I don’t know what I’m going to write, and I don’t have time to think about it. I like Roy’s idea, I forget where he said it, he’ll just follow his character as he drives his truck to work one day and see where it goes.
Actually, since I know how Roy writes, I want to read that book already.
Anyway I need to list out my excuses and put them up like ducks at the carnival.
1. I have to finish making my son’s DVD! He turned eighteen in June and I am still putting the DVD together that recalls his life to that point with lots of pictures, video and music. This sort of thing takes an insane amount of time, I had no idea. It has to be done in time for Christmas shipping and honestly I don’t know how that will be possible even without the writing thing.
2. My job is cranking into overdrive. We have an incredible amount of work to do by December and are understaffed at every turn. Been lucky so far not to let it leak too much into private time but the pressure will increase.
3. Again I am coordinating the scout troop’s big annual fundraiser for which nearly all of the groundwork must be done in November.
4. Car maintenance, yard work, real life, late night spousal discussions, ya da ya, none of that counts.
Four is enough. All I have to do is be far more disciplined and organized than I ever have been in my entire life. I accept the challenge. Well, today.
Wednesday, October 31, 2007
Monday, October 29, 2007
It was a Graveyard Smash
Saturday night was the night of Halloween parties, the Exotic Erotic Ball, radio station copycat events, people dressing up their inner slutmonster, acres of flesh and fishnet, a little fake blood and lots of alcohol. Good times! But alas we didn’t go do that. We went to our local roadhouse and babysat.
All right, we went a-people-watching. But when the average age in all five bands and the audience is twenty four with a standard deviation of two it didn’t feel entirely complete as a people-watching project. The Boardwalk is not large and it was not packed and after looking around I could not help but conclude there were three kinds of people in attendance:
1. Family and friends of the bands
2. Local weird fuck-ups who needed to get out of the subsidized housing for a few hours and this was the only place they could get to without having to resort to a bicycle
3. Us
About two thirds of this crew were either in costume (e.g. cute little bug antennae, miniskirt, striped hose and high heels) or in “costume” (e.g. Hawaiian shirt, porkpie, and a pair of aviators – alas, no cigarette holder). Given some of the costumes and the ages of the girls in them, you are right to suppose the view was not always objectionable, but mostly I ignored all that because, after all, well. Put it this way. There were five people in the place older than us, and none less than twenty years younger. But I liked the music, and it was for music and to watch the costumed crowdly dynamics that we went.
Generally alt metal hardcore fusion, I suppose, I don’t know. The subgenres escape me but they were actually singing, not screaming, so it was all good. I talked to the lead guitarist for one band – an Asian guy about five feet tall with a goatee and a cowboy hat – and told him his band sounded pretty good, I liked the sound. He said, hey, thanks, and went on about CDs and t-shirts for sale in the back but he was extremely friendly about it, and I asked if they were from around here (“here” potentially meaning any part of Northern California outside the Bay Area) and he said, you kidding, we all live just down the street.
Down the street. Okay, and the main act got started at the local high school five or six years ago. So it turned out we were supporting local music. That helped explain two of the five people who were our age plus: A middle-aged couple looking a little lost and self-conscious, no doubt absorbing what their kid has been doing with his prime college-attending years. They didn't stay very long. (The other three were one of the owners; a bouncer, who to be fair might only have looked old, it’s a rough life doing nothing but hanging out at a rocker / biker bar; and a mysterious first-cohort Boomer with a gray Prince Valiant haircut who carried himself with an intriguing lack of self-confidence.)
What else, I’m trying to wrap this up. Was I in costume? Not if a black Rob Zombie t-shirt isn’t a costume. Some might say it is the costume of a guy who dresses (and acts, or at least thinks) like a teenager, but since Rob Zombie isn’t a whole lot younger than me I’d say no, it was just my scariest black t-shirt. That doesn’t say much for my collection of black t-shirts. I’m going to have to work on that, or come up with a real costume, if we’re going to continue with this new gig of not having small children anymore and thus being free to go out at Halloween.
All right, we went a-people-watching. But when the average age in all five bands and the audience is twenty four with a standard deviation of two it didn’t feel entirely complete as a people-watching project. The Boardwalk is not large and it was not packed and after looking around I could not help but conclude there were three kinds of people in attendance:
1. Family and friends of the bands
2. Local weird fuck-ups who needed to get out of the subsidized housing for a few hours and this was the only place they could get to without having to resort to a bicycle
3. Us
About two thirds of this crew were either in costume (e.g. cute little bug antennae, miniskirt, striped hose and high heels) or in “costume” (e.g. Hawaiian shirt, porkpie, and a pair of aviators – alas, no cigarette holder). Given some of the costumes and the ages of the girls in them, you are right to suppose the view was not always objectionable, but mostly I ignored all that because, after all, well. Put it this way. There were five people in the place older than us, and none less than twenty years younger. But I liked the music, and it was for music and to watch the costumed crowdly dynamics that we went.
