He’s No Horatio

Life

I finish reading Master and Commander, the first of Patrick O’Brien’s twenty-odd books, and I’m sorry to say that I’m not thrilled.

I’ve discussed with Gordon many times the phenomenon of expectations. The more you’re looking forward to something, the more likely it is to be disappointing. The more you want to like something, the less you end up liking it.

Such it was with Jack Aubrey. I was bummed that I had finished reading all the Hornblower books, and so I was excited that there was this other series about naval warfare during the wars with Napoleon, with even more books, just sitting there fat and ripe and waiting to be read. And I understood that the O’Brien books were written in more of the vernacular of the times, with the nautical arcana left mostly unexplained. That sounded cool.

So then the actual book was a bit disappointing. Not that much action, relatively speaking. Or, maybe, not as much action, not to a Hornblower-esque degree anyway. And throwing Dr. Maturin onboard, and having to have things explained to him, wasn’t much leaving arcana unexplained, turns out.

And Jack Aubrey was by turns likable and unlikable. No Horatio, anyway.

But then in some ways Horatio is an insufferable prig. And but so then in other ways he’s redeemed a whole lot by his clinical depression, though. Jack Aubrey, on the other hand, is more of a pig. And where he’s supposed to be redeemed by his love of music, well, to me, not so much. Although then other times Horatio is a rascal.

Jack Aubrey is really more a realistic product of his time, seemingly a real character of the times, rather than how Horatio sometimes seems a product of our contemporary times, but thrust back into the early nineteenth century. The biggest example of all this is the two characters’ views of the prize system, where Jack is realistically enthusiastic, whereas Horatio views it as barbaric. (It was barbaric, of course. But that’s just how we see it now, looking back.)

But I guess I’ll read the next Aubrey-Maturin, Post Captain, and see how it goes. I’m hoping I like it more, which means I’ll probably be disappointed.

The President Says Shit

News

The big news of course shouldn’t be so much what President Bush said or how he said it. It’s that he said anything. Here were the President of the United States and the Prime Minister of the United Kingdom talking candidly for a couple of minutes. It’s that little voyeuristic insight that’s really the news. Most everything else is just chaff.

Especially that the President used the barnyard epithet. Big deal. Chaff.

But then what he and the Prime Minister said and how they said it is fairly interesting. First, there’s, “See the irony is what they need to do is get Syria to get Hezbollah to stop doing this shit and it’s over.” I’m not exactly sure what the irony is here, though. Or who “they” are. Later the President mentions Secretary-General Annan calling Syrian President Assad to “make something happen.” So likely he means the United Nations, through the Secretary-General, when he says what “they” need to get Syria to do.

I think maybe his point is more that Hezbollah is a client of Syria, though, that Syria has influence over Hezbollah, rather than anyone having much influence over Syria. Certainly we don’t have a lot of influence over Syria. We don’t have much dialog with them, having recalled our ambassador in early 2005. Maybe that’s why President Bush wants Secretary-General Annan to talk to President Assad.

But then why would Syria want to reign in Hezbollah? Hey, it’d be nice if they did, but I can’t seem to think of a single reason why they’d want to do it. Prime Minister Blair seems to understand this. He says, “What does he think? He thinks if Lebanon turns out fine, if he gets a solution in Israel and Palestine, Iraq goes in the right way, he’s had it. That’s what this whole things about. It’s the same with Iran.”

(Different sources transcribe this a little differently. This is what it sounds like to me.)

I think by “he” the Prime Minister means President Assad. And this is all part of the model democracy that we are trying to establish in Iraq. The Prime Minister is saying that if Lebanese democracy flowers, if Israel and Palestine make peace, if Iraq turns out to be that model democracy, then President Assad and his autocratic regime are in trouble. So therefore why would President Assad reign in Hezbollah?

For the past week I’ve been trying to figure out what’s going on and, more importantly, what’s going to happen. And the powers that be all make bland statements on this or that. But here, just for a minute, we get to see what they’re thinking.

That’s pretty cool.

I wish the President wouldn’t talk with his mouth full. But, hey, who doesn’t, at least every so often, right?

Palestine and Lebanon

News

I don’t know much, but I do want to note here that, in direct contrast to my comments earlier about the Lebanese government “controlling” (or not controlling) Hezbollah, it’s actually true that Hezbollah is part of the government. They control twenty five seats in the legislature. They control two of the ministries. It’s wrong actually to talk about them as separate from Lebanon.

Sort of like Hamas, by the way.

What happens in a democracy when the people elect parties like Hamas and Hezbollah? Is that right? Aren’t therefore the latest eruptions the will of the people?

Or maybe it’s like Iraq, and me. I didn’t support the invasion. But it still happened.

And now what?

Fifteenth Sunday in Ordinary Time

Catholic

Last week remember was the concept of a prophet at home and abroad. Today’s first reading is from Amos, where Amos is away from his home of Tekoa in Judah, prophesying in faraway Bethel in Israel. Ah, but no honor for him there, alas. The priest of Bethel kicks him out, sending him back to Judah, ordering him “never again prophesy in Bethel.” Amos replies that he was just minding his own business, not a prophet, when the Lord told him to go prophesy to the people of Israel. Amos is apparently the Rodney Dangerfield of prophets, getting no respect anywhere.

Amos says that he was a shepherd (minding his own business by minding his own sheep, you might say) and, more interesting, a dresser of sycamores. Whatever can that mean? He dresses up trees? Dresses them in like fancy costumes? Disguises them maybe?

A little research reveals a rather more mundane answer. The King James translates it as “a gatherer of sycamore fruit.”

The Gospel from St. Mark is the Lord sending the twelve out two by two and giving them authority over unclean spirits. Remember again, this time the concept of apostolic succession. Here’s where that all begins.

Again something jumps out at me, like maybe a tautology, where Jesus, when telling them to travel from town to town, says, “Wherever you enter a house, stay there until you leave.” It sounds funny at first. I mean, no matter what, if you stay someplace, you stay there until you leave. You can’t not stay somewhere until you leave.

