A Quiet Sunday.

I got a call early Sunday from my neighbor, who recently purchased a pretty green Defender 90, a Land Rover variant with a short and cloudy history here in the U.S. He’d just gotten wind of a Land Rover meetup in Columbia and asked if I’d like to ride along.

Well, duh!

We found a line of Rovers in a restaurant parking lot and walked around, chatting up the other folks in attendance; in comparison to the Scout aficionados I used to meet with, these were generally older, wealthier people with an affinity for offroading and the horrors of English electronics. Over a barbecue lunch, we swapped stories ad tips with some of the other owners, and I was tempted sorely by several people who tried to win me over to the dark side (I was wearing a Scout T-shirt). I told them it really wouldn’t be that hard—if I didn’t have a Scout, I’d have an old series Rover for certain. And, of course, there was an example present that made me a little misty:

This is an absolutely cherry Series 1, an exceptionally early example, done up in a paint scheme and soft top color that took my breath away, because it reminded me of an old friend:

I miss my old girl.

The New Face Of The State Police

Expression Engine vs Textpattern

A review of Expression Engine vs Textpattern.

Potty Humor.

One of the little things that’s been annoying me since we moved into this house is the general suckitude of the upstairs toilet. The whole bathroom is shite, really; the walls are uneven, the bathtub is old, the linoleum-over-tile floor is disgusting, and the sink is one of those separate-faucet deals where hot and cold come out of different spigots. Want to wash your hands with warm water? Sorry. Your choices are SCALDING or FREEZING. But the toilet has been the main offender lately. Dating back to the Korean War, it was a 5-gallon model that saw the harsher side of eight children before we ever got here. Tiny hairline cracks in the bowl refused to come clean. Stains in the porcelain (not ours) defied scrubbing and chemicals. As if that wasn’t bad enough, it had a noticable instability from side to side—not the most confidence-inspiring feeling when taking care of business. Possibly the most annoying thing, though, is the fact that it didn’t flush. There is nothing more embarrassing than having to stand in there with the door closed, flushing the thing four times to make sure the package has been delivered.

This past weekend I decided to use some of my hard-earned homeowner skills and replace the balky old beast with a pretty new low-consumption unit from Lowe’s. I did a bunch of research (in a strange bit of serendipity, the latest issue of This Old House mentioned a Canadian-sponsored study on toilets, which I found online; there was so much exhaustive data there I pretty much gave up. Apparently Canucks have nothing better to do than chart toilet flushing power in inscrutable Excel spreadsheets and debate the merits of sponges vs. soy paste for test material) and settled on the American Standard Cadet 3, which will, apparently, flush a bucket of golf balls with 1.6 gallons of water. Sold!

Last night, I gathered up some buckets, plumber’s wrenches, rags, and newspaper, and had the old toilet drained and off the floor in a half an hour. Cleaning off the flange and surrounding floor, I saw no glaring problems, and prepared the new toilet base for its maiden voyage. Settling it onto the flange, it bolted right up, and I was about to fetch the tank, when I tested it for stability. It rocked back and forth as badly as the old unit did. Bolting it as tight as I dared without breaking the porcelain, I couldn’t keep it from rocking sideways—a bad omen. Wood shims on either side didn’t correct the issue, which defied logic, and my stomach began to clench up as I realized what the issue was: I leaned the bowl all the way to the left and lifted it off the floor. Underneath, bolted snugly to the base of the toilet, was the brass flange, now unconnected to the lead pipe leading into the cement floor.

In a morning phone conversation with a trusted plumber, I was told the old-school way was to connect a lead junction up to the top of the iron pipe, and then a brass flange was fitted over the lead. The sides of the lead were hammered down over the brass to “connect” it, and the job was finished. Gotta love the old school, right?

So, until we can get a plumber out here to rectify the situation, my seven months’ pregnant wife has to use the basement toilet, which is the aesthetic equivalent of making her pee in a prison cellblock. I’ve just cleaned up the toilet out on the porch and set it up for us to use in the meantime, but that solution is also substandard at best.

In the meantime, say a prayer to the porcelain god for us: Our Dear Lord John, please show mercy on us. Let the plumber fix our problem without having to tear up half the floor in our bathroom; five projects in this house is enough.