Generally alt metal hardcore fusion, I suppose, I don’t know. The subgenres escape me but they were actually singing, not screaming, so it was all good. I talked to the lead guitarist for one band – an Asian guy about five feet tall with a goatee and a cowboy hat – and told him his band sounded pretty good, I liked the sound. He said, hey, thanks, and went on about CDs and t-shirts for sale in the back but he was extremely friendly about it, and I asked if they were from around here (“here” potentially meaning any part of Northern California outside the Bay Area) and he said, you kidding, we all live just down the street.
Down the street. Okay, and the main act got started at the local high school five or six years ago. So it turned out we were supporting local music. That helped explain two of the five people who were our age plus: A middle-aged couple looking a little lost and self-conscious, no doubt absorbing what their kid has been doing with his prime college-attending years. They didn't stay very long. (The other three were one of the owners; a bouncer, who to be fair might only have looked old, it’s a rough life doing nothing but hanging out at a rocker / biker bar; and a mysterious first-cohort Boomer with a gray Prince Valiant haircut who carried himself with an intriguing lack of self-confidence.)
What else, I’m trying to wrap this up. Was I in costume? Not if a black Rob Zombie t-shirt isn’t a costume. Some might say it is the costume of a guy who dresses (and acts, or at least thinks) like a teenager, but since Rob Zombie isn’t a whole lot younger than me I’d say no, it was just my scariest black t-shirt. That doesn’t say much for my collection of black t-shirts. I’m going to have to work on that, or come up with a real costume, if we’re going to continue with this new gig of not having small children anymore and thus being free to go out at Halloween.
Saturday, October 27, 2007
Nanothought
I don't try to think about it but the mad novel-writing thing starts midnight Halloween and I admit some of the darker corners of my mind are beginning to wonder what I'm going to write about. I haven't been thinking about plots and so on lately. My mind has been stuck on the usual conglomeration of work / family / house / work / car / family life perplexities. When the best things to blog are pictures, I have to wonder how I can set aside a couple few hundred hours of time next month to scribble out a half-baked story that may not ever get a second look. This confidence is expressed in the graphic. (It'll change when / if I actually start something so for future reference, I replaced "Participant" with "I signed up, anyway.")
Why am I writing this? I dunno. Why do any of us write anything? Gotta go!
Why am I writing this? I dunno. Why do any of us write anything? Gotta go!
Thursday, October 25, 2007
Monday, October 22, 2007
We don't drive Gondolas in your Toilet so don't Pee in our Canals
When you canoe down the Green River in Utah, you pass through a very dry country, so dry there aren't enough microorganisms in the soil to break down your, shall we say, leavings. You are strictly required to port your poo out, and to pee in the river.
When you come out of the train station in Venice and blink in the sunshine that bursts off the Grand Canal and for some reason really have to pee, the sight of that canal and your memory of the Green River will conspire in your mind. You must resist. Well, you should. The locals probably don't.
The two places defy any use of words to describe them. (Please click on pictures to get the full effect, as poor a substitute as they are for the reality.)
To the purist (you know who you are), yes, some of these were taken at Arches NP.
When you come out of the train station in Venice and blink in the sunshine that bursts off the Grand Canal and for some reason really have to pee, the sight of that canal and your memory of the Green River will conspire in your mind. You must resist. Well, you should. The locals probably don't.
The two places defy any use of words to describe them. (Please click on pictures to get the full effect, as poor a substitute as they are for the reality.)
To the purist (you know who you are), yes, some of these were taken at Arches NP.
Sunday, October 21, 2007
A Placeholder Post while I Deal with Other Things
David Rochester has come up with a wonderful term, for a pride of lions of the domestic variety: a condescension of cats.
We have but one cat. She lives outside, and sleeps under bushes or atop piles of bags of potting soil, or way up on furniture stored in the garage if she can sneak in. She meows affectionately and likes rough handling when getting her pettings and scritches. But she’s an only cat and is not part of a condescension. Doesn’t seem to have much of it either. As a kitten she took a ride in the dryer that nearly killed her and was sort of weird and loopy for several years afterwards, but is now a gentle attention hound and a good mouser and birder and lizarder and in some ways treats us almost as equals. I wonder if the knowledge that she would surely die if she tried to sneak a nap in the house has something to do with it.
