I promise to catch up on my posts this weekend!

But for the moment, I'll leave you with this:



and this:

Exciting News!

No, I haven't finished my Paris posts.
No, I haven't finished my Arizona posts.
But yes, I am going out of town again this weekend!

And the reason for my excitement is not so much the destination (Austin, nice as that city may be) as it is the reason for the trip: the ACLU Conference on Civil Rights as Human Rights. I know I was meant to go to this conference, as I stumbled upon an ad for it last weekend. Registration was supposed to have closed weeks ago, but for some reason was still open, and I was able to sign up in time today just before they stopped accepting new attendees. And a friend of mine from Austin needs to stay at my house this weekend while participating in a bridge tournament; we'll have a "pad swap" in which I stay at his place in Austin, so I won't even have to pay for a hotel. Meant to be, I say!*

So, I will go, and learn, and meet people, and let them know I am serious about volunteering and, hopefully, working with them one day, if they will have me! It feels good to be doing something concrete to work toward my dream.



*The only down side is kenneling the dogs again. I already felt guilty and this only increased upon hearing the girl at the kennel say, "K and O?!!? They're regulars here and we love them!" So I guess I won't be going to Chicago next weekend for the Cubs/Cards game on Sunday. Anyone want my ticket?

The wistful look of a player during his last game.

I have lots to write about my trip to Arizona, and not much time in which to write. But I wanted to touch on this before it slips away . . .

I saw today that Marquis Grissom, a guy who was trying to make the Cubs' roster by playing well in spring training, retired today. My heart ached a bit on reading this. Not because I have long loyalty to Marquis--I really don't know much about him at all. But yesterday, I saw the last game he ever played.

Marquis played all nine innings in right field, and for some reason, I happened to see him often and really notice him, whether I was sitting in my seat behind home plate watching him bat or hovering near the end of the first base line, near his spot in right field, to peek at the guys in the bullpen and get a different angle on the scene. And each time I noticed Marquis, I saw a certain expression on his face, a slight wistfulness, and saw that he kept looking around at the crowd when he was playing in the field. I didn't realize it then, but I think now that he knew it was his last game and he was trying to burn the memory into his brain of the sounds of the crowd, and the faces, and all of it, so that he will remember always what that feeling was like, even if the memory only came from a spring training game.

Today, he said: "When it's time, it's time," . . . "I think this is the best thing for me, at this point, to officially hang the cleats up and go home and enjoy the second half of my life and do things I've always wanted to do" . . . "The best thing about [Monday] was I played nine innings and I felt good" . . . "I'm at peace with myself," he said. "I'm happy. I feel the whole world has been lifted off my shoulders. I don't have to do it, I don't have to commit the time. It took its toll. This is the way I want to go out."

Grissom is, according to the linked article, "one of seven players in Major League history to record 2,000 hits, 200 home runs and 400 stolen bases. He was fourth on the active leaders list with 429 stolen bases and is 55th on the big league list, having stolen 20 or more bases in 10 of his 17 seasons." But what strikes me about him is his love for the game and his generosity in supporting the younger players. Today, when I realized the reason for the expression I saw on his face at yesterday's game, it touched me in a way I cannot quite explain. I hope this player who experienced so much on the field, will find a new, but equally satisfying, fulfillment in the second chapter of his life off the field.

(UPDATED) Quick note from the road . . .

today is my last day in Arizona and I won't be downloading the pics or writing about the trip until I return. But I wanted to give you a quick update. Thus far, this is one of the nicest trips I have ever taken, with fascinating and kind people and magical twists at every turn. Yesterday in Sedona was nothing short of spectacular. Last night, I saw a javelina at the side of the road just as I was leaving Sedona to drive back to Phoenix (photo not mine), and it felt like a good omen.



Made it back late last night . . . off to work now, but here are a few pics to tide you over!

My attention span is seriously lacking.

Really, I feel like a 5 year old these days. At work, at home, everywhere, I have an attention span as long as the largest word The Shrub can pronounce correctly. I don't know why. Perhaps it is the onset of Spring weather. Perhaps not. At any rate, I'm going to give you a few random snippets I have pulled out of my memory banks while daydreaming recently.



