Another headhunter calls

Diary

And here I thought no one was noticing.

A headhunter (yes, they probably hate being called that) called--his job is basically in suburban Chicago, but the trick is this: there would be a year or two in the Netherlands. He couldn't find anyone who would do that--would I? I explained that Coca-Cola (my current employer) had sent me to Brussels. It fell through, but at least I knew was it was about and yes I would consider his opening. He seemed stunned that someone actually said "Maybe" rather than "Hell, no."

That was a couple of weeks ago. This morning I talked to the actual hiring manager, a pretty reasonable guy. He confirmed everything the headhunter said--again I said "Maybe." I didn't want to admit my Minute Maid career was flopping around like a carp on a rock. Whatever this job is, it wouldn't be boring.

Still, most of these things lead nowhere.

Secret visit

Diary

Flew to Midway early Saturday morning--two days ago--on a ridiculously cheap ATA ticket.

Drove to the Lake in a little rental car. Stretched my economy-class-cramped legs in the new summer grass, cool air, warm morning sun. Snapped a photo or two of the city. Nice.

Fought my way north and then west to the area around Quest. Found the building, a European style affair, and I checked out its parking lot, a highly recommended exercise for two very important reasons:

1. Will I be noticed? If I end up coming here for an interview some day, I don't need some nosy guard recognizing me as "that lurker." (all clear)
2. How many people are working on a sunny Saturday afternoon? (answer: only one car in spaces for a hundred--passes test).

Checked out a few potential towns in the area, habitation candidates:

• Elgin: Oh my God, no. From the topo maps, I had imagined gentrified condos hanging out over the banks of the Fox River. Well, not exactly. The casino was interesting if conventional (I admit to loving blackjack--at tables I can afford). The rest of the town was a disaster. This alone was worth the flight up. Scratch Elgin.
• East Dundee: A few miles north on the east bank of the Fox River. Parked the car on a tree-lined street two doors from the river, chatted for a minute with the owner of a nice older home. The bridge across the river (Higgins Road, happily a short, straight to Quest) is noisy, but more than a block from there the town is incredibly quiet. Very small and a bit isolated, but more promising, a nice find.
• West Dundee: I walked across a footbridge. The houses are a little older on this side, and near the highway bridge there is a little construction--outdoor cafes and maybe a little riverwalk. South of the highway the houses are seriously old, separated garages, mature trees.
• Algonquin: This is probably too far from work. Town center is around a lake on the Fox River, and the feel is very Northern--it's cooler--too cool for me, at least, to be on one of those sailboats, even now in mid-July--steeper, the lake appears very deep, even glacial. Painted wood signs, more like Canada than the lower 48. And very, very isolated. Probably the people here like it that way. Attractive as it is in itw own way, I'll have to leave it to them.
• Schaumberg: If you want the commercial comforts of suburban life, this is your place. Just ignore get used to traffic (and construction). One real attraction--the public library is enormous, one of the largest I can remember seeing anywhere.
• Barrington: Beautiful. My reaction to the house prices: "HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA hahahahahaha..."

And after seeing all that, it was still only 2:30 pm. Lunch, then checked into a very inexpensive place, one of those "corporate apartment" complexes, which are basically hotel rooms with a kitchen in each room and a laundromat room, the places where underpaid so-called road warriors try to stave off bad food and to not miss their friends and families. In the dark hallways they try not to catch each others' eyes. This place, Candlewood Suites, struck me, somehow, as brighter and less depressing than most such establishments. They had a Quest discount rate, but all I needed was my name to show up on some report.

By dark I had seen everything withing the 15 minute commuting radius I swore I would never again exceed. Caught a movie. Forgot how early the sun comes up in the summer, in the north-east corner of a timezone. Drove through some of the towns again to refresh my memory, drove to and walked around the University of Chicago neighborhoods, caught pizza and flew home early.

For all I know that's as close to Quest as I'll ever get. Many times I've flown out to see the area around a potential job, on a headhunter's call, or maybe even less. If they don't call--and statistically most never do--this will be my only experience with northwest Chicago suburbs.

Dinner with the Dutch

Diary

Two weeks ago, or so, a good friend interviewed for an opening (not mine; something else) at Quest, where in July I had made my secret scouting trip. He raved about the people he met, and he was pretty happy with the facilities and the work, too. He told me I have to go full speed on this.

And today some of them visited Minute Maid: two fellows from Chicago and three Dutch scientists from their facility in Naarden. Since in my current job I don't really work directly with the flavor companies, I told them I wouldn't be joining them and our product developers for dinner tonight. My friend rolled his eyes and told me I had to go. At the end of their afternoon seminar, I asked if I might change my mind.

Excellent move. I showed up at La Scala, up in Altamonte Springs. By this time, one of them must have figured out that I was "that other Minute Maid guy who applied to Chicago," and told the others. I said nothing remotely referring to my possibly working with them, and they were enormously discreet around my Minute Maid coworkers even as we chatted about a variety of subjects. They were all of them delightful, educated conversationalists, and liked good wine and food and didn't worry too much about appearances so long as there was enough thinking and laughing going on. Definitely my kind of people, for a change.

I was surprised and delighted to have gotten along so well with the Dutch fellows. This could get interesting.

First interview -- Illinois

Diary

The headhunter could have arranged a better flight: it was well after midnight when I pulled the rental car out of Midway airport. I drove north on Cicero and missed the freeway entrance. If I had been awake I probably would have been frightened.

The hotel was next door to the hotel where I'd stayed in July--in fact, my room looked into my previous room.

The interview day was to the point and brief. When I left at 2:30 or so, I was exhausted--in my current job I have become out of practice in dealing with smart people, one right after the other. I strolled around the riverside village of West Dundee, but being cold and windy and gray and quiet and bare-limbed, it held a bit less charm than it had in my July visit, when the trees were full and birds skimmed the river's surface.

The next morning a real estate guy drove me around. Bartlett seems like a nice town, close to work (if I get the job), not too expensive, and on the rail line to downtown Chicago. Largely an older town. I felt better about being able to afford to live there. One glance at an area like Barrington, and you feel your whole financial life passing before your eyes.

He dropped me off, I had lunch and dropped the rental car at Midway, and I got home in Orlando for dinner. An unremarkable trip, aside from the quality people I met. One could certainly do worse than work among people worthy of respect.

Last minute before Naarden

Diary

What a panic, yesterday morning, early. Stopped my mail, bought Euros, and showed up for work late, but not suspiciously late.

This morning at 9 the kitchen floor guy came over. This is going to be a messy job, lots of underlying wood will have to come up. Oh well, I will have to fix it to sell the house, and I will have to sell the house if I get the job, and if I think I have no shot at the job I wouldn't be flying out this afternoon. But that's not the end of it: after the kitchen floor, part of the garage door has to be replaced, and the front room needs painting. I guess this should all be done even if I continue to live here, but do I have to mess with all this right now?

Stop whining and pack. Flight at 2:35 pm out of Orlando, greasy dinner at greasy JFK, then the long overnight to Schiphol....

One Night in Naarden makes a tired man mumble

Diary

Three nights, actually. Three nights in Naarden make a tired man mumble.

My first trip to the Netherlands, not counting a plane connection some years back. I want to jot these first foggy, jet-lagged, naive, and totally unfair impressions fast, before I change my mind. I'm sure I'll look back on these and groan some day.

The Dutch Language.....................
With only two weeks' notice of this trip, I needed some way to cram the language. Now, Florida's being a third-world state means it offers no Dutch TV or radio. I found a used book on Dutch pronunciation, and if I could read accurately through the glassine, dessicated spit and phlegm matting the pages (evidence that the book's previous owner had made some progress), its Introduction assured me of two things.

1. To learn to pronounce Schiphol, IJmuiden, and opgegeten will require a sentence of two months, to be served serially not concurrently. This warning is probably true. After only one day, my throat matches the crimson of the Netherlands flag's top stripe. I wish the book's publisher had thought to include a 24-hour phone number for emergency bulk purchases of Cepacol.


2. Dutch has no nasal vowels, as for example does French. OK, I know what they mean, but I can't quite agree. Long Dutch vowels before terminal R require more nostril flare than Jimmy Durante and Barbara Streisand after a fist fight. I present for your consideration "het paard", in which the R is as bizarre as when Billy Crystal teaches Meg Ryan to talk--never mind. Perhaps better, I could offer "Ja, maar..." with which the Dutch begin every other sentence, including questions, and which use no doubt explains why the Belgians in 1830 poured forth from the opera and demanded independence.

