I just got off the phone with The Feared Redhead, who tells me the jury has reached a verdict. A van is currently transporting Michael Jackson from Neverland to the courthouse, and the verdict should be read by 2:00 PM PDT.
Update (2:25 PM PDT):
NOT GUILTY!
Monday, June 13, 2005
Theory v. Practice
This is Post #2 in a series of posts about my father and his Navy stories. Any misuse of military jargon is due to my spotty civilian memory of my father's explanation.
As I've mentioned before, my father was a sonar man during his days in Uncle Sam's Yacht Club. Sonar, you may know, is an acronym for SOund Navigation And Ranging. This means that it emits sound waves through the water which then bounce off of objects and return to the source, where detection gear receives them back and uses the information to determine an object's size, shape, and relative position and speed in relationship to the emitting ship.
Thanks to movies like The Hunt for Red October, we civilians tend to be most familiar with the Detection portion of the equation, mostly because it's the more exciting use, and to a certain extent because the Navigation part has been taken over in modern times by things like GPS. But in my father's day, navigation was an essential role of sonar, especially in harbor. By taking a sonar reading of the relative position and speed of a known fixed object, like a navigation buoy, it is possible to determine the location, heading, and speed of the ship. The process by which this was accomplished in my father’s day was well-established and had a routine to it. The officer on duty whose job was to navigate would call for a reading from the sonar man on his mark. When he said “Mark!” the sonar man would call out the reading, and the officer would plot it on the ship’s charts.
The officer charged with this duty on my father’s destroyer was a young ensign who had been assigned to the ship directly from the US Naval Academy in Annapolis, an Ensign E. Ensign E. was what military types refer to as a “Ring-knocker”, that is, a graduate of a military academy who believes in his own inherent superiority just by virtue of his Alma Mater. Ensign E. was the quintessential such individual, regularly showing contempt for the enlisted men under him and treating them with undue harshness, unwilling to learn from his own mistakes, unable to distinguish from his academic training and real life experience. One example of this was his inability to grasp a concept called Advance and Transfer. As explained to me by my father, Advance and Transfer means that, in the days before GPS, when navigational readings and computations occurred at a speed slower than light, the fact that the ship is moving while you’re navigation means that there will always be a slight discrepancy between where you were when you took your readings and where you are when you plot them. What this means in practical terms is that while in a classroom with a set of coordinates provided from a textbook, you can calculate an exact fixed location, on a ship at sea moving over the water, the coordinates will always be an approximation, albeit a highly accurate approximation with a good crew. My father and his fellow sonar men on the Bausell prided themselves in being such a crew. Ensign E. was not satisfied with anything short of perfection. During the days leading up to a WestPac deployment, as the ship exited San Diego Bay and returned each day, he had them work on navigational readings. And because there was always a margin of error, no matter how slight, on the last night before the deployment, he denied them shore leave. The men would not be given one last night on US soil before the deployment.
Now, in general, treating your men with undue harshness is not a wise course for any officer. It degrades morale, for one thing. But it’s even more foolish when you’re the least experienced officer on board ship, and the men you choose to alienate are the most intelligent, highly trained enlisted men on the entire vessel. My father and his buddies vowed revenge. They would have it, and it would be swift and sure. They spent that last night doing just what Ensign E. had ordered them to do – studying the navigational charts of San Diego Bay, and practicing their navigational skills.
The next day, as the ship slipped its moorings and got under way, Ensign E. took his place at the chart table and began calling for readings. My father, stationed at the sonar equipment, would call out the readings and recorded them in the navigational log. But as the ship began to make the final turn and leave the harbor, my father began calling the readings not from his sonar scope, but from a prepared cheat sheet hidden on his person (though the readings recorded in the log were still from the actual scope). Ensign E. looked puzzled as he plotted the reading. He looked at the chart, looked out the hatch at the harbor, muttered “that can’t be!” and then called out, “Give me another reading!” My father complied. Ensign E. became more confused, more frustrated, and more frantic. For while the official log shows an uneventful cruise up the bay and out to sea, Ensign E.’s chart showed that the USS Bausell had made its turn early and was cruising down the main runway of North Island Naval Air Station.
It’s at this point that my father introduced me to the other officer who plays a part in the story, the ships XO (Executive Officer, the Second-in-Command to the Captain). The XO was the opposite of a “ring-knocker”, he was a “Mustanger”, as my father called him, someone who began his career as an enlisted man but who had server so long and with such distinction that he had earned an officer’s commission, and further had reached an impressive rank even as an officer. He was also as typical of this kind of officer as Ensign E. was of the other. He had a great deal of respect for enlisted men, understood them, and judged them on their character and performance, not their rank. Furthermore he had no tolerance for incompetence, from either enlisted men or officers.
The XO was on the bridge that morning, and Ensign E.’s discomfiture quickly got his attention. He wandered over to the navigation area and watched for a few minutes. Then he walked over to the charts and looked at Ensign E.’s plots. Then he walked over to my father’s station, bent down, and looked at the logs. He looked from the log to my father to the charts, back to the log, and then at my father again, giving him a wicked, sly grin. He straightened up, shifted his foul-smelling briar pipe from one side of his mouth to the other, and addressed Ensign E. by asking him, “What rinky-dink trade school did you come from?”
As I've mentioned before, my father was a sonar man during his days in Uncle Sam's Yacht Club. Sonar, you may know, is an acronym for SOund Navigation And Ranging. This means that it emits sound waves through the water which then bounce off of objects and return to the source, where detection gear receives them back and uses the information to determine an object's size, shape, and relative position and speed in relationship to the emitting ship.
