Random Thursday

A few random observations while pondering why everyone in Midland got rain yesterday except our neighborhood. My father-in-law suggests that we try putting in instead of taking out next time the offering plate is passed in church, but that seems awfully works-oriented.

• Have you seen the TV ad where the Olympic swimmer is touting a language learning program? He bought the program to learn Chinese before going to Beijing, and he talks about how fast and easy it is to learn a new language using this program. I would be more swayed by his argument if at some point during the ad he actually spoke, you know, some Chinese. That omission is suspicious.


• I may devote a separate post to this, but for now you need to know that the L.A. Blues Alliance's album What A Life is a must-have for any fan of the blues genre. The group is an all-star assemblage that produces some of the tightest, funkiest, and most engaging music you'll ever run through your iPod. Best consumed on the back porch with a cool beverage during a warm summer evening.


• Footnote: I was alerted to the L.A. Blues Alliance by none other than the iTunes Store, via its "you bought that, so you might enjoy this" feature. I'm routinely distrustful of any software that purports to understand my preferences based on prior purchases. For all it knows, I bought "that" for someone else, or to round out my "worst of" collection. But I have to admit that in this case, the recommendation was spot on.


• The caption for a photo in this morning's newspaper quoted the owner of a Smart Car as saying that it would do 90mph. Yeah right; so do I, and on my bicycle at that. Even if it could obtain that dubious accomplishment, I can't imagine why anyone would want to go that fast in an overgrown clamshell pack.


• Yeah, I'm smug. Gasoline is back down to $3.79 and life is good.

In closing, if you want to see an example of how civilization will eventually crumble to its basest instincts in a post-apocalyptic world, just drive to the intersection of Wadley and Big Spring where the temporary four-way stop signs are proving to be poor substitutes for traffic signals. I've never seen such ignorant, self-important, hostile, selfish behavior in all my life...and that's just my own driving.

Alternate esrevinU

So, if I was to start writing
,elyts siht ni stsop ym fo lla
What word would you use
?gniod saw I tahw ebircsed ot

Keeping in mind, of course,
dna luos evitisnes a m'I taht
this is a PG-rated blog.

If you want to know the official correct
revo rosruc ruoy gard ,esnopser
the next couple of lines to highlight the answer.

Boustrophedon: A method of writing in which lines are written alternately in opposite direction, from left to right, and right to left.

Tip o'the Whirly Beanie to MLB for sharing this fun Word of the Day entry.

Austin Mini-Travelogue

We spent a long weekend in the Austin area, and while the capitol city isn't exactly my cup of tea on a number of fronts, it does offer some interesting sights and dining opportunities. Here are some highlights:

• Austin seems to have a bicycle shop on every corner, so Mellow Johnny's (located downtown at 400 Nueces) wouldn't necessarily catch your eye. And its wide selection of bicycles – from fat-tired cruisers to $10,000 racers – doesn't set it apart either. What distinguishes Mellow Johnny's from other bike shops are the seven yellow jerseys signifying victories in the Tour de France mounted on the walls, attesting to the fact that this shop is owned by Lance Armstrong.
  
  Lance wasn't present on Saturday morning, but a bunch of the Austin cycling crowd was, taking advantage of the in-house coffee shop, free showers and lockers, and retro-chic ambiance. Tattoos are optional but strongly encouraged.

• I alluded to a wide selection of good places to eat, and our favorite this trip was the Hula Hut, located on Town Lake. I had the Thai BBQ beef fajitas and they were delicious, although decidedly non-Tex-Mex. Others in our party had fish tacos, seafood enchiladas, and chicken chile rellenos, and they were all pronounced muy delicioso. Be prepared for a loooonnng wait if you go for a weekend dinner. I also recommend skipping their desserts and instead walking a half block down the street to Mozart's Coffee Roasters, where the selection of goodies will boggle your mind (we recommend the fresh berry tart).
  
  However, in terms of sheer enjoyment, our favorite gastronomic experience came from a shiny old Airstream trailer parked in a vacant lot on South Congress Avenue (referred to by the kool kids as "SoCo"), and housing what may be the world's most specialized kitchen. Hey Cupcake! sells nothing but cupcakes (I know...what a shock), and a pretty limited selection at that, with just seven varieties. But they are amazing, and even in the 100+ degree heat there was a constant queue of people waiting to get their sugar fixes. We had the "Michael Jackson" model (chocolate bottom, cream cheese top) with a free added injection of whipped cream into the center. Eating a melting cupcake with your hands is not for the faint of heart, but if you apply yourself, you'll be well rewarded.

• SoCo is lined with quaint and funky (or weird and decrepit; just depends on your perspective) shops filled with people who haven't yet heard that Hendrix and Joplin are dead. It's sort of like Santa Fe, only hotter and with more burnt orange. Anyway, some of those shops are worth looking into, like the Big Top Candy Shop, which features all the brands of candy from your youth, and then some. It also has some interesting contraptions hanging on the wall, such as the mutant bassoon/bass clarinet/gas mask shown at right.

We also spent a good part of one day touring the Hill Country Shangri-La known as Horseshoe Bay, via an acquaintance's speedboat. If you want to see one place where the real estate bubble hasn't burst, that's where to begin looking. But that's another story for another day.

