For the Birds

I think birds are cool. I watch them all the time.

At my former office I overlooked a home, if you will, for turkey vultures. Basically, they would land on the ledges of the building opposite me and hang out. In time I became quite a turkey vulture aficionado.

The turkey vulture is a graceful bird, although with a face only a mother could love; a turkey vulture mother, that is. Audubon described the turkey vulture as one of the most acrobatic of fliers and, having observed the flights of many turkey vultures at close hand, I would agree. They are both graceful and acrobatic.

But, more than flight, vultures display a complex social behavior. There are teenage vultures. Yes, I know that's frightening. Teenage vultures exhibit all of the delightful behaviors of teenagers: pushing, shoving, insulting and distain for authority.

I watched teenage vultures every day pull pranks on each other: pushing a sleeping vulture off a ledge, pecking a pal when his back is turned, pulling tail feathers and pooping on friends resting on the ledge below.

After a particularly good prank, on the vulture prank scale, the prankster would hunch his wings as if laughing. I could just hear the Beavis and Butthead huh-huh-huh as the wing "shoulders" shrugged up and down.

Over time I learned that vultures go through a specific wing ritual when landing. They stretch their wings way out then fold them in using two folding maneuvers. As I watched them land hour after hour I found that I could mimic their landing routine. Also, I learned how to hop and hang my head vulture-like.

Could it be that the vultures were watching me, too? I conducted some experiments where I would stand on my desk next to the window and mimic vulture movements anticipating that they would do the same. At times I thought they were looking at me, but I failed to obtain consistent results.

Once I was standing on my desk, arms outstretched, head hung low and doing the vulture hop when my boss walked in. Apparently he stood in the doorway for some minutes before clearing his voice, audibly, and remarking "Uh, what cha doing, Bill?"

I turned around, arms still outstretched and thought: "Merde." I tend to think in French when I'm in vulture-mode. Don't ask me why.

"Uh, well, um, er, you see, ah, I'm estimating the size of the database we're building."

"Oh," the boss looked speculative.

"Yeah, I think it's going to be *this* big," and I held out my arms wide, "and I think response is going to be like this," and I hopped up and down a little.

"I tried this before with great results," I continued, and I hopped up and down for emphasis.

My boss looked reflective, then turned to me and said, "Make sure you write this up and send it to R&D. You could be on to something here."

I folded my arms into my armpits vulture-like and hopped expertly down from the desk. I heard the boss shuffling down the hall to cause trouble elsewhere.

Slowly I turned to look out the window. Several of the teens were on the ledge watching me. Suddenly one of them outstretched his wings and hopped up and down. The other vultures watched and started hunching their shoulders: laughing.

"Ha ha," I mouthed, but this seemed to set them to hunching faster. Very funny, I thought, very funny indeed.

I flapped my arms a bit and did my best vulture dance. Then the teen with outstretched wings turned sideways to me and held out a single wing feather.

I couldn't believe it. I was being flipped off by a vulture. It was too much. I lowered my arms, grabbed my bag, turned off the lights and shrugged off to the elevator.

Much later at home I heard a familiar refrain: Hey, what's for dinner?

"Chicken," I replied, "lots and lots of chicken."

Kroger's, it appears, doesn't sell vulture.

Nit Noi Redux

Yesterday my usual lunch partner and I went to Nit Noi, a recently opened Thai restaurant very close to the office. We had soft spring rolls, a soup featuring coconut milk and lemon grass, and a chicken pad thai. The restaurant is small, charming, well lit and features large photographic scenes from Thailand. The service is quick and efficient and, most importantly, the food is very, very good.

Today my lunch partner was "tied up" with some business activity (really, why can't people get their priorities straight?) so I called my pal Larry who's always available for lunch. Just like me.

"Yo, Larry, have you been to that new Thai place on Dairy Ashford, Nit Noi?"

"Nope."

"Wanna go?"

"Maybe."

"Hey, babe, love the enthusiasm, love the enthu-si-asm! Tell you what, I'll drive, I'll select the best stuff to eat, I'll eat it and you pay."

"Huh?"

"Look, dude, I'm doing three things and you're doing one. All right, all right! You can eat, too. How 'bout it?"

"OK."

That's Larry for you, hard to get in a word edge-wise.

We met up in the hallway and moseyed out to the truck. I nattered on about Thai food, peanut sauce and the best way to grow lemon grass. Larry moseyed. Larry's probably about the best moseyer I know. At his pace, by the time we got to the truck I had finished with Thailand and was halfway through India. However, I cut short my culinary tour of India lest we get distracted and end up at the Bombay Buffet. I have only recently recovered from the last time we went there and ate 50 lbs of curry. There are people in the office who still give me "that look."

As we pulled into the Nit Noi parking lot I spied several empty slots. Great, we beat the crowd! Sure enough there were lots of empty tables. We eased into a couple of chairs and checked out the menu.

"Go ahead and check out the menu, but I already know what we're getting. No argument. You're going to love it," I enthused.

Our waiter materialized to take our drinks order and I ordered lunch. Same as yesterday: spring rolls, soup, pad thai.

With a loud POP our waiter appirated into the kitchen to place our order and I knew delights would be coming soon. Meanwhile, I hadn't seen Larry for a while so there was some catching up to do.

"How 'bout those Astros?"

"Huh?" Larry replied.

"Just kidding, old bud, just kidding," and I went into my theories of declining oil reserves, global warning, Africanized bees in South Texas, the inherent problems of anthropomorphic robot design, house paint formulations, the effect of fire ants on declining tick populations and a brief essay on what the Harry Potter novels would be like if they had been written by Charles Dickens.

Larry nodded occasionally.

Shortly, food arrived and we were enveloped in delicate aromas of basil, lemon grass, fish sauce and peanut. Remarkable! The soup is a little tricky to eat because it has slices of green onion, asparagus and lemon grass which look very much alike. Lemon grass, though, is tough like a twig and you have to be on your toes to avoid crunching down on it.

Between pauses to pick lemon grass stems out of my mouth I led discussions on how to use game theory to predict when everybody is going to decide to check-out at Kroger's, the effect of emoticons on writing skills, sexual preferences of Sims characters and the best way to lay a wood flooring in a humid environment.

Larry nodded occasionally.

I continued with an exposition Houston drivers, the hummingbird that pierced my cat's ear and how I finally got rid of a planters wart on my left foot.

I noticed that Larry had finished his lunch while I still had three-quarters to go. "Man, you must have been hungry!" I remarked.

Sensing a gap in the conversation I filled it with several humorous stories about my experiences at a tomahawk throwing school this summer. "And would you believe it? It just went *thunk* right into the target. Dead center. I took 50 or so pictures of it. Hey, I'll bring them in tomorrow and show you."

Larry checked his watch. I took the hint.

"Yeah, we better get going. That couple by the door have been staring at our table for half an hour", I noted.

The waiter materialized with our bill, Larry paid as per contract and in two shakes we were back in the truck and heading to the office. With exquisite timing I finished a discussion on refinishing kitchen cabinets - gloss or stain - and, as luck would have it, snagged a parking place close to the building. Woo hoo! Double score: great lunch and a close parking space.

We moseyed back to the office and I bid Larry farewell at the stairway.

"Hey, dude, great lunch, great conversation. Catch you later!"

"Uh huh," said Larry and he disappeared up the stairs.

Back at the office I called my lunch partner and told her I had gone to Nit Noi, again!, with Larry.

"How was it?" she asked.

"The food was superb, as usual, but you know the best thing about going to lunch with Larry?"

"No, what?" she replied.

"He's such a great conversationalist."

Laundry

Now, this is an exciting topic for a blog about food and life.

Laundry.

I'll confess right here. I don't understand laundry and frankly, Scarlett, I don't want to.

Here's my idea of washing clothes: put them in the machine, add laundry powder, liquid or tablets, press the button that says "Medium Load" and have a beer. When you hear the buzz, raise the lid, put the damp clothes in the dryer, press the button that says "Dry" (imagine that!) and have a beer.

Two beers later your clothes are washed and dried. Following this the most efficient approach is to leave them in the laundry basket and pull them out as needed, but if you have to get all Domestic about it you can "put them away" where they "belong", which, if I ruled the world, would be in the laundry basket!

Is that so difficult?

So, in another life I heard a voice intone "You're not going to wash that with that, are you?"

Well, obviously I was so I immediately fell back to the defensive position and said "No, why do you ask?" Answer a question with a question I always say.

"Oh, well, that will turn that that color and that just wouldn't do," came the voice from beyond.

"Well," I replied, "I like that color and that color and if that color became a lighter or darker shade of that color that would be OK by me."

*silence*

Over the years I've learned that *silence* in regards to laundry is a Bad Thing. The Intel 286 that is my brain quickly sorted through the alternatives.

"On the other hand," I said as if hypnotized, "I don't think I saw the dark, red thing that was hiding behind the nice white thing. Yeah, that's the ticket, stuff was hiding behind other stuff and I'm glad you were here to catch it."

(I added that last part for effect, but it seemed to work.) Soon the washing machine was humming along and I was able to crack open that beer.

Life is good, I thought. I contemplated the night...

Be Prepared

For what?

That's what I ask my Scouts. What do you need to be prepared for?

I get all kinds of answers. Be prepared for a hurricane. Be prepared for an earthquake. Be prepared for a volcano. Be prepared for an asteroid impact.

It's obvious that kids today are concerned about really big stuff. Adults, on the other hand, usually reply to be prepared for a tax audit, or a pulled hamstring, or a bad case of gas.

Yeah, been there and done that.

Then the precocious child will offer up the golden answer: be prepared for anything? They always phrase it as a question, unsure, seeking confirmation. That's the "right" answer, though. Be prepared for Life.

So, there we were in the forest. The August camping trip. As hot as hot can be in south Texas. My sweat was sweating.

I had spent the previous week in Seattle and could not perform my usual function of provisioning food and preparing a menu. I delegated that responsibility.

Now, as a bit of background, I have over the years amassed a vast collection of cooking tools, spices and ingredients. I think that without buying any food whatsoever and just using my "cooking box" I could feed an army for a week. Yeah, they would be eating pine bark but it would be exquisitely seasoned pine bark.

I was not too surprised, then, when my Assistant asked me if I had brought the "box."

"No," I replied, "I hadn't. I wasn't in charge of cooking on this trip so I just came with my personal stuff: tent and sleeping bag. No box."

"Oh," he said. "Well," he continued, "we really don't have much in the way of stuff. Like spoons and spices and stuff. I'm not sure, exactly, how we're going to cook for 15 people. I was sorta hoping..." He trailed off.

I surveyed the situation. We had onions, bell peppers, jalapenos, canned beans, tomatoes, orange juice, bacon, eggs, beef and chicken for fajitas and a bunch of other stuff. What was lacking was a plan.