Thanks to movies like The Hunt for Red October, we civilians tend to be most familiar with the Detection portion of the equation, mostly because it's the more exciting use, and to a certain extent because the Navigation part has been taken over in modern times by things like GPS. But in my father's day, navigation was an essential role of sonar, especially in harbor. By taking a sonar reading of the relative position and speed of a known fixed object, like a navigation buoy, it is possible to determine the location, heading, and speed of the ship. The process by which this was accomplished in my father’s day was well-established and had a routine to it. The officer on duty whose job was to navigate would call for a reading from the sonar man on his mark. When he said “Mark!” the sonar man would call out the reading, and the officer would plot it on the ship’s charts.
The officer charged with this duty on my father’s destroyer was a young ensign who had been assigned to the ship directly from the US Naval Academy in Annapolis, an Ensign E. Ensign E. was what military types refer to as a “Ring-knocker”, that is, a graduate of a military academy who believes in his own inherent superiority just by virtue of his Alma Mater. Ensign E. was the quintessential such individual, regularly showing contempt for the enlisted men under him and treating them with undue harshness, unwilling to learn from his own mistakes, unable to distinguish from his academic training and real life experience. One example of this was his inability to grasp a concept called Advance and Transfer. As explained to me by my father, Advance and Transfer means that, in the days before GPS, when navigational readings and computations occurred at a speed slower than light, the fact that the ship is moving while you’re navigation means that there will always be a slight discrepancy between where you were when you took your readings and where you are when you plot them. What this means in practical terms is that while in a classroom with a set of coordinates provided from a textbook, you can calculate an exact fixed location, on a ship at sea moving over the water, the coordinates will always be an approximation, albeit a highly accurate approximation with a good crew. My father and his fellow sonar men on the Bausell prided themselves in being such a crew. Ensign E. was not satisfied with anything short of perfection. During the days leading up to a WestPac deployment, as the ship exited San Diego Bay and returned each day, he had them work on navigational readings. And because there was always a margin of error, no matter how slight, on the last night before the deployment, he denied them shore leave. The men would not be given one last night on US soil before the deployment.
Now, in general, treating your men with undue harshness is not a wise course for any officer. It degrades morale, for one thing. But it’s even more foolish when you’re the least experienced officer on board ship, and the men you choose to alienate are the most intelligent, highly trained enlisted men on the entire vessel. My father and his buddies vowed revenge. They would have it, and it would be swift and sure. They spent that last night doing just what Ensign E. had ordered them to do – studying the navigational charts of San Diego Bay, and practicing their navigational skills.
The next day, as the ship slipped its moorings and got under way, Ensign E. took his place at the chart table and began calling for readings. My father, stationed at the sonar equipment, would call out the readings and recorded them in the navigational log. But as the ship began to make the final turn and leave the harbor, my father began calling the readings not from his sonar scope, but from a prepared cheat sheet hidden on his person (though the readings recorded in the log were still from the actual scope). Ensign E. looked puzzled as he plotted the reading. He looked at the chart, looked out the hatch at the harbor, muttered “that can’t be!” and then called out, “Give me another reading!” My father complied. Ensign E. became more confused, more frustrated, and more frantic. For while the official log shows an uneventful cruise up the bay and out to sea, Ensign E.’s chart showed that the USS Bausell had made its turn early and was cruising down the main runway of North Island Naval Air Station.
It’s at this point that my father introduced me to the other officer who plays a part in the story, the ships XO (Executive Officer, the Second-in-Command to the Captain). The XO was the opposite of a “ring-knocker”, he was a “Mustanger”, as my father called him, someone who began his career as an enlisted man but who had server so long and with such distinction that he had earned an officer’s commission, and further had reached an impressive rank even as an officer. He was also as typical of this kind of officer as Ensign E. was of the other. He had a great deal of respect for enlisted men, understood them, and judged them on their character and performance, not their rank. Furthermore he had no tolerance for incompetence, from either enlisted men or officers.
The XO was on the bridge that morning, and Ensign E.’s discomfiture quickly got his attention. He wandered over to the navigation area and watched for a few minutes. Then he walked over to the charts and looked at Ensign E.’s plots. Then he walked over to my father’s station, bent down, and looked at the logs. He looked from the log to my father to the charts, back to the log, and then at my father again, giving him a wicked, sly grin. He straightened up, shifted his foul-smelling briar pipe from one side of his mouth to the other, and addressed Ensign E. by asking him, “What rinky-dink trade school did you come from?”
Friday, June 10, 2005
Desserting the Grill
NSFD*
Don't any of you EVER tell my wife, The Feared Redhead, that I compared her to a rodent, but she has to be the world's happiest guinea pig, since I test all my new experimental food recipes on her, and most are successes. Last night was no different. She wanted something from the grill, and I didn't feel like coming up with a new entree, so I cooked my shrimp tacos as I've mentioned. But I did feel like trying SOMETHING new, so I ventured into new tewrritory: grilled dessert. The result was a hit, so I'm sharing it here:
Candyaki Fruit Kebabs
This dish gets its name from the fact that the sauce reminds me of a teriyaki sauce in color and how it’s made, even though it has a completely different flavor.
To make this recipe you will need:
Kebabs:
Bamboo skewers
Fresh fruit (I like using apples, bananas, nectarines, and pineapple, but feel free to experiment.)