I briefly considered posting some pictures, but you really don’t want to be looking at my toilet drain. Trust me.

Update 11:49AM: Plumber #2 is on the case.

Update 1:28AM: We have a working, functional, shiny new toilet. And the old gas line in the doctor’s exam room is capped off and gone! LET THE POOPING COMMENCE.

My Namesake, in 1996

A client of mine sent this along today, but I can assure you the gentleman in the video is not me. Having been involved with the gaming industry, I’ve been confused with this fellow before. (Youtube link)

Honcho.

Gone are the days, sadly, when a major car manufacturer would actually print the word Honcho on the side of a vehicle. This is no pantywaisted leather cocoon of luxury. This is a man’s man’s vehicle. (craigslist link)

Dear English Cucumber.

It’s nearing the end of the sixth month, kid, and we’re suddenly feeling like we’re way behind on everything. There are showers to consider, interviews with pediatricians, rooms to outfit, college applications to file… Wisely, we decided to take on two of the more daunting tasks this Sunday, setting up a shower registry and looking for some decent maternity wear for your mother:

1. Baby Megastore

You’d think this would be a slam dunk, right? The only baby megastore on this side of town is only a short distance away from our house. We’ve been to this store before to buy shower gifts for other friends and come away unimpressed with both the selection and the staff. Yesterday we were greeted by a surly girl behind the registry desk who handed us off to a second, quieter girl, who struggled with a fleet of barcode scanners for a full ten minutes before giving up and sending us into the store weaponless. It was here we met up with our first major obstacle: bottles.

Perhaps a lifestyle change is in order

As we quickly learned, choosing a particular bottle brand and model is sort of like declaring a religion. There are so many things to consider: Does it contain Bisphenol A? Slow, medium, or fast flow? Silicone nipple or latex? Aerated or traditional? Does it fit with the breast pump model we like? Can it be used as a flotation device? Already overwhelmed, we turned the corner to find even more bottles and a rack of electric accessories—heaters, warmers, and cleaners; glass bottles, for the folks who don’t trust plastic at all, and some weird european-looking stuff that only barely resembled containers. Our sheaf of printouts from the Consumer Reports website didn’t cover any of this. What do we pick? Just then, the girl at the registry desk came up and handed us a barcode scanner she’d got working, which added another ten tons of pressure to make a decision. After a quick conference, we decided to punt on bottles and wade further inward. Set phasers on buy, Mr. Scott.

Car mirror, check. First aid kit, check. Baby washing tub, check. Did you know they have baby washing spas? Seriously, a little plastic clawfoot tub with jets and bubbles and a showerhead. Sorry, Cuke, you’re not getting a nicer bathtub than Mommy and Daddy—we’re one step above a washrag and a bucket. Three aisles in, we hit the stroller section, which I’d come prepared for. I found the one CR ranked their Best Buy and was about to grab a box off the shelf, when your mother turned me around by the shoulders, smacked me upside the head, and showed me a wall of car seat systems, where the seat snaps into and out of a car base, a stroller, a trebuchet, a hoverjet, and a Gundam mobile suit. And just like that, my printouts were worthless.

CONNECT THEM ALL TO FORM VOLTRON!

Further in, we came to diapers, another discussion topic, mainly focusing on the choice between helping save the environment vs. stuffing the landfill with mountains of Lockardugan poop bombs. Punting again, we waded through fields of ugly, overblown, and expensive baby furniture displays with price tags higher than our quarterly tax bill. By the time we made it over to the bedding and linen section, we were exhausted, and we only had ten things in our little phaser. Somewhere around the receiving blankets, we gave up on finding anything we liked, handed our scanner back to the girl, and fled the store.

2. Cheap Trendy Clothing Chain

The company website has a whole section of pretty maternity clothes. Unfortunately, nobody in their right mind would order clothing straight from the website, because the clothes are made so poorly it’s impossible to know if it will fit correctly without trying something on.

The brick-and-mortar store, where normal people have to go to try on the cheap clothes, has no maternity section. The bored employee your mother asked told her They’re? out? on the floor? mixed in with the clearance merchandise? in that annoying upwards cadence most teenagers have these days. She lied too. There was no maternity clothing anywhere in the store. There was a time when walking into this store meant being accosted by seventeen teenagers with those stupid headsets. Today, there were none to be seen anywhere. A badly managed location, or a sign of the economy’s current strength?