This winter, I went to my college to attend a memorial service for my favorite professor. Afterward, there was a reception in a church hall. I scanned the crowd, trying to find someone, anyone, who was familiar to me. First I saw another of my professors and his wife. Then I saw a few fellow psychology majors. There was this other guy, one who sat behind me at the service, who looked really familiar, but I wasn't sure how I knew him. I wracked my brain and just couldn't come up with the connection. He was really handsome, but I knew he wasn't a student with me. Later, I was introduced to him by someone else I was chatting with, and it came to me. Before I could think about it, these words popped out of my mouth: "I know you--you were my doctor in college!" The moment the words came out, I was mortified. But it's true: he was my physician during school. And yep, that pretty much ended the conversation, especially when some freak standing nearby made a comment about how he hoped I hadn't been fooled by the guy pretending he was a doctor.



On a totally different note: do you ever wonder about the whereabouts of past crushes or significant others? Not in a stalking way and not in an "I wish I was with him" kind of way, but just in an "I'm curious about whatever became of him" sort of way. I have found myself having those kinds of wonderings lately. Whatever happened to Scott Stephenson, the first crush I remember having, who moved away to Colorado in the third grade (or so) due to his dad being transferred? And what about Moses, the guy I met during my short tenure as a Bennigan's hostess, with whom I ended an otherwise promising relationship for reasons I no longer remember? Jim, of that last carefree high school summer--what has life tossed his way? And what in the world might Wesley, he of the Winnie-the-Pooh tattoo and chosen last name "Robin," be up to these days? I hope their lives have turned out well, as they were each wonderful in their own way.



During my fit of bathroom closet cleaning a few weeks ago, I discovered a stash of jewelry I forgot I had. Some of the pieces hold huge sentimental value for me, for varying reasons. But the ring I put on that day, and have worn every day since, is a small gold one made of two tiny intertwined dolphins. The feel of the metal around my finger brought back vivid memories of the day I purchased the ring, during my post-bar exam backpacking trip to Europe. I was hiking up a really steep hill in Athens, Greece, where friends and I were killing some time before boarding a ferry to the islands. The hill was lined with tiny shops and we ducked in and out as our whims dictated, inspecting the wares to see if a trip souvenir was at hand. In one of the shops, I saw my cute little ring and knew instantly that I wanted it. While I stood at the cash register chatting with the friendly native/shop owner, I admired the framed photo on the wall, in which he stood with his arm around none other than then-President Bill Clinton. Having this ring on my finger again reminds me not only of the circumstance of my purchasing it. When I wear it, I smell the warm, spicy Athens air, feel my muscles straining to climb that hill and feel the lightheartedness that ran like a river through that entire trip, and through my life at that time.

See, I told you: random thoughts.

This story makes me cry.

Yes, this one. In case you don't feel like clicking the link, I'll make reading this story easy for you:

DNA frees man jailed 18 years

Dallas: Judge apologizes, immediately releases worker innocent in rape

08:51 PM CST on Monday, March 20, 2006

By ROBERT THARP / The Dallas Morning News

Gregory Wallis finally allowed himself to be overcome by the moment Monday morning as a judge faced him and apologized for the 18 years he spent locked away.

Wearing borrowed clothes and sporting a fresh prison-issue buzz haircut, the 47-year-old put a burly hand to his brow, breathed purposefully and, for just a moment, lost the fight to keep from sobbing.

Mr. Wallis spent nearly two decades declaring his innocence to anyone who'd listen, but it took two different DNA tests spanning more than a year to finally force the jail doors open.

"You should not be incarcerated – not a moment longer," District Judge John Creuzot said before granting him a personal recognizance bond while his attorneys pursue a legal process that would have him officially declared innocent and pardoned.

"I don't know how to apologize," said Judge Creuzot, who was not involved in the first trial. "I don't know where to start, but I'll start with me and 'I'm sorry.' "

Leaving the courthouse, Mr. Wallis said he's eager to begin his new life. He speculated on his first meal as a free man. "Maybe a steak," he said.

Mr. Wallis was a 29-year-old warehouse worker when he was accused of breaking into a home and attacking a woman in 1988.

The attacker spent hours in the house, so the victim felt confident when she picked Mr. Wallis out of a photo lineup. She even described the rapist as having a tattoo of a woman with long hair and big eyes similar to one that Mr. Wallis had.

Mr. Wallis' photograph was placed in the lineup after police received an anonymous tip that he was involved in the attack.

"I don't know how she picked me," he said. "I was sitting at home, and they came and arrested me. The next thing I know, I'm standing trial."

A jury convicted Mr. Wallis of burglary of a habitation with intent to commit sexual assault and sentenced him to 50 years in prison.

He had been convicted of robbery several times in the past, but had never been known to assault anyone, his attorney said.