Nice guys finish seventh

I haven't written a word about this year's Tour de France, which finished in Paris this afternoon, in case you didn't realize it. I was focused on other things and had a difficult time getting plugged into the event. And, I'll admit that it's difficult to get excited about a bike race where the main story continues to be the number of riders who are caught cheating by doping. This year, four riders were caught and kicked out (including one on the last day of the race) and one entire team withdrew. Spectator cynicism cannot be avoided under such circumstances.

But that's all the more reason to call attention to the accomplishments of Team Columbia, one of two American-sponsored cycling teams in the race. Team Columbia was formed under and is managed by the premise that it will race clean; its anti-doping stance is a part of its mission statement.

And the team's 2008 Tour performance proved that you don't have to dope to succeed, as it finished a very respectable 7th (out of 20), and one of its riders, British sprinter Mark Cavendish, won four stages. The team finished less than 20 minutes out of third place, which sounds like a lot until you consider that we're talking about more than 10,000 kilometers and 264 hours of riding (as measured for the team competition).

The future looks bright for Team Columbia, as it had three of the top fifteen riders in the "best young rider" competition. I hope it can continue to lead the way by racing fast and clean, and thereby restore some luster to a badly tarnished sport.

Triptych

Your Petrodollars at Work

The Gazette continues its hiatus. Or not.

You'd think there'd be plenty to smile about in the oil and gas company offices around here, but apparently some folks still need a little assistance in that department. Here's how they're putting on a happy face despite the threat of windfall profits taxes, congressional investigations, and Sarbanes-Oxley regulations:

This device evokes scenes from A Clockwork Orange or, perhaps, Brazil.

Tip of the hat and a crooked smile to Sherry for the email forward. She knows much more about how this came about than I'm willing to share on these pages. ;-)

"Choose rabbits with soft ears and paws"

The Gazette is taking a break for a few days...or not. We'll see how it goes...or doesn't.

One of the artifacts I uncovered during my most recent archaeological dig (that's what I'm now calling the process of unpacking the final boxes from our move, because it's more accurate than you might think) was this little booklet, probably given to us as a wedding gift:

Sure, it's a generic title, but what do you expect for 35¢? And it is accurate, if not winsome.

The book is from those days long past, when cigarette companies advertised in bicycling magazines ("Nothing refreshes your century ride sag stop like a menthol Kool!") and beer came in cans that required pointy devices to open. The only color photos in the book are the covers, and I gotta tell you that cheaply-reproduced 1970s black-and-white photography is not really the optimal method for enhancing the appeal of food.

Anyway, this 48-page masterpiece tells you everything you'll ever want to know about cooking meat and meat-like substances (there's a section devoted to such delicacies as "Breaded Brains," "Heart Goulash," and "Tripe Patties").

It even has a section on preparing wild game. The title for this post comes the instructions on how "To Dress And Truss Rabbits," which precede a recipe for "Hassenpfeffer," otherwise known as "Sweet-Sour Rabbit." But it invites you to think even bigger when it comes to game, as you can choose among recipes for "Reindeer Pot Roast" and "Braised Moose" (the latter was a newlywed staple for those of us on limited college-student budgets; we'd all pitch in for a side of moose from the College Station Skaggs-Albertsons, freshly harvested from the Brazos River bottom, and gnaw on it for weeks).

Here's another handy tip, guaranteed to drive your friendly local nutritionist into hysterics: Rolled veal roast is delicious when larded with salt pork. Veal roasts not larded may be topped with bacon slices before roasting. That crackling sound you hear is the blood congealing in your arteries from simply reading those words.

And, finally, two words that will strike fear into any pre-teen child's soul: liver dumplings.

Book Review: "The Lizard King"

For as long as I can remember, I've been fascinated by reptiles. Growing up in rural West Texas, I had plenty of encounters with lizards and snakes, and cultivated an encyclopedic knowledge of the more notorious species. But I never graduated to collector status, and thus never encountered the types of characters and degree of passion documented in Bryan Christy's new book, The Lizard King: The True Crimes and Passions of the World's Greatest Reptile Smugglers.

Christy is a freelance writer who has been published in National Geographic and Playboy, and The Lizard King is a perfect showcase not only for his writing skills but also for his dogged research.

I don't want to reveal too much of the plot in this true story, but it's the true account of how some of the world's most audacious and successful merchants made millions of dollars through the illegal importation of reptiles and other creepy-crawlies into the United States, and how an understaffed, underfunded (and underappreciated) federal agency brought them to justice. While the book's billing as The Sopranos, with snakes is a tad over the top, the book does deliver some fascinating plot twists and insights into a unique niche of criminal activity that most of us never knew existed, much less spent any time contemplating.

The Lizard King is effective and entertaining on several levels, but not all of those levels will appeal to everyone. If, for example, your skin crawls at the mere thought of a snake or lizard, you might not fully appreciate some of the tidbits sprinkled throughout the book that serve to highlight either the reasons some collectors are so enamored of certain species, or the reasons others judge those same collectors to be borderline insane.

Some of those "tidbits" are delivered in rather uncomfortable detail, including a description of one Dr. Karl Patterson Schmidt, a respected herpetologist who in 1957 inadvertently and unfortunately mishandled a boomslang, an African rear-fanged species that's generally mild-mannered but carries highly potent hemotoxic venom (and in the world of herp collectors, such poisonous snakes are termed "hot"). He received a small bite on the thumb for his carelessness, at which point his scientific training took over and he started a diary of what he thought would be his brief illness and recovery. Thirty-six hours later, he was dead of multiple hemorrhages throughout his body.

