Uh, Looky Here.
Mood:  accident prone
Topic: Geekery
The new Mr. Baby Show

Absofuckinglutely Bloody Brilliant.
Mood:  bright
Topic: Geekery
At this point it becomes incumbent upon me to introduce my friend Holly Burns, because she just blogged something so brilliant and so simple that I am right now kicking my own ass from here to the Mighty Mississipp for not having thought of it myself.

I forget exactly how Holly and I caught up with each other, but it was one of those classic they told two friends, and so on and so on AND SO ON situations from the old shampoo commercial. (Anyone remember that commercial?) So now I read Holly and her friends, and she reads me and my friends, and right then and there the Internet just got to be a friendlier place.

I have never been much of one to settle down and play nicely with the class; back in fucking NURSERY SCHOOL they had to keep me in a separate room during naptime because I was A DISRUPTIVE INFLUENCE UPON THE OTHER STUDENTS. I will never forget it. I was probably three years old, but it's one of my clearest memories: lying down on the sofa in the den (back then houses had dens, and they had wood paneling) all by myself, while in the big room all the other kids were lying on their mats having naps. They had one of those Kit Kat Klocks on the wall, and I'd watch the eyes and the tail going back and forth. Probably drove me mental right then and there, where I remain to this day. But I digress.

What I was going to say was about HOLLY, and about how she's FUCKING BRILLIANT, and that this makes her typical of a certain type of female friend I have somehow managed to gather on the Internet: they're smart, they're sassy, they're savvy, they're lusty, they love to party, they are wicked funny, and they are unrelievedly (and occasionally depressingly) YOUNG and GORGEOUS. Oddly, most of them are located in the American South. I'm thinking right now, and please feel free to flip me the bird if I leave you out, of not only Holly but also of AB Chao and Leigh and Allison, but the only reason I restrict the list to those three is because I'm too fucking lazy to type in more links. They are some awesome chicks, there.

Holly, however, gets extra special snaps because SHE IS ENGLISH. Now, I am a well-known Anglophile, and I am mostly unapologetic about this and try not to be an asshole about it. You have to understand that most of us baby boomer whiz kids had our minds forever polluted by the Avengers; all us girls wanted to be Emma Peel, and all our brothers wanted to bang the living daylights out of her. We can't help ourselves.

But I still haven't got to the brilliant bit. Because Holly conjured up someone from the long ago and far away by putting him in her blog and hoping he would Google himself, and I am SO FUCKING PISSED AT MYSELF that I didn't think of it first. I mean: Duh.

So here goes, with full credit where credit is due (and here you should insert the mental image of Holly taking a bow, and if you're a guy, you will probably want to stand behind her for this). DAVE DOSSETT, THAT SHY FUNNY GOOFY TALL CYCLIST KIND OF GUY I HUNG OUT WITH IN COLLEGE, you with your super curly hair and your super beanpole frame and your sweet easygoing presence, WHATEVER HAPPENED TO YOU? He was one of those people I probably should have done more with, only the timing was never quite right and I was usually off chasing someone much more problematic (knowing me, it was probably something to do with Mark). But I never forgot you. The world has moved on since then, of course, but I remember.

Hi.
Mood:  happy
Topic: Geekery


The G5 and I would like to say hello. HELLO!

Catching The Wave Of The Future, And Riding It.
Mood:  celebratory
Topic: Geekery
This entry is brought to you by my brand new Apple G5. I've spent the last couple of days getting acquainted with it, and let me tell you: It is sexy. Everything about it mysteriously anticipates my needs; the keyboard hugs my fingers in a manner I can't quite describe. In fact, the fucking thing is smarter than I am, and to be honest I am a little bit afraid of it. If it can do all this, what else is it doing while I'm not looking? One hardly likes to think.

In fact, it's created a ripple in the household. Suddenly I'm more concerned about home security because I want to protect it. Which is stupid, because Duh: Homeowner's insurance. Notwithstanding, we are replacing our back door with one which deadbolts, and having a locksmith out to secure our front door as well. What will be next? Armed guards stationed about my dining room-cum-office? (That particular usage, this-cum-that, has always sort of bothered me, because it has cum in it. I can hardly even bring myself to type it; but look! I just did.)

