punctures of motorcycle tires.  Please people, keep your sharp crap off of my roads!

For now, I guess I'm headed to CraigsList.com to look for wheels.

Brother North-wind's Secret

"No, I understand now," Auberon said, calm in the woods - it was so simple, really.  "I didn't for a long time, but I do now.  You just can't hold people, you can't own them.  I mean it's only natural, a natural process really.  Meet. Love.  Part.  Life goes on.  There was never any reason to expect her to stay always the same - I mean 'in love,' you know."  There were those doubt quotes of Smoky's, heavily indicated.  "I don't hold a grudge.  I can't."
"You do," Grandfather Trout said.  "And you don't understand."

Little, Big is not the type of book I normally read.
I rarely reread books.
I almost never buy books.

Two Thousand Four, the year I originally read Little, Big was a tough year.  Despite doing unimportant work that was being done only to placate unimportant managers, I was almost fired for taking scheduled time off.  My scheduled time off was for deer hunting - and I couldn't buy a vision of a deer that year despite spending more cumulative hours in the woods than I had in many seasons.
I had seen some references to Little, Big and so I got it from inter-library loan to read during the last few wretched days of the year.

I haven't read very much this year, but I've reread several books.  One book that kept calling was Little, Big by John Crowley.  Because my local library system doesn't have this book, I bought it used from Amazon.  Used books from Amazon are amazing; I think the near-new book cost a couple dollars with a similar amount for shipping.  If I was going to reread it, I knew I needed to keep this book on hand, since inter-library loans take too much time when it involves books that are outside of my norm.  It sat on a shelf for much of the year until some time off this past week (coincidentally also due to deer hunting - although more successfully than 2004).

I know the 2004 and 2016 books are the same script, but the 12 years difference illustrates how time and place affect what is actually contained in the words.  Things now are both bigger and smaller than they were in 2004.
Concepts from the book that I took away as critically important in 2004 were present but played a diminished role in the Tale overall.  The entire story flowed so much more completely than it did during the first embodiment.  And while, like much fantasy fiction, there are extended passages of descriptions and alliteration, it adds to the story in a way that sawdust filler does not in much fiction.  I recall parts of the book as a hard slog on first read.  This past week, I put off other important stuff only so that I could finish the book.

"Grow up? No. Well. In a sense. You see it's inevitable, or refuse to. You greet it or don't - take it in trade, maybe, for all you're going to lose anyway. Or you can refuse, and have what you've got to lose snatched from you, and never take payment - never see a trade is possible.” 

There are synopses of the book elsewhere, so no need to recreate one here, but the Tale follows a family through many generations.  Love.  Loss.  Marriage.  Death.  Infidelity.  Birth.  Hints of incest.  Wealth.  Poverty.  Power.  Astrology.  Fish.
My biggest dislike with the book?  Why does so much fiction have to be set in fucking New York???  Other places really do exist - even a few states that start with the letter I.  The book does end both in and not in New York.

Looking through the list of books I've read over the last decade-plus (yes, I keep a list), there are quite a few which might be considered fantasy fiction - which surprised me.  I didn't think I read fantasy fiction...  But Little, Big remains the only one I've read twice as an adult.

The end of the Tale is much more coherent than I recall from my first reading - so much so that I sometimes can't help but wonder if the book hasn't greatly changed, grown older or moved to a new place, in the last 12 years.
I'm not sure if I'll ever read Little, Big a third time.  But if it does call again, I'll keep a copy waiting.  I'm sure it will be both bigger and smaller.

The cold compassion of bartenders, he came to see, was like that of priests:  universal rather than personal, with charity for all and malice toward almost none.  Firmly situated … between sacrament and communicant, they commanded rather than earned love, trust, dependence.

Election Yard Signs are Stupid

As the grass dies and the leaves change, election yard signs spring up out of the ground.  Their crop value is quite limited however.

On my drive to work, there is one - and only one - yard sign for some faceless candidate who has the same last name as a coworker.  I feel compelled to steal this sign and put it in his cubicle.  This behavior, theft of yard signs, has been interpreted as quashing free speech and has been punished with legal ramifications, so I've resisted, despite the brief humor it would provide.  Humor in politics, or at work, is more important than legislation at this point.

As I've contemplated this yard sign, I'm struck by how stupid yard signs really are.  Has anyone ever driven down the road as a die hard Hillary Clinton supporter and seen a Donald Trump yard sign and said, "Gosh, that is a lovely Tudor, therefore I'm going to vote for Trump!"
Nope.
Not gonna happen.
Maybe signs help name recognition?  I don't buy that either.  If Helen Keller were still alive, even she would be sick of Clinton v. Trump by this point.

It appears there have been studies that attempted to measure the value of yard signs.  The result is, at best, not statistically significant and I'm not sure I even believe the trivial differences observed.

Yard signs are the equivalent of the CoExist bumper sticker on the Subaru Outback or the Buckmark on the Chevy Silverado.  They are merely decorative ornamentation that further defines an already defined individual.  While I may, or may not, have strong feelings on any given subject, I am frightened by anyone who can communicate their most deeply held beliefs in the space of a yard sign or bumper sticker.

Shortly after the yard sign by the candidate with the same last name as my coworker is another series of signs for two opposing candidates for some other office.  This is in a demilitarized zone between two interstates and immediately on either side of the sign for Candidate A, someone put signs for Candidate B.  I guess this is less illegal than removing Candidate A's sign?  I'm quite sure that whoever did this was probably quite smug about his or her attempt at political cleverness...