Candyaki Sauce:
20 oz. bottle Coca-Cola
1 cup dark rum (Myers is fine, you might also try a lighter spice rum for extra flavor. I used a black strap rum that’s so dark, it’s essentially spiked molasses.)
½ cup brown sugar
¼ cup lime juice (key lime if you can get it)
1 tbsp. grated ginger or ginger paste
1 tsp. cinnamon
Vanilla ice cream
Preparation
Soak bamboo skewers for 30-45 minutes in cold water.
Cut the fresh fruit into chunks. You want the chunks to be big enough to stay on the skewers, but not so big that they don’t cook through. It’s also important that all the fruit be cut into chunks of similar size for even cooking.
Insert skewers through the fruit, alternating chunks of different fruit.
Cooking:
In a saucepan over medium heat, combine the Coca-Cola, rum, lime juice, ginger, brown sugar, and vanilla. Heat the sauce to a low boil, stirring frequently. Reduce heat and simmer, letting sauce reduce.
Place the skewers on a grill over medium high heat. Transfer saucepan to grill next to skewers. Brush skewers with sauce frequently, turning each time to avoid burning. Cook until the fruit is cooked through and coated with sauce and the coating is caramelized.
Serving:
Remove fruit from skewer. Place fruit over vanilla ice cream, spoon the excess sauce over the top. Makes 4-6 skewers.
*Not Safe For Diabetics
Don't any of you EVER tell my wife, The Feared Redhead, that I compared her to a rodent, but she has to be the world's happiest guinea pig, since I test all my new experimental food recipes on her, and most are successes. Last night was no different. She wanted something from the grill, and I didn't feel like coming up with a new entree, so I cooked my shrimp tacos as I've mentioned. But I did feel like trying SOMETHING new, so I ventured into new tewrritory: grilled dessert. The result was a hit, so I'm sharing it here:
Candyaki Fruit Kebabs
This dish gets its name from the fact that the sauce reminds me of a teriyaki sauce in color and how it’s made, even though it has a completely different flavor.
To make this recipe you will need:
Kebabs:
Bamboo skewers
Fresh fruit (I like using apples, bananas, nectarines, and pineapple, but feel free to experiment.)
Candyaki Sauce:
20 oz. bottle Coca-Cola
1 cup dark rum (Myers is fine, you might also try a lighter spice rum for extra flavor. I used a black strap rum that’s so dark, it’s essentially spiked molasses.)
½ cup brown sugar
¼ cup lime juice (key lime if you can get it)
1 tbsp. grated ginger or ginger paste
1 tsp. cinnamon
Vanilla ice cream
Preparation
Soak bamboo skewers for 30-45 minutes in cold water.
Cut the fresh fruit into chunks. You want the chunks to be big enough to stay on the skewers, but not so big that they don’t cook through. It’s also important that all the fruit be cut into chunks of similar size for even cooking.
Insert skewers through the fruit, alternating chunks of different fruit.
Cooking:
In a saucepan over medium heat, combine the Coca-Cola, rum, lime juice, ginger, brown sugar, and vanilla. Heat the sauce to a low boil, stirring frequently. Reduce heat and simmer, letting sauce reduce.
Place the skewers on a grill over medium high heat. Transfer saucepan to grill next to skewers. Brush skewers with sauce frequently, turning each time to avoid burning. Cook until the fruit is cooked through and coated with sauce and the coating is caramelized.
Serving:
Remove fruit from skewer. Place fruit over vanilla ice cream, spoon the excess sauce over the top. Makes 4-6 skewers.
*Not Safe For Diabetics
Escargot Away!
With it's damp, mild winters, Oregon is heaven for gastropods. The banana slugs are huge. It's a matter of perverted pride and humor here.
So last night, I opened the grill to cook up some of my shrimp tacos, and right in the middle of the grill was a snail. And all across the grill were snail tracks.
Now, I was duly grossed out and spent a good deal of time scrubbing the grill, but I was also impressed. This snail had crossed the gap from one bar of the grill to another.
So last night, I opened the grill to cook up some of my shrimp tacos, and right in the middle of the grill was a snail. And all across the grill were snail tracks.
Now, I was duly grossed out and spent a good deal of time scrubbing the grill, but I was also impressed. This snail had crossed the gap from one bar of the grill to another.
Followed
The last two mornings, as my carpool partner and I have walked from his truck to the door at work, we've been followed by someone with criminal intent. I know this to be so, because I saw them shadow our movements, hiding behind trees as they did. They're looking for a chance to rob us blind. I've gotten a good look at the thief, and know from bitter experience how quickly this criminal can victimize you. He already has a reputation, and his picture's on file:
This is a Steller's Jay. It's our West Coast equivalent of the Blue Jay, and like the Gray or Canadian Jay, we refer to it as a Robber Jay. I've had these little buggers swoop in to a table at a campsite and steal food from a plate less than a foot in front of me. They're related to crows, and they're brazen, shamelsss thiefs.
I also think they're gorgeous.
This is a Steller's Jay. It's our West Coast equivalent of the Blue Jay, and like the Gray or Canadian Jay, we refer to it as a Robber Jay. I've had these little buggers swoop in to a table at a campsite and steal food from a plate less than a foot in front of me. They're related to crows, and they're brazen, shamelsss thiefs.
I also think they're gorgeous.
Thursday, June 09, 2005
It's About Damned Time!
Thanks for the Memory to Blogfather Rusty.
It's been a long time coming, but finally, the US and NATO are going to intervene in Darfur. It's too late for almost a quarter of a million people, but at least now we'll get off our arses and help.
