I’m a little freaked out.
If I don’t make it to Scotland in May, it won’t be an equipment problem or, I’m pretty sure, a physical problem. It will be a money problem. Things are looking very shaky on this side of the pond.
The dollar is tanking, prices (even independent of the value of the dollar) are rising, the market is trending down, vast numbers of people are losing their houses, unemployment is up, and now the chickens are really coming home to roost. A few days ago, the Federal Reserve greased, with a $30 billion loan, the purchase of the giant, aggressive, (can I say criminal?) investment banking firm Bear Stearns by JP Morgan for $2 a share (worth $170 in January of last year). Bear Stearns has been, according to the New York Times, “a leader in packaging mortgage-backed securities” (yes, I think I can say criminal). Sunday night (Sunday night! Think they’re panicked?) the Fed lowered sub-prime interest rates by a quarter of a percent. All this, “[h]oping to avoid a systemic meltdown in financial markets.” (Today I see that the Bank of England has joined the party, covering financial firms to the tune of the equivalent of $10 billion in three-day loans.)
The Secretary of the Treasury (whom I knew very slightly in college...football player, nice guy) essentially endorses the Herbert Hoover approach to financial disaster, and the President— increasingly stirring a kind of crazed manic energy in with his usual aggressive mendacity—tells him “You’ve shown the country and the world that the United States is on top of the situation.” In other words, “You’re doing a heckuva job, Brownie.” Or maybe “Mission Accomplished.”
The very best outcome we can reasonably expect is a massively expensive taxpayer bailout of the investment banks that have caused all the chaos in the first place. Given the ideological and unapologetic Ayn Rand acolytes in charge, “the very best outcome” is exceedingly unlikely.
So, I think I’ll be there in May, but if I’m not, you can find me selling apples on a street corner. Excuse me now while I go batten down the hatches.
Monday, March 17, 2008
Friday, March 14, 2008
Pasta
I’ve been missing something lately.
The whole thing started around 1970, when Paul and my father began having dinners together on Thursday nights when my mother had to work because her bank introduced extended evening hours. It migrated to Fridays when another friend, also coincidentally in a bank, complained because he had to work Thursdays, too, and was missing out on the fun. Somewhere along the early line, it changed from random dinner fare to spaghetti (more often vermicelli, actually, or even capellini—we like the thin stuff). And we plugged into it solidly when we got back to town for good in 1976.
So, for over 30 years, a core group, and a gradually shifting, changing, expanding, contracting set of friends and friends of friends have been gathering every Friday night (at my dad’s until his tick illness in the fall of 2006 and at our place since then) to drink cheap (often very cheap) wine, eat hefty servings of pasta, argue, laugh, insult, and support each other. We’ve had deaths and births, divorces and marriages, budding relationships and breakups. We’ve had great new people moving into town, and great old people sadly moving away. My dad used to delight in inviting the random passing signature-gatherer in for a bite, and I once brought a Congressman who shocked me by accepting the invitation but obviously had nothing better to do. Folks passing through always knew where to find us and a decent meal on Fridays.
At one time a normal weekly number at table was in the teens, counting kids, but not counting those not infrequent friends of friends who often added wonderfully to the mix. We’ve had Scots, we’ve had people from that country south of Scotland, we’ve had Ozzies, we’ve had Russians, and Danes, and even Californians. Now there are no kids, no regular foreign presences, only occasional friends of friends, and the usual number is six. Six crotchety old people retelling the same ancient stories, having the same arguments, and still drinking cheap wine. I figure we’ve done this almost 1,500 times, and it’s still quite fun, actually. Things have been sputtering a bit lately because some of us have had health issues, and some of us have just decided to hit the road more often and travel, and although I’ve had a great time out and about here and there, and intend to keep doing so, I’ve missed the regularity of our Friday evenings. I’m glad we’re revving up again tonight, even though two of the basic six will be absent (health and travel again).
(H, of course, grew up as part of this circus. She’s coming East in a month or so for some interviews, but she can’t be here on Friday...so for once pasta will be on Sunday.)