At the time of his trial on the rape charge, DNA analysis was not as sensitive as it is today. An expert testified at his trial that authorities could not extract any DNA evidence to test, so the trial relied on the victim's testimony.

On the advice of his attorneys, Mr. Wallis did not testify on his own behalf.

He left the Dallas County Jail for some of the state's toughest "supermax" prisons but said he never gave up. In 2004, he asked for a for a post-conviction DNA analysis of his case.

The process was slow because investigators had to track down new DNA samples from the woman as well as her former boyfriend. They also had to find the original DNA evidence from the attack.

"I didn't give up hope," he said. "I didn't cop out. I kept fighting."

Results of the first test released in December were encouraging but could not entirely exclude Mr. Wallis as a suspect. At that point, Mr. Wallis could have been freed provided that he agreed to live as a registered sex offender for the rest of his life.

That, he said, was unacceptable.

"That ain't me," he said. "That's not in my character."

Mr. Wallis' attorney, public defender Michelle Moore, then asked Judge Creuzot to allow a newer and more sophisticated DNA test.

That analysis, known as a "YSTR" test, was able to take DNA material retrieved from the victim's rape exam and segregate the DNA from the woman, her boyfriend at the time and the attacker.

The second test came back last month and found no match with Mr. Wallis' DNA. It also concluded that whoever smoked a cigarette recovered from the crime scene was the same person who sexually assaulted the woman.

Mr. Wallis said he will now turn his attention to the future. Like others falsely convicted in Texas, he's eligible for up to $250,000 in compensation for the years he spent locked up.

From prison, he learned to repair heating and cooling systems, so he said he'll look for work in that trade.

"I'm going to settle down and get a job ... go fishing," he said.

If people think this false identification/conviction is limited to non-death penalty cases, they are fooling themselves.

Travel planning fun!

In between rearranging pots under my house leaks this weekend, I made plans for my trip to Arizona. Travel planning is one of my favorite parts of a trip . . . I'm flexible with the plans once I arrive, but like to have a nice framework for the trip and options in place. Sometimes I think I enjoy the planning and looking forward to a trip almost as much as the trip itself!

I decided to attend baseball games on Saturday and Monday only, skipping the Sunday game. I'll arrive early Saturday morning and spend a few hours exploring downtown Scottsdale, finding my hotel, seeing if I can cajole them into early check-in, etc. Then I'll go to Ho Ho Kam Park, where the Cubs play, check out the place and see if I can snake a few player autographs before the game. After the game I'll go back to my hotel and relax a bit, perhaps taking a swim. Restaurant for dinner that night is yet to be determined--I really want to go to Don and Charlie's, but right now they appear to have no available reservations.



My Sunday will entail a day-trip to Sedona, which is about 2 hours north of Phoenix. I may stop on the way at a place that has African-style photo safaris, to photograph some wildlife. In Sedona, I plan to look around, partake of some of their mysticism (aura reading, anyone?) and perhaps attend a yoga class out in the wild on the red rocks the area is known for. There is horseback riding, a jeep tour of the natural rock "vortexes" at sunset that permits time for photography, and an astronomy outing after that. Yes, this is a lot to squeeze into one day, and I'm sure I'll whittle down the choices quite a bit.



On Monday, I'm sure I'll want to sleep in a bit following a long day in Sedona, perhaps having breakfast by the pool, perusing the paper and lolling in the sun a bit before packing and heading to the ballpark for one last game: Cubs v. White Sox.



I can't wait!

Don't read this if navel-gazing isn't your thing.

I spent the entire weekend monitoring my living room ceiling. I did this because it was pouring rain and the rain was pouring into my living room and I had to make sure the pots were strategically placed so as to minimize the damage to my hardwood floor. I pick fights every day, both for a living and in my never-ending struggle with the world. But for some reason, I haven't had the stomach to pick the fight I need to fight to solve this problem. Specifically, I should be suing the prior owner of the house, whom I later learned lied about the house having had water infiltration during his ownership. But I haven't yet stood up for myself in this fight.

Similarly, despite my vow to treat myself well and get into shape this year, I continue to make choices that are bad for me. I do this on a near-daily basis, especially when I have done something healthy like actually work out. It is quite clear that some other issue is at work here, something I need to figure out before I will ever emerge from this self-imposed fog.

The common theme here is that I feel like a big wimp. Which is ironic, because in my daily life, I am anything but. On the bright side, at least I can take pretty pictures:

Cubs baseball and what it means to me.