* * *
The blogging I would do is far more self-revealing, far more self-examining, open about doubts, dreams, questions. Some of the most interesting people reveal their inner lives online and the world is richer for it. From the feedback and interaction they receive, I think they are richer for it too. Sometimes I very much want to use blogging as a tool for that sort of interaction. It would serve as a means to balance my relentless private journaling and my lack of a meaningful social life. Sort of a third leg to my dysfunctional little tripod. But I can't, for reasons that other circumstances prevent changing, and it’s just as well.
I mean, some of those revealing blogs enrich the world, but I don’t mean to imply they all do. Most do not and should just as well shut down and save some virtual trees. Not referring to any I link to, needless to say. But I can see mine going there.
* * *
Airport codes are a plenty useful shorthand. My home port is SMF. For business, I go to PDX most often. I’m particularly fond of SFO. Recently I had the privilege to go in and out of MXP. When the three letters roll off the tongue in a reasonably euphonious manner it makes for a nice clear alternative (MXP in particular, since Milan has two airports and Malpensa is in fact twice as far out of Milan as the town I was working in, making any other way to explain things clumsy by comparison). But now and then, a designation is given that just SUX. (Might have to get the t-shirt.)
That last link included perchance an ad for Northwest Airlines (I don’t suppose they paid a promotional placement fee to Hitchcock for that movie). Forgive me but every time I see a big old plane with NWA on the side I start giggling and think, “They ain’t just with attitude, they got they own airline!” (The supersensitive closet racists can slam me now.)
We have but one cat. She lives outside, and sleeps under bushes or atop piles of bags of potting soil, or way up on furniture stored in the garage if she can sneak in. She meows affectionately and likes rough handling when getting her pettings and scritches. But she’s an only cat and is not part of a condescension. Doesn’t seem to have much of it either. As a kitten she took a ride in the dryer that nearly killed her and was sort of weird and loopy for several years afterwards, but is now a gentle attention hound and a good mouser and birder and lizarder and in some ways treats us almost as equals. I wonder if the knowledge that she would surely die if she tried to sneak a nap in the house has something to do with it.
* * *
The blogging I would do is far more self-revealing, far more self-examining, open about doubts, dreams, questions. Some of the most interesting people reveal their inner lives online and the world is richer for it. From the feedback and interaction they receive, I think they are richer for it too. Sometimes I very much want to use blogging as a tool for that sort of interaction. It would serve as a means to balance my relentless private journaling and my lack of a meaningful social life. Sort of a third leg to my dysfunctional little tripod. But I can't, for reasons that other circumstances prevent changing, and it’s just as well.
I mean, some of those revealing blogs enrich the world, but I don’t mean to imply they all do. Most do not and should just as well shut down and save some virtual trees. Not referring to any I link to, needless to say. But I can see mine going there.
* * *
Airport codes are a plenty useful shorthand. My home port is SMF. For business, I go to PDX most often. I’m particularly fond of SFO. Recently I had the privilege to go in and out of MXP. When the three letters roll off the tongue in a reasonably euphonious manner it makes for a nice clear alternative (MXP in particular, since Milan has two airports and Malpensa is in fact twice as far out of Milan as the town I was working in, making any other way to explain things clumsy by comparison). But now and then, a designation is given that just SUX. (Might have to get the t-shirt.)
That last link included perchance an ad for Northwest Airlines (I don’t suppose they paid a promotional placement fee to Hitchcock for that movie). Forgive me but every time I see a big old plane with NWA on the side I start giggling and think, “They ain’t just with attitude, they got they own airline!” (The supersensitive closet racists can slam me now.)
Tuesday, October 16, 2007
What do Delta Airlines and the Ice Pits of Hell Have in Common?
There's a moment when you travel, a special moment when time stops and your stomach turns into an ice-lined pit. I've had several lately.
Such as when I lost my wallet. For several moments I stood by the baggage claim groping my pants front and back like an oversexed middle-aged woman who'd suddenly taken over a man's body and was checking for, you know, inventory. After a few minutes the feeling faded and from then I only had to adjust to a new reality. Was it hope, hope that I was mistaken, that fueled my panic? (Say, I got it back. The airline totally came through.)