The whole thing started around 1970, when Paul and my father began having dinners together on Thursday nights when my mother had to work because her bank introduced extended evening hours. It migrated to Fridays when another friend, also coincidentally in a bank, complained because he had to work Thursdays, too, and was missing out on the fun. Somewhere along the early line, it changed from random dinner fare to spaghetti (more often vermicelli, actually, or even capellini—we like the thin stuff). And we plugged into it solidly when we got back to town for good in 1976.
So, for over 30 years, a core group, and a gradually shifting, changing, expanding, contracting set of friends and friends of friends have been gathering every Friday night (at my dad’s until his tick illness in the fall of 2006 and at our place since then) to drink cheap (often very cheap) wine, eat hefty servings of pasta, argue, laugh, insult, and support each other. We’ve had deaths and births, divorces and marriages, budding relationships and breakups. We’ve had great new people moving into town, and great old people sadly moving away. My dad used to delight in inviting the random passing signature-gatherer in for a bite, and I once brought a Congressman who shocked me by accepting the invitation but obviously had nothing better to do. Folks passing through always knew where to find us and a decent meal on Fridays.
At one time a normal weekly number at table was in the teens, counting kids, but not counting those not infrequent friends of friends who often added wonderfully to the mix. We’ve had Scots, we’ve had people from that country south of Scotland, we’ve had Ozzies, we’ve had Russians, and Danes, and even Californians. Now there are no kids, no regular foreign presences, only occasional friends of friends, and the usual number is six. Six crotchety old people retelling the same ancient stories, having the same arguments, and still drinking cheap wine. I figure we’ve done this almost 1,500 times, and it’s still quite fun, actually. Things have been sputtering a bit lately because some of us have had health issues, and some of us have just decided to hit the road more often and travel, and although I’ve had a great time out and about here and there, and intend to keep doing so, I’ve missed the regularity of our Friday evenings. I’m glad we’re revving up again tonight, even though two of the basic six will be absent (health and travel again).
(H, of course, grew up as part of this circus. She’s coming East in a month or so for some interviews, but she can’t be here on Friday...so for once pasta will be on Sunday.)
Jasper the Wonder Dog
... and a little other news, too
We were in in Minnesota for a long weekend, visiting our daughter, son-in-law, and Jasper the Wonder Dog, a rescued Labradoodle who as a pup was mistreated by SOBs I confidently expect to spend eternity in Hell.* He’s a shy, timid, and understandably suspicious boy, but with lots of affection and gentle handling, he’s coming along well.
Jasper turns out to love the out-of-doors—even the very cold out-of-doors that has been Minnesota this winter—and H says she’s sure he’ll be a great mountain dog when they get back to New England in a little over a year. H and A take him out for a walk every evening on the wonderful lighted and plowed bike paths in Rochester, and in his huge shaggy winter coat, he loves to run, play, and roll around in the snow. He’s got “Sit” down pretty well, and stays in place while they take off his leash until he gets, “Okay,” then flies off on his romp, with A as his playmate. At the end, he’s reliable when one of them hollers, “Come.” (Photo courtesy of H and A.)
Both H and A are happy in Minnesota but really miss the mountains of northern New England. When they do come East for good next spring, though, it will not be as a couple with a dog, but as a family of three with a dog. H is due in early August—a next generation to wander the woods and hills with. We are just a little excited.
*A story that’s well known among American baseball fans: Two noted New York sportswriters, Pete Hamill and Jack Newfield, are sitting in a bar, and they start talking about people who would have to be in Hell if there is a Hell. They decide to rank their Top 3—the three people they’re absolutely certain would be there—and they each jot the names on a cocktail napkin. When they show their lists to each other, they are identical: Hitler, Stalin ... and Walter O’Malley, the man who moved the Brooklyn Dodgers to Los Angeles.
We were in in Minnesota for a long weekend, visiting our daughter, son-in-law, and Jasper the Wonder Dog, a rescued Labradoodle who as a pup was mistreated by SOBs I confidently expect to spend eternity in Hell.* He’s a shy, timid, and understandably suspicious boy, but with lots of affection and gentle handling, he’s coming along well.