At that point I heard in my mind the theme music for Iron Chef. Ah, so, the challenger, Scoutmaster Bill, has to create two dishes with the secret ingredient: canned beans!

No spices. But was that true? I thought, "What would Baden-Powell do?" I wear that bracelet, you know, WWBPD.

Well, BP wouldn't drain the canned beans because he needed the salt. So, in went the beans, juice and all. BP would have sauted the onions, peppers and jalapenos and that's what I did.

I grilled some onions and bell pepper with jalapeno. That would be heaped on the fajita meat in a tortilla to form the basis of the fajita.

I created a salsa with the red onion, fresh tomatoes, chopped jalapenos, cilantro and a splash of orange juice (pure genius!). The OJ took the edge off the red onion.

In short, the menu was boffo. Rave reviews on the salsa. Beans were "nicely seasoned" considering we had no seasoning other than the salt from the bean juice and pepper from the jalapenos.

I hope we did Baden-Powell proud. We did our best and although we were unprepared for our original plan, we were prepared to adapt and make the best of our situation.

Be prepared to do your best. Yeah, I think that will work.

Oh, and the results? We asked the kids at the end of the campout what they liked the best and what the hated the worst. The replies came as follows:

We liked the food. The food was great!
We hated the heat, humidity and bugs!

Woot! Food trumps bugs!

MS Food 1.0

You've probably seen those gags that satirize what X would be if Microsoft built it.

The Microsoft Car:

A particular model year of car wouldn't be available until after that year instead of before it.

Every time they repainted the lines on the road, you'd have to buy a new car.

Occasionally your car would just die for no reason, and you'd have to restart it. For some strange reason, you'd just accept this.

You could only have one person in the car at a time, unless you bought a Car XP or a Car 2003 (even though it's 2005). But then you'd have to buy more seats.

Apple Computer would make a car that was powered by the sun, twice as reliable, and five times as fast - but it would only run on 5 percent of the roads.

And other Microsoft products:

If Microsoft made shoes, they'd spend billions on marketing and pennies on the actual product.

If Microsoft made wine, they wouldn't wait until it was time.

If Microsoft made candy, it'd include a coupon for a "Microsoft Partner" dentist.

If Microsoft made maps, Redmond and Washington would be disproportionately large compared to the rest of the world.

But the question is, what's the food really like at Microsoft? I mean, if you actually went there what would be your real experience?

Well, I'm here to tell you that there are two things at the top of the list for Microsoft workers: food and fitness. Yes, it's true. And let me tell you a few more things about the folks at Microsoft, taking into account that I do not work for the company, rather I've been there and seen this with my very own eyes.

They take their food and fitness very seriously. At a recent Microsoft "customer event" we feasted on salmon and asparagus, wheat berry salads and lentils. We savored blue cheese with walnuts, grape tomatoes with feta, haddock and mango chutney. Desserts were balanced with fresh fruit offerings and always copious quantities of water. For every coffee pot there were three herbal tea pots. That was the typical food.

In fitness the Microsoft corporate campus invites walking. Situated on a hilly site in Redmond the numerous buildings are connectged by tree-lined trails and walkways. Backpacks replace briefcases. Running shoes substitute for wing tips. And most employees don't even know how to use an elevator. I think there's a volleyball game that's been going on continuously for 20 years. Maybe it just seems like 20 years!

So, that's it. Food and fitness. What a concept!

Microsoft Food

Can you imagine if Microsoft controlled your food?

Whoa, well I've been eating MSFT chow for a few days now and it's pretty good.

I need another posting to make the selections clear, etc. and I'll do that soon.

Meanwhile, Seattle is like Phoenix to live. Sunny, clear skies, cool temps. What a wonderful place! And the Microsoft Campus to boot!

Oh, Nirvana.

Seattle Cuisine Part 2

Programmers must be a hungry bunch. That's all I can say. Plus, here at Microsoft, the team working on Office 12 have been writing code and eating overtime.

Tonight we had a delightful dinner of chimichangas, both seafood and beef, bodacious margaritas and a wonderful outside atmosphere under clear skies and mild weather.

The locals tell us that it's always like this: sunny and clear, mild, dry and nice.

After three or four margaritas that starts to make sense.

As for Office 12 all I can think of is William Shatner hawking Priceline: it's gonna be big, really BIG.

Sunny Seattle

Here I am in Seattle and it's sunny, again. What's with the weather here? I came for some cloud. I came for some rain. I came to get cool and what do I get? Sun, sun and more sun. If I wanted sun I could have stayed in Houston.

Oh well.

I'm here all week visiting my pals at Microsoft. Yeah, I know I'm a Mac user and, in fact, I'm typing this on my trusty PowerBook at this very moment. But, I must say, Microsoft Word on the Mac is pretty cool. Checks my speling and everything.

Tonight we went to a restaurant here in Redmond and I had fish tacos. For those of you who have not had fish tacos it's a good treat. You can make them yourself, too.

These used halibut, lightly sauteed with a tangy, spicy mango sauce. As with all fish tacos I've had it was served with a nice cole slaw, guacamole and salsa. We started with oysters and calamari.

The halibut was very firm and tasty and the calamari was cooked to perfection, very tender. The place is called Matt's and I recommend it.

As for Microsoft, tonight we saw a preview of the next version of Office, code named Office 12, and it was Way Cool. And for me to say that about Microsoft, well, you can take that to the bank.

More reports on food and software later this week. For now, it's late and this stuffed hushpuppy is turning in.

l8r

Blog Clog

Have you had that dream where you can't move your feet without a whole lot of effort? You're trying to walk normally but your feet are glued to the sidewalk, you're wading through cold molasses and you

just. can't. pick. up. your. feet!

When I have that kind of dream I'm REALLY happy to wake up. I'm like Zippity Do Dah the rest of the day.

Mornin' Br'er Cat! Howz y'all this fyyyne mornin'?

And, yes, I do talk like that the rest of the day. I might even skip or run across the parking lot (with scissors) just because I can. Feet don't fail me now!

Now, imagine having that dream, only your awake, but it's not your feet, it's your fingers. And all that nerve stuff that commands your fingers to do their little dance across the keyboard is all glued together. That's been me all week. I stare at the blank page and

nothing.

I try to write and it doesn't happen. Just argle bargle. I typed a whole page of j's because my finger fell asleep and my mind went numb at the same time. I roused from my reverie to find a page of j's. I probably should have posted it. Best thing I wrote all week.

So, this evening I said to myself, "Self? Enough is enough. Get those fingers moving, Mister, and crank out something even if it's dreck. Dreck the halls!"

It could be that I'm unsettled. Here I am home-alone with the cats, an infinite supply of Tater Tots, nobody to gripe at me for watching the Who's Line Is It Anyway? marathon, every day, and I should be cranking out blogs like nobody's business but I'm stuck in the mud-glue-molasses-whatever.

Too much of nothing to do, actually. Being home-alone I had to do a whole lot of chores that I'd become used to sharing. I guess that running the entire ship of house by myself was more tiring than I cared to admit. By the time I got around to punching out a witty story I was done in, pooped, fatigued, and just plain tired.

Also, I think I was suffering from post-Potter depression. I read it was going around. After spending a few days immersed in the wizarding world here I was back in the real world and I wasn't adjusting well. I decided what I needed was a house elf, more like Dobby and less like Kreacher.

How cool would that be to have a house elf?

I think it would be way cool. But, tricky, yes, very tricky.

You would have to be careful with a house elf and spell things out exactly. Like you do with a teenager.

A house elf would look for every loophole. Like a teenager.

You might assign your house elf a simple task, but the elf would get distracted doing many other things, thus allowing the task to over ripen; much like a teenager would.

A house elf wouldn't talk back to you directly, but you would hear them mumbling and grumbling and stomping around. Like a teenager.

When things went missing, especially food, it would probably be the house elf. Hmm, much like a teenager.

House elf. Teenager. House elf. Teenager.

Could it be?

The teenager has been absent this week and not a Tater has totted off. The half-gallon of milk I bought three weeks ago is still in the fridge. Laundry hasn't piled up in the living room. This has to be more than a coincidence. I'll report back next week after the elf, er, teenager returns to let you know.

Home Alone

It's late Sunday afternoon and the Homer Simpson in me says we have to go to Kroger's to buy food. Mmmmmmmmm, fooooooood!

You don't have to tell me twice and in an instant Homer and I are in the truck heading down the highway, ZZ Top blaring out the windows. I checked out the pantry before we set off to see what we needed. In ordinary times I would have written a list, but we just needed to round out the edges so I had it all up here (tapping temple). No need for a list when you've got a mind like a steel sieve.

We parked way at the end of the aisle even though there were spots closer to the store. I like to do that. It drives the kids insane that I don't park closer, or pretend I'm pregnant (not a stretch) or incapacitated (hmmm, not a stretch, either) but it's become a habit and I've taken it so far as to include parking far away as part of my Fitness Program.

Homer and I grabbed a canteen of water and set off across the parking lot to Kroger's. Shortly, we arrived and found the place virtually empty. Bonus score! We'll be in and out in a jiff.

We wheeled the cart around the store like demons possessed and in short order we were ready to check out. In typical Kroger's Sunday afternoon fashion there was only one checkout line open, choked with several families shopping for treks across the Mongolian Desert. Just as I was thinking about the best laid plans of mice, Homers and men, a light caught my eye and checkout line Number Eight opened for business. Merciful sweet Butterfinger we were saved! Homer and I pivoted the cart and headed to the pole position.

The Old Hand greeted us warmly, asked for our Kroger's Plus Card (always at the ready!) and proceeded to check us out at flank speed.

Then he paused. "You appear to be 'Home Alone' with the cats this week."

"Oh, yeah," I replied, "What gives you that impression?"

"Well, for a start, you're shopping with an imaginary friend, and not a good influence either, if I may be so bold. Second, let's take an inventory of your weeks shopping: "

6-pack of Corona
Cat Chow
Tater Tots

"That's going to hold you for a week?" the Old Hand continued.

"Well, not exactly," I responded weakly, eying the Corona, knowing it would barely survive Monday, "I'll pick up something on Tuesday, maybe a Pho or curry or something." That sounded pretty pathetic, even to me; like a schoolboy caught without his homework

The Old Hand winced as if stung by a gnat, but recovered smoothly.

"You know," he mused, "we've got Gulf shrimp on special back there in Seafood. Came in just today and let me tell you those are the best shrimp I've ever pulled up. I threw out an extra net just for you, you know."

I looked down and the Old Hand's shoes were still wet. The salt was just starting to crust at the edge of his trousers.