Now, look. The English language certainly owes an enormous debt to this nation of great sailors and their ancestors. It's been said that if the Normans had not conquered Britain in 1066, the Scots and Dutch would still understand each others' speech. This is very easy to believe when listening to an Amsterdam bar after work and hearing 100 Dutch businessmen sounding like 100 Sean Connerys auditioning for the part of Popeye, and then I want you to TELL me for certain that Dutch has no nasal vowels.

My Eastbound Flight.....................
In a cavernous Delta airliner. TV screens on every surface, which at first seemed very trendy, what with giving our position and altitude as we climbed out of JFK into the black void. But after dinner they turned the lights out, my only chance to sleep, and all those TVs mutated into sitcom hell with your eyes open and disco strobes with them closed. On and on and on, for hours and hours and thousands of miles. Imagine yourself a hostage, and the torture is to deprive you of sleep by setting off a camera flash every 5 seconds. Apparently, this winter's video fashion requires a white flash between each scene. This on top of four 4000-horsepower engines at full blast just beyond the thin metal at my ear. There was simply no relief to be had, no blessed oblivion whatever no matter how I contorted or jerkect or covered my eyes or cursed--but I'll leave my ex-wife out of this.

My game plan (have to dump these American idioms!) for Jet Lag is to get two hours' sleep minimum on any US-to-Europe flight. But not on this flight. I was resigned to a tough day when I heard the engines wind down and we started our descent into a foggy dark. With no trace of their previous demonic possession, the TVs showed us progressing over Glasgow, Haarlem, Schiphol and showed our altitude as: 10000 feet above sea level, 1000 feet, 100 feet, 30 feet ("uh, is someone awake up there?"), still gliding down, 5 feet [all first timers to Schiphol going white-knuckle now], 0 feet (!!!), MINUS 5 feet, MINUS 10 feet, MINUS 20 feet...and the bang and screech of tires and reversed engines. On the screen: "-22 feet." And then I get it. Holland. Pays-Bas. Low Countries. What's Dutch for "Very Freaking Funny"?

Setting Foot in Holland.....................
Off the plane. I must have presented my passport and got my luggage at some point. I do remember Customs, but I don't even want to talk about it. Apparently I angled 200 feet away from the normal line of exiting passengers, and I trued to get through a white steel door by waving my used boarding pass at it. Discretion precludes my mentioning the immediate, uniformed, gutteral aftermath. Well, these things happen; I wiped down my shirt front and followed them out of the Restricted Area.

I more or less remember the taxi. Rolling along the Ring at 8am it was dark as night. Of course, Amsterdam's night is not very dark. The landscape view from the taxi was flat as calm water, which of course is not accidental. The taxi driver remarked on the excellent weather. The canals on both sides of the road were frozen over.

The taxi driver. Yes, please remind me to walk, next trip. When he spied my phrase book, he insisted I try to pronounce a little Dutch. I must have obliged, because the next thing I remember were his barks of laughter and lurching of the taxi. He assured me that "No sir, in no way, sir--your accent in Dutch will never be mistaken for a German accent." I didn't remember asking anything like that. In fact, I couldn't imagine that I even had a coherent bad accent yet. He demanded, "You, Sir, you will please say: Scheveningen!" It came out not too badly. Still I cringed for the verdict. "Pretty good," he laughed and slapped the wheel. "Pretty good, the Resistance might not shoot you." Jesus. A Dutch comedian.

Dutch cuisine.....................
My first day was full of surprises. These are my first impressions (again probably unfair).

1. Koffiemelk. Put it in your coffee, definitely. But try to live your whole life without tasting it straight. Trust me on this one.


2. Cheese, part A. Met kaas (with cheese) is naturally assumed in all cases unless you specifically ask otherwise by saying geen kaas (without cheese). Now here's the nasty little trick: you will never in your life be able to pronounce geen kaas, so listen up: you are going to get your cheese, Buster.


3. Cheese, part B. Cheese is added by default into all consumables: sandwiches, fruit dishes, soups, puddings, coffee, bottled water, and some toothpastes.


4. Cheese, part C. Try to imagine the consistency of lasagne in a nation that charges less for a kilo of cheese than for a tomato. I dare you.


5. Uitsmijter. In a perfect world, you could order this wonderful dish telepathically to spare your appetite from having to pronounce it before eating.


6. Oriental food. My first meal, still no sleep. In my impaired judgment, I ordered "oriental chicken." What came was curried, had leeks, and looked and tasted distinctly South Pacific, or something, Indonesian, even. Indonesian. I slapped my forehead--Indonesia, Dutch. Duh.

Cookie protocol.....................
I might be getting this wrong, but this is what comes to mind that first afternoon. At the hotel door, a taxi collected me in my sleep. We stopped at the canalfront home of a young colleague and waited. From the house's lace curtains appeared a prim lady in a bun of white hair, waving me in. The driver insisted that this was the correct address and promised to wait. When I entered and wiped my feet carefully, she smiled and explained (I think) that her son was running late, and she offered me een kopje koffie. I smiled and nodded, and she understood. When she returned, the tray was doilied and the coffee was strong and very good. She daintily opened to me a tin of cookies. I thanked her and took one, and immediately she snapped the tin shut with a bang and strode out with it under her arm. I bit the cookie trying not to let escape a single crumb, but...I had not idea what I had done wrong. "Nothing!" her son explained to me later in the cab--"one cup of coffee gets one cookie. Never two. A second cup of coffee gets a second cookie. Calvin said so, I think." Part of me was relieved to know that at least I hadn't turned Dank U wel into some unknown Dutch obscenity (one that I probably couldn't have pronounced on purpose).

But still, many hours later, I twisted under down blankets from nightmares of this terrible wrinkled dinosaur with tiny hands, the graagedon, guillotining my fingers to the clap of a tin closing, all because in my sinful state I had reached for a second cookie.

Look. Don't reach for a second cookie. Don't do it. You could lose fingers. I'm sure of it. You've been warned.

Ten-day flu

Diary

This was fun.

Somewhere between Orlando, New York, Amsterday, New York, and back to Orlando, my body found this virus and decided to farm it for a few days. You don't want to know the details.

But here are the highlights. A call Friday to my doctor:

"My temperature is going up one degree F per hour."

"Do you have headaches?"

"As a matter of fact, yes."

"We know what this is. Can you get to the emergency room?"

I pass out between treatment rooms and wake up with five medical types rolling me down the hall. I'm wired for sound--they checked me for a heart attack, not likely, but I wasn't awake to say so. Four hours with saline dripping into my arm, a car full of sports drink to the house, and two days of nonstop sleep.

Two days later I knew I was in trouble when I couldn't follow the plot of a Friends episode. Back to the emergency room. Finally they give me something. Turns out the virus was only a pathway to strep. Two days on antibiotics and I can work, but I'm not really myself for another week. Then on a plane to Dallas for Christmas with the family. A book on Amsterdam's sights from my sister, an optimist.

barbecue humor

Diary

Waitress: "So, y'all know which sauce is which?"
Todd: "You know it!"
Waitress: "I know I know it, I'm asking if you know it."

Sonny's Barbecue, Apopka

columbia

Diary

Two weeks ago, I started outside to watch Columbia take off. I went back in to drag a couple of young coworkers outside--their first launch. Even from our parking lot 50 miles away we saw the length of the intense orange flame. One of my techs jumped up and down, clapping her hands.

So this morning I walked into town for breakfast. I looked through the leaves to the sky--why no pair of sonic booms?

Favorite rare words, A-C

Logolatry

Abasia -- inability to walk due to lack of muscular coordination.

Aboulia -- inability to make decisions.

Adamitism -- nakedness for religious reasons.

Adeem -- to cancel a bequest by destruction of the bequested object.

Aegis -- protection, support.

Agiotage -- playing the stock market.

Ait -- small island in lake or river.

Alexia -- inability to read.

Algolagnia -- sexual pleasure derived from inflicting pain.

Allolallia -- Speech disorder featuring randomly spoken words.

Alphonsin -- instrument used to extract bullets from bodies.

Anhedonia -- Unresponsiveness to pleasure.

Aphemia -- loss of ability to produce articulate speech.

Apharasia, aphasia -- inability to speak.

Apodysophilia -- feverish desire to undress.

Apophasis -- saying something by stating that you will not mention it.

Aubade -- musical announcement of dawn.

Austringer -- keeper of goshawks.

Automysophobia -- fear of being dirty.

Balistraria -- cross-shaped opening in wall for firing arrows.

Ballottement -- diagnosis of pregnancy by applying sharp force to abdomen.

Barnard -- member of gang of thieves who acts as a decoy.

