Static Zombie

25 Things About Me, Dammit

I'm determined not to get sucked into Facebook, but I have to admit that whenever a friend posts their 25 Things, I zip over to read it. This meme jumped the shark last week by appearing on the front page of USA Today's Life section, but that's never stopped me before. I'll post it on my blog, however, thereby asserting my Facebook independence.

1. I don't think anything coming out of a kitchen can possibly be more satisfying to the senses and the soul than a freshly baked chocolate chip cookie (Alton Brown's Chewy recipe, naturally). That something so simple can make me so happy is a recurring delight. And if I actually have some milk in the fridge? Nirvana.

2. I know that if instead of watching television I used that time to be productive, I could achieve more of my life's goals. I get that. But here's the thing-- I like watching television. I'm genuinely interested in the stuff I watch. And you book snobs can get your noses back parallel to the ground, because much of what I watch gets me thinking every bit as much as, and sometimes more than, a good novel.

3. I've loved game shows all my life, and always wanted to be on one. Now that I've done it, the experience was so much fun that I can't wait to do it again. I'd quit my job to go on the professional game show circuit in a heartbeat, if only some Google gazillionaire would put up the cash to make such a thing happen. I'd also accept a very modest salary to simply appear as a permanent partner for contestants on a new version of Password or Pyramid, in a mythical world where producers realize that it's more fun to watch people you don't know play the game really well than to watch marginal celebrities play the game poorly.

4. My jaw sometimes clicks when I eat. Most of the time it's quiet and normal. But sometimes, every time I chew there's a sharp click and my jaw seems to snap in and out of place, over and over again. This happens most often with bagels. Until I got married, I never realized it was audible to others, but my wife hears it every time.

5. I lied about something once, when I was a kid. It was a stupid lie, a futile denial in the face of a friend's admission of my guilt. But I was supposed to be the good kid. I didn't do stupid, careless things that damaged neighbor's property. So I stuck with it. I made up a bigger lie to provide an alternate explanation. Nobody bought it. The guilt has stayed with me ever since. The neighbor-- the sweetest man you could imagine-- died recently, and I never came clean with him. After that incident, I never played with that friend again.

6. When I was very young, before I was old enough for kindergarden, whenever I went out with my family I kept a deathgrip on a penny. Always. Because I knew that sooner or later, I'd see a gumball machine. And when I did, come hell or high water, the handle on that machine would turn. Oh yes, it would turn. I'd put that penny in the slot and, in a Henningesque feat of legerdemain, I'd turn that handle, reach my hand into the slot, and pull out something bright and shiny and sweet. But it wasn't about the gumball, or the candy, or the prize. It was all about turning the handle. And pushing buttons.

7. I once won a radio call-in contest by knowing the full name of Bullwinkle's enemy (Boris Badanov). My prize? A sack of family board games. I now own over 500 games. Most people think that's a lot. I know many people with more.

8. I don't understand how rational, educated people in the 21st century can believe in God. Want to believe? Sure. I get the appeal. But actually believe, in the face of no evidence but a book of questionable provenance? I don't think I will ever understand that.

9. I believe in life on other planets. In the face of no evidence.

10. For as long as I can remember, I've dreamed about flying. Poorly. Not William Katt, flail-my-arms-around-in-midair bad, mind you-- that would be an improvement. No, in my flying dreams, I fly slowly and often can't get more than a couple of feet off the ground. Turning doesn't always work so well, either. WTF? In my dreams I could be anything, and my subconscious casts me as a fifth-rate Mystery Men reject? That is so messed up.

11. I like to sing in the shower, but I generally sing the same song every time-- an a capella version of Styx's Crystal Ball I heard Tommy Shaw sing on a radio concert a long time ago that eliminates the chorus and has great, extended harmonized notes at the finish. So much fun to sing with the shower reverb. Every now and then I throw in The Ballad of Billy the Kid.

12. I'm very good at listening to critical feedback and acting on it. I value honesty. If I do something that annoys you, I'd rather be told about it so I can address it rather than have you fume silently or kvetch behind my back. I won't resent you for saying something-- in fact, you'll rise in my esteem for having the courage to broach the topic.

13. I cried when Spock died.

14. I wrote the install program for Sierra Online's Windows games. I recorded my own voice as a placeholder for the sound test, expecting it would get replaced before it shipped. It didn't. For a few years in the nineties, my voice was on millions of PC computers, saying in my best Worfian voice, "Your system is correctly configured for playing wave files."

15. I've played cribbage in most of the major parks of Europe.

16. The first 45's I ever bought? Coward of the County (Kenny Rogers), Escape / The Pina Colada Song (Rupert Holmes), and King Tut (Steve Martin). My taste hasn't improved since then.

17. I believe the existence of career politicians is one of the worst things ever to happen to our democracy. All senators and congressmen should have a limit of one term, so they can focus on making the right decisions instead of making the decisions that will get them reelected.

18. I've gained over 30 pounds since graduating from college. Worse, my body is starting to react differently to some foods than it used to. Tomato sauce now frequently gives me heartburn. This is a betrayal of the highest order, and if I ever get my hands on my stomach, I intend to draw and quarter it in the public square as an example to keep my other internal organs in line. I'm talking to you, arteries!

19. A couple of times a year, I dress like a pirate and ride around in a van with 3-5 other similarly-dressed friends for 32 hours and solve puzzles. My wife married me anyway.

20. I have Restless Legs Syndrome.

21. I have no patience for shopping for clothes, and even less for trying things on. I can happily browse all day in a book store, however, and I can while away hours in the kitchen section at Bed, Bath, & Beyond.

22. Fashion be damned-- I like tucking my shirt in. It looks tidier, keeps drafts from blowing up my shirt in cold weather, and helps keep my pants from falling down. Who decides what's fashionable, anyway? I refuse to give power over my personal clothing decisions to some nebulous snootier-than-thou zeitgeist. When summer comes around, you can bet I'll sometimes wear socks with my sandals, because it's convenient and practical. Take that, fashionistas!

23. I hate wrapping paper. It's a waste of money and resources. Reusable gift bags are fine, though. And can we please, as a planet, just agree to a moratorium on styrofoam packing peanuts?

24. Milk chocolate? No thanks. Dark chocolate? Yes please. Caramel? Gimme gimme gimme. Black licorice? Hell no.

25. I believe spelling, punctuation, and grammar matter.

Caving to Peer Pressure

Alright already. I'm tired of you social network drones widening your eyes in shock and telling me I have to get on Facebook. It is the will of Landru. I have been assimilated into the collective and am now "on Facebook."

The heavens have yet to part and reveal to me, in a shining beam of light or talking animal figurine, why this is a Good Thing. The comments are open-- teach me to love Facebook.

Real Simple... NOT

Impassioned rant from my wife this evening:

"Real Simple magazine is not real simple! They say, 'When you go apple-picking with your family, take a blanket with you and pack a picnic with cucumber and goat cheese sandwiches, and make three dipping sauces to take along for your apples.' That's not simple! Simple is 'Get in your car and go.'"

Wife: 1, Real Simple: 0.

"You Saw Wall*E?"

I have two nieces. One is 11, the other just turned 13. This weekend I had occasion to mention to each of them, individually, that my wife and I had seen and enjoyed Wall*E. Their reactions were nearly identical: shock and horror. "You saw Wall*E? It's a kids' movie!"

No. No, it isn't.

I patiently explained that Pixar films are brilliant movies for everyone, not just kids. Just because a movie is animated doesn't mean it's for children. Wall*E, we elaborated, was even romantic.

"Wall*E and Eve. Romantic?" My niece-- 11 going on 40-- angled her head down and her eyes up, in the universal body language for "You've got to be kidding," her voice dripping with scorn.

I hold out hope that someday they'll get it, and wonder how they let so many fantastic movies pass them by.

Status Report

About a month in, and the ring still feels strange.

I Thee Wed

Today, I get married. The F becomes The W.

I'm exhausted from all the activity leading up to today, but I'm not at all nervous. It all comes down to a very simple question: is my life better with her than it was without her? The answer is obvious, and so there's nothing to be nervous about.

Except the first dance. After that, it's all downhill.

For the past few months we've been swamped-- planning for the wedding, buying and moving into a new house, unpacking, refurbishing the old house to get it ready to sell, and selling the old house. Now all of that is done, and after today we can move on to furnishing, decorating, and building a family.

Static Zombie has been a casualty of all this upheaval. I trust that those of you who are still here understand. When we return from our Hawaiian honeymoon (Kauai and Oahu), I hope to get back to a more frequent posting schedule.

Until then... aloha.

Rock and Roll Doctors

Ways Foreigner Misrepresented Having a Fever of 103

The Wedding's Off

The fiancee and I closed on a new house this past weekend (thank you, Meredith). We moved all her stuff over on Saturday, and my stuff follows this Saturday. And by "we", I mean "the packers and movers we hired."

You learn a lot about a person when you go throughunpack their things, and I discovered something about her this morning that might just be a deal-breaker for me. I was unpacking a box of CDs, filing them in a storage unit, when my eyes were opened to the kind of person she really is.

She owns a Milli Vanilli CD.

How can there be trust after this?

Now if you'll excuse me, I must go and quietly dispose of my carton of Star Trek novels.

Alarmed

I've been in England on business all week, and something's not right in London. Since when do London police sirens sound just like American ones? According to years of British television, London sirens should have a two-note "eeeeeeeeeeOOOOOOOOOeeeeeeeeeeeOOOOOOOOO" sound, not a rising-falling thing going. Look, London, I'm paying twice as much for everything here as I would in the States. I demand you get your sound effects correct, or I'm afraid I'll have to speak to the manager.

Broken Promises

Important safety tip: When you and your fiancee agree not to get any holiday gifts for each other this year because you're so overwhelmed with other things and it would make you both happier to not have to worry about it, she will neither keep her end of the bargain nor expect you to keep yours.

Quick Life Update

Apologies for the paucity of postings lately. This can be attributed to the following factors:

That Ain't Working

I haven't had the chance to mention that I changed jobs about a month ago, and I'm a lot happier. For the past seven years I've been working on software for developers. The last five have been focused on text editing. It was a perfectly fine job, but nothing to get my blood boiling. I was getting burned out, and I really needed a change.

Change found me. A friend in the Games division was starting a new team and asked me to join. Ok, if you twist my arm. If it's never happened to you before, let me tell you that it feels very good to be specifically sought/recruited by someone. This wasn't a case of someone doing a friend a favor, although it certainly was that. This was someone saying to me that they were creating a new team, they had an open position, and that I was the person they wanted for it. That's flattering. And daunting, because now I have to live up to that trust. Stephen, thanks for your faith in me. Whack me upside the head if I start to blow it.

So what am I doing? The team is in a division called All Access Gaming. Don't ask me what that means, because I'm really not sure. We're not making games targeted at the blind or amputees. In fact, I'm not really making games per se. My team is a prototyping team tasked with conceiving and developing new gameplay experiences. The team is to be cross-disciplinary, meaning I'll be a programmer, tester, game designer, brainstormer... pretty much anything but an artist, because we've got three of those on our little team of eight. We'll likely have multiple projects going on at a time, with fairly short timeframes (after 5 years on the same project, that sounds terrific). We're not focused on any particular platform, so we may be working on the 360, Windows, mobile devices, Surface, the web, or something completely new. The hardest part will be that once we've proven a concept, we'll hand it off to another team to actually create it and bring it to market. It will be interesting to see how I feel about that when it happens.

So I'm now working in the same building where I've been playing board games once a week for the past few years. I've got a 360 dev kit on my desk, and I'm learning to write 360 games using XNA. I'm working on a project with the potential for high visibility and coolness. I'm in brainstorming meetings where people toss balls around and festoon walls with concept art. I attend all-hands meetings where the subject matter is actually interesting to me, both professionally and personally. Conversation in the hall centers around gameplay, fun, and what happened at PAX. I'm still a programmer, but the context is completely different. And context is everything.

The suspense is terrible. I hope it will last.

The Story

You want details? I've got details.

One of our first dates was a day at the Puyallup Fair. It was kinda risky, coming as it did only a couple of weeks into our relationship. A full day together at that stage is fraught with peril, and the fair only added to the possible hazards.

Things You Don't Want To Hear On an Early Date at the Fair

"I don't eat those high-falutin' curly fries-- they're too fancy for me."
"Let's go see the alpacas-- I've been shopping for a new breeder pair."
"A dozen scones, please. What are YOU having?"
"I promised myself that I'd keep riding the Ejection Seat until I can do it without throwing up."
"Ooooh, that giant plush bell pepper is darling! Won't you win it for me?"
"Let's get tickets for the Countrypalooza concert!"
"When I was in it, the 4Hs were Heroin, Harleys, Heineken, and Herpes."
"Hold on, let me stop in here and ask about the saunas. It'll only take a minute."

Fortunately, only one of those actually happened and it was a pretty good date. It was only after we got back to my place that things went somewhat pear-shaped. We played some pinball, each of us on one flipper, and apparently the gulf between us made Donald Trump's ego look small. To hear The F tell it, I avoided touching her as if she had cooties-- and not the cute multicolored Schaper kind. On my doorstep that evening when she left, I leaned in for our first kiss but misread her body language. I thought she was blowing me back like a batter too close to the plate, so I turned it into a big, awkward hug.

Obviously, things got better later.

Much later. The F had the patience of a saint.

On Sunday, we went to the Puyallup Fair again, for the third year. It was rainy, but I'll take that over scorching heat any day. The poor kids doing the Mutton Bustin' might not agree, though. As the announcer reminds us, riding a sheep is like riding a 40 pound sponge-- that's been rolled around in sawdust and manure a few times.

