Most Boring Assignment Ever

The one I'm working on now. I'm writing an annual report for the county hospital.

Haloscan commenting and trackback have been added to this blog.

The Hewlitt-Packard Diet Plan

Thanks to ad-land, I now know about this:

Slimming photos with HP digital cameras

You got it -- you can take a picture of anyone, add an in-camera effect, and - PRESTO! - ten pounds go bye-bye. Go from "before" to "after" without doing a single sit-up or skipping a single Big Mac. Perfect for those emergencies when you don't have time to Photoshop away the extra chin or the muffin top (that little roll that pooches over low-waist jeans).

And best of all, it's just more proof that NOBODY'S fine, just the way they are.

Signs

You've had these days, haven't you? Days where nothing seems to go right. Nothing seems to go exactly wrong, either. It's a day like bumper bowling -- a slow, wobbly progress, grazing left and veering right, never heading down the middle, and never really hurting yourself but feeling a little jolt nonetheless. You try to talk to people, but it seems as if you're speaking Swahili. You get blinked at. A lot. You try to work through the simplest tasks, like laundry and dusting, and they take forever. You just feel dull.

Like today. Travel does that to me. This morning I had coffee on Lake Tahoe. Now, I'm at my home in the middle of the desert. Sunday nights will do that, especially since I'm not exactly looking forward to going into the office. Worry will do that, too. The problems aren't huge, but they're many. And each one sends me tottering off in a different direction.

At times like this, I do two wildly opposite things: I pray and I consult my horoscope. Most good Christians would call that second thing "divination." I'm not a good Christian. I'm practicing to be better, though.

My prayer mostly consists of, "Lord My God, what is going on here?" Once, I heard that prayer should be really specific. I'm not good at specific. Besides, if I keep the question wide, then any answer will do.

Then, I go to the stars. Miles will send me good, scary horoscopes (or horror-scopes) that are far too descriptive to completely ignore. If he's not watching for me, I'll grab one on my own. Like today's little gem:

Today, like many days, you should focus on the journey -- not just the destination. You need to slow down, or you could miss some important landmarks. Juggle your schedule to create more free time in the evening, because you need a chunk of time that's flexible and relaxed. If a talkative friend wants to bend your ear on the phone, politely tell them you have other things to deal with. Pull out your patience and save the foot race for another day.

O-kay. Kinda accurate, but not really helpful.

After I pray and do the bad divination thing, I start to look for SIGNS. It doesn't have to be anything big or flashy. I don't need wonderful surprise phone calls or fat checks in the mail. I don't need a sudden burst of understanding or empathy or affection from my loved ones. Just, Lord, something small.

I was folding laundry earlier. Slowly. And of course, it seemed as if I wasn't making progress at all. Then suddenly, I was finished and miracle of all miracles . . . all the socks matched up.

I'll take it. After today's odd, plodding progress (and a long, weaving blog post), I'm happy with perfectly matched socks.

That's enough Sign for me.

Portnoy's Book-Meme

I've been tagged:

1. One book that changed your life
Oh, I'm going to bore you already: Hey Whipple, Squeeze This by Luke Sullivan. It's the copywriter's bible, and it addresses the advertising industry with humor and a nice, large dose of realism. Every time I feel myself becoming a wounded artiste, Luke reminds me why I do what I do . . . and exactly what it means to the world. And yet it also makes me feel lucky to have stumbled across such a weird, wonderful profession.

2. One book that you've read more than once
The Prince of Tides by Pat Conroy. I read this years ago, when I was in college, and it was purely beautiful and tragic to me. At that time of my life, I needed beauty and I embraced tragedy, so it was perfect. I read it over and over and over again for about five years. I'll still open it from time to time . . . and, as with an old boyfriend, wonder why on earth I loved it so much (but also enjoy the little twinge of nostalgia).

3. One book that you'd want on a desert island
The Worst Case Scenario Handbook. Because I have no natural survival skills.