On another level, this is a study of the "victimless" crime of reptile smuggling – except that in many cases there are victims. The author succeeds in doing what some might find unthinkable: making us feel sorry for many of the hundreds of thousands of illegally transported reptiles. While most of them are bound for dealers and collectors who, we hope, will care about them, others are used as luggage by drug smugglers, and their fate is something no living creatures should have to endure, regardless of the phobias they generate in many humans.

While Christy does his best to inject suspense and drama into the subject matter, in the end this is the story of criminals who are pretty far down on the food chain in terms of being dangers to society. That's not to excuse their illegal activities, nor to take away from the determination and ingenuity of those who brought them to justice. This is not a story that will make you quiver with anticipation of the next turn of events, but it shed a lot of light on the possible origins of those cute little turtles and sinister-looking snakes you see on your next visit to the pet store. And if you actually like the company of such critters, you'll probably learn some interesting things about them in the process.

The Lizard King will be introduced in hardcover on August 1 under the imprint of Twelve, a one-book-per-month boutique publishing arm of Hachette Book Group USA.

Technorati tags: The Lizard King | Bryan Christy

McCain's Rejected Editorial

I generally steer clear of politics in this space, believing that however vague or illogical your reasons are for coming here, they probably don't include seeking out my ill-informed opinions on the burning issues of the day, and for that wisdom I commend you. But I will make an occasional exception when I feel there's wrong to be righted (that phrase is oozing with meaning, by the way) and that I might be able to play some minuscule role in doing so.

The rejection by the New York Times of John McCain's editorial presents precisely the scenario described above, and represents what I think is an inexcusable – albeit unsurprising – show of political partisanship by a media outlet that seems to be doing its dead-level best to make itself irrelevant. You've no doubt already heard the story of the rejection, so I won't repeat it here. What I will repeat is the text of McCain's editorial in its entirety (courtesy of The Drudge Report. If the Times won't print it, the Gazette will.

I'm in no position to dictate to my fellow bloggers what they should do with their pieces of the media pie, but I hope that others will elect to fill the vacuum left when a mainstream media source neglects its responsibility to present a complete picture of an issue that so strongly affects our nation.

Meet the new bosses, same as the old bosses

The Wall Street Journal published an editorial addressing the sad state of the US energy situation.

The editorial goes on to describe how two Democratic Senators, both of whom want to be president, are calling for Congressional investigations to discover the causes, which, of course, they've already decided are directly related to oil company manipulation and economic deception.

Of course, the Wall Street Journal isn't buying it, and devotes the rest of the article to showing how all significant disruptions to the desired balance between supply and demand can be laid in large part at the feet of federal agencies and the shortsidedness of Congress itself.

OK, none of this constitutes new news, so why bring it up? The answer is that the editorial in question was published in July, 1975, thirty-three years ago*.

At that time, the senators in question were Adlai Stevenson and Henry "Scoop" Jackson. The supply and demand snafus were introduced by meddling rules promulgated by the FEA – the Federal Energy Administration (which set the bar for incompetence by a government agency with its performance during the Seventies).

Three-plus decades later, we (as in "Congress"; forgive me for implying that you are lumped in with that sad group) still haven't learned the lesson laid out quite clearly in the article:

In this case, the Journal was focusing specifically on the refining and distribution of gasoline, but the principles continue to be as relevant as they are ignored.

*I'd publish a link, but this editorial predates the World Wide Web by almost fifteen years. I found it in my "personal professional archives" (aka, "that big pile of junk that I keep transferring moving from one pile to another"). I have no idea why I decided that it was something I needed to keep; I'm pretty sure I never envisioned the concept of blogging back then.

Midland Starbucks are safe

I finally got around to looking for the list of the 600 stores to be closed by Starbucks, and found it on the company's press room web page. It's in PDF format, dated July 18, and you can download it here.

The good news is that while one store in El Paso is being closed, as is another in Plainview, West Texas otherwise escapes the shutdowns. Roswell, NM, is losing one store, no doubt due to the recent drop-off in alien traffic. And on a more selfish note, my next favorite non-local store - the one just off I-20 in Eastland - is also staying in business.

Feel free to leave a comment with your take on why $B put the Utah stores in Texas. Personally, I blame Warren Jeffs.

"Dance that funky cha cha, white boy..."

The Ballroom Dance Society's July shindig is a casual affair, the only one of the year where the guys toss their ties and the ladies shed the sequins and silk in favor of flouncy frippery. We also generally experience a change in music style, with bands who lean toward the rock and roll side of the musical family tree.

Last night was a good example, as The Shades provided the music, and quite frankly it was the best time we've had on a dance floor in recent memory. The band has been around forever, it seems, but inexplicably this was the first time we'd heard them. They provide a "CPR playlist" – country, pop, and rock, although not in that order – and they were in fine form at the Midland Country Club.

Apparently, so were we – that is, the collective group of ballroom dancers – as the band expressed their amazement at playing for an audience where (1) everybody danced, and (2) everybody knew how to dance. Making that observation once could have been chalked up to an attempt to butter up a well-paying audience in anticipation of a repeat invitation for a comfortable gig, but their kudos went well beyond that point. And if you think about it, there's probably not much better affirmation for a rock 'n roll than moving people to get up from a nice meal and hit the floor. So, the appreciation was mutual.

