December 2003 Archives

In less than 8 hours, Jeff is due home via red-eye flight from California.

I've missed him and can't wait to see him again; we've been apart since last Wednesday. I'll be picking him up at National Airport--assuming his flight is on time--at 8:30 in the morning then, alas, dropping him off at home before continuing on to work myself (while he still has the day, indeed the rest of the week, off). I did pick up a couple of bottles of bubbly on Tuesday, though, for a proper New Year's Eve celebration with him Wednesday night.

And I'm looking forward to having Thursday off from work and spending all day together with him, making up for lost time.

Strangely and a little alarmingly, though perhaps due to my Appalachian mountain heritage, the Trisha Yearwood country song "She's in Love with the Boy" keeps running through my head tonight when I think about him coming home. It is at least alternating with "My Girlfriend, Who Lives in Canada" from Avenue Q ("I love her, I miss her, I can't wait to kiss her."), perhaps due to my queer sensibility... that, or the fact that I'm simply just a very strange person.

[Update: 09:20] Well, I should have known better than to assume anything. Poor Jeff got stuck in Detroit this morning several hours longer than he was supposed to, and that was after his flight from SFO got to DTW 15 minutes early. The plane from DTW to DCA required unscheduled maintenance and the necessary part wasn't even there; when I last spoke to him at 8:20, it was just arriving and was being installed. The web site, though, now says that there has been an aircraft change due to maintenance, and at least has continually been updated with new information; for the past ten minutes, though, it has read that the flight left the gate at 9:12 but has not yet taken off from DTW, and the flight now has an estimated 10:37 arrival at DCA. In the meantime I came on in to work and will go pick him up from here.

[Update: 09:25] The flight is in the air, according to Northwest's web site, and the expected arrival is 10:31. Soon, soon.

[Update: 11:45] He's home, hoorah, hooray! I just got back to the office after leaving to pick him up about an hour ago, taking him home and giving him a, um, warm welcome. Skyrockets in flight...

When PBS ran the NOVA "The Elegant Universe" series a few months ago, I missed the first episode but managed to TiVo the second. Since then I'd been waiting for the programs to be re-run, and tonight TiVo picked them up for me.

In addition to my longtime fascination with quantum theory, chaos theory and astrophysics, there's also just something about the series narrator and expert on superstring theory, Columbia University mathematics and physics professor Brian Greene, that I've always found really adorable and intriguing.

Recently, though, I was stunned to discover that he and I were undergraduates together, both part of the class of 1984. I pulled out my senior yearbook, and there he was. A number of his bios mention that he performed in musical theater in college (and that even now he takes acting classes and performs in community theater); I'm trying to recall now if I ever saw him in a show at Harvard. Perhaps I'll see him at our 20th reunion this coming year.

Even before I bought my iPod earlier this month, I'd already ripped about half of my CD collection to MP3s. Since then, I've been slowly ripping the other half to AACs (and re-ripping some of the others to AACs as well). A few weeks earlier, though, while starting to clean out some closet space for Jeff to hang his clothes, I had come across my nigh-forgotten collection of P.D.Q. Bach CDs. Yet now I can't find them anywhere in the condo, while for the past two weeks I've been craving listening to them again.

By the way, you can listen to Peter Shickele's segment on the "Seriously Funny" episode of WNYC's Soundcheck recorded on December 22nd.

"Virginia, fairest Virginia. ’Tis for her I sing this song.
They called her 'Virgin' for short, but not for long.

-- "Virgo" from Twelve Quite Heavenly Songs (Arie Proprie Zodicale), S. 16°, by P.D.Q. Bach

In a situation that feels eerily similar to the tyranny that TiVo used to exert over me--when I was unwilling to give the thumbs down to its suggested programs that I didn't actually hate but didn't really want to watch--I think Amazon.com has intimacy and control issues.

Specifically, the Gold Box (also known as "Thom's Gold Box," since Amazon insists on calling me by name every chance it gets, even on other people's web sites, and apparently in an effort to lull me into thinking it's my good pal: "Welcome, Thom." "We have recommendations for you, Thom." "Here's the page you made, Thom." "Thom, see what's New for You." "Thom, sell your past purchases and earn $654.10." "We want you to assassinate the prime minister now, Thom." and so on) simultaneously intrigues, frightens and frustrates me.

First of all, the deals just aren't that great... I mean, 15% off a frying pan? Come on... I've got a fistful of Bed, Bath & Beyond and Linens 'n Things coupons magneted (yes, I know, but it feels like it should be a real word) to the refrigerator that typically offer me at least 20% off a single item, with new coupons arriving weekly. Yet I keep looking at my Gold Box, thinking that some day, maybe, it really will offer me a widescreen plasma TV for fifty bucks, the tease.

But instead, like a trenchcoated man on the streetcorner offering faux Rolexes, it keeps pushing items from Amazon's new jewelry store down my throat-- "Psst, Thom, want to buy a pair of cultured pearl earrings?" Fully a third of the bargains it offers me every day consists of expensive yet inexplicably really unattractive jewelry.

Then there's the paranoia-inducing Let's Make a Deal approach the Gold Box takes once during each session-- "You choose the store from which your next offer is going to come"--leaving me convinced that, in the same way I always get in the slow checkout lane, the better deal, the one I would finally have snagged, was in one of the stores I didn't choose, while I got stuck with the goat behind curtain number two.