Oh, hell is a poppin' in these parts. Because everything is related to everything else, the ripple effect doesn't begin or end with the G5, of course; it covers a multitude of happenings ranging from my youngest child through this thing I'm meant to be writing (and am doing, fret not, just that I grow more protective of my product with each passing day) and continuing right up to quitting my day job, which I have sort of done, and me sitting here typing this right now after ringing in 2006 with a can of Diet Pepsi in my hand and a baby in my arms. And that's only the tip of the iceberg.

This computer, this G5, or perhaps I should call it Deep Thought, which is smarter than I am, is definitely part of the fundamental interconnectedness of all things, so -- despite my lingering suspicions that it's booking vacations and cleaning out my bank accounts while I'm sleeping -- I'm just going to trust it. I am learning to trust a whole lot of things these days, including (and probably most crucial of all) myself. These days I get the idea that myself is going to pull this whole thing off just fine and not botch the job, which is not something I would really expect of myself based upon myself's track record, but with each passing day it becomes increasingly clear that there is no stopping me. Thus I've arrived at a sort of nirvana place where everything makes sense and the only time I get scared is if I look down.

I'm not going to look down. I'm going to walk the rope, and I'm not going to fall. There is a net beneath me; I think there are several nets beneath me. But I'm going to walk this walk for all it's worth, just as though there were no net at all. Because if you count on the net being there you might get sloppy, is why, and I can't afford to be sloppy. At times like these it is incumbent upon every smart hitchhiker to take her time and do it right, and that's what I intend to do. I'm ready to go. I've got my towel, you know.

See you in the future.

Christmas Crafts With The Crumpackers.
Mood:  bright
Topic: Geekery

You see before you my little desktop Christmas tree, brought to you by the Crapcam. This clever Christmasy concoction can be crafted in just a few brief minutes with things you find about the office, like so:

Take a miniature evergreen in a pot, which you can obtain from Trader Joe's for $3.99. It even has glitter sprayed on it! Gold or silver, your choice! Then cast about the office for decorations. I used:

Colorful plastic paperclips
Colorful rubber-coated paperclips
Rubber sea monster finger puppet (thanks, Sam!)
Pretzels
Paper tags
A jingle bell found in my drawer for some reason

Other ornament ideas: chains made from rubberbands or bits of Post-It Notes, Valium tablets, or origami animals made from shiny paperclips.

Et voila! Instant Christmas.

Geekery.
Mood:  happy
Topic: Geekery
What a useful word. I have long used it to refer to the trappings of being a science nerd -- to geekabilia, if you will -- but I suppose it could also refer to the Crumpacker family home. It's a geekery in the same sense that a convent is a nunnery.

Note to anyone preparing to take me to task on my word coinage: Oh, just go stuff it. I'll invent whatever words I like, and you're at liberty to remake the language at your own whimsy in your own blog, at which time I'll keep my smartass comments to myself. Or, you know, mostly.

In any event, there you see the view out my front door this morning with the big van in shadowed foreground and the little van baking in the sun. Yes, I know the photographic composition is abysmal, but I was under extreme duress what with Nicky tugging at my pant leg and at least two family members shouting for attention (Hi! Welcome to my life). So that is one badge of dorkery right there.

Furthermore, last night around 2 a.m., while casting about our 400+ cable channels for something to do, I discovered that we now have something called the Science Channel. I swear, you should have seen me. I felt like someone had just given me a valentine. There was nothing for it but to sit raptly through a show concerning the Hindenburg explosion and the causes postulated for the same. I didn't hear anything that rocked my world -- it's the usual hydrogen gas theory -- but I was beside myself with delight. Well, not at the disaster, you know, but at the Science Channel.

And the combination of those two things made me think again, as I so frequently do, God, I'm a total fucking Poindexter. But, you know, a Poindexter with cute shoes and obscene refrigerator magnets.

