Santa Ana Winds

I'm sitting in the patio shirtless and barefoot. I'm drinking a glass of some excellent merlot from Trader Joe's (how do they manage to sell such good wine so cheaply?!). It's dusk and it's probably 85-90 degrees and dry where I'm sitting. And it is absolutely delicious, like soaking in a warm bath. I love this weather passionately. And it's all due to a phenomenon known as the Santa Ana Winds.

The typical weather pattern in southern California is an offshore flow in the afternoon as the inland air warms and rises toward the end of the day. This pulls in moist ocean air that flows over the coastal mountains (about 30 miles inland). The air is cooled as it rises over the mountain and the moisture drops out as precipitation leaving dry, cloudless skies to the east, hence the Mojave desert in southeastern California.

Today, however, the flow reversed. A cold air mass settled between the Rockies and the Sierra Nevadas and exerted enough pressure to overcome the usual offshore flow. The so-called Santa Ana winds came gushing in through the mountain passes bringing that delicious dry hot desert air to the coastal plane. It's the kind of weather that makes you want to sit on the porch with your favorite adult beverage (we're all adults here, aren't we?). It's the sort of weather that makes you want to go out to your favorite taco stand with your best friend (it is Southern California, after all!) and that's exactly what I'm going to do....

Prodigious Professional Problems

Years ago a classmate of mine confided to me, through prodigious sad tears, that she did not know what to do. Her family—in China—had sent her to a preeminent research university half a world away to get an education with the expectation that she would return, be married and have a family. But now a world of opportunity lay before her that put her at odds with her family’s wishes. If I remember correctly, she wanted to change her major, go on to medical school and do clinical research, here in the States. Her family threatened to cut her off and she wasn’t so sure herself what she wanted irrespective of her family’s threats.

Another friend of mine is torn between an urge to put even greater time and effort into her academic career and spending the time it takes to find a mate and have a family. She sees the tug as being in opposite directions. Perhaps they’re not a full 180 degrees apart, but I’d say they form at least an obtuse angle. It’s frankly naïve to think you can have it all—family requires sacrifices, from both parties and uniquely so from the woman.

And then there’s me. I find so very attractive a bright woman, especially if she shares something of my intellectual curiosity (gosh I’m so self-conscious of how haughty this sounds, but can’t find better words). These have usually been educated, professional types. In my little limited experience, though, the sort of sacrifice that raising a family requires presents folks like this with a tough dilemma if not an outright intractable problem. In fact, to be perfectly honest, most of the women I’ve known in law school, for example, have been downright hostile or at least equivocal about marriage and family life. So, am I barking up the wrong tree? I’m speaking here merely in terms of generalizations, but I wonder, maybe I can no more have it all than she can. (And no I don’t expect she’ll be perfect, but that’s not what I’m referring to here.) I probably need to rethink my priorities, no?

Actually, my views on the topic are probably not so uncertain as I let on, but this is an issue I like to hear other folks' views on, probably because it's one a lot of woman I've cared about have had to struggle with and I like to hear how others have resolved it.

(And please, just take what I've written here at face value; this is not a discourse on what gender roles ought to be, for example.)

(One more aside: I just finished The Far Side of the World, a Jack Aubrey novel by Patrick O'Brien and so it's no wonder a word like "prodigious" snuck into this post. Gosh, I sound so stuffy sometimes in my writing. I swear, I'm not like this in person, certainly not if you buy me a pint or two! I wonder, is my writing voice really so different from my actual person as I think?))

Me the Protector

Based on the Myers Briggs personality test, this test from OKCupid has me pegged as an ISJF personality type. It gives the following description of me which, as it turns out, is extremely accurate in my opinion. And, because I can't be expected to be a reliable judge of my own personality, I had FriendM take a look and she confirms that the description is apt.

Here are the test results for me:

ISFJ-The Protector

You scored 0% I to E, 84% N to S, 47% F to T, and 47% J to P!

The protector type is called such because you feel your life is best used to protect those you love from the pitfalls of life, to see to their safety and security. You belong to the larger group called guardians. You find great satisfaction in assisting the downtrodden. You are not talkative with strangers, but you can chat tirelessly with those you trust. You have a good solid work ethic. You are thorough and very likely frugal. You do not like to be in a place of authority, and will delegate poorly if forced into a lead position. You share your type with 10% of the population.