Jasper turns out to love the out-of-doors—even the very cold out-of-doors that has been Minnesota this winter—and H says she’s sure he’ll be a great mountain dog when they get back to New England in a little over a year. H and A take him out for a walk every evening on the wonderful lighted and plowed bike paths in Rochester, and in his huge shaggy winter coat, he loves to run, play, and roll around in the snow. He’s got “Sit” down pretty well, and stays in place while they take off his leash until he gets, “Okay,” then flies off on his romp, with A as his playmate. At the end, he’s reliable when one of them hollers, “Come.” (Photo courtesy of H and A.)
Both H and A are happy in Minnesota but really miss the mountains of northern New England. When they do come East for good next spring, though, it will not be as a couple with a dog, but as a family of three with a dog. H is due in early August—a next generation to wander the woods and hills with. We are just a little excited.
*A story that’s well known among American baseball fans: Two noted New York sportswriters, Pete Hamill and Jack Newfield, are sitting in a bar, and they start talking about people who would have to be in Hell if there is a Hell. They decide to rank their Top 3—the three people they’re absolutely certain would be there—and they each jot the names on a cocktail napkin. When they show their lists to each other, they are identical: Hitler, Stalin ... and Walter O’Malley, the man who moved the Brooklyn Dodgers to Los Angeles.
Wednesday, March 12, 2008
Footwear
We’ve been away in (very cold) Minnesota. Less utterly pedestrian posts to come, I hope. In the meantime, more final choices. I’d originally been planning on walking the Challenge in Montrail Hardrocks, pretty popular trailrunners over here, which have become my standard walking footwear. As I posted recently, I decided over the winter I might not really enjoy wandering across Scotland with permanently wet feet. I looked for another Montrail solution, and found a pair of Cirrus GTX boots in my size at a reasonable price.
Supposedly, the Cirrus GoreTex liner is handled in such a way as to reduce the sweat-pooling GTX boots are notorious for. So far so good there. The boots turned out to need a little working up to feel comfortable around my high volume foot and orthotics. Recent walks make me confident that a little experimentation has got the situation sorted. Longer laces helped, with what an old running friend laughingly used to call “precision lacing patterns,” which you might just be able to make out above; and, surprisingly, light polypro liner socks beneath my Thorlos. A little fussy, but still reasonably light, and now comfy. So I think I’ve got one more box ticked.
Wednesday, March 5, 2008
That other Challenge
An unexpected article in the New York Times this morning about the Three Peaks Challenge and the conflict between raising money for a good cause and the effect doing so has on the mountains and mountain villages, specifically Scafell and Wasdale, an area I actually know slightly.
Tuesday, March 4, 2008
Fòn làimhe
These little matters are getting to be my field of play now. First the ticks, now the phone. I was a very late adopter of what Wikipedia tells me translates from the Gaelic as “hand phone.” This isn’t because I’m a Luddite. (If Great-Aunt Minerva left me a bundle, I’d head for the Apple store and buy one of everything.) It’s because I’ve worked from home for two decades and my town, due to its location, terrain, and geological oddities, didn’t have a remotely reliable signal for years. For a while now, I’ve been wandering around with a tiny old Samsung x427m, which I’ve appreciated for its simplicity and pocketable size. It is, though, utterly unusable in any other country in the world. So if I’m to have a mobile on the Challenge, it would have to be a different piece of hardware.
Yesterday, I went in and began an infuriatingly disjointed conversation with a young man at the AT&T store. In my ignorance of the technicalities of the situation I presented my needs inexactly. For his part, he insisted on answering my dumb questions with literal accuracy, mostly by saying, “No.” We then moved seamlessly but aggressively into a go-round on the difference between “can’t” and “won’t” on the issue of unlocking the phone so it could use another SIM abroad. Just as I was reaching the red-haze point of no return, I took a deep breath and said, “I’m going to Scotland in May. Tell me what you would sell me that will work there and tell me how it will work and how much calls will cost.” And I smiled. (Maturity is such a blessing. Such a rare blessing.)
The ultimate result was a pleasant and informative chat and the recommendation of a Sony-Ericsson w580i, “a stylish multimedia cell phone with good performance on all fronts,” a quadband GSM phone that also plays music (won’t use) and has an FM radio (might). It’s nice and small, and it even claims some rudimentary blogging capabilities (hmm). Then we circled back to the fact that since AT&T “can’t”—read “won’t,” the mendacious bastards—unlock it for me, I’d have to pay to have it unlocked to take a British SIM.