And, finally, there's the alarming kidnapper's tone it takes: "Choose this offer RIGHT NOW or NEVER SEE YOUR STRAND OF CULTURED PEARLS AGAIN!" "Now you've done it, Thom. Because of your carelessness, this wireless access point will soon be wearing concrete boots and swimming with the fishes!" I keep expecting to see, "We know where you live, Thom, and we're going to come over there and take back the stuff you already bought from us."

What a bully. I'd leave and find a new relationship with another online merchant but, you know, I've got ten new Gold Box offers coming tomorrow.

Here's what I received for Christmas this year (in no particular order):

• From a co-worker, a boxed set of four pairs of beautiful hand-crafted chopsticks and rests from Pier 1.
• From another colleague, a very attractive red tin (with an almost enamelized appearance) of delicious French "cr�pes au chocolat," light, crispy chocolate cookies made with Belgian chocolate.
• From Jeff, a gift certificate for a free haircut at the Grooming Lounge, about which he's posted on several occasions (here and here, for example). I'm still unsure if this is because I've talked for months about wanting to go there, or a not-so-subtle hint that my hair has become much too unkempt (on the other hand, the women in my life keep giving me compliments on my "sexy" curly hair; the waves and curls aren't apparent when kept at its usual gay-short length typified by the photo on this journal--but becomes very apparent when it grows out). Jeff and I also are gifting each other with theater tickets to several local performances, including Mamma Mia! at the National Theater.
• From Jeff's friend Rajani, a London Underground mousepad and several gifts from my Amazon wishlist, including Jasper Fforde's The Eyre Affair and the Monsoon Wedding DVD.
• From my sister and her family, the Family Guy, Volume 1 DVD set, also from my my Amazon wishlist.
• From my cousin Allyson, a children's book and associated CD about fairies and fairy stories.
• From my cousin-in-law Cricket, who drew my name in the family Secret Santa, a Thomas Kinkade blanket throw, a slate blue polo shirt, a pair of stars and stripes Old Navy board shorts, and a magnetic photo holder in the shape of a leaf.
• From my grandfather, cash.
• From my mother, a beautiful ceramic dish in the shape of a leaf; an absolutely gorgeous photo album covered in handmade paper, featuring a leaf design and showcasing the first picture taken of me by a professional photographer days before my first birthday (I was rather a chubby little baby to have turned into a skinny kid and relatively thin adult); a stunning, filmy gold table runner, also with a leaf design (yes, there's a pattern--much of my home decor incorporates leaves and trees, which are particularly favorite symbols of mine) and a calligraphed quote (from the Maya Angelou "Life Mosaic" line at Hallmark); an olive green turtleneck sweater; two pretty candles; a hanging lantern; two pair of Argyle socks; and some cash.

Among the other precious, more positive moments of the last few days while I was visiting my family:

• Waking up Christmas morning to discover a dusting of snow on the ground and having flurries off and on throughout the day, despite an earlier forecast for rain, giving us a semi-white Christmas.
• Walking out on to the deck yesterday morning to discover an overnight frost had left millions of beautiful, delicate, six-pointed crystals large enough to clearly see their structure; I tried taking a couple of closeups with the digital camera (update: I'm pretty pleased with how they turned out; the image available here has been reduced in size by 50 percent and also saved at low resolution--since the original was 1600x1200 and over 800kb in size--yet still shows pretty good detail; the crystals here are on the wooden deck rail, and for the sake of scale the dark spot in the middle of the picture is a nail head.).
• Leaving my sister's house Saturday evening after another ugly exchange that ended when our mother, on the sidelines, started crying, to find a crisp, clear sky so full of stars and the Milky Way that it made Mom and me both exclaim with wonder and joy (even though she gets to see those incredible night skies all the time).
• Dinner with the cousin closest to me in age--who also was my best friend through childhood--on Saturday evening, and getting a chance to really catch up on each other's lives for the first time in a long time.
• Teaching my youngest nephew how to do a riff on the little drum set he got for Christmas every time someone said a funny line (I had so much fun with him and his drums that now I think I want to get a set and learn how to play).
• Holding my cousin's beautiful baby daughter yesterday in church, and seeing that despite the latter's mixed-race heritage and the overt racism I've sometimes seen back in my home town, my family and their friends all love her unconditionally.

Still, it feels so very good to be home (though I do miss Mom a lot, really enjoyed spending time with her, and regret that my sometimes rocky relationship with my sister affects her so deeply).

On Christmas Day, 28 members of the extended family decided to go in together (at $5/couple) and have someone drive to West Virginia to buy lottery tickets for the big Powerball jackpot; someone said that if we won each couple would get about $8 million pre-tax. I'd already spent a fair chunk of my half of Jeff's and my millions and drafted my resignation letter, in my head, when I found out late last night that our numbers were not the winning ones after all.

So, it's back to work on Monday. And no early retirement and a life of leisure jetting between our estates in California, Virginia, Edinburgh and a private island somewhere.