The Old Hand continued, "Big shrimp, too, biggest I've seen in many a year. Big enough to stuff. We got crab, too. You owe it to yourself being home alone and such. Pick up some of those shrimp, stuff 'em with crab, wrap 'em in bacon and have a grand feast."

I looked at the Tater Tots defrosting in the cart and thought, yeah, that would be good but...

"Well, I'm sorta of watching my cholesterol, and, you know, shrimp are sorta of high, not to mention bacon..." My excuses sounded weak. Tater Tots, geeze Louise, they must be a zillion points; each!

In the end I couldn't escape the logic and I began to build a dinner around the shrimp entree. Well, I thought, we could do a rice pilaf with red bell pepper and black beans. A jalapeno corn bread would be nice, a green salad and a chardonnay, maybe a Chalk Creek.

With the seafood section in sight I pivoted the cart and started to get the items for my new dinner list when the Old Hand called me back.

"No need to be hasty," he said, "I happen to have some stuff here at the register." And with that he rang up shrimp, crab, rice, red bell peppers and the other ingredients I needed finishing with a Chalk Creek chardonnay, 2001.

As the sacker was loading the groceries I muttered "A box of Kix?"

"You're almost out," intoned the Old Hand.

I paid by credit card, Homer rejoined me and soon we were on the way, feast in hand, and I was planning the cooking as we headed home. Back at the ranch we unpacked the booty and it struck me that I forgot to buy a can of Pounce.

Sandy the cat lives for Pounce, or so he'd let you think. You can't say the word "pounce" without Sandy bounding across the room with his "me! me!" face on. Rats, I thought, I got the cat chow, but forgot the Pounce.

But, as I rummaged through the last bag I came across something new: Caribbean Flavor Pounce.

"What's this," I said aloud, "Caribbean Flavor Pounce?" It must have been my imagination but I thought I heard Sandy say "Meow, mon." I broke the seal and tossed him a few.

You know, there might be something like too much Home Alone.

Mr. Plow

My favorite Simpson's episode. OK, truth be told I have a lot of favorites, but Mr. Plow is way up there.

I'm Mr. Plow, that's the name!
That name again is Mr. Plow!

Who couldn't fall in love with that jingle.

Speaking of plowing, I finally finished Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince. I know who dies (boo hoo) and who the Half-Blood Prince is and I'm not saying another word about it.

So, on to the next and final book Ms. Rowling, if you please. Start writing tonight!

Let me guess. Harry defeats Voldemort in a cliff-hanging duel of epic proportions. (And that's only the tip of the iceberg of my predictive abilities. Only the tip.) And, in a surprising twist, Hugh Hefner takes a shine to Hermione when he finds out she's one of identical quintuplets. The valium maximus spell takes on a whole new meaning.

I think I'll read Book One again this weekend. All my other projects aren't quite as ripe as this.

Owl Mail

A little while ago, at precisely 10:00 am three things happened simultaneously.

I slurpped down the remains of my third cup of coffee.

My watch made its beep-beep sound.

And there was a peck at the door.

Peck? That's strange. Usually there's a knock. Knuckles on wood. The doorbell's broken, you see, which is why I'm used to hearing knuckles rapping instead of a melodious ding-dong. Broken is too strong a word, though. "Out of Order" is more like it. Those of you who have read my Theory of Procrastination* suspect that the Doorbell Job simply hasn't ripened enough to necessitate work. Alas, that's not exactly true. The Doorbell Job is overripe and, in fact, I did attempt to fix it once.

"Attempt" being the operative word here explains why there is rap-rap and not ding-dong.

Back to the unexpected pecking. Engrossed as I was in a food blog describing a recipe for Cherry Clafoutis and not wanting to move lest I shift suddenly three cups of coffee to my lower regions, I called out:

"Who is it?"

"Who," came the reply.

"WHO is it?" I repeated.

"Who," came the reply.

Exasperated, I got up and headed to the front door, "WHO IS IIIIIITTTTT?"

I pulled open the front door and was surprised by a great WHOOOSH as something very big swooped up into the sky, around the big tree and over the roof. As I stood there wondering about the effects of three cups of coffee before 10 am, a single white feather drifted down lazily. Absently, I watched it drift down, down, down, down until it landed on the sidewalk next to a book-sized box.

The side of the box was emblazoned "Amazon.com." On the opposite site was written "Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince."

I picked up the box, heavy little sucker. This is going to take some time to read. I then thought about my defunct doorbell and the other hundred or so items on my Saturday To Do List.

What to do, what to do? Book? List? Book? List?

I looked at my To Do list again.

Not ripe enough, I thought, definitely not ripe enough.

Chapter 1, page 1..."It was nearing midnight and the Prime Minister was sitting alone in his office, reading a long memo that was slipping through his brain without leaving the slightest trace of meaning behind."

Ah, been there, done that.




*Theory of Procrastination - What Happened later

Chipmunk Menu

Let's say that you don't like a bunch of people. Furthermore, you want to get rid of them. Not in the Soprano's way, but you just want them to leave you alone. Forever. What do you do?

Well, you could send them a letter stating that "You suck. Never darken my doorway again."

Or, you could be more subtle and invite them to a Chipmunk Bar-B-Que. Now, I'm not suggesting that you serve mini-bears to your guests, rather that you serve mini-bear food to your guests. This will ensure that they, your guests, never darken your doorway again.

A typical mini-bear menu might be as follows:

Appetizers:

Pork Heart Stick
Dried Apricot Pits

Salad:

none

Soup:

none Unless you consider luke warm water soup.

Entree:

Rice Krispie Bar
Ritz Cracker Pak
Chicken-of-the-Sea Tuna Pouch
Squeeze Cheese (origin unknown, possibly Bulgarian)

Dessert:

Dried Apricot Pits (see above)

It turns out that this people-phobic menu is a Chipmunk-philic menu. As I recall, I witnessed a Chipmunk conga-ing into the forest wearing a Charlie Tuna pouch on his head.

Unfortunately, I left my toothbrush on a rock and never saw it again. Or did I?

Mini Bears

Chipmunks.

Bah, I say.

Oh, yeah, you're thinking Chip and Dale. Cute little cartoon characters with high-pitched voices and endearing antics. You're thinking Alvin and "Christmas time is almost here..." falsetto. The following words come to mind: scampering, cute, frisky, beady-eyed, cute, cute and cute.

You're thinking Cute Chipmunks. Basically light brown with black racing stripes. Buck teeth. Perky ears. The Mary Tyler Moore of the Animal Kingdom. PETA mascot. Coochie coochie cuuute.

Well, beam me up, Scotty, we're not on that Class "M" planet (M for Munk). No, we're on the Teenage Mutant Ninja Chipmunk from Hell planet.

On this planet, located near Cimarron, New Mexico, chipmunks are known as Mini-Bears. They're just like a black bear or a cinnamon bear or a brown bear. Same appetite, same nose for food, same teeth and same attitude...only in miniature. Mini. Twelve inch wheels. Four cylinder. Manual transmission. Sports package. Don't forget the racing stripes.

The first mini-bear attack was launched about midnight on our first night at Philmont Scout Ranch. I heard some rustling in the tent but thought it was the wind. Yeah, it's always the wind. Mummy wind. Werewolf wind. Vampire wind. Frankenstein wind. Zombie wind.

Hey, what's that noise? It's just the wind. Go back to sleep. And you wake up dead.

Chipmunk wind.

Did I hear...

"Christmas time is almost here, time for fun, time to eat gear..."

Nah. Just my imagination. I rolled over and fell asleep to the rhythmic sounds of mini-bears gnawing their way through my food supply, visions of dried plums and granola dancing through my head.

Morning broke like a bad Cat Stevens song and I awoke chipper as a chipmunk. I swung my legs off my bunk and my feet landed squarely in a puddle of grape jelly.

Now, I don't know about you and how your start your day, but I usually start my day by standing on carpet, or, if I'm camping, on wood or stone or dirt, but rarely do I start my day standing in a puddle of grape jelly.

I wiggled my toes.

Yep, that's grape jelly alright. I looked down. Confirmed.

During the night the mini-bears had gnawed through the food packets, dragged the jelly packets into the middle of the tent floor, had a party and left the mess for me to step into.

Thanks, guys, it was real.

Being quite the Naturalist I was non plussesd by the sticky foot treatment. I peered at the floor and discovered tiny purple footprints leading out the back flap. Carefully, I opened the flap and beheld my worst nightmare. There in the dirt before me were the footprints of scores of mini-bears. All purple. It was a grape jelly rave to be sure. Without a doubt was the unmistakable outline of a grape jelly-induced chipmunk conga line. That explained the high-pitched refrain in my dream that night.

"One, two three...HUH. Four, five, six...HUH."

Their footprints trailed off into the distance. Hmmm, exactly in the direction of our next camp.

Ah, ha, my little Beasties! We shall meet again!

One, two, three...Huh!

Gone Fishing

I don't fish. But I'll be gone.

Two weeks in the mountains of New Mexico.

See y'all in July!

A Trifle

I scream! You scream! We all scream for ice cream!

Nothing sparks a conversation more than a discussion about desserts. We all love desserts even if we are Good Little Weight Watchers and don't eat them, but grind our teeth at night instead.

Talk is both cheap and fat free, so here are my All Time Favorite Desserts, in order of my thoughts and nothing more.

Apple pie with vanilla ice cream. Substitute peach pie or cherry pie or any fruit pie. Don't forget the vanilla ice cream.

Passion Killer. This is a dessert recipe we found in a microwave cook book of all places that involves cocoa, water, flour, butter and other stuff, buzzed up in a microwave for like 10 minutes. It produces a cake on top and a pudding bottom. Actually, it's more like a rich chocolate sauce than a pudding. Two or three helpings after a romantic dinner led to its name. It could have been called the Great Chocolate Sleeping Potion, too.

New York Cheesecake. Say no more.

Flaming Grand Marnier hot orange souffle. Only in France.

Carrot cake with cream cheese icing.

French silk chocolate pie.

Finally, my number one, all time favorite dessert of all time:

English Trifle a la Helen. Layers of goodness with cream, fruit, sponge cake, sherry, custard and sherry. Did I mention sherry? Not to be trifled with, I assure you.

Google This

Rats, I needed a calculator.

I opened the desk drawer only to discover that my trusty Hewlett-Packard 10-C was not in its usual spot. I moved some stuff around. Nothing. I gave the drawer a good rummage. Still nothing.

Well, that's the pits. I wonder where it went? Probably sprouted legs and walked off. I checked under the desk and on the shelf. Nothing.

"Hey!" I shouted, "anyone seen my calculator?"

"Whaaaaat?"

"Anybody seen my CALCULATOR?"

"Whaaaat? It's in the drawer!"

"No, it's not! It's GONE!"

"Well, stop YELLING about it and get another calculator."