Blenetiquette.
Mood:  bright
Topic: Geekery
First there was etiquette, which of course gave rise to netiquette. I was going to say blettiquette, but it's sort of an offshoot of netiquette, so I will call it -- BLENETIQUETTE! It rhymes with Connecticut. Deal with it.

I'm talking about blog etiquette, and I have been giggling to myself for the past little while about this.

Say you have an entry, and you write it up, and you put it there, and no one comments. So you think Jesus Christ, that must have been one piss-poor entry, because no one even bothered to give it the time of day. And chances are that people did read it, your friends and possibly even members of the public stumbled upon it, just no one bothered to do the comment thing because they were busy I don't know, having a life or something. Or possibly you have someone who regularly comments, and then they don't comment on an entry, or they skip one, and you end up thinking Hmmmm, is she dissing my entry? Or is she just, I don't know, doing something other than farting around on the goddamned computer again?

This has never happened to me. Shut up. Hi, Kristy. That's right, I'm an asshole.

So, let it be said once and for all, to all of you, and I'm not going to mention anyone by name, because if I leave anyone out you will think I'm a bitch: Love ya. Read ya. And no, that entry wasn't stupid. Oh, maybe it wasn't your best, but you know, we all have off days.

Or maybe that was me.

And no, you don't need to comment on this entry.

Public Service Announcement By Owl Post.
Mood:  happy
Topic: Geekery
I've had Harry Potter on my mind of late. In addition to the fact that I've just finished (FINALLY) the most recent Potter book, and have happened to watch the movies on DVD and cable recently with and without my kids, there is another installment in the movie series coming out in November. Yes, Goblet of Fire will be released somewhere around Thanksgiving, and I'm already planning my movie date with Sam and Ben to go see it.

In this spirit, I would like to share with you a Harry Potter matter which has been looming large in my mind:

DRACO MALFOY IS A BIG GODDAMNED FERRET-FACED PANTYWAIST.

He isn't even properly evil. He's more like Evil Lite. Half-assed evil. The vanilla of evil. Fucking poofter.

That is all. Thank you for your interest.

(Edited the next day for an addendum from Ben, who says that Draco is the Shemp of evil.)

He Always Knows Where His Towel Is.
Mood:  happy
Topic: Geekery
This week, The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy was released on DVD. I bought it, of course, on very day it came out, and we've watched it every day since then, at Sam's insistence. It's well known that Ben and I are devoted Douglas Adams fans; it's one of the common interests that first brought us together. Sam is far too young to read the Hitchhiker's Guide books, but as soon as he saw a trailer for the film version on television last spring, he asked to be taken to see the movie. Bless his geeky little heart, he's a chip off the old block; he's hooked.

So enraptured is Sam by Hitchhiker's Guide that last night, he asked for a bathrobe and towel, because, of course, Arthur Dent wears a dressing gown and carries a towel. In fact, he slept with the bathrobe on over his pajamas last night. Today, after he got dressed, he put the bathrobe on over his clothes and draped the towel over his shoulders.

When we prepared to go out today, he didn't take them off -- he said he wanted to wear them. And I hesitated for only a moment before I told him that was okay. I'm sure some mommies wouldn't let their child walk about in public in a dressing gown and towel, but I figured Where's the harm in it? If he's got the imagination to be Arthur Dent, why make him hide? And so a miniature Arthur Dent accompanied us to Starbuck's and Barnes & Noble and Kohl's and to Family Day at Oktoberfest. Oh, a couple of people did double-takes, but Sam was relaxed and unself-conscious, insisting that we address him as Arthur rather than Sam. At a certain point he handed off his towel to me, but like any good hitchhiker, he checked periodically to be sure where it was.

Our little darling. I'm so proud of him! Four years old and already a Douglas Adams fan. Let your geek flag fly high, kiddo. Chip off the old block.

Dave The Barbarian.
Mood:  happy
Topic: Geekery
I was taking a Harris Poll online survey the other day and was asked to name my favorite television show. I hesitated only for a moment before typing Dave the Barbarian.