Another afternoon I stood on the marble roof of the Duomo, Milan's huge central cathedral. There was a stone ridge down the center that I needed to stand on to get a picture. It was less than two feet tall. I jumped. I jumped because I can. I can still do a standing jump and land on the kitchen counter. Hopping atop a little chunk of rock was no sweat.
Sweat. Maybe I was fooled by the slope. My toe caught the edge. The world wheeled around in slow motion. Isaac Newton was flying the ship now. Somehow as my shins scraped along the sharp marble edge I rolled so that I would land on the other side on my shoulder instead of my face. It was an instinctive move to save the camera. I flailed my camera hand in the air, willing to sacrifice the body for future photojournalistic opportunity. And in the silence that lived in the open mouths of horrified Japanese tourists, I heard the crunch of camera lens on marble.
Again, as I sat bewildered, the ice pit opened. I cared not if my wrist was fractured or neck snapped. I cradled my camera and checked for injury. And again, the pit melted away. The rim of the skylight filter was so bent it can't be removed, but the filter itself -- which I've broken and replaced twice on previous trips -- was otherwise undamaged. Likewise the lens and the camera itself. Luck city. A guard came and asked me many times if I was all right, and I insisted I was, and I really was, no aches or pains at all (except for a four-inch loss of skin along the ridge of my shinbone).
Another day we got off the #3 bus-boat at Piazza San Marco in Venezia. Our train tickets back to Milano were in my wallet, and a bunch of cash, and the ATM cards I'd got back when the wallet showed up, and everything. I'd been keeping it in a right-hand pocket. I checked for it. Wasn't there and the pocket zipper was open.
I stopped, my eyes like betelnuts, and said, "Oh, shit," thinking of Italy's famously skilled pickpockets. Thinking of train tickets. Thinking of yet another lost or stolen American Express card. Then I remembered moving it to the left side for easier access. Still there. The ice pit had formed but could go now. Color began to return to my wife's face, and she said I was hard to travel with.
Right now I'm at the airport in Atlanta awaiting my final flight home. I would die if I had to fly without reading, taking notes, whatever. My eyes are typical for my age and I can't do shit without a set of drugstore cheaters. Just before boarding at Milan Malpensa twelve hours ago, I checked for my glasses.
Yep. Ice pit city. Somehow they fell out, maybe while getting my boarding pass, manhandling luggage, whatever. Do they sell reading glasses right there in Terminal B? No. They sell water (frizzante o naturale) and magazines and little bottles of booze, but no glasses. But again, fate and luck and preparation intervened, and I remembered I had three spare sets in my laptop backpack. So all was well, as it always seems to be given time. But damn.
Such as when I lost my wallet. For several moments I stood by the baggage claim groping my pants front and back like an oversexed middle-aged woman who'd suddenly taken over a man's body and was checking for, you know, inventory. After a few minutes the feeling faded and from then I only had to adjust to a new reality. Was it hope, hope that I was mistaken, that fueled my panic? (Say, I got it back. The airline totally came through.)
Another afternoon I stood on the marble roof of the Duomo, Milan's huge central cathedral. There was a stone ridge down the center that I needed to stand on to get a picture. It was less than two feet tall. I jumped. I jumped because I can. I can still do a standing jump and land on the kitchen counter. Hopping atop a little chunk of rock was no sweat.
Sweat. Maybe I was fooled by the slope. My toe caught the edge. The world wheeled around in slow motion. Isaac Newton was flying the ship now. Somehow as my shins scraped along the sharp marble edge I rolled so that I would land on the other side on my shoulder instead of my face. It was an instinctive move to save the camera. I flailed my camera hand in the air, willing to sacrifice the body for future photojournalistic opportunity. And in the silence that lived in the open mouths of horrified Japanese tourists, I heard the crunch of camera lens on marble.
Again, as I sat bewildered, the ice pit opened. I cared not if my wrist was fractured or neck snapped. I cradled my camera and checked for injury. And again, the pit melted away. The rim of the skylight filter was so bent it can't be removed, but the filter itself -- which I've broken and replaced twice on previous trips -- was otherwise undamaged. Likewise the lens and the camera itself. Luck city. A guard came and asked me many times if I was all right, and I insisted I was, and I really was, no aches or pains at all (except for a four-inch loss of skin along the ridge of my shinbone).
Another day we got off the #3 bus-boat at Piazza San Marco in Venezia. Our train tickets back to Milano were in my wallet, and a bunch of cash, and the ATM cards I'd got back when the wallet showed up, and everything. I'd been keeping it in a right-hand pocket. I checked for it. Wasn't there and the pocket zipper was open.