But it was an interesting scene. Most of the crowd was AARP-fodder, but that also meant that we grew up with the music the band was playing. That also meant that we brought a certain "maturity" to the dance styles, meaning that there were actual steps involved, unlike the arrhythmic shuffle-and-jerk I did when I was in high school. But that led to some occasional incongruities.

For example, one expertly-performed medley merged La Bamba with Twist and Shout, which in turn led us through a dancing safari combining rumba, East Coast Swing, and – what else – the twist. I had never considered it before, but a lot of the Beatles' music lends itself to Latin dance steps (although some of it also has rather maddening tempo changes that make it a challenge to dance to).

Our ballroom form quickly went by the wayside, though, when The Shades launched into a rendition of the Isley Brothers classic Shout, popularized in Animal House. It was a toga party in spirit, if not in fashion.

The best was saved for last, as the band ended with a high energy version of the Commodore's Brick House, followed by Wild Cherry's classic from which the post title is derived. I seriously doubt that when Wild Cherry recorded Play That Funky Music, they envisioned that three decades later a bunch of middle-aged hipster wannabes would be doing the cha-cha to their song (and mouthing all the words at the same time) in the middle of an upscale country club ballroom. Is this a great country, or what?

Spare Parts

A tarantula was walking across the street in the general direction of our house as we headed out for our evening stroll with Abbye. It was making pretty good time and I figured it would be long gone by the time we returned.

I was partly right.

The black "sticks" in the photo are tarantula legs, and they were strewn next to our front porch. A fifth leg was laying in the driveway about ten feet away. Now, I can't swear that they were there when we left, but I do think we'd have noticed them on the way out. So, there's a good chance that the spider we passed made it up to our sidewalk just in time to become a late supper for a grackle or some other omnivorous bird. And just like the best part of a cinnamon roll is the tender middle, the diner in this case took the juicy parts with him and left the drumsticks for the ants.

The absence of telltale goo (that's a highly technical anatomical term, you know) causes me to wonder if the predator disassembled the tarantula and then flew away with the legless beast to dine at his leisure. That's a gruesome mental picture, isn't it?

Life's sometimes short and brutish out here in the sticks.

Nacho Libre Lives!

I picked up the following flyer at the restaurant where we now go for our Wednesday night fajita fix, and it proves that Jack Black's 2006 comedy contained far more realism than some might have thought.

I get a kick out of these things (the flyer, not the actual event; I've never attended one); the wrestlers' ring names, in particular, are hilarious. These guys don't take themselves as seriously as their counterparts in the big [business] leagues. Can you imagine a WWF wrestler calling himself "The Coward" (El Cobarde), or "Super Porky"?

Many of the names in this "Lluvia de Estrellas" (Shower of Stars) have puzzling origins: "El Hijo Del Santo" (The Son of the Saint); Nascar (it might sound Spanish, but I don't think it is); "Sexy Flower" (now we know what Lucy Liu does on her nights off); "La Parka" (which, as far as I can tell, translates to "The Parka"; is it just me or is that a less-than-intimidating name, unless your opponent has a ski jacket phobia?); "Impostor" (how do we know he's really an impostor? Behind that mask, he could be the actual person.); and "Hijo de Cien Caras" (Son of 100 Faces; I assume his mask collection is second to none).

The inevitable little people contingent (at least, that's my guess as to the meaning of the heading "Los Minis") are represented by "Piratita Morgan" (a POTC fan, no doubt) and "Mascarita Sagrada" (Sacred Mask).

It's not my intent to mock events such as this or the luchadores or their fans. This is a cultural phenomenon that's been taking place for scores of years, and I hope it continues. The goal of the event is to entertain; it requires a certain amount of complicity between participants and audience, and that's no different than most $150 million Hollywood blockbusters. And I'm guessing that lucha libres take place with a great deal less cynicism and self-importance than their Anglo counterparts.

Has Suddenlink hijacked your browser?

A few weeks ago, I began to notice something odd whenever I entered an incorrect URL into my browser's address bar. Instead of seeing a Google search result page with suggestions that closely matched whatever I had typed, I was getting a Suddenlink-branded page (Suddenlink is my internet service provider) listing its own suggested alternatives. Here's a partial screen shot:

I was vaguely annoyed by this, but sufficiently focused on other things to not take the time to investigate – until this morning. That's when I noticed a tiny linked phrase on the page: "Why am I here?" While I was pretty sure that link didn't lead to the meaning of life, it did provide me with an explanation of what was happening with my browser:

For those with less than perfect vision, the page reads, in part:

Apparently, Suddenlink has partnered with Yahoo! to take over the redirection tasks that I had been relying on Google to handle. However, I have no recollection of giving them permission to do that, and if there's one thing that chaps my hide, it's someone messing with my computer without my authorization.

The page does go on to inform you that "If this service is not right for you, please visit your Preferences page to opt out," and "Preferences page" is linked to a place where you can restore your browser behavior to what you wanted in the first place before Suddenlink decided it knew better than you how you wanted your system to work.

If there's one message I'd like to pass along to my esteemed ISP, it's that unilaterally imposing your will upon your users but justifying it with an opt-out provision is so 2002. Really, I expect more out of a major communications company.