But I guess it’s all part of travelling light, as the Lord tells them to do. He tells them that they can take a walking stick, but not food or money. Sandals are okay, but not a second tunic. I guess he means that if they find a place to stay, they are to stay there and preach locally. When they’ve worn out their welcome, when it’s time to go, don’t just find another house down the block. Leave the town and go to the next. As in, “Wherever [the city or town or village happens to be when] you enter a house, stay there [in that house] until you leave [that city or town or village].”

We have a guest homilist, a priest whose name I don’t understand. In fact, he’s French, but he grew up in South America, and now is a missionary in Hong Kong, so I don’t especially understand anything he says, between his accent(s) and the sound system. Certainly not his name. And I don’t understand it when Father Hurley says it either.

Big Old Drywall Panel from the Home Depot

Home

We buy a four foot by eight foot sheet of half inch drywall at the Home Depot. We’re making some small repairs around the house, so we don’t actually need all that drywall, but they don’t sell anything smaller. They sell handy panels (that’s what they call them) of plywood and hardboard and MDF in four by four and two by four foot sizes. But not drywall. We need one piece that’s about four and a quarter inches by twelve and three quarters, and another piece twenty four and a half inches long by about seven or eight inches high.

So we need about two hundred and fifty square inches, but we buy over four thousand square inches. But it’s like that at Home Depot a lot of the time. The big sheet is about nine bucks. We can handle that. We can afford to pay that for the forty eight cents worth that we need.

And besides, I get home and misread the drywall square on the left side, forgetting to account for the two inches that is the width of the straight edge. I end up with a six inch wide piece when I meant to cut an eight inch wide piece. So I have to cut again.

So good thing I have all that extra, huh?

Bastille Day

News

Apparently there were only seven prisoners being held in the Bastille when the mob stormed it. They, the mob, were more interested in the munitions stored there. Not that they weren’t thinking about the prisoners at all, mind you. They did release them after all. Just wasn’t on the top of their list.

Wilsons Sue Libby, Cheney, Rove

Politics

Funny, after seeing Ambassador Wilson chatting nonchalantly on his cell phone yesterday, there’s news today about him. Case 1:06-cv-01258-JDB filed today in the US District Court here in DC. Maybe had I talked to him yesterday I could’ve gotten a scoop? Blew my big chance, didn’t I?

I wonder a little, not especially seriously, about the Wilsons’ motivations behind the suit. I have no other information, but I personally believe that it’s somewhat peevish. The suit itself seeks relief including but not limited to compensatory damages, exemplary and punitive damages, and attorney’s fees and costs, but I imagine the best part of it all for them is the hassle for and political damage to the defendants.

It’s the best part of it all to me as well. Let’s toast to it and wish it well, all the success, say as much success as Jones v. Clinton.

Heh.

Lebanon

News

Okay, so is it just me, or does anyone else think all hell is breaking loose lately? There’s North Korea. I’ve mentioned Mumbai. Now it’s Israel going into Lebanon.

I hate hate hate war.

Although I don’t know what else Israel’s supposed to do, if Lebanon can’t or won’t control Hezbollah. (I suppose that goes for India too, if Pakistan can’t or won’t control Lashkar-e-Toiba. Or if Lebanon does control Hezbollah but uses them as their proxy, likewise Pakistan and Lashkar-e-Toiba.) And but I was very much not a fan of Israel’s invasion of Lebanon back in 1982, when they invaded to root out and destroy the PLO. How well did that turn out?

Like with the Infitada(s), Israel has the muscle, if it wants to use it, but if faces a whole lotta people.

Hezbollah was founded to fight that invasion, too, in 1982, by the way. So if Israel destroys Hezbollah now, isn’t somebody else just going to replace them?

DC Celebrity Spotting

Life

Just saw Joe Wilson.

Ambassador Wilson has fabulous hair.

He was talking on his cell phone, and I was walking back to the office with Kate, my dashing young protege. Otherwise I probably would’ve pestered him.

Mumbai

News

Sameer is late for our meeting this morning. He’s got friends and relatives in Mumbai, and news starts to break right around time of our meeting about the subway bombings there. Phone calls to and from are down or jammed or something. He can’t get hold of anybody and they can’t get hold of him.

Reaction in the western press is somewhat muted, or much less anyway compared to the London bombings last year, which bombings these do in fact resemble. I generally think that this muted reaction is due more to our understandings of the tensions between Hindus and Muslims in India, between India and Pakistan, and the dispute over Kashmir, rather than simply that we are more pained by the deaths of white people.

Lashkar-e-Toiba and SIMI later both deny responsibility for the bombings, although people generally still think Lashkar-e-Toiba did it, likely with the help of Pakistan.

Salim Ahmed Hamdan, Petitioner v. Donald H. Rumsfeld, Secretary of Defense, et al.

News

In all other excitement, I’ve neglected to mention how pleased I was with the Hamdan ruling. Check it out:

[W]e conclude that the military commission convened to try Hamdan lacks power to proceed because its structure and procedures violate both the UCMJ and the Geneva Conventions.

On the one hand, the Supreme Court merely requires that the executive not create its own rules but instead enforce the laws of the legislature. But that’s actually something of a big deal with this current executive, who declares presidential power to be nothing less than plenary.

Thankfully the Court disagrees. But then they go a step even further, and they say that Common Article 3 applies. Oh, yeah, baby. You go, Supremes.

And so now the administration says that they’ll work with Congress to craft some actual, you know, laws and stuff. And that until some other individual determination is made, prisoners will be accorded prisoner of war status under Geneva.

How about that?

Sunday Shopping

Life

Go all the way to Springfield to the Woodcraft store to buy a Kreg Pocket Hole Jig, specifically the Rocket Jig. But they’re out of stock.

They’ve got the Mini Jig Kit, but while that’s got the step drill bit, collar, and hex wrench, it’s only got the single-hole jig, and lacks the clamp. They’ve also got the K3 Master System and Super Kit, but those are $149 and $199, respectively. I’m not going to be doing production work, thank goodness. I need the Rocket Jig.