It's been a long time coming, but finally, the US and NATO are going to intervene in Darfur. It's too late for almost a quarter of a million people, but at least now we'll get off our arses and help.
Top Ten List for Thursday, June 9, 2005
So I give my friend Vulture Six a lot of ribbing about how much I prefer my beloved home state of Oregon to his beloved Texas, and he gives me just as much ribbing back. But he is a good friend, and quite fair-minded. So, to be fair and respond in kind, I present:
Top Ten Reasons Houston Isn't As Bad As I Let On
10. Cheap gasoline. Saved our budgetary arses, it did.
9. Johnson Space Center. If you love science, love astronomy, love the space program, Houston has a special place in your nostalgia. I just wish I'd had time to go see it.
8. Tex-Mex. I prefer Baja cuisine myself, but I have to admit to enjoying Tex-Mex, especially those fried dessert things... what were they called? And I wonder why I need to lose weight.
7. Chik Fil-A (sp?). OK, so it's found other places, but that's where I was introduced to it.
6. Shiner Bock. Damned good beer. I still favor local brews, but Oregonians pride themselves on appreciating good beer as much as making it, and so I have to give it its props. It sure as hell beats Sam Adams five different ways from Sunday.
5. Whattaburger. Mmmmmmm...... best damned restaurant hamberger I've ever had. Puts In-N-Out or my local favorite, Burgerville, to shame (notice a trend here?).
4. Texans know how to throw a party. Seriously, Scott, that was the best spread I've ever seen. Brisket, chicken, sausage... I'm starting to drool.
3. It's home to one of the best friends you could ever ask for.
2. Give me a second, I'll think of something.... Oh, Yeah:
1. IT'S NOT CALIFORNIA!!!!!!
Top Ten Reasons Houston Isn't As Bad As I Let On
10. Cheap gasoline. Saved our budgetary arses, it did.
9. Johnson Space Center. If you love science, love astronomy, love the space program, Houston has a special place in your nostalgia. I just wish I'd had time to go see it.
8. Tex-Mex. I prefer Baja cuisine myself, but I have to admit to enjoying Tex-Mex, especially those fried dessert things... what were they called? And I wonder why I need to lose weight.
7. Chik Fil-A (sp?). OK, so it's found other places, but that's where I was introduced to it.
6. Shiner Bock. Damned good beer. I still favor local brews, but Oregonians pride themselves on appreciating good beer as much as making it, and so I have to give it its props. It sure as hell beats Sam Adams five different ways from Sunday.
5. Whattaburger. Mmmmmmm...... best damned restaurant hamberger I've ever had. Puts In-N-Out or my local favorite, Burgerville, to shame (notice a trend here?).
4. Texans know how to throw a party. Seriously, Scott, that was the best spread I've ever seen. Brisket, chicken, sausage... I'm starting to drool.
3. It's home to one of the best friends you could ever ask for.
2. Give me a second, I'll think of something.... Oh, Yeah:
1. IT'S NOT CALIFORNIA!!!!!!
Mountain Vistas
Since I moved back to Oregon, and settled here in Lane County, this has become my favorite time of year. One of the reasons I favor it is because it's early enough in the year that there is still snow in the High Cascades, but the weather is nice enough down here in the valleys that you get clear air and a good view of the mountains. In fact, because of the placement of one of our local freeways, I-105/Hwy 126, as it passes over I-5, our daily drive home points us straight at a picture-framed view of this:
albeit from a different angle and a greater distance, it's a gorgeous sight each day. Those are the Three Sisters, and they're among the most likely volcanoes in the central Cascades to reactivate during my lifetime.
albeit from a different angle and a greater distance, it's a gorgeous sight each day. Those are the Three Sisters, and they're among the most likely volcanoes in the central Cascades to reactivate during my lifetime.
Wednesday, June 08, 2005
Candle in the Windows (And Mac and Linux)
Thanks for the Memory to Nickie Goomba.
I often get annoyed when people from "Red States" express their annoyance with West Coast politics by expressing a wish, however sarcastic, that the Left Coast would just secede or be nuked by North Korea or some such stupidity. For starters, there are plenty of us out here who are just as fed up with our leftists, thank you, and we're doing the best we can to change things. Secondly, the implication that this region is any less American is just stupid. Do I really have to trot out the statistics on how many Guards and reserves from Oregon alone are serving in Afghanistan and Iraq, or the number of casualties they've suffered? I guess they don't count as Americans because they're from Blue states, huh? I swear, sometimes I'm as embarassed by my political allies as I am amused by my opponents, and just as outraged.
I'd do well to remember that the next time I feel the urge to make disparaging remarks about all Europeans just because the majority over there is at political odds with me. Nickie Goomba has pointed me to an encouraging Blog called Free Thoughts, out of Sardinia.
At first I thought the writing style was a bit unpolished, but that's understandable as she's an Italian Blogging in English. She's bright, well-informed, expressive, and has a passionate love of freedom. If I were single and ten years younger, I'd be in love!
Go check out Free Thoughts, give it a read. If you like it, leave a comment encouraging her. And if you have a Blog, please, give her some link love.
I often get annoyed when people from "Red States" express their annoyance with West Coast politics by expressing a wish, however sarcastic, that the Left Coast would just secede or be nuked by North Korea or some such stupidity. For starters, there are plenty of us out here who are just as fed up with our leftists, thank you, and we're doing the best we can to change things. Secondly, the implication that this region is any less American is just stupid. Do I really have to trot out the statistics on how many Guards and reserves from Oregon alone are serving in Afghanistan and Iraq, or the number of casualties they've suffered? I guess they don't count as Americans because they're from Blue states, huh? I swear, sometimes I'm as embarassed by my political allies as I am amused by my opponents, and just as outraged.