Batten -- timber used to fasten down a door or hatch.

Bellecism -- inclination towards violence, hawkishness (French as well, of course).

Bethel -- place of worship for seamen.

Bight -- wide bay; or bend or coil in a rope.

Bitts -- posts mounted on a ship for fastening ropes.

Blissom -- subject to or having strong sexual desires.

Blype -- piece of skin that peels off after a sunburn.

Bogan -- quiet tributary or backwater.

Bollard -- short post on a wharf of ship to which ropes are tied.

Boman -- well-dressed criminal.

Brasero -- place where criminals and heretics are burned.

Bream -- to clean a ship's bottom by burning off seaweed.

Burke -- to suppress quietly, to bypass or avoid.

Byssus -- mummy-wrapping fabric.

Cabotage -- coastal trade between points in the same country.

Cacotopia -- a state of being in which everything is as bad as it can be.

Caesura -- natural breathing space in a line of verse.

Callipygous -- having beautiful buttocks.

Camarilla -- secret society of favourites of the king.

Carfax -- place where four roads meet (not LA's leading cause of road
accidents).

Catasta -- scaffole or stage for torture or for selling slaves.

Cavil -- to raise trivial and frivolous objections.

Chelonian -- pertaining to turtles or tortoises.

Cienega -- marsh or swamp.

Cisvestism -- wearing strange or inappropriate clothes.

Cledonism -- circumlocution to avoid speaking unlucky words.

Clew -- corner of sail with hole to attach ropes.

Cloaca -- sewer, toilet, cesspool of moral filth.

Clyster -- enema.

Coaming -- raised edge around ship's hatches to keep water out.

Codswallop -- something utterly senseless, nonsense.

Conaiker -- coin counterfeiter.

Counterfoil -- part of ticket or cheque retained by giver.

Crepitus -- fart.

Cuddy -- right of a landlord to entertainment from a tenent.

Cynanthropy -- pathological belief that one is a dog.

Cyprian -- lewd woman, prostitute.

Selected from Steve Chrisomalis's wonderful Forthright's Phrontistery site.

asinine poetry

Logolatry

Just found The Journal of Asinine Poetry, housing the very worst poetry, truly revolting, horrific stuff. I post two examples, that you might barf as I have done:

excerpt from
TRAILOR PARK DAWG
Daniel Sciarra

MY humans have squalor
with filth underneath
and theyre jealous of me
cause I have all my teeth
...
the day will come soon
Ill get shot in the head
cause theyre jealous of me
and the life that I've led

You get the idea. As H.L.Mencken once wrote in a review, "It is so bad that a sort of grandeur creeps into it."

HIGH KU
Graham Everett

ALL the revolutions so far
have only made the enemy
more clever. Egads.

Frantic digital clock

A thought

This Flash-driven DIGITAL CLOCK just cracks me up for some reason. (Thanks, Larry!)

Skeptic's Annotated Bible

A thought

Perhaps The Skeptic's Annotated Bible protesteth a bit too much, but you can't fault its comprehensive lists of inconsistencies within the Bible.

For example: Is there to be a resurrection from the dead? Support for whichever answer you prefer at the moment.

Favorite rare words, D-F

Logolatry

Dasyure -- flesh-eating marsupial.

Davit -- device for hoisting and lowering a boat.

Delf -- drain, ditch, excavation.

Delope -- to fire one's gun into the air during a duel.

Demersal -- subaqueous, living underwater, sinking to the bottom.

Deray -- to go wild, to derange.

Diallelus -- circular argument.

Dinomania -- mania for dancing.

Disagio -- fee charged for exchanging foreign or depreciated currency.

Disomus -- monster with two bodies.

Dodoism -- stupid remark.

Duende -- power to attract through personal charm.

Dysania -- having a hard time waking up in the morning.

Dysteleology -- doctrine of purposelessness.

Dystopia -- place where all is as bad as possible.

Eagre -- sudden rise of tide in a river.

Ebberman -- one who fishes under bridges.

Ecdysiast -- striptease performer.

Eellogofusciouhipokunurious -- good.

Elaphine -- like or belonging to a red deer.

Eldritch -- horrifying, arcane, strange.

Elydoric -- painted with both oil and watercolor.

Engastration -- stuffing of one bird inside another.

Engrailment -- ring of dots around edge of a coin.

Epanadiplosis -- sentence beginning and ending with same word.

Epenthesis -- insertion of extra sound into a word (common in Dutch).

Epeolatry -- worship of words ("Plead guilty, your Honor.").

Ephemeron -- creature that lives for only one day.

Esker -- ridge of sandy soil.

Estrapade -- horse's attempt to throw its rider.

Euripus -- arm of the sea with strong currents.

Eyot -- small island in a lake or river.

Fagottist -- bassoon player.

Falderal -- nonsense.

Fanal -- lighthouse or beacon.

Fanion -- small flag used in surveying land.

Ferule -- cane or rod used for punishment.

Fimicolous -- living in dung.

Flapdoodle -- gross flattery, nonsense.

Flews -- drooping or pendulous lips.

Flumen -- the right to direct excess rainwater into neighbor's yard.

Fontinal -- growing near springs.

Footle -- to waste time, act foolishly (from French foutre, I'd guess).

Frantling -- mating call of a peacock.

Frogmarch -- to carry an uncooperative drunkard or prisoner.

Frowst -- to luxuriate in hot stuffiness and stupefaction.

Fug -- hot, close, smoky state of atmosphere.

Futtock -- rib of a ship.

Frantling is famously from the wonderful, celebrated line in Finnegans Wake: "no chare of beagles, frantling of peacocks, no muzzing of the camel, smuttering of apes."--frantling is the word that actually caused me to find the phrontistery site. Indeed, a google search gives only two meaningful hits: James Joyce and the phronistery site.

Selected from Steve Chrisomalis's wonderful Forthright's Phrontistery site.

Hydrogenmania

A thought

Just this morning, in the usually fairly accurate Atlantic magazine, I read this article that reduces to: "How hydrogen will save the 21st century." Not a word about where all the hydrogen will come from, except the Airheadism: "perhaps we can extract it from water." Marie Antoinette would approve...

Might as well say: "The poor are so short of cash, so why don't they extract credit cards from water?"

Might as well say: "If the US can't afford dollar bills to pay for oil, why don't they just use five-dollar bills?"

W, too, got this completely wrong in his State of the Union address. I can forgive such silliness in Moron W from Planet Petro. But from the Atlantic's energy writer responsible for explaining it to millions, it's hard to forgive such silliness, and the sooner the US renounces SUV Denial Syndrome and stops mewling for Presto-Magic energy, the sooner it may find an actual solution or two.

Attention W: When the bread ran out, there was no cake ready. And Marie lost her lovely head.

Favorite rare words, G-I

Logolatry

Gabbart -- barge.

Gabelle -- a salt tax.

Galeanthropy -- pathological belief that one is a cat.

Galilee -- porch in front of a church.

Gamomania -- obsession with making odd marriage proposals.

Gat -- opening of strait between two sandbars.

Gelasin -- dimple in the cheek that appears when one smiles.

Gewgaw, geegaw -- toy, trifling object, bauble. (bauble is already an interesting word.)

Gibbet -- gallows.

Gleet -- mucus discharge from the urethra.

Gnomon -- upright rod of a sundial.

Gomphiasis -- looseness of the teeth.

Gradgrind -- one who regulates things by means of statistics.

Grallatory -- relating to wading birds.

Greaves -- tallow waste.

Gudgeon -- metal pin or bearing for connecting rudder to boat; separately, a person easily cheated.

Gymnosophy -- deep contemplation perfomed while naked.

Gynotikolobomasophile -- one who nibbles on women's earlobes.

Gyromancy -- divination initiated by falling from dizziness.

Hadal -- part of the ocean below 6000 meters.

Halophilous -- tolerant of salt or salt water.

Hamartia -- flaw in a character leading to his downfall.

Harridan -- sharp-tongued, scolding woman.

Hemeralopia -- day blindness, vision requiring dim light.

Hod -- V-shaped trough for carrying bricks or mortar on the shoulders.

Hylozoism -- doctrine that all matter is endowed with life.

Hyperbaton -- rhetorical device in which word order is reversed.

Hyperborean -- inhabitant of the extreme north.

Hypostrophe -- return to primary argument after a digression.

Iatramelia -- medical negligence.

Idioglossia -- private language developed between children.

Ilicic -- of or pertaining to holly.

Imago -- idealized mental image of a person.

Impanate -- embodied in bread.

Inquisiturient -- eager to act as an inquisitor.