Christmas Eve continued to be relatively peaceful and uneventful. The traditional family get-together at my sister's was surprisingly drama-free and a genuine treat. Afterwards, my oldest nephew--he turns 18 in three weeks--and I stayed up talking until the wee hours of the morning, which was somewhat evocative of the times I would come in when he was very very young, and he would sleep with me and keep me up late asking me question after question: "Why is the sky blue?" "What causes disease?" etc. Now, though, instead of question and answer we just talk pretty honestly about our individual lives--his girlfriend, my boyfriend, our relationships with my sister and his mother, our mutual love for technology and gadgets, politics (he's a rabid "Young Republican," his only significant flaw), etc. He's also discovered this journal, and I suspect we may hear from him. Hey, Matt.

Christmas Day itself was strange and not completely enjoyable, though there were some relatively pleasant or at least innocuous moments throughout. Overall the day was pretty sad, obviously, with my Dad's absence so clearly felt; in the late afternoon my mom, my sister and I visited the cemetery. Additionally, earlier in the day the sniping at me already had begun, and comments about my perceived lack of filial and fraternal responsibility and duty--vis a vis home visits, family vacations and holidays--peppered the day's conversations and became the focus of a late-evening discussion.

And today wasn't much better, unfortunately, resulting finally in my deciding to leave my sister's house around 4:30 because I just couldn't stand listening any longer to her constant angry, bitter carping at my brother-in-law, my nephews and me.

The evening back over at my mother's house has been very pleasant and relaxing, though. After a quiet dinner at home, Mom, my nephew and I visited my dad's sister and her husband for a bit, and then came back for a peaceful evening together at home.

Yes, I've been a bad boy and haven't posted much lately; it's been an extremely hectic couple of weeks, with a fair number of evenings away (for example, we saw the extended versions of Fellowship of the Ring and The Two Towers at the Uptown before seeing The Return of the King Monday night at a theater in Arlington). Work also has been at least as hectic and stressful as usual, if not more so; even though most of the students are away on leave these two weeks, the work hasn't slowed down at all, and I've barely had time to read my email, much less catch up on other blogs or post to my own.

Last night I picked up another rental car--still no new word on the Prius--and this morning I drove down to be with my family for Christmas. A few hours after I left, Jeff flew out to California to spend Christmas with his family; he'll be back New Years Eve and we'll at least get to spend that evening and New Years Day together.

The drive was fairly uneventful. There was fairly heavy rain off and on, and I passed one particularly terrible accident on the other side of the road, but traffic was light even in Arlington as I was leaving during what normally would be rush hour.

Once in my home town I stopped to do some very last-minute shopping for my mother. Despite her protestations that she is easy to shop for, my sister and I agree that she is the single most difficult person for whom either of us have to buy gifts. She insists on being surprised, so she will not offer any suggestions or wish lists, and does not feel that gift certificates or other cash-like gifts show sufficient thought. At the same time, over the years she has developed a list of things that are not acceptable: tschotchkes, foods, fragrances or any personal supplies or, with a few exceptions, clothing. Fortunately, I have gotten some of those latter exemptions, since she has mentioned several times that she likes my taste in clothing for her. Still, every year I get very stressed out trying to find something for her.

This year I was surprised to get a phone call a couple of months ago to the effect that we were going to draw names for gifts with one side of the family. This was something I'd suggested again and again over the years to try to make the gift-buying process less painful and Christmas more enjoyable. To my horror, however, I found out that this new process this year was expected to be in addition to rather than instead of the normal gift exchanges. Fortunately, I got my sister's name, and she truly is easy to buy for.

This afternoon we got together at my sister's house with her family and my aunt and uncle for what has become a traditional Christmas Eve luncheon of take-out Chinese (the only ethnic food available in my hometown). Tonight the entire family (both my maternal and paternal relatives) come to my sister's house for munchies and fellowship, and then most of the family will go to a late church service; I still stay home with my youngest nephew instead.

My mother and I will stay over at my sister's house tonight so that we'll be ready when my nephews awaken in the morning, and then my sister will fix breakfast for all of us, along with my mother's parents, her sister and brother-in-law. Christmas dinner will be a fairly new tradition of steaks cooked on the grill (since my sister does so much to put together the Christmas Eve party, we finally convinced her to stop preparing a full Christmas dinner by herself as well, and this is the compromise).

Friday or Saturday my mom wants to go shopping for a headstone for my dad's gravesite. I'm not sure why she wants to do this over Christmas, given that she's waited this long; maybe it's because I'm home and she wants to include me. It's going to be a very weird Christmas.

Some years ago, I became involved with a straight married man. After the relationship ended, though, and our paths no longer regularly crossed, I never heard from him again, despite my attempts to contact him and even though he had claimed even after we stopped "dating" that he would never be the one to let the friendship component go. I've never written here about that experience and hadn't even spoken or thought about it for several years.

But I recently discovered in my log files some searches for his name, his nickname, and other phrases and information that taken together only he and I would know, so apparently he had discovered this journal and was checking to see whether I'd ever discussed him or our relationship.

I hadn't--and even now I find myself hesitant to say anything that might identify him too closely, so I've not discussed where and when we met, for example. And even after his visit and discovering I hadn't betrayed his trust or violated his privacy, he still hasn't contacted me.

Which now, surprisingly, feels much more a relief than a disappointment.

