Perils of Caffeine in the Evening

Travelogue and more pictures tomorrow

We’re flying off today to Palm Springs to golf and lounge in a spa airport, and will head off to Joshua Tree National Park, where our son has been camping and rock climbing since Christmas. The plan was for Mrs. Perils to avail herself of a free guide service (Andrew) while I hiked around and relaxed.
There’s a rumor afloat that I will be coaxed onto the rocks as well. In my kayak, “coaxed onto the rocks” means I forgot my supply of earwax, but in their lexicon it’s supposed to be cathartic. We’ll see.
We’re camping, which I haven’t done since my kayak trip in Baja a couple of years ago. We bought a new tent over a year ago, and it hasn’t been out of its package. Let’s see if we set out to learn how it works before nightfall.
Not much, if any, outside contact available there, I hear, so probably no blogging here until Sunday - we fly home Saturday night, and I’ll need the night and morning to shower.

A couple of amusing tidbits I’ve run across in the last day or so:

The first - a newsletter for accountants that I get is running one of the loopiest contests I’ve encountered.  It’s a trivia game where you try to answer 5 or 6 factual questions about the life and career of retiring FED chairman Alan Greenspan.  The payoff, besides the obvious gift of enlightenment about an influential, if not exactly charismatic, public figure, is the chance to win an iPod Nano.  I’d like me one of them - it’s flash-based, unlike my Creative Zen Extra, so I could run and work out with it - so I’ve been playing, though I haven’t spent much time in the business library cribbing.  But it’s humor.  By accountants.

Another oddball item is from an email digest I get of the Ohio State student newspaper about a new fast-food genre opening near campus called Cerealicious Cafe.  If you don’t have time to grab breakfast on your way out the door, for $3.50 you can score your choice of 30 different cereals, plus a topping, plus milk in a take-out container.  The owners are planning on rolling out 100 of these carboterias within 5 years, most seemingly targeting college students.  Reminds me a little of the Saturday Night Live “Scotch Boutique” skit with Hugh Hefner, Jane Curtin, et al, where all they sold was tape.

Happy New Year! Welcome to two thousand and sick.
New Year’s has alway seemed like a superfluity to me. I suppose you need it to form the the outer border of the holiday week, but by the time the actual day comes, you sort of wish you could put it in the bank for sometime when there’s better weather. Especially given the odds of your not feeling very well that day.
This year, then, should have seemed even more over-the-top, with the official holiday coming on the January 2nd. Usually, you can assuage your various New Year’s Day maladies with comfort foods and bowl games, but this year there were no bowl games on New Year’s Day to serve as a Cotton-y/Rosey/Fiesta-ive/Sugary/Orangular (it’s a word, shut up) cushion on Sunday. Fine. The gym was closed all day anyway, so I didn’t have to embarrass myself there. We just took a long walk for some marginally-needed items, and awaited Monday.
Because Monday was Bowl Game Day. I started nipping at the bowl game bottle early, as we do here on the west coast when there are interesting games in the eastern time zone. My plan was to check out the inconsequential games emanating from north Florida - the ones that seem like they should be a tropical vacation but, since they’re played in Jacksonville, Orlando and Tampa, are most often chilly teases with mushy fields to play on. If you’re keeping score at home, you’ll know I would be pointing all day to the Fiesta Bowl contest between Notre Dame and my Buckeyes.
I had received an email from the Seattle cell of the nefarious al-Buqai organization that we would be meeting at a sports bar next to the Space Needle, hoping for an explosive crowd for a 5:00 pm kickoff. My plan was to get a good buzz on from the morning games, go running with a gym workout in the early afternoon, then clean up and head for the sports bar for the evening orgy, two rust belt teams duking it out in the Sonoran desert.
As I was watching the early games, the annoying subscript banners that they fling onto the screen to cater to the ADD population that comprises the bulk of thier audience kept saying that the Fiesta Bowl kickoff would be at 4:30 Eastern, 1:30 Pacific. My presumption was that my guy was right, and the network that would be broadcasting the game was laughably wrong, so I sat and sipped coffee, getting up the energy to head for the gym.
Then, at about 1:00 they showed a live feed from Tempe of the OSU and Notre Dame players going through their warmups, and I started to panic. I went online and discovered that, indeed, I had only 20 minutes to get to the bar for kickoff. I quickly shaved, dressed, and rummaged through my closet for OSU gear. I came up with my wool marching band jacket, and headed for the car.