Election yard signs are stupid.

Thankfully, in a few days our "long national nightmare" will be over - or it will have just begun.
Winter winds will sweep away dead leaves and a few dead candidate yard signs.  Candidates should be personally responsible for every yard sign, to ensure it is disposed of promptly and appropriately.  This would give both the winners and losers something useful to do after the election.

The Ethereal Birthday Card Windfall

I need to state upfront, that I do not believe in "ghosts" or "spirits."
But like even the most rock-headed pragmatists, I've experienced things which I can't explain.

I bought my first house in college.  I was looking at what I was paying in rent for a rather dingy studio apartment and comparing that to what a mortgage payment would be on an inexpensive house in a dingy neighborhood.  I just could not rationalize the rent.
This was in the pre pre pre real estate meltdown days.  FHA programs still worked as intended - getting working people into homes that they really could afford without large down payments.

So I bought a house at a price that is less than the cost of some vehicles.  It was on a quiet one-way street, in a working-class neighborhood.  There were no houses on the other side of the street, since that was taken up by the interstate.  The interstate sat up a huge, steep hill, making the noise just a dull din in the background.  For a college kid - it was idyllic.

The house was affordable, and I loved spending time and what little money I had improving it.  Most rooms were painted; rough fixes done to allow the sale under FHA rules were remedied; carpeting was installed in many rooms.  The energy that seems to inherently come with a first house is enviable now.
Still, money was tight.  I made OK money working as a line mechanic and restoring cars, but the school year was tougher, with tuition due and often less work.  Multiple jobs while going to school sometimes made things hectic.

The kitchen in the house was fairly large for its age.  At some point in the house's history, it was lifted off its foundation, moved over several feet with a new basement dug under it.  This was done to give the property a driveway, and (as I've been led to believe) as an overreaction to fighting with the neighbors at the time about the property lines.  I believe the kitchen may have been enlarged at this same time.

The house had been owned by the same family for decades prior to my purchase.  The family originated in Eastern Europe with a last name that had too many consonants.  It was changed for most family members at some point to make it more pronounceable.  The last member to leave was Annie.  I bought the house from Annie's son.

Money was tighter than normal, with the end of the school semester approaching when I returned home on a late winter day.  Opening a drawer in the kitchen, sitting right on top was a birthday card to Annie.  I found this quite disconcerting as much time was spent cleaning before moving into the house.
I wasn't too disturbed, but did spend a few hours later that week removing all the drawers in the kitchen, looking under the cabinets and under every drawer; I had assumed the card was stuck under or behind a drawer somewhere.  I found nothing else.
Through that spring, several more old birthday cards appeared in the kitchen drawers!
I won't say this freaked me out, but it was far more than curious.

As that school year wound down, a final envelope showed up under the sink this time.  It contained a few more birthday cards and a massive wad of $2 bills.  Humidity and water from the sink had caused all the bills to stick together in some even-numbered cancerous mass.
This was a blessing as money was scary tight by that point, with relief in the form of the summer work season not yet providing.

I've previously written how old houses have a breathing history, and this was only one very pronounced example of that house.

I wedged the wad of bills into a blue folder, and took it to the bank.  A friendly teller and I spent a considerable amount of fun time separating the bills.  I'm not sure if the average bank teller today would have taken that same amount of time.  She returned the sum to me in uncirculated currency.

I used the cash to catch up on a few bills, buy food, and I think I also splurged on a really expensive bottle of beer - it was found money.  As I recall, I was not impressed with the beer.

I suppose it is hard to have any fear about a ghostly windfall, but the circumstances of it appearing after specifically looking for anything stuck in the kitchen drawers due to the birthday card(s) was a little unsettling.
Either way, it is still very hard to explain.

At some future Halloween, I'll have to tell what I found out about Annie dying - it wasn't at the hospital, and the unexplainable noise and door behavior shortly after moving in...

Terra Mediterranean Vegetable Chips

Actual Headlines
From USA Today:  Desperation Sets In While Homes Sit For Months With No Offers
From CNN:  Home Prices Post Record Decline
From The Atlantic: After An Ugly 2010, The Housing Market Won't Look Much Better In 2011

Selling my house was objectively not very prudent.  I tried to tell myself that buying at the bottom of the market made everything even out.  I can still make that argument, but I spent a frightening amount of stressful time in 2011 holding my breath.
Action does not always need to be prudent - or inaction for that matter.

I also told myself that as a small community, the area I was living in would be largely immune from the big-city and suburban housing market sickness.  Since I was so deeply involved in the buying and selling process, I started keeping track of the market in my township.  The chart below shows how much of a glut there really was even in that small community five years ago - and what a bad financial decision moving might have been.

With the market overloaded, and with many of them foreclosures, prices were seriously depressed.  If there was a bright spot, it was that as a house with improvements made under the assumption I would never move again, the house showed well compared to some of the foreclosures in the area.  Still, foreclosures in the area now are about 10% of what they were five years ago.

As expected, the harsh edges of real estate have softened over the last five years, but I still vividly recall the two lowest of the low points.
Taking care of two houses was very painful, and it seemed after every showing someone would leave a window or door unlocked.  On one afternoon with a threat of rain, I went to the house to check on it and mow the lawn.  I was done with the front yard as the smell of ozone preceeded a thunderstorm.  While trying to finish the back yard, the skies opened up with a deluge of water.  I only had a relatively small section in the back of the back yard to finish so I kept at it.  Then the lawn mower quit.  Kaput.  The unmowed square got relatively more expansive as I had to finish cutting the now sodden lawn with the push mower while light rain continued to linger.  I drove home wet, cold and defeated.
At one point, there were three realistic potential buyers showing interest.  Things were looking up as I was convinced one of these would work out, one of them had to.  Inability to buy during a divorce and inability to get financing in the new reality of lending forced two of the three out.  I was eating Terra Mediterranean Vegetable Chips when the Realtor called to say the third would not be buying the house due to family squabbles.  "So we're back to square one," was all I could say  after a long pause.