As long as I'm ranting about the contents of today's mail, let me also note that I'm not surprised that cable rates seem exorbitant (disclaimer: I subscribe to DirecTV rather than cable), as apparently the cable companies need all your money for their direct mail campaign. Today alone I received two separate (and different in copy and design) mailers exhorting me to subscribe to Comcast's cable services. Did someone there think that if the first one didn't sway me, the second one in the same day's post just might? And this is in addition to the one I received yesterday, and the other two or three I received over the past week. I seem to get at least one a week. I mean, even AOL only sent me a single CD during the past several months.

Just got home from work, and found in today's mail The Citizen, Arlington County's official quarterly publication. This one is labeled "Fall 2003" and includes a calendar of "Events Just Around the Corner," the first page of which runs from the Lonesome River Band's performance on Saturday, November 22 to the Metropolitan Chorus's "A Season of Joy" on Sunday, December 14. Wonder if I can still get tickets? Similarly, I don't want to miss the first two "coming" County Board meetings scheduled for November 15 and December 6.

Over at Pixie with a Crash Helmet today, Cornelia asks "What was the best thing your parents ever did for you during Christmas?"

This dovetails with a conversation I had earlier today with a colleague about family idiosyncrasies vis a vis Christmas gifts. In that conversation, though, we were discussing some of the less positive things our parents did for us during Christmas.

First, though, this disclaimer: My parents have always been wonderful, extremely loving and caring, and generous. On the positive side, my parents always listened to what I wanted and acted upon it (within reason), even when they probably thought that my wishes made little sense, seemed outright bizarre, or simply might not have been "typical" (heh, I'm still amazed that as a teenage boy I received a Cabbage Patch doll for my birthday one year, and two stuffed Ewoks for Christmas another; even now my mother happily indulges my elf and fairy fascination, pointing out or purchasing new items for the collection). I've already written about the year that I asked for a calculator for Christmas which, due to the high cost of even the simplest such in the mid-70s, would end up being practically my only gift. My parents explained that I wouldn't get lots of presents that year, I said I understood, and indeed I got the calculator and only a few other small items. And along the lines of Cornelia's story about Santa's snowy footprints, my parents would enlist the aid of our grandparents who lived next door to foster the illusion of Santa and the Easter Bunny--doorbells would ring and we'd rush to the door to find Easter baskets but no one around; we'd hear sleighbells and stamping, allegedly coming from the roof; etc.

But what I tend to talk most about--and my sister and I have continued to tease our family about this and similar actions--are the other, unintentionally cruel, less generous actions. For example, one year my sister wanted an Easy-Bake Oven, which she got... but which we were allowed to use once, apparently because my dad's childhood of poverty had him worried about the amount of electricity consumed by the lightbulb that provided the heat for cooking. Another year I received a racetrack that because of the time-consuming setup and large area of floor it covered was only ever permitted to be set up and used once as well. Similarly there were the Creepy Crawler machines and Spirographs and their ilk that, once the initial supplies were exhausted, were never refilled to be used again.

The other cruelty perpetrated on us, about which my parents later expressed strong regrets, was that when my sister and I awoke on Christmas morning, even at a reasonable hour, we weren't permitted to go to the living room and see our presents until our grandparents and aunt were telephoned, awake, dressed and had arrived at our house; I realize now it probably was never more than 20 minutes to half an hour, but as a kid every minute was a tortured lifetime. Later, once my sister had children and began holding Christmas at her house, my parents and I would spend the night there--even though they lived a short walk away--and the boys were permitted to go downstairs once they were all awake, with no more waiting until all the relative had arrived before even being allowed to see the tree and gifts.

Finally, though, I want to comment on the deftly positive way in which my parents dealt with the issue of Santa. Santa was never portrayed in our family as a purely benevolent gift-giver--my questions to my parents very early about why some kids, like us, seemed to be favored when many other good kids at church or school received little or nothing from Santa elicited the explanation that Santa was really just a glorified delivery man. Yes, the elves built some of the toys, though Santa purchased most of them from the department stores--after all, we'd seen them there and wondered why the elves would waste their time--but that parents had to pay him for these gifts the same price they'd pay in a retail store. So while Santa did the work of acquiring, wrapping and delivering the goods, Mom and Dad really had bought them for us, which was why the poorer children got less; it wasn't that they were "naughty" and we "nice," or that they somehow deserved less, their parents just couldn't afford as much. In the end, this made the reality of Santa much less critical, disbelief less painful and deceptive, and fit with what the real world already looked like to me.

Yesterday, Jeff posted about his recurrent bouts of the "drama bug," whereby he periodically gets nostalgic about his theater experiences in high school and college, and begins to think about auditioning for some local community theater.

For my part, I have two activities--singing and gaming--for which I have a similar chronic affliction, with intense cravings periodically flaring up like sunspots (though that creates a mixed metaphor, it seemed a nicer image than my first idea of "periodically flaring up like herpes," which I thought also might give the mistaken impression that I have direct experience with the latter).

I sometimes feel like Sophie in Mamma Mia! who in the words of ABBA's "Thank You for the Music" notes "Mother says... I began to sing long before I could talk." My own mother was the organist and choir director for the family church, and some of my earliest memories are of standing around an old pump organ singing old-timey gospel songs with my parents and grandparents. In high school I sang with the choir, and was drawn to musical theater, where I played Albert Peterson in Bye, Bye Birdie and, true to type, Og the Leprechaun in Finian's Rainbow. In college I sang with the all-male Harvard Glee Club for two years, the mixed Harvard-Radcliffe Collegium Musicum for one, and with a variety of small close-harmony groups and even a barbershop quartet throughout. One memory I particularly cherish is soloing with the Glee Club while on tour at the National Cathedral in Washington, a concert my parents also were able to attend.