3. Wonderful Minnesota-Based Department Store, Local Version

Maternity clothing: Not so much. In fact, it’s sort of a joke. They take the trouble to hang a “maternity” sign from the ceiling, the same size as “shoes” or “toys”, and the section consists of three bombed-out racks with a bagful of merchandise, all size Small or XXXL. And it’s all stuff I wouldn’t give my grandmother.

Baby stuff:

We have found calm and peace. There is a wall of bottles here, but in some way it is less threatening, less confronting. At the Superstore, the display is monumental; its sheer size and breadth leave the first-time consumer gasping for air (or wishing for a stiff drink). Here there are eight or nine bottle systems, but they are contained, organized, and somehow friendlier. Everything we might need as new parents is here, contained in six or seven neat aisles, and the selection is better. The designs here speak to us immediately, where the $400 tulle/leopardskin/patchwork/shabby chic bedding sets at the Superstore made us run in horror.

Jen looked at this and said, “They call it a backpack, but it’s really there to distract people from the fact that you have your child on a leash.”

The furniture is reasonable, the car seat system selection is strong, and they have prices that don’t make my wallet burst into flames. Sold!

A Strange Visit.

Working in the backyard on Sunday morning, Jen came to me and asked if I’d seen the instrument case hidden behind the neighbor’s garage that abuts our yard. I went to investigate and found a full-size cello case laying on its side in a pile of brush behind our mulch piles, not a place I’d prefer to see a stringed wooden instrument stored. Fearing someone had stashed it there for nefarious reasons, I placed it upright and we left it there for the day to see if someone came to claim it.

At dusk, I went back out and swapped it for a small note taped to the wall of the garage: “We didn’t want your friend getting wet. Ring the bell at the blue house.” (It was threatening to rain last night). Inside the case is a full-size student cello, made last year, in great shape save a cracked neck arch.

Something about this is very wrong; the house behind us is occupied by a single woman with no children. The garage itself is locked, but there’s a canvas awning to the side where the cello could have been stored out of the weather and eyesight. And why not the back porch of the house? If a child was locked out of the house, only to come back later, why not just leave it up there? This smells fishy to me, like someone stole it and stashed it.

So what should I do if someone actually does come to claim it? My respect for stringed instruments (I played upright bass for eight years) says I shouldn’t on easy on the punk who left it outside; it’s going to depend on who rings the bell, I suppose. If it’s a concerned parent, it’s a no-brainer. If it’s a nervous kid, do I call their folks? If it’s a tweaker, I ask them to describe it and see how they do, but what then? Ideas?

How to buy a DSL camera lens

Macworld – How to buy a camera lens. A good primer without getting too technical.

Custom Cadillac

Best custom car ever. You will laugh your ass off, I guarantee.

Bored with Music.

Today is one of those days when I look at all 100GB of music in my iTunes library, and I don’t want to hear any of it. What’s wrong with me?

Nerf office war. Looks like viral marketing, in which case it’s pretty good viral marketing.

Ice on Mars

Mars lander finds bits of ice, according to NASA. Ice, bitches! If it’s true, this could be a huge step for travel and colonization.

Sorry, Buddy.

You had the misfortune of finding your way into the most unfriendly house possible, and paid for it with your life. We’re really a bird-loving house, if you can believe that; the fact that we have four cats does not diminish our respect for your beauty or abilities. When my pregnant wife brought you out to me, a look of focused concern on her face, I knew things weren’t good for you, even before I saw the blood on your breast. You were fighting to hold on, even though every nerve in your body was screaming FLY AWAY DAMMIT, but we could tell your back was most likely broken and all the wires were crossed. Instead, you laid in her small hand and defiantly stared at us with one dark eye, all three of us knowing what was coming and powerless to stop it.

In death you look less like a warrior and more like a disheveled pile of feathers, earthbound and cold. I apologize for not being skilled enough to capture your real essence: master of the sky, weightless and free, the way we all wish to live.

Where Were You in 1998?

