|
|
It was worse moving from Harbor to Santa Rosa.
Then, we had to clean out a 4000-square-foot mostly-but-not-entirely-empty home and a stuffed-to-the-gills 1300-square-foot medical office. We had two cats, two ferrets, two degus, nine poison dart frogs, and about 30 or 40 tarantulas. We were moving to three locations: our rental home, a medical office, and a storage facility.
Now — lucky us! We only have to move from two locations (a home and a storage facility) to two locations (a home and an office). There’s a whole lot less to move to the office, too: no heavy exam chair, no operating microscope (we donated both to Kaiser), no autoclave. I got rid of a lot of junk in the last few weeks. Our degus and dart frogs are gone to the great beyond, and a lot of the male tarantulas have died a natural death, too. We’re down to less than 20 tarantulas.
But this is still a pain in the ass, particularly since we want to move a minimal amount of stuff down to a furnished apartment in B-field (temporary housing until we close escrow). We have a Camry and a Miata. So, as far as storage space for moving is concerned, we have a Camry. Into the Camry goes a carrier for the ferrets, a carrier for the cats, all the tarantulas (each in separate sta-in-pet enclosures), our luggage, our printer/fax machine, assorted files, assorted backpacks with laptops and other goodies we can’t live without, and last but not least, a desktop computer.
Yeah, I don’t see it happening, either . . . not unless the Miata’s trunk turns out to be a lot larger than I’m thinking it is.
Karen and I just did a count: this will be our 12th move together as a couple. Twelve moves in 25 years of marriage just doesn’t seem fair. Whatever happened to settling down?
D.
I’ve done the big anniversary blogs in years past. Not much more to add. We’ve been too busy preparing for the big move to do much celebrating . . . so we’re delaying gratification, something us folks in the medical field know about only too well.
So how about Mark Sanford’s latest interview, eh? Saying that he had never felt the same way about any other woman than he did about his Argentinian squeeze. Saying that she was his soul mate. Wow. And this is a guy who is trying to get back together with his wife?
Karen has a theory that makes a hell of a lot of sense.
This man hates his wife.
Cheers, y’all!
D.
 Already Dead by Charlie Huston*, 2005.
Joe Pitt’s a Philip Marlowe kind of vampire, a white knight among bloodsuckers. He lives in modern-day Manhattan, where thousands of vampires survive by aligning with one of several factions, ranging from the Mafia-like Coalition to those oh-so politically correct revolutionaries, The Society. Yet Pitt lone-wolfs it, surviving as an independent only because the factions find him more useful that way.
The novel opens with Pitt cleaning up a messy zombie problem. Zombies, in Pitt’s world, are folks who have become infected with flesh-eating bacteria that give the host a hunger for human flesh (yes, especially brains). Pitt takes out the zombies, who because of their mindless carnage tend to draw unwanted attention to the whole undead community. That’s good. But he leaves behind a high-profile crime scene, and worse, a carrier of the zombifying bacterium. That’s bad.
In the classic noir formula of “put your main character in a fucked-up situation, then make it worse,” Pitt’s life keeps getting more and more complicated. No one’s happy with his work, least of all the well connected Coalition, to whom falls the job of political cleanup. To zero the balance sheet, Pitt has to find the carrier and make nice with some old Manhattan wealth — the Horde family, whose 14-year-old daughter, a repeat runaway, has gone to ground somewhere in Pitt’s turf. Pitt’s HIV-infected girlfriend thinks he’s developed a fondness for blue blood, and worse yet, someone — or something — has stolen his ten-pint stash of refrigerated blood.
Continue reading already bought the sequel
We had dinner this evening in San Francisco, at a Moroccan place called El Mansour. If you’ve never done it, Moroccan dining is a special experience. Most Moroccan restaurants strive to give their diners the feeling that they’re thousands of miles away, and El Mansour succeeds wonderfully in that regard.
You step in from a bright and unusually warm San Francisco afternoon and the place is a cave, cool and dark. Once your eyes adjust, you see low tables (though not as low as at some Moroccan places — you won’t be reclining on pillows here), billowy sheets draped across the ceiling, warm, rich colors everywhere. The waiter brings over hand towels and a sort of kettle, and he drizzles water over your palms because, yup, you’re gonna be using your fingers to fress here (unless you’re like the wimps next to us, who asked for forks).