The game started badly, with Notre Dame taking the opening kickoff and scoring in less than 3 minutes. At that point we realized that we were sharing the sports bar with an equally large and vocal Domer contingent. As the ND guy scored, someone in their crowd pulled up a trumpet and started blasting their godawful fight song. I thought, “this is going to be an awfully long night if they can score at will, and this guy has any chops at all”.
As it turned out, though, his mouthpiece would stay dry well into the third quarter, as we dominated the game. I tried, at one point, to venture over to their side of the bar to photograph the musician, but he wouldn’t reveal himself, and someone gently but firmly made it clear that I should quickly return to the OSU side of the venue.
The outcome was extremely satisfying, as I had garnered a couple of bets from my business contacts in the upper midwest, where Catholic Notre Dame fans run as thick and spearworthy as salmon used to run in the Columbia River.
The win also would seem to give me the latitude to watch the final two bowl games, Penn State vs Florida State in the Orange Bowl and Texas vs USC in the Rose, with a patronizing sense of detachment and noblesse oblige.
However. I revere the Rose Bowl, and love the bowl system. The folks who whine every year that college football should have a basketball-style playoff have never been around college football long enough to develop a sense for what makes it appealing. In the bowl system, those whose fall social schedule revolves around attending games and supporting their teams get to plan vacation trips 3-4 weeks ahead of the event, and head for some sunbelt city (except for the inexplicably-sanctioned Motor City, Liberty, and whatever that joke they play in Boise is called -bowls) to have a good time. They spend up to a week at the game venue partying and discovering a city that’s probably outside their normal purview, and, once the games are played, half the teams come home winners. The teams and bands and students also get an off-campus experience to savor through the bleak winter quarter. If that kind of thing appeals to you in the first place.
If there were a playoff, few traditional fans, and fewer students, would attend the 3 - 4 week marathon of games, and all but one team would suffer year-long frustration. Who would this benefit besides corporate sponsors and long-distance observers with no connection to a particular team and tradition, or the game itself?
Which brings us to tonight’s Rose Bowl. Well, it’s only half a Rose Bowl, because only one of the participants comes from the PAC-10/Big 10 traditional pairing. I feel it’s a desecration of hallowed ground for a Texas or Oklahoma to set foot in the Arroyo Seco, to insinuate their fly-over apostasy into Olympian real estate. And the ultimate indiscretion to win the damn game, as Texas has the last two years.
Here’s a link to better days, where you can hear a recording of my OSU marching band in the 1971 Rose Parade and the Doppler effect of my 21-year-old self crossing over from my childhood to … a childish arrested adulthood, for these last couple of days, anyway.

On my walk home from REI on Christmas Eve, I stopped off at a carryout on Eastlake to buy a bottle of water.  As I walked up to the counter, there was a young man ahead of me engaged with the cashier, apparently playing some kind of instant lotto game.

The clerk looked up at him and shook her head, indicating that his try had failed.  “No?”, he asked, seeming genuinely surprised, and some anxiety filled his face.  He asked for another chance, and the clerk said he didn’t have enough money left on the debit card he was using.

“Take off the gum, then, ” he said, indicating a pack of Eclipse he had intended to buy.  The clerk shook her head and said there still wasn’t enough for another play.  The guy’s anxiety multiplied.  “Is there a pay phone outside?  I need to call someone about the balance on this card.”

He ran outside, and I felt suddenly self-conscious about paying a buck and a half for water, but the long walk had made me dry enough to think it was an exceptional bargain.