Incidentally, we've come to the conclusion that with the exception of the scones and the Wilcox Farms soft-serve ice cream, there's absolutely no good food at the Fair. Everything else we've had-- which, granted, have mostly been onion burgers and curly fries-- ranged somewhere from meh to blech. If anyone can direct me to a good meal at the fair (and by good I mean tasty-- the fairgrounds have a long-standing restraining order on healthy), I'd appreciate it.

Later that night we came home and I paused at the top of our front steps. I reminded her about that first date at the fair and how awkward I was when we got back, and I said that I wanted a chance to get it right. Then I opened the door. The tableau that greeted her was a living room filled with 100 lit tea lights and 10 dozen multicolored roses. It was really quite beautiful. The flowers were placed throughout the room-- on the coffee table, the mantel, snack tables, etc. Likewise with the candles. Rose petals were also strewn among the candles. She walked into the room agape, just staring at everything. She tells me that she really didn't hear anything after that, because all she could think was "Oh my God, this is it! He's going to propose!" Which is pretty much what I expected. After all, what other explanation could there be? "Happy Girlfriend Appreciation Day!"

I recovered the ring box from a hiding place in our mail slot, fumbled the box open, and suddenly realized that I'd planned everything except what to say at that moment. My mind was just a complete blank. In desperation I decided you can't go wrong with the classics. I dropped to one knee, said that I wanted to spend the rest of my life with her, and asked her to marry me. She immediately said yes.

Cue happy music and iris out on our embrace.

Oops, I Did It Again

Through a combination of leaving late, going onto autopilot and missing the turn onto 405, unusually high parking lot occupancy levels, a long shuttle delay, and of course the security line, I missed my afternoon flight. I was supposed to arrive in St. Louis at 11:45 PM, but now I'm killing five hours in the Seattle airport and at midnight I'll have another seven to kill in Denver, before finally reaching St. Louis at 10:25 AM. So, a good chance to catch up on blogging.

This is only the second time I've ever missed a flight, and it wasn't nip and tuck-- I don't think even Vista slipped this badly. I'm glad I'm traveling alone. I have a higher tolerance for discomfort than The F has, so finding a place to hunker down for a spell isn't such a big deal to me. I've got my laptop, books, iPod, GameBoy, puzzles... throw in a generator and some MREs and I'd be set.

I will note, however, that Sea-Tac's recent redesign of its main concourse created a bright, sunny atrium with lots of tables and vendors, a wide view of the tarmac, and a nifty hanging sculpture of a bird and its reflection, but no power outlets. And a big middle finger of disgust to Valve Software for requiring a network connection to play Half Life 2 Episode One. I didn't pirate your freakin' game, jerkwads-- how about letting me play the damn thing wherever and however I damn well want? Like when I have a whole bunch of hours to kill and I'd like to forget that I'm in an airport?!

See, I'm taking the whole situation quite well.

Microcelebrity

Every now and then I get recognized by people whom I've never met. This usually happens within the context of the Microsoft puzzle community, sometimes within the context of board gaming, and it's even happened because of this blog.

It's weird.

Celebrities-- real celebrities, who make a living from being in the public eye-- come to expect this and learn how to respond to it. Fans don't expect celebrities to know who they are, and so the celeb can just smile graciously and thank the fan for his support. But when someone recognizes me and I have no idea who they are, I feel like a jerk.

It happened twice today at the company picnic while roaming through the annual puzzle event held there. At two different locations, staffers I'd never met (as far as I can recall) made comments implying a familiarity with who I am. Always in a complimentary way, but it was rather disorienting. I don't see myself as a celebrity, not even a minor one. But within a very small, niche community, I have a certain degree of visibility that apparently makes me a kind of microcelebrity. When I was publishing The Game Report I went through a period where people at gaming events recognized my name, and I understood that. But this recognition by sight is just... weird.

So to put my world back into balance, if you're reading this and we know each other, and we cross paths in the next day or so, I'd appreciate it if you'd feign unfamiliarity.

Open Letter to Seattle Residents

Dear fellow Seattlites,

I'm as proud to be an American as the next guy. Perhaps less proud if the next guy has a "Born in the USA" tattoo and voted for George W. Bush the second time, but the point remains-- July 4th is a time for celebration. We live in a country with more freedoms than most, even after sacrificing some on the altars of Security and paranoia. The worst dilemma for many Americans is choosing whether to get 4GB or 8GB in their iPhone. And we may be screwing up the planet, but thanks to modern health care more of us will stay alive long enough to see Armageddon first-hand. There are plenty of reasons to shoot off fireworks, down 66 hot dogs and buns in 12 minutes, and wave the American flag.

But not at 2 in the morning.

For that matter, not even at 11 at night. Look, I know that when the fireworks end the streets between Gasworks Park and the highway are more clogged than Joey Chestnut's arteries. It's a nightmare. But you know all those houses you pass (slowly, so painfully slowly) by? People live in them. And though we're all flush with patriotism and fellowship, that really doesn't explain why you feel it's necessary to blast hip-hop from all seventeen of your car speakers at decibel levels exceeding a few dozen M-80's. Growing up in a barn may give you a white bread, all-American pedigree, but it's no excuse for grossly inconsiderate behavior.

And if you decided it'd be smarter to wait out the traffic at a local bar and walk to your car later-- say, after last call-- there was really no need to celebrate your right to free speech by bellowing back and forth on a quiet residential street. You also have the right to remain silent. Exercise it.

Thank you for your attention.

Where's the Third Shoe?

Yesterday was one of those days.

First, I put a down payment on some home improvements-- new siding and windows for the whole house. I'm gearing up to sell the house next year (downturn? What downturn?), and the house needs some attention. It would cost about $10,000 to paint, plus another few thousand to repair some cracked boards and rotting facia. Instead, I'm going with pre-painted fiber-cement siding that lasts a good 25 years without needing a touch-up. We went to a few houses done by the contractor and talked to the owners, and everything looks good. We're having the same guy replace all of the windows in the house, which are currently butt-ugly, thin, energy-inefficient metal casement windows. These two things together will make a world of difference in the home's appearance and resale value, and I should be able to recoup the cost. I'll post before and after photos when the job's done.

Writing checks with multiple zeroes is always a little painful. Getting into a car accident? More so. After handing over the down payment check, I was rear-ended on the highway en route to work. I was slowing down with traffic and an SUV rammed into me from behind. I never saw it coming-- but I was able to brake in time to avoid carroming into the car in front of me.

The sound of being hit by another car is terrifying. It's very loud and sharp. It's the sound of the world ending. There's no coddling or cushioning in that sound-- it's one enormous metal object ramming into another. It's visceral, the start of a complete loss of control. You have no idea what hit you or with what force. You don't know how badly the car has been damaged. The car lurches unexpectedly and everything loose inside goes higgledy-piggledy. You're violently thrown back against the seat and then forward against the seat belt. Your mind tumbles into chaos, with coherent thought barely rising to the level of "Holy crap!"

And all of that happens in a split second. Time elongates in the moment, but it's over almost before it begins. And it profoundly ruins your day.

The 50-year-old woman behind the wheel told me she "only closed her eyes for a minute." She was apologetic about falling asleep at the wheel-- utterly aghast, really. Fortunately nobody was injured (although my neck hurts today and I had a headache last night). My rear bumper is dented and torn. The force of the impact threw my seatback down a few notches and it won't un-recline into a normal driving position. Her front bumper is partially detached. And you can read her license plate in my rear bumper.

So the car's going into the shop, a rental is being arranged, and that makes two times I've been hit by another vehicle and walked away (the first time, my car wasn't so lucky). I'd prefer not to test my luck a third time.

Lost City

At the end of February, the gf and I spent ten days in Mexico. We spent the first four days driving around the Yucatan peninsula, visiting the ruins at Chichen Itza, Uxmal, and along the Puuc Trail, and wandering around Merida. The last six days were spent at a beach resort in Playa del Carmen (south of Cancun), where we relaxed on beach chairs under palapas, snorkeled and swam in the spectacular Carribean water, and read in the comfort of the hammocks on our patio.

I've traveled all around Europe, and all the archeological sites I've seen there have been barren, dusty, or scrubby. The ground is typically bare earth or rocky, with little shade other than that provided by reconstructed stone columns. The Mayan ruins of the Yucatan were therefore a pleasant surprise, situated as they are in the midst of a verdant jungle. El Castillo, the giant pyramid at Chichen Itza, looms at the center of a lush green field. The juxtaposition of ancient stone and living grass, especially on that scale, had a surreal quality. Sadly, visitors are no longer allowed to climb El Castillo, so we had to content ourselves with feeling insignificant from its base. Perhaps it's just as well, though-- as we found out at other Mayan sites, size 14 shoes were not a design concern of the Mayan architects who designed their temples' stairs.

El Castillo is an impressive structure, but Chichen Itza's reknown stems largely from its proximity to Cancun, where daytripping cruise passengers and frat boys can hop on a bus, see the legacy of an ancient civilization, and still be back in time for debauched karaoke on the beach. The ruins at Uxmal, farther west and therefore less visited, felt grander and more inspiring. At Uxmal there was a greater sense of what the community might have been like, and the site itself felt like a hidden refuge in the jungle. I couldn't pass up the chance for the photo at right, perhaps the beginning of a "games in situ" series. Had I been really on the ball and had the luggage space, I'd have brought Yucata or Maya along, but Lost Cities seemed perfectly appropriate and, more importantly, portable.

Before I return to Mexico, I'd appreciate it if the country would adopt the following new rules:

Have Some Madeira, Voir Dire

I spent three days last week on jury duty. I answered the call out of a sense of civic responsibility, a genuine curiosity about how a real courtroom works, and the understanding that failure to appear when summoned is a felony.

Elevator Life

From my vantage point overlooking the south side of downtown, I realized I wasn't far from Salumi. When we were dismissed for lunch, my destination was clear. Salumi, run by Food Network chef Mario Batali's father, is a mecca for out-of-town foodies visiting Seattle and a popular lunch venue for nearby locals. This was my second trip, the first having been last year when "actor Dave" (as distinguished from "doctor Dave", "pirate Dave", and "Sharry Dave" in Peter/gf conversation) visited and we staged an informal Salumi/Paseo sandwich-off. I opted for their porchetta (roast pork stuffed with sausage meat and spices), which was sensational-- especially with the crusty bread slathered in garlicky olive oil. I felt sorry for the jurors who had to sit next to me after that, but only fleetingly. Sacrifices must be made in the name of gastronomy.

After lunch my name got called and I was ushered into a courtroom for the voir dire process, which was both fascinating and a lot of fun. During voir dire, each attorney has twenty minutes to question the jurors in an effort to determine who is most likely to favor their side of the case. In reality, the lawyers use this time to lay some foundation for their case outside the rules of evidence. The prosecution asked jurors to tell her what caused car accidents, for example, while the defense asked who the most guilty person in the room was. This was the only part of the trial where jurors got to actively engage with the attorneys. What a blast! It felt in many ways like being on a game show, but without any prizes ("Congratulations, juror #2! For giving answers that make you sound like an asset to both sides of the case, you've won the right to come back tomorrow and sit on the jury!").

Jurors can be dismissed "for cause" (none were), and both attorneys can execute peremptory challenges and dismiss up to three jurors for no reason whatsoever. I expected to be dismissed at this stage, since I was one of only two jurors who said they didn't drink alcohol, but they kept me and kicked the other juror (who said she didn't drink because she tends to eat too much and smoke too much, and she was afraid she'd drink too much also so decided not to drink at all). The defense seemed to like that I'm an engineer, perhaps hoping I'd find a flaw in the prosecution's case and hold them to their burden of proof instead of making an emotional decision.

The case itself took two days to present to us and was ultimately a no-brainer. The defendant was being charged with DUI and negligent driving, and had a blood alcohol level of .236-- almost triple the legal limit of .08. Once the breath test got admitted into evidence, we really had no choice. We went through each condition of the charge line by line and considered them all carefully, but returned a verdict of guilty in ninety minutes. The case seemed clear cut to us and we were surprised the defendant didn't plead out, but he may have had no choice. If a plea was even offered, it might have meant losing his license and by extension one or more of his three jobs. Faced with that possibility, taking it to trial might have seemed his only option. We just don't know.

I loved the experience, which was educational and satisying. It felt good to be part of the process, even if it seemed like more efficiencies could have been built into the system to make things happen more swiftly.

Wishlists

A friend recently gave me a holiday gift which, to my surprised pleasure, was an item from my Amazon wishlist. He never asked me what I wanted, and I never told him. He simply found my wishlist (perhaps inspired by a previous SZ post) and got something from it. Genius! This is the way gifts should work, people. Not the only way, to be sure-- getting something you didn't know you wanted is an unparalleled delight-- but it's a sure-fire way to make someone happy and avoid the Frozen Smile of Fabricated Enthusiasm.

Those of you who don't have Amazon wishlists should make one forthwith, adding some personal facts about yourself so that your friends and family can find it easily. There are other sites, like The Things I Want, that let you create meta-wishlists that include items from any retailer, but unless you explicitly tell people about it nobody's going to know to look there. Amazon is the default online store for most people, so an Amazon wishlist gets you the most coverage. It's the gift to yourself that keeps on giving.

One Year Later

It was one year ago this week that I banged my head repeatedly on my steering wheel. In some ways it's hard to believe it's been a year already, but in the way we understand each other it seems like we've been together a long time. My life has been richer in the past twelve months for having her in it.