4. One book that made you laugh
Richard Russo's Straight Man. There are parts in this thing, especially the scenes with the goose, that make me laugh out loud. Not too long ago, I was waiting in an airport and did just that. Then I had to ignore the crazy looks from the other travelers.

5. One book that made you cry
Of Mice and Men. Steinbeck. I had to read it in high school for my American Lit class, got to the end and - whoop! - waterworks. I tromped downstairs and wailed at my mother, "why would they make us READ this!?!" Darned teenage hormones.

6. One book that you wish you had written
The Well of Lost Plots by Jasper Fforde. Unbelievably creative and funny, it's just something I wish I'd come up with.

7. One book you wish had never been written
This is a half-wish thing: An American Psycho by Bret Easton Ellis. I liked it, really I did, but . . . I could have gone the rest of my life without reading a couple of the murder descriptions.

8. One book that you are reading at the moment
The Tender Bar by J.R. Moehringer. As memoirs go, this is a beauty. Everyone will find something to relate to. It's so richly and lovingly written, and so accessible. Moehringer is an incredible writer that never attempts to be writerly.

9. One book that you've been meaning to read
I never got around to reading Austen. Ever. So I suppose I could just pick one.

The Whirlwind

I was in Reno/Tahoe over the weekend -- the UNR/Northwestern game Friday night and a gorgeous vacation home in Tahoe City with friends on Saturday. After I unpack and become reacquainted with my boy and dog, I'll hop on Portnoy's meme train.

Psylocke got me to thinking . . .

Marvel geeks can open a whole weird can of worms when you start tracing who/what/when Psylocke really is. In fact, the lifelines of the more popular characters get broken and reassembled all the time. Which brought up the question:

Can you think of a Marvel character that died and STAYED dead. And alternate universes don't count. So that leaves Blink out.

I can only think of one: Illyana Rasputin. But then again, I'm not terrifically well-versed in the Marvelverse.

That's my Alma Mater!

No gay couples at school dance

Bishop Gorman counselors say students can't bring same-sex dates

Sure, it's a parochial school. Sure, they abide by the doctrine of the Catholic Church.

So I guess two underage boys can't dance together, but an adult man can do whatever he wants with a nine-year-old boy.

Glad I got that straight.

(Christ told us to forgive one another. I'm still having trouble with that, apparently.)

Gorman is well within their rights to have this policy. Doesn't mean I have to agree. And it doesn't mean that I have to give up the opinion that the staff has been and always will be a bunch of self-satisfied hypocrites.

I bet a lot of parents are pleased that, while their straight kids are indulging in underage drinking, snorting coke and getting hotel rooms so they can bang each other silly after the dance, they won't be exposed to those homer-sexuals. That's why they pay almost $10,000 per year for their kids to go there. Those good Catholic values.

That's what keeps the cash rolling in. And to my (admittedly jaded) mind, that's the only Catholic value that matters.

I comment on Garth Brooks . . .

. . . and the entire fucking thing disappears.

It's a conspiracy.

UPDATE: I'm back after being down all day. What weirdness.

I still think it had something to do with Garth Brooks. He's one powerful man.

A little note to Garth Brooks

Your children's charity is absolutely wonderful. You do incredible work, and as a member of society, I thank you for it.

That being said, I think you may have a wee bit o'tunnel vision.

Really. Who on EARTH, in this day and age, would name a part of their organization (one that helps kids) the "Touch 'Em All Teammates?"

Just sayin'.

Today's food coma brought to you by Bellagio

Considering who I work for (an ad agency that has four major Strip properties), you'd think I was getting free food and shows all the time.

Nope. Not at all. We get nothing and like it.

So imagine my surprise when I (and a small group of co-workers) was tapped to go on a culinary tour of Bellagio. Bellagio, for heaven's sake. The flagship property of the MGM MIRAGE stable. The restaurants are legendary, because they were the first to bring real foodie food to Las Vegas. With all the other hotels upping the restaurant ante, Bellagio has kept up -- and then some.