I'd do well to remember that the next time I feel the urge to make disparaging remarks about all Europeans just because the majority over there is at political odds with me. Nickie Goomba has pointed me to an encouraging Blog called Free Thoughts, out of Sardinia.
At first I thought the writing style was a bit unpolished, but that's understandable as she's an Italian Blogging in English. She's bright, well-informed, expressive, and has a passionate love of freedom. If I were single and ten years younger, I'd be in love!
Go check out Free Thoughts, give it a read. If you like it, leave a comment encouraging her. And if you have a Blog, please, give her some link love.
More on Light and Shadow
A while back I Blogged on how my new work schedule was affording me an opportunity to observe the way the time of day and the weather affected the sunlight, and to begin to understand what architects and photographers mean by “Quality of light”. This morning is one of those gorgeous mornings, the sky overhead is cloudless, and the low angle of the sun means it’s not flooding the whole landscape outside with light, but rather is lighting up tall objects like trees and hills, casting surprisingly dark shadows for such brightly lit objects, providing for sharp, clear contrasts. It makes everything look almost more real than normal, if that’s possible. What I mean by that is, each object being lit stands out, has its own noticeable individual identity instead of being part of some homogenous background.
Last night a different time of day and a different set of conditions gave some different but eerily beautiful results.
The weather for most of the day yesterday was quite rainy (but not that cold), as if the weather is trying to make up for lost time before summer officially arrives. As the day wore on, the weather began to clear, until by the time I picked up TFR from work, some time after 8 PM, not only were there spots in which the clouds did not rain, there were patches of completely clear sky. As the sun set (this far north, summer sunsets are quite late), it hit that gap between the mountains and the clouds that I love so much, lightening the sky and tingeing the clouds to the west with an incandescent edge, fading into crimsons and violets. Oregon has some of the most gorgeous sunsets you’ll ever see, and they only get better over on the coast.
This last effort to shine left the sky over Eugene bright and glowing, surprisingly bright for such a rainy day. As we drove from Eugene into Springfield, there was a mist hanging close to the ground, and as the sun lit it, it created a golden glow around and over us. Farther to the east, it was darker, as if that wall of mist absorbed the last of the sunlight, but the higher cloud level meant that it was a whitish-bluish-grayish darkness, more like the rainy day it had been than like the night that was coming, until over the Cascades farther to the east, where the clouds met the Earth, it was the thick, brooding darkness of a storm.
Last night a different time of day and a different set of conditions gave some different but eerily beautiful results.
The weather for most of the day yesterday was quite rainy (but not that cold), as if the weather is trying to make up for lost time before summer officially arrives. As the day wore on, the weather began to clear, until by the time I picked up TFR from work, some time after 8 PM, not only were there spots in which the clouds did not rain, there were patches of completely clear sky. As the sun set (this far north, summer sunsets are quite late), it hit that gap between the mountains and the clouds that I love so much, lightening the sky and tingeing the clouds to the west with an incandescent edge, fading into crimsons and violets. Oregon has some of the most gorgeous sunsets you’ll ever see, and they only get better over on the coast.
This last effort to shine left the sky over Eugene bright and glowing, surprisingly bright for such a rainy day. As we drove from Eugene into Springfield, there was a mist hanging close to the ground, and as the sun lit it, it created a golden glow around and over us. Farther to the east, it was darker, as if that wall of mist absorbed the last of the sunlight, but the higher cloud level meant that it was a whitish-bluish-grayish darkness, more like the rainy day it had been than like the night that was coming, until over the Cascades farther to the east, where the clouds met the Earth, it was the thick, brooding darkness of a storm.
Tuesday, June 07, 2005
One Hand Clapping, One Voice Laughing
As I may or may not have mentioned, The Feared Redhead just took employment at a new spa, which I shall refrain from naming to protect her. This new spa, like many businesses in her line of work, tends to be a bit on the umm... New Agey side (this is Eugene, after all, but it's a universal trend in that industry), and tends to advocate products and services that help people focus their chi and cleanse their energy etc. etc....
Last Saturday, TFR brought me into the spa for a tour. While their, I needed to use the little Bloggers room. TFR showed me to the guest restroom and left me to fend for myself. In the room, I observed a lovely, very pseudo-zen arrangement on a metal table of a bamboo mat on which was a lit candle surrounded by various sizes of polished river stones. I decided to switch the places of two to see if it would ever be noticed. As I picked up one small stone, I realized someone had beaten me to it. It wasn't a stone. It was a Milk Dud.
I have a new hero.
Last Saturday, TFR brought me into the spa for a tour. While their, I needed to use the little Bloggers room. TFR showed me to the guest restroom and left me to fend for myself. In the room, I observed a lovely, very pseudo-zen arrangement on a metal table of a bamboo mat on which was a lit candle surrounded by various sizes of polished river stones. I decided to switch the places of two to see if it would ever be noticed. As I picked up one small stone, I realized someone had beaten me to it. It wasn't a stone. It was a Milk Dud.
I have a new hero.
Another Brick in the Wall...
...As Long As It's Not A Red Brick
(Originally Posted April 4, 2005)
Thanks for the Memory to The Llama Butchers.