Her eyes still sparkle, and I can still get lost in them for hours.

Happy anniversary, sweetie.

The Badly-Designed Game Store People

The 'rents, the gf, and I spent the past couple of days in Vancouver, which is a stunningly beautiful city. Vancouver made Seattle look like a cheap imitator. The public market on Granville Island seemed more varied and interesting than Pike Place Market. The view from Cloud Nine, a revolving restaurant on the 42nd floor of a hotel, was far grander than that from the Space Needle. Gastown seemed more authentic than Pioneer Square. If I were Seattle, I'd have a jealousy complex. It's like Vancouver is Madonna to Seattle's Britney.

Speaking of Gastown, I stumbled across a game store there called The Games People which, to my never-owned-a-game-store eye, gets everything wrong. It's the kind of shop that simultaneously excites and repels me. It's positively dreary to a casual shopper. Upon walking in the first things you notice are a) the store's very dim lighting, b) the stale, dusty smell normally reserved for antique malls full of forgotten Victorian ephemera, and c) the chaotic jumble of the items on the shelves. The store isn't comfortable or inviting. It doesn't tantalize shoppers with attractive displays of handsome boxes, enticing them to enter and explore. The Games People is a dark, dusty cave that seems a relic from a bygone era.

Which is exactly what excited me when I walked in the door. The casual Gastown tourist wouldn't dare cross that murky threshold, but I was hoping to step back in time. I approached each shelf like an explorer in an ancient tomb, gingerly pushing aside the effluvia of the ages in the hope of unearthing treasure. The 70's-era family games near the entrance suggested the store had been there for a long time. Who knew what unsold inventory still lurked in a back corner?

But here's the crazy part. The vast majority of shelves-- the ones with all the really interesting stuff-- are behind glass counters that keep the customer at a distance. I had to crane my neck from a few feet away to read the densely-packed spines of bygone boxes. If I wanted to look at anything in detail, I had to ask a clerk to fetch it for me. That might be fine for the Library of Congress, but it's a lousy way to browse. Had I been able to get my hands on the games myself, I'd have reveled in examining every relic in stock. When a title caught my attention, I'd have grabbed the box, looked it over carefully, and either replaced it or tucked it under my arm for purchase. Kept at arm's length, however, I hardly looked at anything in detail. I saw a copy of Eon's Runes, but didn't bother asking the clerk to see it because I didn't really want to buy it-- but I might have if I'd been able to pick it up myself and the price was right. The hunt for treasure changed from fun to work. I left the store annoyed and disgusted. The Games People is a store that seems to be doing nothing right. Many shelves had games displayed frontwise, blocking a dozen more games. It was impossible to peer behind them to see what hid beneath. What kind of way is that to run a store? How has this place stayed in business?

We took the seabus across Burrard Inlet and happened to come across the other Games People location, tucked away on the second floor of a market/mall. This one was smaller, brighter, and every bit as cluttered and difficult to browse. As with the other store, all the interesting goodies were crammed together on shelves behind the counter, out of reach. Apparently everything I think I know about running a game store is wrong, because these guys are keeping not one, but two locations open despite their horrible feng shui.

If You Build It, They Will Pay $17.50

My parents are in town for a visit. I'm planning a remodel of my bathrooms and kitchen, and my mom likes looking at houses, so we decided to go to this year's Street of Dreams. That's where a bunch of builders, landscapers, designers and decorators get together to assemble monstrously extravagant homes and then invite everyone who can't afford them to pay a hefty entry fee for the privilege of salivating over comforts they'll never have.

So what are the trends in multi-million dollar homes? Mammoth refrigerators that blend into the cabinetry. Media rooms. Flat-screen televisions in kitchens and bathrooms. Multiple washer-dryers. And apparently once you own a lavish home you get invited to all sorts of parties, because all the homes had dedicated gift-wrapping stations.

But by far the most promising trend I noticed is the emerging popularity of secret doors and passageways. Two of the homes came equipped with hidden chambers beyond swinging bookcases. One such bookcase even opened up onto a spiral staircase leading down to what they billed as-- I kid you not-- a "Man Cave". Presumably they're marketing to the burgeoning population of wealthy bats who, traumatized by the death of their parents, dress up as men by day and earn millions trading oil futures. Seriously, if you're going to install a Man Cave in your home, why mess with a spiral staircase? Clearly a man-pole is called for. And there was no bust of Shakespeare to be seen.

What's the Nose News, Neighbor?

Some things to know about this past weekend.

1) I spent it in and around the San Francisco Bay area for the Paparazzi Game.

2) The trip brought us into wine country-- Sonoma and Napa Valley-- which was lovely.

3) Within the past five years I've developed hay fever, which is generally only triggered by doing my own yardwork. Since it incapacitates me for the rest of the day, regardless of how far from the yard I take myself, gardeners have moved from the "luxury" to the "necessity" column.

4) There's apparently a lot of yardwork going on in wine country.

Much of the Game for me transformed itself into a scavenger hunt with only one item on the list: tissues. My nose wouldn't stop running. If you've never had a runny nose, let me explain how, other than being an entirely opposite problem, it differs from congestion. When your nose is congested, you keep a box of tissues at hand and when you feel that it might be a good idea to keep an interrupted flow of oxygen to your brain, you grab one and blow to clear it. Over time and numerous repetitions of this process it might feel like your head is going to explode from the outward pressure and you need to clamp your hands against your skull to counteract the pain every time you blow your nose, you take solace in the knowledge that it's better than the alternative of asphyxiating in a pool of your own phlegm.

Where congestion is a direct frontal assault, a runny nose is a guerilla attack. Sometimes your nostrils fill with mucus and you sniffle to hold the flow in check. You may need to blow your nose for temporary relief. In this way it's similar to congestion, but that's only a ruse to disguise the true threat-- the sudden eruption of mucus from your nasal cavity. One moment you're feeling relatively fine, in a having-your-brain-replaced-by-cotton-is-better-than-hacking-up-a-lung kind of way, looking at a menu or, say, a puzzle. Then suddenly a rivulet cascades from your nostril. It happens without warning, and the world decelerates so you can appreciate every humiliating, disgusting moment in slow motion, powerless to stop it.

This was my weekend, oscillating between feeling passable and able to contribute, to measuring time in the interval required to extract a tissue from my pocket and clean up my face. I couldn't hold onto puzzles because I needed one hand free to react to the next sortie from the guerilla forces invading my nasal tract. I couldn't look down at a puzzle because that was just the lapse in security they needed to grab a foothold. My breathing was labored, my nostrils increasingly raw, my concentration shattered. It was miserable.

5) I am a superhuman god, genetically untouchable by chemical agents. This includes the active ingredients in Flonase, Allegra, and Claritin-- all of which I tried during the weekend to relieve the effects of my allergy, to no avail.

Postcard From Shaw

I spent last weekend with six other guys at a cozy cabin on Shaw Island in the San Juans, a 90-minute drive and one-hour ferry outside of Seattle. It was a terrific weekend. The cabin belongs to my friend Damon's family, and Damon gets to use the place every now and then. So he invited a bunch of guys up for an escape from the city.

Aside from the two bedrooms, one bathroom, and a loft used as a bedroom, the cabin was essentially one greatroom with a tiny kitchen on one side, a cast iron fireplace, and a solarium (an entire wall and sloped roof of windows and skylights). The solarium looked onto a rocky private beach and the placid water of a small cove, and the cabin was surrounded by evergreens. About the only amenity really missing was a hot tub.

We spent the weekend eating, reading, playing games, and relaxing. It was sublime. Michael and I were the newcomers to the group, many of whom Damon has known for years and taken to Shaw before, so they had things down to a routine. We all chipped in for supplies for the weekend-- food, drink, TP-- which we carted in and out with us, and meals were communal and simple (grilled sausages, Boboli pizza, bagel sandwiches, scrambled eggs) but remarkably tasty. Three of the guys were new to me, and I was delighted to get along well with all of them. The whole weekend just had a great vibe to it. No deer were shot and no fish were caught, but this experience helps me understand part of the allure of hunting. It's not the act itself (well, for some I'm sure it is), but the comraderie of hanging out with the fellas in a simple, natural environment with few distractions or responsibilities.

We played a bunch of games, but it was the overall coziness of the place and the easy familiarity of the people-- even the ones I'd just met-- that mattered, shrinking the world down to just that table in just that moment. There's something magical about sharing food, too-- prepping together, cooking together, eating together, pitching in to clean up. I wish I could put my finger on what it is, but it brings people closer than merely occupying the same space does.

If I ever run a gaming event, this is the vibe I'd want to create.

Cryptorqued

So I'm a finalist in the Google Da Vinci Code contest, and all the other finalists in Seattle got their cryptex on Monday. But now the 18th-- the date by which all the cryptexes were supposed to arrive-- has come and gone, and my mailbox is still empty.

Boooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooogle.

Tiptoeing

Every spring, northern Washington fields turn technicolor and visitors flock to the Skagit Valley Tulip Festival. I've managed to live in Seattle for fifteen years without ever seeing the tulips. Single guy. Tulips. I don't think so. But this spring I'm a little less single, which meant a lot more tulips.

Ooooh. Pretty colors.

"Festival" is really code for "cheap marketing device to lure tourists to local gardens where we'll charge them a few bucks for entry and then sell them bulbs and flowers at barely-discounted prices." Someone in the chamber of commerce woke up one day and said, "Gee, these fields are pretty. We sure grow a lot of tulips around here. If we called tulip season a FESTIVAL, we could boost the local economy!" I understand the Bellevue chamber of commerce is working on an Overpriced Condominium Festival and over on Aurora, a Festival of Whores is in the planning stages.

We ate at Calico Cupboard in La Conner, and while I could dwell on the atrociously long wait while several tables sat vacant but uncleared or the lackluster quality of the ensuing food, I'll choose instead to rhapsodize about the toffee bar I had for dessert. Oh. My. God. Imagine a big blondie with chunks of chocolate, toffee, walnuts, and pockets of creamy butterscotch or caramel (I always have a hard time telling them apart). It was a thick, hearty bar-- with every bite I felt like I should be resting my workboot on the stump of a newly-felled tree, smiling zestfully into the primevil forest, my trusty axe leaning jauntily beside me. It validated the entire trip. Now the quest is on for a recipe to produce this at home.

Notmarriednotlivingtogetherleavingtomorrow

Spent the past 4 days with the gf in Vegas, which is going condo happy. Everywhere you look, old buildings are being razed and new foundations poured for towering residential complexes. With all this construction comes a new breed of marketers sharing sidewalk space with the brochure-snapping touts hawking the virtues of Brandi, Cindi, and Velvet. Not content to merely shove a pamphlet into your path, these upscale shills accost you verbally as you pass them on the sidewalk or enter the grounds of the Venetian or Aladdin retail complexes. "How long are you folks in town?" "Would you like free tickets to Elton John, Avenue Q, or Cirque du Soleil tonight?" "Free $100 dinner vouchers for any restaurant on the Strip!" They hound you with the relentless determination of time-traveling cyborgs in pursuit of future resistance leaders, chipping away at your defenses and curiosity until, exhausted, you succumb to the embrace of their sales pitch.

For us it was a particularly low-key woman in front of the Excalibur who dangled tickets to Hairspray in front of us, luring us within range before closing the jaws of the trap tight. Fifteen minutes later, after paging through her binder of promotional materials to decide which show we'd see and what time the next day we'd show up for the tour of the new residential property they were hawking ("If you come in the morning, we'll feed you breakfast and get you out before noon!"), she finally got around to asking something she should have asked long before.

"Are you married?" No. "Living together?" No. "Oh." The binder slammed shut. "I'm sorry, we have no more available showings tomorrow for singles."

And just like that, we were through-- but armed with a new mantra, which we used as a defensive ward for the rest of our trip. "Are you going to be in town tomor--" "Notmarried,notlivingtogether,leavingtomorrow." It was better than a silver cross at getting the bloodsuckers to back off in search of other, easier prey.

Next time we go, however, we intend to set aside the first full day for nothing but viewing residential properties. By the time we're through, we'll have dining and entertainment taken care of for the remainder of our stay.

Faucets Other Than Farrah, Jimmy

My faucet has been in need of replacement for quite some time now. Whenever I operated the handle, the entire faucet assembly pivoted to reveal the rust and corrosion beneath its loose base plate. Not only did the faucet drip-- despite having replaced the washer-- but rotating the handle had a non-deterministic, non-zero chance of producing a spurt of water through the joints. And don't even get me started on the anemic droolersprayer.

So today we replaced it. And when I say "we", I really mean my thoughtful girlfriend (who bought the faucet as my replacement birthday gift) and my staunch friend and business partner (who, with the gf, did most of the labor). I now have the sparkling new Grohe faucet shown here, which is superior in every way to my old American Standard disaster. It's higher, allowing me to fit my Brita pitcher or stockpot beneath it easily. It emits a more concentrated stream, so water doesn't splatter. As for style, it has some. And the sprayer-- oh my, the sprayer-- actually cuts off all flow from the main faucet and creates a powerful blast of water with which to clean all the nooks and crannies of my cookware.

Ye of lesser faucets, look upon me and weep.

They Appear to Be Bisexual, Reproducing at Will

Whole Foods (or more popularly, Whole Paycheck) Market is a wondrous place. For a foodie, walking through a Whole Foods elicits the same slack-jawed astonishment and effervescent glee as a child entering the Chocolate Room at the Wonka factory. New wonders await around every turn, all organic, natural, and priced for people who can afford to care. Organic? For $8.00 a pound, those chicken breasts had better be orgasmic. But anyplace that lets you grind your own peanut butter, almond butter, or peanut/chocolate butter and offers real maple syrup and olive oil in the bulk foods section gets a silver star in my book.