Yesterday morning, I got the itinerary:

5:00 Prime
5:30 Olives
6:00 Picasso
6:30 Shintaro
7:00 Circo

Zowie. None of these places are lightweights. But none of them would be serving us a full meal, either. I expected that we'd go to each restaurant, the general manager would give us a tour, and we'd get a couple of nibbles before moving on.

Nope. Not at all. The night was an orgy of butter, wine and various things that would make a vegetarian faint. At each restaurant we were served a little sample of their signature dishes. More than nibbles, it was like eating mini-meals every time we sat down.

At Prime, we had beef that would have been perfect on its own, salted and peppered and melting off the fork -- but they added special sauces and condiments. I've never seen peppercorns used like this. I've never had a Bearnaise so light. And the Merlot was gorgeous.

At Olives, I had a tapenade on airy ciabatta while I chatted with the sommelier. She poured a creamy chardonnay from a small vineyard called Marimar. Then an Italian red that brought tears to my eyes. We each got a plate with three pasta dishes on it: a mint and English pea ravioli, a ricotta-tomato thingy, and OH MY GOLLY GOD -- the most incredible butternut squash tortelli. Light, fluffy, with so many distinct flavors in the most perfect balance I could imagine. Sage in the sauce, almond at the finish, and spicy squashy happiness in between. I'm going back, just for that.

Of course at this point we were all full and loopy, but there were three more stops.

Picasso is a joy. Classic French cuisine concocted by a classically-trained Spanish chef that talked our ears off. And well, there's also the artwork -- real Picassos on every wall. We were ushered outside to a patio table that overlooked the dancing fountains. There, we were plied with Spanish bubbly and a bright Sangiovese/Sauvignon Blanc/Something Amazing blend that went down easy. Too easy. Then, thank heaven, something small -- the most un-fishy, totally yummy scallop I've ever had, topped with fried leeks and perched on blanched asparagus with hollandaise. A classic, perfectly prepared. Which meant it only looked small. The taste and richness was huge. I cursed the French as I tried to stand.

By now, we were walking really slow. I entered Shintaro with something approaching dread. Dear Lord, I prayed, please let this one be small. Really small. Nope. Not at all. It was a bowl of crispy lobster in black bean sauce. At this point, you'd wonder why I didn't just have a taste and stop. Hel-LO! It was LOBSTER. Prepared by the ex-head chef of Nobu. Oh, hell, no. In for a penny, in for about five pounds on my hips.

We staggered to Circo and got wind of what they had in store: a three-course meal. As a group, we sagged, imagining the hell to come. The food in Circo is Tuscan, which means only one thing: holy shit, more pasta. We plopped into our chairs not just well fed, but well and truly fed up. And that was a shame, because Circo's food is a wonder. The appetizer, duck prosciutto and foie gras, was tiny but absolutely busting with flavor and texture. The pasta course (oh crap) was a sage-ricotta ravioli paired with a meaty, bold duck gnocchi. The wine, while marvelous, was something I (unfortuantely) could barely pay attention to. I took bites of everything, grudgingly so, and by then, I was cursing Bellagio. The look on my face must have been of pure horror when they put the peccorino cheese-crusted lamb chop in front of me.

I love lamb chops. This was a huge, tender Colorado lamb chop, exquisitely prepared and plated on a bed of peppery potatoes. And at that moment, lamb was my enemy. It mocked me. I looked around at the hopeful faces of our wait staff and realized that I had to take at least one bite.

For those of you familiar with Monty Python, it was like the "wafer-thin" piece of meat forced into Mr. Creosote's gullet in "The Meaning of Life." I could swear it didn't make it all the way down.

If they'd have fed us dessert, I would have exploded.

Driving was miserable -- I was so full of butter and salt and meat and all kinds of other high-calorie components that the wine was long gone. I was left, instead, feeling as if my little car couldn't support the extra weight. When I got home I showered, had a glass of water and fell into a leaden sleep.

And today, I'm in a food coma.

But I'm not regretting anything (except that I wish I'd paced myself a little better). It was all SO GOOD. Tonight, I'll play soccer and by tomorrow, I may just have an appetite again.