Man says they’ll have more on Monday, but it’s tough to get back here, especially on a Monday night. So later I end up ordering one on Amazon. For five bucks cheaper, too.

Next door to Woodcraft there’s a South Asian market. We buy some ghee and also some cumin seeds.

Fourteenth Sunday in Ordinary Time

Catholic

Good contrast between the reading from Ezekiel and the Gospel from St. Mark. In the first reading, the Lord commands Ezekiel to go to the Israelites and to tell ’em to shape up, noting however that they may or may not do so. But either way “they shall know that a prophet has been among them.” In the Gospel reading, Jesus goes back home to his native place, to his synagogue, and preaches there, to much grumbling. They know him there, but they know him too well, so they don’t know that there’s a prophet among them. He’s just one of them, they say, he’s no prophet.

“A prophet is not without honor except in his native place and among his own kin and in his own house,” Jesus says. Kind of a double negative, but what he’s saying is that a prophet does have honor, has honor everywhere, except for the one place, the place where they know him. He’s preaching to guys he went to school with, who learned the same things from the same rabbis. Who is he, they ask, to preach to them now?

Interesting also is what folks say when they’re identifying Jesus among themselves. “Is he not the carpenter, the son of Mary, and the brother of James and Joses and Judas and Simon? And are not his sisters here with us?” We Catholics believe in the perpetual virginity of the Blessed Virgin, so therefore she didn’t (couldn’t) have any other children, ergo then that Jesus didn’t have any siblings. What do we make of this then?

I suppose then we would explain this passage by going back to the original Greek, noting that whatever words we now translate as brothers and sisters are or were then also synonymous with cousins. Or something like that. I go to the online NAB at the US Conference of Catholic Bishops and that is indeed what they say: “[I]n Semitic usage, the terms “brother,” “sister” are applied not only to children of the same parents, but to nephews, nieces, cousins, half-brothers, and half-sisters.”

There’s also, according to the Catholic Encyclopedia, apocryphal writings that have influenced Catholic tradition saying that Jospeph was a widower, with children, at the time of his betrothment to Mary. Those could be the kids referenced here. (That Joseph was an older guy, and maybe had by then passed on, also can help explain why Christ’s mother is around later in the Gospels, but his (earthly) father isn’t.)

Whatever. I’m not so hung up about all of this. And, lucky for me, we Catholics don’t especially have to be. The non-scriptural thing that’s like heavy duty required for us is the Assumption, that Mary the Mother of God didn’t just die and that was that, but she was corporeally assumed into heaven. But that’s just way cool on its own. Who wouldn’t want to believe that?

Something else interesting that the USCCB annotations point out about today’s Gospel passage is that this is the only Gospel reference to Jesus being a carpenter. This same moment as recounted in St. Matthew reads not “carpenter” but “carpenter’s son.”

The processional hymn is God Has Spoken By His Prophets, the tune of which, something called Rustington, is fairly in my register. I can sing it. And I love the beginning of the second half of each verse, the F-sharp as the second note. I don’t know. It just sounds so serious, so dramatic. The recessional hymn is God, We Praise You, tune of Nettleton, with a daunting key signature of sharps at C and E. But I like the tune a lot and I do surprisingly okay, but Dawn doesn’t like it.

Sanding Dust

Home

Dawn has to dust the bedroom, but I’ve yet to sand the walls after patching after Roberto & Jose. Said sanding is going to produce a lot of dust, so I need to do it before Dawn dusts anything else. So I do our bedroom. What an enormous mess.

I’m smart enough to wear eye protection, which in my case now also includes ear protection, thanks to my cool Radians. I don’t know why, but the shop vac is painfully loud to me. So the ear plugs help a lot. The shop vac is moderately successful at keeping the dust down to a minimum, as long as I hold the hose with one hand while I sand with the other. Like a dope, though, I don’t wear any sort of dust mask, even after Dawn reminds me at one point. Later I look in the mirror and see that all my nose hairs are coated white. Wonder how much dust makes it into my lungs.

In the bedroom I can still see an impression here and there of the mesh tape after everything is all smooth. I should have done three coats like you’re supposed to do. I thought I could get away with two.

Kenneth L. Lay

News

I was in a meeting on Wednesday morning with my boss Matt. It was a pretty informal meeting I guess, because at one point he got up from the table where we were talking and went over to his desk to check his phone or computer or something. Anyway, he saw on his computer the news, and he immediately mentioned it to me. Ken Lay had died.

It’s an odd sort of anticlimax to a long saga. I worked at Arthur Andersen from 1995 into 2002, during the whole Enron fiasco. Enron itself went belly up on its own, but Andersen was put out of business by a stupid prosecution by the Justice Department. Of course I blame President Bush, and then-Attorney General John Ashcroft. And then-Deputy Attorney General Larry Thompson. But at the time we understood that the decision to indict was made by the head of the Criminal Division, then-Assistant Attorney General Michael Chertoff.

We are now, of course, as innocent as Oliver North, thanks to the wise heads at the Supreme Court, who threw out the conviction in a unanimous decision. Of course, all 80,000 of us were long since out of our jobs. Sure, most everybody was highly skilled and marketable and found employment elsewhere. I was with the tax division, and Deloitte & Touche bought a large part of the practice. About two-thousand of us went over there.

Still. What a waste.

from The Declaration of Independence

Politics

The bulk of the Declaration is a list of 27 grievances against the King. Here they are listed, with emphasis added to a choice few:

He has refused his Assent to Laws, the most wholesome and necessary for the public good.

He has forbidden his Governors to pass Laws of immediate and pressing importance, unless suspended in their operation till his Assent should be obtained; and when so suspended, he has utterly neglected to attend to them.

He has refused to pass other Laws for the accommodation of large districts of people, unless those people would relinquish the right of Representation in the Legislature, a right inestimable to them and formidable to tyrants only.

He has called together legislative bodies at places unusual, uncomfortable, and distant from the depository of their public Records, for the sole purpose of fatiguing them into compliance with his measures.

He has dissolved Representative Houses repeatedly, for opposing with manly firmness his invasions on the rights of the people.