Get another calculator. Bah! I didn't want another calculator. I wanted MY calculator. I wanted my HP 10-C! I gave the desk drawer another rummage just in case it had teleported back from the Tenth Dimension, you know, the one where single socks go. Nothing.

So, I got up, walked down the hall and looked on Sarah's desk. CD's, walkman, watercolor paint box, cat treats, Archie comics. Oh, Archie comics! What's old Jughead up to? Oh, look, he's bumming hamburgers off of Archie! That Jughead, he's a regular laff riot.

Ah, ha! Finally. Sarah's calculator. Texas Instruments. I looked at the keyboard. Yes, there was the dreaded "equals" key.

"Inferior TI piece of junk," I thought, "still sporting the old equals key, eh?"

I tried not to think about my missing HP 10-C. No "equals" key there. No sirree, not to be found. Reverse Polish Notation didn't need no stinkin' "equals" key. Yep, no doubt about it, I was an RPN Snob and proud of it.

I snatched up the TI, anyway, and headed back to the study.

Click. Nothing.

Click click. Nothing.

Clickity click click click CLICKITY CLICK. Nothing.

I turned over the TI, opened the battery hatch and gazed at an empty bay. Four little slots which should be holding an AA battery each stared back. I had a bad feeling about this.

"Hey!" I shouted, "anybody got some double-A batteries?"

"Whaaaat?"

"I said, anybody got some ... oh, never mind."

"Whaaaaat?

"I said NEVER MIND!!"

"Well, QUIT SHOUTING THEN!"

I sighed, went downstairs to the kitchen and paused in front of the Junk Drawer.

Every kitchen on the planet has a Junk Drawer. Things that for some mysterious reason don't deserve a drawer of their own end up in the Junk Drawer. We have a silverware drawer, a towel drawer, a kitchen things drawer and a first aid stuff drawer. You'd think we'd have a Battery Drawer if for no other reason than to prevent what was about to happen.

I pulled open the Junk Drawer and was greeted by Junk. Not just a scattering of Junk. Not Junk that was organized and categorized, specialized and sanitized. Nope. This was pure twenty-first century debris. Bits and pieces of everything: pens without ink, pencils with broken tips, dried fingernail polish, solidified glue, shoelaces, Post-It sticker pads, marbles, a yo-yo without string, my old 20 Mb disc drive that I was going to fix some day and a comprehensive collection of refrigerator magnets.

After a few minutes zeroing in on batteries I pulled out the following:

Three 8-packs of AAA batteries.
Five D-cells.
Four 9-volts.
Sixteen 3.5 volt camera batteries.
One rechargable battery for a camera we lost four years ago.

I looked at the useless pile of junk and scraped it back into the Junk Drawer to ferment for a few more years. Maybe they'd all mate and produce some AA's.

As I trudged back upstairs, lamenting the loss of my beloved HP 10-C, undoubtedly abducted by aliens or swept out to sea, I thought about how cool it would be to be able to Google some AA's. That would be cool. Type in "AA batteries" into Google and it would come back with "behind the couch in the TV room." Or I could Google "where's my HP 10-C" and it would return with "half-way to Alpha Centauri." Yeah, that would be my luck. Maybe I could Google my calculation.

Google my calculation.

Google my calculation! That's it! I CAN Google my calculation. Google has a calculator! All I have to do is type it in, hit Return and bingo!

I leapt up the stairs two at a time, ran into the study, dived into the chair and wiggled the mouse. Screen saver. Come on, come ON!

Finally. I clicked on the search box and typed.

"76 / 19"

I pressed Return.

Instantly Google spit back: 4

Ah, 4. I thought so.

Thanks, Al

Thank you, Al Gore, for inventing the Internet.

Specifically, thank you for on-line flower companies.

I received the following email the other day:

"Hello Flowers Customer! Your wedding anniversary is within 24 hours and we can save your life for $49.95!"

Well, wasn't that nice?

I clicked on the Happy Flowers Icon and was zapped to the Flowers site.

"How much trouble are you in? Low Medium High

I clicked Medium.

"How many anniversaries have you forgotten? Low Medium High

I hesitated, searched my soul, and clicked Medium.

"How much do you value your wife?" Low Medium High

I paused. Hmmm, what if she gets a report? Then what?

I clicked High.

The website thought about my answers for a few seconds and spit out the following:

"Congratulations, Considerate Spouse! You have selected the Vast Array of Forgiveness (vase extra). Click Accept to continue."

I looked at the text. I looked at the price. I think my heart skipped a few beats.

Of course, I clicked Accept.

Much later...

...the phone rang.

"Yello!?" ( I like the Simpson's touch )

"Hey, honey, you'll never guess what arrived by special delivery just now."

"Uh, a pink platypus in a tutu?"

"No, silly! You know!! The most gorgeous bunch of flowers. And the guys in the trucks are still bringing them in.

Guys? Trucks? Geeze Louize that price must have been in Euros!

"Honey, y'a still there? Well, this puts us Even Steven. I forgive all your previous transgressions. Even the time you swore you didn't put hot sauce on the ribs and it dissolved my front tooth."

Yikes, I thought, I hit the jackpot! Thank you Flowers online. I owe you big time!

(Yes you do, Bud, yes you do, indeed!)

Maria and the Rut

I'm in a lunch rut.

I go to the cafeteria every day and order the same thing from Maria, the Sandwich Lady: tuna salad on wheat, lettuce, tomato, mayo and a dill wedge on the side.

Every day.

I knew I was in a rut when I stood in line for, like, ten minutes, and when I got to the counter Maria had my sandwich all boxed up and ready to go.

"Here your are, Mr. Bill," she beamed, "ready to go!"

I smiled, took my sandwich and sloped off.

To establish some perspective, this has been going on for years. And I can tell you that I'm getting mighty tired of tuna on wheat. Mighty tired.

Once I had this dream where I showed up to the counter armed with a Twinkie gun and I shot, rather, splattered, the place up with rounds of Twinkies. After everybody headed for the hills, I vaulted over the counter and fixed myself a triple-decker peanut butter and banana sandwich! Oh, yeah, babe, who's the man! Who's the man!

So, today, with that dream freshly in mind I decided to take charge. Be someone. Be the man! I decided to order...something else.

But what? There was a daily menu posted. I knew that. It had things like Curried Chicken Ceasar, and Southwestern Turkey Wrap, and New York Rye Surprise, but those specials changed daily. I couldn't just go up to Marie and order "The Special" because she would ask "Which special?" and I'd be sunk.

I solved the problem by sneaking around the cafeteria minutes after it opened. I casually strolled around the food courts feining interest in this and that, but zeroing in on Maria's Sandwich Bar. The special was Italian Antepasto Wrap.

Right. IAW it would be.

I got in queue. I practiced my patter. "Maria? I'd like the special, the Italian Antepasto Wrap, today." Why, thank you. Very nice, I'm sure I'll enjoy it. Thanks a bunch. Say "hi" to Guido for me!

The Italian Antepasto Wrap looked great. Cheese, thinly sliced meat, peppers, salad and a Zesty Italian dressing; mouth watering. I was ready for two!

Finally, I got up to the bar. Maria and I stood eye-to-eye.

I said, "I'd like the special, today, the Italian Antepasto Wrap."

Maria blinked.

I repeated myself. "The Italian Wrap please."

Maria blinked, and a small tear formed in the corner of her left eye. "You no want my special tuna sandwich?", it was hardly a whisper. "I made it for you. Special. Like every day."

Maria's bottom lip began to quiver. "You no like my tuna?" A tear formed at the corner of her right eye.

"Ah," I said, "sorry, Maria, I wasn't clear. What I meant to say was this."

I cleared my voice. Maria was trembling.

"I'd like your very special tuna sandwich, your very delicious tuna sandwich, your very own creation, for myself...AND...I'd like an Italian Antepasto Wrap for my unfortunate colleague who is stuck in a budget meeting and who might die if he doesn't get your exquisite wrap."

Maria brightened considerably, pulled out a tuna-in-a-box from under the counter and proceeded to construct a wrap.

Finally, she handed me both boxes and said, cheerfully, "Here's you lunch, Mister Bill, enjoy and your friend enjoy, too!"

I went through the line and paid for both lunches. As I walked back to my office, tuna in one hand, wrap in the other I passed a trash can.

I paused.

Looking at the age old tuna sandwich and the delightful wrap, the wrap I coveted, I made a decison.

Maria, babe, you're the one.

I tossed the wrap and headed back to my cubicle with my tuna special. Yeah, Maria, you're special.

Angelina Jolie and Some Guy

Today we saw the "Mrs. Smith and Whatzis Name" film staring Angelina Jolie. I think I've locked in my nomination for Best Actress, 2005, already! Angelina was fantastic. She can pout, shoot, drive, slide down a wire, cook, pout, throw knives, pout and look serious. Seriously, she is totally believable looking serious. Must be method acting.

The plot is about a super cool spy, Angelina, who's married to some loser and I can't remember what he does for a living, other than living in the shadow of his wife. Hey, maybe that was the plot line! He's a jealous loser trying to foster some artificial respect. Whatever.

Anyway, Angelina is tired of this loser guy and decides to cash in on the pre-nup agreement by running him off. She arranges this garden party, but loser husband burns down the house trying to light the bar-b-que pit and it's like a double win because Angelina makes off with the pre-nup money, and the house insurance! Angelina is so cool and smart to boot. When all this happens she fakes a pout, but she's really being serious. I nearly cried.

I don't remember what happened to the husband. I think he had a couple of cameo appearances later in the film.

So, the rest of the film showcases Angelina's fantastic driving ability, highlights her gourmet cooking style, and follows her through a day as CEO of her company. Very impressive if you ask me. They should have titled the film "Angelina Jolie" or maybe the jazzier "AJ."

I'm looking forward to the next Angelina Jolie film, and, hopefully, it won't be with whatzisname.

Pour Genius

Today was a Starbucks day. I slapped the snooze button until it started slapping itself to prevent getting hit. I had intended to take the day off, but at the last minute decided to do a half-day in the morning. Thus, I was trapped in the Twilight Zone between needing to take a day off and needing to go to work. At last I hauled myself out of bed.

Late as it was by now I decided to forgo breakfast and pick up a brew at Starbucks on the way. Fortunately, I was half asleep making that decision.

I stumbled into the Starbucks realizing that I couldn't remember if I had driven or not, but, of course, I had...I think. The Old Hand was at the counter.

"Grande, coffee of the day, room for cream," he said and proceeded to pour a cup.

I was silent.

"Kroger's card, sir? Ah, this is your lucky day! Free cup!" He handed the hot grande to my outstreatched claw.

Silent.

