Scroll through this!

I was pretty pleased with what I wrote yesterday ("Flee screaming into the street!") I was a little smug even. And then, this morning a co-worker, to protect her identity let's call her Brenda G., before she had read it, complained that it was too long. Whining about having to scroll down, she urged me to be briefer, like when I began writing these posts dear reader (see "Dance, Varmint!") Well, well, well. So, the lengths of my posts are affronts to the civic norms under which we sweat and toil and persevere are they? I answer the charges unequivocably with "I am being brief!" Even if I wasn't, there are like totally way worse blog crimes I could be committing, right? Fer sure. I am pretty good about apologizing to you, dear reader, when I catch myself digressing. I am aware that I get off onto tangents in the middle of a thought, and then onto a further tangent from the first. Is this a meta-tangent? Sub-tangent? Maybe just a plain old vanilla tangent, just a different one from the one onto which I originally detoured. As I thought carefully how to defend what little honor I claim to have in the face of the insidious affront to my sensibilities, for some reason my mind skipped a beat, drifting from Brenda G. to Sandra Dee, which made me remember that song from Grease. Then, of course to John Travolta, Pulp Fiction, Scientology, South Park. Not in that or any other order. All at once. John Travolta is a pilot isn't he? Didn't John Denver die when his plane went into the ocean? John John too. Now that's weird. Three Johns, all pilots, two of them crashed into the ocean. But, dear reader, I digress, and therefore I transgress. Now where was I? Oh yeah. John Travolta was there somewhere. Welcome Back, Kotter kinda sucked IMHO. It can still be seen on TV Land. In my book, All in the Family and Taxi are the two best shows on that channel. I'm not really sure if they are still airing them though. It is baseball season afterall. Andy Kaufman was in Taxi for a few seasons. Or was it just one? Danny DeVito's movie about him, Man on the Moon, was pretty entertaining. I'm not sure why I had to get the video. It wasn't that good. R.E.M. sings a song called Man on the Moon. I really like that song. I have it on LP and CD. I like it more than I like Look at Me, I'm Sandra Dee. So, I guess all I can say in my defense is that it's not the destination, but the journey that counts. Even the little detours along the way. I don't want to create the impression that Brenda G. is some kind of wack job dear reader. Because of her expertise, I can now say with confidence "It's not just pink, but fuchsia." What I really want to know though, is just what is so wrong with pleats?

Flee screaming into the street!

A red sign on the staff entrance greeted me this morning. There would be fire alarm testing from 6:00 AM until 4:00 PM. Ahh! The spine-jarring tone of the alarm, followed by the sonorous "May I have your attention, please. A fire emergency has been reported in the building. While this is being verified, please leave the building by the nearest exit. Do not use the elevators." How much did that guy get paid to record that message? And it's going to last for only ten hours! How many times does the alarm need to be tested to verify that it is working order? Or not? I may work extra today so I don't miss even a single test. I just can't get too much of a good thing. A character flaw or simple sarcasm? Maybe both. You decide, dear reader. I am one of the lucky cubicle denizens who have an alarm and speaker in my cubicle. The neighbors are jealous, I just know it. Maybe I'll be denounced for some fabricated transgression and shipped off to a camp, while my imaginary anonymous accuser moves into my space. "You shall not covet your neighbor’s house; you shall not covet your neighbor’s wife, or male or female slave, or ox, or donkey, or anything that belongs to your neighbor." I think this covers another's cubicle, whether equipped with an alarm or not. It's just poor karma. The alarm testing pierces my earphones as I vainly attempt to block it out. Why I am trying to block it out is another question, dear reader, for which I offer no explanation. It has a beat, like everything, so it must be possible to dance to it. Groove to it, man! Now I have digressed into utter goofiness. I apologize. Now, where was I? Oh yeah! Trying to block out the testing. I've tried Metallica. I've tried ABBA. I've tried Green Day. I've even tried Marilyn Manson. Nothing seems to work. No matter how loud I play my music, the alarm penetrates. It pierces. (I'll save the subject of piercing for another day.) But, I guess that's what alarms are supposed to do, aren't they? Furthermore, the louder I play my music, the greater the risk of permanent hearing loss. Maybe just temporary. Now I'm minimizing the danger. I know I need help. For now I think I'll just take the earphones off (out?) and try to imagine what it will be like to leave the building by the nearest available exit when the day is done. The voice isn't specific about how to leave. I have options. I will look both ways.