TFR and I have already decided that, if at all possible, The Lad will receive his primary education either at home or at a private school.
This article sealed that decision.
Apparently, schools are discontinuing the use of red pens for grading and correcting papers because it "stresses children out".
Now, those who know me personally know that, due to my own educational background (I was diagnosed as having an unspecified "learning disability"), I'm no fan of hidebound approaches to education. But this seems a bit over the top.
The article goes on to describe the negative connotations associated with red ink, and that it focuses too much on the mistakes in a paper. I believe they've missed the point.
When I was a child, the connotation of red ink had nothing to do with the quality of the student's work. It had everything to do with the teacher's authority. Red ink was reserved for teachers. So when you saw red ink, you knew that whatever was written in it carried weight. I remember one algebra teacher who had a tendency to mark GOOD papers with more red ink than he did the poor papers.
In the end, the message conveyed has more to do with the teacher than their pen. If they're good, they'll find ways to convey to a student both the areas in which they did well, and those that need improvement. I recall looking forward to words of praise written in red ink!
The article itself ends with a comment that I think sums up well my own response:
Sadly, it would seem that in too many cases these days, that's just fine with educators.
Update (6/7/05)
The Llama Butchers are weighing in on this issue again, in response to an essay by Christina Hoff Summers. Both are excellent reading.
(Originally Posted April 4, 2005)
Thanks for the Memory to The Llama Butchers.
TFR and I have already decided that, if at all possible, The Lad will receive his primary education either at home or at a private school.
This article sealed that decision.
Apparently, schools are discontinuing the use of red pens for grading and correcting papers because it "stresses children out".
Now, those who know me personally know that, due to my own educational background (I was diagnosed as having an unspecified "learning disability"), I'm no fan of hidebound approaches to education. But this seems a bit over the top.
The article goes on to describe the negative connotations associated with red ink, and that it focuses too much on the mistakes in a paper. I believe they've missed the point.
When I was a child, the connotation of red ink had nothing to do with the quality of the student's work. It had everything to do with the teacher's authority. Red ink was reserved for teachers. So when you saw red ink, you knew that whatever was written in it carried weight. I remember one algebra teacher who had a tendency to mark GOOD papers with more red ink than he did the poor papers.
In the end, the message conveyed has more to do with the teacher than their pen. If they're good, they'll find ways to convey to a student both the areas in which they did well, and those that need improvement. I recall looking forward to words of praise written in red ink!
The article itself ends with a comment that I think sums up well my own response:
In Charles County, Maryland, reading and writing specialist Janet Jones helps other teachers lead their lessons. The students at Berry Elementary School in Waldorf, Maryland, use colored pencils to edit each other's papers. By the time teachers get to grading, Jones said, the color they use isn't that important.
"I don't think changing to purple or green will make a huge difference if the teaching doesn't go along with it," Jones said. "If you're just looking at avoiding the color red, the students might not be as frightened, but they won't be better writers."
Sadly, it would seem that in too many cases these days, that's just fine with educators.
Update (6/7/05)
The Llama Butchers are weighing in on this issue again, in response to an essay by Christina Hoff Summers. Both are excellent reading.
Monday, June 06, 2005
Dad's Navy Days: The Pie Story
Over the weekend, I had a chance to discuss my Memorial Day post over the phone with my good friend Vulture Six, who had the honor of knowing my father before his death. Dad and V6 got along famously because they were both Navy vets. Like I did as a child, Vulture loved to listen to my dad's Navy stories. In the time he was in the Navy, my father managed to cram in a lot of interesting experiences, and loved to regale us with memories of them. Scott is of the opinion that I shoul,d commit some of those stories to my Blog so that I can preserve them for posterity. I think it's a capital idea. So today I am going to share my favorite story:
My father was a sonarman on a destroyer in the early 60's. Back in those days, he would tell me, on a small ship like that you were often called upon to do jobs not normally associated with your rate. In my father's case, he had some experience as an electrician, so he often found himself doing wiring in addition to his sonar duties. One day, that job took him into the ship's galley (kitchen) as he rasn wiring through it.
My father's ship was one of the best run destroyers in the navy, and was the flagship of its Desron (Destroyer Squadron). This meant that in addition to the skipper of the ship, it was home to the Commodore (an officer of the Navy rank of Captain who was in command of a group of ships) of the Desron. The Commodore had on board with him his own cook, who was also busy working in the galley at the same time. He had placed out to cool two blackberry pies. I've already mentioned how dearly Oregonians love blackberries.
The Electrician's toolbox that my father was using consisted of an upper tray full of tools, and a lower compartment with two curcular cutouts to hold spools of wire. As it would happen, these circular holes were of an ideal circumference fgor holding a pie plate. When the cook was not looking, my father lifted out a spool of wire, set the pie in its place, replaced the tool tray, and continued to work. A little while later, he left the compartment to continue his work elsewhere. Late than night, while standing watch in the sonar shack, he ate the pie.
Now, the commodore's cook was no dummy, and he put two and two together. A few days later, as they were having inspection, the Commodore approached my father.
Commodore: "B., do you like pie?"
Dad: "Yes, sir, I love pie."
Commodore: "Do you like Blackberry pie, B.?"
Dad: "I'm from Oregon, sir, that's probably my favorite."
Commodore: "B.?"
Dad: "Yes, sir?"
Commodore: "My cook would like his pie plate back."
Dad: "Aye aye, sir!"