He has refused for a long time, after such dissolutions, to cause others to be elected; whereby the Legislative powers, incapable of Annihilation, have returned to the People at large for their exercise; the State remaining in the mean time exposed to all the dangers of invasion from without, and convulsions within.

He has endeavoured to prevent the population of these States; for that purpose obstructing the Laws for Naturalization of Foreigners; refusing to pass others to encourage their migrations hither, and raising the conditions of new Appropriations of Lands.

He has obstructed the Administration of Justice, by refusing his Assent to Laws for establishing Judiciary powers.

He has made Judges dependent on his Will alone, for the tenure of their offices, and the amount and payment of their salaries.

He has erected a multitude of New Offices, and sent hither swarms of Officers to harrass our people, and eat out their substance.

He has kept among us, in times of peace, Standing Armies without the Consent of our legislatures.

He has affected to render the Military independent of and superior to the Civil power.

He has combined with others to subject us to a jurisdiction foreign to our constitution, and unacknowledged by our laws; giving his Assent to their Acts of pretended Legislation:

For Quartering large bodies of armed troops among us:

For protecting them, by a mock Trial, from punishment for any Murders which they should commit on the Inhabitants of these States:

For cutting off our Trade with all parts of the world:

For imposing Taxes on us without our Consent:

For depriving us in many cases, of the benefits of Trial by Jury:

For transporting us beyond Seas to be tried for pretended offences:

For abolishing the free System of English Laws in a neighbouring Province, establishing therein an Arbitrary government, and enlarging its Boundaries so as to render it at once an example and fit instrument for introducing the same absolute rule into these Colonies:

For taking away our Charters, abolishing our most valuable Laws, and altering fundamentally the Forms of our Governments:

For suspending our own Legislatures, and declaring themselves invested with power to legislate for us in all cases whatsoever.

He has abdicated Government here, by declaring us out of his Protection and waging War against us.

He has plundered our seas, ravaged our Coasts, burnt our towns, and destroyed the lives of our people.

He is at this time transporting large Armies of foreign Mercenaries to compleat the works of death, desolation and tyranny, already begun with circumstances of Cruelty & perfidy scarcely paralleled in the most barbarous ages, and totally unworthy the Head of a civilized nation.

He has constrained our fellow Citizens taken Captive on the high Seas to bear Arms against their Country, to become the executioners of their friends and Brethren, or to fall themselves by their Hands.

He has excited domestic insurrections amongst us, and has endeavoured to bring on the inhabitants of our frontiers, the merciless Indian Savages, whose known rule of warfare, is an undistinguished destruction of all ages, sexes and conditions.

Thomas Jefferson

Politics

We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal, that they are endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable Rights, that among these are Life, Liberty and the pursuit of Happiness.

— Thomas Jefferson, The Declaration of Independence, 1776

Besides those of colour, figure, and hair, there are other physical distinctions proving a difference of race. They [blacks] have less hair on the face and body. They secrete less by the kidnies (sic), and more by the glands of the skin, which gives them a very strong and disagreeable odour … They are more ardent after their female: but love seems with them to be more an eager desire, than a tender delicate mixture of sentiment and sensation … Comparing them by their faculties of memory, reason, and imagination, it appears to me, that in memory they are equal to the whites; in reason much inferior, as I think one could scarcely be found capable of tracing and comprehending the investigations of Euclid; and that in imagination they are dull, tasteless, and anomalous.

— Thomas Jefferson, Notes on the State of Viginia, pp. 264-266, 1781

Independence Day

News

The First Continental Congress met in Philadelphia from early September to late October 1774. The Second Continental Congress convened in May of 1775. Richard Henry Lee presented a resolution of independence on June 7, 1776, and the Congress convened a committee on June 11 to draft a declaration of such. Thomas Jefferson from Virginia wrote the first draft.

The Committee of Five presented the final draft of the declaration to the full Congress on June 28. The Lee resolution was adopted on July 2, and the Congress, after some debate and changes, adopted the Declaration of Independence itself on July 4, 1776.

A copy of the Declaration, signed by both the president and the secretary of the Congress, was sent to a local printer, John Dunlap, who made up some couple hundred copies. The signed original is no longer extant, and only twenty-five of the Dunlap broadsides are known to still exist.

The Congress ordered on July 19 that a copy be engrossed and signed by the whole Congress, and most of the delegates signed that copy on August 2. Some delegates never signed, while other newer delegates not present at its adoption were later allowed to sign. It is this signed copy that is on display at the National Archives.

That signed copy is much faded and difficult to read, possibly due in large part to a wet transfer method employed by William Stone, commissioned by President John Quincy Adams to make an engraved copy of the Declaration. It is copies of Stone’s engraving that are most familiar to us today.

The painting pictured above is John Trumbull’s oil on canvas The Declaration of Independence, from 1817 or so, which hangs in the Capitol rotunda. It is variously described as either the presentation of the draft by the Committee of Five or the signing of the Declaration itself. It’s what’s on the back of the two-dollar bill.

Mambo Dogface

Life

Another sign of the inexorable aging process this morning. For no apparent reason, I was thinking about an old Steve Martin routine, where he posits speaking only gibberish to a child from birth to school age. Then, the child’s first day of school, he or she speaks up in class, in this nonsensical language.

And I couldn’t for the life of me remember what the child says. Something something banana patch. I could feel the meter, two syllables, trochaic, but couldn’t just maddeningly couldn’t remember the words.

I walked in a funk for a number of minutes before it came to me.

Thirteenth Sunday in Ordinary Time

Catholic

We go to eight-thirty Mass, trying to get a jump on the day’s work. We spot Monsignor on the steps on the way in, and Dawn says that she thought he was already on vacation. Not yet, apparently. We’ve arrived early, too, since Monsignor ends up leading the Mass. No choir, though; they must be gone for the summer. But Jennifer Goltz, the Director of Music, is still our cantor.

