Thanksgiving, Redux

We got the organic phyllo only from this display. And then two Whole Foods employees told me, no pictures allowed.

Every year it is a lottery, and this year we went down to the wire deciding what to do.

It has been ages since we spent the holiday with extended family. In recent years past we've done one of three things: a blowout home-cooked-meal (whose inverse proportion to work and enjoyment is staggering); descending on friends (the reason we have fewer and fewer), or eating out, which only the truly masochistic do on big holidays.

But this year brought some new considerations.

I've been a vegan for a year -- started just after T-Day last year -- so 1/3 of the potential meat-eaters in this family would be on the sidelines on this, the high holy day of carnivorism.

Nancy is inundated with work in which I have a supporting role, so who really has the time anyway?

And then there is the fact that the kitchen is also newly spotless, and the only way to properly show respect for this rare condition is to rope it off for at least a few days. The prospect of turning it upside down so soon for one meal seems almost too painful to contemplate.

And yet, we three all wanted to make Thanksgiving Thanksgiving.

So we hemmed and we hawed. At one point the decision was to do no cooking whatsoever and go with an unprecedented "option 4" by getting takeout -- fried chicken (in the name of everything that is holy) & Indian food. In the end, even though everyone would get his or her way, nobody liked that idea. Perhaps it sounded too much like a death rows inmate's final meal request.

This morning something clicked and we decided to cook. Got everything we needed from Whole Foods, Harvest Bread Company and Safeway in a couple of hours.

I'll be taking the lead on cooking again this year, and we will have a bird. But the secret to our success will undoubtedly be that we will be modest in our plans. No impossible recipes, not too many things to make.

With any luck, we will have achieved the balance that eludes us and, from the tales one hears, most people on this unusually stressful holiday. We will be cocooned in our own home, with a sensible amount of work to do in the kitchen, free to be ourselves. And for that I give great thanks.

The Smartest Guy in the Room

It's Sunday, usually the slowest day of the week anyway. But this is the Sunday before July 4, which means that land speed record pizza delivery times are possible, paying extra for two-day shipping on anything ordered today is probably a mistake and taking a little time to heed some advice you are about to give someone else is a good idea.

It isn't so much advice as a request -- nay, plea. And I am not the first to make it. But maybe seconding a motion will create a groundswell that even a Sherman can't brush off.

Here it is: we need to get Samer blogging again, and I am returning from a lazy blogging break to make my case. Samer abruptly stopped sharing his thoughts about his life and the extraordinarily wide variety of subjects about which he is knowledgeable in May of 2005 -- there is one post after that, but it is clearly half-hearted. Officially, the story is that blogging is hard, and time-consuming, which can be true. Unfortunately a lot of people who really shouldn't be allowed near a keyboard and an Internet connection do somehow manage to find the time, filling the Internet with a shrill, self-involved cacophony that, by its sheer volume and, in my view, little else, has media companies quaking in their boots. But that is a subject for another time.

When pressed, Samer will say the despair he still feels from a company restructuring which found me and all of his co-workers without chairs when the music stopped, the event which was the subject of his penultimate blog entry, contributed mightily to his hiatus. He has also said that of all the things he might write about, he could think of nothing that was not already being done better. This is, of course, false modesty and not the Guinness talking.

One of the ironies of my crusade is that I would moan -- and I mean audibly -- at the subject of blogging five or six years ago. I vowed I wouldn't read them and -- heaven forbid -- would never bother trying to create and maintain one as perhaps the least worthy member of the human race to opine. This is still true, and my own extremely humble (i.e., pointless) web site is billed as a blog-free zone with thoughts only from truly wise people.

When Samer, as ever on the cutting edge, would tell me I should be taking this seriously because the world was changing again 17 minutes since the last paradigm shift I would do my Luddite routine (not really a routine, I guess) and he would roll his eyes and gracefully swivel his chair away from me and back to the screen. This is something else Samer does very well that I can actually take credit for, his perfection of that move coming as it did from frequent practice at my expense.

Samer used to work for me, but only in the most literal sense of the word. The truth is that he was the man behind the curtain. I came to be the Salieri to his Mozart -- smart enough, but just, to recognize the raw genius in him that others perhaps did not always see, but not nearly enough to compete with it. Of course, Samer is a much more civilized person than Wolfgang Amadeus and I have no intention of ending up in an asylum for his murder.

No, Samer must live, go forth and multipy. He must help tilt the balance of sanity in what is (sigh) widely referred to as "the blogosphere." He must participate, if only to lend credence to his argument that blogging should be seen as an important force of nature.

Don't get me wrong. Samer is neither shy nor disconnected. I ask him things via IM at strange hours and he a) is there b) knows the answer and c) explains it patiently. He has recently become an active Flicker-ista, revealing yet another of his many talents. But it isn't the same. The world needs the words.

So, this is start of my campaign to get Samer back in print (a phrase that will surely date me):

My Top 10 reasons that Samer should resume blogging:

10. Whenever Samer tells me about beer I am already drunk and remember nothing.
9. Iceland's tourist industry depends on it.
8. I still have unused Samerfest tickets.
7. It turns out that there actually aren't enough Apple blogs -- someone said so on digg.
6. I am this close to understanding climatography
5. If Dan Kim can do it ...
4. If Brian Green can do it ...
3. If I can do it ...
2. I'm sick and tired of having to ask him to explain everything to me.