P.S. I wish I knew more about how this interwebosphere thing worked, because I'd like to know how Suddenlink is able to inject its presence into my browsing experience in this fashion. If you have the answers, please feel free to educate me.

WünderKindle

Even though I once mocked it in a post (the link to which escapes me now), my wife has secretly coveted one ever since it was released and so for her birthday (today, in fact) I gave her a Kindle, Amazon.com's "wireless reading device."

MLB is a voracious reader, which explains why I've assembled three new bookcases in just the past month. I figure anything that will reduce the possibility that I'll have to interpret more English-as-a-third-or-fourth-language assembly instructions is worth the price of admission.

And I must admit that in person, the Kindle is much sleeker and attractive than the photos make it out to be. At this moment, it's accumulating its first charge and so we haven't yet actually seen it in action, but I know that will be quick in coming once MLB gets home from work.

My only concern (other than the fact that it will hold 200 titles at around $10 each) is that one of her long-time habits is reading in the bathtub. An accompanying habit is falling asleep in the bathtub. When you combine those two pursuits, it makes for some soggy paperbacks (did you know that books swell up like puffer fish after they dry?). You can see where I'm going with this, right?

I'm petitioning Jeff Bezos to introduce an underwater housing for the Kindle. Not only would it protect my personal investment, it would be a boon for the masses of literary – or is that "literate"? – scuba divers around the world.

I'll try to post some reactions and observations about the Kindle as my wife gets acquainted with her new gadget. The biggest downside I can see at this point is the relatively limited selection of titles for purchase.

In League with the Stones

I'm early in the book of Job in my 2008 "Read Through the Bible" curriculum, and I noticed a phrase yesterday morning that has hitherto escaped my consciousness. In the fifth chapter, Job's friend Eliphaz is continuing his monologue intended to provide some comfort – or at least some explanation – for the sorry state in which Job finds himself, having lost everything but his life (and his wife).

Eliphaz isn't really a very good counselor; he and his two compatriots would have been better off doing what they did for the first seven days of their visit with Job: just sitting with him in silence. Sometimes we try too hard to fill the void, when all we really need to do is be there.

Anyway, Eliphaz is talking about the privileges that accrue to those whom God favors with His discipline (a oft-repeated Biblical doctrine, by the way, but not one that necessarily provides immediate comfort to those in pain). Here's how the New American Standard Version phrases verses 17-23:

I love that turn of phrase, in league with the stones of the field. It speaks to a reconciliation with the most fundamental aspects of God's creation, and not just a passive one, either. I don't mean to get New Agey or Zen-sounding, but communing with rocks conjures up precisely that kind of image. On the other hand, I'm probably giving rocks too little credit. After all, Jesus spoke of stones crying out, and while He was probably being metaphorical, far be it from me to suggest that the Creator and Sovereign Ruler of the Universe couldn't imbue limestone with lyrics or agate with articulation.

What Eliphaz was probably getting at, though, is that when you're right with God, everything else pretty much falls into place as well. Here's how the Contemporary English translation puts verse 23: ...and your rocky fields will become friendly. What's interesting is that he doesn't suggest that God removes those rocks – those bumps in the road that at best are uncomfortable and at worst throw us completely off track – but that we learn how to deal with them. We can't always control our circumstances, but we can determine our attitude toward them.

In league with the stones. That sounds like a great place to be, doesn't it?

Two Score Minus Five

The 35th year of a marriage is one of those odd milestones. It ends with a "5," ostensibly setting it apart as a special anniversary, but it's not one of Big Ones, like 25 or 50. It's been overlooked to some extent by those who make the rules for observances, as it has no gemstones or flowers associated with it, and the recommended gifts are somewhat less than exotic: coral (for the non-PC traditionalist) or jade (for the contemporary).

But I wouldn't trade today for anything, as it marks thirty-five years of being among the most blessed fellows on the face of the earth. Three-and-a-half decades ago, a mere slip of a girl said "I do" and forever changed my course, ensuring that I'd never be lost or alone. And to me, she's still that slip of a girl, ever youthful, ever enthusiastic, ever loving. I thank God every day for the privilege of sharing life with her.

Gazette proves Iran missile photo faked

While others with less impressive skillz turned to outsiders to determine whether the photo released by Iran showing four simultaneous missile launches was, in fact, Photoshopped, the Gazette has obtained top secret satellite imagery giving incontrovertible proof that the mullahs need to brush up on their propaganda-generating technology:

Sergey, is that you?!

So, I pull into the drive-through at McDonald's on Loop 250 this morning to pick up breakfast for MLB and me (yes, we're living the high life now!), and my eyes are drawn to the car in front of me, a Jaguar J8. Since you can't swing a dead cat around Midland without hitting a Jag, that was not a big deal, but what really attracted my attention was the vanity license plate on the car. To wit:

In case your eyes have trouble with the less-than-stellar quality output from my phone's less-than-stellar camera*, here's a close-up:

Now, I don't know about you, but my imagination runs wild when I see something like this. Who, exactly, is behind the wheel of this car? (It looked like a middle-aged man, judging by his profile as he placed his order through the car window.) How did he come by this plate? Did his investment in Google stock pay for the vehicle (probably not, unless this is his beater car while the Lambo's in the shop)? And why is he pulling through a West Texas Mickie D's for breakfast?

The fact that this is a California tag makes the possibilities even more intriguing.

