Areas of Unrest

4 March 2001 - Butterfly Brain

QOTD: "A man is about as big as the things that make him angry." - Winston S. Churchill

Reading: Georges Duby (editor), A History of Private Life, Volume II: Revelations of the Medieval World

Listening to: Fire on the Mountain: Reggae Celebrates the Grateful Dead

One of these days, real soon now, I will be able to sit down and write coherent lengthy essays about matters of great import. That requires me to be able to sit in one place and concentrate for an extended period of time, though. This week I've been generally restless, to the extent that I had to get up and pace around the back of the room during one of my meetings. Though that has as much to do with too long between breaks and the well-known relationship between people's diminishing attention spans and the intersection between their backsides and rigid chairs. See, I am digressing already and if I don't watch myself I can flit right off to ramble about chairs.

Which is not all that bad a thing to write about and one of these days I will have to find time to think hard about the perfect chair and why I don't own any chairs that are more than satisfactory and how it's absurd for me to complain that I can't use my rocking chair when the only reason I can't use it is that I have clothing stacked up on it that I need to get around to putting into storage since I have no real great need for winter fleece and ski pants and the like here this time of year.

But I was talking about restlessness in meetings and I wanted to mention that one of the signs you are working too hard is that you start having dreams set in conference rooms. Not that the dream had anything to do with the meetings I've been in. It was about a contest to win a trip. The contest depended on sewing skill and it was fortunate that I had the cross-stitch I'm working on in my briefcase. And nobody else in the conference room had any needlework at all with them.

Getting back to the fleece for a minute, we're not quite out of winter yet. There was some snow overnight Monday night in Boulder and driving was a bit sloppy on Tuesday morning, though the rest of the week was fine. Back in Southern California, winter means the wet season. The rains returned this afternoon and they say they may not stop until Tuesday. Every March I find myself just wanting to be able to hit the fast-forward button to springtime. The real problem with rain is that my bedroom is right next to one of the downspouts of my building. When it rains heavily and water pours through the downspout, it feels like I'm trying to sleep inside a shower.

My mentions of Boulder bring me to the usual food pornography reports. I finally got around to trying Trilogy, a newish place next to Redfish that had looked to have an interesting menu. I was disappointed, though, as the food was just okay, with somewhat too heavy a hand with the seasonings. I had an even more disappointing meal Tuesday night when the snow and an important episode of Buffy the Vampire Slayer suggested that takeout Chinese food was a good idea. The concept was fine, but the execution was flawed and I was reminded why I hadn't gone back to Jin Chan after a dinner there on my very first trip to Boulder some twelve or so years ago. Bland and greasy just doesn't make up for convenient. Had I thought of it, I'd have remembered that Waiters on Wheels delivers from at least a few places I like and would have been worth the four buck service charge. I did better Wednesday night and talked a couple of colleagues into Indian food at The Royal Peacock, where the eggplant is particularly awesome. The best dinner I had, though, was on Thursday at the Boulder Dushanbe Teahouse. I've had the Indonesian peanut noodles several times before. It's the sort of dish I should be able to duplicate at home and when I went grocery shopping this evening I bought my best guess of what would go into it. Thin noodles, carrots, zucchini, tofu, onions, chilis, ginger, peanut butter. Even if I can't duplicate what the Teahouse does, it should be a good supper one night.

Another one of the things I keep meaning to write about is supermarkets. Each of the stores within a couple of miles of where I live sells some of the things I buy regularly, but none sells all of them. More to the point, I keep seeing completely absurd products and wondering who buys them. For example, those little lunch packet things that have a few crackers, some cheese and/or meat, and a candy bar. Why wouldn't you just buy the individual ingredients and put them together yourself for about a fifth of the cost? My purchase of expensive bagged salads is, of course, completely different and entirely justified on the grounds that it is less wasteful than buying a dozen types of lettuce separately and having half of it go bad before I can eat it. Hobgoblins of inconsistency, indeed.

There are also always news stories to contemplate. Like the Spanish newspaper report of some Catholic leaders who have proposed giving birth-control pills to nuns who are at risk of being raped because they are working in regions at war. Or the Latina professor at the University of Colorado who was suspended after being arrested on drug charges and is now suing the school for racial discrimination. Both of these are stories with strong elements of absurdity. At least, in the first case, I can see the point, even if I balk at the image of one of those very traditional nuns (in full habit and all) filling a prescription for the pill. The second matter just annoys me. The University may well have a bad record on minority hiring, but this woman has admitted to having a heroin problem. I'm half-surprised she didn't try to invoke the Americans With Disabilities Act, too. Oh, wait, the Supreme Court has decided that states can discriminate against disabled employees, so I guess that wouldn't fly.

I won't even get started on the paths that other on-line journals can trigger, except to note that, like Monique, I am plagued with shoes that won't stay tied. Or, more precisely, my right shoelace is always coming undone, often within minutes of my having tied it. Sometimes I can blame it on my laces being too long so that I step on the bow. And it doesn't seem to happen if I'm out for a long walk, but will happen four times in five minutes if I'm crossing a parking lot. I attribute this to just having weirdly shaped feet. Or to gremlins. Or to an evil plot by the New York Yankees who are the Source of All Evil in the Universe, in case I haven't mentioned that enough times.

Hmmm, traffic. Hmmm, my dissenting view on the Buffy episode that everyone else thought was so incredible. Hmmm, the need for a traffic light at the intersection of Colorado Highway 52 and I-25. Hmmm, my desire to educate myself more about wine. Hmmm, it's already past my bedtime. At least I'm home the next few days so I might get sort of caught up.