Insulse -- lacking wit, dull, insipid.

Interamnian -- between two rivers.

Interfluve -- area between two rivers that flow in the same direction.

Intertrigo -- skin rash due to friction between two moist surfaces (time to diet!).

Iridian -- having or suggesting the colors of a rainbow.

Irroration -- watering a plant with discharge of a sick person ( this is so common that we need a word for it?).

Ismatic -- addicted to "isms" or faddish theories.

Ixiodic -- of or pertaining to ticks.

Time again to note that these are selected from Steve Chrisomalis's wonderful Forthright's Phrontistery site.

Sticky fingers

A thought

Oklahoma's Newschannel 8 reports tonight that:

Oklahoma City (AP) -- A Muskogee senator has authored a bill to require cloth napkins be used when eating barbecue...he introduced the measure in response to a campaign donor's request 15 years ago.

Banished words--2003

Logolatry

Someone had to take a stand against the gag-fodder that worms its way into our vocabulary. "Banished Words 2003" distills for our convenience the very worst offenders, in hopes we will rally to defend the language.

Sweet telemarketing revenge

A thought

Martijn Engelbregt of Amsterdam offers this Brilliant Anti-telemarketing Counterscript. Gleefully read it back into the phone the next time your dinner is interrupted. Try--just try--not to laugh as they sputter. Sweet.

Project Management 101

Diary

Sounds like the author of the Acerbia site has been there:

The rules of "Project Stalling" are simple.
1) If you cannot find something wrong with the project you must add to it pulling on all available resources and getting as many other people involved as possible until it breaks down again 2) If you can find something wrong then you can pass it back to the person who messed it up and have them add to it until it breaks down again 3) If the project is ever completed you lose. If anyone is fired because the project has not been completed, you lose.

Favorite rare words, J-L

Logolatry

Jalousie -- outside shutter with slats (glass ones much beloved by old Florida).

Jannock -- outspoken, honest, outgoing.

Jess -- ringed strap tied to leg of falcon or hawk.

Jettatura -- the evil eye.

Jounce -- to bump or jolt.

Jumart -- impossible mythical offspring of a cow and donkey.

Kakistocracy -- government by the worst.

Kalon -- beauty that is more than skin deep.

Katzenjammer -- uproar, clamor.

Keck -- to retch, to feel disgust.

Keelhaul -- to punish by dragging under keel of a ship.

Kephalonomancy -- divination using a baked ass's head.

Killock -- a small anchor.

Klaxon -- loud mechanical horn.

Kohl -- eyeshadow, mascara (as in ancient Egyptiana).

Labeorphily -- collection and study of beer bottle labels.

Lacuna -- blank space or missing part.

Lagan -- wreckage or goods at bottom of the sea.

Lagniappe -- an extra little something shopkeeper gives customer for buying (had to get that in).

Lairwite -- fine given to married women for adultery.

Lallation -- childish speech, mispronunciation of speech sounds.

Lanyard -- cord for hanging a knife or whistle (or GPS, these days) around the neck.

Lapillus -- small stone ejected by volcanic eruption.

Latitat -- writ based on supposition that person is in hiding.

Leiotrichous -- having straight hair.

Ley -- mystical straight line between features of landscape.

Ligger -- horizontal timber of a scaffolding.

Lighter -- large open boat used in loading and unloading ships.

Ligyrophobia -- irrational fear of loud noises.

Limn -- to portray, paint, or delineate.

Lippitude -- soreness of the eyes.

Litotes -- understatement by affirming using negation of the contrary (e.g., pas bête).

Livedo -- pathological blueness of skin.

Loganamnosis -- mania for trying to recall forgotten words.

Logorrhea -- excessive flow of words, uncontrollable garrulity.

Lollop -- to bound about wildly.

Lupanarian -- of or pertaning to a brothel.

Lynchobite -- one who works at night and sleeps in the day.

Lydian -- effeminate; luxurious.

Lythcoop -- auction of household goods.

Once more: these are selected from Steve Chrisomalis's wonderful Forthright's Phrontistery site.

Liberty's outta here

A thought

If Patriot Act II or anything like it passes, France would be entitled to its Statue of Liberty back.

Undeservedly fine day

Diary

Hard to post here today. Hard to spend much time at a computer in this undeservedly fine February weather, 80F/27C, blue sky, southerly breeze. Excuse for the ladies to wear loose clothing, for birds to swarm and squawk, for squirrels to dodge trolling convertibles.

This too shall pass. I'll post more often when it does.

America's time, too, shall pass

A thought

Every young nation's period of dominance runs out. Deny this as the US might, sincere as US beliefs are regarding History's coming to them rather than their own needing to serve History. Well, Marxists thought so, too. Everyone ends up in the dustbin of history. It's what you make of your time on top that counts.

In the March 2003 Atlantic magazine is an article (not yet on their web site) that mentions a recent Bill Clinton speech:

America's current world dominance is "clearly a fleeting moment" that will end when China and India fulfill their ambitions and other powers rise. Therefore the United States should use the "magic moment" to build institutions it can rely on when the moment passes.

This seems to me a statement of uncommonly good sense. When you are dealt a string of good luck, arrange things with the world to your long-term advantage. Consider who has succeeded and failed at this. The Dutch and English pushed their momentary advantages in the useful directions, and their cultures thrive to this day. They do differ: the English influence on the worlds' acceptance of the rule of law is obvious; the Dutch boosting of long-distance trade and cultural tolerance is less obvious but has never been extinguished. The Spanish at the same time did not arrange things to their advantage, tried to live off the gold, and when it ran out--poof. Before and after the Revolution, the French did it right, and to this day they exert global influence very many times their proportion of population and wealth. In 1900 the Germans had similar advantages, but they spent the first half of the 20th century frittering it away and worse, and they are still viewed with suspicion and wracked with guilt.

The US generally believes that their present youth and strength will keep them always first in the world (and that Europe's being old must just mean that something is wrong with them). This is both as touching and as ridiculous as the teenager's conviction that he will remain forever young and that people grow old and die only because they somehow didn't know any better. But if this teenager denies the inevitable truth as he grows into middle-age, as the US is doing, and if he fails to prepare for his years after youth, he'll have little to live on later. The failure will be doubly hard, since in addition from his powerlessness, the failure will be his own fault. He frittered away his youth even as his elders told him to shape up. He was sure he'd be young and strong forever.

34 Ways to Annoy People

A thought

from Across the Board, March 2000.

1. Leave the copy machine set to reduce 200 percent, extra dark, 17-inch paper, 99 copies.
2. In the memo field of all your checks, write "for sensual massage".
3. Specify that your order at the drive-through window is "to go".
4. If you have a glass eye, tap it occasionally with your pen while talking to others.
5. Stomp on those little plastic ketchup packets.
6. Insist on keeping your car windshield wipers running in all weather conditions "to keep them tuned up".
7. Reply to everything someone says with "That's what you think."
8. Practice making fax and modem noises.
9. Highlight irrelevant information in scientific papers and "cc:" them to your boss.
10. Make beeping sounds when a large person backs up.
11. Finish all your sentences with "in accordance with prophecy."
12. Signal that a conversation is over by clamping your hands over your ears.
13. Disassemble your pen and "accidentally" flip the ink cartridge across the room.
14. Holler random numbers while someone is counting.
15. Adjust the tint on your TV set so that all the people are green and insist to others that you "like it that way" (I do this when leaving hotel rooms).
16. Staple papers in the middle of the page.
17. Publicly investigate just how slow you can make a "croaking" noise.
18. Honk and wave to strangers. (especially with spouse in car).
19. Decline to be seated in restaurant, and simply stand by the cash register, eating the complimentary mints.
20. TYPE ONLY IN UPPERCASE.
21. type only in lowercase
22. dont use any punctuation either
23. Buy a large quantity of orange traffic cones and reroute whole streets.
24. Repeat the following conversation a dozen times: "Do you hear that?" "What?" "Never mind, it's gone."
25. As much as possible, skip rather than walk.
26. Try playing the William Tell Overture by tapping the bottom of your chin. When nearly done, announce: "No, wait--I messed up" and start over.
27. Ask people what gender they are.
28. While making presentations, occasionally bob your head like a parakeet.
29. Sit in your front yard pointing a hair dryer at passing cars to see if they slow down.
30. Sing along at the opera.
31. Go to a poetry recital and ask why each poem doesn't rhyme.
32. Ask your coworkers mysterious questions, and then scribble their answers in a notebook. Mutter something about "psychological problems".
33. Tell your friends four days prior to their party that you can't attend because you are not in the mood.
34. Send this list to everyone in your e-mail book, even if they sent it to you or have asked you not so send things like this.