Next Saturday morning, I leave for Phoenix to attend my first-ever Cubs spring training (or any spring training, for that matter). I will be there for 3 days and will see, among other things, the Cubs play the Dreaded White Sox, hopefully beating them, unlike yesterday. I am really excited about it and have been researching things to do out there, at the expense of finishing another Paris post yesterday. So this seemed like as good a time as any to share with you some of my thoughts on the Cubs.

First, this is one of the most memorable Cubs games I ever attended. On September 2, 2003, my 34th birthday, the Cubs played the Cardinals at Wrigley Field. I took a day off work (the game was the Tuesday after Labor Day) to attend. The game had gone on for 15 innings (I had to postpone my flight home) and Sammy Sosa hit a walk-off 2-run homer in the bottom of the 15th to end it. I think this happened close to midnight. There was joy in Wrigleyville!

Another memorable Cubs event for me was attending 2 of the playoff games against the Braves during the 2003 Division Series, played on October 3 and October 4, 2003. The first game was a night game pitched by Mark Prior (against Greg Maddux, then with the Braves), which the Cubs won after a few rain delays that made us worry about whether they would get the game in at all. But what I remember most was how Wrigley Field looked, all dressed up in red, white and blue cloth bunting, like a girl attending prom when she thought she would never have another chance to go.

After Saturday's game, I hovered in the tunnel at a place where I was told Dusty Baker would come out and talk to people. That turned out not to be the case, but it was the entrance to the Cubs' interview room and clubhouse, and while waiting there, I was able to meet Carrie Muskat (my idol--a talented female Cubs beat writer) and to see--up close and personal--both Cubs catcher Paul Bako and John Cusak, actor, Chicago native and Cubs fan extraordinnaire. As if that wasn't enough, among the line of travel bags being rolled in to the players (they had lost that day, sending the series back to Atlanta for another game) was a particularly spectacular Louis Vuitton bag. My eye travelled up from the wheels, over the bag and its unusually long handle to the unusually long arm of one Michael Jordan, who was flying with the Cubs to Atlanta that night. This was my single most memorable brush with greatness.

Yes, I'm just another starry-eyed fan.



These are some of my recent memories of Cubs-watching. Here is the story of how I became, and why I will always be, a Cubs fan:

Being born into a family that lacked baseball fans, I was a bit late in finding my way to the roller coaster we call life as a Cubs fan. I now find it strange to think of how many of my life events match up with big events in the life of the Cubs. I was born in the Western suburbs of Chicago in September of 1969, just in time for the Mets' late-season comeback to crush our team out of contention. My Dad was a car-racing fanatic and my Mom liked football, so no one introduced me to the Cubs at that time. Milt Pappas' no-hitter v. the Padres, in which he missed a perfect game by one strike, came on my third birthday. I played girls' softball as soon as I was old enough, and started thinking about baseball, too.

I began watching the Cubs games every day on WGN during the summer of 1983, just before I began high school. I remember this because my mother had just returned to work and it was the first time I was allowed to watch TV for hours on end. I hung on every pitch of every game, fell in love with Ryne Sandberg and honed my skills at second base on my summer traveling softball team in his honor. The next year, the Cubs went to the playoffs, Ryno was MVP, Sutcliffe won the Cy Young and the Cubs lost to the Padres in the NLCS. It was my first taste of the disappointment that comes with being a Cubs fan. But I stuck with the team, loving the infield combination that was Durham, Sandberg, Bowa/Dunston, Ron Cey and Jody Davis. Andre Dawson won the MVP the year I graduated from high school and moved to Texas for college.

After I left the Chicago area, the Cubs started night baseball and lost another playoff round to a California team, the Padres. I followed them the best I could from Texas, without WGN and in the pre-internet days, by going to my college's library to check the newspaper for the baseball scores. My Dad began keeping up with the Cubs a bit so that he could keep me up to date during our weekly chats, even though he wasn't very interested in baseball.

I did not do as good a job of staying in touch with the Cubs during the early 90's, when I was immersed in law school. But I did my best to keep my hand in the world of baseball by catching the occasional "Two Dollar Tuesday" Astros game, at the Astrodome in Houston, and tried to see at least one game a year at Wrigley during quick visits home. The baseball strike cut the season short the summer after my law school graduation, so instead of doing a post-bar exam tour of baseball parks, I backpacked overseas with some friends. During the trip, I eagerly purchased a copy of "USA Today" at the newsstand of every train station we visited to see if the strike was over yet. Upon my return, I was working so hard as a young lawyer that I had neither the time nor the funds for cable TV. But I started to get the hang of my new career and splurged on a cable subscription, resuming my helpless love affair with the Cubs just in time to see the early years of Sammy Sosa's time on the North Side.