"Oh, by the way, there's a wreck on the Beltway at the toll booth. I'd take Highway 6 to Westheimer and cut across to Dairy Ashford. That will avoid the sinkhole that formed on Eldridge last night."

"Thanks," I muttered and strode off into the dawn.

Much later at work I overheard a conversation:

"Man, did you see that mess on the Beltway? It took me 90 minutes to get in."

"Oh, yeah, that's nothing. I was cruising up Eldridge and suddenly we all stopped. Turns out a big old sinkhole formed in the night and we were stuck there in Gridlock for two hours!"

Meanwhile, I got my work done early and decided to call it a day at 10. OK, that's a little early to call it a day.

10:30

Stupid Cats

My cats are stupid. No doubt about it. Lazy, too. Did I mention lazy? Lazy and Stupid. If I'd some foresight I would have named them Lazy and Stupid instead of Sandy and Nobbs. A little kitten, though, does not provide the clues necessary to determine if a cat will grow up to be lazy or stupid, but take if from me, a long time cat owner, one of the two traits will predominate.

Let's start with lazy. Sandy lounges around the flower bed all day. That's after he's had a morning snack. He meows at the bedroom window in the morning so I'll get up, let him in and pour him a snack of his favorite Cat Chow. I trained him to do that.

I then stumble back to bed to wait for Nobbs to begin his morning ritual. He paws at the bedroom window, about 30 minutes after Sandy, for me to get up and pour him a bowl of his favorite Cat Chow which is different, of course, from Sandy's. I trained him to do that, too.

I stumble back to bed.

At wake-up time I rise, shower, dress, pick up the morning paper and pour myself a cup of coffee from our automatic coffee maker which, hopefully, has been loaded and primed the night before and ready to deliver its life-restoring brew. Often, that is not the case. Mental note: must train the cats to do coffee.

The cats, meanwhile, mill around ready for their breakfast. So, before I make breakfast for myself I feed the cats some charming entree like Sliced Dead Bird or Month Old Tuna. I deduced those names from the smell. Cats happily chomping on their favorite dead thing, I pour myself the remains of Cheerios, mostly dust, or the remains of Special K, mostly dust, slop on some milk and choke it down.

It's hard to concentrate to read the morning paper above all the purring. I trained them to do that.

Sandy hops up on the table and finishes the milk in my cereal bowl. I trained him to do that.

By the time I'm ready to go to work Sandy is sacked out on the living room couch and Nobbs is curled up on my pillow. I trained them to do that.

On the way to work, dodging idiots on the Beltway, I think about the poor cats, stuck in or around the house all day, nothing to do but sleep or chase small critters. I break hard for a Super Idiot cutting in line seconds before the toll booth. Heart racing. OK, not dead, accelerate and cut off a Jetta, driver talking on a cell phone. So long, sucker! Heh, heh! I'll save microseconds getting to work after that maneuver.

I pull into the parking lot and manage to cut off a Honda that hesitated in front of the only slot in the row. The driver flipped me off. I waved back and pointed to the slot, "Mine! Have a nice day!"

As I walked into the main building I thought of the 100 email messages awaiting me, a safety meeting, the fact I'm a zillion dollars over budget, impending layoffs, the dreaded meeting with the Idiot Customer and the fact I left my money at home and would have to bum lunch from someone. Typical day. The coffee machine was mostly broken and gave me a cup of luke warm brown water. Score, at least it's brown!

On my way to my office I pass my boss. "Yo, Bro, Sup?", I say in my most professional manner.

"Veep presentation is today, not tomorrow. You are ready, aren't you? It's VERY important. (to me)," he intones.

"Oh, yeah, Sir, yes Sir, three bags full, presentation ready since last week. No prob. See you at 9!", I reply walking faster, "Break a leg!", I hope.

Presentation at 9am, hmm, all I need to do is change "2004" to "2005" and who will know the difference. Besides, retirement is looking like a good option.

I thought about the stupid cats. "Stupid cats," I thought, "sleeping their days away in the house. Nothing do but hang out." I trained them to do that.

Stupid cats.

Time to Cook

"What are your plans for dinner?"

"I ain't got no stinking plans," I replied in my best Clint Eastwood accent.

"What ingredients do you have?"

"I ain't got no stinking ingredients," I lied because the fridge was full of stinking ingredients. That, itself, was a problem. "Just pick something up and I'll make a plan, " I continued. That would buy me some time so I could take a nap, hoping inspiration came to me in a dream.

All too soon, though, the expedition returned and Pork and Red Peppers were on the menu.

Well, I thought, I'll just start cooking and see if the Muse arrives at just the right time. Here's what became the plan:

chop and fry some bacon in the big Le Creuset pot.
chop and add an onion
chop and add a leftover piece of andouille sausage
chop and add a jalapeno pepper
chop and add two red bell peppers
scrape a hole in the sauted stuff and add 4 boneless pork chops
add a stock cube, about 4 cups of water
chop and add 3 small red potatoes (afterthought)
chop and add 2 tomatoes (well, they were there so what the heck)
cover and simmer for a couple of hours

My general rule of thumb is that 2 hours of cooking will make most things edible if not fantastic. Sometimes the third hour is the charm, especially with stews and chili. Never underestimate the power of time.

After a couple of hours the broth had turned a red-brown and smelled fantastic. I sampled it with a spoon and was not disappointed. Very rich and complex. The red pepper had imparted a very robust flavor and the jalapno provided just enough bite without making the soup unpleasant.

We served it in bowls over a little rice, accompanied by fresh steamed asparagus, chilled and marinated for a few minutes in a vinaigrette. Topped off with a Mirassou Pinot Noir I think we did well for no plans and no ingredients.

Will I be able to recreate this dish? Who knows. Probably not, exactly. The general theme of a thin broth pork stew will be possible, but depending on the ingredients and the mood of the chef the mileage will vary, as they say.

That's what I like best about cooking, though, the challenge of creating something new, unique, interesting and tasty given a set of ingredients, a pantry full of spices and my experience and creativity. It's a joy for the chef and diner alike.

Tick Tock

Sandy the Cat was feeling friendly. He hopped on the couch and stretched out next to me. Sandy is cool. He knows just when to bug you and when to leave you alone. Today he decided not to walk across my keyboard and cause me to type hl'sl dhlhh se0n.kld shoofd. Thank you, Sandy.

As he settled into his corner of the couch he performed his usual Lick Routine, which I take particular care NOT to watch, and then gave a huge yawn.

That's when I saw the Spot.

Sandy doesn't have spots. Sandy is an orange, short haired cat with no spots. A few stripes maybe, but no spots. Especially dark, round spots under his chin.

Hmmm, could it be food, or oil or paint? I had to have a look and that's when I discovered the Tick.

Ohh, yuck, a tick! And, oh, man, did it look like a Big Tick. Not my cup of tea, I can tell you. Ticks.

I remember as a kid a family who lived down the street who had a couple of dogs who were always getting into ticks. They would have these great grey lumps sticking out of their fur that their owner would grab and yank. I hated that. Absolutely disgusting.

I've had a few ticks on me in my day and I've been totally freaked out by them. I am not a cool tick person.

So, that left me with poor old Sandy who was becoming anemic by the second as the infamous tick sucked the life blood out of my cat. OK, I've got to do something. I grabbed a paper towel, latched onto Sandy (who was not to happy about this whole affair) and dug into his chin to extract the foul insect.

Grabbing firmly I yanked and got...nothing. Wha? I checked the paper towel and there in my hand was a "tick" only it wasn't a real tick. It was a black piece of gunk that looked like a tick. Of course, I gave it a sniff.

Hickory.

It appears that Sandy had been hanging around the BBQ pit and got some drippings caught in his fur. He only didn't lick it off because his tongue isn't that long!

Not a tick. BBQ sauce.

Yeah, I knew it all along.

Lawnmower Man

I Googled "St. Augustine" and found out he's the Patron Saint of Landscaping Companies.

That explains why so much of the stuff is planted down here in south Texas. It's a tough grass for a tough state. Fast growing, too. Just the other day I was out in the front yard and after a few minutes I was several inches higher off the ground. I felt like a fakir on a bed of nails.

I tried mowing the stuff. Once. My mower was a Binford 3000 Multi-capuchino Earth Tamer. I say "was," may it rest in peace, because it barely made it around one circuit of the yard before it collapsed into a weeping, whining pile of protesting parts. I wasn't far behind.

The blades of grass hadn't even been cut; only bent. And as I sat there gasping and comforting my dying lawnmower I watched as the blades slowly righted themselves in defiance. It must have been my imagination that saw the blades wearing tiny black gloves.

Grass Power!

Okie, dokie, maybe I could declare my property a National Grasslands Reserve. Mental note: swing by PetSmart and buy prairie dog.

What's with this stuff? I remember living in a state far, far away where only Rye Grass would grow. Rye is the Rodney Dangerfield of grass. All you have to do is threaten it and it will cut itself.

I'd stand in the front yard, beer in hand, and muse "Hmm, I think I'll have to get the old mower out this weekend." And I'd hear all this weeping and gnashing of grass teeth as they cut themselves down to Homeowner Organization regulation size.

"Thanks, boys, pleasure doing business with you."

Now, the game is different. Rye is T-ball. St. Augustine is Major League. Time to call in the pros.

The Landscaping Guy, Guido, seemed quite nice.

"Youse just needs to sign dis line, Mister Bill, and don't worry about all that lien stuff. Heh, heh, heh, lawyers! Can't live wit 'em, too much trouble to bury 'em. Heh, heh, heh!"

The next morning at 6am sharp I heard the quiet thump-thump-thump of Special Forces Blackhawk Helicopters. Dreaming, I thought. No helicopters.

Not dreaming. Guido and the rest of the lawn commandos descended deftly down ropes, gear in hand, to the terrain below. Armed with 50-mm diamond weed whackers and Bradley fighting mowers they charged up and down the lawn attacking everything that moved, or didn't move. Grass blades flew. Leaves shot skyward. Huge plumes of gasoline exhaust rose in the dawn.

Predictably I heard Guido exclaim, cigar clenched in his teeth, weed whacker glowing in heat, "God, I love the smell of burning chlorophyl in the morning!"

Then, as soon as it started, it was over. The troops retreated under covering fire. The helicopters disappeared across the horizon. I ventured out the front door only to witness the sweeping up operation. Bundles of grass blades wearing tiny, orange jumpsuits were being blown-marched down the street guarded by the Lawn Patrol.

Guido strode up, invoice in hand.

"That's a mow, trim, bag and mulch," he said. "We had a few casualties. That's extra." He held out the invoice.

"No problem, Colonel, " I replied, stood at attention and gave him a heartfelt salute.

Colonel Guido returned the salute, smiled, turned and sauntered down the street, disappearing into the morning haze. As I walked back to the house I thought I heard a voice in the distance...