As a romantic partner, you are generous and gentle. Occasionally you may be taken for granted because of this fact. You are tireless in providing acts of service for your loved ones. You run the risk of always being exhausted because you won't say no to your partner. You are sensitive to criticism and will withdraw rather than fight back. You wish to be appreciated for your loyalty and whole hearted nuturing. Your values must be respected and you thrive on consideration and kindness.

More descriptions of ISJF profiles here and here and here.

It’s occurred to me that nearly all of my blog posts are about what I’m feeling rather than what I’m doing. In that sense, my posts are inward looking, consistent with my personality type (at least the I). Cool.

The law is a sausage

I’m an attorney-type and I hate the courthouse. Why oh why, pray tell, would anyone who loves bratwurst want to visit the sausage factory? Why would you want to visit the kitchen of your favorite Chinese restaurant? Why would a law practitioner want to visit the courthouse? Nay, why did the majority of my classmates get stars in their eyes at the mere thought of ascending the steps to the courthouse? Somewhere along the line many of them were sold this romantic, overly dramatized misconceptions of what happens in there. Mind you, I don't have much experience there myself, but...

...I accompanied my mother to the courthouse earlier this week where she was petitioning for a modification to her child support and visitation order. Because my mother had served the father pursuant to a little-used statutory provision, the judge had to leave us for the end so she could do a little research. So we got to see the endless parade of broken people--good people at their worst.

One case that stood out was that of a man asking the court to make permanent a temporary restraining order against his wife. In the end this degenerated into a he-said-she-said situation. Normally in a jury trial the jury is entitled to credit whichever of the conflicting testimony it wishes. Here, it was entirely up to the judge. She (judge) saw the same thing I did: a sad, desperate man pleading for he court to help keep the woman away. Seem just a little implausible considering he was larger than she, etc.? Look what was happening. The woman was attacking the man every time he came to visit his children pursuant to the temporary visitation order. The woman had attacked him with a knife. The man had been arrested when he defended himself by grabbing her arms (and leaving marks). Now, to be fair, the man could have been lying, but the judge saw the same thing I did. Opposite a sincere-sounding, obviously distraught man was the woman who testified in a soft, unsure voice full of hesitation. She seemed to be evasive when she answered "I don't know" to yes/no questions for which she should have known the answers. In the end the judge did not credit the man's testimony so there was not sufficient evidence for her to make the restraining order permanent.

Was this the right decision? Probably. Despite the more believable testimony of the man? Probably. Why? Because a permanent restraining order against the woman--even if merited--might have had dire consequences for the pending child custody hearing. Frankly, she would have been screwed. So here we have an example of the judge making a crummy legal decision (arguably) in order to serve the broader interest of justice. The courthouses are like sausage factories. Skip the factory tour. Just enjoy the sausage.

Cultural Destiny

Cultural destiny is when the new Chevy Impala begins to look pretty good to you. Cultural destiny is when the silver chain you haven't worn in years suddenly reappears around your neck. Cultural destiny is when you speak with an accent though you were born and raised in this country. Cultural destiny is when you change over to the free weights in the "prison yard" section of the gym.

( ↑ tongue-in-cheek)
( ↓ not so tongue-in-cheek)

But cultural destiny does not compel sympathy for the MEChA separatist bozos, “victicrat” whiners and those whose "cultural identity" has so overtaken their self identity that they have become caricatures of themselves. Get a life people.

Pianissimo are the sounds of mourning

Ya buddy! I’ve now got dual opposing keyboards right in my own living room! The electric piano is a Yamaha P200—full-sized with a nice weighted action. It’s connected to an EMU Proteus 2000 sound module and both are connected to my laptop via a MIDISport 2x2 interface. The piano is a Pearl River upright. Nothing special, but it’s got a pretty large frame and sound board which helps bring out the bass and stave off the tinniness of smaller consoles.

Question for the tech savvy: say I wanted to put a link to a music file I created, is there a way to upload them same as I do picture files? Will Blogspot host these files like they do picture files (up to 300 megbytes total, as I recall)?



And now the mourning part:

Update 8/6/8: And now, dear reader, you shall never know.