In the nearly twenty years since graduation, though, I've done very little on this front, beyond a few aborted attempts to start up some close-harmony groups. This holiday season, at least, I'm singing in the choir at work--it's far from a polished group, but it's better than not singing at all.

Gaming, specifically role-playing, is another hobby I once was nearly completely immersed in but for which my participation now is changed in kind--primarily one-person or multi-player online computer rpgs instead of in-person tabletop gaming--as well as greatly reduced in quantity. In 1990 I met my lifelong friends Sheldon and Lisa through gaming, and our gaming together played a large role in our deciding eventually to become housemates. While we lived together in the early 90s, we gamed every weekend and one or two weeknights, and attended several annual gaming conventions. Sheldon is a world-class game master--perhaps the best I've ever encountered--and we had an incredible group of players. After Sheldon and Lisa were transferred to Belgium, our gaming group disbanded, and I left the activity in favor of some new hobbies, primarily squaredancing.

Recently, though, I've caught the bug again, and my experience with hundreds of computer-based rpgs--and even the half-dozen massively multiplayer online rpgs--just haven't scratched the itch. So I'm starting to actively look for a new gaming group, specifically one that is expressly queer-friendly.

Last week there was a mild (magnitude 4.5 on the Richter scale) earthquake centered about 30 miles west of Richmond, Virginia. Many people here in the DC area also report having felt it, including one of the Admin. Assistants right outside my office; jealously, I admit, I didn't notice anything.

Saturday night we had a little snow--2 inches at most--and yesterday was rainy with temperatures in the high 30s to low 40s, so by this morning there was merely a dusting left on grassy areas, and none at all on the roads. Yet nearly all area schools opened two hours late today. What is up with that? I lived in Boston for seven years and I don't recall the schools ever closing. Yet when someone spits in the street in DC or Northern Virginia the roads come to a standstill. And if someone spots a flurry of snow, the schools rush to close down. I blame the lawyers.

Yes, we have heat again in the condo. So far the new heat pump seems to be working fine. The new digital thermostat, which allows us to program four set points for each day of the week separately, is an awesome change over the previous model, though its thermometer appears to be miscalibrated; Jeff and I both felt that the temperature seemed cooler than the thermostat was suggesting and two different mercury thermometers we brought into the room agree in showing an ambient temperature about four degrees lower than what the digital thermostat reads. When the contractors come back out to work on the humidifier and install a replacement drain hose I'll ask them about it. In the meantime, we're just setting the desired temperature a few degrees higher to compensate for the seeming inaccuracy.

The new unit is a little smaller and certainly is much quieter than the old one, which would rumble, rattle and shake. It's so nice to have heat again, though it was also nice to see that my electric bill had been only $35 in October (with no heating at all) and $45 in November (while running a high-wattage space heater in the bedroom at night).

So, the refinance is complete, the heat pump is installed, I have my iPod and the accessories I ordered with it, and the various items I've shopped for online all have arrived; things actually have been starting to go well (almost too well, the voices caution me). Wouldn't it be the icing on the cake if the Prius were to arrive before next Tuesday?

For nearly a week, I've found nothing to say here. Sadly, last night while Jeff and I were at dinner, I came back from the rest room announcing that I had (along the lines of) the following opening for a blog entry: "Just because they're called urinal cakes doesn't mean they should smell like buttercream frosting."

Pathetic that I'm reduced to posting about this.

But truly it was disconcerting to walk into the men's room and encounter a strong aroma of strawberry Creme Savers® and then to discover that the smell was emanating from the bright pink deodorizer in the solitary urinal.

Which also made me muse to myself about the fact that somewhere there are factories that make urinal cakes, and people whose livelihood depends upon the sale of urinal cakes. And to wonder why they're almost invariably pink (though usually a soft pink, the one in the restroom at CPK was a brighter shade).

For some odd reason, as I sound this out in my head, I now find myself mentally pronouncing, in the British fashion, "uRInal cakes."

By the way, my limited research on what's in these things turns up the following statement on a janitorial supply web site: "WARNING: This product contains a chemical known to the State of California to cause cancer." So why do they make them smell like candy?

Well, almost. My heat pump--on September 9 I reported that the previous unit had failed and on October 23 I wrote about placing an order for a replacement--finally has arrived. The technicians are coming on Thursday morning to begin the installation, so by Thursday evening Jeff and I should have more than our love to keep us warm.

For those poor souls among you who haven't yet accepted TiVo as your personal time savior, you probably at least know that TiVo is a personal video recorder, a device that allows you to digitally record television programs for later viewing (and pause and replay live TV, as well). TiVo's software also has a feature called "Suggestions," by which TiVo builds a database of programs it thinks you will like, based on the other programs you've watched, recorded and rated. I have my TiVo programmed to automatically record suggestions as long as there is space available on the hard drive.