"I shall return!"

Comforted, I closed the door behind me and thought "Oh, yeah!"

Home Work

Most of the calls I get at work are from people with problems. At least they're technical problems. I couldn't face getting a call at 8 am from someone complaining that they woke up with something green growing on their cheek.

"Which cheek?" I wouldn't really want to know.

This morning was only marginally better.

*ring* *ring*

"Yello?" (I like answering the phone with "yello" like Homer Simpson. It sets the expectations for the caller.)

"I've got a problem."

"Don't we all, babe, don't we all. Wazzup?" (If anything, I like to maintain a professional tone)

"I'm getting this message on the computer."

"Oh, yeah? Is it from Elvis or what?", is my witty rejoinder. Try to lighten up a grim situation.

"No, it's from the Tropic Stick Minimizer, or something. I don't remember 'xactly."

"Oh, that sounds serious. Are you calling from near the equator?"

"No, I'm calling from Houston."

"Close enough," I said, "close enough. But, you know, it probably wasn't the Tropic Stick Minimizer or something. Can you make the message come back?"

"How do I do that?"

"Easy. Say Awah Tago Siam three times and hit the Enter key." I hear chanting, a click and

"Oh, yeah, there it is."

"Ok, sweetie, my x-ray vision needs a new battery this morning. What does it say exactly? Spell it for me if you have to but be EXACT!"

"Tee Cee Pee Eye Pee Conflict. Duplicate Tee Cee Pee Eye Pee address."

I took a slug of my Extra Latte Turbocharged Capo-macho-chino 9X MochaBrew and waited for the bazillion caffeine molecules to course their way to my brain.

Suddenly, it all began to clear.

Networks! What a complication. Routers, hubs, wireless access points, antennas. Not good with a power failure. Very, very complicated. This required a delicate solution. I thought of the Wicked Witch of the West plotting her plots: These things must be done Del-i-ket-ly!

I thought and I thought until my thinker was sore: Storm. Last night. Power blackout. Routers down. DHCP. No doubt the router had reset and reissued IP addresses through DHCP to all the devices on campus; printers, PC's. I visualized the pulsating interglobal network of electrons zipping around the World at the speed of light. Hubs, relays, data centers, multinational corporations, Martha Stewart!

Then, it came to me in a flash! Mentally, I calculated the flux rate of the framastat and cross-multiplied that against the Murphy Coil applying the Widget Factor. Squared.

Eureka! I had it!

"Reboot", I said.

"Huh?"

"Reboot your computer, sweetie pie, and all will be clam, er, calm."

I heard the bongs, chimes, melodic symphony of software and machine pulling itself together.

"Well?", I enquired.

"Hey, thanks! That did it, Dad, you're a genius. See you tonight when you get home from work!"

"No prob, Claire," I said, "what are dad's for?"

Like I said, I hate getting calls in the morning, especially from home. Too much work if you ask me.

Adventure

Right out of high school a friend of mine and I went on An Adventure. With a little bit of planning we set off in a car to circumnavigate the United States.

The short story is that we made it from Phoenix, heading east, all the way around to Seattle where we ran out of time and money. My friend drove home to Minnesota and I flew home to Phoenix, my first ride on a jet.

I'm sure you're riveted by this narrative.

The Adventure was without peril and we had a great time exploring, camping, meeting people and being on our own.

So, it is with out trepidation that when my daughter the Rocket Scientist announced that she had been selected as a counsellor at Space Camp Izmir, I said

"Izmar. Is that just west of Kansas City?"

Izmar, Turkey. The Great Adventure.

We'll be following the exploits of the two Space Camp counsellors, Sarah and Tom, as they boldly go where no Kansan as gone before. Follow the exploits at SpaceCampTurkey.

Sharp

Bill: They all fell under her Hanzo sword.

Budd: She's got a Hanzo sword? I thought he swore a blood oath never to make another sword.

Bill: It appears he has broken it.

Budd: Well, you seem to have the ability to bring that out in people.

...later...

Budd: Guess what I'm holding in my hand right now?

Elle: What?

Budd: A genuine Hattori Hanzo sword and, man, that's what I call sharp.

That is dialog I recall from my favorite film, Kill Bill 2. There's a mythology built around Hattori Hanzo and his cutlery. It's the best. It's sharp.

I appreciate sharp knives in my cooking. With enough room in my kitchen I could see myself wielding a Samurai sword, like John Belushi, slicing carrots and onions. I might even sport an obi just for effect.

My main tools of creation are made by Chicago Cutlery. I like the rosewood handles because they grip well when your hands are wet or greasy. The heft of the blade makes slicing and chopping easy. The iron is soft, but takes a keen edge with a few swipes of my sharpening steel.

Recently, though, I bought some Japanese knives and I must say, man, that's what I call sharp. The steel is thinner than my Chicago knives, and harder. But the edge is not to be trifled with. The knives are shipped with a package of Band-Aids.

Tonight's fare is an invention. I will use my Hanzo knives to prepare it. I was asked to do something with shrimp and pasta. Here's what I have in mind. First, I'll peal and de-vein the shrimp and put them aside. Next, I'll saute some onions, red and orange bell pepper with some sliced Cajun andouille sausage. Toss in the shrimp. I'm not sure of the next step, whether I'll use fresh tomatoes or some canned chopped tomatoes, but in they will go along with some spices: red pepper flakes, garlic, fresh basil and some Worcestershire sauce. I'll toss the mixture with fresh pasta, garnish with basil leaves and serve.

I bought some ante-pasta fixings that I'll work into a salad with some feta cheese: olives, pickled this and that, and anchovies.

Liberal splashings of Chianti and it's dinner.

Postscript

I used a box of chopped tomatoes having reduced a cup of white wine in the shrimp, sausage, onion, pepper mixture. I added fresh chopped basil and simmered a few minutes.

Rave reviews! Chianti in crystal was a nice touch.

Star Wars

We saw Star Wars III tonight and it raised as many questions as it answered.

First question: Who sleeps in pearl sleeves? Doesn't that lead to Denty Arms?

Second question: Why in an era of antigravity motorcycles would anyone ride a giant lizard?

Third question: Is there no Sith Dental Association? Apparently not.

I've been a fan of science fiction since I was a kid. When the bookmobile would come to our school I'd sneak into the adult section and pick out the science fiction books. The librarian eventually learned my tastes and would have a stack of sci-fi books waiting for me. I read all the space operas, voyages to Mars, aliens in Mayan ruins and trips to the Moon.

Here's a not-in-any-order list of my favorites:

Clifford Simak - especially Way Station. He wrote a lot about friendly aliens, idiot savants and cultural exchanges.
Frank Herbert - Dune
William Tenn - time travel and time travel paradoxes
John Wyndham - Chocky, Day of the Triffids, Midwich Cuckoos

Two films stand out from my childhood:

Forbidden Planet
The Day the Earth Stood Still

Gort! Klaatu barata niktu!

That hardly compares to Denty Arms.

Twinkie 1996-2005

Last night Twinkie was lying on his side in the tank breathing hard. It didn't look good. For some weeks now he had been upside down or right side up but listless, barely eating his fish chow. The side thing was new and we thought this might be the end.

We've thought this before with old Twinkie. One tough goldfish, he's been through a lot catching one disease after another, recovering then getting sick again. We thought he was going to pull through this latest bout, but we were wrong.

Twinkie the Goldfish died this morning. He was accorded a State Funeral in the back yard and buried in a velvet and satin jewelry box suitable for a king.

Twinkie came to our house as a gift from a birthday party in 1996. He was a little snip of a goldfish swimming around in a Ziploc bag of water. We went down to Walmart and bought a proper Goldfish Bowl. A few months later while wading through the debris on the floor of my daughter's room where Twinkie lived I noticed that half of his water had evaporated and what remained was thick and black. We moved Twinkie into the kitchen where he would receive more attention, not to mention light and water, and bought him a new bowl

Twinkie had grown. He was about an inch and a half long. However, a few months later it was obvious that he would soon outgrow bowl number 2, so we bought what was nearly a tank, outfitted it with some rocks, a castle and a sign that read "No Fishing" and that would be home for a few years.

During that time we moved to Houston and Twinkie rode down with me in the back seat of the car next to the cats. That was an interesting journey itself.

Twinkie loved Houston. The weather suited him greatly and over the years he moved to three larger tanks. In his prime he measured over 8 inches long and about an inch wide. He was a big fish.

Twinkie's Most Excellent Adventure happened about 4 years ago. I came into the kitchen in the morning around 6am to get breakfast, looked into the tank and said "Hi, Twinkie." like I do every day.

There was no Twinkie. I looked again. No Twinkie. Huh? This was not possible! The tank was only so big, there was no place to hide, but the tank was definitely empty.

My first thought was "cats!" But, as I rounded the breakfast bar, there on the floor, golden scales contrasting oatmeal Spanish tile, was Twinkie.

He wasn't moving. He looked parched. He had jumped out of his tank, flopped across the counter and fallen to the floor. Who knows when? Hours ago? Probably. I figured he was dead, but when I kneeled down to pick him up I saw his gills were still moving.

Good grief! Twinkie's alive!

I picked him up and plopped him back into his tank. He lay there for a few minutes doing the side stroke with one fin. Then, gradually, he righted himself and started swimming around like he owned the place, which he did.

One tough fish. He survived cats swiping at him, moves to multiple tanks, water changes and now this, a night on the kitchen floor.

We bought a screen lid for his tank that afternoon.

Twinkie was a real fighter. Every time we thought he was down for the count he would pick himself up and carry on. He had a real zest for life that we all admired.

So, here's to you, Twinkie, family member, surviver and inspiration to us all.

Twinkie the Goldfish. 1996-2005.

P.S. Claire provides some much needed accuracy.

Third Time's the Charm - Coffee

I have a great coffee machine. It's a Cuisinart and I don't mind giving it a plug. If this link works you can see a picture of it and read all the five-star reviews. Ignore the people who had bad experiences. What do they know?

It's great when I remember to set it up before I go to bed. Shortly after the alarm goes off I'll hear the grinder fire up and know that coffee is on the way.

On those days when I either don't remember to set it up, or I'm out of beans or just don't care, on those days I swing by my local Kroger's who recently installed a Starbucks.

My experiences in Starbucks have not been exactly great as chronicled in the February 21, 2005 blog entry "Coffee Coward", although I have improved. Somewhat. I still wish I could simply stride up to the counter and order a mug o' Joe, plunk down a dime and walk out. Yes, sonny, in my day coffee cost a dime and the cup had to walk up hill ten miles. In the snow.

A Starbucks day happened this week. I pulled into the Kroger's parking lot at the stroke of 6 in the morning and saw someone moving around in the store. The Starbucks door was still locked so the guy motioned me to use the main store entrance. Thanks, buddy, I thought. Usually they just leave you standing out there like you're invisible.