As is true of most things my family loves, this show is virtually unknown to, well, anybody. It apparently debuted on Toon Disney about a year and a half ago and is an animated series centered on the adventures of Dave, the musclebound barbarian warrior who is terrified of everything but loves to cook and knit; his older sister Candy, a sort of medieval Valley Girl; and his younger sister Fang, who is sort of a cross between Pebbles and Bamm-Bamm -- well, Bamm-Bamm with tits, you might say. Their nemesis is the Dark Lord Chuckles, the Silly Piggy.

Being the big wacky cosleeping hippie family we are, we all pile into bed around 9 p.m. every night, which is precisely when Dave airs each night on the West Coast. We're all hooked, from Ben down to little Matt; the humor is similar to that of the Shrek movies, clean enough for the kids to watch but sophisticated enough for the grownups. One day Fang puts on the Evil Lederhosen and menaces the kingdom; another time Dave cooks up the Armageddon Souffle, which threatens to destroy everyone until Dave vanquishes it with a spineless yet mighty shriek. It's pure comedy gold, and we all laugh our asses off, and we are all holding our breath because we know from past experience that it probably will be cancelled any minute now. Because it's brilliant, is why, and America doesn't like brilliant. America likes Bo Bice and Dr. Phil. Therefore, Dave is almost certainly doomed.

But if you get Toon Disney, check your local listings and give it a try. Because any show which features an animated horse doing a dead-on Christopher Walken imitation is definitely worth your time.

Dork Joy.
Mood:  happy
Topic: Geekery
I would like to offer a hug to Coricidin HBP Maximum Strength Flu Tablets. They contain three active ingredients, all of which are approved by the Coochie Doc for use during pregnancy, and all of which in combination knock a fair bit of the ooomph out of this flu bug while leaving me with a decidedly floaty feeling (the sort of feeling for which I was willing to pay big bucks as an undergrad). Hey, you are talking to a girl who earned her bachelor's in the land of the duPonts. Better Living Through Chemistry! And a big Amen on that.

Also, I just received in change the Oregon quarter from the 50 States Quarters program. As I've mentioned, I carefully and geekily collect these quarters. Together with the Minnesota quarter I acquired at the Aquarium on Sunday, this brings my collection shiningly up to date. This pleases me.

I'm still doing the legal janitor thing, but who cares? I will finish this beastly project, hand in the draft, and then vanish into New Baby Heaven for eight weeks. And let the fallout land where it may! I won't be here.

Oh, things are looking up. I knew it was just a matter of time -- and drugs, and shiny quarters adorned with loons and lakes. Joy, like woe, is found where you choose to find it.

Sharp-Shinned Hawk.
Mood:  d'oh
Topic: Geekery
I was puttering about my kitchen yesterday toward sunset when I heard a dire flurry from the backyard, followed quickly by two finches crashing against my kitchen window, then by two rather large mourning doves hitting the back door. Feathers everywhere. I rushed to the window to see the birds recover themselves and beat a hasty retreat, then for just a moment looked directly into the eyes of an adolescent sharp-shinned hawk perched upon the back fence. Well, that explained the flurry and the feathers and the impacts.

I was able to see that he had nothing in his talons, so his little backyard raid went unrewarded, but the birds were spooked badly and my feeders stayed mostly empty for the balance of the sunset hour, ordinarily one of my busiest.

Ben and I have occasionally railed against neighbors' cats in our backyard, to the point where the boys talk about that bad cat who eats our birds, because eat them they do; but this was our first raptor visit. I promptly researched it, of course, and apparently it's a fact of life at feeders; in the wild, the Cooper's hawk and the sharp-shinned hawk routinely prey upon groups of birds gathered to feed, and this was just a backyard reenactment, evidently, of stuff that goes on in the wild every day. I'm not creating the situation by putting out feeders, I'm merely bringing the food chain home to my backyard.

Still, I hate these reminders, and sometimes wonder why the hell I keep all these carnivores about the house instead of harboring iguanas and other vegetarian species. The gecko and the spiders eat live crickets, the python eats live mice, and the raptors prey on my house finches and fat stupid mourning doves. The food chain may be part of nature, but it's neither pretty nor fun.