Most expensive BB gun you've ever seen

(First, about the last post. Ok, so I admit I've been in a bit of a funk for the past couple weeks. Oh, it wasn't obvious?! The occasional "somber" post will happen. I can live with that.)

_____________________________________________________________

Of the several guns I own my favorite is, at heart, nothing but an old-fashioned, albeit pretty fancy, pellet gun. Introducing the Steyr Mannlicher LP10 precision match air pistol. This little gem of Austrian engineering is a leading member of that elite group of super-precision air
pistols used in international 10-meter competition as featured in the Olympic games. Shown here in my Pelican case are two air cylinders (the long silver things), a couple tins of pellets (green and yellow round things), some cleaning stuff (round black things above the pellet tins), air pressure gauge (the one that looks like a gauge!), fill adaptor for filling the cylinders from a scuba tank (below the gauge), some tools and user manual (long colorful thing to the left of the adaptor and the black thing below it), and pellet velocity meter to adjust the pellet velocity (left of the gauge).

Why is it my favorite? Because I absolutely love accuracy and elegant design. With respect to accuracy, this pistol shoots a single round hole at ten meters when shot from a vice. This is not a
jagged-edged hole, mind you. It’s a perfectly round hole produced by shooting ten pellets of a mere .177 inch diameter at the target. It is the most accurate gun I am ever likely to own.

And the design? Here’s what Pilkguns has to say:

Motionless firing.....

Stabilizer, compensator and barrel ballasting weights control any upward muzzle climb. The recoil causing air pressure (or CO2) recoil is eliminated by the internal stabilizer consisting of a mobile bolt mass. Highest Precision.....
With ultra-short lock time and adjustable muzzle velocity.

Individual Adjustment Features.....
For trigger, line of sight and rear sight blade.

Unmatched Morini Grip.....

Can be adjusted and swiveled in virtually every direction.

Dry Fire Device.....
Can be activated and deactivated without any tools.

Quality made by Steyr Sportwaffen.....
In design, manufacture and finish.

Wow. I have a German rifle that also demonstrates the Bavarians’ passion for precision, but this one takes the cake. It’s simply beautiful to look at as the following pictures attest.

There's something wrong with this picture. I'm holding the pistol in my knees. Can you guess where it's pointed? Well, there's obviously nothing in the chamber. It's not a very good shot, but you can kind of make out the spiral rifling, you know, like the one you see at the start of every James Bond movie. Part of the reason this shot isn't very good is because the barrel is mirror smooth on the inside and you get a bunch of reflections on the inside surfaces.

Here's a better view of the Morini grip. With it's nicely contoured profile, it practically envelops the hand and makes for a very stable hold on the pistol. I absolutely love this grip. In fact, there's a tub of plaster of Paris sitting in my garage which I intend to use to make a mold of the grip (multi-part, no doubt) so that I can make a copy for my other pistol.






Here's a nice view of the trigger with all of it's myriad adjustments. If you look closely you can see several of the adjustment screws and get a sense of just how dextrous this thing really is. This is a perfectly crisp two-stage trigger in the finest European tradition. I just can't figure out why Americans don't like two-stage triggers. They're wonderful and I wish all my guns had them!





Finally, here's a view of the open breech. The large lever on the right actuates the cylindrical silver colored breech block toward the bottom. When closed, it's flat bottom surface (not shown) seals against the green o-ring while the front portion seals against the breech (the visible portion of the barrel in this picture). The pellet is inserted manually into the barrel after each cycle.

My dreams mock me

Update: 8/6/8: Gone.

Homeless Personals

The following add found on Craig's List today:

Homeless man... - m4mw - 48

---

Reply to:
Date: 2005-09-17, 11:21AM PDT


seeking a m/f to buy me a burger today.....THANKS!

ps..am at central library!

• this is in or around Downtown Los Angeles
  
• no -- it's NOT ok to contact this poster with services or other commercial interests
  

(I thought it was funny, but in a Charlie Chaplin-esque kind of way that also kinda makes you tear up. Am I the only one who feels this way?)

"Out, damned spot!"

I'm rather proud of the grease under my fingernails. These hands are very skilled. They can do more than hold a book or deftly select a ripe melon or scratch that elussive spot between your shoulder blades.