Dear Mr. Chertoff

Yesterday was one of the very best days of my life! Sadly dear reader, the reasons why are not really any of your business. I hope you won't be hurt or offended. You'll just have to take my word for it. A trip to Newport, on the Oregon coast was the setting. Blog fodder, really good blog fodder can prove elusive to find. The trick is not to look, but to be aware. Peripherally. When spotted, it is almost always redolent in its splendor. And so it was yesterday. In the checkout line at the Newport Thriftway, the cashier at our line was talking to the cashier at the next line over. Utterly dumbfounded, she couldn't fathom why some guy had purchased "two things of parsley." I assume she was referring to two "bunches" of parsley, but "things" works well for me. She barely acknowledged our presence, and I took absolutely no offence, intrigued by the gravity of someone buying that much parsley. I think she may have said "Have a nice day," as we left the store, but really didn't care whether she had or not. Now it was I who wanted, needed to know why this nameless, faceless guy had bought that much parsley. The transaction could have taken place minutes earlier, the night before, or days ago. Anytime! I preferred to think it happened a few minutes before closing time, by someone with rapid eye movements, afraid to make direct eye contact, for fear of being recognized, or remembered. What could someone do with that much parsley? I recall a recipe from a cooking show in which a lot of minced parsley is mixed with butter, and then worked under the skin of a chicken, to baste the meat during baking. Too elegant for the guy I was picturing in my mind. Maybe it could serve as an organic replacement for the plastic grass in an Easter basket. I doubt it. This is, after all, August. The parsley simply wouldn't last until next Spring. Satisfying some bizarre garnish fetish? Probably not. Too easy. Besides, aren't all garnish fetishes bizarre by definition? Does parsley have some mind-altering effects? I could be on to something here, dear reader. A little research later, and I discovered that the oil of parsley seeds contains apiole, a non-amine precursor of 2,5-dimethoxy-3,4-methylenedioxyamphetamine or DMMDDA. Aha! But, though useful as a stomachic, it is contraindicated because psychotropically effective doses are toxic to the liver and harmful to the kidneys. And the last time I checked, parsley "things" don't have any seeds from which to extract oil. I gave up. It was fun for a while, but had run its course through my mind. I thought back to the overly-vigilant concern the cashier had exhibited. What would or could someone do with two "things" of parsley? Certainly nothing good. The Department of Homeland Security should have been notified at once.

An excuse to use "thither"

Dodgers vs. Giants. Along with the Cardinals-Cubs and Yankees-Red Sox, there are no finer rivalries in baseball. Maybe in all of the world of sports. Aces on the mound. Jason Schmidt and Brad Penny. They both are also on the roster of Screwballs, my beloved fantasy team/manic obsession. What should I think about this? I do have two hitters for the Dodgers. So the ideal scenario would be for both pitchers to throw say, seven innings of perfect baseball, then in the top of the eighth, Russell Martin, the Dodgers' catcher can hit a grand slam off some poor Giants' reliever. I get a home run, two runs scored, assuming Wilson Betemit is on base, four RBI, a win, no damage to my WHIP or ERA. A perfect fantasy world. Well, we all know dear reader that there is no such thing as perfection, other than the seventeen official perfect games thrown in MLB history. Jason Schmidt gave up a lead-off single to Omar Vizquel, who eventually came around to score, after a wild pitch, a BBI, and two infield ground outs. Not necessarily in that order. The official fantasy line: 1 INN, HA, BBI, ER, 9.00 ERA, 2.000 WHIP. When will I learn that there are not many things in life over which I have less control than what 24 Major League baseball players are going to do on any given day? Sure, I can decide who to play and who to reserve (read: "bench"), but I am still left with 24 players, else my roster would be illegal, and nothing any of them did would count for anything. I sense your eyeballs are rolling back in your skull dear reader with all this excruciating baseball minutiae. Excruciating fantasy baseball minutiae at that. Bear with me just a bit longer. I have it from a reliable source that exercising the brain, even by analyzing baseball statistics, may prevent the onset of Alzheimer's. Valid? Perhaps. Rationalizing state of denial that I might have a problem? No way! I have a t-shirt that reads "BASEBALL IS LIFE, THE REST IS JUST DETAILS." I agree, but only in part. You see dear reader, baseball is the details as well. Meanwhile, it is now the bottom of the second, tied at one, Giants on the corners with only one out. Mr. Scully beckons me thither.