I stopped, my eyes like betelnuts, and said, "Oh, shit," thinking of Italy's famously skilled pickpockets. Thinking of train tickets. Thinking of yet another lost or stolen American Express card. Then I remembered moving it to the left side for easier access. Still there. The ice pit had formed but could go now. Color began to return to my wife's face, and she said I was hard to travel with.
Right now I'm at the airport in Atlanta awaiting my final flight home. I would die if I had to fly without reading, taking notes, whatever. My eyes are typical for my age and I can't do shit without a set of drugstore cheaters. Just before boarding at Milan Malpensa twelve hours ago, I checked for my glasses.
Yep. Ice pit city. Somehow they fell out, maybe while getting my boarding pass, manhandling luggage, whatever. Do they sell reading glasses right there in Terminal B? No. They sell water (frizzante o naturale) and magazines and little bottles of booze, but no glasses. But again, fate and luck and preparation intervened, and I remembered I had three spare sets in my laptop backpack. So all was well, as it always seems to be given time. But damn.
Thursday, October 11, 2007
Thurteen: Cammino al Lavoro
Here are some pictures of my commute this week. I go out into the lobby ...
... and along the side of the building, not yet ready for tenants ...
... up past an apartment building ...
... along where they put in trees just this week ...
... to the train station ...
... and underneath ...
... and up to the other side where I look back ...
... and then go on past some other civilized modes of transport ...
... and up the street ...
... and another street ...
... and so on ...
... and so on.
This is just the exciting sort of material blogging was made for, isn't it.
... and along the side of the building, not yet ready for tenants ...
... up past an apartment building ...
... along where they put in trees just this week ...
... to the train station ...
... and underneath ...
... and up to the other side where I look back ...
... and then go on past some other civilized modes of transport ...
... and up the street ...
... and another street ...
... and so on ...
... and so on.
This is just the exciting sort of material blogging was made for, isn't it.
Despite All My Rage I Am Still Just A Rat In A Cage
Moved last weekend to a brand new hotel. So new there's no internet. They are waiting on an Italian security bureaucracy to give them permission. Also no pay TV channels, and one channel in each of Spanish, French, English and German. The English one is of course all news all the time, from which it is kind of weird to get American baseball and football news in a British accent, delivid by BBC Weld. Spanish news is more dramatic. Italian game shows look horribly familiar.
My connection to the outside is solely through my work hosts' office connection, and it cuts out sometimes and seems to be slowly infecting my laptop with unfiltered, nameless diseases. A few daily reboots hold them at bay. Sort of an annoyance when I need to refer to documents, and Windows decides it can no longer open Acrobat or Word can't find templates.
My wife joined me and is now out there, somewhere, walking around Milano, Saronno, wherever she wants to go. The weather is almost exactly like home: Hazy, then clear, temps about 20, the leaves beginning to turn. The home office says I'm doing great, they'll decide later if I can or should stay next week. I think they'd rather I fix it so I don't have to. This means I have to balance fixing it so it looks like I have to stay despite all my efforts against the fact that I really miss my kids.
My wallet's journey has progressed from Paris to Bergamo and might actually arrive today. I haven't missed it. Might make use of an ATM card.
The writer inside needs to write and write and write (!), some people know how that is, but no dice, and from this the merest beginning I must go do real stuff now.
My connection to the outside is solely through my work hosts' office connection, and it cuts out sometimes and seems to be slowly infecting my laptop with unfiltered, nameless diseases. A few daily reboots hold them at bay. Sort of an annoyance when I need to refer to documents, and Windows decides it can no longer open Acrobat or Word can't find templates.
My wife joined me and is now out there, somewhere, walking around Milano, Saronno, wherever she wants to go. The weather is almost exactly like home: Hazy, then clear, temps about 20, the leaves beginning to turn. The home office says I'm doing great, they'll decide later if I can or should stay next week. I think they'd rather I fix it so I don't have to. This means I have to balance fixing it so it looks like I have to stay despite all my efforts against the fact that I really miss my kids.
My wallet's journey has progressed from Paris to Bergamo and might actually arrive today. I haven't missed it. Might make use of an ATM card.
The writer inside needs to write and write and write (!), some people know how that is, but no dice, and from this the merest beginning I must go do real stuff now.