The bulk foods aisle is like something out of a science fiction film. Row after row of lucite canisters line the shelves, each offering up some exotic grain, dried whoozit or yogurt-covered whatzit. In fact, last night while searching for some bulk Soylent Green (every bit as good as the brand-name stuff, no matter what the rumors say about what goes into it), I stopped short. I'd never really thought about it before, but I'd just assumed that QUADRATRITICALE, the favored grain of tribbles, was a construct of David Gerrold's imagination. But there in front of me was a grain-filled canister labeled TRITICALE. It was like a clueless M*A*S*H viewer learning, years later, that while there was no 4077th unit, there were in fact mobile army surgical hospitals in Korea.

I gave the canister a raised eyebrow any Vulcan would have been proud of and moved on to the $6.99/lb hot food bar.

Top Five Things I Learned at Chopstix Last Night

5. The Devil Went Down to Georgia can be performed quite effectively on piano.
4. Somewhere along the line our culture went horribly awry, choosing to try to embarrass people on their birthdays rather than celebrate them.
3. Soduku was invented by an American, not a Japanese, and first published in the United States, not Japan.
2. Seattle's smoking ban did nothing to eliminate drunken idiots.
1. The good vibe of your birthday celebration at a dueling piano bar can be shattered as easily as your girlfriend's rear car window, and stolen as quickly as your gift-wrapped birthday present and her leather jacket.

Unhandled Floor Exception

In buildings with subterranean parking garages, the parking levels are often prefixed with a P in the elevator (P3, P4, etc). I laughed out loud at the new Lincoln Square in Bellevue this evening, where the first such button in the elevator is P0. Apparently, the building was designed by programmers.

Curious, I pushed the button for P0 but it wouldn't activate. I parked on P1, and saw ramps to P2 and higher, but couldn't see any way to get to P0. So not only was the construction team led by a programmer, but it apparently had no testers.

The only thing more perfect would have been if the building was for a software company.

Cure Worse Than the Disease

My roof has never leaked, but when I bought the house the inspector said the roof had about five more years on it. That was eleven years ago. I decided it would be better to replace the roof now, before it deteriorated enough to let water seep through. Near the end of the summer I hired a roofer, but it took us quite a while to schedule the actual date, which wound up being today.

The first snow of the season.

And not just a light dusting, but a fairly heavy blanketing considering the temperature's still above freezing. Everyone was buzzing about the weather beforehand, but apparently that buzz never reached the roofer. While I was out driving someone to the airport, they arrived and began tearing up my old roof. Then the snow came. I don't know how long they kept tearing up after the snow began, but by the time they switched to covering the roof with tarps, it had been snowing a while. Long enough so that once the snow started to melt, it leaked through the light fixtures in two first floor rooms.

While the roofers were at lunch.

When they returned I sent them into the attic crawlspace to mop up any standing water that wasn't over a light fixture and put down some more tarps to prevent it from happening again. But meanwhile, some of my insulation has gotten wet, and rain and snow are supposed to continue until Monday or Tuesday. If they install the roof tomorrow, I'm worried that water will get trapped and I'll get a mold problem. And if they don't, I'm worried that water will seep in through the tarps.

So I'm trying to look on the bright side. Maybe the water will short out the electrical system and the house will burn down before I have to deal with any of this.

Fringe Benefits

Maintaining a blog-- especially one that includes personal thoughts and biographical anecdotes-- can have unexpected side-effects. I've been running Static Zombie for a few years now, so the archives go back a ways. I don't post every day, which means reading the archives isn't a monumental undertaking. I'd estimate that under a thousand people read Static Zombie. Some of you are personal friends, some I only know through your comments, and still others are anonymous lurkers. The ready availability of so much of my writing means that most Static Zombie readers know far more about me than I do about them. That's par for the course for newspaper columnists, but not really something I considered when I started writing. It doesn't bother me per se-- I wouldn't post something if I was worried about who would read it-- but it can be a little weird when I meet someone and they display more knowledge about me than I expect them to have, because they've read Static Zombie.

In at least one case, however, it's worked to my advantage.

There are many areas in which I have great self-confidence. Dating isn't one of them. Most men learn the ropes when they're young, dating lots of people and through trial and error discovering how to put their best foot forward. I didn't. I had some of the error, but not a lot of the trial. I'm not interested in brief flings. I don't want to have a lot of first dates that don't lead to anything. So by the time I realize I'm interested in someone, we've already become friends and now there's a whole second minefield to cross on the way to dating without blowing up the friendship. So when you read the statement, "I don't ask many women out," you should realize it's a gross understatement of the truth.

So when, after emailing back and forth with someone I "met" on an online dating service, I asked her to meet for lunch, I was pretty nervous. For me, it was a Big Deal. In addition to everything else, I'm picky. I want someone who's smart, funny, witty, attractive-- ok, who doesn't?-- and I'm not willing to settle. Many of you are married, and others of you have probably never used online dating sites-- so let me tell you, it's not exactly easy to find Women of Interest. Sometimes you're drawn to a photo immediately, only to discover she's put no thought into her profile at all. EVERYONE likes walks on the beach and cozy nights by the fire. Tell me something that's unique about you. Tell me something that makes me think, "I've got to find out more about this woman!" Sometimes a profile reveals fundamental incompatibilities, like devout religious beliefs, that are instant deal-breakers. Spirituality I can handle; putting faith in Jesus to guide me I cannot. Sometimes you find a Woman of Interest, but you're not a Man of Interest in return. Electronic winks get rejected, emailed introductions get ignored. That's the nature of the process, and part of the attraction of online dating sites is that rejections hurt less when they're made of pixels.

Finding someone who rings all the bells and seems even more interesting through email conversations than she does in her online profile, therefore, is like standing at Stonehenge and seeing all the major celestial bodies framed between stone plinths. You know it's possible, you've heard that it happens, but you never really expected to be there yourself. A part of you certainly thinks it's too good to be true. And the rest of you obsesses over a single thought: don't screw it up.

Amazingly, the lunch went well. Not oh-my-god-where-have-you-been-all-my-life well, but definitely not this-is-the-longest-hour-in-the-history-of-the-universe-just-shoot-me-now, either. She was even prettier in person than in her profile, and as we talked with each other it occurred to me that I was out of my league. First, her eyes sparkled. I considered writing that they sparked with intelligence, wit, and imagination-- all of which is true-- but the simple truth is that her eyes just... sparkled. Looking into them, I just felt incredibly fortunate that they were looking back at me. And as incredible as her eyes were, what surprised me even more was that when she smiled they went to eleven. When she spoke, she spoke with passion. She listened to what I had to say, and when she asked questions she sounded genuinely interested in the answers. And she had a mature poise, an aura of womanhood rather than girliness. Put all of that together, and I was a little intimidated. I felt like a one-armed man treading water. I was clumsy, ugly, inarticulate, self-aggrandizing, desperate-- way out of my league. I emailed a good game, but the reality proved the lie.

Except it didn't. All of that was in my head. Either she was being very polite, or against all reason she was having a good time and enjoying my company. Inevitably the lunch ended, and (real mistake #1) we split the check. Was this a date, or were we just meeting to see if we would move on to a date? It felt like the latter, and-- believing the myth of the modern, independent woman-- thought that not only would it be insulting for me to offer to pay, but that it would suggest I perhaps thought the lunch was something she might not also think it was. Please refer to my earlier remarks about having missed out on all the trial and error earlier in life before you harangue me in the comments.

Mistake #2 came in the parking lot as we parted ways. I wanted to see her again, but wasn't sure how she was feeling about me. And so, hampered by uncertainty, I mumbled something inept about how great it was to meet her and that we should keep in touch. Really, it was awful-- so awful that I've apparently blocked the actual words from my memory. It was one of those moments when I could visualize my life as a multi-camera sitcom. Because, to my credit, I knew how bad that goodbye was, how terribly I'd botched the moment. And as we turned from each other on camera one and walked away, camera two focused on me from directly ahead as I rolled my eyes in disbelief. Cut to camera three, inside my car, and a tight angle of me banging my forehead on the steering wheel. Really, it was that bad. And really, I was banging my head on the steering wheel.

I was saved by two things. First, the moment I got back to the office I sent her an email apologizing for the extreme lameitude of my departure, complimenting her, and assuring her that I was very interested in seeing her again. The second thing that saved me was that, despite missteps that might normally have had her writing me off, she came prepared to cut me some slack. She already knew I was clueless about dating. Unbeknownst to me, she'd read my blog.

Emails through the dating sites are anonymous-- your real email address is stripped out. But when you reply to such an email through Outlook, it makes your real email address known unless you strip it out yourself. Which I never did. So very early in our email conversations, having seen my email address, she visited gamereport.com and from there found Static Zombie. Where she proceeded to read through much of the archives, including an entry in which I mentioned that I didn't date much in high school, and still don't. But she liked what she saw-- both the quality of my writing and the content. It's a big part of what made her want to meet me. And so, when I seemed so confident in my writing and so clueless in person, she decided to give me the benefit of the doubt.

It wasn't until a couple dates later that she fessed up that she'd read my blog, and even later before she told me she'd read it right after my first email to her, when she saw my address. She was afraid I'd think she was a psycho stalker, but I think it's hilarious. If I knew her domain name and she kept a blog, I'd have done the same thing. Who wouldn't?

That first lunch was almost two months ago. We've continued to date since then, and recently realized that we'd moved beyond "dating" into "boyfriend/girlfriend" territory. To be clear, I'm not in love with her yet, but I'm definitely in serious like. None of my friends have met her yet, but it feels like that's due to change. We've been spending a lot of time together, and she doesn't watch a lot of television-- so the bloops and bleeps of my Tivo have taken a forelorn, reproachful tone of late. It needs to learn that just because there's somebody new in the picture doesn't mean I care about it any less. If my blogging also suffers, I trust you'll all likewise understand.

And before you comment, remember-- she reads the blog. And she has approved this message. =)

Ah, Apollos...

I had a surreal moment yesterday when, in the hallway right outside my office, I heard a vaguely familiar but incongruous voice in conversation. I looked up to see a profile that tugged at my memory, and suddenly the light bulb went on. I ventured into the hall and sure enough, standing there was Dave Sklar, who taught my CS 11 class at Brown back in the fall of 1986. Standing next to him was graphics guru Andy Van Dam, my professor for CS 123 a couple of years later. I'm not entirely sure why they were here-- and if I was, I probably couldn't talk about it anyway-- but the serendipity of having them stop right in front of my office was wild.

Still Recuperating

It's finally over.

I'm not yet in a mental state to post any sort of recap-- I'm sure that'll come later. But nobody got hurt, all 22 teams finished, and I think we accomplished our major goals. Which doesn't mean there weren't snafus along the way. I'm just not sure how much the snafus were visible to players. We heard a lot of very positive comments from people, but comments are somewhat self-selecting-- I think people are more likely to congratulate you on-site than they are to complain (unless the problems are severe). From the inside looking out, the flaws and mistakes loom larger to me than the successes. But that's perhaps more a reflection of my personality than it is a reflection of the Game itself.

With only about 3 hours of sleep on Friday night and none on Saturday, I crashed around 11 AM on Sunday. Almost literally. I was driving to the final location at Owen Beach in Tacoma as I started dozing off at the wheel. I cranked the radio, opened the windows, and tried other tricks to keep awake, but nothing was working-- I couldn't keep my eyes open. I pulled off at the next exit and parked for a nap, and another GC member picked me up and brought me to the finish.

I hope teams enjoyed themselves and are glad they came.

Game On

The creme de la creme of the galaxy's gray market movers and shakers will gather this weekend on an inconsequential mudball called Earth to celebrate the release of the 42nd edition of The Mooncurser's Handbook. If you're not fortunate enough to have secured an invitation, you'll be missing a once-in-a-lifetime event that's been a long, long time in the making.

But you'll get a full report when it's all over.

Gagged

I've been insanely busy lately, and I can't really talk about any of it. I got some great-- really, truly great-- news last week that I can't tell you about yet. Work's been frantic as a number of things begin to converge this week, the details of which would be excruciatingly boring to most of you. And, as ever, work on the Mooncurser's Handbook Game continues in secrecy.

Virtually all my free time-- and much time that really isn't free-- is being consumed by the Game. We've run 1.5 betas now and gotten some outstanding feedback. It amazes me that some people actually run these things without testing them first. Sure, it's quite a bit of work to run a beta, but the real event will be vastly improved as a result. There are some parts we just can't test ahead of time and are therefore leaps of faith for us. We trust that we can pull them off, if not with aplomb, then without disaster. Now we're tidying up loose ends and working on the little details.

As with any Game, our biggest concern is about timing. Some of our teams will be superstars, others will be a few thrusters short of a hyperdrive. Managing the experience for that wide range of performance levels is a difficult challenge. Some of the top players have told us that they don't mind if they have to wait around sometimes because they're at the front of the pack and we're not ready for them yet, but that's my biggest fear. That doesn't seem like fun to me. But that top end represents just a couple of teams, and we need to optimize for the rest of the curve while still trying to preserve the fun of the leaders. We won't know if we've gotten it right until Game day.

Still, I suppose I'd rather outsolve other teams and the organizers' estimates and spend an hour relaxing while we wait for everyone else to catch up than spend a couple of hours strugging fruitlessly with an obscure, completely intractible puzzle.