My TiVo, however, is starting to feel less like a helpful friend making suggestions, but more like a shrill, nagging spouse who thinks it knows what's best for me. It doesn't seem to care that every time I see the items it has automatically recorded for me, I immediately delete Jackie Chan Adventures, Third Rock from the Sun, King of the Hill, Just Shoot Me, and That 70s Show, among other titles. Instead, it methodically and invariably fills up the hard drive with every single episode ever recorded of these shows, insisting in its insidious, passive-aggressive way "Watch this!", "Watch this now!", "Do you really need another helping of Great Performances? Maybe you should have some low-cal Saved by the Bell instead."

So if TiVo is smart enough to make new suggestions based on what I'm recording, why isn't it also smart enough to learn from the things I always delete without even previewing?

Of course, I could use the rating option to give a thumbs down for those series, which would stop TiVo from continuing to suggest them, but that feels like an act of deception on my part. After all, tt's not that I so actively dislike these series to the point of permanently inscribing a red thumbs down icon on their TiVo program guide entries, I just don't really care about them. There's a wide gulf between disinterest and hatred. I mean, I wouldn't want to go into a strip club on Boubon Street hawking "Live Nude Girls," but I wouldn't throw pig's blood on their door. And just because TiVo has turned out to be a bit of a harpy and control queen doesn't mean that I have to turn into a sneaky liar in response.

It might not bother me so much if my TiVo hadn't turned out to be so disturbingly lowbrow; I'm terrified I'll come home one afternoon to find it wrapped in a housecoat, recording Jerry Springer and having discarded its digital optical input for a set of rabbit ears.

According to the ACLU, and reported yesterday in The New York Times, among other sources, a seven-year-old boy in Louisiana was disciplined by his elementary school last month and was referred to the school's behavior clinic a week later for "using foul language and behaving inappropriately." The assistant principal who described the young boy's actions as such to the child's mother went on to state that he didn't feel comfortable repeating the specific word used over the phone.

So what was this horrific thing perpetrated by the apparent reprobate, Marcus McLaurin? The Times notes, "The incident occurred when the class was lined up for recess and a classmate asked Marcus about his mother and father. Marcus responded that he had two mothers, not a mother and father. When the other child asked why, Marcus told him that it was because his mother was gay. The other child then asked what that meant, and Marcus explained, 'Gay is when a girl likes another girl.'"

The ACLU reports that Marcus then was publicly scolded by his teacher, told that "gay" is a bad word that should not be used in school, and sent to the principal's office. He was barred from recess that day and a week later was sent to a "behavior clinic" (that phrase just gives me the willies) where he was required repeatedly to write the sentence "I will never say the word 'gay' in school again."

That policy sure is gonna make it difficult for the kids to sing "Deck the Hall" at this year's holiday party.

As to the other side of the story, school officials deny that Marcus was disciplined for using the word "gay," but rather for "behavior problems." However, the ACLU has published a copy of a behavior report signed by Marcus's teacher, which reads "'Marcus decided to explain to another child in his group that his mom is gay. He told the other child that gay is when a girl likes a girl. This kind of discussion is not appropriate in my room. I feel that parents should explain things of this nature to their own children in their own way.'" Copies of the two forms from the school may be found on the ACLU web site (see the "behavior contract" filled out by Marcus and signed by his teacher and the behavior report completed by the teacher, noting that the child was reprimanded and showing the requirement for attending behavior clinic the following week).

The other Jeff (that is to say, not my Jeff, though I will confess to having had a blogcrush on the former as well) has added a countdown to his 30th birthday to his blog, reminding me of something I'd meant to write about several weeks ago when I first heard the following news:

On November 20, People magazine named the 40-year-old Johnny Depp this year's "Sexiest Man Alive."

On Book of Ages, a blog that accompanies Book of Ages 30, a book for and about those in the 30s, a poster noted in "For Sexy, 40 Beats 30" that along with Depp who already is 40, three of the other men on the Top Ten Sexy Men list--Brad Pitt, Russell Crowe and Lenny Kravitz--all turn 40 within the coming year. Of the other six in the top ten, George Clooney is 42, Hugh Grant is 43, and Denzel Washington is 48. Hugh Jackman, at 35, is on his way to 40, while the only 20-somethings to make the list were Ashton Kutcher and Justin Timberlake.

Apparently, then, forty-something men are the sexiest. This comes as no surprise.

Last night I installed the new PCI card with USB 2 and FireWire ports. Once I had the computer open, I discovered that it appeared that I already had three IEEE-1394 (aka i.Link, aka FireWire) ports, which hadn't been reflected in the information available online at Dell for my service tag number. The reference material on my PC, though, suggested that Dell had certified those ports only for use with digital videocameras, and not with other FireWire devices; besides, I wanted the upgraded USB ports anyway.

A very little while later (a time measured in minutes as opposed to hours, thanks to the fast FireWire transfer speed, though I did spend several hours updating and correcting ID3 tags) my iPod was configured, was showing up as an additional hard drive on my PC, and I had transferred about 5,600 songs to it, enough music to play for more than 15 straight days. That's about two-thirds of my CD collection, and I still have almost 11Gb left for the remaining tracks. Since I had ripped 99% of my CDs to very high-quality mpegs on my PC before the iTunes was available for Windows, currently I would only be able to transfer about 7,000 songs compared to the 10,000 Apple says you can store on a 40Gb iPod; I might now go back and re-rip them to AAC over time instead, which will reduce the file sizes.