Sorry is the book-learned surgeon who can't thread a needle.

Fish, donuts and other things jelly

A couple days ago my truck turned 150K. For his birthday he gave me a busted water pump and a flat tire. The thing spilled all my antifreeze yesterday morning and I just barely manage to make it back home after dropping off my dad at work. The thing was getting hot and the last thing I needed was to blow a head gasket. So far so good on that account, but the bearing seals on the pump were definitely gone. Of course, since it's the only car I've got and it would have taken me half a day just to get out to the auto parts store and back by bus, I had to wait for my dad's wife to get back in the evening to go get a new pump. So there you go, a whole day of sitting on my hands--can't stand that!

Well, all's well that ends well. Old and new pump pictured below. The new one actually had a cast impeller which I liked better than the stamped galvanized thingy in the old one.







And finally, here's me looking very debonair in my Dickies coveralls. The picture's actually a couple years old, probably a little chubbier here.







I think I'm going to lay off on talking about cracked aquariums and checks in the mail and the like. Writing about what I'm feeling helps me work things out, but my feelings are apt to change. So, invariably what happens is that I'll write something maybe out of frustration and disappointment and then I'll calm down and change my mind. Of course, by that time, my writings have already confused people and I've already sent ill-advised checks. It just hasn't worked out too well and I just can't afford to have my alter-ego Anchovy conspiring against me. So, at least for a while, I'll just keep my writings to myself and friends whom I care to share with directly. You can always ask; I like to hear others' perspectives.


Did you know there are exactly 8 capital letters that look the same when they're flipped upside down? (C, E, D, H, I, K, O, X)

My friends and I had an impromptu get-together a couple nights ago. If I look miserable in the following picture, you should have seen me in the morning--the morning my water pump broke, incidentally.

It all started with one of these--Maker's Mark bourbon with homemade blackberry liqueur.

Whiskey never tasted so good

Whether this post survives tomorrow, whether this post ends as-is, without an update--that will tell you what kind of night tonight was. All I can say is thank God for friends who make you forget, make you take yourself a little less seriously. Now, this posting, as it stands, is terribly unfinished. Please take that into account.

When I returned to California from school in New Jersey I gave to my sister what was left of my bottle of Maker's Mark bourbon whiskey. I also gave to her my bottle of homemade blackberry liqueur. The theory was that since I’m taking it easy on the booze these days, she has better use for them than I do. She liked the blackberry liqueur well enough, but I don’t think she cared for the bourbon. So, I decided to help her out. Let’s just say I most certainly am making good use of them now! (blogging drunk—that a crime in California? Guilty as charged. What? CA courts don't have jurisdiction over drunk blogs in cyberspace? Oh they most certainly do. Let me explain...oh, never mind.)

But me, having been debauched by Bacchus’s sweet vine, I stopped by the local liquor store and bought a bottle of Absolute.....

Now, (something about been rare and that's why it makes for good stories)

The check's in the mail

Update 8/6/8" Gosh, the metphores were witty, but it was time for this to go.

A final word...I think

Update 8/6/08: Out of heres.

Incomunicado

For goodness sake, I hold a Ph.D. in Waxing Eloquently from the The Shyster Institute for the Ethically Challenged! I need to write/talk things out. This incommunicado business is for the birds (certain flightless ones)!

Update 8/6/08: Redacted.

The check will be in the mail

TUESDAY.

Four points of the compass

Update 8/6/08: And the preceding was as sweet a sentiment as what follows, but it couldn't remain.

One thing is clear. As stubborn and independent as I think I am, thank God for the loving counsel of good friends--even when they're wrong.

Fire at will

Screw this. I'm tired of all this syrupy cryptic metaphorical crap I've been writing. I'm going out to the range to shoot the hell out of a harmless piece of paper!

Jasmine Moon

For the past few nights the scent of jasmine blossoms has been particularly heavy in the air around my house. The smell of new life?

Tonight the moon is a sliver. Is it waxing or waning? Beginning or ending?

Are they merely flip sides of the same thing? There can be no beginnings without endings, after all.

Or maybe it's not right to speak of beginnings and endings. A ball thrown into the air makes but an infinitesimally short stop before reversing course. In fact, it never stops at all if you think about it. It merely transitions.

