Unoccupied.

I was getting used to driving past the collection of tents and banners in McKeldin Park every morning, and happy to see the fruits of civil protest at work. However, with temperatures in the 20′s overnight, I’ve been wondering how these dedicated folks were going to make it through the winter. I guess the city decided it for them, and from the sparse reports I’ve heard it was peaceful.

The Update.

We’ve got a generator humming noisily in the backyard, connected via a 100-foot cord to our refrigerator. We had to throw out a couple hundred dollars’ worth of frozen food yesterday, even after we’d iced it down, which made me sick to my stomach. BG&E still claims we’ll be online sometime Friday evening, but I don’t believe anything they say right now. It seems like Baltimore County is the only place left in Maryland having problems getting power back.

We’ve got alternate housing plans for the Outer Banks next week; a house has been reserved in our name between Duck and Corolla north of the bridge, which means we just need to get down there in time to avoid Hurricane Katia. Special thanks go to Mr. Scout and his lovely wife, who did the legwork to save Christmas.

Shaky Ground.

I was plugged into my headphones at work when I felt the first rumble, and at first I thought it was just another big truck driving by on Redwood Street. The rumble went on for too long and was too severe to be a truck, and just as I was pulling my headphones off, my coworkers were asking what was happening. We all started saying Earthquake at about the same time, and that was right as the first wave passed. Then, the second, more powerful one hit, and I felt the floor start moving in ripples underneath my feet. Another coworker came tearing down from upstairs, yelling, “Get out of the building!” and we all jumped from our desks like we’d been shot out of a cannon. Feet down pounding the stairs, outside to the street, where other people emptied out of their buildings and stood around gaping at the sky like us. Sirens wailed across the city. People stared into their cellphones and texted frantically. I’d left my phone, wallet, and keys on the desk upstairs, so I stood around feeling stupid until we decided the coast was clear, then went back upstairs to an “all circuits are busy” message and the magic of the Internet to confirm my girls were OK.

Werner’s is closing

Not surprising, considering how bad the food sucked. It’s a shame, because ten years ago it was still really good; the new owner rode it into the ground.

The Runaround.

Maybe it’s me. Maybe I’m just dumb, or don’t speak English correctly, or have a short attention span. Whatever the case, I can’t make heads or tails of the Baltimore County Land Records website. All I want to do is get a better copy of the plat for our property, so that I might begin the process of understanding exactly where the fuck my lawn ends and where the neighbors’ begins. The copy of a fax of a copy I have shows a trapezoid with vague and blobby notations of distance, but no point of triangulatory reference for anything except the west corner of our road frontage. Which means our garage could be in someone else’s yard. And there’s no mention of actual distance from the pavement to the beginning of our property, just a smudgy line which could be our hedgerow. Apparently I will need to hire a surveyor, at the approximate cost of one months’ salary, just to nail a ribbon on a tree and say “It’s here”. Before I can do that, I have to get the plat, and in order to do that (as far as I can tell from this suck-ass website) I have to make an appointment, with… somebody. There are names and numbers listed, but none of them say “I’m the guy who will help you get that thing you need”. Searching on their website for the obvious stuff, like “copy of plat” returns a “Google Custom Search Result”, which is quickly becoming Internet shorthand for “we don’t give a rat’s ass about you, and we’re too cheap to catalog anything properly.”

* * *

In the meantime, I’m shopping for a new laptop. Idiot Central, the 17″ MacBook Pro I’ve had for four years, has only sported half a usable screen for the last month or so, and I’m tired of not being able to use it without an external monitor. I’m also really sick and tired of opening my bag to find that it mysteriously woke from sleep and cooked itself like a Hot Pocket. The trackpad button has been sticking in the down position, which means it’s always wanting to select something. It’s still a good, fast machine, so it’ll likely end up as a production unit on my desk, but its days as a primary computer are done. I use a laptop mainly as a travel rig these days, so I’m looking at a 13″ MacBook Pro as a replacement. It’s portable, small, and fast, and I don’t have the extra $500 to pony up for a 15″.

Update: It gets better. Remember how I was talking about the trackpad sticking? I did a little poking around this evening. The trackpad sits directly under the battery compartment.

See that bulge? That means the battery is fooked. It’s been swelling in the center and putting direct pressure on the trackpad above. I guess it bulged to the point where it finally disabled the trackpad completely. The funny thing is, my boss at work, who also has a 17″ MBP of similar vintage, just had his battery replaced today at the Apple Store due to the exact same issue. I have to see if he got it replaced under warranty or not, because I think we may be heading to the Columbia location this weekend, and we may be walking out with a new iPhone, a MacBook Pro, and a replacement battery.