When it's all over, I will of course give a full report and I'm sure some attendees will chime in with their impressions of the experience. Once we regain consciousness. And then maybe someone can tell me why we agreed to invest such a staggering amount of time into a one-time, 30-hour event.

Squeaky Wheel

I recently ordered some game design supplies from EAI Education, which arrived today. Blank dice, some clear colored chips (I thought they were winks, but they turned out to have a lip, which is fine), and a set of 1000 7/8" stacking chips (mini poker chips, like in Boomtown or Geschenkt) in 8 colors. I expected 125 of each color, and since I'm that kind of guy, the first thing I did was separate them by color and count. Turns out the set of 1000 was 29 chips short. Not a huge deal, especially for $10, but I did pay for a set of 1000. So I called EAI to inform them of the shortfall. They immediately offered to send me a new set of 1000 (or perhaps 971) in addition to the one I already have. That's great customer service (if not great quality control). So soon I'll be drowning in plastic chips. Michael and I'd better get cracking designing something to use these suckers.

Coming soon from SarrettAdams Design: Chips Ahoy!, One Chip Two Chip Red Chip Blue Chip, Chip Wars, Chippy McChipperson, The Klutz Book of Multicolored Chips, and a collectible trading poker chip system.

Trapped Under Something Heavy

Last night we hemmed and hawed for a while, trying to decide what game to play next after a round of Royal Turf ("Go, Nougat!"). Finally I decided we should play a game of Bohnanza with the High Bohn expansion, which I rank as the best expansion ever made for any game, ever. All of my Bohnanza products were stacked on a wall shelf. There are a lot of them these days, and they were wedged in pretty tightly. High Bohn wouldn't slip free. I gave it a tug, then braced my hand against the rest of the stack and tugged again.

Bad move.

The entire shelving rack pulled out of the wall, toppling about 150 medium- and small-box games onto me and the floor. I caught a shelf in the face, and stood holding a couple of shelves aloft until guests could rescue me. Amazingly, only a half dozen or so games spilled their contents. My Knightmare Chess and Knightmare Chess 2 sets are now hopelessly intermingled. King of the Elves, a game I abandoned long ago but never bothered to trade away, mocked me by spewing its coins and chits everywhere. Money from Ravensburger's edition of Last Chance scattered. A cheap chess set dumped its pieces all over. Other than that, everything else stayed more or less intact.

So it turned out our next game was a giant round of 52 pick up, as we resorted pieces and stacked games on the table. The shelves had held for over eleven years. The lesson for when we put them back up? Dry-wall screws. And perhaps it's time to get rid of some of the games on these shelves that I never play.

Five Years

Yesterday was my five year anniversary at Microsoft. Once upon a time, such an occasion would have been marked by bubble baths poured from bottles of Cristal purchased with proceeds from scads of fully-vested and appreciated stock options. Roses would sprout at my feet, a perfect pearl nestled in the folds of every bloom. When a downpour drenched the neighborhood, the clouds above would part to bathe my home in a single shaft of magnificent sunlight. Nubile giggling nymphs would flit around my head, farting crisp new hundreds every third revolution.

Once upon a time.

I started at Microsoft in February of 2000. Ring any bells? No? How quickly we forget. Perhaps this 5-year stock graph will refresh your memory. See that spike all the way on the left? February 2000. See that nosedive just to the right of it? April 2000-- the collapse of the internet bubble. Timing, as they say, is everything.

I was first offered a job at Microsoft in 1992. Had I taken it... well, my life would certainly be different. Perhaps better. Definitely wealthier. Everyone has crossroads in their lives-- beacons marking their big decisions, burning bright enough in their memories to spark "What if...?" questions, but never illuminating the answers. Curse Robert Frost and the horse he rode through the wood on.

Ah, well-- all that giggling would have driven me crazy, anyway.

Topsy Turvy

The phone rang this morning. I answered after the second ring, and heard the tell-tale pregnant pause that heralds a telemarketer. I steeled myself for someone to mispronounce my name and prepared to interrupt at the first pause to inform the telemarketer that I don't like to be solicited by phone and to please remove my name from their calling list.

Then my world turned upside down.

The pause ended and a recorded voice came on the line, said, "I'm sorry," and hung up. A telemarketer hung up on ME. No, worse than that-- the telemarketer's computer hung up on me. Politely.

I'm trying to imagine the business model behind this call. Is the first apology free, is that it? "So, Mr. Sarrett, you liked that politely curtailed telemarketing call, yes? The next one's going to cost you. And we think you'll pay. If you don't, the next call will last a little longer. And the one after that longer still. Soon we'll be calling during dinner, and interrupting your favorite television programs. Yes, we're confident you'll pay."

Or was this a telemarketer trying to weasel his way out of a bit of creative sentencing? Perhaps someone was ordered to call everyone he's marketed to in the past and apologize for his tactics, and instead of doing so himself he set up his automated dialing system to do it unattended.

What kind of Twilight Zone have I stumbled into?

The Waiting is the Hardest Part

I woke up at 5:10 AM this morning to act as a phone-a-friend for someone I know. Who Wants to Be a Millionaire is taping at Walt Disney World this week, and apparently their shooting schedule in Florida is a bit different than when they tape in New York. Five freakin' AM! That first call was to make sure my phone number worked and I understood the lifeline procedure. Then I needed to be available from 7 AM to noon (10 to 3 Orlando time) when taping would occur. I'd get a call when the contestant got into the hotseat, then a call from Meredith Vieira if I was used as a lifeline, and then possibly a call to let me know when the contestant left the hotseat.

Except I never got any call at all. And neither did the other phone-a-friends. There's no Fastest Fingers anymore, so our friend was guaranteed a turn in the hotseat. We should have gotten a call when his turn came up. Unless he got the bottom end of the random order and time ran out before he could get a turn.

Still, some kind of phone call to the phone-a-friends would seem appropriate. If can forgive the contestant himself, who might not think of it amidst all the turmoil and disappointment, but not the producers. I don't care how crazy your production schedule is. It would take under 5 minutes for an intern to contact each of a contestant's phone-a-friends and let them know what's happening. It's just good manners.

This Is My Ass. That Is My Elbow.

Attention, customer support representatives: not everyone who calls in for assistance is a gibbering idiot from the shallow end of the gene pool. Some of us can even pronounce "nuclear" correctly. So when I call to inform you that I have a technical problem with your product, that it was working perfectly when I went to bed but was not working when I awoke, that I am not a sonambulistic wiring fetishist and absolutely nothing had changed on my end while I was asleep, please do me the courtesy of accepting me at my word. Do not make me disconnect my equipment, change wiring configurations multiple times, or sacrifice a goat before you finally acknowledge that the problem might be at your end. I realize that many-- perhaps even virtually all-- of the people who call for technical support think a serial port is where their Cheerios arrive from overseas. But some of us have a clue, and would appreciate being treated accordingly.

Too Much Information

Conversation last night between me and a fellow foodie:

Me: "I picked up Alton Brown's Gear For Your Kitchen at Half Price Books a few weeks ago."

Him: "Nice, I paid full price for mine."

Me: "It's going to wind up costing me a lot more than that. I'm lusting after a lot of the stuff he talks about. Last night I got to the Viking blender, which looks pretty sweet."

Him: "God yes. I've masturbated to the page with the Viking blender."

[beat]

Me: "Why do you have to ruin everything for me?"

Good Fences

My next-door neighbors have been renovating their house for the past few months. And when I say next-door, I mean take three steps from my house and you're at their house. There's been lots of early-morning loudness, construction equipment, and so forth. None of which has actually bothered me, as it turns out, so it's been easy to be a good neighbor and accommodate their needs, like moving my car out of the driveway so they could get equipment in. No big deal, really.

Tonight one of those neighbors rang my bell to give me a home-made plum tart (which was delicious) as a partial thanks for my being so easy-going about the whole affair. And, since my car has been blanketed with dust and what-not in the course of construction, they gave me a certificate for a free car detailing.

I just thought it was a very nice and unexpected gesture. Have you done anything nice for your neighbors recently?

Bitter Irony

On the way back from the Justice Unlimited Game (to be blogged about later), I was stopped at the Oakland airport security checkpoint because of the Maglite 3-D cell metal flashlight in my carry-on. It hadn't caused any problem on my flight out, but suddenly it was considered a potential bludgeoning weapon. Since it was a pretty new and nice flashlight, I decided to just check the bag instead.

Back in Seattle, I opened the bag to discover a Notice of Baggage Inspection-- indicating the bag had been opened after I checked it-- but the flashlight was missing. Had the flashlight been within arm's reach at that point, I would have used it to bludgeon someone.

I filed a report with the airline and have sent a claim form to TSA, but I'm expecting that it's just a loss. And frankly, I'm furious. Livid. Because if they had just let me carry the damn thing on, everything would have been fine.

The terrorists win again.

A Little Less Elvis

After digging the Las Vegas theme all season, I finally got around to downloading the full version of the song-- a remix of Elvis Presley's A Little Less Conversation. Now the damn thing's stuck in my head. And not just the groovy Elvis lyrics, but the rhythmic instrumental intro. I swear, someone could make a bundle by coming up with a pill that clears your head of persistent song memes.

Oh, and a posthumous tip of the hat to the King for blazing his own trail through the English language to give us the five-syllable "satisfactioning"-- without which the entire song would crumble.

Geek Grill

Conversation at a weekend barbeque:

Me: How much char do you want on your hot dog?

Bruce: Not a lot. I'd like min char.

Me: 8-bit char, coming up.

What a World, What a World!

I'm molting.

It started on my left shoulder, when the skin was still supple enough to be peeled off in large sheets-- an exercise which offered an odd kind of macabre satisfaction, not unlike peeling an onion and trying to get the entire outer layer off in a single piece. What? Stop looking at me like that.

From there it worked its way down the left side of my chest, then popped across to my right forearm. Now it's spread all over my body like some kind of flesh-eating bacteria-- thighs, ankles, pretty much everywhere but my head (which was, you'll recall, protected by a +5 Vorpal Beach Hat of Tourism). Which makes it rather ironic that my scalp is just about the only part of my body that doesn't need a good rub-down with Head & Shoulders.

It doesn't really bother me-- a small price to pay for a couple weeks of spectacular Greek salads, says I. But it does set me to wondering-- do the locals bathe in moisturizing lotion, or does your body simply adjust to prolonged exposure to the sun?

My Friend's Big Fat Greek Wedding

I spent the last two weeks on the Greek island of Crete. If, like me, the phrase "Greek island" conjures up images of blue-domed whitewashed buildings nestled atop hills with breathtakingly scenic overlooks of the Mediterranean, you'll want to get off the ferry a few miles away at Santorini. Crete's a rugged island with dramatic mountainous terrain and people who are just a wee bit touchy about all the name-calling, thank you very much.

Much of my time was spent exactly as I wanted it: curled up with a book on a beach chair facing the Mediterranean under a shady umbrella, near the town of Chania. Glorious. I don't understand how anyone in that region gets any work done, with the warm water glistening an invitation to lose yourself in its tender embrace. Kind of like porn spam, but without the spelling errors.

The wedding itself was lovely, held in a tiny synagogue oozing old world charm. The reception, in the courtyard of a nearby restaurant, was delightful-- some Greek dancing, plenty of good food, and fabulous ambience. It's always a little odd spending time with a friend's family, as I did with the groom's. It's a little like being in a Star Trek landing party-- the dynamics are fascinating to observe but you're powerless to interfere.

No visit to Crete would be complete without a pilgrimage to Knossos, but it should be because the site is an utter disappointment. If you're going to make guesses and reconstruct an ancient site, go big or go home. I don't want to see a wall here, a room there, a few giant amphorae and painted columns scattered about. I want a full-fledged Minoan palace. I want to sit on the throne, stroll the hallways, peer from the balconies. The problem with Knossos is that so much of what you see is a reconstruction, it's difficult to know what's "real" and what's supposition. And despite this, it's still a fragementary ruin. It felt dishonest to me, and not nearly as impressive or inspiring as other sites in Greece like Delphi or Epidavros. It was also hotter than Catherine Zeta-Jones in a leather bustier, so I didn't spend as much time there as I expected.

I am now a huge fan of Greek salads, although I suspect nothing here will compare to the luscious tomatoes, tangy feta, delicate oregano, and full-bodied olive oil of Crete. The yogurt was also spectacular, especially topped with the silky local honey. The thin, runny goo you find in local dairy cases doesn't hold a candle to the creamy ambrosia that is Greek yogurt. Surprisingly, the lamb-- and I had a lot of it, in many varieties-- was almost universally inferior to the kabobs I make on my trusty Weber. Go figure.

14 Years Later

I'm writing this from a free Internet terminal in the Athens airport, where I have 5 hours to kill before the next leg of my journey home. The last time I was in Athens was 14 years ago, and the airport-- like the rest of the city-- was a hellhole. Today I'm in what looks like a spanking new airport, and the city is busy tidying itself up for the forthcoming Olympics. Which is a little like putting a tea cozy on a rusted Buick.

My time's just about up. Free internet terminals, good. Metal chicklet keyboards and 10 minute time limits, bad.

Update: The Amsterdam airport had paid internet access for-- get this-- 3 Euro (~$3.60) for 15 minutes. That's almost 15 bucks an hour! What's the Dutch word for gouging? Meanwhile, their cosy leather sleep chairs were free. Fastest 5 hours I've ever killed at an airport.

You'd Better Go Catch It

Just got back from a wonderfully relaxing weekend at a friend's cabin in the San Juan islands. Nothing but cooking, eating, sleeping, reading, and playing games, with a great little nature hike thrown in for good measure. Good times.