There’s an interesting connection to me between the first reading and the Gospel. The first reading is from Wisdom, where it says “the creatures of the world are wholesome, and there is not a destructive drug among them.” And in the Gospel, from St. Mark, the woman afflicted with hemorrhages has “suffered greatly at the hands of many doctors.” Odd to me that both mention medicine in some capacity, In the Old Testament it’s about medicine as medication, derived from nature, whereas in the New Testament it’s about medicine as a practice, as derived from and practiced by men, by doctors. (And doctors who actually don’t do any good anyway.)

Also interesting is that in the Gospel, the two stories of healing are intertwined. These same stories are recounted, again intertwined, in both St. Matthew and St. Luke’s Gospels as well. And in both cases, the afflicted woman and the dead girl, the number of twelve years comes up, as in the number of years the woman has been afflicted as well as the age of the little girl. There’s no mention, and indeed no likely reason, why these years are equal, but they are.

Monsignor in his homily goes a little further when he says that the hemorrhaging makes the woman unclean, which to me sounds like it’s some sort of menstrual bleeding. Looking at Leviticus, in Chapter 15, it’s quite explicit: when a woman has her menstrual flow, she is considered unclean for seven days, and if her flow continues outside of her normal period, she is likewise considered unclean. So that too should be taken in the context, as Jesus the observant Jew in this case isn’t observant, or, rather, like in so many other cases, ministers to someone in need rather than blindly observe the Mosaic Law.

Also fascinating is the moment when the woman touches Jesus’ cloak and is cured, and Jesus feels … something. As the Gospel describes it, he is “aware at once that power had gone out from him.” It’s an interesting thing, in that Jesus is generally God and man, both human and divine. But at this moment he is more man than God, knowing that something has happened, but not quite sure what that something is. He has to stop and ask.

Fixing the Walls

Home

We go to Home Depot to look for the plaster repair product that Mr. Connor recommended, something he called “Easy Forty-Five.” We finally deduce that it’s most likely Sheetrock brand lightweight setting-type joint compound. There are a couple of different packages, each denoted by the setting time. There’s “Easy Sand 90,” “Easy Sand 45,” and “Easy Sand 20.” So it’s probably Easy Sand 45 that we want. But, we’ve actually already got about two-thirds of a bag of Easy Sand 90 at home. We’re just going to go ahead and use that.

We pick up some extra drywall mesh tape while we’re here, in case we don’t have any at home. Later at home we’ll find that we already have two rolls of it.

Back at home I dig out the mudpan and taping knives and the joint compound itself from the laundry closet. It’s been quite some time since I played with these toys. It takes a while to get the hang of mixing the compound just right, getting it to the stiffness of cake frosting, as they do on the shows on HGTV. (Candice Olsen even pretended like she was going to eat some once. Yum.) Plus taping the channels in the walls takes longer than I expect, as I work frantically, thinking that the joint compound is setting up in the mudpan. But it’s supposedly got a working time of sixty minutes, more maybe ’cause it’s so hot and humid, so I probably needn’t hurry. But I do anyway.

I end up using just a regular 1¼” putty knife and the six-inch taping knife for the first application. Tomorrow I’ll use a four-inch putty knife and the twelve-inch taping knife for the second coat.

Academy of Theatrical Arts

Life

Dawn and I leave work early, around 4:30 p.m. We meet as usual at Federal Triangle. Dawn has crackers and cheese that she’s bought for dinner. The cheese is very stinky. I mean that in a good way.

We eat quickly when we get home, then we hop in the car. We’re off to Rockville for Celebration 50, the fiftieth anniversary recital of the Academy of Theatrical Arts, where Dawn used to take ballet class. Yahoo/MapQuest directions suggest going up the GW Parkway, to the American Legion Bridge, to get to I-270 North. We do a quick check on traffic at WashingtonPost.com and see that traffic is backed up on the Inner Loop from I-66 all the way around to Connecticut Avenue, so we decide to go up 295 to the Beltway, the Outer Loop way, instead. We have a few minutes of congestion on 295 around Greenbelt, but then it’s smooth sailing once we’re on the Beltway. We see the horrible mess on the other side and are very glad we’ve taken this route.

We end up getting to the venue, the Robert E. Parilla Performing Arts Center at Montgomery College, about fifty minutes before showtime. We wander around the campus for a while. It’s a remarkably ugly campus, squat charmless brick utilitarian buildings. We walk by a pond, and we notice quite a lot of raccoon shit on the grass and sidewalk. What’s the deal? Oh, wait, that’s not raccoon shit, that’s goose shit. And sure enough we turn the corner and find a flock of geese walking around. I honk at them and want to generally observe and annoy them, but Dawn pulls me away and asks me to at least try to act like an adult.

And there’s another show going on, turns out, some sort of dinner theater in the Theatre Arts Building. Damn Yankees, we find out later. We see the actor playing the Devil wandering around. But best of all is that there’s a bar set up outside the building, with a not too shabby selection of beers. I get a Sam Adams Summer Ale and Dawn gets an Amstel Light. We sit on a bench and have a lovely few minutes.

Finally close to time for the show to begin, we meander back over to the Parilla Center. In the lobby we chat with Rosemary, who used to take ballet with Dawn. We make our way to our seats, and I read Horatio while Dawn peruses the program. There will be two acts separated by a fifteen-minute intermission, with about a dozen performances in each act.

The show itself begins with an American flag projected on the large back scrim, accompanied by a recording of God Bless America. Which song I pretty much loathe, by the way, although I wish I were a bigger fan of its alter-ego, This Land is Your Land.

The rest of the show breezes by, with inspired amateur adults interspersed with perfectly adorable children. Of special note are the wonderfully-named elderly sisters, Helen and Joan Bonk, the no longer tiny now just little Gena Basha (her sister Maya now the tiny one), and the amazingly poised teenager Julissa Hernandez.

Afterwards there’s much giving of flowers to Ms. Jackson and Mr. G. amidst much hugs and tears. It’s amazing that they’ve been doing this for fifty years. How many students they’ve had! How much passion and hard work they’ve passed on to so many people. They are treasures.

Also, I do a little Googling and find Mr. Garney quoted in the Washington Post in one of its original stories about Rep. Wilbur Mills and Fanne Foxe. How utterly funny & wonderful.

