December 2005 Archives

We've had just about every kind of weather conceivable over the past dozen or so First Nights in Albany, but it's been a while since we actually had snow. Tonight, we have it -- the kind where it snows for hours, hard, but doesn't amount to much. Small, dense, slippery little flakes. But for once, we were there for the fireworks, which went on despite the snow, as this terribly odd photo of fireworks through the bare trees illustrates:

Let's have a great 2006. Let's give peace a chance.

I don't know why it hit me this year, rather than the past couple of years, but hit me it did. All through the Christmas season, every time I heard John and Yoko's "Happy Xmas (War is Over)" I got a little choked up at the thought that, in fact, war was not over, that once again we were teetering on the edge of where we were thirty years ago and more. Divisiveness, polarization, protests, and death.

Then last night we were watching a bit of Wim Wenders's "Wings of Desire," in which his Homer asks, "What is wrong with peace that its inspiration doesn't endure?"

War is over, if you want it.

An extraordinary Christmas, in a number of ways. Mostly, in the sense of the extraordinary amount of preparation that was occasioned by hosting it, as I realized that the house was just not presentable and a little dusting and vacuuming was not going to cut it. There was down-on-your-knees scrubbing, there were nasty household chemicals, there was varnishing of cabinets (okay, it was polyurethane, but still). And then there was cooking. We did a Rachael Ray Christmas (much more attractive to me than anything Martha ever presented) and served beef for the first time in about 15 years. Not just any beef, but an unbelievably good organic beef tenderloin (and if you're in Albany, treat yourself with a visit to one of the very last of the old-style butchers, Cardona's Market at 340 Delaware Ave.), rubbed in seasoning and cooked to perfection. Oh my god it was so good (if I may say so myself). Everything else went well, too, including Rachael's recipe for a panettone-based bread pudding that was incredible. Of course, it started with the best panettone I've ever tasted, also from Cardona's. And to think I used to scoff at cake in a box.

Got through the entire day without too much of a meltdown from any of the kids or adults. One gift broken on arrival, which is not too bad. My new camera is a dream. Now I'm just dreaming of getting a very fast lens for it (it came with two zooms, one shorter, one longer, and I'd like one fixed-length that's faster).

By yesterday, I was exhausted, and accomplished absolutely nothing. Today it was back to work, where a random comment from a co-worker about the brightness of a particular toy in the Toys for Tots pile led me to a revelation: I finally know the name of my rock 'n' roll band, and its name shall be -- Blinded By Tweety.

Yes, there are Ramadan songs. I'll inform the fourth grade chorus.

Fourth grade chorus concert. (And by the way, I would happily see my taxes increased if I thought it would result in auditorium chairs with even a hint of cushioning, because the involved-parent thing is hard on the ass.) A marvelous, politically correct little walk through holidays of all cultures -- not an inappropriate thing, as our schools are becoming more diverse than they used to be. There was a story mixed in between the songs. The kids did a wonderful job, and they had a lot of dialogue to memorize, so that alone was pretty amazing. So it went something like this: Story of Christmas, followed by Christmas song. Story of Hanukkah, followed by Hanukkah song. Story of Kwanzaa, followed by, yes, a Kwanzaa song (people have doubted me on this one, but why wouldn't there be a Kwanzaa song?). Story of Ramadan, followed by . . . well, a story of something else, because, really, there are no Ramadan songs. They talked about fasting, they talked about Allah, they talked about how it sometimes overlaps the Christian holidays, but no song was sung.

In a pinch, I would think they could have dressed up "O Tannenbaum" into "O Ramadan," don't you? "O Ramadan / O Ramadan / How lovely is thy fasting," something like that.

Please, no fatwas. I may be going to hell, but this won't be the reason.

Our sixth year of the Nutcracker, and the easiest one yet. One daughter took a sabbatical, so we only had one girl, and one performance. This was good, because the backstage chaos was worse than ever. But our angel did very well.