Lemonades and Peanut Butter Patties (2 each)

Does the serving size dictate the bowl to use? Or does the bowl (or plate) determine the serving size? Dear reader, please accept my apologies for again writing of the gastronomical. I had planned a light conversation on transgression, retribution and recidivism with particular emphasis on fantasy baseball. But, I was spotted at 6:30 this morning eating a peanut butter and jelly sandwich for breakfast. (Your eyes did not deceive you: NOT frosting, but jelly, raspberry.) Spotted not by some early arriving reference librarian, but by my self-appointed health/fitness/nutritional adviser. Guru even. (I should point out, for the record, I am 5'10" and 170 lbs.) The position became his in a bloodless coup. I shall call him Ed. It was not long after I was seen, (not that I had been hiding,) that Ed appeared in my cubicle with the plastic wrapper from a grocery store deli. He wanted to illustrate for me the concept of moderation by showing me the packaging from the dinner he had eaten the previous night. I knew immedietely that this would be good blog fodder. The package read: 0.18 lb Rotisserie pork loin cold @ $4.99/lb which came to $0.90. Wait. There was more: 0.38 lb Oriental salad @ $3.99/lb or $1.52. Maybe it's just me, but 0.56 pound of any food does not qualify as a meal. Light snack, yes. Meal, no way. I. D. Shukhov ate better. (Not really, I'm just trying to illustrate my point, which I don't know anything about in the first place.) Now, where was I? Oh yeah. Which came first, the bowl or the serving size? Who cares? All I need to know is that there are two servings in a 15-ounce box of Crunch Berries when using my bowl. (They taste even better as they were marked down because the boxes were a bit mangled. And there were two of them!) An entire box of macaroni and cheese, with a can of chili and some chopped onion mixed in fits comfortably as well. (Not at the same time as the cereal. What are you thinking dear reader?) No overflow. I wish more things came in single-serving packages, just like Girl Scout Cookies.

It's torporific!

Mornings are starting to feel a bit like autumn. What the? August isn't even half gone. September is still weeks away. Granted only a bit more than two weeks, but still, weeks. Darkness greets me in the morning when I hop on my bike to work. A flannel shirt has become a necessity at evening baseball games. To wear, not just as a cushion on the hard bleachers. Too soon school will be kicking into gear and students will be returning to campus. I can hardly tell from my cubicle though. No public access. To and from work though, and on my breaks, I have to start paying extra attention so I don't get hit by cars driven by teenagers away from home for the first time in their lives. The minor league baseball season is winding down and the major league season is beginning to taste a bit of playoff races. Indian Summer's overcast mornings yielding to crisp clear sunny afternoons are near. Soon, I shall learn if the reason I started this blog thingy will happen. Not soon enough. But soon. When I know dear reader, you'll be the first I tell. The final of the five-game series between the Em's and the Tri-City Dust Devils is tonight. I think I'll go. I'll probably even take a light jacket. There's still some time to laze. Say it with verve, and no one will be the wiser. And now, a bowl of Crunch Berries is in order.

:-) :-| :-o :-( OK :-)

Two meetings. Three hours. And both meeting rooms had windows so I could peek out at the gloriously sunny summer day. Not too hot either. Both meetings served purposes. Don't get me wrong on this dear reader. It's just that when I can see the sun streaming through the leaves of the trees mottling the green grass with various degrees of shade, my mind wanders. Today it fled. But no matter how hard it tried, it could not escape completely. Picking up legs from the knee-deep clayey mud to plod forward, it always heard what the speakers said. Still it strained against the invisible chain that held it in the yard. I thought about how grateful I was to not have to take the minutes at either meeting. I thought about how if I were to be taking the minutes, I would surely include emoticons throughout. Sardonic emoticons. Reticent emoticons. Suicidal emoticons. A little emoticon blowing little emotibrains back over the minutes, little x's for eyes. I considered a hanged emoticon, but that wouldn't work because they don't have necks. It was a very good thing I didn't have to take the minutes. Come to think of it, I don't think anybody did. Don't forget dear reader, that the meetings both were informative, even necessary to accomplish that which needed to be accomplished. Still, it takes a pretty good meeting to be better than no meeting at all. These two both met the criteria, for the most part. If only there weren't any windows.

8:00 P.M.