I realized, though, that I’m not going to chat on this phone, or make business calls, or do anything other than check in with Roger four times and call home every few evenings to let my family know I haven’t died of haggis poisoning. So my choice was more about functionality, up-front cost, and convenience, and less about charges per minute. Given the few calls I plan to make, at $1/minute it would probably be cheaper to pay the roaming rate, anyway. I may get the phone unlocked and buy a SIM just as a matter of principle, but I don’t need to.
I plunked down my $50, brought this “Street-style Walkman phone” home (stylin’ and walkin’—the same reasons I bought my Patagonia R1 Pants), and it will ride across Scotland, safely turned off and seldom used, in a ziplock tucked deep in my pack. Another decision made.
Yesterday, I went in and began an infuriatingly disjointed conversation with a young man at the AT&T store. In my ignorance of the technicalities of the situation I presented my needs inexactly. For his part, he insisted on answering my dumb questions with literal accuracy, mostly by saying, “No.” We then moved seamlessly but aggressively into a go-round on the difference between “can’t” and “won’t” on the issue of unlocking the phone so it could use another SIM abroad. Just as I was reaching the red-haze point of no return, I took a deep breath and said, “I’m going to Scotland in May. Tell me what you would sell me that will work there and tell me how it will work and how much calls will cost.” And I smiled. (Maturity is such a blessing. Such a rare blessing.)
The ultimate result was a pleasant and informative chat and the recommendation of a Sony-Ericsson w580i, “a stylish multimedia cell phone with good performance on all fronts,” a quadband GSM phone that also plays music (won’t use) and has an FM radio (might). It’s nice and small, and it even claims some rudimentary blogging capabilities (hmm). Then we circled back to the fact that since AT&T “can’t”—read “won’t,” the mendacious bastards—unlock it for me, I’d have to pay to have it unlocked to take a British SIM.
I realized, though, that I’m not going to chat on this phone, or make business calls, or do anything other than check in with Roger four times and call home every few evenings to let my family know I haven’t died of haggis poisoning. So my choice was more about functionality, up-front cost, and convenience, and less about charges per minute. Given the few calls I plan to make, at $1/minute it would probably be cheaper to pay the roaming rate, anyway. I may get the phone unlocked and buy a SIM just as a matter of principle, but I don’t need to.
I plunked down my $50, brought this “Street-style Walkman phone” home (stylin’ and walkin’—the same reasons I bought my Patagonia R1 Pants), and it will ride across Scotland, safely turned off and seldom used, in a ziplock tucked deep in my pack. Another decision made.
Sunday, March 2, 2008
Scottish Bach
Scotland popped up twice in my reading this morning. First, as you in the UK probably know, a team of forensic experts at the University of Dundee has recreated the face of J.S. Bach from “a bronze cast of his skull and documents from the time.” Joerg Hansen, Director of the Bachhaus Eisenach, where the face will go on display, told the BBC “that some people had suggested the face looks Scottish….” This whole thing is pretty cool, but I must say that to me the face looks like the mugshot of just another indicted Republican congressman. The Lewisburg Concertos.
Second, when I opened this site, I was welcomed by an especially graceful lede: “Since there’s not much more to do in Scotland than golf, get rained on and listen to bagpipes, you might as well delve into the fine art of single-malt Scotch tasting while you’re there.” Great advice, but the writer left out the money hoarding and haggis eating. Sufficient info, though, to help me make the decision that I will take walking sticks on the Challenge, after all—mashie-niblicks, I think. And ear plugs, of course.
Second, when I opened this site, I was welcomed by an especially graceful lede: “Since there’s not much more to do in Scotland than golf, get rained on and listen to bagpipes, you might as well delve into the fine art of single-malt Scotch tasting while you’re there.” Great advice, but the writer left out the money hoarding and haggis eating. Sufficient info, though, to help me make the decision that I will take walking sticks on the Challenge, after all—mashie-niblicks, I think. And ear plugs, of course.
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