If I'd been a real journalist, I would have jumped out of my car, banged on his window, and demanded the story. I also probably would have been judged to be a would-be 'jacker and tapped with a pearl-handled .45, so it's probably better that I just stick with my imagination.

Feel free to contribute your own interpretation of this sighting.

*What really torques me is that the nice little 10mp camera my wife got me for my birthday, for the specific purpose of carrying everywhere I go, was safely ensconced in the handlebar bag on my bike where I had inadvertently left it after yesterday morning's ride. So much for being prepared.

AADE Response to "Black Gold"

The American Association of Drilling Engineers ("AADE") has posted on its website a rather scathing dismissal of the current TV series Black Gold. Said series purports to give a realistic look at life on West Texas oil drilling rigs.

The AADE takes exception to almost every aspect of the drilling operations displayed on the show, and particularly the health, safety, and environmental issues.

While I'm not experienced in the arcane ways of roughnecks and other drilling hands (all of my field experience was in a natural gas processing plant, which had its own issues), I've suspected – and my friends who do have experience have confirmed – that much of the drama that's depicted on the show is staged for the camera. And the basic premise that the first rig to TD (total depth) "wins the prize" is laughable. But I also confess that there are a number of interesting sub-plots and even some technically informative segments that make the series entertaining.

That's what it's all about, after all. Remember, the network that produced the series was once called CourtTV, so it knows a bit about how to sensationalize the otherwise humdrum and make it appealing to less-than-expert audiences. And while I won't argue with the many legitimate points raised by the AADE, the response on its website seems to go overboard in its paranoia that this series will give the industry a black eye.

So, to paraphrase one of the drillers on Black Gold, "Chill out, you *^&#(&#! It's just a (*&#(&(@ TV show!"

Tip o'the hard hat to MLB for the AADE response

There goes the neighborhood.

For sale: 1 year old, single owner home; 4 bedrooms, 3 baths, 3 car garage. Whirlpool tub; granite countertops; central hare.

I crack myself up, sometimes.

West Texas left out of AT&T's 3G network

My wife and I are kicking around the idea of getting iPhones once our contract with Alltel expires in September. The recent announcements of the "new and improved" (and cheaper) iPhones are making them hard to resist, and one of the big selling points is that they'll be able to access the faster 3G data network.

In his comparison of the new and old versions of the phone, the Wall Street Journal's Walter Mossberg found the 3G network provided download speeds that were 4-5 times faster than the old EDGE network used by the first iPhone iteration. But there's a catch that I hadn't considered: AT&T's 3G network coverage is limited.

In fact, in Texas it appears that the company drew a line down I-35 and decreed that no one west of that line would have 3G (Fort Worth is close enough that it doesn't qualify as an exception). The list of cities with AT&T 3G service is found here.

Since the new phones can still use EDGE if 3G isn't available, and since their WiFi capabilities aren't affected, this may not be a deal killer for us. And 3G coverage is inevitable; the question is simply, "when?" But one does chafe a bit to think that AT&T has increased its data service plan fee by $10 per month, presumably as a "3G premium," and we don't get any immediate benefit in our area.

I guess it could be worse. The entire state of Alaska has been left out, along with both Dakotas.

The Real Black Gold

Those of us living in the Permian Basin already knew this, but Mother Nature gave us a reminder yesterday of where the pot of gold is located:

For the uninitiated (or myopic), the rainbow is either leading to or emanating from (or both) an oil pumping unit.

This photo was taken yesterday evening by our friend Toni from the backyard of her country estate south of Midland.

The Devil Went Down to...Colorado?

Every family has its prodigy, and some have more than one. My mother's family boasts of several, including two very successful pro golfers. We've also got some gifted musicians in the clan, not the least of which is the young man featured on the following YouTube video, playing lead violin. He's the son of one of my cousins, and the performance is from the Fairview High School Pops Festival in Boulder, Colorado.

Charlie Daniels would be proud, but no more so than his extended family!

And in case you're wondering, as a musician, his dad was a great basketball player*. ;-)

*OK, I'm not kidding about that. Krum, Texas, was a state basketball powerhouse back in his day.

Ad agencies capitalize on lack of critical thinking

Although record gasoline prices are adversely impacting some aspect of almost everyone's life, there's one tiny niche that's surely reaping a minor windfall: the ad agencies with automobile manufacturers as clients*. With very few exceptions (Cadillac comes to mind), they're all re-working their sales pitches to address the issue of gas mileage.

Their zeal in casting their vehicles in the best possible light** is leading to some approaches that strain credulity (or take advantage of their perception that their customers are lazy thinkers, a proposition I wouldn't argue strongly against). I noticed a commercial this morning in which an SUV manufacturer was using a bit of mathematical misdirection in order to convince us that their big vehicle was economically attractive. Instead of publicizing the miles per gallon, they were touting the miles per tank, as if being able to drive four or five hundred miles without filling up was a virtuous achievement. Never mind that the tab for that inevitable fill-up will be north of a hundred bucks.

I wonder how many people fall for that line of reasoning? Any bets on the outcome of a random poll taken at the local mall where one question is posed: "Does a car that gets five hundred miles to the tank sound like a good investment, given current gasoline prices?"?