Tuesday, October 02, 2007
How Many Engineers Does It Take To Send A Postcard
Italians should live longer. After dining in the company cafeteria we took a long stroll across old downtown Saronno to a favorite cafferia. The weather was perfect: mid 20s, only a little haze above, a breeze here and there. Office workers and old folks and students were all out and about, strolling, sitting on benches, making a space for life in the middle of the day. A habit we should all get into but somehow, of course, we don’t. Not enough measurable value added.
On the way we went to a tobacconist for postage stamps. They had none of the type for sending postcards to the U.S. Not a place for American tourists. We stopped at another tobacconist. They too had none of the type for sending postcards to the U.S. After coffee, we continued further along to yet a third shop, with the idea that the next stop after that would be the train station. They at least should have them. But the third time was the charm. €4.80 to send five postcards, over a dollar apiece. The lady let me use her sponge.
I dropped them in the red box outside. I figure they’ll probably get home before I do.
Yesterday morning we came down from Montesolaro in a black Mercedes van, the driver in suit and tie. But it was just the company’s usual taxi. Maybe he had important people to get later. Never mind the bulge under his arm, the black wire behind his ear.
This green arrow points to my bedroom this week.
Yesterday afternoon I went down into Milano to get a replacement AmEx card. Despite the heat everyone was in a coat or sweater. I took the train, took the metro, walked a few kilometers at least. The AmEx office was a few blocks round behind the Duomo, its vast plaza full of people and pigeons. Back near the train station I strolled around Castello Sforzesco, all ancient brick walls and tourists. If I were a born journalist rather than a born layabout I might say a thing or two about these perambulations but suffice it to say, I’m not sorry I had to go down into town. I’m a California boy, raised on cars and long wide roads, so I love to walk for blocks and blocks, and to ride in trains. I also love to surround myself with self-absorbed urban crowds. Do I love cities? Or do I just love to visit them?
Last night I got email from Delta Airlines. My wallet was found on the airplane. In Paris. Since they don’t use the 767 to fly from Milan to Paris, this means it had gone to the States and then back to France. This in turn suggests they clean airplanes much better in France than they do in Italy or the United States. This also means I’ll get my driver’s license back and can rent a car if I want to.
If I do, maybe they’ll give me a Smart car. Those things are awesome. Though I’m told it can get a little uncomfortable when a great big truck comes to a stop twenty centimeters behind your head. Of course, there is a worse alternative.
So how many engineers does it take to send a postcard? Well, there were five of us, and I sent five postcards. So I guess that means one.
I was kidding about the bulge and the black wire.
On the way we went to a tobacconist for postage stamps. They had none of the type for sending postcards to the U.S. Not a place for American tourists. We stopped at another tobacconist. They too had none of the type for sending postcards to the U.S. After coffee, we continued further along to yet a third shop, with the idea that the next stop after that would be the train station. They at least should have them. But the third time was the charm. €4.80 to send five postcards, over a dollar apiece. The lady let me use her sponge.
I dropped them in the red box outside. I figure they’ll probably get home before I do.
Yesterday morning we came down from Montesolaro in a black Mercedes van, the driver in suit and tie. But it was just the company’s usual taxi. Maybe he had important people to get later. Never mind the bulge under his arm, the black wire behind his ear.
This green arrow points to my bedroom this week.
Yesterday afternoon I went down into Milano to get a replacement AmEx card. Despite the heat everyone was in a coat or sweater. I took the train, took the metro, walked a few kilometers at least. The AmEx office was a few blocks round behind the Duomo, its vast plaza full of people and pigeons. Back near the train station I strolled around Castello Sforzesco, all ancient brick walls and tourists. If I were a born journalist rather than a born layabout I might say a thing or two about these perambulations but suffice it to say, I’m not sorry I had to go down into town. I’m a California boy, raised on cars and long wide roads, so I love to walk for blocks and blocks, and to ride in trains. I also love to surround myself with self-absorbed urban crowds. Do I love cities? Or do I just love to visit them?
Last night I got email from Delta Airlines. My wallet was found on the airplane. In Paris. Since they don’t use the 767 to fly from Milan to Paris, this means it had gone to the States and then back to France. This in turn suggests they clean airplanes much better in France than they do in Italy or the United States. This also means I’ll get my driver’s license back and can rent a car if I want to.
If I do, maybe they’ll give me a Smart car. Those things are awesome. Though I’m told it can get a little uncomfortable when a great big truck comes to a stop twenty centimeters behind your head. Of course, there is a worse alternative.
So how many engineers does it take to send a postcard? Well, there were five of us, and I sent five postcards. So I guess that means one.
I was kidding about the bulge and the black wire.