It is hard to find anything "good" about the selling process.  But in retrospect, it does sometimes help to bring some perspective to difficult situations, and perspective is needed all too often.

This too shall pass.

And it did.

Eventually the house was under contract.  I'm pretty sure that once that happens, the buying and selling process is designed to extract as much money out of the sale as possible.  I'm also pretty sure that once under contract, the real estate professionals push things through as hard as possible, while the finance and government bodies do everything possible to stop the sale.  Both buyer and seller are merely along for the ride at that point.  I'm 100% sure that I'm fine with how everything worked out.
The actual closing was suprisingly anticlimactic, it was dark outside once the closing was finished.  I went to the bank to deposit the closing settlement and the teller had to get it approved since it was such a large deposit.  I ate Kroger sushi (always disappointing) and grilled steak that night.  The sale was an amazing gift.

I have one picture of the house from around the time I bought it that helps me remember how great it was to move there.  Whether it is nostalgia or rose-colored glasses really doesn't matter.  I even miss aspects of the house - I miss living in an old victorian sometimes; I miss living in what might be considered a commmunity, albeit somewhat less frequently.  I have surprisingly few later pictures of the house.  That may not be an accident.
It no longer feels odd to drive by it.  I barely even wince when I see the basement light has been left on.  Someone else has lived there now for 1/3 as long as I had.  Allowing things to come to an end peacefully is a gift of getting older.

The sale of the old house was really the conclusion of the purchase of the new house one year previous.  Five years after that finality, I can say without hesitation that while not objectively prudent at the time, it remains one of the better decisions I've ever made ... even in a really bad housing market.

Midlife Malaise

The worst part about the midlife crisis is that it doesn't exist.  Or it doesn't exist as the whimsical fun experience that 80's television portrayed it as.
It is easy to laugh at the 40-something buying a red corvette and trying to hang out (or more) with the young floozy; playing Frisbee golf with a bunch of beer chugging frat boys.  Even more funny if he is fat, ugly and going bald.
I even joked about this for a long time, saying I was looking forward to my midlife crisis when I would buy a motorcycle and ride it across the country, or I would do faux dangerous things like go white water rafting and bear hunting.  It was easy and funny to paint myself as this caricature since I was doing these things long before the age of 40 and not as part of any sit-com existential crisis.

Before going any further, I think it is important to ask a few dangerous hypotheticals:
Would I go back to being a kid again?  No way.
Would I go back to high school again?  Nope, shoot me first.  And I mean that.
Would I go back to college again?  Hmmm, maybe - until I end up in a situation around college students and realize the answer is a definite no.
I recall working as a mechanic at a restoration shop during college, and the "old school" former employees would show up and often lament how the shop was just not the same anymore.  Of course not - at the time, I thought it was better.  But I get it now.

An informal poll of other similar-aged acquaintances suggests midlife can be a crisis of malaise.
There is that big question constantly lurking around lots of hidden corners:
I am generally content.  Still, is this all there is?
Things were not supposed to be this ambiguous.  My siblings and I used to play a board game called Careers.  I likely have some of the details incorrect, but the premise was that levels of happiness, money and fame were chosen at the beginning of the game.  Players then moved around the board "collecting" these things.  The winner was whoever reached their predetermined levels first.
I'm somehow struck that either I chose the wrong mix at the beginning of my life, or this isn't quite as straight forward as the board game made it out to be.  More metaphorically, I'm starting to believe that the game should have a constantly changing set of targets, and the players have no idea of what those targets are or what their score actually is.  The squares in the board game only give vague direction as to how much of anything they provide.  Money, Fame and Happiness can vanish without anyone realizing it.  I believe I'm stretching the metaphor to real too far now.

Jonathan Rauch writes about his own experiences in The Atlantic.  I've read similar articles and was prepared to skim this one.  Until I got to the second paragraph:
"Yet morning after morning (mornings were the worst), I would wake up feeling disappointed..." (emphasis added).  Mr. Rauch's experience is different in that the way any person experiences anything is unique, but there were familiar currents to what he was saying.  And while I don't see things as disappointing, I'm with a large faceless group who see things with an overwhelming sense of malaise.
Yes, mornings are the definitely the worst, though.  Perhaps a rarity in present day that I enjoy my morning commute.  But once I sit down in my cubicle and stare at the computer as it boots up, there is a sense of unease.  This routine is not comfortable.
Which is odd in that I like routine.  When the routine is shook up, it too often means life is shook up, something negative has taken over.  Monotony, comfort, lethargy, contentment all wrapped up in one.
Again, this is only unique in the same way any experience is unique.  While not an avid Reddit user, a search on Reddit for "monotony" and "adult" shows that the crisis of malaise, while not universal, is also far from isolated.

The article in The Atlantic quotes Mr Rauch as feeling "ungrateful."  I don't see it precisely this way.  I guess I am in a similar state where if my 20-something self would look at my now-self, there would probably be surprise, maybe even shock.  Who'd have thunk things would be where they are.  In many ways, things could be interpreted as better than could have been imagined.  Maybe I've sold out that 20-something though.
Not ungrateful, but incomplete.  Definitely incomplete.