Code Rush is a fascinating documentary on the early days of the web, highlighting the efforts of Netscape to release open-source versions of Mozilla all the way through to their acquisition by AOL. I’ve read about some of the historical moments recorded here, but it’s fun to turn the clock back and see them on tape.

As I look back at that time period, I wish I’d been more forward-thinking and gotten more heavily involved in the Internet earlier, but I was still working in print design. (How I ever made a living at print design is still a mystery to me; I wasn’t very good at it). I’ve long been considering a part-time return to college to get an edumocation in computer science so that I can start building things instead of just making them pretty. One of the things I like best about designing for the web is problem solving, and, lord knows, there’s a ton of that in programming.

Day Lily.

Dear Rutabega.

Good morning little one. Your mother and I spent our weekend in a large, cold conference room at the hospital with a trio of other expectant couples and a very nice doula talking about you. The object was to learn about policies and procedures at the facility and to get all us parents-to-be prepared for what’s coming. What this actually translated to was a series of talking points outlined with Xeroxed handouts and punctuated with unintentionally hilarious videos produced in 1983. They starred awkward couples with feathered hair, going through the stages of natural childbirth. The first couple was pretty relaxed even though it looked like they were late to a Journey concert, and when the baby finally did appear we were all relieved to not be staring at the husband’s bald spot anymore. The second segment made an example of how expectant mothers often need something to focus on while laboring: the husband said soothing words, massaged her back, and then held up a photograph of a cat. I don’t know how your mother is going to handle labor, but I’m pretty sure staring at a picture of our cat would make her feel rather foolish. I think some pictures of the things she’s not been allowed to have might provide more of a focusing effect, like a plate of sushi or a vodka tonic. GET THIS BABY OUT, MOMMY WANTS A DRINK.

We talked about medication and procedures and choices and outcomes, and the one thing that struck me about some of the other women was that they knew less about what was coming than I did. It’s not their fault, really; we live in a society that separates the realities of birth and death from everyday life, which is really backwards: none of the four women in the class had seen a live birth, something our ancestors’ women were guaranteed at an early age. I got the feeling, based on comments made by the doula, that some women view inducement as a procedure no more troublesome than a routine dentist’s appointment. A few of the women seemed to have limited knowledge about C-sections, and during the video when they yanked the uterus out of the woman’s stomach and flopped it around like a gutted fish to examine it, it wasn’t just us guys who looked queasy. Had that been my wife and I was in the room, it would take three nurses and 150 cc’s of strong horse tranquilizer to keep me from pulling that surgeon’s testicles directly over his head for a quick “exam”. I think a strong case for natural childbirth can be made solely on the bedside manner of surgeons vs. obstetricians: the surgeon in the video was pulling on the baby’s body to get the head out of the incision like a plumber working over a clogged drain.

I did learn a lot from the classes, though, and it was very helpful to see the birthing rooms (very swank, with a commanding view of the city), the recovery rooms (not as swank, but they’ll do) and the rest of the hospital. From what it sounds like now, many of the hospital policies are in line with our wishes—the “bed” can be moved to provide a natural birthing position; the mother can move around as much as possible before delivery; and baby stays with mother in both the birthing and recovery rooms. They’ll even do the exam in the room after delivery, which is what we’re going to request.

Let me say for the record that I am constantly amazed and awed by the strength and poise your mother has shown over the last six months. Your mother is the quarterback, offensive line, and coach all in one, but I’m just the water-carrier. I’ve been remiss in my duties as father-to-be and birthing coach lately, but I plan to make up for that in the coming months. Today you’re going to get poked a bit by the OB, and we’re going to have a serious discussion about the birthing plan, which is still under development, but we have a much better handle on what we’d like and what we don’t like.

Finally, we’re thrilled you like collard greens as much as we do, because the amount of leafy vegetables we’re getting from the organic farm is pretty ridiculous. Keep that appetite up, kid.

Barn Light Electric

There’s a wide variety of beautiful lighting fixtures at Barn Light Electric, although I don’t know how the prices stack up to other suppliers.

That Could Have Gone Better.

Remember when we were kids, and we’d play games out in the street or in someone’s backyard, and we’d call a do-over? Somebody’d kick the ball into a bush, or a car would come down the road right in the middle of an important play, and it was universally understood that things would just rewind a couple of minutes and start again, like erasing a videotape. Well, I’d like a do-over for most of yesterday, please.