Of course, 1998 brought Kerry Wood's 20-strikeout game, the great Sosa/McGuire home run race and a first-ever Cubs tiebreaker win for a playoff spot. These exciting events were the subject of many of my Sunday evening talks with my Dad, in which we continued to bridge the 1,200 miles between Illinois and Texas. By this time, I think he was a little in love with baseball, too. The year of 1998 is now burned in my memory as beginning with Harry Caray's death and ending with my father's death. But the baseball moments we shared in that magical season are among my fondest memories of time spent with my Dad.

My time spent watching the Cubs--whether they were having a good season (2001) or a bad one (2000)--was a bright spot in the rough years that followed. My brother and I tried to support each other and he attended the Cubs game with me whenever I was home for a visit. He is no sports fan, and I realize now what it meant for him to spend 3 hours with me at Wrigley when he could not have cared less about what was happening there!

Then, in the glorious year of 2003, things fell into place, both for me and the Cubs! Finally, I stopped being annoyed by Ron Santo's interminable stories during the broadcast and instead began not wanting to experience a game without him. I listened to every game on the internet, and remember vividly that last day of the season, the double-header day when the Cubs finally clinched their playoff spot. My best friend had her first baby the same day, and I excitedly purchased a plane ticket and playoff tickets the moment the spot was clinched. I flew home the next weekend, greeted my friend's new baby and attended 2 of the Cubs' games against the Braves. I had never seen Wrigley in person with a playoff spirit before, and the feeling was electrifying and emotional and almost holy. After the 2nd game I saw, which we lost, I even had the good fortune to meet Carrie Muskat (I explained to her how she had my dream job, just before she walked into the Cubs' interview room) and to rub elbows with John Cusack (there to offer moral support to the team after the game) and Michael Jordan (who accompanied the team on their plane to Atlanta). What a surreal time that was.

We all know how that season of 2003 ultimately ended. I was devastated . . . so much so that coworkers sent flowers! But the next year, the Red Sox won it all, almost as if the universe was sending the message to all Cubs fans that it is too soon to give up. And I found myself captivated by the Sox's run, enjoying every game almost as if it was our team bringing tears to the eyes and a head shaking in disbelief with each amazing win.

I don't know what the future will bring for the Cubs or for Cubs fans, including me. But the history of the Cubs is so intertwined with my own life history in my memory that I don't know how I could ever separate the two now. I think we're stuck with each other for life.

Go, Cubs go ......................

Rainy days

Today is the kind of fabulously rainy day that makes one not mind staying in and cleaning house . . . and working to update the Paris photoblogs before too much more time goes by . . .



Is this a stealth candidate for President in 2008? I don't know, but his platform is interesting.

My name is Lisa, and I am a book addict.

"Hello, Lisa!" Geez, I just stopped in at Borders to get "Reading Lolita in Tehran," because my friend invited me today to hear its author (Azar Nafisi) speak in a few weeks. And I walked out with not only that book, but with many other books, too. Specifically: Philip Roth's "American Pastoral" and Tobias Wolff's "This Boy's Life" (because they were on a 3 for 2 sale, along with the Nafisi book); in addition to those, Frances Mayes' "A Year in the World" and Barbara Sher's "Refuse to Choose." You may recall that I've been keeping a reading list this year. Well, it has been somewhat stalled for the last few weeks, except for frantic readings of the Lamott book, which finally caught fire for me, and now I need to get back with the program!

I dare you to find a song cuter than this one, courtesy of Alice's beautiful-voiced nephew Paul. There's something about hearing a little boy use the word "metacognition" that is infinitely charming.

On the way to work the other day, I saw a man having a serious conversation with the apparently homeless guy who is typically outside me favorite coffee shop. The guy is usually smoking a cigarette butt through a long green plastic straw and talking to himself quietly. On the day when I slipped and fell hard on invisible ice, he turned around and pretended he didn't see what happened. But on this day, he was holding a conversation with a "normal" man, who was listening to him make his points as if they spoke about ships, shoes and sealing wax on a daily basis. Yes, the guy's voice was a little loud and his voice sounded scratchy, like, he rarely gets the chance to try it out. But he was having an in-depth conversation and it made me think. I thought mostly about how I had assumed on all those days of walking past the guy that we would have nothing to talk about. No, that isn't quite right. I didn't even think about talking to him, because I thought of him more as an alien creature than a fellow human being who might like a little conversation. I'm embarrassed about that. I want to do a better job of remembering what I think this small scenario was meant to remind me of.