And that is the scary part of the midlife crisis, why the caricature of the guy spending too much money buying a Porsche seems funny on the outside.  No matter what anyone does to rid themselves of the malaise of being 40-something, the only thing that won't change is themselves.  Renting track time in a Ferrari won't do it.  A new girlfriend won't do it.  Even new career won't do it.  The research seems to suggest, the best medicine is ... time.  Given the restorative power of travel, I'm not really sure I believe this.  Potentially, I just don't want to believe this.

I do think Generation X experiences this differently than the Baby Boomers, who screamed and threw tantrums about how they were not old.  Generation X seems to be more in a holding pattern - the slackers even slack off when having a midlife crisis.
I frequently hear or read that generational distinctions are all BS.  While this is partially true - slowly evolving changes create a spectrum.  The reality can be seen in US birth data.  The graph below shows both absolute and normalized births.  No question the Baby Boomer generation exists, and that this huge group of people affects how people act and interact.  The Millennial bump can also be seen; it is muted by the overall decrease the US birth rate.

In Generation X, we have a group of people who have listened ad nausea about how the Boomers were not ever going to get old.  We watched them age before our very eyes.  We saw it and are beginning to see it in ourselves.  50 is the new 40 is only one lie the boomers fed us for so long.  Forty is still 40.  And fifty will be 50.

And maybe that is good.
Mr. Rauch's article cites much research that after the midlife malaise, throughout it, things will improve.  It would be nice if this curve was a V instead of a U.  Life doesn't work that way; there will be no defined beginning and end - just a long malaiseful middle.  Like generational change, the upswing will occur on its own schedule.
Generation X hopes that the research is meaningful, is accurate; that it is soon.  I hope it is, anyway.

Still, there is a fear, a small voice nagging at me.  As I look back 20 years, and ahead 20 years, could the next phase, beyond the humdrum of day-in day-out, be just as unexpectedly soft as 40-something?
Even as I am writing this, I'm not sure I believe it.  Generation X is now well past the statistical half way point of our lives.  There is another generation poised to bite at the heels of the first group to grow up in the participation-trophy era.  That generation is just beginning to be defined.  Gen Z?  Or iGen (I hope not)?
With an objective eye, it is very hard to look at things negatively, and the midlife malaise ebbs and flows.  I guess that midlife malaise is really a First World problem.  But first world problems are not imagined - even with every developed country having pockets of third world when anyone takes the time to look.
This too shall pass.  In time ... this too shall pass.

A Blog About a Blog

I'm not sure why I initially started writing this blog, and I'm not sure why I continue to do so.  In aggregate, it is one big non sequitur.  Besides, blogs are soooooo 2002.
Five years ago, on this date, I poked around on Google's Blogger and started typing.  It was a blissful time, with the newness of the new house providing an ongoing elixir.  But it was also a very stressful time as the fate of the old house was a big unknown; it is amazing how transformational that move remains even after all this time.  At the time I started the blog, I guess I was just looking for some kind of outlet, maybe any outlet.
The original goal of once per week was (predictably) quite optimistic.  I've at least mentally pared that down to "about every other week" - with major exceptions being when other stuff, noteably vacations, takes significant time.  Over the last five years, I've averaged close enough to 26 per year to be content.

The stats would suggest there is little readership, which is fine.  Doing things for the self is far more important than what any kind of external validation can bring.  I'm surprised how few people live this.  I'm somewhat puzzled that a small number of posts have resulted in a large number of hits.  I often wonder how many of these are just bots...  I think monetizing the blog would overall cheapen it, take something away from the phantasmal existence.  My consiracy-theory hunch is that the searchability (or findability?) of tjvbeagle.blogspot.com is affacted by search engines prioritizing monetized pages.
Still, some reviews have received numerous hits, and continue to do so.
Apparently, quite a few people want to see an oil change on a Toyota Tacoma.

There are several things I don't write about ... but I do.
Some topics are so current-time limited that care should be exercised.  Cecil's death gave him a few minutes of fame that has faded very quickly.  Predictably, there is no lasting change.  His carcass remains rotting in a corrupt-African-government warehouse somewhere; all those good intentions and monetary donations are rotting along with it.
I need to work to live, but I don't need to dwell on it outside of work.  So I never write about work?
Too much is already penned, typed, memed, etc. about politics.  I don't need to contribute to this?

Some of what was written here led to bigger and better things.  I never really anticipated this.
My first magazine article was published, somewhat indirectly, as a result of some thinking and pecking away at the Blogger keyboard.
On a much larger scale, my self-published book would likely have never been written if it weren't for this blog.  Of course most of it was written mentally first while walking dogs.

I've committed to thinking before writing, and thinking again before hitting that terrifying "Publish" button.  In addition to spelling and grammar issues that I wince at, there are some regretful posts.  I've also committed to leaving them largely as they were, belated edits are rare.  Do not delete the snapshots in time, no matter how ungraceful.
There are some I would probably rewrite as I don't think what I was trying to convey actually was.  So it goes.
A few might be very questionable if someone, often a particular someone, might end up reading between the lines; or someone reads between the lines when they shouldn't.
A couple are regretful to the point that I have a hard time rereading them.

There are some that feature borrowed or stolen content.  I love using quotes from interesting people, sometimes out of context.  At least one is almost completely stolen, but oh how I wish I could find the Outburst extolling You Do Not Have a Constitutional Right to a Washing Machine.  Actually, I recently did (and stole it too).