Ivory-Billed Woodpecker In My Backyard!
Mood:  special
Topic: Geekery
I lie, of course. God, I lie. This is not the ivory-bill, as anyone can tell from the lack of white feathers on the wing edges. This is the pileated woodpecker, its close cousin.

Pronunciation was an issue, so I went searching once and for all for the proper way to say pileated; is it pill-ee-ated or pile-ee-ated? Apparently both are considered proper, but I found a webpage featuring a Poindexter with binoculars around his neck who held that according to the rules of pronunciation, it had to be pile-ee-ated; if it were pill-ee-ated, it would have to have two Ls.

I related this to Ben. "What about depilatory?" he asked immediately. I stared at him. (Prick.) "Well, this guy's a bird geek, not a grammarian," I replied. "But I'm going with pile-ee-ated."

Immediately after taking this picture, some disaster involving the boys pulled me into the house, and when I looked back out the window, my pileated friend had fallen from the jade tree, which is located near the feeders, to the ground. Dashing outside to rescue it, I told this to Ben, and we looked at each other and said simultaneously, One of them must have tried to fuck it.

My woodpecker's virtue was intact, I think, but it sure is fun being married to someone who thinks exactly the same way you do.

Oh God, Part Deux.
Mood:  energetic
Topic: Geekery
Surprise: I'm not about to bitch about something. Well, yes I am. But it's something I'm actually sort of excited about, while simultaneously kicking myself and railing against my own folly.

Y'see, they have been painting our townhome complex. To that end, we had to rip out all the climbing ivy rooted in our yard which has been so tenderly overgrowing our next door neighbor's wall for all these years so they could, well, paint the wall. It wasn't going to be so good if they just painted over the ivy, you know? So out it came, by the roots.

Over in the other side of our yard, beyond the sandbox and the three bird feeders (and bearing in mind that our yard is the size of a paper towel and most of that is paved), is the pitiful shadow of the garden I so ambitiously put in five years ago, when we were newlyweds and I didn't have all these kids running amok. It's long since gone to seed. A xeriscape, Ben called it, and that is true only if xeriscape is a euphemism for exactly like a hideously overgrown vacant lot, except located unhappily within the confines of my yard. So, pregnant or not, I must undertake some serious emergency gardening, because otherwise I am going to burn down my backyard.

So, my Bright Idea: I am going to turn my little yard into a bird haven, populated with native plants and, in addition to the feeders, such bird-friendly equipment as water supply and maybe even a nesting box. It's a plan that's been percolating in my little pea brain for quite a while, and probably the house finches are to blame. But the idea has taken hold of me, and now, damn it, it's like a case of the herpes. I will never get rid of it.

Of course, it's going to be a major pain in my ass, what with all the research required (So Cal is full of imports of every kind, from flora and fauna to automobiles to registered voters, and for this purpose I must make careful distinctions), not to mention the actual purchase of the plants, the anguished cries of my husband as I sign off on the sales slip, and the hassle of getting my family out of my hair long enough to actually put the stuff in. (That is, assuming I'm physically able to do more than point and say please by that late in the pregnancy.) But I'm a girl on a mission.

Please, there is something wrong with me. The last thing I need is more stuff to nurture; but God help me, I can't stop myself. Hello, my name is Gretchen, and I'm an incurable mommy masochist. Excuse me, I'll go chain myself to a fence and beat myself up now. Just as soon as I figure out which native shrub to plant against the eastern wall.

Meet The Fearsome Bra Snake.
Mood:  celebratory
Topic: Geekery
Meet my latest baby. He's a baby ball python, only a few months old. I met Erika's red-tail boa yesterday afternoon, and he was so cute and cuddly (yes, cuddly) that nothing would do but that I have my own snake. Ball pythons are gorgeous, as you see, and are so named because of their defensive habit of curling themselves into a tight ball when threatened. Better yet, he will only grow to about three feet in length (males don't grow so large as females). I don't want an enormously huge snake, and I don't relish the idea of feeding guinea pigs, even though I hate those little fuckers and do tend to believe that the only good guinea pig is a dead one. So the ball python is the perfect size for me.