To write or not to write? No question about it. Write. But about what? Nothing? Everything? Daily routine. Run the reports. Verify forms of author names new to the catalog. Read e-mail. Send e-mail. Oooh! What's this? A copy of the Daily Emerald (the University of Oregon's student paper, actually only published twice a week during the summer) opened to a guest commentary about minor league baseball here in Eugene. And a post-it note strongly urging me to write some sort of rebuttal. I am intrigued. Indeed. I read it and as I do so I am aware of my elevating blood pressure. This is messing with my zen. The author is a dolt. I ponder how to respond all day. Once home I fire up the computer, re-read the piece that pissed me off, check some baseball stuff, and begin to write. Certainly not my greatest work. Probably doesn't even rank in the top ten. Not my worst effort either. Whether or not it is published, I felt a bit cleansed of the bilous petulance that had welled up in me. Besides, I did manage to use the phrase "looking for the fly feces in the pepper." (I cleaned that one up a bit.) Print, save to file. I'll send it tomorrow. As I lay on the sofa watching one of the fourteen televised games today, changing channels from game to game often, I keep thinking that there is something I should be doing. At least something I could be doing. Nahh. I go to the freezer to decide what to have for dinner. My homemade ravioli filled with steelhead and asparagus tips would be good with an alfredo sauce. A little grated parmesan, ever-so-slightly melting over the top. Mmmmm. Instead, I opt for a frozen TV dinner. The boneless barbecue pork one. Corn and mashed potatoes too. After I microwave it, I move all the contents into one section of the tray to mix the BBQ sauce with the potatoes. Now all that is left for me to do is to wait, patiently if I can, for a much-anticipated ring of the phone. Eighty-eight more minutes.

The new dress code

It's nice being able to flex my work schedule. Some people might work four ten-hour days, others four nines and a four. I often alter mine based on baseball games. I checked the schedule and the Toronto-Baltimore game was slated for 10:07 AM Pacific Time. Many games start at five minutes past the hour. I believe the extra two minutes added to the traditional start time of games in Toronto is to allow for the singing of Oh Canada. (I still know the words.) Back to work. I started at 5:30 this morning, and decided to leave at 9:30 so I could watch the game on the Major League Baseball Extra Innings cable package I so thoroughly enjoy. Plus, I have Ted Lilly, the Toronto starting pitcher on my fantasy team, Screwballs. Even if I didn't, it wouldn't matter. It's a day game. And then plans began to unravel. The game is not being televised. I could monitor it pitch by pitch on the computer. Then Ted Lilly was scratched from his start. What now? Well, I do have some laundry to do that I was putting off until tomorrow. (It is now half way through the wash cycle.) And I can take it easy and rest up for the Emeralds' last game of this homestand tonight. Yesterday's game was a gem for Eugene's starter. Five and two-thirds innings of perfect baseball. I opted for a lime snow cone rather than my usual cherry one, and took notice that the fluorescent alien green matched my t-shirt perfectly. I had an epiphany. From now on I would buy snow cones that matched my shirt. Or, conversely, select my shirt based on what flavor of snow cone I would buy. I'm not a slob and don't slop snow cone on my shirts. This would be a purely aesthetic decision. A fashion statement. I simply would not be able to wear my purple shirts any more. I don't like grape snow cones. I don't even like real grapes much, unless they're soaked in the delectable syrup of fruit cocktail. I used to drink wine, but that didn't really taste much like grapes. Especially some of the wines I drank. Bacchanalian delights and Eleusinian (pronounced Elefsinian) mysteries. My apologies dear reader, for I digress. Without regard for the taste explosion that will be dictated by the new dress/snow cone policy, I think I'll wear a tie-dyed shirt tonight, even though it must be washed separately in cold water. Game time is 7:05. Now I've got to put the clothes in the dryer. Permanent press.

Google it, or not

Hi! It's me. I'm back. The Central Scrutinizer. (Oooh! I worked in a Zappa reference.) It's been a few days since I have written anything here, or anywhere else, other than lists and metalists. I just wanted to see if I could do it. Or, rather, not do it. Something about struggling with compulsive behavior. Or maybe my mind was just blank as far as what to write. Perhaps my mind was just completely blank. Could be. (Hong Kong Phooey reference.) Does the period go inside, or outside the close parenthesis? Is the singular "parenthesis" used properly. Do you, or at least as importantly, do I, even care? Am I underestimating you dear reader by giving you, (even parenthetically) the references? Did you notice? I took a train trip yesterday, spending the day in Corvallis, a good chunk of it at the Benton County Fair. A grand chunk. My first rodeo, that I can remember. My first livestock auction. I remember scratching my head and worrying that I may have just upped a bid. My ego at work no doubt. Just a lovely Saturday! Really lovely. I enjoyed a delicious waffle cone with a scoop of brown cow ice cream. I always thought a brown cow was root beer with milk. Not in this instance. Chocolate ice cream with just about every conceivable form of chocolate incorporated. Even white chocolate, which I love, and I know offends chocolate purists. Chauvinists all! Embrace the diversity of the entire chocolate family. You'll be a better person for doing so. I am sorry to report that I never did get an elephant ear. Rusholme Ruffians? Quite the opposite. Providing a link here would be too easy. I'm not even sure what I mean.