Some of what has been written is almost too personal to actually publish.
A few might be interpreted as a veiled cry for help.  They probably aren't.
Some posts are so sad that I have a hard time rereading them.
Others are just too personal, but need to be written anyway.

This post is beginning to look like an 80's sit-com clip show - a cheap way to create a TV show without actually filming anything new.
And as I look over the 150 posts to date, I begin to see three themes emerging:
Much of what is written relates to Generation X, what happened to us.  What is happening to us?  But history is doomed to repeat itself since we pay so little attention to it the first time.  The Baby Boomers and Millennials continue their love affair.
Getting older is brutally inevitable.  Solidly middle class in middle age, I shudder when I look at reality.  But I just about scream in terror, clawing at the dashboard of life at the thought of what could have been.
Life in the rural Midwest is wonderfully underrated.  Bridging the first two themes, I can't imagine, at this stage, living anywhere else.  Definitely not in the wretched overpopulated coastal ribbons.  Still, sometimes I hear new places calling.  Maybe New Mexico, or Oregon.  Maybe Niue?

"In a faraway land called 'pre-2000,' what Earthlings now call blogging was called 'keeping a diary.' It's hard work to do well. I tried doing it in the early 1990s but had to stop because I no longer had a life - instead I had this thing that generated anecdotes to go into my diary. The diary took over and I had to stop." - Douglas Coupland

Washing Machine (or Outburst II)

Stolen before it returns to the vacuous ether (again).  Presented without commentary for your own conclusions to be drawn.

The context is an American teaching in a formerly Eastern Bloc Country, originally published in March, 2001:



There Is No Constitutional Right to a Washing Machine, by Mark Lovas:

As part of its pre-election campaign a local political party is offering working mothers one day off per month. The cynicism implied by this offer is, perhaps, not astounding if one considers that this is coming from a party headed by a man whose chief contribution to public debate seems to be vague accusations of corruption directed at other politicians.

The other night on the local Monday night political chat show, one member of the audience produced a newspaper article showing that this particular leading light had once been the recipient of special training in Russia. The political leader looked unhappy and did not respond. The moderator wanted to ignore it too. It wasn’t part of the planned discussion.

But, there’s something here worth noting. This country never had a lustration law—a law which banned former Communists from participating in politics. Had there been a lustration law many of today’s leading politicians would have been prevented from participating in politics. (A friend recently told me about a case in a neighboring country where a member of parliament who has responsibility for the media turns out to have been a censor during the communist period. When reporters tried to ask him about this, the former communist censor responded with belligerence and threats.)

In any case, the cynicism implied by the one-free-day-off bait is not restricted to the political realm.

My current employer recently offered a night of free bowling at the local shopping mall. The very same employer (speaking to me through the mouth of the most low-ranking local administrator, a man whose salary is certainly at least double my own) once told me that I shouldn’t complain about the ancient washing machine in my school-provided flat. He flatly stated that while my contract promises me a flat, the school is under no obligation to provide a washing machine. (Let us ignore the fact that this is a city where there is not one laundromat.)

This particular bureaucrat then went on to inform me that during his first six months at the school he had washed all of his clothes by hand.

I suppressed the thought: Well, when I worked for a different local University I washed my clothes by hand for 18 months. So, there: I’m more macho than you.

Had I said that, there would have been a race to prove who was more macho. I was speaking to a man who in his mid-thirties was living in Eastern Europe and is a quarterback for an American-style football team in the Exotic East. On top of that, his name appears above mine in the organizational chart for the local branch of an America-based university.

Praise God for the American Empire! Look how they send talented people to the poor part of Europe to help out. Such a generous country.

[Tracing the history of my washing machine—a mundane item if ever there was one– is instructive. When I spoke about its run-down condition to a member of the academic staff (a woman whose calling card identifies her as a “Site Manager”) she responded with surprise, telling me that it was her old washing machine and worked very well. In fact, her candid remark confirmed my suspicion that every local resident has a newer washing machine than I do. I have visited the homes of more than a few people who are citizens of this country, and every one of them has had a newer washing machine than I do.

My suspicions were reinforced by a conversation I recently had with a washing machine repair man. Apparently unable to place me from my accent alone, he asked me where I was from. When I told him I was American, he immediately responded with the question, “Why don’t you buy a new washing machine?”. Plainly the repairman would be surprised to learn that a native speaker of a prestige language, citizen of the world’s only super power, and someone working for a company with a “home office” within the territory of that super power, might actually be receiving a salary less than the average paid to local residents working for foreign companies.]

Then there is the case of a free trip to the local ski resort. Another case of bread and circuses — Yes, we should regard this as a free gift from our lord and master the Distance Learning University, which gives American Academics a chance to strut their stuff in the Exotic East of Europe.

The purpose of the Free All-Expenses Paid Trip to the local version of the Alps was to encourage Team-Building and reward the hardy workers. It also allowed “Senior Professors” based in the United States a chance to pontificate on the sin of plagiarism and the fifteen ways to skin (whoops, I meant evaluate) a student.

Hmmmm.

The globalization of education. Is that what it is? Or, mightn’t we speak more accurately of the Will to Power? If you can’t dominate at home, go abroad. If people who speak your own language don’t admire and respect you sufficiently to satisfy your dreams of being a guru, go abroad to a place where people want to speak your language, and you can have a head start, an advantage over them in the form of your native-speaker status. By all means, find someone to dominate. If you can’t be a winner at home, you can at least be the quarterback of a team in the Exotic East.

But by all means, you must be a quarterback!