*Assuming, of course, that the car companies can actually generate the cash flow to pay the ad agencies' bills.
**Casting weaknesses as strengths is a time-honored tradition in advertising, but the practice isn't limited to that industry. For example, the software business is famous for its claims that "it's not a bug...it's a feature!

The Boy and the Princess

Once upon a time there was a boy. We'll call him Robert, since that was his name. Robert was an odd little boy, for many reasons, but not the least of which was his obsession with princesses. As you might imagine, this made for some challenging times during recess, and those challenges continued throughout his adolescence.

But Robert's obsession grew even stronger in the face of adversity. He dreamed of marrying a princess, and in one of those strange twists of fate that defy logic and lead to sardonic blog posts, actually married one when he got old enough to do so.

That should have been sufficient, and would have been for any normal princess-obsessed adult male, but Robert wanted more.

And just so you'll know that dreams do sometimes come true, he got it.

Oh, by the way...nice t-shirt, Cinderfella.

Virtue may be its own reward...

...but cupcakes are even better!

Especially when they're homemade and delivered in person by a grateful neighbor and her daughter.

I gave it my best "aw shucks, twarn't nuthin'" act – and that's actually the truth – but I could scarcely contain my glee at getting the little plate holding four sprinkle-covered cupcakes.

But don't tell MLB. She thinks we just got two. ;-)

Images back on?

If you're still not seeing all the images on the Gazette, please leave a message to that effect in the comments. I've changed a setting in the server configuration that I guessed might have contributed to the problem, but since I never could replicate it, I also can't tell if it's solved.

Thanks!

Pops in the Park 2008: Big Deal in Big Spring

My pal Gregg emailed me this link to a YouTube video showing a skydiver towing an American flag the size of a basketball court*. It's certainly inspiring, but not unique, as we witnessed something similar last Thursday just forty miles down the interstate in Big Spring.

The occasion was the 11th annual "Pops in the Park" featuring the Big Spring Symphony and Chorus**, a surprisingly impressive fireworks display (more below), and an aerialist with a large US flag trailing behind. The flag obviously wasn't as big as the one in the video, but the scene was appreciated by the large crowd seated in the amphitheater and across the city park.

The Symphony and Chorus performed a full program of patriotic standards, plus some familiar medleys (salutes to Irving Berlin, George Cohan, and Andrew Lloyd Webber, for example). But the real treat came after nightfall, when we entered the "Fireworks Music" portion of the program.

I freely admit that we traveled to Big Spring with lowered expectations about what we'd see. After all, a town of 25,000 or so surely has limited resources to apply to something like this. Were we ever wrong! The fireworks display, in conjunction with the music of the symphony, rivaled and then exceeded anything we've seen in Midland.

It's difficult to adequately capture the impact of such a performance, especially on a point-and-shoot camera in movie mode, but here's a brief sample of the production, featuring the finale to the 1812 Overture. Perhaps it will give you a taste of the experience.

It didn't hurt that the weather was flawless and the crowd large, happy, and well-behaved. The city's amphitheater and park are a wonderful venue for an event of this nature, and it's obvious that the entire community turned out to support it. Even if it didn't take place on the Fourth of July, we left with a renewed sense of the awesome privilege of living in a free and prosperous nation. Thank you, Big Spring, for giving us that reminder.

*The analogy is surprisingly apt. According to this website, a regulation basketball court is 94' x 50', which gives an aspect ratio of 1:1.88. The US Flag Code specifies that the American flag will have an aspect ratio of 1:1.9. I doubt that James Naismith had this comparison in mind when he invented basketball, but it's a comfortable coincidence for an American sport. (Oh, and "thank you" to Larry and Deborah Hendrick [she of the exquisite Glove Box Stories], proprietors of Flags Bay, for the excellent source material for the dimensions and rules for handling the American flag!)

**You didn't realize that Big Spring had a symphony? Join the club. Turns out that they have a quite good one, although many of the members are also in the Midland-Odessa Symphony. The conductor, Dr. Keith Graumann, is a Big Spring resident.

Image Loading Problems?

Some people have complained (rejoiced?) that some or all of the images associated with the Gazette are not loading. I can't replicate the problem in my browser, but I do see it happening on my wife's computer. Please bear with me while I perform some incantations and possibly a live animal sacrifice or two* in order to bring the Gazette's graphic glory back into focus.

*Not really. But I might be really mean to a Beanie Baby.

God Bless America

Chivalry's not dead, but it does have a pronounced limp

Note, or rather, confession: I was going to use that post title for a description about how I re-injured my knee running with my wife so she wouldn't have to go out alone, but the moment passed (unfortunately, not the injury). It doesn't fit as well here, but by gosh, ill-fitting content has never stopped me before!

Continuing with the whole neighborhood-overrun-by-big-black-and-hairy-spiders theme that we launched yesterday, I had the opportunity this morning to educate a neighbor on the logic of not being afraid of tarantulas.

MLB and I were finishing our walk with Abbye (MLB took the day off) and we were passing in front of our neighbor's house as she came out to retrieve the newspaper. We exchanged greetings and she headed back to her front door, then paused, uttered a plaintive cry of dismay and jumped back a few inches. I knew without asking the source of her concern.

"Oh...that's the biggest spider I've ever seen!" she exclaimed. I walked up and tried to soothe her feelings. "Has a tarantula paid you a visit?"