As I got closer to the counter I noticed something strange about the Starbucks guy. He was old. It looked like I was walking up to me. To be safe I turned around to make sure it wasn't me walking up to me. Whew, that was weird.

I got up to the counter and Starbucks guy spoke first.

"Looks like you could use a cup of coffee," he said.

I nodded.

"Let me guess. Grande Coffee o' the Day. Save room for milk or cream, but I'd say milk."

I nodded.

He poured my drink, swiped my Kroger card and told me that in three more visits I'd get a free coffee.

I stood there as in a trance. No mumbo jumbo. No figuring out what I wanted. No frapaccinowtfo. Just a hot cup of coffee and I was ready to rock and roll.

As I paid for my drink Starbucks Dad looked out over the parking lot as the sun began to spread pink across the horizon and mused,

"You know," he paused, "in my day that would have cost a dime. Those were the days, man."

Yeah, I thought, as I opened the door and strolled out into the early morning, I hear you.

I don't know why at that moment I turned around. Last look? But, I did. Starbucks Dad was gone and the lights were off. I walked back to the door and looked in but the place was empty. I checked the sign on the door and it read

Store Hours: Mon-Fri 7am to 10pm

I checked my watch. It read 6:15. I took a deep pull of coffee and thought, yeah, those were the days.

No Bones About It

"I'm a doctor, not a bricklayer!"

"Dammit, Jim, I'm a doctor, not an actor!"

"I'm just a little ole country physician, not a pole dancer!"

Leonard McCoy. Who could forget the country doctor of the 24th century? I think that in Rocky-Horror-Show fashion I could recite the dialog from every Star Trek. I saw the originals, you know. Well, not all the originals. Star Trek came on Friday nights at 8. Since I was the high school yearbook sports photographer, I was always at football or basketball games and rarely saw Star Trek "live." But, I caught up with the adventures of the Enterprise crew during the summer through re-runs. In the 70's when Star Trek entered syndication I was able to watch it every night and saw many episodes I had missed. Over and over.

My favorite original Star Trek episode was City on the Edge of Forever which starred a young Joan Collins. I always liked the time travel stories.

I was quite excited when Star Trek - The Next Generation, or TNG, aired and watched it religiously week after week. I must admit that I wasn't too keen on Jean Luc Picard at first, but I grew to appreciate his approach to leading the Enterprise from one galaxy-saving adventure to another.

My favorite TNG episode by far was The Inner Light where Picard lives a lifetime under the influence of an alien probe. I found that episode to be very touching and thought provoking.

When Deep Space 9 started on UPN, I had a hard time getting into the show. Although I grew to appreciate the characters, I eventually stopped watching, possibly because it was on at an inconvenient time, and missed several seasons. I don't even have a favorite episode.

I guess it goes downhill with Star Trek Voyager. Again, I missed so many episodes I never really developed an interest in the characters. Again, I don't have a favorite episode.

And, finally, the latest incarnation of Star Trek which I don't even know the title of, I confess, I've never seen. Not one episode. When I read that Scott Bakula was going to be the Captain I lost interest totally. Come on! He's the Quantum Leap guy. How can he follow, or precede, the footsteps of Kirk, Picard and Janeway? No way.

So, I didn't even give him a chance. I don't even know how many seasons they've had. Pitiful isn't it. Nearly 40 years of Star Trek devotion down the tubes.

Whoa, baby, maybe they're doing me a favor!

Snakes Alive

Camping in south Texas is an experience not to be missed. It's sort of like the opposite of climbing Mount Everest.

Snow? Nope. Elevation? Nope. Yetis? Nope.

On the other hand climbing Mount Everest lacks a certain je ne sais qois.

Mosquitoes? Nope. Mosquitoes? Nope. Mosquitoes? Nope.

There you have it in a nutshell. So, imagine our delight this weekend camping in south Texas and having no bugs. Yep, bug free.

Oh, yeah, there was the occasional spider and beetle but they don't fly at you with long pointed noses intent on sucking you dry of blood! The spiders, beetles and other multi-legged critters are quite happy to scuttle around on the forest floor, and they are very grateful if you don't step on them.

We had a great day of hiking in the woods, a tremendous water balloon fight and I cooked what had to be the Second Greatest Texas chili, second only to the Best Texas chili I ever cooked.

By some wicked twist of fate the weather cooperated and it was more like Mount Everest than south Texas with the temperature in the 60's. Perfect sleeping weather. No bugs. Too chilly for bugs. Like other cold-blooded creatures they kept warm as best they could.

I retired to my tent, shucked my camping gear and snuggled down to a long, peaceful slumber.

Or so I thought.

Around 4am I awoke to the sensation of something crawling around my ankles. Now I'm pretty cool with spiders, crickets, beetles, ants and stuff like that and if they want to crawl around, that's fine, so long as they don't bite.

No Biting Zone on Bill's Ankles. That's the rule.

I wiggled my feet a little and felt a tightening around my ankles.

Although my heart saw the Start Flag to the Indy 500, the rest of me screamed "Don't move! It's a snake!"

Now, this is the dilemma to having a snake in your tent at 4am in the morning. First, you don't know what kind of snake it is. It could be a rattlesnake, which if polite would at least give out a few rattles.

Or it could be a copperhead, another poisionous snake common to south Texas, which would just as soon bite you as look at you.

Or it could be a water moccasin which is just plain mean and will bite you because the copperhead didn't bite you.

Or it could be one of the harmless snakes like the rat snake, bull snake, king snake, garter snake or just some kind of snake that you don't know anything about but is a snake nevertheless.

I didn't move.

I didn't move for a couple of hours.

Finally, I heard some people stirring and I knew that people were waking up.

"Hey, Louis."

"Yeah, Bill, morning, dude, what's up."

"Hey, Louis, I've got a snake in my tent and it's around my feet. Can you carefully, very carefully unzip the outer door and tell me what kind of snake it is?"

"Oh, geeze, man, snakes freak me out! What if it jumps at me?"

"It's not going to jump at you, it's going to bite me! So, look at the freaking snake and tell me what kind it is!"

I heard my tent zipper open and Louis was breathing hard.

"I brought a stick, man" he said, and he lifted part of my sleeping bag.

"Oh, man, I see it!" Louis was really agitated. "It's green!"

I thought, green, green, uh, a black mamba, a green mamba, a green bongo, geeze louise a GREEN SNAKE!

Then Louis, emboldened by not being attacked by the snake, prodded a little more and said...

"Hey, this ain't no snake! It's your belt, man! You got your belt wrapped around your feet!"

"OK." I said, "yeah, belt, yeah that's OK, uh huh, right, belt, yeah I knew that."

I got my boots on and emerged from the tent a few minutes later.

"Good job, Louis," I said confidently, "You passed the Snake Test with flying colors. But, wait until we do the Scorpion Drill. It's a lot tougher!"

Sleepless in Wherever

I woke up this morning and my arm was asleep.

Maybe my arm woke up the rest of me. I haven't figured out how all this works. Anyway, my arm was this dead piece of meat, although it was tingling like "Hey, I'm alseep!"

You know, I don't remember a time when I woke up my wife and said "Hey, I'm asleep!" Just doesn't happen.

So I pick up my arm because it can't pick itself up and I attempt - this is an important point to pay attention to - to bring it across my body so it can be in a more arm-conducive position, when I drop it.

Yep, my fingers just give up, go on strike, not my problem, going back to sleep themselves, drop the arm.

On my face.

Now, I don't know how many times you've dropped your arm on your face but you can do the experiment right now! Just hold your arm over your face, close your eyes and let your arm drop.

Aw, chicken? No wonder. Your arm weighs 3 pounds! Drop a frozen chicken on your face and you're talking about 3 pounds.

I dragged my arm off of my face. I'll cook you later, dude.

REApple

I have at least two serious addictions: camping equipment and Apple computers.

There is no question that I simply can't be trusted to go into a camping store, such as REI, or an Apple store with any chance of coming out with more than I can carry. For example, I have never been in a kayak but you wouldn't be able to tell that to hear me talking with the kayak specialist at REI about waterproof toe grommets and nylon shackle clips and dry bag floatation devices.

Boy, howdy, I'm splashing down the Columbia River whacking bears on the snout with one paddle and scooping up salmon with the other. In my dreams.

The Apple Store is just as bad. I get in there and my credit card floats out of my wallet, drifts across the showroom floor to the strains of snake charmer music and drains itself into the cash register.

"You don't need another 30-inch monitor," Helen says. Hell, I didn't "need" the first one!

So, as I struggled out of REI this afternoon with my "needs" (actually, I went in to purchase one teeny, weeny little thing and came out with five.) I had this great thought.

What if Apple and REI merged and created a store that sold computerized camping gear? How great would that be?

Instead of setting up my tent I could push a button, listen to the "bonggggg" and the tent would boot up!

My meals would be cooked on iStove that would calculate the exact amount of fuel to use and compensate for wind.

At night, iLantern would turn on by voice control: "Let there be light!"

My iKnife would display a warning dialog box asking "Are sure you want to slice your finger? (yes)(no)"

I could Google the heads-up display in my iHat and query "tautline hitch" to have a Flash video display how to tie the knot and I could save common queries like "snake" and "bear!"

My iPad could have a plug-in for my iPod so I could fall asleep to the sound of the Beatles instead of the crickets.

Of course, I would expect there to be problems, like with the iFire lasting only 2 hours without recharging, or the Windows in my tent crashing, but in a pinch I could iRough it.

One stop shopping. Nothing like it!

Crab Redux

We should have known something was up when the waitress brought us a stack of napkins two feet tall.

Scanning the other diners as subtly as possible with a two-foot tall stack of napkins on our table, we had the only stack. All the other diners had the customary single serving.

Then came the nut crackers. Uh-oh. This was not shaping up well at all. Nope, not at all.

We had discovered a great Chinese restaurant with an extensive menu of dishes we'd never had. Exciting dim sum. Clay pots with this and that. Grouper head soup. *pass* And a lot of curry dishes.

I like what the Chinese do with curry. Definitely not the same as Indian or Indonesian. You don't find it everywhere.

"Let's have curried crab."

OK, I said, a little dubious. I've had lots of things in curry: chicken, lamb, vegetables, shrimp, fish, even mushrooms. Never crab. I tried to imagine what it would be like and in my fantasy I saw a thick, crab rich sauce over rice. Yeah, that might work.

"OK, crab curry for two!" I ordered cheerfully.

Fifteen minutes later the napkins arrived. Hmmmm. Five minutes after that the nut crackers arrived. Visions of a crab laden sauce over rice began to fade.