Note on Distance Learning (DL): Thanks to the Internet, if only one has a computer and money, one can study with a university anywhere in the world. In the above rant, the author exaggerates a bit when he describes his school as a DL school; the school is not exclusively devoted to distance learning—it actually does have “day students” as well. On the other hand, distance learning is an important part of the school’s activities, and with the help of a grant recently awarded by the US government, the school plans to expand its DL activities in Eastern Europe.

One of the most horrific aspects of this new institution (as Phillipson 1999 points out) is that educators ignorant of a student’s culture, environment, and language are, in effect, marking out what is important and what is not.

It may, perhaps, be possible to have distance education of some quality in an extremely abstract mathematical subject, but in the humanities as traditionally conceived, discussion is essential. And discussion means face-to-face contact. And insofar as good (relevant, local) examples are the life-blood of any lecture, it is difficult to imagine how a distance teacher can overcome the inherent limitations of the medium.

It would appear that what is now on offer is (yet another) version of education for the masses. Just as mass production meant a decline in quality for the sake of wider availability of the product on offer, so education in enormous lecture halls at America’s state universities meant a de-humanization of education. And distance learning continues the trend with its promise of wider availability, and an unadvertised accompanying decline in quality.

Distance learning is a means for English-speaking countries to assert and expand their cultural hegemony. It is a vehicle of cultural imperialism, the McDonaldization of education.

"Look What You Did!"

I was on my way home from work, driving along a semi-rural road; newer housing development on one side, wooded area bordering the river on the other.  Up ahead, I saw a large bird exhibiting some very strange behavior.  The bird was hopping backwards, dragging the carcas of what turned out to be a dead raccoon across the road.  Then I realized that the dead raccoon was the one I had hit that morning on the way to work.

The bird flew off before I could see whether it was a very large crow or a very small buzzard.  Either way, it was impossible not to anthropomorphize the bird, with the it clearly screaming, "You killed this raccoon, MF!  Look what you did!  Just ... Look ... At ... What ... You ... Did!"

My morning had been like any other.  I drive to work in the dark and always see at least a couple animals: possums, deer, raccoons, the occasional skunk.  There are very few streetlights during my commute, so often I just see their eyes ghostly reflecting the light from my headlights.
I just requested The Straight Story from the library...  It seemed appropriate.
But that morning, a raccoon had been on the side of the road.  He saw me, I saw him.  We both took evasive action.  Unfortunately we both took evasive action right into each other.  My front left tire made direct contact into dire consequences to the raccoon.
I felt bad.

I do hunt, so it may seem surprising that killing the raccoon made me feel bad.  Our rural roads are littered with road kill - it happens all the time.  But I don't like indiscriminate killing, killing for killing's sake.  Maybe it is because I hunt that I'm sensitive to this.  Killing an animal as a deliberate act to take it home and eat it is entirely different from killing an animal on my way to work.  Thud-thud.  The raccoon dies.  So it goes.
The year I started hunting, a deer I shot was not recovered.  This made me feel very, very bad at the time.  The next season I found a deer skeleton about 100 yards beyond where I, and my neighbor who I was hunting with, stopped looking for the doe.  I've always wondered if that was the same deer.  I learned two lessons.  One, don't take iffy shots (it wasn't, but I was excited).  Two, if in doubt, always look a little more.

But there is an even larger lesson from an old deer skeleton.  From the road kill that lay strewn across the roads.  From the thud-thud of my truck's tires in the early morning hours.  These dead animals don't lay around in perpetuity.  Our roads are not strewn with an ever increasing pile of carcasses.  Nothing in nature ever goes to waste.
From the putrid, road-kill skunk to the ground hog shot by a pellet gun after the third attempt to dig his hole along my house to the enormous dead whale on the bottom of the ocean, everything gets eaten.  Everything dead feeds something else.
No, maggots and flies, coyotes, and turkey vultures may not be the most cute and cuddly of wild animals, but they all thrive on the dead.  I've seen road-kill deer be turned into scattered bones within a matter of days in the heat of summer.  The last remnants may go slowly, but feed a rich biome of microorganisms to trees.

So maybe that odd bird, hopping backwards across the road dragging the raccoon remains wasn't screaming how evil I am.  Maybe that anthropomorphized avian was saying, "Look what you did!  You made me dinner.  I'm gonna eat well on this dead SOB!"

The Sounds of Summer

I've tried to listen to summer more this year.
Watching a local outdoors show in the depths of winter, it isn't unusual to have a summer scene come on.  Sometimes I'll quit watching whatever the actual show is, and just listen to the background.  Crickets.  Tree frogs. Katydids.  And of course cicadas.

I just got back from a vacation - a 6000 mile road trip out west.  The two weeks of time spent motorcycling throughout the country was glorious.  On the road every morning near daylight through some of the most amazing scenery in the country; a different town almost every night.

Outdoors sounds different in different places.  The upper elevations, through mountains and high deserts are often quieter.  Cooler, sometimes cold temperatures don't support the same kind of cold-blooded life; there was one morning where temperatures were near freezing while most of the Midwest was still in the pressure cooker of heat and humidity.

There is a lot to see in a seemingly parched desert, the landscape and geology is nothing short of amazing.  But the invertebrates seem to live quieter, more solitary lives.  I bet this changes during wet times, but I've never consciously experienced that.