My father was a sonarman on a destroyer in the early 60's. Back in those days, he would tell me, on a small ship like that you were often called upon to do jobs not normally associated with your rate. In my father's case, he had some experience as an electrician, so he often found himself doing wiring in addition to his sonar duties. One day, that job took him into the ship's galley (kitchen) as he rasn wiring through it.
My father's ship was one of the best run destroyers in the navy, and was the flagship of its Desron (Destroyer Squadron). This meant that in addition to the skipper of the ship, it was home to the Commodore (an officer of the Navy rank of Captain who was in command of a group of ships) of the Desron. The Commodore had on board with him his own cook, who was also busy working in the galley at the same time. He had placed out to cool two blackberry pies. I've already mentioned how dearly Oregonians love blackberries.
The Electrician's toolbox that my father was using consisted of an upper tray full of tools, and a lower compartment with two curcular cutouts to hold spools of wire. As it would happen, these circular holes were of an ideal circumference fgor holding a pie plate. When the cook was not looking, my father lifted out a spool of wire, set the pie in its place, replaced the tool tray, and continued to work. A little while later, he left the compartment to continue his work elsewhere. Late than night, while standing watch in the sonar shack, he ate the pie.
Now, the commodore's cook was no dummy, and he put two and two together. A few days later, as they were having inspection, the Commodore approached my father.
Commodore: "B., do you like pie?"
Dad: "Yes, sir, I love pie."
Commodore: "Do you like Blackberry pie, B.?"
Dad: "I'm from Oregon, sir, that's probably my favorite."
Commodore: "B.?"
Dad: "Yes, sir?"
Commodore: "My cook would like his pie plate back."
Dad: "Aye aye, sir!"
Maximum Leader on Immigration
Yet again The Maximum Leader over at Naked Villainy says for me what I've been intending to say but never got around to. And probably much better than I would have.
I Love the Smell of Charcoal in the Morning.
It smells like… Barbecue!
Despite weather that couldn’t make up its mind what it wanted to do, I managed to cook outside on both Saturday and Sunday. Saturday I grilled chicken on the gas grill using a marinade recipe I learned from the cook at a church I attended in San Diego. The recipe works best if you can marinate your meat in it at least 24 hours, but I left my chicken in it for only about 10 hours and it still worked well. In addition, I discovered that it makes a great flavor base for jerky made on the smoker, and also tastes good basted onto grilled veggies:
Sunday, as I mentioned earlier, was spent barbecuing. I find very interesting the various permutations of barbecue found throughout the Southeast, Southwest, and Lower Midwest (Missouri). The debate over which are the proper methods of preparing the meat, and which meat to use, leave me bemused and drooling. Not living in or being from any of those regions, I have no vested interest in or philosophical commitment to any one method. For me, it’s all about the end result: does it taste good? That works for me.
So yesterday, I decided not to take sides in the great debate over wet vs. dry. I decided to borrow from, and probably to offend, ALL interested parties, by combining several different methods.
I started by selecting pork as the meat of choice for this round, since I’d already tried my hand at beef (brisket). I had two cuts of meat – a loin and a rack of baby backs. Friday afternoon I started marinating them in two bottles of red wine vinaigrette dressing. Sunday after church, I fired up the smoker, and removed the pork from the fridge. I patted it dry and applied a dry rub of my own concoction. The spices in it included ground sun dried tomato, paprika, cayenne, chili powder, garlic powder, onion powder, mustard powder, turmeric, cumin, sage, oregano, sugar, salt, and white pepper. After applying the dry rub, I started cooking. After an hour or so, when the dry rub had time to cook in to the meat, I turned it over to let the other side cook, and applied a wet sop. The sop was made up of V-8 Juice, orange juice, pineapple juice, and a package of zesty Italian dressing mix. I continued applying this sop and turning the meat for another two hours, then started applying barbecue sauce. I confess that I didn’t make my own, but relied on a high quality commercial sauce out of Texas called Stubb’s. I cooked the meat for the last two hours continuously applying Stubb’s Spicy. The last half hour or so, I ran out of charcoal and the smoker couldn’t keep up sufficient heat, so I finished it on the gas grill. That may horrify the purist, but it got the job done, and by that point, the meat had absorbed plenty of smoke.
For sides, I tossed a couple of ears of corn, still in their husks, onto the grill, and in my grill basket I cooked up some green beans with olive oil, salt, pepper, and garlic. I finished the meal with dinner rolls and a bottle of Pinot Noir Blanc (I didn’t think a white wine could stand up to the intensity of the BBQ sauce, and a red would probably be too dry -- a blush worked perfectly).
I was quite pleased with the results, and so was The Feared Redhead. I was informed, and I quote, “You can make this recipe again”. How generous of her. The one thing we agreed on is that next time, I could probably save myself some trouble and skip the sop in the middle, relying only on the dry rub and the sauce.
Despite weather that couldn’t make up its mind what it wanted to do, I managed to cook outside on both Saturday and Sunday. Saturday I grilled chicken on the gas grill using a marinade recipe I learned from the cook at a church I attended in San Diego. The recipe works best if you can marinate your meat in it at least 24 hours, but I left my chicken in it for only about 10 hours and it still worked well. In addition, I discovered that it makes a great flavor base for jerky made on the smoker, and also tastes good basted onto grilled veggies:
Monkey Meat Marinade
1 medium sized ginger root
5 cloves garlic
1 10 oz. bottle of soy sauce
1 20 oz. bottle 7up or other lemon-lime pop
¼ cup sugar
Peel and grate ginger, chop garlic finely. Combine all ingredients in a glass bowl. Pour over chicken or beef, cover and refrigerate, marinate 1-3 nights.