Dolly's dead

Diary

No kidding. The first serious clone died at age 6 of a lung disease that doesn't usually afflict sheep until age 10-12. [BBC article]

She was cloned from mammary DNA--is that why they named her Dolly?

Toward US ID cards

A thought

From CNET article this morning: Closer to a national ID plan?

A little-known company called EagleCheck is hoping to provide a standardized identity check technique that governments and corporations will use to verify that you are who you claim to be...If EagleCheck or a similar system succeeds, it raises the specter of something akin to a national identity card...

Needless to say, this massive database would end up bursting with detailed records of all our life's activities. It would be incredibly valuable to police and create an irresistible temptation for misuse...if there's another terrorist attack on the United States, all bets are off.

For now, the key question about EagleCheck is whether its records of our electronic comings-and-goings will be purged or stored. When used at airports, it makes sense to keep the information on hand for a day so--until planes safely land--before deleting it, but in other situations the justification for any data retention is much weaker. The problem is that given such an informational gold mine, the FBI and the Justice Department won't let that happen.

Clowns Left and Right

A thought

In thousands of protesters of whatever sincerity, it is only the one or two most flamboyant who always draw the cameras, but--I have to wonder if the intellectual pictured on this entry's Left Wing believes himself a credit to his passion, if he can see himself as others see him...whether he thinks about such things at all. I wonder if it has occurred to him that he dissuades more than he persuades. I wonder.

Similarly, on the Right Wing: I wonder if the clown who writes the blog Antie Idiot's Aryan Rot-Piler has any idea that he is dismissed as a buffoon. (Despite his URL, there's no evidence he's ever heard of Will Rogers' "nice doggie" quote.) The validation he craves terribly comes only from wackos. He opposes anyone who smells capable of thought, and wonders why he loses the arguments he starts. I doubt it's his crudity or tunnel vision that makes him stupid; I more suspect that he results from some kind of Natural Selection for Stupidity working at Bloggery's outer fringes.

Nerds & popularity

A thought

Today's lunch I spent with a wonderful blog article Why Nerds are Unpopular. I doubt his thesis that teenagers' craziness is due to idleness--the teenagers I know are sleep-deprived (and their parents are tired of driving) from after-school activities. But most of my colleagues, having grown up smart in suburbia, will no doubt recognize themselves in this long piece.

...why are smart kids so consistently unpopular? The answer, I think, is that they don't really want to be popular.

If someone had told me that at the time, I would have laughed at them. Being unpopular in school makes kids miserable, some of them so miserable that they commit suicide. Telling me that I didn't want to be popular would have seemed like telling someone dying of thirst in a desert that he didn't want a glass of water. Of course I wanted to be popular.

But in fact I didn't, not enough. There was something else I wanted more: to be smart.

...

We have a phrase to describe what happens when rankings have to be created without any meaningful criteria. We say that the situation degenerates into a popularity contest. And that's exactly what happens in most American schools. Since the group has no real purpose, there is no natural measure of performance for status to depend on. Instead of depending on some real test, one's rank ends up depending mostly on one's ability to increase one's rank. It's like the court of Louis XIV. There is no external opponent, so the kids become one another's opponents in an inexorable zero-sum competition.

Those who suffer most by this are the kids who would be the happiest if the school's purpose were really what it's claimed to be.

Squirrel fishing

A thought

Exhibit-A.

Exhibit-B.

photo credit Yasuhiro Endo

Call Sherwin-Williams

A thought

Orange County Sheriff Kevin Beary is real concerned about color coordination.

"When the state of Florida goes to orange after the country goes to orange, the regional domestic-terrorism task forces go to orange," said Beary, ". . . But I'll be honest with you, I'm concerned about people not being on the same color code."

Old America v New Europe

A thought

Excerpts from Economist.com's new column Old America v New Europe

Who has been lying about whose age? There are few more enduring assumptions about transatlantic relations than that Europe represents age and America youth.

Despite its youthful population, America is often more wedded to traditional values. American churches are full every Sunday with worshippers dressed in their finery. Public events regularly begin with a performance of the national anthem. American tabloids eschew the naked breasts that bounce all over their European cousins. What is political correctness but Victorian prudery in modern dress?

Americans are also much more inclined than Europeans to solve today's problems with reference to the wisdom of their ancestors. Americans routinely make monumental decisions--such as whether people can carry guns or whether women can have abortions--with reference to the designs of a group of 18th-century gentlemen who wore knee-breeches and powdered wigs.

Rather than being about Europe's old age, the transatlantic divide arguably has more to do with Europe's attempt to become something utterly new--and with America's inability to appreciate this. In his timely book, "Of Paradise and Power: America versus Europe in the New World Order" (Knopf), Robert Kagan argues that Europe is trying to find a "post-historical paradise"--a self-contained world built on transnational rules and negotiations. The United States, by contrast, remains "mired in history"--trapped in a Hobbesian world of power politics in which international laws are unreliable and true security depends on your ability to bash the bad guys.

Can't eat just one

Diary

I munched one Girl Scout cookie while I drove away from the stand. But when I tried to stuff the rest back in the box, the wrapper wouldn't go back around. In fact, the only way to get the tray back in the wrapper and back into the box was to eat the whole row of cookies first. So: a third of a box of cookies down the hatch before home. And at this rate I'll need more by tomorrow.

OK, maybe girls have been playing tricks on me for a long time, but this was special.

Madison is No-Go (finally)

Diary

Lunch today with a representative--let's call him "X"--from a major food lab. Looks like I won't be living in their base town of Madison, Wisconsin.

This is a good story.

One Tuesday evening in June 2000: I shared a charming dinner with X and two of their senior people, this at the Old Warsaw in Dallas. One of the truly finest meals of my life, both for the dinner and the company, who were dressed impressively. They went on about how they loved Madison, its cultured life, and the company. Now it's true that their company is dynamite, and presumably a dynamite place to work. It was hard not to get the impression that they were recruiting me. There was no point in pursuing this unless I was sure I could live in Madison, and nothing settles that like a visit.

The next Friday: I flew to Chicago O'Hare and drove into Madison at sundown. After stifling Dallas and Orlando, the air seemed positively breathable. What a nice place. I wanted to know what kind of house I might afford there, so I found X's address on the internet and drove the rental car by. It was forested, and over the garage was a balcony, eminently livable. I rolled down the car window to see better, and as I was gazing to remember the house later, up from the balcony stood a barely clothed, sunbathing X with whom I had dined four days earlier, a thousand miles away. I obscured my face my eyes and drove off as fast as I could. This would have been very hard to explain.

September 2001: Messed up as all the flights were in mid-September, I managed to get to Madison for another look. It rained the entire trip, and since I lost time at both ends from hastily rescheduled flights, it was a bust. Had a nice dinner at the Orpheum, though, a sort of lobby restaurant, two tables wide and elbows bumped from the narrow aisle.

January 2002: January 20 is the coldest day of the year in Madison, so I flew up to see for myself. The weather charts didn't lie. The rental car plowed through six inches of snow, and I stopped for Mexican food of all things. I stopped in a mall for a pair of gloves--not much call for them in Orlando. Got nice leather ones. When I walked to the Orpheum for dinner, I was frozen, and when I got a table facing the door, I set my coat and gloves in the chair opposite me. Three sips into my wine, who walks in the door and scans the entire restaurant but X and his wife. Heart attack. They walk to a table behind me, his wife even bumps my elbow as they pass. My face disappeared into the wine glass and I tried to make myself very small. I ate fast, paid, rushed out onto windy, frigid State Street. My hands were cold--I had forgotten my new gloves! I deliberated, decided it was not worth it to go back in--how would I explain it? I never saw those gloves again.

February 2002: Lunch with X in Orlando and I handed him a resume. Over the next months I talked with their vice-president on the phone a few times, and they seemed interested, but slow.

Today: Lunch with X, at the same restaurant (they like to come down in winter). Lots of talk about their new facilities and what it can do for my present company, Minute Maid, but--in the end they don't have a position. This caps it.

I spent a lot of time imagining life in Madison, but it has all the look of something just not meant to be.

Favorite rare words, M-O

Logolatry

Macrophobia -- fear of prolonged waiting.

Madarosis -- loss of eyelashes or eyebrows.

Maffick -- to celebrate exuberantly and boisterously.

Malaproprism -- misapplication of words without mispronunciation.

Malversation -- corruption in office. corrupt administration, misconduct.

Margaritiferous -- pearl-bearing.

Marline -- small rope wound about larger rope to keep it from fraying.