Maybe.

Sauerkraut

Emily hates it.

So do I. And this is why.

To give a little background, Miles and I are in a dinner club with seven other couples. We meet every other month, and its hosted by a different person each time. The hosts pick the theme, assign the recipes and make the main dish. This is a wonderful thing. Usually.

Last Saturday, the hosts were holding Oktoberfest (since the schedule skips October, this was a good idea). Miles was going to be in Reno for his mom's birthday, so I was flying solo. My assigned recipe was cabbage rolls, German-style.

And this is my opinion of the cabbage rolls, as taken directly from an e-mail I sent Miles just before midnight Saturday.

Anyway: as predicted, my house SMELLS. When "smells" appears in all caps, this is not a good connotation. This is, rather, the type of SMELLS that would punctuate any good tale of immigrant woe. Doesn't matter what immigrant group at this point. I've discovered that every poor subsection of society has some awful cabbage-based recipe. Today, we think that's quaint ethnic food. In some parts of the world, this is all they've got. And I'm sorry to report that it makes any kitchen and, by extension, the entire home, smell like a fucking Shanghai laundry.

You think I'm kidding about that whole "everyone uses cabbage" part? I'm not. Cabbage rolls featured hugely in my family. They were meat mixed with filler, rolled in cabbage leaves, put in a pot and covered in some tomato-saucy concoction. This was a Lebanese staple. Later, I found a Greek version. And a British. And a Polish. And today, German. I suspect every ethnicity has a variation on the cabbage roll. And every last one stinks to high heaven.

For instance, the German version adds another level of hell by covering the cabbage rolls in sauerkraut. Fu-cking sauerkraut! Because the dish doesn't have enough cabbage to begin with.

Why the torture? I can't imagine what compelled people to think that, when they could be eating just the meat mixture fried or baked, all by itself, that rolling the stuff up in cabbage would make it better somehow. Nutritionally, it's a wash. You don't need the cabbage. I'm going to go out on a limb, here, and say that cabbage is the most useless excuse for a vegetable. Ever.

I mean, Christ Almighty! Even iceburg lettuce gets more play than this.

The only thing I can find that redeems cabbage is cole slaw. And even THAT is a tough sell, worthiness-wise. At that point, cabbage is a condiment -- its utility based solely upon what you can slather it in.

Why is this consuming so much of this e-mail?

Because MY HOUSE SMELLS TERRIBLE.

I just moved, folks. I love my new home. To have it smell that bad was really bothering me. It still has a little cabbage miasma hanging around.

To be fair, I may have been a little hard on the cabbage. It does have a lot of vitamin C. So I'm not getting scurvy. There's that.

Anyway, when I read Emily's hatred of sauerkraut and the subsequent love-hate discussion that followed, this post seemed appropriate.

Sauerkraut? Hate. Definitely hate.

The 2,996 Project • Thomas W. Kelly, FDNY

At 9:03 a.m., September 11, 2001, the South Tower of the World Trade Center took a fatal hit from hijacked Flight 175. The North Tower had been hit fifteen minutes earlier. As the frightened and injured tried to get out, Ladder 15 -- and Tommy Kelly -- were trying to get in.

From The New York Times

Thomas W. Kelly: Sentimental and Dependable
Published: August 25, 2002

Firefighter Thomas W. Kelly, 50, wasn't one for telephone chit-chat — "Hihowareyo, here's Kitty" was his standard greeting as he turned a call over to his wife — but his actions shouted. He quietly stuck by his friends, worked a second job to help his widowed mother, and at Ladder Company 15 in Manhattan was known as Mr. Dependable, a mentor to the probies. But, his sister, Maureen Paglia said, "Tommy never wanted praise for anything."

Something else his actions shouted: this Sinatra fan and father of two sons had a big, squishy, sentimental streak. Raised in Brooklyn, he bled Dodger blue so truly that he paid $1,420 for an original seat from Ebbets Field. Firefighter Kelly, who lived in Staten Island, collected bats, cards, statistics and baseball caps from special events. He was so proud of his little brother Dennis that he saved his sports trophies, newspaper clippings and diplomas, from grammar school on, and presented them after the birth of Dennis's second child.