Pop Culture

Life

I was happily immersed in popular culture as a child. As a young adult, I viewed it with a somewhat arch and ironic eye. Now it just makes me queasy. I feel totally violated at the grocery store by all the magazine covers shrieking at me, every one of them with Jen & Brad & Angelina and now the baby, with Britney, with that horror show Jessica Simpson and her oaf Nick Lachey.

Today it’s one Star Jones. Who exactly is this Star Jones? How did she become famous? What can we do at this point to put a stop to it? Seriously. Queasy.

(Later, the Television column in Slate handily recounts, and therein I learn, the history of this show called The View on ABC daytime, whence rose this particular Star.)

Julie’s Happy Hour

Work

I head out of work right at five with Kate, as we’re all having a happy hour for Julie who is leaving us. She’s leaving the Meetings Department, going off to be some sort of event planner for a bookstore farther north in Maryland, closer to her boyfriend. Said happy hour is down at Rumor’s, which I guess is technically in our building, although they have some sort of extra structure built on to the side of the building as well.

Right away we spot Dwight and Sameer, who are discussing the upgrade to 6.3. We join them, as others from ASH keep trickling downstairs. I share my time between the upgrade discussion and the celebration for Julie. The best beer I can find with the happy hour special price is Rolling Rock.

Sadly we get booted out about an hour later, for a private party. As we’re heading out, I stop at the back bar, the one up a couple steps, to say hi to Anna, whom I had seen walking by earlier. Anna dances at Camelot, but I know her from way back when she used to dance at Archibalds. I’m sure that she doesn’t remember me, but I ask after her and her son, who must be heading off to college soon. Next year, she says, to study engineering. Good for him.

I head with Kate, Elisa, and Stephanie, in the direction of Mai Tai. But we detour and end up at Porters, which used to be Acme, years ago, before the war. I spent many an evening at Acme, usually with Paul Abugattas. Elisa shows us some clothes that she’s bought today. A couple of folks walking by stop to talk to Stephanie. I try to be just one of the girls, or like a kindly grandmother or something.

I get home late, much later than I wanted to or should have. Dawn’s a little peeved.

Phone Kid

Life

I get on the train at Farragut West, as per usual. It’s not that crowded. I don’t get a seat, but I’m not pressing up against other flesh trying to hang on.

I hear some snippet of obnoxious rap music, and I think that if that’s coming out of some guy’s headphones he’s going to be deaf by the end of the train ride. But then I see a woman in front of me on the right lean forward and tell someone to the left, “Turn that down. Don’t nobody want to hear that.” I see to the left who it is she’s addressing, a kid, maybe eight, with a cell phone. Apparently the snippet of rap is his ring tone.

It goes off again. The woman again tells him to cool it. But he doesn’t.

A man maybe in his late twenties or early thirties leans down to the kid and really gives it to him, telling him to knock it off. “For real,” he emphasizes. But this kid is not backing down. Off goes the snippet, again and again.

By this time I’m way past being offended by the noise. I’m just impressed now, in awe and amazement at the balls that this kid’s got. He’s just this little thing, in simple jeans and a t-shirt, sitting there with his legs that don’t even reach the floor. But he’s not taking any shit from anybody. This is his world and we just live in it.

Later the woman and man both leave, getting off at Metro Center or L’Enfant Plaza, I don’t remember where. Dawn gets on and we get the seats right in front of this kid, who by this time has grown bored with the rap ringtone and is just cycling through the various rings available on the phone, at a really loud volume. Dawn turns around, ready to say something, but I tell her not to bother.

There’s an older kid sitting next to the phone kid, maybe twelve or thirteen years old, dressed similarly in jeans and t-shirt. I guess he’s the older brother. He makes no attempt to either discipline the phone kid or to shield him from others’ wrath. He mumbles comments to the kid every so often, encouragement or daring him to continue or threats, I don’t ever know.

But phone kid, he just does what he wants to do. He’s my hero. I wish I had his guts at my age, that he’s got at eight.

FBB

Politics

I hesitate1 to dip a toe into this cesspool again, or, to maybe somewhat mix metaphors, to continue this ridiculous pissing match, but I have to mention having laughed ruefully at my poor brother’s feeble attempt to enumerate examples of the level of vitriol directed at our President, in contrast to the bile directed at his, the President’s, predecessor.

Rob lists as his first example a quote from a columnist in another country. And then an actual American, thankfully, a politician even. Oh, but wait. Only a candidate, actually. A candidate for city council in California somewhere. Oh, and the last example, even better, a college student.

Oh, please.

I’ll simply counter with the very American, actual office holder, in the United States House of Representatives, sitting chairman of the Government Reform and Oversight Committee, calling President Clinton a scumbag, a used condom, in an interview, and then obstinately refusing even to apologize.

Then I’ll go with Francisco Martin Duran, convicted of attempting to assassinate President Clinton after firing dozens of rounds from a semi-automatic carbine into the White House2

There’s also our friend Frank Eugene Corder, crashing a plane into the White House.3

Comparing all of this to the ramblings of a college student? Bah. That’s what I call bullshit.

1No, really. It’s true. It’s depressing, but then also is very distracting. I get really behind on blog entries, worrying and chewing over and getting angry and then depressed and more worry and chewing over ad infinitum, when I’m working on these.

2Although in true pissing match style, Rob can possibly counter Mr. Duran with Vladimir Arutinian, although the nature of Mr. Arutinian’s failure, indicative of rather a lack of purpose, as well as his very foreign location, might greatly diminish his value in this equation.

3But I think I’ll have to trade Mr. Corder for Robert Pickett. Both suicides or would-be suicides, to be certain, but Mr. Corder’s much more in the vein of trying to take someone, say President Clinton, with him, rather than Mr. Pickett’s more classic suicide-by-cop attempt.

Twelfth Sunday in Ordinary Time

Catholic

Today we welcome the new Archbishop.

I thought it would be more crowded than it turns out to be. Looks more like a regular Sunday crowd, maybe a few hundred people. It’s really pouring out there though. Real cats & dogs. Has to have kept a lot of people away.