Moroccan restaurants are always a bit on the pricey side because it’s a price fixe meal, five courses in this case. It’s worth it, though. I can’t think of anything else quite so unique. I guess dining at a sushi bar might feel special the first time around, but we’ve been there and done that. Moroccan? I can count the number of times I’ve gone out for Moroccan on one hand. They’re hard to find, for one thing. A couple of ‘em in San Francisco, one in Palo Alto (I’m not even sure that one is still there), at least one in L.A.
Here were the five courses:
* Lentil soup and bread
* A dish with four separate salads, each themed on a different vegetable: cucumber, carrot, eggplant, and tomato. And more bread.
* B’stila. B’stila is everything that’s good about food, and if you’re not familiar with it, go read Dean’s post on my b’stila.
* An entree. Jake had chicken and couscous with mixed vegetables, I had a fish tagine, and Karen had the best dish of the three, chicken in a honey sauce with prunes. To die for.
* Dessert: fried bananas and a little pastry thingie made from the same filo-like sheets that they used to make the b’stila.
Let’s see . . . there’s the tea-pouring ritual, too, and then the belly dancing. Our belly dancer had a real Barbara Eden thing going. She was great at pulling her audience into the show, although she made no headway whatsoever with my rather dour son. (At that age, I would have found a way to collide with her softer body parts, but it seems my son is not as sex-obsessed as I was.) Smokin’ hot body, by the way.
Over at Yelp, some moran complained about small portions. Admittedly we’re little people, but for us, there was more than enough to eat. We brought home leftovers. And now I’m dying to see if I can copy their chicken in honey and prunes recipe. Oooh, this recipe looks close. I’ll have to perfect it for the next time Chris and Dean have us up to their private island 
What a fun evening.
D.
Of course I’m delighted to see that old-friend-of-Balls-and-Walnuts Lilith Saintcrow has half a shelf at Borders, but two shelves for Orson Scott Card? I have nothing against Jim Butcher (I’ve only read one of his books, which left me kind of meh, but at least I didn’t need the eye bleach like with O.S.C.), but four shelves? Mercedes Lackey has nearly two shelves. Used to be that the only shelf-hogs were folks like Stephen King, Terry Pratchett, or Piers Anthony, with fat little clusters for folks like Tolkien or Heinlein or Asimov. The old-timers take up far less shelf space these days (not much Bova or Heinlein; PK Dick is still considered cool, though — 1/4 of a shelf, not bad for a dead guy), so you would think there would be lots and lots of room for newcomers.
And that’s really what I’m getting at. When I go to a bookstore, I want to browse for new authors. If I want known quantities, I can shop online. So what I would prefer to see at Borders or Barnes and Noble is MUCH less shelf space devoted to single authors and more shelf space given to newcomers.
Yes, I realize I’m being hopelessly naive, since market forces must drive these decisions. In which case Jim Butcher must be red hot right now, and Charlaine Harris (whose new book was stacked next to every checkout stand) is molten. And don’t even mention Stephenie Meyer.
The interesting thing about Stephenie Meyer is her appeal across sex and age boundaries. I base this on my N of 2: my son read the whole series, and I read and enjoyed the first two books. She’s doing something right. Still. Sometimes it seems like there’s a whole Stephenie Meyer section of the bookstore (approximately where YA used to be).
How does a guy go about finding new voices? It’s the easiest thing in the world to walk into Borders and buy a Terry Pratchett I’ve never read before (I’m convinced I’ll die before I ever finish all of his books), or a Carl Hiaasen. But I want something new.
Anyway, today I picked up Charlie Huston’s Already Dead, which, from what I can, tell fuses the noir/hard-boiled genres with vampire foo. Three pages into it and the writing is crisp though hardly luminescent. On the luminescent front, I recently finished Michael Chabon’s The Yiddish Policeman’s Union, which rocked — great story, plot, characters, writing, everything. Comparable to Martin Cruz Smith for quality . . . a bit more heavy-handed than Smith, but Chabon’s plotting is better.
Read anything excellent lately?
D.
By now, you’ve heard the news: Governor Mark Sanford, he of the Houdini-like disappearances, is absent no longer. Was he working on a book? No! Hiking the Appalachian Trail? No! Weeping for five days nonstop over his star-crossed love for an Argentinian woman? YES!