Upon my return, however, I discovered that the toilet water was running. The stopper hadn't reseated properly in the tank after the last use, which was on Friday before we left. That's over 48 hours of non-stop water flow. So this little weekend up in the San Juans will probably wind up costing me more than my upcoming trip to Crete for a friend's wedding. And that's going to be a small fortune.

I've heard of flushing money down the toilet, but really...

Happiness is a Full Tivo

I'm back from a week in Columbus, OH for this year's Gathering of Friends. The trip home was a bad dream (not quite a nightmare), with the Minneapolis airport shut down for a few hours thanks to tornados. The 1.5 hour flight from Columbus to Minneapolis was delayed 2 hours and then took 4.5 hours to complete, including about 45 minutes on the ground in Minneapolis while a) another airplane was assigned the same gate as ours, b) strewn baggage blocked the tarmac, c) the jetway at our gate ceased functioning, and d) we were finally towed to another gate. It was like the airport was being run by the Keystone Kops. Fortunately my connecting flight to Seattle was also delayed, and I was able to dash to that gate and hop right on board thanks to my foresight in checking in for the flight from the hotel computer that morning (even got myself an emergency exit row that way-- huzzah!).

I've got a week's worth of television saved up (although I watched Survivor and The Apprentice from Columbus-- with Kathy gone, the only person worth rooting for (Rupert) has no chance of winning; although at this point, I'll officially start the "Anyone But Amber or Tom" campaign), and look forward to vegging out a bit this week to catch up.

As for my game show, I'd say it went pretty well. We had about 110 participants, which was more than I expected (I'd written the software to handle up to 26 teams, which was 6 more than I had last time, and we could have gone to 28 or 29) and a new Gathering record. There was much merriment, the game didn't end in a tie, there were no software snafus (although there were some hardware issues-- the speakers I brought were terrible and as a result the sound was much softer than I'd have liked; the hotel microphone couldn't reach the center of the room, so I had to emcee from the side), and I got many compliments for both the programming/presentation and the content. It appeared that most people had a lot of fun. As expected, the first round was the hardest of the three but the third round was the most fun, so I think I made the right choice in ordering them as I did. I think I raised the bar for myself yet again with this event. Thanks to everyone who played, and to Michael Adams for helping to run it, Chris Lohroff for bringing the data projector, John Garnett for use of his laptop and data key, and Greg Aleknevicus for helping to set up the room.

Why Man Creates

For the past couple of weeks I've been keeping very late hours at the computer. While this isn't in itself unusual, the reason why is. I've been foregoing my usual recreational activities to create a game show for a 250+ person gathering I'm attending this month. I'm not getting paid to do so. In fact, I volunteered the offer on my own accord a year ago. I'm just not sure why.

Last year I ran a massively multiplayer Family Feud game that went very well. I wrote custom software for that, which took some time but really not too much. Emboldened, I upped the ante for myself this year by creating an entirely new game show format-- which required new software. And instead of writing in languages I already knew like Javascript or C, I decided to use this as an opportunity to learn Flash.

The result has been 2-3 weeks of intensive labor and an application that's a mish-mash of coding styles reflecting the evolution of my Flash knowledge. Round 1 of the game, for example, makes extensive use of the Flash timeline. By round 3 I'd chucked that approach in favor of a completely script-driven state machine. It's embarrassingly bad code, as most learning exercises are. But the game looks promising. It even has some visual sizzle, despite my lack of mad graphic design skillz, and I'm hopeful that it will go over well.

I'm just not sure why I signed on for it. The idea was that once I'd written the app, I could run the game again with new content in future years, or at other venues. Maybe I will, maybe I won't. I'm just waxing a bit philosophical about why idiots like me are willing to put so much work into something that's not only "just for fun," but in this case will only last under an hour. Let's call it 50 hours of labor to create a one-hour experience. Why bother?

I can posit some answers. The egoboo. The satisfaction in a job well-done, and in giving enjoyment to others. The attention of a crowd. The opportunity to scream, "Look how clever and creative I am!" through my work. The chance to create in a genre for which I've had a life-long passion. The fantasy that I might make a living at this kind of thing again some day. Any, or all, or none of these things.

Today, dog-tired, guzzing sugar and caffeine to avoid falling asleep in the office after the latest wee-hour binge, the question looms larger than the answers. In a couple of weeks, with the event a ringing success and behind me, perhaps I'll see more clearly.

And post lucid blog entries.

Time Keeps on Slippin'

I've been befuddled about the date all month long, and I only just now realized it's because my watch is not Y2K4 compliant-- it got flummoxed by the leap day. Really, how much more expensive could it possibly be to make a digital watch aware of the year so that this wouldn't happen? The world went into a panic over the Y2K bug, but nary a peep about this. Where's Brian Stossel's investigative report on the perils of non-self-adjusting wristwatches? I was running around out of phase with the rest of humanity for almost four weeks. Four weeks! And nobody said anything. I'd tell you if you had spinach in your teeth. Harumph. Some friends.

Busy Busy Busy

There are a number of things I've been meaning to blog about-- Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind (brilliant), the Microsoft Puzzle Hunt I played in this weekend (seriously flawed but with some very nice components), the Stargate SG-1 season finale (deus ex machina), and more-- but I'm insanely busy with half a dozen irons in the fire all converging on early April, and I'm a wee bit stressed about it. I've got my country's five hundredth anniversary to plan, my wedding to arrange, my wife to murder, and Guilder to frame for it. I'm swamped.

So apologies if I'm a mite uncommunicative-- I'm trying to keep up my Joementum.

Skillets of Mass Destruction

TSA agents at Newark airport wouldn't let me take a cast iron skillet onto the plane, for fear of its use as a bludgeoning weapon. Who are they kidding? First of all, we're talking about a new Le Creuset enameled cast iron pan-- any use not involving onions would be high heresy. Second, it was clearly a subjective judgment call-- there don't appear to be any fixed standards being applied. Laptops would make equally effective bludgeoning tools, yet they're allowed. Dental floss and belts can be used as garrottes. Keys and ballpoint pens can puncture the carotid artery. No self-respecting terrorist is going to hijack a plane with cookware, and certainly not Le Creuset.

All I'm saying is, there's a fine line between reasonable precaution and being a douchebag.

Strikes and Spasms

Had a team morale event yesterday at a local bowling alley which was, against all the laws of the known universe and at least three PBA regulations, smoke-free. That's right, you can now strut in your best polyester all night without stinking like an ashtray when you get home. Are you listening, Tulalip?

I'm writing this, however, from a standing position-- my back thrown completely out of whack by a less-than-elegant release of a 14 lb bowling ball. Kind of a cosmic Nelson Muntzism.

Purrrrrrrrr

I sat down to do some work this afternoon. A single beam of sunlight was shining into my living room, directly onto the recliner. Looked comfy, so I sat there with my notebook. Within minutes, all my lifeforce began to leech out of me. Bathed in a heavenly glow, my limp fingers let my pen sag into my lap as my eyelids sealed shut and I curled into a quasi-fetal position. The chair was so warm and toasty with the sun shining on it, I could barely form coherent thought. But as I drifted into indolent bliss, the veil of the universe parted and I achieved an instant of satori.

In that moment, I completely understood cats.

Naughty Gomez

I've owned an Addams Family pinball machine for a few years now, and I cracked up earlier today when something happened that's never happened before.

The software for the machine is pretty basic, and can't layer sounds over each other. If a sound gets triggered while another is being played, the newer one overrides the older one.

When you score a train wreck, Gomez cries "Good show, old man!" When you hit the Cousin It target, Gomez exclaims "It, old man!" Today I did both consecutively, resulting in Gomez triumphantly shouting "Good shit, old man!"

Juvenile? Sure. But I'm still chuckling.

What About Us Brain-dead Slobs?

My automobile registration renewal notice came yesterday.

"Marge vs. the Monorail" was a terrific episode of The Simpsons featuring homages to The Flintstones and The Music Man, plus the memorable Monorail Song. Watching it has never failed to elicit a few laughs. But day by day, that episode has become a little less funny as life in Seattle has imitated art.

Last year, voters passed a referendum to fund a new genuine, bona fide, electrified, six-car monorail line through the city. The plan was a pundit's wet dream, the butt of many jokes and amused editorials. Then it passed. And suddenly nobody's laughing. Fighting about the route and the location of new monorail stations, yes. Laughing? Not so much.

On The Simpsons, the project was funded from a massive fine paid by energy baron Monty Burns. In Seattle, none of the local gazillionaires are stepping up to the plate. Instead, the plan will be funded by an annual auto tax. Which brings me back to that $165 renewal notice. Less than $30 of that is for the actual license renewal. $34 is for a local transit tax. And $98 is for the construction of the freaking monorail. The last time I paid that much for a monorail, there was a fairy tale castle at one end and a geodesic sphere at the other. I know retro is in but if we're going to resurrect 1960s visions of the future, my vote goes to personal jet packs. Now that's something for which I'd gladly pay a hundred greenbacks.

Knowing When to Fold 'Em

While visiting my parents in New Jersey for Thanksgiving, we took a drive out to the Mohegan Sun casino in Connecticut-- a very nicely designed and attractively appointed complex, including a couple of smoke-free gaming areas. I was disappointed and flabbergasted, however, to discover they had recently removed their poker room. There was no poker to be had in the casino unless it came on a video monitor. Rumor has it the casino has decided to remodel and establish a world-class poker room which can play host to some of the high-profile events being seen on television of late. But it strikes me as a bizarre move to completely remove your poker room in the midst of what may be the greatest surge of interest in the history of the game. Then again, I don't understand how anyone would pay $14.00 for a handful of cashews from their mini-bar, either. That's one serious case of the munchies.

Airplay

The Gameboy Advance is the best thing to happen to airline travel since the abolition of in-flight smoking. I spent virtually all of a recent 5-hour flight twiddling my thumbs, but in a good way. Despite being stuck in an insanely difficult boss battle in Castlevania: Aria of Sorrows for much of the trip, the hours raced by. <singsong>Fabulous!<singsong>. I also dosed myself with a couple packets of Emergen-C before and during the flight, and for the first time in a long while I did not develop a cold the day after landing. Now if someone would just invent the Cone of Silence for screaming children, air travel might even become tolerable again.

Dogs and Cats Living Together

Seattle's experienced bizarre weather in the past 24 hours-- heavy rains, high winds, record high temperatures and sunny skies, hail... it's like someone's set SimSeattle's weather setting on Random. This morning I woke to discover that while the data side of my DSL line is working fine, the voice side is kaput (which, if things are going to fail, is certainly the split I'd choose) thanks to a cable problem somewhere in the neighborhood. Then a couple of hours ago my TiVo went kablooie, losing most channels and all guide data. Luckily I noticed in time to power cycle the box and get running again before Angel and The West Wing, and I caught the last 15 minutes of Ed over the [gasp!] antenna, but I missed Smallville and they're not rerunning it on the weekend anymore. Can anyone who caught it provide a summary, or a link to somewhere I can download the episode?

There's a Great Big Beautiful Tomorrow

I've been home for a week, and that freakin' song is still stuck in my head!
<shakes fist in general direction of Orlando>

Play It!

One of the must-do's on my Disney itinerary was the Who Wants to Be a Millionaire? Play it! attraction at Disney-MGM. The set is very similar to the one used for the real show, but the theater is much larger and accommodates many more people. The lighting is also different-- the spotlights that raise and lower at the start of each question are missing-- and the hotseat chair and monitors are less streamlined. But the differences are minor, and being in the audience feels very much like being at a taping of the show-- except that every audience member plays along with each question and can be the next person in the hotseat.

Basically, you score points for answering questions correctly and bonus points for fast answers. When the hotseat frees up, the player with the highest score becomes the next contestant and all scores reset. At the $1,000 and $32,000 plateaus everyone sees the top 10 scores. I blew a question about porcupines being rodents (I went with marsupial) during the first player's tenure, so was out of the running, but I rocked during the 2nd player's run. Unfortunately, time ran out before he tanked. Before sending the audience away they showed the top 10 scores, and I was at #1! Argh! I just missed getting into the hotseat.

When my nieces wanted to see the Playhouse Disney attraction, I begged off to do Millionaire again. I was #2 after the 1,000 point question, and at 32,000 the contestant asked the audience for the Broadway show featuring There's No Business Like Show Business. Almost 50% thought it was Showboat, but I knew it was Annie Get Your Gun. The contestant tanked, they showed the top 10, and BAM-- I was #1 and got into the hotseat. I was excited, but bummed that my family wasn't there to cheer me on because they'd really have enjoyed it.

Since the stakes are so much lower-- getting to 1,000,000 points wins a Disney cruise-- I was much more relaxed than I was sitting across from Meredith, and I played fairly loose. I got to 32,000 with all my lifelines intact, then asked the audience for help with the kind of business Hugh Grant ran in Notting Hill (a book store). Then I tanked on the 125,000 question, asking for the originator of the line "Gather ye rosebuds while ye may." I 50/50'd down to Shakespeare and Robert Herrick. Having never heard of the latter, I went with Shakespeare. In retrospect, the Play It! attraction's 50/50 is probably using the old model where the answers are pre-selected. Had I known that, I'd have gone with Herrick. Oh well. It was a lot of fun, and something I'll definitely do again if I return to Disney-- despite the field of 650 players, getting into the hotseat seemed pretty easy (players are limited to one trip to the hotseat every 30 days). I came away with a baseball cap, polo shirt, a Millionaire lanyard and ten Millionaire pins (most of which I gave to my nieces as trading fodder). Total retail value: $170. Wheeeee!