Counting down the weekend.

Things I accomplished this weekend:

1. a bit of work
2. taking the dogs to the dog park
3. working out at my long-lost gym
4. checking the yoga schedule at my nearby yoga place
5. got a much-needed (and wanted!) pedicure
   
6. buying healthy food at the grocery store
7. one more Paris post completed
8. caught up with my two favorite neighbor friends
9. margarita and dinner on a patio
   

Things I wanted to accomplish this weekend and didn't:

1. housework
2. bike ride at the lake
3. picture-taking around town
4. taxes (yes, I thought they were finished before, but they aren't--long story)
5. final handling of bills from health issue
6. car wash for my dusty vehicle
7. more work than I did
   

The fact that the first list is longer is a good thing, right? If you say yes, I'll let you look at these pics from the dog park . . . Kip wanted to post them and write about his day:

Hye, thees iss Kip, Leesa's doog. Tu-dai Orleee und eye wint too thugh doog pork wit Leesa. Heer eye am in uh bath wit mye noo freends (eyem in thugh meedle):



Heer Orlee und eye mak uh doog sandvich wit a flufee wite doog:



Eye dont no thugh naam of zis doog but eye kall her Francette:

Mark Warner for President?

I'm not sure about that yet, though I do firmly believe that Hilary Clinton is unelectable, no matter now much she may be bullying the party faithful into silence on that topic. Today's New York Times contains an excellent story about Warner, the former Governor of Virginia, if you're interested in learning more about him.

If you thought 2004 was interesting, hold onto your hat for 2008!

Speaking of politics, why can't I laugh at W's jokes? Oh yeah, because he is an embarassment to our country.

Oh, and if there is only one thing you can volunteer to do in the world of politics, let it be in the area of voter truth/fair elections . . . from the Chris Bell (TX Dem. for Gov.) web site, this comment:

I'm sorry I didn't get to vote for you in the Primary. I went to the poll and they gave me a ballet and stamped my voter registration "Republican" without asking me.

(by a voter in Denton County, Texas) Here are some groups that would love nothing more than to use your energies to fight against this kind of thing:

National Committee for Voting Integrity

FairVote

Vote Fraud

America Votes

*******************************

In other news, this is how to host a real memorial service for the people: the Twins are opening the Metrodome with free parking, soda and water for all comers who want to honor the memory of Kirby Puckett tonight.

True to my word,

I have drafted a new Paris post for your viewing (and reading) pleasure:



This one is about what I did on the day after Christmas (part one). Enjoy!

A change of scenery does wonders . . .

This morning I was feeling paralyzed by indecision, a common phenomenon on my Saturday mornings, when I find myself wanting to squeeze as much pleasure as possible out of the weekend and wondering exactly where to start. I finally made myself leave the house and go to a place I rarely visit: the nearer-downtown, slightly more "edgy" version of Cafe Brazil, my once-a-weekend brunch place:



Cafe Brazil is a Dallas-based phenomenon--a place that serves good quality meals inexpensively in varied and casual settings. Sadly, my nearby Cafe Brazil has reduced its hours to brunch and lunch only, but this one is open around the clock. This location also offers free wi-fi, and I told myself I could write here as well as eat, which would be good for me.



I found that the change of scenery--the more urban setting, the more interesting people, the absence of screaming, running, crying children--was very conducive to relaxation and creative thought. Among other things, I have thought of some new topics to write about here and have some ideas concerning photography I'd like to do around town.

A number of Kinky Friedman (Independent hopeful for this year's Texas Governor's race) arrived, apparently taking a break from their efforts to obtain the petition signatures that will qualify him for a place on the ballot:



These folks stopped by my house earlier today and were nice enough to re-hang the wreath of sunflowers on my front door that the wind had blown down.

Sadly, the ladies' room here is out of order today, but the men's room offers this though-provoking quote, making it worth the slight inconvenience presented by the fear of using a typically-icky men's room:

I apologize for my severe blog neglect this week!

In random bits and pieces of news . . .

The matter that was to take me to Chicago and New York several times this month was resolved, depriving me of those trips, but allowing me one more visit to Oklahoma City . . .

and of course, another matter in Oklahoma City immediately sprang up to take its place, so I will probably be visiting that fine city at least one more time this month . . .

I find this story utterly charming and heart-warming . . .

we are experiencing lovely spring weather right now, reminding me that spring is far and away my favorite season . . .

last evening was the ultimate "patio and margarita" weather and a friend and I took full advantage of that . . .