His wife saw that sentimental streak on their first date, in September 1971. Mr. Kelly, then a steamfitter, took her to his construction site, his grandest project: the 40th floor of 2 World Trade Center.

September 11. 9:21 a.m. A radio repeater transcript places Tommy Kelly in an elevator at WTC 2. At 9:27, he lets Battalion know that he has an engine company on 40.

On 40. His adult life began here. And, dear Lord, it ended here.

From The Staten Island Advance
10/01/01

Thomas Kelly, 51, a firefighter, had history with Trade Center

Livingston man took his future wife to landmark on their first 'big date' 30 years ago
Date of Death 9/11/2001

As a 20-year-old apprentice in the steamfitters' union, one of Thomas W. Kelly's first assignments took him to the World Trade Center. It was 1970, and what would become New York City's most prominent landmark was climbing upwards.

He was responsible for spraying asbestos to provide heat and insulation on the 40th floor of Tower 1 [this account differs from the Times']. He wrote his initials and 638, his United Association union local, in the stairwell. Next to it, he wrote "UA forever." In September 1971, he showed this marking to his future bride when he took Kitty Murphy out on their "first big date."

Mr. Kelly completed the circle on Sept. 11, returning to the place where his career began — only this time he was on a rescue mission as a firefighter with Manhattan's Ladder Co. 15.

His younger brother, Dennis, 43, exited a Wall Street subway station moments after the first plane struck Tower 1. Already, a steady stream of debris was falling from the sky. After the second strike, he immediately made his way to his brother's firehouse. He was told by Firefighters Arthur Barry and Eric Olsen that Mr. Kelly was already on his way to the scene.

After wishing his brother's comrades "Godspeed," Dennis Kelly boarded the Staten Island Ferry, knowing his brother was in the inferno that was blazing behind him. From St. George, he ran the 1½ miles to his brother's Livingston house, where the family was already keeping a vigil.

Mr. Kelly is listed among the missing victims of the World Trade Center disaster. He was in the middle of a 24-hour tour when he responded to the devastation. Olsen and Barry, both Staten Islanders, are also missing.

"He took me to the Trade Center on our first big date," Mrs. Kelly said. "We went to the Copacabana and after the Copacabana, we took a taxi to the Trade Center."

A $20 bill convinced the security guard to let the young couple upstairs. The security guard told Mr. Kelly "to put a hard hat on your young lady." After placing a hard hat on her head, the two rode the elevator to the 40th floor and to 30 years of happiness together. They married March 2, 1974 in Holy Cross R.C. Church, Brooklyn.

Mr. Kelly joined the Fire Department in 1984.

"He had a love of saving people," Mrs. Kelly said. "He was just looking for that."

He was a member of the department's Emerald Society. "He was sarcastic, funny, he was really a very interesting person and such a caring, loving man," Mrs. Kelly said.

Mr. Kelly left a wide circle of friends, who still can not comprehend that they will never see him again.

"You grab a stool, order a beer and wonder why Tommy is not here. Then the thoughts of that dreadful day bring on feelings of sadness and dismay," wrote close friend Charlie (Buddy) Hostetter in a tribute to Mr. Kelly. "You stare blankly into space knowing you'll never forget Tommy's face."

Barbara Freda said Mr. Kelly always rooted for the underdog.

"I met him 30 years ago," she said. "He's been a very close friend to me and we'll miss him dearly."

A player on Liedy's Shore Inn softball team, Mr. Kelly was an avid collector of Brooklyn Dodgers memorabilia. He was also an expert in the kitchen and loved taking care of his four cats.

Born in Brooklyn, he moved to Livingston in 1983. He was a parishioner of St. Paul's R.C. Church, New Brighton.

In addition to his wife of 27 years, Kitty, Mr. Kelly is survived by two sons, Frank and Thomas; four brothers, William, Robert, Frank and Dennis, and a sister, Maureen Paglia.