By the time Jeff came home, I was able to do my own imitation of the iPod commercials, dancing around the living room and belting out Barenaked Ladies tunes while holding about two-thirds of my entire music collection in one hand. It's so cool to realize that I can now have access to all of my music at any time--at home, at work, on the road, or just walking down the street. I don't really remember the last time I even used my CD jukebox anyway, since I'd been ripping all my tunes to the PC, so theoretically I could sell the jukebox and all my original CDs, and reclaim some space both in my audio cabinet and in my closet (once the CDs number in the hundreds, the jewel cases alone occupy a surprisingly large amount of cubic feet).

Heck, this iPod might even pay for itself in that case. I am so in love with Apple right now.

My new iPod arrived last night. I love the packaging, the hinged square box with the matte finish that opens up into two compartments, the way in which some of the components nestle within others, even the little strips of plastic tape that are used to lift some of the pieces out of the styrofoam inserts.

When I pulled the iPod itself out of the box and unwrapped it, I accidentally brushed against the very sensitive buttons, and it turned on. Oddly, the menus were all in Japanese, so I couldn't even figure out how to turn it off until I found instructions in the manual dealing specifically with the situation in which the iPod were (inadvertently) set to a different language.

At this point, all I've been able to do is to charge the unit. My PC doesn't have USB 2 or FireWire ports, so I wasn't able to connect the iPod in order to transfer any music or files. Today at lunch, however, I drove to the local CircuitCity and bought a PCI card with both FireWire and USB 2, which I'll install tonight. Of course, this has had the effect of making me want a brand-new computer; my current one is a 2-year-old refurbished Dell with only a 1GHz PIII. For the nonce, though, given all the other expenses I'm incurring, it's just fine.

Like Gene, I've always thought of myself a high-end technology early adopter, one of the Pew Internet and American Life Project's "technology elite." My mother still reminds me of the year I asked only for a calculator for Christmas; I was probably 7 or 8 and at that time calculators were big, very expensive, and couldn't do much more than basic arithmetic and square roots. Just as two other examples, I started using Macs in 1984 and bought my first two years later, and I bought a stereo Beta VCR my freshman year of college; both of these cost me a fortune, given their priciness and my very limited income at the time.

But I was musing yesterday that my pace as an early adopter has been slowing down. My first inkling of this was when my father, who despite his interest in technology had resisted even buying a computer until five years ago, bought a DVD burner last year, a piece of technology I still don't own. And last week my aunt bought Dell's Digital Jukebox, their competitor to the iPod, while my 17-year-old nephew has owned an MP3 player for over a year. Yesterday's iPod is my first.

I still own a Pentium 3 computer without USB 2 or FireWire; mercifully, I did at least upgrade it from Windows ME to XP earlier this year. I've never owned a videocamera at all, and my 2.1 megapixel digital camera now also feels woefully underpowered given today's cheaper yet higher-resolution models. Yes, I have DirecTV (three years ago) and TiVo (earlier this year), but I don't yet own an HDTV monitor. The Prius is now four years old and I've only just committed to purchasing one. My Palm OS Handspring Visor--which I bought the first month they were available--now seems like a toy compared to today's PocketPCs and Treos.

I do still salivate over many of these new gadgets and technologies, but I'm a little more considered these days. My first Macintosh purchase depleted my savings and still put me into significant debt for the time--yet I did it fairly blithely. Now, although I lust after wall-mounted thin LCD and plasma screens, I absolutely balk at the idea of spending a few thousand dollars for a television, even though I could readily afford it. And, you know, I don't even really want a Segway at all.

I started wondering if I were suffering from "technology fatigue," but my excitement over my new iPod and my occasional giddiness over a Prius I don't yet even have seem to suggest that I'm still capable of being swept away; the love affair with gadgetry is by no means over, it's just perhaps more akin to the smoldering embers of a lifelong relationship than to the blinding, dizzying passions or infatuations of my youth.

Happy happy joy joy! Jeff gets back to DC today from his holiday visit with his family in the Bay Area. While I jokingly told him last night that it had been a relaxing change to be able to sleep sans earplugs for a few days (for a little guy, he sure generates an awful lot of decibels in his sleep), the truth is that I've really missed him and will be very glad to have him home again, home again.

Boy, do I wish these kinds of "toys" had been around when I was a kid; I may end up asking for them for Christmas anyway. The Discovery Channel store is selling:

1. The Discovery DNA Explorer Kit. The kit, which retails for about $80, includes a centrifuge, an electophoresis chamber, and coupons for two free DNA samples.

Explore one of the newest frontiers in science - DNA mapping. From science labs to courtrooms, few discoveries are as exciting as the world of DNA. With this deluxe, first-of-its-kind kit, you can extract, view and map real DNA yourself. Ideal for budding forensic-scientists or secret agents, the working lab and tools are just like the real thing. Plus, you'll have all the supplies needed for six fascinating DNA experiments. Extract DNA from vegetables, find out what actually makes ink colors and even grow crystal stalagmites!

2. The Discovery Whodunit? Forensics Lab, also retailing for about $80. Among other items, this kit includes a 200x microscope, a light table and a blood analysis tray.