The summer music has probably been more boisterous than many years, since there has been a lot of rain.  The swampy part of the back yard has remained wet much of this year; the amount of life back there has been astounding.
As I let the dogs out first thing in the morning, I often pause, especially on clear mornings, and look up at the stars.  I generally don't turn on the outside lights when I let the dogs out, and the stars can often be dramatic.  The sound from the crickets and tree frogs is wonderful music.  It accompanies the specks of light above in a way nothing else can.  I often think about how fortunate I am to live in the Midwest - how fortunate I am to live in a rural area without cars buzzing around and artificial light to spoil the sky.
The neighborhood is rarely quiet when I get home from work in the afternoon.  Over the din of distant lawn mowers or farm equipment,  katydids are often squeaking, sounding like rusty springs.  And the cicadas - oh the cicadas.  Even though there aren't very many mature trees nearby, they still scream with the heat of the late summer day.  Walking the dogs or riding the bike by areas with a lot of mature trees, things get even louder.  What I'm always amazed by is how easy it is to tune this out - how this background noise becomes just that, background.  And yet, stopping and listening, it is surprising just how deafening this often is.
Evenings wind down the singing of the day; at times there may be a period of almost complete stillness where everything collectively decides to shut up for a while.  Maybe even the insects need a few minutes of quiet before the tree frogs start their nightly chorus.

On the road home from the recent road trip, I knew I was getting nearer to home by the sound (and the smell - the mowing of a roadside ditch filled with Queen Anne's lace).  Above the whirring of the engine and buffeting of the wind on the motorcycle, I could hear cold-blooded creatures of all sorts creaking and buzzing while riding down a nearly empty road.  I was somewhat pensive since the trip was almost over, but the noise kept me anxious to be home at the same time.

The stillness and quiet of winter is its own mystery to witness.  Especially if there is snow on the ground to further muffle any sound, an eerily quiet winter morning is another phenomenon that should be experienced consciously.  It is hard to compare this to the cacophony of summer.
The sounds of summer on TV in the depths of winter often seem louder than they are in real life.  They aren't, it is just the wistful look forward and backward to what summer has provided and what it has to offer ... if we take the time to listen.

Mr. Smith Goes to a TED Talk

There was a TED talk posted on a technology oriented page at work a short time ago.  The talk itself was not terribly interesting or relevant; it was the kind of talk that a corporate environment doesn't find very threatening, while trying to promote some claimed new type of thinking.
But all TED talks have links to other TED talks below them that seem to be relevant according to some key words or computer algorithm or something.  One link led to another and after listening to a few more talks, I came across Larry Smith's talk on Why You Will Fail to Have a Great Career.  I listened to it with mild interest before moving on to efforts more focused to current work, but that talk kept lurking in the back of my brain.
I've listened to it a few more times.  Some of the posted discussion after the talk centered on more of the minutia of why Mr. Smith is saying we won't have a good career - his specific examples are not what I think he is actually talking about.  It is unfortunate that one must wade through the plebeian "Best TED ever!" comments to get to some of the more interesting discussion...
What I actually think Mr. Smith is saying is just that most of us have more general reasons as to why we won't have the great singularly career-focused life, and this is far more dangerous - more along the lines of career is all that matters, and everyone outside of those obsessively focused will fail at life by design.
Mr. Smith references the revered Steven J(obs) - do you think Steve Jobs was ever able to go on a vacation without his iPhone?

Mr. Smith goes so far as to denigrate the inventor of Velcro, not acknowledging the huge impact wonderful things like Velcro have had on life; more broadly denigrating those who create and invent small improvements that make every day life easier and better, more interesting (I'm baffled by his issue with interesting)!  He is looking down on those whose ambitions don't start in the clouds - he is criticizing one brand of passion at the expense of another, by only his own nebulous distinction.  Within a few feet of me as I type this are probably at least 10 hook and loop fasteners quietly doing their jobs - quietly when not being opened.  Even disposable diapers now use a very inexpensive but surprisingly effective form of hook and loop to fasten.  But Mr. Smith patronizes Velcro as worthy of only derision.  A great career can only be one on the scale that creates a grand unifying theory of physics and a Nobel prize?  Great ideas are almost never huge, grand eurekas, but are more likely due to an inquisitive person staring down at something and saying, "Geez, that is funny."  This is then followed by an interesting idea that builds to something else that seems so simply obvious after the fact that everyone else says, "Why didn't I think of that?"  How often is something new compared to the exceptionally mundane "sliced bread" - I've never heard anyone say, "That is the best thing since Loop Quantum Gravity Theory!"

In a subsequent interview, Mr. Smith advocates looking for a passion.  Life is littered with people who look for, and invest in something, only to watch it whither with time or realize that personal passion translates poorly to the outside world.  I'm quite convinced that "looking" for passion is as likely to fail at greater expense than not having it in the first place.  Passion is created organically over time, and the investment to go from an interest to a passion is enormous.  And there lies the paradox:  passion requires investment, sometimes significant investment, but investment does not guarantee success ... or passion.
I'm reminded of what Bill Withers said, "One of the things I always tell my kids is that it's OK to head out for wonderful, but on your way to wonderful, you're gonna have to pass through all right.  When you get to all right, take a good look around and get used to it, because that may be as far as you're gonna go."