In any event, I feel a time of transition coming on. It could be an ending or it may be a begining instead, but change is definitely in the air.

And change, I assure you, is constant.
________________________________

UPDATE

The current moon is a waxing crescent, about two days away from the first quarter.

Time heals all...cracks

My aquarium has a crack in it. I knew it was there when I got it. I thought maybe a little silicone sealant and patience would fix it. But, as cracks are wont to do, it suddenly sprouted a hairline across half the front glass. It might still be repairable; patience and understanding (of adhesives) help. Time will tell.

Cracks are a funny thing. Sometimes they are the result of hidden stresses in the glass that might not otherwise be apparent, but for the surfacing of the crack. Of course, by then you've already brought the thing home and it's pretty disappointing to find a crack in your new aquarium. Of course you're going to try to fix it before you throw it out. Then again, maybe it's better to throw out a cracked aquarium than to have it shatter on you once you've stocked it with fish. I'm afraid I've already started stocking mine and it's gonna hurt either way. Or maybe not--it might be repairable and the sealant might hold.

I'm going to leave this project alone for a few days. Maybe it'll help me see another way to approach it. I need to restock on adhesives anyway.

(Um...ya, it's a metaphor. Obvious, no?)

The Smells of Home

We remember what we see, what we do, what we hear. What a more wonderful thing still it is to remember what we feel, smell and taste.

In Palos Verdes, California there grows among the shoreline cliffs a sort of wild fennel. In the evenings they let go a fragrance something between coffee, chocolate, thai tee, fennel and rain. It's a smell that I associate with California sunsets, a walk down a cliff-side path to a cove below, night-long and moonlit conversations, twinkling ships, and crab-filled tide pools.

Near Monterrey, California lies Jade Cove. The fog here "comes on little cat feet." And then it sits on your chest and wills you to wake up. It's a palpable sensation on your skin, chest and face. It's tactile. And so are the pebbles strewn on the beach. The cliffs are marble-like and don't look too much like jade, but the pebbles hewn from the face of the cliffs and tumbled against one another by the waves, they turn smooth and shiny and bright. And you can pick them up by the handful and feel them run down through your fingers and listen to the ssshhhh sound that the ocean has imbued them with.

Not far from famed Lexington and Concord in Massachusetts, sits (setts/sits) Walden Pond. Wild blueberries line its shores. They're small, blue-gray and intensely sweet. Along the roads in the area you sometimes come across an apple tree. Mostly crab apples, but sometimes something else. Don't know what variety they are, but they're crisp and tangy and flavorful and memorable.

Somewhere between Simi Valley and Thousand Oaks, California likes a series of hiking trails among hills and streams. The vegetation here is hearty and evolved to stand up to hot summers. The ground is dusty and rutted where the water has carved its telltale grooves. In the evenings after work I used to hike these trails. The trailhead started near some houses at the outskirt of town. The trails went away from them and away from the road and away from people and their noises, and toward...silence. The sounds of silence were deafening--swooshing owls, scampering rabbits, buzzing dragonflies, chirping (yes, chirping) frogs, scratchy cicadas, and me. Heart thumping, deep breathing. One deep breath. There's a smell unique to the arid hills of southern California that I've never smelled anywhere else. It's like the smell of rain on dirt, only more earthy and more intense, more powerful. Powerful enough to change how I feel. My folks grew up in arid hill country and the way the smell affects me makes me wonder if there isn't such a thing as genetic memory. I smelled it last weekend on an out-of-town trip. It was wonderful, heady, intoxicating.

There's a hill on the outskirts of New Haven, Connecticut with a winding road that leads to a sort of observation deck at the top. The road was closed the day my friend and I approached it on my motorcycle. There was a chain strung between two posts around which I just barely managed to squeeze my bike. Like waves off the bow of a ship we split the leafy waters of foot-thick New England autumn foliage. Reds and yellows and golden browns and a whole unspoiled road of it just for us. That was a happy day.