Maschalephidrosis -- massive sweating of the armpits.

Maudlin -- tearfully sentimental.

Meconium -- first feces of a newborn child.

Meretricious -- of or relating to prostitution, gaudy, flashy.

Merkin -- pubic wig.

Metromania -- insatiable desire for writing verse.

Mewling -- crying feebly.

Miasma -- foul vapors from rotting matter, unwholesome air.

Mizzle -- to rain in small drops.

Mugwump -- one who is neutral politically.

Mullock -- waste earth or rock from a mine.

Mumpsimus -- view stubbornly held even when shown to be wrong.

Mustelid -- of otters, badgers, and weasels.

Myomancy -- divination from the movements of mice.

Nathalie -- la Reine de Nancy (bonsoir, Nathalie!).
OK, so that's a proper name. Let's keep moving...

Naupathia -- sea sickness.

Nemoral -- of a wood or grove.

Nepenthe -- something capable of making one forget suffering (rhymes with absinthe?)

Neritic -- belonging to the shallow waters near land.

Nippitatum -- exceptionally good and strong ale.

Nipter -- ecclesiastical ceremony of washing of feet.

Nostrum -- secret or quack medicine.

Novercaphobia -- irrational fear of one's stepmother.

Nugatory -- inconsequential, inoperative, futile, trifling.

Nunnation -- addition of a final n in the declension of nouns.

Nyctanthous -- flowering at night (I love the way this word looks on the page.)

Oakum -- old ropes untwisted for caulking the seams of ships.

Obsequent -- flowing in opposite direction to original slope of land (as in the east end of Arizona's Grand Canyon).

Obstreperous -- noisy, unruly.

Oenology -- study of wine.

Oikology -- science of housekeeping.

Oikonisus -- desire to start a family.

Oleaginous -- oily; fawning or syncophantic.

Ololygmancy -- divination by the howling of dogs.

Omphalopsychite -- one who meditates by gazing at the navel.

Oose -- furry dust that gathers under beds.

Oppobrium -- disgrace, bad reputation.

Orarian -- costal, a coast-dweller.

Oriel -- small room or recess with a polygonal bay window.

Ouroboros -- snake eating its own tail, symbolizing totality or completion.

Once more: these are selected from Steve Chrisomalis's wonderful Forthright's Phrontistery site.

Dennett describes Science

A thought

Daniel Dennett gets it spectacularly right in this article from Butterflies and Wheels.

Try to draw a straight line, or a circle, "freehand." Unless you have considerable artistic talent, the result will not be impressive. With a straight edge and a compass, on the other hand, you can practically eliminate the sources of human variability and get a nice clean, objective result, the same every time.

Is the line really straight? How straight is it? In response to these questions, we develop ever finer tests, and then tests of the accuracy of those tests, and so forth, bootstrapping our way to ever greater accuracy and objectivity. Scientists are just as vulnerable to wishful thinking, just as likely to be tempted by base motives, just as venal and gullible and forgetful as the rest of humankind. Scientists don't consider themselves to be saints; they don't even pretend to be priests (who according to tradition are supposed to do a better job than the rest of us at fighting off human temptation and frailty). Scientists take themselves to be just as weak and fallible as anybody else, but recognizing those very sources of error in themselves and in the groups to which they belong, they have devised elaborate systems to tie their own hands, forcibly preventing their frailties and prejudices from infecting their results.

Favorite Rare Words, P-R

Logolatry

Pagophagia -- eating ice to help offset iron deficiency

Pais -- group of people from whom a jury is drawn

Papafitte -- prehistoric lake dwelling

Palinola -- compulsive repetition of an act until it is perfect

Palpebration -- winking

Pangram -- sentence containing all the letters of the alphabet (how does this work in Chinese?)

Pansexualism -- theory that all thought derived from sexual instinct

Parabolist -- teller of fables

Paralipsis -- fixing attention on subject by pretending to ignore it

Paraph -- fluorish under one's signature

Parnel -- mistress or concubine of a priest

Paroxysm -- fit of passion, laughter, violent coughing

Parvis -- enclosed space at the front of a church

Patriolatry -- excessive devotion or worship of one's native country

Pejorocracy -- government by the worst, or according the worst principles

Penelopize -- to create work as an excuse to deter suitors

Pentheraphobia -- fear or hatred of one's mother-in-law

Pettifogger -- lawyer given to underhanded tactics

Phillumeny -- collecting of matchbox labels

Phosphene -- light seen when the eyeball is pressed

Pigsconce -- blockhead

Pleonasm -- use of more excess words than necessary (uh,...)

Pollard -- tree having the whole crown cut off

Pornocracy -- government by harlots

Pornotopia -- perfect setting for the antics of pornography (I see a move title in this one)

Potamic -- of or relating to rivers

Probang -- flexible rod put down throat to clear obstacle

Prolepsis -- anticipation, device where objections are anticipated

Pseudophonia -- suicide disguised as murder

Psittacism -- parrot-like repetition of speech

Pteronophobia -- fear of being tickled by feathers

Pygia -- pain in the rump

Quillet -- subtle point in argument, a quibble

Recondite -- out of the way, little known

Rectalgia -- pain in the butt

Resipiscence -- recognition of error, change to better frame of mind

Rhabdos -- magic wand

Rhapsodomancy -- divination by opening works of poetry at random

Once more: these are selected from Steve Chrisomalis's wonderful Forthright's Phrontistery site.

Goodbye, 470

Diary

Tonight I sold my house, 470 Clarendon Avenue, Winter Park...my home for 8 years, the one I moved 1000 miles to live in.

• Where I laughed myself silly when I signed the contract to buy it, and the palm trees out front, and the ligustrum and sagos and wild pothos ivy all around, and the woodpeckers and wood ducks in the trees, fish crows mocking and squirrels barking somewhere unseen, and bald eagles and brown eagles and osprey gliding overhead, and the open rooms and dark wood floors throughout the interior. Much nicer than I ever thought in my life I would live in, much less own,
• Where I got the news in 1998 and where I wept when I thought I was going to die. Where I thought--seriously or not, I guess I'll never know--about beating the reaper to it.
• Where I wept when I lost Joni.
• Where my lovely next door neighbor brought her then-small kids, and my mother read to them.
• Where when I was preparing my house to sell, I fell off the ladder and jumped rather than be crushed under it. Where I brooded when Coke then screwed up my Brussels assignment and I had to beg for my old job (here) back and tell the realtor I was going to keep the house after all.
• Where I read something like 200 books and learned to write and launched my novel.
• Where for almost 2 years I've had computers doing computation to beat cancer (see United Device's web site).

So a week ago, I put the house on the market without telling anyone at work.

"What will you do with your house if you get laid off next Thursday?"
"Ohhhhh, I don't know."

I hate that sort of business. I just say as little as possible.

Last Sunday I had driven through pouring rain to see a model "apartment" of the same sort I'm likely to have to endure for 2-3 months in Chicago. True to their advertisements, it had a desk, queen bed, dining table, kitchen, nice bath--and the whole thing is smaller than my (admittedly ridiculously spacious) bedroom here. I couldn't believe how large 470 seemed when I got back.

So the next day--yesterday--Nikki my real estate guru told me I had two offers. One was from her parents, and she handled it very professionally, and the offer was great, more than I had asked, even. Pretty good for the first week of a war. Tonight I signed the papers. There is no turning back now. 470 was built in 1943; the new owners may live in it, or they may tear it down, which I could not bear to see.

I never wanted to leave this house. It's part of who I am and how I see the world, and however long I live and wherever I sleep I will probably dream of it .

Weirdest morning of my life

Diary

The Day of Reckoning: massive layoffs at Minute Maid. Not pretty.

We didn't know how many of us 40 R&D types they would axe, or whom. Could be 5, could be 15. The atmosphere when the 9:00 start time rolled around was exactly that of the expectant battlefield: the Unknown awaits, it is not friendly, some of us are scared witless and weeping, others stoically await, and above all some of us will get slaughtered and the ones left standing will suffer a shock that nothing can prepare you for.

One scientist of my group was the second to get pulled into the director's office and summarily canned. I wasn't even invited into the room when it happened, and my first inkling was when she came to my office and told me. I consoled her the best I could. She seemed OK, but you never really know.

I was the fourth or so to get canned. I'm sure the director wondered why I took it so well. The financial package amounted to more than I made in my first 6 years of work life. Then, a few confirmatory phone calls later, I told him I had a new job lined up. He seemed oddly relieved.