It started out on an upbeat note; Mr. Scout brought over the window regulator for the Jeep and we tore the door down to put it in; unfortunately, the part was not a match to the one in my Jeep, and there seemed to be no way to use parts from the replacement to fix the broken unit.

We then decided to take advantage of the weather and go back to the pick & pull yard to hunt more Jeeps. It seems that parts (and part vehicles) are more plentiful for Grand Cherokees than for the regular model, both online and in the junkyard, and my particular model (2-door, second generation, power window) is even rarer than the 4-door. We did however find a junked PT Cruiser, which featured luxurious bucket seats that are supposed to be bolt-in replacements for Scout seats. Eight bolts later, we were walking up to the pay area with the seats on our heads, but not before making a detour to a section of the yard we hadn’t seen before, featuring some ancient Detroit iron: a three-porthole Buick, a rounded early 50′s Ford, and a pair of Opels, among other things. I shot about ten pictures, and we were on our way. As we got up to the counter, the redneck in charge of shoplifting told me they have a strict no-camera policy, and made me erase my memory card after giving me some bullshit about smashing lenses.

Returning to the Scout we’d found last week, we pulled a lot of plastic and other rare parts, having no luck pulling the hubs or the seat bases. It was about this time I checked my phone and found this lovely sight:

I don’t know when or how it happened, but it was enough to ruin my day right there. Strangely, I can still call in and out, and the touchscreen still works on the damaged areas. I’m going to visit the Apple store to see if there’s some kind of repair they can make; if not, it looks like I’ll be purchasing a 3G iPhone earlier than I planned.

My afternoon was spent working on an illustration; I decided to experiment with an idea I’d had a few months ago to see what results I’d get, using the negative space instead of the positive. The results were a lot less than I’d hoped for.

The linework looks cheaper, like a quick marker drawing, and not expressive like I’d imagined. It also could be because I’ve been having problems getting my cutting nibs to vary line weights properly—they seem to get dull very quickly, which is not what I’m used to. If I could regulate line weight better, I’d be happier with the results.

I took the same sketch and started making a traditional cut, and about three-quarters of the way through I realized the initial sketch, while reasonably good, did not capture McCain the way it should, and the resulting piece looks like someone else (Jen says it’s Ed McMahon). His head is not as long as I’d made it here, and his distinguishing features aren’t represented well enough.

There were several highlights from yesterday, so it’s not like I was constantly followed by a black stormcloud: we have Andersen 400-series windows officially on order for the front porch. Jen had a great client meeting on a new project, and we got our second delivery from the organic farm (I don’t know how we’re going to eat all this lettuce, chard, and spinach). I was just hoping to produce a success of my own, something I’m sure everyone can understand.

So it’s back to the drawing board for Jeep, phone, and scratchboard.

Update: One trip to the Apple Store, my choices were thus:

1. Continue to use the busted phone and guess at everything on the left side of the screen.

2. Wait until July and buy a new 3G iPhone for $200, but take an additional $10/mo. hit on my data plan.

3. Spend $250 to replace my iPhone with another 1st gen model.

I chose 3, because I’d love to have the 3G but I don’t want to pay AT&T an additional $120/mo. for features I may not even use. As it was, when the Genius rang me out, he told me happily they’d just reduced the replacement cost from $250 to $199, so I “saved” a little more money.

Upon inspection of the iPhone cases available at the store, only a select few might have protected my phone from catastrophic screen damage, and they tended to be the ugliest offerings on the shelf. (Imitation calfskin? stitched black leather? I don’t think so).

Dear Ear of Corn.

Hello little one. I don’t have a whole lot of time to write today, but I’d just like to say thanks for re-arranging your room and cleaning up before the doctor’s visit yesterday.

We’re glad to see the placenta has raised to the right place, which means the chances of having to use the escape hatch instead of the front door have decreased dramatically. The checkup looked great, and you’re growing at a perfect rate: the tech said you’re around one pound ten ounces, and your heartbeat is strong. Our only concern right now is that you’re facing ass-first; if you don’t move yourself around some, the OB is gonna have to lay hands on your mother and spin you right round baby, right round.