I'm trying to raise him tame, so I handle him a lot. And because they like warmth, the perfect place to carry him is in my bra. Trust me, I am not one of those types who think reptiles are erotic, like this chick -- in fact, that type of thing has a prominent place on my ewww list. (Also, it's too obvious.) But your cleavage is a great place to carry your snake, trust me. In this sense, it's a clear advantage being female, because if I were a guy, I can't think of a single bodily crevice where I'd be inclined to stash a small python.

(It's really funny to watch Matt, who as you may recall has an issue about constantly reaching into my top, come to grips with the snake in his Mommy's bra. Last night after the snake was safely back in his cage, Matt kept climbing into my lap and looking down my shirt to see if there were any pythons in there. Ha ha, kid -- you've been supplanted! Wait till the baby comes along. It's going to be every man, baby and snake for him- or herself.)

After careful consideration, I've dubbed him John Paul, for three reasons:

(1) In honor of the Pope, of course. I am Polish Catholic.

(2) May 7, the day I brought him home, is the feast of St. Stanislaus, bishop of Krakow. Pope John Paul II was bishop of Krakow, and the story goes that he wanted to be called Pope Stanislaus I, but the Italians put the kibosh on that one right quick.

(3) I relish the irony of mixing snakes and the Church; you know, the snake is quite a problematic figure to the Christian way of thinking. But at our house, there is no separation of Church and snake!

I have become pretty good at folding laundry with a snake in my bra, and am off to practice that skill. As a child, I would have been startled quite out of my wits by the news that in 40 years I would spend Mother's Day with a python in my bra. But you know, it's not so bad.

Birding 101: Sam Meets The Great Blue Heron.
Mood:  happy
Topic: Geekery
Driving the boys to day care this morning, I was conversing with Sam about George Harrison's music when a pair of great blue herons flew about 20 feet over our van as it crossed the Santa Ana River bridge. Whoa, I sighed instinctively, even though great blues are in fact as common as SUVs in these parts. Sam asked what was up, and we had the following conversation:

Me: A couple of great blue herons flew right over us. You know those great big birds with the long necks and long legs that stand down by the water? The grey ones? Well, a couple of them just flew right over us.

Sam: Really? Were they dead or alive?

Me: Well, if they were flying, they were alive, weren't they? I mean, you don't see birds flying around, dead. If you see them flying, you can pretty much figure they must be alive.

Sam: Right. That would be scary, if they were flying when they were dead.

Me: I sure wouldn't want to see it.

It's important to know your dead birds from your live birds. Next, we'll study the Norwegian Blue parrot . . .

Wow, Check Out That Uterus Externus.
Mood:  incredulous
Topic: Geekery
(This is not a large, dead spider cuddled alongside my glasses and latte mug. If this were a large, dead spider, I would have screamed very loudly, broken both the glasses and the mug through leaping gracelessly out of my seat, and certainly would not have taken the time for a photograph. Furthermore, God, does my desk need refinishing.)

Have you ever found yourself in the middle of doing something, humming tunelessly and puttering along, only to suddenly realize that what you are doing is something most people would find extremely odd?

For the past half-hour -- that is, beginning at approximately 4:45 a.m. on a Wednesday, while it is still dark outside -- I have been poring over the newly molted exoskeleton of my Mexican Red-Knee, examining abdomen and chelicerae in an effort to, well, sex my spider. In this regard I've been perusing texts crammed with helpful advice like The chelicerae of females are larger, wider and more robust than in males. (Breene, College of the Southwest, Carlsbad, NM.) There is a scientist in Atlanta who will sex your tarantula for free if you mail him a fresh exoskeleton treated with alcohol, but honestly? I just haven't the energy.

Arachne is really only a baby yet, a birthday present last Halloween weekend. So, hard to tell much in terms of the spermathecae. I'm going to go with the chelicerae and pronounce her still a female. She sure is a bitch; then again, if I'd just lain on my back for eight solid hours and then crawled clean out of my skin, I'd probably be surly too.

Speaking of surly, it's getting light outside. And now back to our regularly scheduled weekday routine. Have a good day, stay in your skin if you can, and mind those chelicerae.