It went on all morning, and there was indeed wailing and gnashing of teeth. We lost 40%. People who had worked and traveled together for decades made their final goodbyes in the vinyl hallway under fluorescent lights and then were just gone, into the sunshine.

Of my (ex-)own group of 6 scientists, here's the score: lost 3, kept 3 including one promotion for which I had pressed for a long time. Be happy, I told myself, the promotion was a nice touch to go out on.

It was 11:30--I had had enough. We had lost 16 by my count, 40%. My pride was a little bruised, but I was well compensated, and trading my self-respect for pay is all too concise a summary of my 8 Minute Maid years. At least this time the rate of return is better. Their kicking out several people I had hired does make me angry. I'm glad for the ones remaining.

I turned off my computer for the last time, gathered my severance envelopes, and turned the office lights out--but my (ex-) phone rang. I sighed and went back to answer it. It was my new company, telling me they would cover closing costs for selling my house. The same house I'd already sold, for over the asking price, two days ago.

I ordered a nice lunch at Panullo's on Park Avenue (Winter Park). Dazed as I was, I once or twice scared other diners with slightly desperate, maniacal laughter...

First inkling

Diary

Looking back, there was a first realization that I might clash with Coca-Cola's famous culture. It was 1995, and my group and I were trapped in one of those Human-Resources-subcontracted, horrifically American religious rallies:

"You are empowered™! You know, you can do anything you want to do! You can be anything, anything at all!!!...Yes, Dr. Dose?"

"Excuse me, but I can never be a pregnant schnauzer no matter what I do."

It was downhill from there.

I thought I could suffer with Coke's system, and do my bit to better it, but now I see that I would have had to become a different--certainly a worse--person. In my 8 years there Minute Maid's and Coke's cultures have changed, and not for the better. I wish them all the best, but my coping with their culture would have required failing at life.

Farewell, friends

Diary

I have written some of those laid off as well as some friends in Coke in Atlanta. When I will pack my office next Tuesday, I'll say goodbye to those still there. But right here, right now, I will openly embarrass some of you with inappropriate displays of affection.

Please don't be disappointed (or gloat!) if you're left out--I may get you later...

   » Click here for pictures, etc...

OK, let me gloat just this once

Diary

 

Cold morning in Florida

Diary

Probably my last breakfast at Winter Park's fiercely English Daily Express, possibly the only deli on the planet where you can hear without irony: "Care for grits, mate?" But this morning a TV on the counter blared about Iraq (between loud ads for deodorants and lawyers). I doubt I'll be back. I have so few Florida days left that I have to choose carefully what I want to do one last time and what I must skip and relegate to memory.

Bumper sticker in front of the Daily Express:

What if the Hokey Pokey IS what it's all about?

Walking across the grocery store parking lot was a trial--windy and 46F/7C. I thought I might freeze, but that is the average temperature in Chicago, where I'll move in a few days. They say surviving the cold is simply about the right clothes. I hope they're right.

I'm finding Dutch pronunciation to be pretty easy, except that I often swap the gutteral G sound with the similar H sound. "Heel goed" (very good) often comes out "geel hoed" (yellow hat).

Tried to lunch outside (but out of the cold wind) at the Briarpatch, Winter Park. They seated me, then forgot me. I counted to honderd and walked. And I really had wanted their Gorgonzola and Walnut salad, the one that, among other things, induces labor.

Last Walk to the Park

Diary

This morning I walked from my home to "the park" in downtown Winter Park, less than a mile. The park is, of course, the Center Of The Universe. In any case: I want to show you what I'm leaving.

Click below to see the pictures and story. It amounts to close to 900 KB, which is only 20 seconds' download by DSL, but about 3 minutes by dial-up (phone modem) connection. I think they are well worth it. This will be the only time I post this.

   » Click here for pictures, etc...

Two Saturday Visitors

Diary

#1: Aubrey drove up, waving, just as I opened the garage door. She used to live next door, and I was lovesick for her for a few weeks, and I hadn't seen her since she moved to California three years ago. This week she was in town on business, and this sunny Saturday she was driving around her old stoming grounds with her mom, who came up on the train from West Palm Beach. The probability is 100% that I'll never again see her or her mother--or her two wonderful children (pictures of whom at right).

#2: So I'm trying to get e-mail on my new laptop (my lifeline for the next two years), and the doorbell rings. It's one of my scientists--well, mine except that Minute Maid laid us both off last week. He has dropped in unannounced. He goes on about how stupid the layoffs were, how shortsighted the R&D strategy, how strange life is. As if this this is news. He wagged his finger at me (no, he's not Dutch): I must have set my house's price too low if it sold so fast. He asked if I was bored at home. Uh, well, no, after all I have three days to pack for a international move. This question, and he is the one still going to the office a week after they laid him off. I saw that movie: Falling Down. Finally he left, and it would have been better to remember him without this last bit of pathos.

Last Florida Tour

Diary

Took a long drive yesterday, visiting my favorite haunts around the Gulf coast. Pictures are great, and I'll post them later this week as an attachment to this entry.

Inverness--Stopped only to see the Lakes District library, where I spent many a rainy Saturday researching my novel. I monopolized their microfilm machine for hours at a time, and they never asked what I was doing or for anything from me. Service all too rare, these days. Sincere thanks, Citrus County.

Homosassa Springs--Went straight for the terrific Homosassa Springs Wildlife State Park. Park on US 19 and take the 20 minute boat ride over and back: it's the best part. Pelicans, gators, ibis, cooters, snakes, all sorts of vermin. They have whooping cranes now, and a hippo, and 20 or so gators as large as I have ever seen. (I wish I had the pictures ready!) The boat ride over is talky and overly explanatory, but the one back is silent and much better, riding between branches and under a slice of blue sky between the trees. Then the first whiff of traffic noise is in its way a little sad. And, unfortunately, not enough time for one last pitcher of beer and one last pool cue across the back of the head at Filthy McNasty's.

Port Inglis Restaurant--I have no idea why I like this glorioiusly shabby little place so much. Sometime when I was cooped up in the big city, the hostess, a pretty wall-eyed little girl, turned into a young beauty. Lunch was salad, crabmeat-stuffed flounder, mashed potatoes, baked beans, bread, and tea--for less money than I could believe.

Jena--Got the long drive out of the way midday (poor photo lighting, anyway) to Jena and the extremely remote area south out of there. Witnessed a near accident, when a young fellow towed his airboat and trailer up the steep and very primitive boat ramp way too fast and nearly dumped it and three people riding in it into the sawgrass. The long drive was probably not worth it, but I got some great photos there and nearby.

Cross City--If you fly into Florida very often, you will hear the airline pilots mention that you're crossing over Cross City. I found the airport, but I could not find the radio beacon that I know must be on the field. Oh, well, perhaps pilots obsess about such things.

Cedar Key--Hasn't changed a bit. Still a water-going vessel of some kind parked in every lawn and between every two houses. Found the sandy spot where I got a pontoon boat stuck in a rapidly rising tide. To pass under the bridge and into the marina, you can hit your head even at low tide--at least I can. Don't ask how I know.

Yankeetown--Otter heaven. Every single person I drove by waved sincerely. It's all trees and walking the dog and boats. Where I'm taking my next US vacation.

Crystal River--over the high bridge over the defunct Barge Canal, past the nuclear power plant, and into Crystal River, dying for my traditional ice cream on the deck over the docks. The lights are on and there are people inside, but a sign in the window is swinging "Closed." My watch says 8:02. They are in fact closed. I have no idea when I'll ever be back.

A long day, probably too long. I realized more and more that my only chance of getting Florida out of my system, to get any sense of closure, is to actually finish writing the novel, to make some use of the thousands of pages of notes. If yesterday's 400 miles of driving offers only that (plus great pictures soon for you folks!), they were worth it.

Tomorrow I must seriously pack for the movers are here early, the day after.

"Florida 5-0"

Diary

And yes, today is my 50th birthday. It's lost in the shuffle, and that's just as well.

And the shuffle is immense. The whole house is filled with colored sticky notes:

• "NL" on green to go to Naarden (no access for 3 months--I can live with that).


• "CHI" on yellow to stay in storage in Chicago (committed now to zero access for 2 years--I hate that).


• "X" on really irritating, fluorescent red for "Movers: can't touch this." Most of this won't fit in my car, of course--thank goodness for UPS.

Happy Freaking Birthday

Diary

Solo dinner last night at wonderful Panullo's. A delicious pasta dish; I send most of it back, though--no appetite. I can't even take it in a box--no place to put it or reheat it, no forks or dishes to eat it with. I'm old and tomorrow morning I'm homeless. I toss all night, can't sleep at all.