Sunday, as I mentioned earlier, was spent barbecuing. I find very interesting the various permutations of barbecue found throughout the Southeast, Southwest, and Lower Midwest (Missouri). The debate over which are the proper methods of preparing the meat, and which meat to use, leave me bemused and drooling. Not living in or being from any of those regions, I have no vested interest in or philosophical commitment to any one method. For me, it’s all about the end result: does it taste good? That works for me.
So yesterday, I decided not to take sides in the great debate over wet vs. dry. I decided to borrow from, and probably to offend, ALL interested parties, by combining several different methods.
I started by selecting pork as the meat of choice for this round, since I’d already tried my hand at beef (brisket). I had two cuts of meat – a loin and a rack of baby backs. Friday afternoon I started marinating them in two bottles of red wine vinaigrette dressing. Sunday after church, I fired up the smoker, and removed the pork from the fridge. I patted it dry and applied a dry rub of my own concoction. The spices in it included ground sun dried tomato, paprika, cayenne, chili powder, garlic powder, onion powder, mustard powder, turmeric, cumin, sage, oregano, sugar, salt, and white pepper. After applying the dry rub, I started cooking. After an hour or so, when the dry rub had time to cook in to the meat, I turned it over to let the other side cook, and applied a wet sop. The sop was made up of V-8 Juice, orange juice, pineapple juice, and a package of zesty Italian dressing mix. I continued applying this sop and turning the meat for another two hours, then started applying barbecue sauce. I confess that I didn’t make my own, but relied on a high quality commercial sauce out of Texas called Stubb’s. I cooked the meat for the last two hours continuously applying Stubb’s Spicy. The last half hour or so, I ran out of charcoal and the smoker couldn’t keep up sufficient heat, so I finished it on the gas grill. That may horrify the purist, but it got the job done, and by that point, the meat had absorbed plenty of smoke.
For sides, I tossed a couple of ears of corn, still in their husks, onto the grill, and in my grill basket I cooked up some green beans with olive oil, salt, pepper, and garlic. I finished the meal with dinner rolls and a bottle of Pinot Noir Blanc (I didn’t think a white wine could stand up to the intensity of the BBQ sauce, and a red would probably be too dry -- a blush worked perfectly).
I was quite pleased with the results, and so was The Feared Redhead. I was informed, and I quote, “You can make this recipe again”. How generous of her. The one thing we agreed on is that next time, I could probably save myself some trouble and skip the sop in the middle, relying only on the dry rub and the sauce.
Carpe Diem Blogging
I decided to take Ally's advice and seize the (birth)day yesterday. Saturday I went out and bought myself a birthday cake, which we took to church with us yesterday and shared with the congregation. They sang Happy Birthday to me. I also informed TFR that while I would help with The Lad, no Honey Do projects would be undertaken yesterday. I spent the whole afternoon in one of my favorite pursuits, namely cooking, as I barbecued a rack of pork baby back ribs on the smoker. They were awesome, and I shall blog on them later today. I received several phone calls wishing me happy birthday, including from my mother, my sister, my good friend Vulture 6, and fro ma group of old and very dear friends down in San Diego. The Feared Redhead gave me a pair of pajamas and a pocket watch for my birthday, and we finished the day with a DQ ice cream cake.
All in all, a much better birthday than I anticipated. Thanks to all of you for your kind thoughts too.
All in all, a much better birthday than I anticipated. Thanks to all of you for your kind thoughts too.
Friday, June 03, 2005
Baby Blogging
I guess I wasn't ready to catch the "They grow up too fast" bug so early on, but I knew it would happen. Four months after his premature birth, and The Lad is already wearing size 3 diapers, and yesterday I got to watch him roll over from his belly to his back for the very first time. It was so cool! He graduated this week from a basinet to a crib. I remember watching him laying there in the NICU, so tiny and fragile looking, and now while he's still just a wee bairn, he's a chunk, and squirmy and active and expressive. It's amazing to watch him grow.
UPDATE
Along with the good comes the bad. The Lad had his four month checkup today, and the doctor says he has a hernia and may need surgery. Please pray for him.
UPDATE
Along with the good comes the bad. The Lad had his four month checkup today, and the doctor says he has a hernia and may need surgery. Please pray for him.
Birthday Blues
Sunday's my 37th birthday, and quite frankly, I'm viewing it's approach with a bit of malaise. I'm not dreading it, like some big number (50 or 60 or even 40), I'm just not that excited about it. No party is planned, I doubt we'll even get a cake. Last night we had to buy some baby supplies, so while we were at the mall, TFR asked me to show her some ideas for gifts, then made me disappear for a while. So there's very little surprise to what I'll receive as a gift. It's my own damned fault, because I make myself hard to shop for by never really making it clear what I'd like. I tried the idea of making a running list on the computer, but I forgot to print it out for her in time.
I guess what really gets me down is that it's been a very long time since a big deal was made out of my birthday, or since I had a party. I've never in my life had a surprise party thrown for me, and the last few years, I haven't had a party at all. I'm a grown man, so I'm not supposed to care about such things, but for once, I'd like to be the Birthday Boy.
I guess what really gets me down is that it's been a very long time since a big deal was made out of my birthday, or since I had a party. I've never in my life had a surprise party thrown for me, and the last few years, I haven't had a party at all. I'm a grown man, so I'm not supposed to care about such things, but for once, I'd like to be the Birthday Boy.
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