One thing I notice is that we’ve got something of a band today, along with the choir. Three trumpets and/or cornets, I’m not nearly savvy enough to tell the difference. A trombone and a tuba and a kettle drum. They make a huge, joyful noise. Good for welcoming.

We welcome His Excellency Donald William Wuerl first thing, with singing and music and a grand procession, through the big main doors that are hardly ever opened. Joining us today with Archbishop Wuerl are two of our former archbishops, His Eminence William Cardinal Baum and His Eminence Theodore Cardinal McCarrick. Trumpets blare and the drums boom and we & the choir all sing, again with the Hyfrydol and Alleluia! Sing to Jesus. Seems like we’ve been singing that every week. And normally I think the choir would be gone by now for the summer, but I guess they’ve been held over this one last week.

The first reading is from Job.

The Lord addressed Job out of the storm and said:
Who shut within doors the sea,
when it burst forth from the womb;
when I made the clouds its garment
and thick darkness its swaddling bands?
When I set limits for it
and fastened the bar of its door,
and said: Thus far shall you come but no farther,
and here shall your proud waves be stilled!

It makes me think first of the great doors of the Cathedral that we’ve seen opened today, the part about the sea being shut within doors. But today we’ve seen the doors opened, of course, not shut them. Although with the rain outside today, sounds like the sea could come bursting through any second. But Cardinal McCarrick tells us that rain is of course a blessing and that it’s a special blessing today for our new archbishop. Then the making of garments from clouds is lovely imagery. Today we have so many garments, with so many different clergy here today, Cardinals and Archbishop and a number of priests. There are three priests acting as masters of ceremony, Father Caulfield among them; they’re in the old-fashioned black and white choir dress.

The second reading is from Second Corinthians, St. Paul telling us that Christ has died for us, therefore we should live not for ourselves but for him. What’s especially nice for today is the end of the reading, “[T]he old things have passed away; behold, new things have come.” Indeed.

The Gospel is from St. Mark (as it is during Lectionary Year B, of course). What’s also cool is that both the Gospel Reading and the Responsorial Psalm speak of storms at sea, and of the Lord calming them. And again with the storm motif, today with the great storm outside.

His Excellency gives his homily from the way high up pulpit. He tells of receiving a letter from a young man named Dominic, in which letter he, Dominic, expresses amazement that (then) Bishop Wuerl knows a guy who knows a guy who knows a guy who knew Jesus. I have to agree with Dominic here, and I too really like the idea of apostolic succession. That when I was confirmed, it was by the bishop Cardinal McCarrick who himself had been consecrated by a bishop who had himself been … by a guy … who himself … this other guy … goes way back … consecrated by … consecrated by …. who had been consecrated by St. Peter who had been consecrated by Christ. How amazing is that?

Like Cardinal McCarrick used to do, Archbishop Wuerl refers to himself as “your unworthy servant” during the anamnesis and intercessions of the Eucharistic Prayer. On our way out after Mass the ushers hand us prayer cards with Archbishop Wuerl on the front and his dates of birth & ordination & installation on the back.

(The next day the Washington Times carries a story saying that parishioners “were given pocket-sized, colored photographs of Archbishop Wuerl.” Heh.)

Sleeping Beauty

Life

Back to the Kennedy Center on Saturday night for ballet. Tonight it’s the Royal Ballet with Sleeping Beauty. Our performance features the lovely Marianela Nuñez as the Princess Aurora. (She apparently played the Lilac Fairy in the performance reviewed in the Washington Post.)

What amazes me most is not just her beautiful technique, but her astonishing endurance. She completes an amazing scene, and my legs are aching from the effort. But then she comes back for yet another scene.

Elizabeth McGorian looks like she’s having great fun, hamming it up as the evil Carabosse. She seems to be accompanied by an army of refugee mice from The Nutcracker, who drive her in a funky evil vulture carriage.

Later, Little Red Riding Hood and a truly disturbing Puss in Boots show up. Strange.

Lunch with Mom

Life

We arrive at the Polo Grill, late, grumpy, argue-y. I’m not pleased about having been pulled over and given a ticket. I’m angry at myself. Dawn’s angry at me too, but at least she has someone at whom to direct her anger. Mine’s got nowhere else to go.

The subject of the ticket comes up quickly after we greet and seat. Dad immediately wonders why I was even on that particular stretch of road in the first place. Why didn’t I take 95 down to exit such and such?

Well, fuck me, I don’t know why I didn’t go a different way, okay? How exactly are you helping things by asking me this? Thankfully Main is a little more perceptive, announcing that it’s likely a sore subject and we should maybe just move on to discussing something else.

Dawn orders about the only vegetarian thing on the menu, the spinach-artichoke dip. I opt for the étouffée. The name intrigues my sister, who asks me what étouffée is. Although I just ordered it, I really don’t know what it is. It’s got crawfish in it. It’s a cajun thing, a gumbo thing, spicy, rice maybe, is all I know. I have to refer back to the menu for a better description. I come to the conclusion that I ordered it because it’s called étouffée.

Or, I suppose, maybe, because, how often are you out somewhere and étouffée is an option on the menu? Don’t you like have to jump at the chance, when you can?

Nabbed

Life

We leave around 11:40 a.m. to go to Lorton to meet my family for lunch. Mom is coming through town on her way to Florida, driving with Main from NJ to board the autotrain. Why there’s a train that goes from Lorton VA to Florida and carries cars, I don’t know. But Mom loves the autotrain. We’ll be meeting at the Polo Grill, one of Mom’s favorite places. Rob & Carol will be there, as will Dad.

I’ve just turned left off of Alban, where years ago there used to just be a stop sign, but now it’s a big intersection. To the right is Rolling Road. To the left it becomes Pohick Road at some point. There’s a long stretch as it goes over Interstate 95. I see way up ahead at the top of the hill a bunch of cops parked over on the right shoulder. There’s a cop standing there pointing a radar gun at me. He’s nailed me. He motions for me to pull over.

Dawn is pissed already.

I stop and roll down the window and get out my wallet. I pull out the drivers license. Dawn in the meantime has gotten out of the glove compartment the registration and insurance card.