Otherwise, the weekend was a blur of cleaning -- mostly the kind you don't really notice, like washing walls and the insides of cabinets, cabinet doors, that sort of thing. Had to assemble a new bathroom cabinet -- the old one was seriously ratty looking. Trying to get this place presentable for Christmas.

In an unrelated note, we were riding along in the car the other night, listening to the Underground Garage, and it turns out younger daughter knows every word to The Who's "Substitute" -- which is more than I can say. Couldn't be more proud.

Update your bookmarks, folks. If anything at all goes well, this blog will now reside at:

This is it. Howard Stern's last day on terrestrial radio. I'm a huge fan of Howard, not for the smut and the strippers, but for his incredible ability to get people to reveal themselves, and his skill at creating radio train wrecks that you can't turn away from. Who else could have spent hours in an argument over whether "oil and vinegar" and "vinaigrette" were the same thing, and made it so funny you could listen to it over and over again? But most important to me, it's the last time I have to listen to ads for diamonds, mattresses, help wanted websites, biker clothes, or any of the other phenomenally annoying local ad sponsors that have been faithful to the show but drive me crazy hearing them over and over and over for years and years and years.

I was a huge fan of radio growing up -- like a lot of people my age, it seemed magical. The DJs still seemed like celebrities (though it was often best not to actually see them in person), just about any kind of music could be played on a station -- there was a great atmosphere, but it seemed like it could be even better. Then there was a great radio station in college, WAER, that really had that perfect mix of very professional shows mixed with a wild eclecticism -- until a professor seized an opportunity to make it what he wanted it to be: all boring jazz, all the time. Click! (Okay, car radios don't click anymore.) And ever since then, I've barely listened to radio at all, because I have never heard good new music again. But I got into Howard Stern about 10 years ago, and it gave me hope that radio could be great again. Then Janet Jackson's nipple somehow equated to a crackdown on radio -- because that's how this works: always have a crusade in your pocket, just in case the opportunity arises. Almost nothing could be said anymore (even though it was being said on other shows, even on cable TV), and it just got to be too much, so I was thrilled when Stern decided to go to satellite. I just hope I can tear myself away from the Underground Garage channel long enough to listen!

Really. I hate the Christmas lights. It's not just the untangling -- that's pretty much under control with some careful coiling. It's that after all the work, they still never look like I intend them to. Maybe that's why I wait until, say, today to do them. The lights have been on the tree, for a week, but the house was looking kinda bare (in fact, our little neighborhood seems a little less Electric Yule-y than in past years). It's enough to make me get one of those giant inflatable snow globes. I hate tacky, yet I want tacky. Must. Defeat. Tacky. Self!

So, some lights are up. Some are headed for the trash. I want to feel guilty about the waste, especially knowing someone in Malaysia earned about a quarter for putting the whole thing together so it would only cost me $9.99 at the Target. But when a string goes, out they go -- I don't have hours to spend figuring out which little micro-light is causing the problem. And I hate that string, anyway. Never looked the way it does on other people's houses.

I was thinking of making the obligatory Griswold reference, and it reminded me of what a crisp piece of writing the original "Christmas '59" story was when it appeared in National Lampoon. It was so laugh-out-loud funny. And now I couldn't be happier to tell you that it's available on the web, right here. And, so is the original "Vacation '58" story. I love the web!

Six degrees Fahrenheit. I can now officially admit that it's cold. (Anything above 20, I just don't believe it.) That combined with the fact that when we were skiing Sunday (in very sweet conditions), the sun went behind the mountain at 2:30 can only mean the shortest day of the year is almost here. Bring it on, it can only get better from there. Our little lake has iced over (and me having sold my ice skates -- couldn't take the pain in my heel from that particular pair anymore), the Hudson has sheets of thin ice on it, and when the morning sun shines in my office window, it shines from a distinctly more southern position and doesn't even hit me in the eyes.

May have mentioned that I got a very sweet set of Kreitler rollers this fall, in the belief that I could keep up the great cycling form I had all summer. I have advanced from the "frightened rabbit balancing in the doorway" phase and can now balance on the things very nicely with hardly anything to fall on. But they should come with a definite warning, "Caution: May cause thighs to explode," 'cause between that and the skiing, my quads are ballooning. I feel like Popeye. But they're definitely great, and I'm glad for the opportunity to keep in shape while riding the wilds of the garage. Plus, unlike real riding, I get to listen to music while I ride (I strongly recommend a road rider never ever listen to music. Headphones kill!).