As I left the store to continue my walk home, the guy was talking animatedly on the pay phone.  It struck me that the cost of the call, added to his foregone chewing gum, should have been enough for his next play.  I wondered what was so urgently driving him to be desperately playing convenience-store lotto at 5pm on Christmas Eve, and as a parent of a child his age, I felt a twinge or two in my gut.  Was it a need for the proceeds, for drink or meth or a hail-Mary Christmas gift for a girl friend or child?  Or just the reflexive twitch of a gambling habit crashing against the rocky beach of another overdraft? 

I adjusted my backpack full of my own desperate Christmas Eve enterprise and walked on, conscious of my wallet flush with crisp new cash machine $20s, wondering if I’d missed a chance for a holiday gesture by not popping him a buck for one more play, whether the extra 10 seconds of hope would have made any difference. 

These guys, along with their mistress, were our Christmas dinner guests.  Since she (and the dogs - long story) are vegans, we had a sort of parallel menu that involved turkey, tofu, unstuffed stuffing and the dramatic appearance of a rutabaga.

The boys’ names are Enzo Ferrari (foreground) and Dino.  They’re well-mannered, well-dispositioned guests and provided great entertainment value for everyone except our cats, who hung out on the front porch and glowered. (click to enlarge any picture).

That’s our son, who leaves tomorrow for an extended trip to Joshua Tree National Park to do more of this:

We may join him in a couple of weeks if schedules allow.  Hope everyone’s having a low-key holiday week.

(click to enlarge)

Well, I didn’t really go to Best Buy for my wife’s Christmas present. Instead, I took Meg’s cue and walked to REI. It’s a long walk, so I was pretty much betting the farm on them having what I needed, both for her and for my son. It worked out great - instead of the mobs I’d feared, it seemed like there were more salespeople than customers. I managed to buy my gifts and get out before I started buying stuff for myself. It wasn’t a feat of character so much as the fact that there was a limit to what I could carry the 3 or so miles back.

As often happens when I’m walking around loose in the city, I found some stuff to photograph. The church above, St. Spiridion Orthodox, is a couple of blocks from REI.

This Prius, a gas/electric hybrid, has a sticker in the window that says, “Eat My Voltage”.

This strange little moonmobile is about 3 houses away from the Prius. I think it’s being charged from house current, although it COULD be sucking the brains out of Wallingford children.

I’m not sure you could cram another ornament in this yard. They had carols playing, too.

The drive home last night from eastern Washington was certainly exciting.  I didn’t set out until 5 or so, when it was already pitch-dark,and it poured rain the whole way home.  There was no ice at Snoqualmie Pass, but pools of standing water lurking all along I-90 would send the car veering off in unexpected directions.  Sort of like the Space Mountain ride at Disneyland.  I arrived home with visions of wineglasses dancing in my head, but Mrs. Perils chirped, “You still have time for a workout!”  So I put my running stuff on, threw myself out into the ambient moisture and trotted down to the gym.  Glad I did it, as they have limited hours the next couple of days.

Going through my mail, I found some tidbits to share:

From the Washington Society of CPAs, a mailing that goes:

The need for young, well-trained CPAs is growing.  The Washington CPA Foundation addresses that need through its scholarship program.  As you plan your end-of-year giving, please consider a donation.  You can help keep the future bright for the accounting profession.

Right.  I’m gonna defer contributions to my retirement fund to train people to take work from me.  While I’m pursuing my new career as a Walmart greeter, they’ll be at their 20-something happy hours, day-glo drinks in hand, calling the senior partners “hairy-eared, pencil-necked geeks”.  Just like we did.

Next up is Tax Facts from the Washington Department of Revenue, communicating tax changes and enhanced services. 

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  The first thing to catch the eye: “Lower B&O tax rate for manufacturers of commercial airplanes and component parts“  Wow, does that law cast a wide net, or what?  Of course, I wouldn’t be so snide if I were one of that plucky cadre who’s building airplanes for sale in their basements.
  