Moving Out -- Day One

Diary

The morning cardinal announcing his claim to my back yard, and a barred owl hooting somewhere. These are the last birds I will hear on waking for a very long time.

The movers were excellent, and waited indulgently on the hundred decisions they needed from me: Chicago storage (2 years) vs. Naarden vs. leave it in the house vs. take it in the car. I realized the car could not take all I wanted during my three months' corporate apartment campout--can I live without a rhyming dictionary? My desktop computer and monitor?--so I started shipping boxes of stuff. And so far as I know the movers labelled everything correctly--I won't know until three months from now when I unbox things in Naarden.

The temperature peaked at 87F/31C, and the three of us went through something like 12 liters of bottled water. The movers went much faster than I expected, and when they left at 6 I stayed to sort things I should have done earlier, instead of driving around Florida last Sunday, for example. I got to the hotel room at 11 and slept like the dead.

Moving Out -- Day Two

Diary

Woke disoriented, to the grinding of hotel room air-conditioner cycling on and off at my elbow. Not a bird to be heard. This room is supposed to be an exact clone of where I'll spend my first three months in Illinois. At the house I'm abandoning, from the bed to the office requires 38 steps. The longest dimension of my new quarters requires 7. Your days of spaciousness are so over, dude--get used to it.

The moving crews came in large trucks that were very hard to move in and out of narrow, tree-canopied Clarendon Avenue, so I started to buy lunch for all. I closed my car's trunk and realized my keys were inside. It ws already 1:30 pm and everyone was very hungry. AAA said they could open my car, but that it would seal off the trunk when they did, so they wouldn't come. Lexus wouldn't help because my car was (way) out of warranty. While on hold for an independent locksmith, I rummaged in a kitchen drawer and found--a spare car key I didn't know I had! Soon I was scrubbing the oak pollen from an outdoor card table and laying out lunch for the workers, who were none the wiser.

In the afternoon, we had 8 people working. The crate makers had to move their saw table into my garage when it started raining. In the boiling hot afternoon, two former coworkers, ones not laid off but screwed in other ways on Black Thursday, called me with excellent job news. The talent at my previous employer all seem to be finding other, better jobs. I'm happy for them, of course, but the revengeful satisfaction I thought I might feel towards the company never comes. It's just sad all around.

Click below for PICTURES (total ca. 300KB, 1 minute with phone-line modem) of my unnerving but ultimately successful packing and move-out.

   » Click here for pictures, etc...

On the Road: Florida to the Smokies

Diary

[pictures to be posted in a later rev of this page...]

From the radio alarm, savage rock and roll (the Red Hot Chili Peppers?) ranting: Make It Happen. Indeed. This is the day I leave Florida

Check out of lovely Candlewood Suites. At very first faint light on the horizon, got outside to the roar of I-4 traffic.

Breakfast: my last cherished German Chocolate Danish at Panera. Anonymously (except to you!) dropped a large, 84-year-old, detailed map of Orange County to an unspecified Historical Society, just in front of their entrance. Hope they like it, otherwise, I suppose I committed littering or something.

Packed the car, taking advantage of the car's convex windows by lashing small boxes to large ones with strapping tape. Ended up shipping anyway: one suitcase holding a fan, silver dish, phone charger, and three or four other last minute things, strictly because it was cheaper to ship than to replace them. Didn't get started until 10--I had hoped for 8, ha ha. Fueled up the car--should I buy my gas from Shell, to be loyal to the Dutch? increased tire air pressure, and on the road.

Florida's hyperactive bird life gave me one last show--high above Fairbanks Avenue, a crow was tormeting an osprey who was trying to return to his large nest atop a cell phone tower.

Throwing quarters to pay tolls now, since I turned in my transponder yesterday. It's hard not to drive through at 45--I mean of course 35--risking a collision with some poor slob who stopped in my lane to toss his coins, which of course is exactly what everyone in that lane is supposed to do.

I have lived most of my adult life in Florida, and since there is hardly a place between Orlando and Georgia that I haven't lived, had friends, or visited with lovers, it should not be surprising that every few miles evoked a memory:

Before even leaving Orange County, I passed the soaring interchange to the new SR 429 freeway to Apopka...

At the other end of which, right then at 11:00, my former Minute Maid coworkers were roaming the halls asking each other possibly the only coherent question they would ask or hear all day: "Are you lunchifiable?"

On the Turnpike, passed mile marker 272...

Where in 2001 I slid my car sideways 300 feet into a deep ravine. Fun in its way, but once per life is enough, thank you.

Passed the state highway 19 exit...

Somewhere up there, to the north, within earshot of SR 19's high bridge south of Eustis, lies a sloping field where four years ago I attended the funeral for Brenda's daughter. All those high school kids weeping.

I didn't dare waste my one last opportunity to shoot the finger at Ronald Reagan, or rather the idiotic Florida Turnpike sign "Ronald Reagan Turnpike" which no one but a few Yahoos State Senators (but I repeat myself) has ever called it. See below for reason why I hate Ronald Reagan more than Death.

Stopped to vacuum all the sand from the floorboards, and especially to vacuum the oak pollen from the air-vent intakes. If I have to give up Florida's good parts, I might as well jettison the bad parts, too, and as soon as possible.

Passed the Ocala exits...

Where Tari lived. I thought we might have married, but then she called me in Tennessee one day with news that she was pregnant, and as life would have it, not by me. And I looked down on the Holiday Inn where Tari and I attended her sister's wedding reception. And then I passed SR 326 where I had driven so many late nights, delirious with drink and sleep deprivation. How I made it home to Gainesville, intact, all those nights so long ago I will never know.

Passed Gainesville.

Part of me still considers Gainesville the center of the Universe. I think it's fair to say that I became who I am in Gainesville (even if I became a better me later in Knoxville, with Georges). My love of bird song and the dry sound of palm fronds scraping in the wind, my reawakened love of books and intelligent conversation, all derived or solidified in Gainesville.

One employer, the University of Florida, off to my right. Where I thought I was doing pretty well until one day Ronald Reagan decided the US would never need solar energy or something. My research funding went to hell in a handbasket, and so did my prospects there. Lovely. Thanks a hell of a lot.

To my left, ESE (Environmental Science and Engineering), which funded my return to Gainesville after only 1 1/2 years away. Wiped out four years later by "reorganization" which off course would mean layoffs. I left to work for Georges, beating the wipeout by 6 months. In fact, I guess that means I actually beat layoffs once before. Well--Hell of a way to build a career.

And to the left, the trailer park, where dearest Dawn, to whom I had lost my heart, felt compelled to show me not only her new trailer, but the bedroom that she and her new husband had just, er, furnished. Life's worst cruelties can be unintentional.

Crossed over the Santa Fe River, and thus out of Alachua County...

Where 15 years go, almost to the day, I found myself very sad to be leaving Florida a second time, for Tennessee to work for Georges. And now I'm crossing it again, leaving Florida for a third time. Must be some kind of record. Well, if this venture north is as transforming as the one 15 years ago, it will all be more than worth it. I didn't know then if I would ever return to live in Florida. Of course I did, and I'm sure I'll be able to do so again, if I choose to--but not to work. "Working in Florida" and I are now amply demonstrated to be antagonistic.

Passed State Road 47, Lake City to Fort White.

Fort White, entryway to the Ichetucknee River, a natural marvel in the absolute. You get a large inflatable tube and float down for hours among nothing but silence and the natural world. In my last tubing trip there, some friends and my parents and were propelled through a insanely furious, Florida-style summer thunderstorm, which we saw from the water's level. An astonishing, utterly unforgettable sensory experience.

Passed Blue Springs, on the left...

Where on very hot summer day in 1985 I somehow heard Susan's ten-year-old daughter screaming in a different way out in the deep water, and I dove in after her before the others realized she was in trouble. Talk about winning a mother's love. Only 1%-heroic thing I ever did. All those people there that day are all scattered who-knows-where, now.

A stupendously silly picture of my old car's very first baby step outside Florida. 134490 miles, and it has never been outside Florida. Bundled everything back into the car's trunk (in Florida), got in, and closed the driver's door (in Georgia). See that dapper fellow leaning on the car?--do please leave comments on this blog sometime, if you would, to him.
 

This is of course more of a crossing for me than for the car. At the time, I was more occupied with the ritual of setting up the camera, trying not to get hit by a truck, worrying about chiggers in the weeds than I was occupied with the crossing into my new life. Sometimes I think these ritual photos and receptions and wakes and the like actually serve as distractions from the momentous crossings that are going on. We say that we are "marking" the event, but I wonder if the urge for ritual developed because we