It had, and she was accepting no soothing. I asked her if she'd like for me to sweep it off her front porch and she gratefully accepted my offer – pending her running inside to grab her camera to document one more indignity heaped upon her by the West Texas ecosystem (really, don't they have tarantulas in Denver?).

She took the photo, and I swished a broom toward the spider. But it evaded the bristles and scurried behind the bags of cypress mulch stacked against the front porch wall. I dragged the bags away from the wall, broom at the ready – and exposed both the original fugitive plus a compatriot. That was just about more than our neighbor could take, but she composed herself long enough to get another photo of the two spiders, one of which had assumed the aggressive stance, front legs in the air and prepared to urticate (you did learn that word, didn't you?), that makes them look more fearsome than they are.

I opined that this was probably one good reason for not stacking mulch on the front porch, and she assured me that her husband would ensure that the bags were gone as soon as he got home from work. I suspect he'll be presented with visual justification for his impending household chores.

I quickly and firmly swept the two spiders off the porch and onto the driveway. However, each time the little rascals came to a halt, they immediately made a beeline..um...spiderline back toward the front door. I had no choice but to terminate their operations with extreme prejudice in order to salvage our neighbor's psyche.

She was quite grateful for the assistance, obviously taking my assurances that the spiders were harmless as simply more evidence that I was at best a useful fool.

Ironically, when we arrived back at our house, my wife found some black stick-like things laying on the flowerbed border. Upon closer inspection, we determined that they were bits and pieces of tarantula legs. Did I mention that birds eat tarantulas? (I imagine they think they taste like chicken.) It was kind of sad to think that one of our spiders, having escaped unscathed from the aborted Great West Texas Spider Smackdown of 2008 apparently wandered straight into the sights of a mockingbird or grackle. Such are the daily life and death scenarios on the plains of Texas.

Neighborhood Nature Encounters

Last week's rain was welcome, but it brought out critters that some folks around here would just as soon stay out of sight. I'm referring specifically to tarantulas, and contrary to this report (which is worth reading if only to add "urticating" to your working vocabulary), those hairy eight-legged freaks are in abundant supply in our neck of the Woodland.

There were two in close proximity of our front door Saturday morning, one right on the threshold (trying to find the doorbell, no doubt; they're quite polite, you know) and another trying to hide under the brick overhang of our front flowerbed. I was curious to see how they'd react to one another, so I herded the porch-dweller (I knew that leather bullwhip from Juarez would come in handy!) over to where the shy one rested. When they came in contact, both froze for a few seconds, and then they mutually agreed to have nothing whatsoever to do with one another. Try as I might, I couldn't get them to even acknowledge each other. So much for the Great West Texas Spider Smackdown of 2008.

Tarantulas look creepy. The ones we have are about 12" in diameter and can achieve speeds of 40 mph on flat ground. They've been known to leap onto unsuspecting bicyclists; they'll tear your ear off if you're not alert. OK, I made most of that up. They're actually harmless – other than causing minor heart attacks by appearing when and where you don't expect them – don't jump, and while they can skitter pretty quickly over terrain, they're usually trying to get away from you. They still give me the creeps, but I won't go out of my way to smush one.

***

This morning, sandwiched between multiple trips to the vet for Abbye's blood glucose tests and a meeting with a client, I managed to squeeze in a 30-minute bike ride through the adjoining neighborhoods, and I spotted the biggest coyote I 've ever seen in these parts. It looked bigger than a German Shepherd and it was wandering in the vacant lots between Solomon Lane and Mockingbird.

It spotted me at the same time I saw it, and broke into that deceptively casual lope unique to coyotes, covering territory faster than you think is possible. (No wonder the Indians thought they were magic personified...or animified.) I figured I'd seen the last of him (or her?) as the animal disappeared over a slight rise.

But I decided to check, just to make sure, so I wheeled around and rode in the general direction he'd headed. Surprisingly, I saw him a couple of blocks ahead, and I attempted to cut off his path to the open fields around Midland Country Club.

I also hauled out the camera that I've started carrying, a very cool little Sony DSC-T300 that my wife gave me for my birthday last week. I looped the lanyard around my left hand, and started the chase.

Again I was surprised by his behavior. Instead of cutting across the field, he stayed in the middle of the street, running a block or two ahead of me, craning his head around occasionally as if to confirm that there really was a strange contraption following him. For my part, I flicked open the camera's lens cover and started shooting one-handed, without looking at the viewfinder, pedaling furiously but not gaining any ground. I was counting on blind luck to get a good shot before he disappeared. I was also counting on blind luck to ensure that I didn't crash into a curb or hit a patch of sand or otherwise find myself in a position unbecoming a bicyclist.

This is the part where I'm supposed to reveal the results of my wild camera waving, right? Umm...well, I got something on "film," although it's hard to tell what it is, and it's certainly not proof that we have the world's largest coyote hanging out in our 'hood. In fact, I did get one quite excellent shot of the sky and some very lovely clouds, and if you stare at the clouds long enough, you might begin to think you see a coyote. Or, perhaps, Wesley Clark. But, that's another story for another day.

Worth waiting for?

Sorry about the extended absence. I've been doing extensive research on a wide variety of important topics, and reading Somerset Maugham short stories (I now know the definition of a "rusk," and can approximate the correct usage of the phrase "scraping acquaintance"). As a result of these concentrated intellectual efforts I feel confident that the result will simultaneously stimulate and challenge you, no doubt on a very visceral level.