Perspectives.

I was walking down the stairs of my parking garage, lost in my own thoughts, when a peculiar sight stopped me dead in my tracks. A single Marine, in crisp dress blues, stood in front of a hookah bar, saluting a bouquet of flowers. I struggled to pull my camera from my bag before he finished, but was only able to snap off one shot before he spun on his heel and marched away.

His dedication to his fellow soldier, and the bitter irony of the dead Marine’s story made me appreciate my life that much more.

Officer in held in shooting

After an inexcusable delay, the fucknut off-duty Baltimore police officer who shot a guy outside a nightclub last week is now in custody. He’s claiming the guy he shot was threatening him, and “did what he had to do”, which apparently means “empty your service revolver into an unarmed man.” For the record, I’m pro-police. But every gun-happy jerk like this makes the whole force look bad. My reasoning:

documents obtained by The Baltimore Sun under a public information act request show that Tshamba was also disciplined in 2005 after he shot and wounded a man after getting into an altercation while driving drunk.

Uh-huh. Why am I not surprised? Kick his ass off the force. It should have been done in 2005.

Building Used On ‘Homicide’ To Become Hotel – wjz.com

I suppose I shouldn’t be too surprised: Building Used On ‘Homicide’ To Become Hotel. Apparently Baltimore city sold the Recreation Pier to developers for $2 million, and they will turn it into a $35 million, 132-room hotel. Because, you know, Baltimore doesn’t have enough hotels already.

City Life. Last night Jen and I drove into the city to watch the Washington monument be lit for Christmas. As mentioned before, we’re both struggling to get into the holiday spirit now that Thanksgiving is over, so the offer to enjoy some fireworks and hot chocolate was a welcome one. Cabbing up to Charles street, we walked to the base of the statue and found ourselves in front of the Mayor, who was surrounded by two burly security guards and quietly talking to a couple of mounted police.

We decided it was time to get some warm drinks, so we looped around the museum and waded into the square in front of the stage, which was ringed with booths selling food and drink. After buying a couple of burritos (nothing like a burrito in December in front of a gospel choir singing Christmas carols to get you in the mood!) the Mayor led the crowd in the countdown, and they shot off fireworks.

After the celebration was over, we walked back down Charles street and bumped into a friend of Jen’s, whose boyfriend runs a new restauraunt downtown, and decided to join them for drinks.

Now, a little Baltimore history here: Back in 1989, when I was new in town and wanted to go out drinking without getting carded (before I got my in at the Tavern), my roommate Pat and I would wander down Charles Street to a little jazz pub called Buddies. I don’t know how we found the place, or how we knew it would serve us (although I suspect it was through our friend Jay, who had already scoped the entire city’s offerings in an alcoholic haze), but there was Guinness on tap, the lights were low, and the barmaid on Saturday nights was beautiful. The band was anchored by a ruddy-faced drummer named Bing, and he was usually accompanied by a guitarist named Steve, who had a wide Magnum P.I. moustache and an old hollow-body Gretsch. There were a revolving group of horns who came to blow—an alto sax one night, a trumpet the next, and usually they were joined by a student or two from Peabody down the street. We saved our money and drank Boh all week just to afford a pitcher and some nachos (dinner), we tipped well, and always staggered home happy.

Fast forward to 2004; Buddies is gone and replaced with Copra, a complete gutting and rebuilding of the old space. The vibe is very much like San Francisco without the uptight more-beautiful-than-you attitude; the menu is upscale comfort food, and the drinks are poured well. Upstairs is normal dining, and downstairs is a wide room ringed with comfortable couches, a fireplace, and four plasma screens. We relaxed and caught up with some old friends, enjoying our evening.

Sigh.

Snowfall, 12.7.03

In the parking lot of my office building this afternoon: a beautiful half-cab Scout—as beautiful as the half-cab can be—a 1980 (the only year they galvanized the steel and Zeibarted at the factory) diesel with a Meyer plow, with nary a dent or spot of rust. Sweet.

Get Out Of The Way. People in Baltimore just don’t get it about the snow. For the love of God, people, just drive. Don’t slow down to stare at that guy on the side of the road—he’s just pulled over to make a call, not because he’s bleeding from an axe wound. I have to get to work before noon, for cripes’ sake.