Vacationing from Vacation

I'm back from a week at Walt Disney World with my sister, brother-in-law, and nieces. And first, let me say that I made the right choice. I didn't mind using the Disney bus system to get from place to place; a pair of Motorola Talkabouts made it easy for me to meet up with my family; and it only created an inconvenience once, on the final day. Otherwise, I was always out and about in the parks and only used my hotel as a place to sleep and shower. The air wasn't filled with pixie dust at the Polynesian, either. Sure, the surroundings convey an island feel, but what you're really paying for at the Polynesian, Grand Floridian, and Contemporary Resort is convenience-- easy access to the parks through monorail and ferry. That convenience was worth it for my family. Without any kids to usher or other encumberances, it wasn't a big selling point for me.

The Magic Kingdom and Epcot were much as I remembered them, although with various new attractions. Animal Kingdom, Disney-MGM, Typhoon Lagoon, Downtown Disney, DisneyQuest, and Pleasure Island were new to me. I don't know what I expected exactly, but I can only say that I didn't come away as enchanted as I thought I would. Peter Pan complexes aside, I suppose we all grow up. There was much about Disney World I appreciated, but I wasn't swept away by the magic.

Part of that may be because of how the vacation was structured. My sister did a great job scheduling us for character breakfasts and events like the luau and Hoop-Dee-Do Revue, most of which were fun and worthwhile. But keeping to that schedule meant a lack of flexibility and spontaneity. I'm a big fan of structure, but I discovered that what I want in a vacation is a lot less of it. I want the freedom to find hidden delights and unexpected opportunities. I want to spend one day exploring a new environment, the next relaxing in a chaise lounge with a good book, and the third visiting a spot recommended to me by the guy one chaise down. I didn't know this about myself before-- or at least, not in so many words. I'll keep it in mind when I plan future vacations.

I never got out to Universal Studios for Spiderman-- there was too much to do at Disney, and it got jettisoned from the agenda. We never left the Disney property. Another trip. I think the coolest thing at Disney was the Adventurer's Club on Pleasure Island. I only spent about an hour there, but it was a blast. The space itself is terrific and the performers seemed to be having so much fun it was infectuous. Any return trip to Disney will definitely have an entire evening at this place pencilled in.

DisneyQuest, on the other hand, was an enormous disappointment. Aladdin's Magic Carpet Ride was a bore (and I thought players would be prone, as if on a carpet, instead of sitting normally). The Mighty Ducks Pinball Slam was terrible-- I don't know what model of physics it tries to simulate, but it's not from our universe and just doesn't work. A number of the stations at Treasure of the Maya weren't operating properly. The Pirates of the Caribbean game was fun, and the Jungle Cruise looked good too. Astroblasters is small and slow, Invasion is lame, yada yada yada. I spent most of my time playing free arcade games, including about 45 minutes of shooting hoops. Kids might find more to enjoy here, but I was disappointed at how often the activities failed to live up to their promise.

At the major parks, we loved the Fastpass system which lets you get a reservation for a ride, then return at your assigned time and just hop in front of everyone and get right on. Without this, we likely would have simply passed on a number of major attractions, like Buzz Lightyear's Space Ranger Spin (a lot of fun). But it did bring up the question of whether the system solves or aggravates the congestion problem. I'm sure Disney's analyzed the issue to death, but on the surface it seems like the system actually creates longer "standby" lines because it allows Fastpass users to just cut in front, thereby forcing those without a Fastpass to wait longer. It's great when you're the guy with the Fastpass, but you can only have one Fastpass at a time. While you wait for your appointment to roll around, you're back to waiting with all the little people on standby.

Other random thoughts:

Shuffle Up and Deal

Damn, but poker is a fun game.

Today I participated in a 300 person charity no-limit Hold 'Em tournament. Players got $1,000 in chips for a $25 buy-in, with a free $1,000 re-buy during the first 5 rounds (if you didn't use it by then, you just got an extra $1,000 in chips). I lasted a little under 3 hours, and the event is still going on now. I had a blast. Two hands stand out.

In one, a pre-flop raise knocks all but 2 opponents out. With KJ, I call. Flop comes 4-4-5. Mike bets $200 (the minimum at that point). I call, other player folds. The turn is a 4. Mike checks. At this point I feel like Mike's got K-trash or an even smaller pair, and I have him beat. I bet $500, he calls. River is an 8. I go all in. He calls, but is $200 short so I take $200 back. He turns over K-8 and wins, having rivered a higher pair. When I bet the $500, I thought it was strong enough that he'd fold. My mistake was not going all-in then, rather than waiting to do so on the river. Had I gone all-in, he'd have folded.

So that put me at $200 and immediately the small blind takes me to $100. The tournament organizers announce a bounty of a tin of mints for anyone who knocks a player out. If that poker table was a Tex Avery cartoon, I'd have suddenly turned into a giant tin of mints with a single poker chip. I looked around the table and declared that I would not become a mint for their amusement. I proceeded to fold every hand (all garbage), as 1, 2, 3, 4 other players got knocked out. The mints ran out, and the moral victory was mine. Only now mugs and t-shirts were offered as bounties.

Finally the blind catches up with me (and my cheering section of friends who've already been knocked out) and I have to go all in. I decide not to look at my cards. The flop is 4-x-x, with 2 clubs. A raise, a fold, and I'm heads up against Jeff. He turns over 2 fours. My friends groan. I sigh heavily and roll my cards: A-6 of clubs. My section cheers-- I have hope! The turn is no help. The river... an ace, no help. My tournament ends, but with suitable drama to have me leaving the table satisfied.

The format was terrific, the people at my table were good players and extremely pleasant to play with, there was no smoke, and it was a heck of a lot of fun. If there were another tournament tomorrow, I'd be there in a heartbeat. Which has me wondering if there are any real tournaments with similar structures in the area...

Corporate Megalith 1, Privacy 0

I don't know when or how the idea that it's illegal for non-government agencies to require your Social Security number got planted in my head, but the ring count suggests it's been rooted there for a long time. And so, when a Home Depot drone offered me a free Mag-Lite-- the very item I'd come into the store to purchase-- if I signed up for a store credit card, I happily signed on the dotted line. But I left my SSN number blank.

With identity theft rampant I've stopped giving out my SSN. Scanning for icebergs after the ship's already taking on water? Maybe. But unless your job description includes the word "audit," you'll have to make do with nine zeroes. The drone returned to me apologetically-- the computer wouldn't let him process my application without a legitimate SSN. Company policy. I righteously informed him that his company was breaking the law-- that they had to provide an alternate application process which required no SSN. He called his manager. His manager called his manager, who called an hourly worker at the credit bureau who pulled the weekend shift. With nothing more than "I just work here," the mighty bureaucracy withstood my puny attack.

A little Googling later, I find that I'm wrong. I can't be compelled to disclose my SSN to a private business, but neither can that business be compelled to provide me with their service. Stalemate.

As for the Mag-Lite, I went across the street and bought a 2-pack from Costco for twice the price. In your face, Home Depot!

Fwooosh!

As I mentioned earlier, Monday's movie night. But I didn't expect to almost star in my own version of The Towering Inferno.

Important safety tip: If you're following a recipe that says to heat a pan for 10 minutes over medium heat, make sure a) you use medium heat, not high heat, and b) the pan is a dense metal like cast iron, not thinner aluminum. Otherwise, when you follow the next instruction and add a tablespoon of oil to the pan, you're likely to create a dense mushroom cloud of greasy black smoke and a gout of flame which, by some miracle, might fail to ignite your wooden cabinetry or burn your ceiling but which will have you scrubbing the kitchen for the next two hours.

Accordingly, the appropriate film for the evening was Reign of Fire, a film in which the few bits of London left unscathed by the dragons were mercilessly chewed by Matthew McConaughey. This film butchered a great idea (dragons awakening in modern times to go on a rampage), glossing over the enormous potential of this backstory to jump forward 20 years for banal set pieces and action sequences. There are any number of great stories that could have been told from this core premise, and the passed them all by. The dragons were quite well done, however, and the mammoth male dragon engulfing the castle with its wings was a great image. Everything else about the film just hurt.

Master or Slave?

I did a little math last night. I've got over 80 hours of programming recorded on my TiVo, with another 23 or so still available. With the exception of my 2 Millionaire episodes, a few Good Eats shows with recipes that looked promising, and a handful of Harvey Birdman: Attorney at Law cartoons (you mean you haven't Tivo'd that yet? Great Scott old chum, do it now! I'll wait...) (and which Scott is it exactly who's so great, anyway?) [a few minutes and a Google search later...] (apparently it's General Winfield Scott), I haven't watched any of it yet. That's over 75 hours of unwatched material. 75 hours!

The plan, y'see, was to clear off a bunch of movies during the summer while everything was in reruns. But all the networks decided to air new programming in the summer, and all bets were off. Last weekend was a free movie preview on Starz, adding another 8 films to the backlog. And now the new season's begun and already Las Vegas and The Lyon's Den are Season Passed, and I consciously avoided watching Joan of Arcadia, Karen Sisco, and The Handler because I was afraid I'd have to Tivo them, too. And Jake 2.0 conflicts with 2 other higher-priority shows in the same time slot (Angel, The West Wing), so sayonara.

There's just too much to watch. We need more crap on TV, to thin the herd and make sure the really good shows get the audience they deserve. Fortunately, when there's a shortage of wretched programming, Whoopi's there to pick up the slack.

So Monday is now Movie Night at chez Pierre. Little by little, week by week, I'm going to tame this beast. And then... then the world will be mine! Muahahahahahaha...

All In

Nate and I went up to Tulalip last night for my first outing at a casino card room. It took me about 3.5 hours to lose $100 (Nate came out $250 ahead). I was fairly disciplined at the beginning, mucking hand after hand of unrelenting crap. When I finally got dealt pocket aces, I got absolutely no action-- and I didn't even raise! I hovered around $60-70 for much of the night, before fatigue and frustration over lousy cards got the better of me and I started playing hands I shouldn't have.

Initially I was a bit intimidated by being at a poker room, and consequently played far more timidly than I usually do. I checked too often, engraving an invitation for someone else to bet and scoop the pot. It wasn't until late in the night that I finally wised up, but by then the writing was on the wall for the evening. I got a few good hands and made a couple of successful bluffs before finally going all in with pocket queens and getting taken out by an A-2 who flopped a deuce, turned an Ace, and got another deuce on the river. Sigh...

It was a great learning experience and I had a good time. I'm definitely interested in going again, but the smoke... State senate, get on the stick and pass a version of California's anti-smoking laws! How do non-smoking barflies put up with the stench on their clothes and in their hair? It's disgusting. I will never understand how anyone can look at a cigarette and think that sucking stygian carcinogens into their lungs is a good idea.

I'm Definitely From Mars

My older niece's 8th birthday is coming up. If I had nephews, I'd be the coolest uncle ever-- I'd know just what to get them. But what do I know from 8 year old girls? Much less one whose favorite movie and album are Grease? Or at least, they were, last year. Now she probably listens to songs whose titles have numbers where letters should be.

This uncle knows when to cry uncle. I called my sister for help.

Apparently, this is 8-year-old Rachel's favorite store in the whole wide world. Last year I suggested taking my nieces on a Toys 'R Us shopping spree, and my sister said they were too young to grasp the concept of money. Now Rachel shops at a store that sells bras. Swell the music, cue Tevye.

Okay, so my niece is a girlygirl. That species isn't indigenous to my planet, but researchers have studied their habits and field manuals on their care are available. I can adapt. One Limited Too gift card, coming up.

Besides, younger niece Paige is still impressionable and adores me, so there's hope. Her birthday's in November. Does Dell have gift cards?

Still Wallets Run Deep

I'm the first to admit that I've got money issues. I don't part with it easily. I agonize over virtually every purchase. I spend my change. I need to work on loosening up, on feeling OK about spending money on myself. Therapy might be helpful. Except that it costs money.

I wanted to stay in the Polynesian with my sister & nieces. I thought I could ignore the cost and just go with it. I tried bringing myself into a Zen-like state of acceptance, but satori eluded me. A hotel room for me is nothing more than a place to crash at night and shower in the morning. I'm going to Disney World for the theme parks, not the resort facilities. I can understand why my sister wants to stay at the Polynesian. Killer location, great pool for the kids, the Disney "magic" at a time in their lives when it's still magical... makes total sense for them. But it's overkill for me. The difference in price-- $300 for the Polynesian, $80 for the All-Stars-- is enormous. In fact, the total package-- room, park passes, and Silver Wishes upgrade-- is less than half the cost at the All-Stars than it'd be at the Polynesian. That's an entire 2nd vacation I'd be tossing away.

That's real money, and I couldn't just shrug it off. The more I thought about it, the angrier I got about staying at the Polynesian. I can still meet up with the family in the morning, return with them to their hotel at night, hang out with the kids until they go to bed, then bus or taxi back to my hotel. I'm willing to accept that minor inconvenience, and the time to myself might actually be nice after spending the entire day with the family.

More to the point, I'm excited about the trip and not seething at the cost as I'd be at the Polynesian. It's the right decision for me. My sister thinks I'm being cheap and allowing monetary concerns to take precedence over being close to my nieces. I agree that I'm being cheap, but feel the impact on my nieces will be negligible. They'll still have all the magic, just without Uncle Pete in the early morning. I'm content with my cost-benefit analysis, even if my sister isn't.

The worst thing about people knowing you've come into money is they all feel entitled to decide how you should spend it.