Luncheon litigiousness

I really would like to stay all over the map with what I write about in this space. However, circumstances dictate that we revisit the topic of food, sooner than I would have in normal rotation. Yes food again, specifically cereal. Apparently, putting chocolate milk on Peanut Butter Crunch is "wrong." This was news to me, delivered by a tyro. Residual McCarthyism. A passerby chimed in with some observations on another of my favorites. Something to the effect of 'Has he mentioned his peanut butter and frosting sandwiches?' So, dear reader, here we are, responding to the subpoena to appear before the Un-American Culinary Activities Committee. The roots of the sandwiches in question can be traced to the fluffernutter, a sandwich of peanut butter and marshmallow cream, probably in the wide wake of Elvis. Peanut butter and chocolate frosting on balloon bread is certainly not a stretch. Add some sliced bananas and you've established a modicum of nutritional value, and done the King proud. Limit yourself not to only chocolate though. There's a whole world of frosting to explore. Often, cans of frosting are on sale for under two bucks each. Buy several. Experiment. Coconut pecan is simply wonderful. Vanilla as well. Cherry is an acquired taste. During the holiday season I make a lot of cookies. More than a thousand. Heirloom recipes handed down from my mom, grandmothers and great-grandmothers. My great-grandmother, known to me always as Nana, had a recipe for frosted oatmeal cookies. They were, and still are my favorite. The recipe dates to the 19th Century. The frosting is made with a little butter, quite a bit of powdered sugar, a pinch of cinnamon, and the only liquid, coffee. Simply divine. I always quadruple (at least) the frosting recipe so that I have some sandwich spread left over. Instead of balloon bread though, I use an oatmeal bran variety. It just works for me. The health benefits of oat bran, the vitamins and minerals of peanut butter, the sugary goodness of the frosting. And it's caffeinated! I cannot fathom anything else to be sought in a sandwich. Food crime? Not in this jurisdiction. If you still have a problem, you could always sue me.

Wash my mouth out with soap, please

Here's some of the breakdown of my job, which, for the record, I love: 25% Slavic language monograph cataloging, 10% cartographic materials cataloging, 20% generating digital content. So, if you have a digitized photograph of a Russian map in need of access points, I'm the man to see. I also catalog pictures, or, rather, create metadata describing digital images. This morning I volunteered for an informal usability study of possible interfaces for the library's online exhibit of University of Oregon Sports History. I enjoyed it, and hope that I provided some of whatever it was they sought. At one point, I was faced with an icon of a baseball and the year 1944. (Nevermind that there was no college baseball at Oregon in 1944 because of World War II.) It made sense to me that if I were to click on the baseball, in whatever year, I would call forth all baseball images from that year. Nope. Not the case. I won't go into why not. It is irrelevant for our purposes here dear reader. What matters is that I offered my opinion that it would be, should be, pretty easy to "map it to the metadata." Before the words had completed their escape (yes, escape) from my mouth, I felt dirty. Intuitively dirty. Filthy even. Fortunately for me, there are some old Russian children's books for me to catalog. Something pure. Something tangible. Something real. The simple act of cataloging a book! All I have to do is get past the drop-down menu from which I apply the online constant data selected from the list.

Cuckoo for Cocoa Puffs

I like cereal. Especially all the brands my mother never let me eat growing up. Captain Crunch, Frosted Flakes, Apple Jacks. You name it. If the first ingredient listed is sugar, I have probably bought it. Recently. There is a limit though. I simply won't pay more than two dollars for a box of cereal. I find myself looking through the Sunday newspaper inserts scanning for the bargains. Oreo-Os. Reese's Puffs. They're all fair game. And so good. I will routinely buy ten or more boxes of cereal at a time. (No. I do not enter the express checkout line!) I simply can't buy just one of any flavor. There are only two, maybe three servings per box, contrary to what the serving size suggestions on the box advise. I use a small mixing bowl, larger than a regular cereal bowl, yet not so large as to allow the crunchy goodness to get soggy before I am through. It is also important to use a bowl that will limit the serving size so that I don't grate the roof of my mouth into what feels like a bloody pulpy mess. This is particularly true with Captain Crunch. With or without Crunch Berries. Speaking of Captain Crunch, one of the purest joys I have in this world is Peanut Butter Crunch with chocolate milk. It's as if I am eating a bowl of peanut butter cups. Never mind that there is already a peanut butter cup cereal. Don't get me wrong though. I do also enjoy the blander fare. Oatmeal for example. I use the same mixing bowl, make three servings in accordance with the package instructions, and plop a big scoop of ice cream into it. French vanilla is the best. Sometimes I'll also add a handful of chocolate chips. Butterscotch chips work too. But cold cereal is my weakness. And if a magic encoder/decoder pen set can be found inside the box, well, that's a bonus I simply won't ignore.