Learn how to use science to fight crime! With advances in forensic science, more and more crime work is being solved in the lab. Now you can introduce your child to a fun and fascinating side of science, with this complete at-home forensic lab. You'll face six tough cases - each harder than the last. Use the state-of-the-art lab instruments to analyze handwriting, decipher blood type and examine mysterious fibers in your search for answers.

Wicked!

Despite my family's extreme closeness, over the past ten years Thanksgiving has tended to become a less celebrated holiday as my grandfather, brother-in-law and one of my nephews have tended to remain at their hunting camp rather than coming in to spend the day with the rest of us. Even so, this year's holiday felt strange.

Typically, my mother's side of the family would get together on Thanksgiving proper, through my childhood and early adult years at my grandmother's house but later, once my grandmother developed Alzheimer's--in fact, we now recognize some early signs of the disease from a Thanksgiving dinner some years back in which she forgot to turn on the oven to heat some food and then lost some dishes which never were found--at my sister's.

Before my father's kidney disease he would go hunting with most of the other men in the family, but he would always come in from the woods for Thanksgiving, at least. So my father had always been there at the table with us, even when my grandfather, brother-in-law and nephew were not. Even so, his absence--at least to me--felt less permanent and more just like he was away in the woods and would be back by the weekend. My mother and I remarked on Sunday, as we visited his gravesite, that it most often feels just like a dream; there still is something unreal about his death and our continued lives without him.

In the past, our Thanksgiving tradition would continue on Friday, as we would get together with Dad's side of the family. Dad's nephew and his wife would host both sides of their family and some family friends--as many as 20-25 people. This year, however, his niece had family visiting from the other side of the state for the entire previous week, and obviously wasn't able to pull together a family dinner of that magnitude in addition. So Mom and I spent most of Friday over at my sister's again, decorating her house for Christmas.

Thursday evening, after our Thanksgiving dinner, the conversation turned again to family obligations--the same conversation as those I referenced in an earlier post, and in which my lack of filial duty and care--because I don't call every day, nor visit every weekend--again was noted. I pointed out that I do, at least, provide details of my comings and goings to a degree that I suspect not many 40-somethings do; if I'm going to be out of town, even for an evening, my family expect me to let them know where I'll be and how to reach me. I've explained that I always have my cell phone with me and turned on when I'm traveling, and therefore am often more readily reachable at those times than when I'm around DC, but it's an important ritual for them and I've continued to honor it.

My sister continued to insist, however, and with support from my aunt--and a silence from my mother that seemed to exude pain and implicit support for my sister and aunt (boy, do I have deep-seated issues with this, or what?)--that while I might not feel the need to check in with them on a daily basis, "as I should," and that I don't visit often enough (and just what constitutes "often enough," anyway?), I nonetheless continue to have a responsibility to spend holidays with them, period. She said that in the future I certainly would be welcome to invite not only Jeff but his parents as well, but that my attendance is non-negotiable.

The issue about the frequency of my visits home is an interesting one. Granted, I'd like to see my family more often, and it's not like a four-hour drive is a terrible burden. Historically, I would tend to get home about once every two to three months, plus most Independence Day, Thanksgiving and Christmas holidays. A few years ago when my work schedule increased dramatically, however, I only made it home three to four times a year, including the holidays. Over the past few years, though, I was spending a great deal of time with my parents. I spent a number of weeks with my mother while my father was in the hospital; just before his death this year I again spent a number of days with my mother. Since his death, I was there a full week in September and every weekend that month, three weekends in October, and two weekends in November.

So when my sister pointed out that I also should be joining the family on its vacation every year, and that I should have gone this year--which turned out to have been my father's last--I lost my cool and curtly pointed out that I hadn't actually had any leave because I'd used it all visiting Dad in the hospital and being tested as his organ donor. In fact, I haven't had a week-long vacation of my own in three years, because most of my leave since then had gone to spending time with Dad--time I didn't begrudge, but that nonetheless hadn't left me with an opportunity to take a vacation, with or without them. Even now the days I'm taking to spend Thanksgiving and Christmas with them depletes my leave as quickly as I earn it.

And even in just the six years that I've owned my own condo my parents had been to Arlington to visit me maybe four times (though given Dad's health, it's understandable that they couldn't visit more often); my sister has come up once (in fact, only the one time in the entire 16 years I've lived here in the DC area), and my aunt also once. It's the same four-hour drive, yet the responsibility to make it seems solely mine. When I've tried to broach this, and to suggest that there's an element of inequity, my point is brushed aside as unreasonable: after all, if I make the trip, I can see all of them, but they can't all make the trip to see me, and besides, they have responsibilities at church, to keep my grandmother, etc. To them, apparently, my life and responsibilities end at 5:00 on Friday (actually, with the exception of my mother, who seems to understand more than the rest that I have a career and life of my own, I'm not even sure that my family fundamentally accept that I have work and other real world responsibilities; every time I'm home they suggest that I should easily be able to stay an extra few days and not go back to work, for example).

Whew! That's enough whining and self-pity for now. It's amazing how my family, like nothing else in my life, and even given subjectively my amazingly caring, loving and supportive childhood and my relative success as an adult, can reduce me to feeling so inadequate, uncaring and selfish, and seemingly so frequently disappointing to them.