Don't Torture Yourself

The good folks from Replay Amusements came by yesterday for a house call on my Addams Family pinball machine. The game features 3 magnets beneath the center of the playfield called "The Power". When The Power activates, it radically alters the course of the ball in unpredictable ways. I've had the game for a few years, but one of the magnets has never worked. They're all working now for a much more lively game, making me very happy. Thank you, Thing!

Days Outt

My sister's taking her family to Disney World this fall and I'm going to join them. It'll be the first real vacation I've taken in 12 years (the annual trips to The Gathering of Friends and going home for Thanksgiving don't count), and I'm looking forward to it. On the one hand, I haven't been to Disney World since I was a child, before MGM Studios, Blizzard Beach, or Animal Kingdom existed. There's a ton of stuff I haven't seen, and my adult eye can appreciate the genius of the Disney parks on a completely different level now. The richness of the theming, the way line lengths are cleverly concealed and there's always something new to look at around the corner, the relentless eradication of employee individuality-- all lost on me as a kid, but endlessly fascinating to me today.

On the other hand, I'll also be seeing the parks through the eyes of my nieces who'll be going for the first time. If ever there's a place to be an uncle, surely it must be Disney World.

To quote my sister, "This is going to be the family vacation we never had as a kid-- no Days Inns or not doing anything fun." And it's true-- our family vacations (the one or two that we had) were budget affairs. Economy hotels, no frills or extras, no activities that carried an extra cost. And my mother wonders where my parsimony comes from.

So we're staying at the Polynesian Resort (the nieces are thrilled that we're staying "where Lilo and Stitch would stay."), and we're already booked for the luau the night we arrive. The kids have a Princess Character Breakfast on the schedule (hell could have frozen over and we still wouldn't have gotten to go to one of these in our childhood), and we have reservations at the Brown Derby for dinner and seats at Fantasmic. A pair of little people, nattily attired in house livery, will follow us around all day and remind us of our schedules.

For my own part, I've got a list of must-do activities: DisneyQuest, The Adventurer's Club, Blizzard Beach, Who Wants to Be a Millionaire Play-It, Mission: Space, and a day off-site at Universal Studios Islands of Adventure for the Spiderman and Hulk rides. Anything else I should put on the list?

Nothing to See Here

A concerned reader wondered if it was such a good idea to show my address on that check. And if my mattress was bursting with cash, I could understand his concern. But my address is readily available both on- and off-line, the cash isn't here, and we've already established that I'm a cheapskate with no style. What's the worst a thief could abscond with, my almost-complete set of Wired Magazine? A case of Simply Cola? I'm actually hoping for Matthew Baldwin's flash mob to swing by my place.

A Hallmark Moment

I received a greeting card in the mail yesterday congratulating me on my Millionaire performance, and it really touched me. The sender isn't someone I know very well, since I see him only once a year and even then only very casually. He could have given me an attaboy in a quick email. That he took the time to send a card to such a casual acquaintance really made me smile at his thoughtfulness. Those Hallmark people may just be on to something.

Life is a Cabaret

My parents are back in New Jersey, and I was sorry to see them go. It was fun having them around, even though my mom has this compulsive need to try to pick up girls for me. Just what every son wants. The fact that she's more successful at it than I am is beside the point.

You may remember that I'd been considering taking them to the Herbfarm for dinner. We all thought 5 hours for dinner was a bit much, so we went with Teatro Zinzanni instead and had a terrific time. Teatro Zinzanni is a 3.5 hour dinner theater experience, held in a gorgeous jewel box tent where everyone, from the servers to the cooks, get into the act. The menu is by Tom Douglas, which means tasty flavors portioned for parrakeets and cockatiels. Higher order primates may prefer to snack heavily before they go. Aside from the petite plates, everything about the evening was delightful. Most incredible was the way each performer remained in character throughout the evening, whether they were serving your food, filling your water glass, or doing schtick. An aerialist even maintained her blank glassy stare during her act!

I can think of no greater testimonial to the quality of the evening than this: I'm a frugal guy. A cheapskate, if you will. When I purchased the tickets, the recommended gratuity "suggested" by the management seemed high to me. But when it came time to sign the check, I cheerfully tipped above the recommended amount. That's how good the experience was.

Home Turf

My parents arrived in town yesterday for a week or so of visitation. The last time they were out here was about eight years ago, despite my frequent entreaties and invitations to return. They traveled just about everywhere else-- Holland, Denmark, Austria, Peru, Thailand, India-- but not to see their youngest child. And yet, despite my faithful annual Thanksgiving trips home for the past 13 years, I'm the bad guy if I give even a hint that maybe perhaps I kinda sorta don't want to make the pilgrimage this year.

It's not that I don't want to see my family. I do-- especially my nieces, who are pretty much as cute as nieces can possibly be. Far cuter than yours, trust me. It's just that when I go home there's nothing for me to DO, and everyone gets upset with me for doing it. Everyone else more or less goes about their normal routine modulo all the Thanksgiving prep, and I'm kinda dropped in the middle of it. It doesn't feel like quality family time. And if I'm using my vacation to cross the country to the arctic northeast, I want quality family time. Because a Hawaiian beach is behind door #2, and Monty makes a compelling offer.

Last year, though, was actually quite good. Score one for telling your loved ones how you feel, rather than letting things fester. Ok, so they festered for 12 years. Work with me here. So I've got hopes that this year will also be good Quality Time.

But I'm excited to have the folks on my turf, staying under my roof. Even if the first thing they did was point out all the things I needed to change or fix around the house (out with the old shower curtain and bath mat, in with the new...). Now they're in my world, and I'm in charge of Quality Time. I'm Julie, the cruise director. It's just them and me, and our time together doesn't rely on their suspending their normal routine to be with me, but on my suspending my routine for them. I've got the power and responsibility to make Quality Time happen. Not to impress them, but to just be with them. Show them a little of my world.

Besides, I love 'em. Having them here is just plain fun.

We'll see how I feel a week from now.

Six Degrees of TiVo

Ok, that was surreal.

A friend of mine is an actor. He actually starred in a short-lived FOX sitcom (aren't they all?), but that was before I knew him-- I've never seen it, and since it won't ever be rerun I probably never will (I'm pretty sure he burned all the tapes). But he's done other guest shots, and just for the heck of it I decided to make a TiVo wishlist for him.

So I start typing his last name, and after just a couple of letters, BAM! there's his name in the list. I was expecting to enter his full name and then forget about it for months. But TiVo already knew him. When I saw his name pop up, I was actually kinda giddy. I know someone TiVo knows. Tee hee! An entirely new, bizarrely cool TiVo experience.

TiVo knew him because he was appearing on a show that aired tonight, a rerun of Mad About You. Aside from 8 minutes of crappy quality streaming video on AtomFilms, I'd never seen him perform. So I punched it up with relish tonight and cheered wildly when he made his entrance. You know what? It's really fun to watch someone you know on TV. I kept hoping his character would return ("Come back, Shane!"). Screw that Mark loser. Who cares about Paul and Jamie? I'm Mad About Lester!

What's particularly cool about this is that his part was tiny-- a few leering one-liners, then exit stage left. And TiVo knew about him anyway. THAT rocks. I'm sure it'll catch more of his appearances-- I'm just not sure where, or when. He could pop up anywhere. Which, I'm sure, tickles him to no end. And TiVo can't seem to figure out how to sell their product. Amazing.

Don't Let the Sun Shine Down On Me

It's funny how we never see ourselves the way others do. We don't notice our own stooped posture, or the unseemly shuffle of our gait. We only see ourselves in the mirror a couple times a day (or, if you're a narcissist or teenager, a couple dozen). And even then, it's a frontal view. Sure, when I do my morning toilette I can see my receding hairline. I know it's getting awfully thin up there. But I never think of myself as-- you know-- balding. Then I'll see myself facing the other way in a photo, and the glare off my bald spot brings me a crushing glimpse of reality.

Or take, for instance, this morning's shower. I spent part of yesterday on the grass at Seattle Center enjoying the annual Folklife Festival. Listened to musicians with more enthusiasm than talent, indulged in overpriced festival food, solved a few crosswords. In all, I was out for less than three hours-- apparently enough time for some ne'er do well to connect the pipes in my shower to a tank of sulfuric acid, because when I stepped beneath the spray this morning you could have heard my howl in Kalamazoo.

Scalps, like Rhode Island clubs, burn easily. I am now one of those men who needs to wear a hat in the summer. This displeases me. A have a large head, so few hats fit well. I don't like wearing them. And it seems the height of injustice that the very hair that got me into this mess in the first place has the temerity to leave me with hat head regardless of how short I cut it.

BAM!

Since the demise of Calvin and Hobbes, my favorite comic strip has been FoxTrot. It's hard not to love a strip that keeps up with current events-- at least, as far as geek pop culture is concerned. It's pretty safe to expect a week's worth of Matrix-themed strips this month, for example, and some Hulk strips later this summer. Cartoonist Bill Amend's obviously got geek cred.

Yesterday's strip (below) carried a special frisson for me, since its punchline was one of the theme entries in my second New York Times crossword (published Feb. 20). I hoped my crossword had inspired the strip, but sadly, no such luck-- I emailed Amend and found out he never saw my puzzle. What's the matter, Amend-- a newspaper not worth your time if it doesn't carry your strip? Too busy drawing iguanas to stretch the mind a little? Too high and mighty to steal a joke from a lowly crossword constructor? I see how it is. No, no-- don't try to apologize now. I'm insulted that you think I'd be mollified by an autographed original strip (sent to Peter Sarrett, 1920 N. 49th St., Seattle WA, 98103). Positively indignant, I am. I'd scold you further, but I must go wait by my mailbox.

No Two Flakes Are Alike

One of the things I like about The Gathering of Friends is that the attendees generally don't conform to the typical gamer stereotypes. Well, except for the whole "geek" thing, but I don't expect hairdressers to swill Coors and follow NASCAR, either. Some things just go with the territory. I was therefore disturbed to encounter one individual with an egregious gaffe in personal hygene.

Riddle me this: How does a person-- especially one wearing a dark shirt-- NOT know they have dandruff? Do they never look at themselves in the mirror? Do they undress in the dark? Do they never look over their shoulder (or even, in this particular case, down at their chest-- the dandruff seemed to flutter from his beard as well)? With the level of dermal snow involved here, maintaining a state of personal ignorance is a remarkable feat of unperception or willful denial.

So did I, as a friend and a mensch, pull the person aside and suggest a bit of personal grooming might be in order? To my shame, no-- I was too busy choking back the bile that was threatening to add to the hygenic nightmare. I did pop a Listerine breath strip on my tongue-- is it my fault if the hint went unnoticed?

I like the guy, but I wound up playing nothing with him for the entire week. Coincidence, or subconscious cootie alert? I dunno. Next year I'll put a bottle of Head & Shoulders on the freebie table.

9 Days, 8 Nights

I'm back from The Gathering of Friends, a gaming event in Columbus for about 230 people. Last year I noticed a dramatic change in my Gathering experience, as I spent more time just schmoozing with people than I did playing games. A friend who hadn't been to the past few Gatherings remarked that this one felt "less intense" to him-- so perhaps this is a more sweeping trend and not localized to just me. I played a lot of Tichu and poker, and fairly little else outside of the tournaments and a handful of new games (although I never even played the big attraction, Reiner Knizia's latest Amun-Re). This is consistent with the general ambivalence about games I've been feeling for the past year. At our weekly game sessions, I'm rarely the one to push us into a particular game anymore. I'm content to just hang with everyone and schmooze. So it was this week, as I drifted from table to table to chat and shrugged off many attempts to get me to join games.

That relaxed attitude carried over into tournaments. I played in all the team events but only a few individual ones (Medici, Puerto Rico, Lost Cities, Ra), and paradoxically had my best tournament showing yet with four wins (Haste Worte, Password, Treasure Hunt, Lost Cities). I also picked up a free lifetime pass to the Gathering during the prize ceremony by correctly identifying the first game Alan Moon had the idea for.

Six people from my game group were also in attendance this year, five for the first time, and it was fun to have them there and see the experience through their eyes.

Many thanks to Alan Moon for running the event.

We now return you to your regularly scheduled Zombie, already in progress.

Marquee Mirth

Seen on the Guild 45th theater marquee:

Crossword Goodness

Many newspapers syndicate the NYT crossword, printing it six weeks after its appearance in the NYT. My second New York Times crossword puzzle will appear in syndication tomorrow (Thursday). Check your local paper!

WWMMD?

A friend-- we'll call him Dave-- is my houseguest for the week. The two of us are pretty much a game waiting to happen, and we've been playing quite a bit of Scrabble (with the help of the G8 Game Timer). When I discovered he hadn't read Word Freak, a terrific examination of the obsessive world of competitive Scrabble, I directed him to my hardcover copy and he began reading.

Last night Dave went to a birthday dinner for his nonagenarian grandmother, who enjoys Scrabble. Sometime during the Saddle of Lamb with Jerusalem Artichokes, Pinenuts and Peperoncini Farciti Piccanti, he noticed the stack of ribboned gift boxes and realized he'd arrived empty-handed. Rather than admit the faux pas to his grandmother-- who, since Dave lives on the other side of the country, was undoubtedly thrilled simply by his presence at the dinner-- Dave reached into his backpack and presented her with a copy of Word Freak. My copy.

For those keeping score at home, that would be faux pas number two.

Perhaps you're amazed at his resourcefulness and chutzpah. Perhaps you're pondering whether it would be George or Kramer who'd do this on Seinfeld. Or perhaps, like me, you're merely left dumbfounded and wondering... what would Miss Manners do?