Wish He Was Here.
Mood:  blue
Topic: Geekery
Today we took the kids to see The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy. Geeks all, Ben and Sam and I have been very much looking forward to this. Even Matt liked the movie, although in the manner of two-year-old boys, he failed to sit through it, and Sam didn't want to stay after that. Once again I will wait six months to see the rest of the movie.

I did see enough to know they did a wonderful job. Because I am silly and softhearted underneath it all (and probably also because I am pregnant and prone to weepiness), at the point where they introduced the Guide and played the familiar theme music from the BBC radio series, I started to cry.

Douglas Adams died suddenly in May 2001 at the age of 49; I was pregnant with Sam at the time, and I can very clearly picture sitting in bed with Ben reading the newspapers on Mother's Day morning (ah, those luxurious pre-baby Sunday mornings) and being shocked as hell to see the news of his death. Then as now, I got my news from the 'Net, but the CNN website doesn't especially spotlight news for Anglophilic geeks, and the American press tended to bury the story in the back pages. Up till today, I hadn't properly mourned for him; I hadn't cried for him yet.

Today, four years later, it hit me. The movie version of HHGTTG, as we geeks call it, had been lost Hollywood Purgatory for over 20 years, and Douglas hadn't completed the script when he succumbed to a sudden heart attack in Santa Barbara. I thought he should have lived to see the completed product; he should have attended the premiere with his wife Jane and daughter Polly, and given a whole bunch of witty, whimsical interviews to coincide with the release of the film. I think he would have been proud. Perhaps he is anyway.

Trivia Footnote: On that May morning, Sam had already been named Sam for many weeks, and the only reasons he didn't end up called Samuel Adams Crumpacker were that we didn't want to name our child for a beer, and we didn't want SAC to be his initials. It's hard enough being called Crumpacker without all that on top of it.

The Bird At The End Of The Universe.
Mood:  celebratory
Topic: Geekery
It was with great delight that I read yesterday that the ivory-billed woodpecker has been confirmed alive in the Arkansas back country. I fear this won't mean much to most of you; even Ben, who has jumped on board with my bird fascination and now can distinguish easily amongst six varieties of heron, said The what? when I told him.

Apart from formal extinction, which is bad enough to start (the last confirmed sighting had been some 60 years ago), the ivory-bill has suffered from a lack of press. Had it retained the publicists utilized by such famously extinct or threatened species such as the dodo, the whooping crane, the nene or the kakapo, the ivory-bill's return from oblivion might be lauded by more than just aviphilic Poindexters like me. But Ben, my touchstone, assures me that my happy news will leave the majority of the population scratching their heads.

Some society we live in. A perfectly magnificent animal has returned from the dead, and no one notices -- they know all about what's up with American Idol this week, but the ivory-bill is off almost everyone's radar. Priorities, people! Christ Jesus, some days you just want to take the world and slap it.

I'm In Love With The Guy Who Writes The Forecast Discussion For The National Weather Service Forecast Office In San Diego.
Mood:  amorous
Topic: Geekery
It's true: I'm crazy about him. I've never spoken to him and I don't even know his name, but he sets my geeky heart on fire when he writes words like these:

... DYNAMICS LOOK BEST FROM THU 06Z TO 18Z... TROUGH AND VORT LOBE SAG THROUGH SOCAL FRI MORNING. WEAK CYCLONIC CURVATURE OVER THE AREA ...

That's weather geekspeak, roughly translated, for This system appears poised to produce the most rain from 6 a.m. to 6 p.m. on Thursday; the front will sink south into our local forecast area on Friday morning under a weak low pressure center. Melts me like a cake left out in the rain.

This isn't my first weather-related Internet schoolgirl crush. I once spent a number of hours admiring the wall cloud and tornado photography of one of the mesoscale forecasters at the Storm Prediction Center in Norman, Oklahoma. Oh, I won't mention his name. It was hopeless -- we are both married; I was pregnant at the time with my older son, and he is the father of two children named after famous hurricanes. There was nothing even remotely sexual about it. It was all about the weather.

God. I am such a fucking geek that sometimes I startle even myself.