 Mark Sanford (R), Governor, South Carolina, explaining what Maria saw in him. I could engage in schadenfreude over the hypocrisy of this “pro-family” conservative Christian Republican politician, but hey, that’s been done. I’d rather focus on Sanford’s own explanation for how it all began.
Follow me below the fold.
Continue reading Love and Thanatos
I had this bright idea to teach my son LISP, since (A) he’s interested in robotics, (B) AI is important for robotics, and (C) LISP is supposed to be a good language for AI. But I don’t know LISP, and indeed, aside from some very rudimentary knowledge of Basic, I don’t know jack about programming languages. In spite of my shortcomings, Jake is picking things up rather well, and frequently I surprise myself that I’m able to help with his homework.
BUT it would be nice to have someone out there whom we could ask the occasional LISP question. Does anyone out there LISP?
More later. Governor Mark Sanford has to be worth some snark, after all.
D.
 One week ago, the FDA issued a warning regarding three Zicam products: Zicam Cold Remedy Nasal Gel; Zicam Cold Remedy Nasal Swabs; and Zicam Cold Remedy Swabs, kids size. The long overdue warning stems from the FDA receiving 130 reports of anosmia (loss of the sense of smell) since 1999. (You can count on that 130 number being the tip of the iceberg; our legal friends are interested in finding others who have been similarly affected.)
Because homeopathic products are regulated in a similar fashion to dietary supplements and not as drugs, prior FDA approval was not required for the Zicam “remedies.” But Zicam is more than a homeopathic treatment — it contains hefty amounts of zinc gluconate, which might be the culprit in these cases of anosmia.
While I’m not a huge fan of the FDA, I do think the loophole for dietary supplements and homeopathic products is ridiculous. These things get marketed as remedies, so they should be subjected to the same standard of proof as any other medication. Homeopathic agents have escaped this level of scrutiny because we docs tend to view them as placebos — sugar pills — which they often are. You see, the idea behind homeopathy is this: poisons which cause particular symptoms can, in diluted form, be used to treat diseases that have those same symptoms. The dilutions are usually so extreme that none of the poison’s molecules remain. No matter — that compound’s vibrations (or whatever) are still present. Spray this on lactose beads and you have yourself a cure.
Yup. Lactose. Milk sugar.
So, yes, we’ve winked at homeopathy all these years because we figured that snake oil salesmen will always be among us; better that our patients take a sugar pill than some tonic that might do them some harm. But this Zicam story makes me question that belief.
The AP story is worth reading, as is the excellent Quackwatch article, which includes the math demonstrating that not a single molecule of the original substance remains after a typical number of homeopathic dilutions.
What I learned on The Colbert Report tonight: Zicam is one of Rush Limbaugh’s big sponsors. Watch it here.
D.
AKA Rhuberry Crisp. Adapted from About.com’s Southern Food section’s rhubarb crisp recipe.
Ingredients:
* 1 cup dark brown sugar, firmly packed
* 1 cup all-purpose flour
* 3/4 cup quick cooking rolled oats
* 1/2 cup melted butter
* 1 teaspoon cinnamon
* 3 cups blueberries
* 2 cups sliced rhubarb
* 1 cup granulated sugar
* 2 tablespoons cornstarch
* 1 cup water
* 1 teaspoon vanilla
The problem with blueberry crisp is that it’s too overwhelmingly sweet. The problem with rhubarb crisp is that it’s too damned sour. The combination works as well as chocolate and peanut butter . . . hey, I wonder if anyone’s ever done anything with that idea?
Here’s what you do: preheat the oven to 350F, then
1. Combine the brown sugar, flour, oats, cinnamon, and melted butter, and mix well with a fork. Take half of this mixture and use it to make a bottom crust in an eight-inch-square baking dish.
2. Combine the water, corn starch, and white sugar in a sauce pot and whisk well. Cook over medium-high heat until thickened and nearly clear. Stir in the vanilla. Alternatively, you can mix the vanilla in with the remaining oat/flour mixture. Doesn’t seem to matter.
3. Put the mixed fruits over the bottom crust, then pour the corn starch/water/sugar/vanilla mixture evenly over the fruit. Finally, layer the rest of the oat/flour/butter/brown sugar mixture evenly over the top.
4. Bake for 55 minutes. Let it cool until it is warm, not hot, and serve with vanilla ice cream. Or not. Tastes great either way!
And now the recipe becomes eternal, at least until the next hack.
D.
|
|