I think there should be a municipal ordinance requiring the fining of parents who permit their children to run around unattended in a busy restaurant--the number of kids darting about at the feet of waiters wielding heavy trays of hot food and cold drinks last night was astounding . . .

my DVD player has mysteriously agreed to cooperate again, after a short stint of finding all DVDs unreadable, so I'm hoping to watch "Walk the Line" and "Ocean's Twelve" this weekend, courtesy of Netflix . . .

this contest on Apartment Therapy is relentlessly commanding my attention--I especially adore this apartment and cannot stop looking at it . . .

in other news from the world of entertainment, I am reading Anne Lamott's book called "Hard Laughter" and really enjoying it . . .

and, finally, I am hoping to finish my Paris photo blogging this weekend, at long last!



I hope you each have a scintillating and refreshing weekend!

UPDATE:

Ocean's Twelve: not worth the disc it is imprinted on

Walk the Line: excellent, just like Johnny Cash, who said, "I did not vote for Mr. Bush, let's leave it at that."

Another bizarre Oklahoma City taxi story.

I spent Monday in Oklahoma City on business. Though the day concluded quite successfully, its strangeness was foreshadowed by an unusually odd cab ride (in a city that has been, in my experience, marked by odd cab rides).

First, a bit of scene setting: My taxi driver, Dave, wore a red and yellow jacket and cap that coordinated with his cab:



The cab was a minivan, its windows covered by “screaming eagle” and American flag stickers--this is but one example:



On the passenger side of the dashboard bobbled the heads of at least twenty bobble-head dogs:



Dave told me to watch my head as I stepped inside, but I promptly dashed it against the ceiling. Perhaps that explains the surreal ride that was to follow.

Dave told me his story as we hurtled along the highways connecting the airport to Oklahoma City at the alarming speed of 45 to 50 miles per hour. He drove only in the far left lane--that reserved for passing and faster drivers--and I consider us fortunate that he was not shot to death by one of the many people who glared grumpily while passing us on the right. At his side was a collapsible cooler with a Nascar number 8 on it—I did not ask if that driver is his role model. (My subsequent research shows this is Dale Earnhardt, Jr.'s number--I am not sure of the significance of that). Dave was polite enough to tell me that if I needed to make a call, I should just let him know and he would stop talking. I think he did not realize that I had my phone in hand so that I could try to use its camera to document this amazing ride.

According to Dave, he has been driving a cab for a long time, always in Oklahoma City. He once drove for a “famous cab company,” but tired of the lack of autonomy that prevented him from turning down fares that made him nervous: he feared for his life. So he quit that company and went into business for himself, finding relief in the ability to decide for himself where and whom he will drive. Dave said he can tell by how a person “looks” whether they pose a threat to him, and I asked what he meant by that. I felt he was holding back a bit as he explained only that a big warning sign for him is when a person jumps in and tells him “just drive,” directing him turn by turn, without giving him a specific address.

Our talk then turned to more recent events. Dave said he had “just woken up one day, unable to drive.” He realized this when passengers were telling him their destinations but he could not figure out where to take them; he felt really embarassed by this and other unspecified driving incidents that occurred at that time. Dave's wife told him he had a problem and insisted that he see a doctor, even making the appointment for him. Though the doctor prescribed the medicine Dave believes has “made him drive better than I have in years,” he credits “Jesus and my wife” (in that order) for his restored driving ability. Dave then inquired whether I am a Christian, and my hackles raised a bit. I said only that I am not really sure what that question means. He said, kindly, that I would definitely know what it meant if God had saved my life, as his had been saved, but wisely did not press me on the issue.

With the downtown Oklahoma City "skyline" in our sights, Dave changed the subject and demanded that I guess his age. Slightly erring on the kind side, I guessed he was 59. In fact, he proudly declared, he is 69 and will turn 70 in a few months. As a pulled up to my hotel, Dave asked if I had already reserved my hotel room, as he expected the city to be packed. According to him, a “convention of kids from Hurricane Katrina” was in town. (This representation later caused me to be laughed into oblivion at a business meeting).

Before stepping out of the van, I could not resist taking a closer shot of the dog bobbles:

If you are a photographer

who dreams, as I do, of being a photojournalist, I think you'll find this article about Vincent Laforet's strategy for photographing the Olympics very interesting.

Thanks to Kottke for the link!

Reasons 39.1, 39.2 and 39.3 to leave Texas

I am very concerned about the fact that I work in the same building as a guy who drives a tank-sized, camouflage-painted SUV sporting these stickers:



I like to call this one the "Idiot Detector."