I realize this must devolve into talking about work, which I don't do.  But best to let this bell ring down naturally at this point.
I've eluded to the job change over the last few months.  The extended transition has now run to completion.  There is excitement at starting something new, but this transition has had some moments of second guessing as well.  Things were both safe and frustrating at my old job, and that may not be the best place to work.  My new job (location, focus, coworkers, etc.) is not home though, and a coworker who came from and went to the same organizations a few years ago said it still isn't for him either.  This is troubling.
PBS had a short series on the History of the Elements that I caught a few months ago.  For all the mired-in-details work, it was an absolute joy to watch as it brought me back to why I got interested in science in the first place.  It brought me back to the steep side of the learning curve in high school and as a Freshman in college.  It wasn't a Smithsian passion at the age of 18, but the three hours of time spent watching the documentary came at just the right time.  And yet, I'm just as happy doing what I am as I would be doing grand first principle theoretical work.  I was recently awarded two more patents, for inventions that are probably less life-changing than Velcro.  Warp drive indeed...

There are no shortage of people who complain about TED Talks - either generically or specific talks. I like Ted talks; many make me think.  The short format is a good contrast to dictatorial diatribes, and if any given talk doesn't turn out to be interesting or as advertised, not listening to it is as easy as listening.  Just one click.

Susan Cain's talk on Introverts is one that I've listened to a few times.  This has also surprisingly been used at work.  I say this is surprising, not because it isn't a great talk, but surprising since cubicles are ever-present, and being replaced by the even more heinous "agile office space."  Her comments on group work are almost too on target.  Sadly, teamwork can devolve into group-think of the loudest voice, or often the best interrupter.

After watching many TED Talks, I think the best TED talk may not actually be a TED Talk at all.  Parody as art form, but the format is more a caricature of the intellectualesque bourgeoisie than of TED Talks in particular.

With all deference to Mr. Smith, who is a respected economist at the University of Waterloo, I don't know if I have a good career, a great career or a lousy one.  And I don't care.  My job should work for me as much as I do for it.
Whether anyone has a great career is secondary to whether that person has a good life.  A job, a career, should be a tool, one of many, to lead the interesting life.  Anything on top of that is just a bonus.

I'll end by turning to Bronnie Ware, as I have before, and suggest that very few people at the end of life will lament that their career wasn't great enough.  If only...

Summer's First Bounty

They spring up this time of year, seemingly overnight.  Zucchini, tomatoes, cucumbers, maybe some misshapen bell peppers.  Nope, I'm not talking about the garden.  I'm talking about produce at the office.
Every place I've worked at in my adult life has collection spots where food converges.  Often this is leftover food from meetings, with clear indications of what people do not like.  But this time of year, vegetables start to sprout up that were brought in from home.

Gardens start out with good intentions, but painfully don't meet even meager intentions.  More often, the most anticipated fare is coaxed into producing only a few delectable morsels while the general haul is filled with far too much of some other edible that begins to take on weed status, crowding all others out.

"Seed catalogs are responsible for more unfulfilled fantasies than Enron and Playboy combined." - Michael Perry

Someday nobody will remember what an Enron is and will have to read on Wikipedia to be reminded.
My 2011 garden was my last really ambitious one.  In what can only be described as exceedingly poor planning, I created that garden just outside of the reach of the closest garden hose.  I also started many of my plants in peat containers that I failed to heed the directions and rip the bottom off of when planting outside.  Between the subsequent poor root growth, questionable clay soil, difficulty watering, incessant invasion by weeds and rabbits, and my general laziness, that 2011 garden produced basically nothing.  A big garden seems like a good idea on those cool spring afternoons, but weeding takes on a hateful attitude in July's heat and humidity.  That 2011 location just out of reach of the garden hose has now been reenlisted to general lawn duty.  Not that the lawn is that much better than the garden, but it doesn't come with the same sense of acute failure every time I look at it.  I'm content with the chronic sense of failure that the lawn elicits.

More recently, the flower beds have been reenlisted for garden duty.  SO had the great idea to employ landscaping fabric and mulch, also using much sturdier garden stakes that can actually hold up to a tomato plant.  Regardless of one's belief in mixing flowers and produce plants, the beds look as good as they ever have.
Three of the four tomato plants are producing well.  The small sweet red cherry tomatos are great for drive-by eating.  The medium Cherokee Purples have grown to unexpected proportions.  The larger Cherokee Purples are overlaiden with green fruit - oddly warped in a way that only heirloom vegetables can be proud of.

I impulsively planted seeds taken from store-bought Kumatos.  Only one sprouted, and I discarded the rest only to see that dumping them may have been premature as new sprouts were evident a short time later.  Perhaps that was prescient; so far the Kumato plant has happily created copious flowers, but not a single fruit.  I am beginning to suspect that Syngenta has played some gene warfare game on Kumatos.  And I thought eugenics had been discarded in Europe?
In a fit of depression, the one lone pumpkin plant appears to have committed suicide.  Sad to see life cut so short when it had so much more to live for.

Someone's garden cucumbers showed up at work last week.  I've never understood why "burpless" cucumbers were marketed until I ate one of those gratis cucumbers over the next few days.  Yes it was tasty ... the first time.  Since they sell burpless varieties, I'm now searching for where the burps go.  There must be a cucumber variety sold as super burpy - there is a market, however niche, for everything!

I have contemplated in the past bringing a durian in to work and placing it at the food location.  It would be interesting to see the reaction of those who know what it is, as they recoil in horror and wonder where it came from, compared to those who have never been exposed to it and wonder what to do with it.  Cutting into it at work may result in new rules for office-appropriate food.

Summer will soon give way to fall and more overripe vegetables that seem to whither and rot within the time span of a work day.  November 1 will eventually arrive, when leftover Halloween candy pushes away anything healthy and green in the office food spot.  The candy disappears quickly.  Except those few hard candies with partially open wrappers or broken lemon suckers, which seem to linger until they are mercifully discarded.