“Good afternoon, officer,” I say as he walks up. He tells me that he’s Officer Kushener, and he clocked me going forty-eight in a thirty-five mile-per-hour zone. He apparently doesn’t need the insurance card. I keep my wallet on the dashboard, and my hands where he can see them, on the steering wheel at ten and two o’clock. If it were night time I’d have the interior light on.

He asks me something like if I’m on my way anywhere in particular.

Now, I’ve thought about this quite a bit, actually, being stopped by the cops, and what to say and not say thereto. I have this general rule where one should say only three things to cops: (1) Yes, Officer (2) No, Officer and (3) I’m sorry, Officer. It’s called inmate sincerity. I mean, anything else is pretty much superfluous. I don’t think I’m going to argue my way out of anything. And I don’t especially want to admit guilt to anything either. Best is to just keep my mouth shut.

But he’s asked me this, and I don’t really know why he’s asking, except that he’s maybe trying to get me to like plead extenuating circumstances or something. I don’t get the sense that he’s being devious or anything, but I don’t get the sense either that anything I say is going to change things. So, what the hell, I tell him the truth.

“Just going to meet my mother for lunch, Officer.”

He’s nice enough after that, saying that he’s going to write me up for a ticket and try to get me on my way as soon as possible.

As we wait, I watch the other cops stop other cars. It’s like shooting fish in a barrel. As soon as they’re done writing up a ticket, they grab the radar gun and point it at the first car coming, then flag them down to give them a ticket. This is some easy pickings, right here on this stretch of road.

I honestly had no idea how fast I was going, but I also didn’t much care either. I was running later than I wanted to be, so I probably was going faster than maybe I otherwise would have been. But if you’d have asked me, out of the blue, what the speed limit was on that stretch, I would have guessed forty-five rather than thirty-five.

Officer Kushener returns with his clipboard, on the back of which is a sticker, the word Whining surrounded by the international symbol for Not, the red circle with the line through it. It’s not so much a ticket as a couple pieces of paper. He explains, a little mumblingly, about signing not being an admission of guilt and the hearing date being listed and prepayment and the fifty-seven dollar processing fee.

That seems a bit dear to me, fifty-seven dollars. I was hoping the fine was going to be about that much. It may well be, actually, but whatever is the fine, it’s fifty-seven dollars on top of that just for kicks.

Dawn’s not pleased about this either.

Drill Press

Woodworking

After Carol’s yoga class, I head with Dawn to U Street, where lives one John P., who is selling a Ryobi DP101 10″ drill press.

The ten inches in the description refers to the drill press’s swing. The swing of a drill press refers to the diameter of the largest disk that can be drilled in the drill press. In this case, then, that disk can be up to ten inches in diameter. A normal person would just say that the quill is five inches from the shaft of the stand, but that’s not how drill presses are apparently described. It’s kinda dumb, if you ask me.

Mr. P. is a very nice guy. We meet at the back of his building and go into the storage area where his storage locker is. The drill press is taller and a lot heavier than I was expecting. We load it into the car and chat for a few minutes.

Later, at home, after I’ve hauled it into the shop, I discover the thirty-five dollars in my shirt pocket that I was supposed to give him in exchange for the drill press. I thought it was a steal at $35, but evidently I really did steal it. I call him right away to make arrangements to meet again.

Friday Electric

Home

We lost track for a while of the electrician who had given us a bid to do some electrical work. He gave us a verbal quote which was fine, and but then a written quote of a hundred bucks more, which was a little fishy, but either way I called him and left a message asking him to call back to discuss a start date. Then waited and waited. Finally I called one Mr. Connor, who had the recommendation of Mr. Simon on the Hill East Listserv. Mr. Connor came out the next day, took a look around, said it’d be about a third of the cost of the first electrician’s quote, and he said that he could do it like the day after tomorrow at eight-thirty in the morning.

As in today, now, Friday. So I take this morning off from work and wait for him to show up. Roberto and Jose arrive at 8:35 a.m. They aren’t exactly sure what they’re supposed to do. Where is Mr. Connor himself? Roberto tells me that he’ll be along at some point soon. So I explain to the two of them what we want and what I assume Mr. Connor was going to do. I never did get Mr. Connor’s first name. I think it’s James, since Roberto keeps referring to him as “Mr. Jame.”

Roberto and Jose start by digging a big old channel up the living room wall from the breaker panel box. It’s really really loud, when they do this. Then they do the same in the upstairs front bedroom. Then the back bedroom. Then they lay shielded cable in the channels, and string it up through the ceiling/floor and attic. Takes about three hours. Then they fill the channel up with expanding foam, and then go to lunch while the foam dries. When they return they neatly slice the foam flush with the wall with hacksaw blades.

Neither of the cats is happy with the whole experience. Gwen hides under the bed in the guest room while they’re downstairs, and then when they go upstairs too she takes to the safety of the top of her litter box in the workshop. Louise is spared for a while longer, until they go into her bedroom as well. She parks herself unhappily halfway down the stairs. I sit around with Gwen mostly, reading Lord Hornblower.

I also have a good chat with Roberto for a few minutes while exploring inside the main box. I see where the main cable comes in, to the main breaker, then splits off to this like side line of connections. All the other breakers are connected to this as well. So I ask Roberto if this is where all the connections are, and if these metal tabls are just there to hold the breakers. I tap my index finger on one of the metal tabs as I ask him this. Roberto’s eyes get big and round as he tells me not to touch that, that there’s 220 volts running through there. I promised not to touch it again. But it was good to learn about what goes on in there.

Mr. Connor does put in a quick appearance at one point. I swear it lasts about sixty seconds. After he leaves I remember that I was supposed to ask him about some product that he had recommended for repairing the plaster. I run and catch him, and he says it’s “Easy Forty-Five.”

When Roberto and Jose and are all done and ready to leave, I start writing a check and ask how much it is, but Roberto says that Mr. Connor will send us a bill. I then try at least to give Roberto a twenty in cash, but he won’t take it. He says Mr. Connor will pay them. I tell him it’s a tip, but he still won’t take it.