I'm sure he thinks this "Terrorist Hunting permit" is funny, but I wonder how many times he has used it to justify a hate crime? Maybe never . . . I'm just wondering.



It isn't everyday that you see someone quoting Hitler on his vehicle. If nothing else, it's a helpful way to whittle down the pool of potential dates.

Oh, no, number two.

As if traveling all summer to see baseball isn't enough of a time diversion, I just ran across this blog. Most dangerously, this site includes slideshow tours of beautifully decorated apartments in NYC and elsewhere. So now, instead of just shopping for NYC apartments online, I will also be able to dream of decorating one.

Oh, no.

Something happened while listening to a Cubs spring training game on the radio today. (Hey, I'm at work and need something fun to entice me to be here on a gorgeous day!). I became so excited about the upcoming baseball season and today's nice spring weather that I bought tickets to various games I want to see this year.

If I go to all these games, here is my travel schedule for the summer:

April: Cards/Cubs in Chicago
May: Cubs/Padres in San Diego
July: White Sox/Yankees in NYC and Cards/Cubs in Chicago
August: Cubs/Cards in St. Louis

Yikes. But yay!

What was he fighting for?

Yesterday I arrived at the airport in Austin, Texas (nice guesses, Jay and Kell!) and walked to the parking garage where the rental cars are located. During this brief walk, I met a young soldier, still wearing his cammys, who had just returned from overseas (he did not specify which country). My "introduction" to him occurred when I looked over after hearing him say "asshole," not very much under his breath. Without a word from me, he explained that he was upset because airport security would not allow him to catch a cab upstairs, but was requiring him to go downstairs to the airport cab stand.

"Explain" may not be precisely the right word. Before I could explain that there are typically municipal ordinances that regulate where cabs can and cannot pick up passengers at an airport--making the decision totally out of the control of airport security--the soldier embarked upon an invective-filled diatribe. The soldier called the airport security guy various names I won't repeat here, whining about the injustice of being required to walk downstairs and, finally, ending by calling him a "foreigner," as if that was one of the unrepeatably bad words with which the tirade began.

I was dying to ask this soldier why he fought overseas for our country, if it wasn't to make this the kind of place where "foreigners" and others could live and work in peace, without being treated with disdain due to not having been born here. I did not do this, however, because I was afraid he would kick my ass and, for once, showed restraint. But I thought for a long time about the hatred and prejudice in the soldier's voice. I thought about what he did and did not learn while he was in Iraq or Afghanistan or wherever he was. I wondered where and how one could possibly learn these lessons, if not there. And I worried that there are many others like him, either because of the war or despite the war or having nothing to do with the war, and that they are the future of our country.

I'm not sure what to make of this article.

But it is darn funny.

First, an explanation of how I ran across it is in order. You may have heard reports that UT student/NFL hopeful Vince Young recently scored a paltry 6 and/or 16 on the Wunderlich intelligence exam. The morning hosts on my local sports radio station were talking about the Wunderlich scores of various current NFL players, mentioning that Drew Henson, the third-string quarterback for the Dallas Cowboys, had the highest score among quarterbacks.

Curious about Henson's academic background, I Googled him and found that he attended the University of Michigan, as well as this article in "The Michigan Every Three Weekly." In it, a UM dropout/druggie compares his early departure to Henson's (Henson apparently left early for the baseball draft--he later switched from professional baseball to football).



A few highlights from the interview of dropout Ostrowski, pictured above (right) with Henson (left):

"The way I see it, Drew just got tired of all that straight shit, man-like grades and essays and showers and clean clothes and toilet paper-and he was just like, 'Hey man, screw this, I'm just gonna move to Jamaica as soon as my cheapass parents send my next allowance check."

When informed that Henson was not going to Jamaica, but to the Yankees spring training camp in Lakeland, Florida, Ostrowski, clearly disoriented, replied "No thanks, man, I already own a vacuum cleaner."

. . . . .

After removing a handful of half-crushed Funions from a hidden fold in his couch, Ostrowski continued his meditation on Henson's various motivations for leaving university life.

. . . . .

"I figure Drew was on this crazy acid trip and he was like, 'Whoa, I'm like hungrier than this classroom, and it's swallowing everyone except I'm flying on a strawberry blimp, killing Nazi pirate cheerleaders with my power of free thought,' and then he woke up on the roof of Alice Loyd without any pants, but six layers of shirts one on top of the other, and then he was like, 'Man, screw this-I'm going to Jamaica."