Mr. Kelly would have celebrated his 51st birthday on Sept. 18, one week after the attack. On Sept. 25, two weeks after the attack, he would have celebrated the 30th anniversary of the day he met his wife. And tomorrow, three weeks after the attack, Mr. Kelly will be remembered by his family and friends in a memorial mass.

"To give closure to this, I wanted to do it on a Tuesday," Mrs. Kelly said. The mass will be held at 10:30 a.m. in St. Peter's R.C. Church, New Brighton. The Rev. Vincent Bartley, pastor of St. Paul's Church, will officiate.

At 9:36 a.m., September 11, Tommy Kelly was in position on the 40th floor when his Lieutenant called (Tommy is 15OV):

Ladder 15 Lieutenant: "Tommy, listen carefully. I'm sending all the injured down to you on 40. You're going to have to get'em down to the elevator. There's about 10 to 15 people coming down to you."

Ladder 15 Firefighter: "Okay."

Ladder 15 Lieutenant: "Ten civilians coming down. Fifteen to OV."

Ladder 15 Firefighter: "Got that, I'm on 40 right now, Lieu."

9:39 a.m.

Ladder 15 Lieutenant: "Alright Tommy, when you take people down to the lobby, try to get an EMS crew back."

Ladder 15 Firefighter: "Definitely."

At 9:49, Tommy hadn't been able to move his charges, because the elevator wasn't working.

Ladder 15: "Fifteen to 15 OV. Fifteen to 15 OV.

"Fifteen OV."

Ladder 15: "Tommy, have you made it back down to the lobby yet?"

Ladder 15 OV: "The elevator's screwed up."

Ladder 15: "You can't move it?"

Ladder 15 OV: "I don't want to get stuck in the shaft."

9:50 a.m.

Ladder 15: "Alright Tommy. It's imperative that you go down to the lobby command post and get some people up to 40. We got injured people up here on 70. If you make it to the lobby command post see if they can somehow get elevators past the 40th floor. We got people injured all the way up here."

Then, at 9:57:

Ladder 15 OV: "Fifteen OV to Fifteen."

Ladder 15: "Go ahead Fifteen OV, Battalion Seven Operations Tower One."

Ladder 15 OV: "Stuck in the elevator, in the elevator shaft, you're going to have to get a difference elevator. We're chopping through the wall to get out."

At 9:59, the South Tower collapsed.

Tommy Kelly's last recorded words show how tense the situation was. And how hard he was working to save those people that were with him. As his wife, Kitty, said, "he had a love of saving people." The words you come across over and over again in connection with Tommy are "love," "pride," "care." You can tell he had a huge heart.

What else can possibly be said? What would help us understand this level of loss? Five years ago, 2,996 Americans lost their lives in the space of about two hours. Two hours on one beautiful September morning. And we still feel the shock and horror. There are still no words for what was done to us. And nothing could possibly describe the anguish felt by the family and friends of those 2,996.

I am honored to have had the opportunity to become acquainted with Thomas Kelly. He lived with love, pride and strength. He died a hero.

Godspeed, Thomas.

• Visit the Ladder 15 Memorial site
• Visit Thomas Kelly's Guestbook at legacy.org

It's not like we can be surprised . . .

‘Crocodile Hunter’ Steve Irwin killed by stingray

What I find most odd is that, after all the crazy shit he's done, he was killed by a "freak accident." How on earth do you define "freak accident" for someone who spent most of his life grappling with crocodiles, grabbing poisonous snakes and generally getting close to something wild and deadly and then spouting (with real wonder) "Crikey! Wouldja look at that!"

I used to watch his show all the time, and he was never anything less than joyful about his work. He'd been bitten by anything with teeth. He'd been kicked by kangaroos and scratched up by koalas. And he never lost his enthusiasm.

We've lost a fascinating, truly exuberant character who, for his part, absolutely loved the animals he spent his whole life chasing.

R.I.P., Steve. My thoughts go to your family.