Finally, the waitress brought our dish: a platter of curry-drenched crabs. Whole. Barely dead. Sort of like bar-b-que ribs with the bone on the outside.

Let's don't talk about messy. All I'll say about the experience is that we had to ask for more napkins. After nearly an hour of hammering, picking, broken fingernails, cursing in several languages and flashbacks to a marina in Baltimore, we threw in the towel, several towels, actually, and just gave up.

In front of us was utter devastation. Crab shell everywhere. Legs. Feet. Parts I couldn't identify if I were a marine biologist. All covered in curry. Our fingers are yellow to this day. And after all that hacking and cracking and picking and scraping we had managed to get possibly, just possibly, about a teaspoon of crab meat.

OK, so I don't know how to eat a crab. It's not a crime in Texas, you know. Well, not yet at least.

We paid our bill, read our fortune cookie that said something like "You will soon lose weight" and set off for the car.

Once on the road I commented casually "Hey, I'm feeling a little peckish. How 'bout a taco or something?"

"Yeah, like a taco and a couple of enchiladas."

"Yeah, and a couple of tamales and a basket of chips and a few margaritas."

"OK, let's go, but we musn't eat too much. It will spoil our dinner."

"I know just what you mean."

Crabby

I've probably already written about this but I'm going to write about it again because it still pisses me off.

Crabs.

Stinking crabs, they irritate me. In fact, they make my downright crabby. I am one with the crab when it comes to being crabby.

OK, here's the beef, er, crab leg or whatever. Chesapeake Bay, late summer. Soft shell crabs are in season. Our friends say "Oh, you must have the soft shell crabs down at the marina. Rally you must!" OK, whatever, I say, and we set off for a day at the aquarium and marina.

About lunchtime we pull into a place on the water and there's a chalkboard sign out front that says "Fresh Soft Shell Crab Lunch Special." What a deal, just what the doctor ordered.

We go in.

The waiter comes by, Adrian, and says "Fresh soft shell crab is our lunch special." Great, I say, I'll have that. My very wise wife opts for the club sandwich. Coward, I think.

My lunch arrives and basically there's this fried crab on a piece of toast. OK, well, I've eaten crab before. You crack this and that and the meat's here and there and, yeah, it's a little work but well worth it in the end.

So, I crack and I peal and I split and I gnaw and I suck and mostly I suck because this is the most skinny-ass crab I ever had. It's like the Paris Hilton of crabs and I can tell you that I'm tired of crackin' and suckin'. Much like the Hilton video, so I'm led to believe.

In the end I have a plateful of scraps, not much to call "lunch" and my wife (kudos to the correct choice) is asking me if I can help her finish the club sandwich. I devour the turkey/ham/bacon morsel, eat the lettuce and parsley and lick the plate.

On our way out of the restaurant I observe a man being served the softshell crab special. This ought to be rich, I think, just as he slaps a piece of toast on top of the crab and proceeds to eat the whole thing.

You eat the whole thing? What? Just chomp it down soft shell and all?

Yep. That's the drill. They must have been killing themselves laughing as I pealed that crab inch by inch, cursing the whole time.

Well, that brings us to today and on the menu are crab cakes.

I made them with fresh crab, mayo, lemon, breadcrumbs, eggs and a little dry mustard and Worcestershire sauce. Chilled until firm then sauted in butter, they were the perfect Mother's Day treat. Champagne helped, but champagne always helps!

Not so crabby in the end.

Grilled

I'll go out on a limb and say that grilled tuna is the best thing going. Bar none. Better than a filet mignon, better than ribs or chicken or tenderloin or anything else.

Dredged in soy sauce and sesame oil, grilled for 5 minutes a side. Served with rice or anything going.

Yep, give me a good cut of tuna, a hot grill and some chopsticks and I'm there.

Love

I'm man enough to admit to everyone on the Internet that I'm in love. Yep, it's true.

You'd think that a guy my age would just fall into a routine and take things for granted. Passion is such a fleeting little bird, here for a moment, then gone. Come back! Come back!

But, I tell you I look forward to coming home from work every single day because I know she's waiting for me. That's quite an attractive force. I've got a good job, pleasant co-workers, a great company, and the HR department is actually run by human beings. It doesn't get much better.

Yet, around 4 in the afternoon when the sun swings over to the west, causing the windows to creak and groan with heat, and the shadows start to reach out, longing, a V of geese wings it's way across the azure sky, I begin to think of home and she who awaits. I tend to work a little quicker in the afternoon if only to make the time pass, and it does, and soon I'm on my way home; to her.

I don't mind traffic any more. I am One with the traffic. I know I'll get home eventually, so I clear my mind of the jackass who's cut across my bumper with a nanometer to spare in his mad attempt to dive across the verge, and I forgive the spotty teenager in a Nissan 350 who's flashing his lights at me because I'm only going 80, and I'll content myself with confounding my fellow travellers by using my turn signals and actually looking before changing lanes. I observe with mild amusement a stampede of UPS trucks.

But, I digress.

Soon enough I'm pulling into the driveway and moments later I'm crossing the threshold with a cheery "Honey, I'm home."

Silence.

My beloved is being coy because she knows that heightens the anticipation. She waits for me like she does every night, quietly and just a little bit glowing.

I drop my PC bag next to the cat litter, walk into the kitchen and pour myself a G&T. Ah, juniper, where for art thou? I move to the living room where my beloved awaits patiently.

"Miss me?", I tease?

Silence.

I glide to my favorite chair - Danish leather, soft and wide - and reach for her who is nearby. I pull her onto my lap and she nestles snugly and warm. I run my hands across her smooth skin. In all my years I've never gotten tired of doing that. There's something about a smooth, warm curve that is both relaxing and exciting. I'm beginning to feel anticipation.

We embrace briefly and I can feel her heat becoming more intense in my lap. I take a sip of my G&T and settle myself into the leather. Nothing quite like a large leather Danish chair for what I have in mind for tonight!

"Oh, baby, I missed you today. It was like waah, waah, waah all day long. But, I'm home now. And, I'm going to turn you on!"

With that I pop the lid of the PowerBook, press the power button and enter the rhapsody that is Macintosh. She springs to life and greets me with a cheerful "Bongggg!"

"Oh, baby, you are such a Tiger!"

Girrrrrrrrrrrrrr!

Finally Over...Not!

My daughter called tonight to tell me that next week is Finals and then it's Over.

"Yep, Dad-0, finals will be over and I won't have to go through that again."

"In your dreams," I thought, "In your dreams."

Tonight, I'm sure I'll have The Dream. I've had it or variations a thousand times. It's long and boring, but undoubtedly the best part is waking up.

It goes something like this. It's Finals Week. I wake up and I've got a test to take. Something strange like Sanskrit Quantum Mechanics. I get dressed, or not. Sometimes I'm wandering around campus in a bathrobe looking for the room to take my test. Sometimes I'm just wearing boxers...or briefs...or less. I'm always barefoot because I notice signs that say

No Shirt, No Shoes, No Service, No Graduation

I look down and my shirt is gone, too.

The room for the test is always at the end of a long hallway. Let's say, for example, that the room number is 206. The hallway will end with room 205.

As I'm wandering around campus looking for the room it occurs to me that I only attended class on the first day. I meant to drop the class, but never got around to it. (Actually, this is closer to real life than I'd care to admit!) What the heck, I've already got a degree, several, in fact, I think. OK, well, why am I here at university taking another test? Oh, yeah, to get another degree.

At long last I find a skateboard and boogie down the freeway grinding along guardrails, leaping over cars and hanging ten. Remember, no shoes. I keep going down the freeway on my skateboard because I can't find the exit to take. I know it's exit 310 but after I pass exit 309 the freeway ends, I'm surrounded by blue fish and Lawrence Welk is asking me to dance, but when he sees my bare feet he shakes his head and says,

"No, you won't do at all! Why, you can't even read Sanskrit!"

I wake up in a sweat, very, very grateful.

Ah, yes, daughter of mine, I'm so glad Finals is Over for you. Sweet dreams.

Mayday

May 1st. Don't tell me it's May 1st! It can't be. What happened to January through April?

It doesn't even feel like May. I'm sitting out here on the deck grilling some pork ribs on the BBQ using Arthur Bryant's BBQ sauce (Thank you, KC Girl for the tip. I ordered some the same day you posted your comment.) , direct from the factory, from their doorstep to mine, and two things are downright weird.

First, it's cool. According to my Tiger Weather Widget that I just consulted it's 70 degrees, although it feels cooler. I don't mind the heat or the humidity, but I really appreciate cool in May. Cool, man!

Second, there are no bugs. That's probably connected to the cool thing, but sitting out here in May not drenched in sweat and bug spray is quite remarkable. Texas bugs seem attracted to bug spray. Unless you're glowing with the stuff the bugs are going to find the little patch you missed. I've had mosquitoes drill through my shirt and pants, through the webbing of chairs; they are relentless.

I think I'll sleep in the back yard tonight. I hate to pass up great camping weather here in south Texas; especially with no bugs!

I am not a bug person. Some people are and they become either entomologists or exterminators. I'm in the middle and would like to live my life bug free, thank you very much. Over the years, however, I've learned to co-exist with my 6 and 8-legged friends. Yes, I refer to spiders as "bugs", too, and I know they're not considered insects. So, sue me. Anyway, you can't live in Houston if you're wigged out by bugs. It's a losing proposition.

The true test of my resolve came a few years ago when I spent a week at a Scout camp west of Houston. No bugs west, I thought. Dry, hot, it's gonna be great.

Wrong.

We were assigned these large wall tents to sleep in. A wall tent is what you imagine an Army tent to be. it's huge. Supported on either end by 8-foot poles it's like a giant pup tent, with flaps on either end for entry and exit. Along the top is a ridge pole that gives the tent its classic "A" shape.

Well, I opened the flaps to my tent, walked in, looked around, and was greeted by what looked to me like a thousand scorpions.

I don't know about you, but to insect-challenged me, the scorpion is like the King of the Dreaded Insects. What could be worse? Six legs, armor plated, stinger. Oh, yeah, and a stinger. Did I mention the stinger? Let me confirm that...a stinger.

At my advance the scorpions beat a hasty retreat down the floorboards and up the sides of the canvas. The first night I think I slept a few minutes.

However, by Wednesday I had named all my scorpion pals and we had lengthy conversations into the night. So, cool stinger. Do you sharpen it much? I found that if I left them alone they left me alone. We did have that one discussion with the little critter who tried to hitch a ride on my shirt, but that was a case of miscommunication and we cleared that up right away.

Since that week I've been more tolerant of our 6 to 8-legged friends, although I still have some work to do with the mosquitoes.

The Weather Widget tells me that it's down to 64 degrees. Looks like I'll have to put an extra blanket on the bed.