  
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  The next: Fish Tax Extended to Sea Urchins and Sea Cucumbers.  Mrs. Perils is eager to see what techniques they devise to collect it.
  
  
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  Lastly, Online Videos Are Here!  A sampling:
  
  
  
  
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    Online workshop on the Lodging Industry
    
    
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    Step-by-step video guide on how to fill out a Small Harvester Forest Tax Return

OK, I’m off to Best Buy to shop for Mrs. Perils’ Christmas gift.  Wish me luck!

My client in Othello, like almost everyone east of the Cascades, is in the agribusiness business.  The land over here is sere sagebrush desert, and nothing grows without vested water rights, so you don’t just come over here with a hoe and a packet of seeds.  I think when people think of Washington state, they automatically visualize forests and snow-capped mountains and Puget Sound.  But over one-half of the state is comprised of this parched landscape.  I like driving over here, though - I find the land forms fascinating.

The social and political landscape over here is also sharply different from that of the west side - conservative, mostly Republican, “country”.  Until a couple of years ago when it became a Best Western, the motel I stay at here had signs in the rooms admonishing guests not to clean game in the sinks.

At my client’s office, they’ve been playing this country station that has, at most, 25 songs in rotation.  Music to me is usually sound and texture - I have difficulty discerning and/or remembering the words to songs because I don’t approach music as a narrative form.  After 3 days of repetition, however, the musical component of country loses its sense of wonder, and these songs became a form of infomercial for a lifestyle.  A lifestyle that seemingly can segue, without apparent irony, from “Tequila Makes Her Clothes Fall Off” directly to “Jesus, Take The Wheel”.

There’s something to admire in some of this unadorned sentiment and folk wisdom, though.  We urban types expend a torrent of words and reams of paper trying to intellectualize the courting, dating and mating process.  There’s Cosmo, GQ, Seventeen and Penthouse Letters all pantingly and pantslessly pursuing the mystery in all its nuances.  Then a country song reduces the whole thing to a six-word fail-safe recipe.  Tequila makes her clothes fall off.  Doh!

Wednesday morning I headed east across the Cascades to a client I have in Othello, Washington.  If you turn, in your Rand McNally atlas, to the map of Nowhere and move your finger as close to the midpoint as you can reckon, you’ll have found it.  No one can tell me how it came by its name.  Everyone I ask vaguely mentions Shakespeare, and a Google search does the same, positing that it came of a local doyenne with a love of the Bard.  I’m thinking it has more to do with a Christmas Eve breach-birth of a calf with two asses and no heads and the resulting headline “Local 4-H Members Make Beast With Two Backs!”  Or not.

I’m over here to do a software upgrade, an exquisite torture that software companies annually inflict on their customers under the pretense of functional improvements, bug fixes and compliance with year-end tax form requirements.  The piteous cries of my cell phone attest to the mangled landscape of my December activities.  I’ve downloaded the Abu Ghraib ring-tone from Verizon for realistic effect.

I had planned to be over here for just a day and night and hie me back to Seattle in time to make whatever paltry Christmas preparations I could make in 48 hours but, as often happens in these enterprises, there was a Glitch.  I had finished the upgrade and data conversion and was ticking off the last few points in my checklist when my client said, “My GL doesn’t balance.”

“What do you mean, ‘it doesn’t balance’?  It balanced before the conversion.  You must have done something to it.”  When in doubt, blame the victim.

WTF.  I ran the conversion again, same result, duplicated in each of several companies in the database.  Turns out that the client’s old database was like a Superfund site that over the years had accreted a protective cap that shielded the populace from its subterranean toxins of corrupt and out-of-balance journals. The backhoe of the data conversion ripped away this beneficent layer and released the murky poison of the previous decade’s transgressions against double-entry accounting, and I’ve spent the last day and a half in my consultant’s haz-mat suit desperately trying to halt its spread.  I’ve finally concocted a couple 55-gallon drums of palliative journal entries that, while not necessarily purging the site, will restore the protective cap.  Until the next fool comes along with a backhoe and a mouthful of bright, shiny promises.