Christmas is getting very close. Nearly all gifts are ready. We are planning a Rachael Ray meal straight off her holiday special (spouse has a little TV crush on Rachael. Something to do with her perkiness). The new camera, as noted, is screaming to be opened. It's possible I'll get around to addressing some Christmas cards tonight. Every year, I order custom cards very early, and every year, it's mid-December before I worry about addressing them. Sheesh.

And he's bringing me the digital camera of my dreams, a new Nikon D70s!

Thank you, Santa!

Not Norelco. Christmas is in this box, baby!

Well, to the disappointment of many (including myself, the guys at the True Value, and probably the neighbors, who would no doubt be getting another free show), the option of calling a tree service actually worked out. For the ridiculously low (but no doubt unreported) fee of $20, somebody dragged his butt all the way from Colonie to fetch a stick off my cable. However, his method has produced new envy, and both of us are now hoping to see a mini-chainsaw attached to a 14-foot-pole under the Christmas tree.

Most notable time of the weekend was the time I spent trying to throw a sprinkler head up into a maple tree. There was a reason for this, one which will probably have to be explained if the tree service guy shows up tomorrow. Spouse noticed the other day that a huge limb had fallen down out of the ancient maple in the front yard. That happens every few days -- it has dropped more wood than it ever produced, and it's not at all a well tree, but it still produces a LOT of leaves every year, so it's not precisely dying, either.

But this particular limb caught on the way down and hung up on the cable that brings cable into our house -- meaning television, internet, and telephone. Everything except juice. And it is stretching the cable a bit, so it should definitely not be allowed to hang out there over the winter. But the cable company doesn't do tree trimming (unlike the electric company, which is not implicated in this particular branch issue, or the phone company, whose services we unceremoniously curtailed just a few months ago in favor of one of them newfangled cable phone thingies). So, we were on our own.

Got out the 12 foot step ladder and trudged out into the snow yesterday morning to see what we could do. The branch is caught at one end in the crotch of the tree, and on the other end is rather magically intertwined with the cable wires, both of which are perfectly lodged in the crooks of twig branches. We trimmed off some excess but the branch itself was way too thick to cut with our loppers. So, Plan B. I got some rope and looped it around the branch (bowline and 12-foot-pole, don't fail me now!). Then, if only I could get the line up over a higher branch of the tree, perhaps I could lift the broken branch up off the wires. But that proved difficult -- I couldn't really throw from atop a slippery ladder in the snow, and the limb I wanted to get over was too high to get the rope over by itself. I needed a weight on the end.

Enter the sprinkler. A little plastic sprinkler head, about 6" across, with a handle in it that was perfect for a loose hitch. I took several throws, but I could not get it up where I wanted it. (By this point, I was only hoping that the neighbors assumed this had something to do with my biennial Christmas decorations, for I truly don't want to be thought of as the kind of man who tries to throw lawn sprinklers into maple trees in December. Though clearly, I am just such a man). Finally, with the aid of the aforementioned 12-foot-pole and a paint brush attachment, I got the rope and its yellow plastic weight up and over and down, and we were ready to give that branch a righteous tug up and off the cable.

Yeah, that happened. No, what happened was, in fact, nothing. That bastid is wedged into that tree and nicely entangled in the cable, and there is just no way I'm extricating it by myself. So now my two options were A) call for help, or B) go to the True Value, rent a cherry picker for a day, and have fun with it. Incredibly (because I do not ask for help,), I went with Option A, though if the guy from the tree service doesn't show up promptly, there's still a chance I'll be executing Option B next weekend. Stay tuned.

This photo (not mine) is for all of you who hit my site for either "Burl Ives Norelco Santa" or because I once, in a fit of pique, declared "Burl Ives must die!" Photo by blimpa.