Loopy dream

I had a dream last night that there were several hundred of us in this large room that eventually morphed into a room full of shower stalls like you find at the gym. And then out of nowhere appears this Hollywood celebrity (Tony Danza) and he announces to us that we are now his hostages and there's no hope of escape. People are panicking and there are hundreds of us so he's having a hard time going around putting down little rebellions within the group. The funny thing is he manages to do that with threats of violence, but he doesn't actually appear to have a gun or other weapon on him.

So one of the people there begins to get brave and makes a run for it---to the back of the room where there's a hallway that leads to three doors marked A, B and C. He chooses one of the first doors (don't remember letter) and finds himself trapped in a small auditorium whereupon Tony returns to the hostages and declares triumphantly that the escaped hostage has been trapped.

Well, for some reason I happen to know that the last door (don't remember letter) leads to the outside. I spy this blonde woman across the room who looks like she's about to make a break for it. So I team up with her and assure her that I know the door that leads to the outside. So when Tony's got his back to us we make a run for it. We run to the very last door just barely managing to keep ahead of Tony who’s come running after us. She opens the door first and runs into darkness. When I get to the door, I jump in only to be met by a wall three feet into a tiny room. But my companion has already figured out that there’s a second door here and when she opens it, filtered daylight greets our eyes. In fact, we’ve stepped into a sort of shaft like you’d find beneath a manhole cover. And on the far wall of the shaft is a ladder that leads up to an opening. So she begins to climb the ladder. Meanwhile I’ve got my shoulder to the door and I’m fighting Tony as he’s ranting and raging and acting very much the raving lunatic that he is (in my dream, anyway!). While I’m keeping Tony at bay she reaches the top of the shaft and she relays to me what she sees---we’re in a compound of sorts that has a tall black fence around it with fingers that curve inward to discourage escapes. The shaft opens up just inside the fence and above it so that you might think you can jump down and over the fence to the outside. But it’s too far.

Suddenly it’s no longer Tony pushing on the door, but a throng of hostages trying to get out. My companion calls me to join her at the top of the shaft and I dutifully scamper up the latter. When I look out I see that Tony has reappeared on the outside of the fence and he’s calling for me to jump, knowing I run a good chance on impaling myself on the pointed fence. But I’m in control. I have this overwhelming sense that my destiny is in my own hands. I’m wearing my favorite black boots and in third-person point-of-view, I watch myself bound over the fence effortlessly. Somehow this opens the way for all the trailing hostages. They start to pour out and mill about the parking lot on the outside of the fence. Tony’s trying to coral them back inside, but it’s too late. I flag down a cop keep who casts a jaundiced eye in my direction, doubting sincerely my too-fantastic story. The hostages are calmly getting into their cars and driving off, looking very much like church just let out or something.

I give up on the cop and look for my companion. Tony’s threatening her and I intervene. Turns out Tony’s not done with us. He’s pointing at my hand and demanding that I return to him…his wedding ring. I look down and sure enough there’s a wedding ring on my hand (I’m not married). Funny thing is, in my dreamy other-world, I have the vague sense that the ring belongs to my companion. I know it doesn’t belong to me and I sure as hell know it doesn’t belong to Tony. I am enraged by Tony’s insistence and when he starts making threats I just want to kill him, literally. But my better judgment tells me he’s much bigger than I am and I’ll probably lose the ring if I engage him. So I bargain with him for a deadline and he gives me 24 hours. My companion and I retreat to a nearby little plaza with a fountain (there’s a real-world equivalent that I’m thinking of too). Here we sit next to each other as I explain what I’m going to do to make sure we keep the ring. For some reason my solution involves legal maneuvers (surprise, surprise). I’m pretty confident it’ll work.

We walk off together and…that’s the end of the dream. Anticlimactic, I know. I could make up an ending, but it wouldn’t be true.

More art appreciation

You'll be spared a description because I don't have one. I don't even know the name of this sculpture. I just know that I like it, it's impressive, and it sits at the bottom of the famed steps of the Philadelphia Museum of Art. Why are those steps famous? Hint below:

Under where?

I wore my stretchy black boxer brief thingies today.

(I hear crickets chirping in the background. If I'd been a cute woman instead I'd hear chairs scooting as the guys reposition themselves for a closer read. Besides, not much of a visual. Just imagine an elephant with a nylon stocking over its head and you've pretty much got it. (Um...African elephant in case you were wondering.))