And the number-one reason Samer should resume blogging:
1. Redheads dig guys who blog -- I'm just sayin'

there's no business like it

i've begun implementing my secret plan to humiliate myself in public (more, i mean) by wheedling my way into the reston community players as a volunteer carpenter. my goal, of course, is not only to achieve serene fulfillment in the creation of the perfect piano stand but rather to be "discovered" and give my family and what few friends i have left more reason to be embarrassed to know me.

but i don't care.

while we've always been aware of the rcp in our nine years in reston it has only been in the last year, sadly, that we have attended performances. this even though we realize community theater is precious and we are lucky to have a troupe in our own little town. a company, mind you, which, at 39 years, is nearly as old as the town itself.

the catalyst to attending for the first time was the daughter of friends, who has been cast in the past three rcp productions, including "beauty and the beast," nominated for 25 (!) washington area theatre community honors, in which she shared "chip" duties with another young thespian. previously she had done a turn in "honk" and most recently in "the crucible", which just ended its run.

there is no chance that even i have the gall to audition for a musical, although my only tread of the boards was as captain von trapp in the 1969 production of "the sound of music"* (*at public school 149 in new york city, when i was in the sixth grade) but the next rcp production that hasn't been cast yet is the british farce "run for your wife."

perfect. i used to work for reuters, and my acting ambitions are farcical. it's a sign.

of course, i may not muster sufficient courage, although that's why god invented alcohol. and there is certainly no reason to believe that i'd be cast for anything, including "potted plant (stage left)." but every single person i've met so far that is associated with the rcp is exactly as i would have expected and hoped, and it is way fun to be involved in community theater -- even if my destiny is merely to perfect the technique of engineering ersatz spinning plates.

a death on the block

andy at the fairfax rod & gun club, may 1999

our friend and neighbor andy took his life this week. it's anybody's guess if somebody saw it coming but it couldn't have exactly taken anyone who knew him a little more than slightly by surprise. not so very long ago andy came close to doing the same thing in the same way. this time nothing got into the way.

andy, a former deputy sherrif and prosecutor, private investigator, sailor, world traveler, all-round lover of life, and, apparently, unrepentant alcoholic, committed suicide in a somewhat public way, by shooting himself in his backyard after, but certainly not because of, an argument with the woman in his life. five years ago he threatened to take his life in his backyard, gun in hand, pointed inward, after, but certainly not because of, an argument with his then wife.

so when a neighbor called us this past monday night to tell us what had happened down our cul-de-sac, where a few hour earlier i had noticed some emergency vehicles parked and idling with no particular sense of urgency, i cannot say that i was as shocked as i was saddened. i hadn't been home at the fatal moment but my wife was sure she had heard a gunshot as she stood by an open window.

this time andy was not spontaneous, as he had been in his earlier attempt, leaving a note, i am told. but he did not betray his intentions or torment to the world. over the previous weekend he had removed leaves from his property, filling what looked like two dozen 30-gallon bags for pickup. i saw him twice earlier in the day, as he zipped by our house in one of his two saabs, tooting his horn and waving as he always did.

i do not spend too much time in the front of our house but in our mayberry-like community someone with whom you are happy to exchange a few words always seems to be passing by with a dog or a child, and if driving stops in the middle of the road oblivious to any cars which may follow, and when another does come down the street it merely diverts with no honks because that's the way it's done around here, as you lean on an open passenger window chatting with the driver, engine running, like it was the back fence. andy was often coming or going in his car, but he never stopped. he always looked very much on a mission.

i had played a small roll in andy's earlier drama. that time, law enforcement officers toting shotguns walked down our quiet street, telling some residents to stay indoors for their own safety. by chance i called andy's house, thinking i could get an account from someone close to the action beyond my view. andy's then wife answered the phone and her trembling voice made clear she was not just a witness but a principal. i went to their house, found another neighbor already there, and he and i stayed for a few hours as police consoled and counseled her and as she made a difficult decision to commit andy for at least that evening and an easier one to insist that andy's guns be removed from the house, something the police, even under those circumstances, could not themselves see to.

in virginia, there is no restriction on gun ownership for anyone who has never been convicted of a crime, or has never been involuntarily committed to a mental institution, or has never been subject to a restraining order. residents can buy virtually any kind of non-automatic gun, rifle or shotgun every thirty days. in some counties there is no waiting period if you go to a dealer who can make an instant "brady" background check. it is also easy to qualify for a permit to carry a concealed gun in public by showing mininmal shooting proficiency, filling out some forms, wating at least 45 days and making two trips to court.

of course -- i do appreciate the irony -- no permit, training or registration is required to openly carry a handgun. in almost every corner of virginia it is perfectly legal for anyone who is at least 21 years old to strap iron on the hip. and there is also no restriction or accounting of what a homeowner can possess and keep in one's home. people don't exactly broadcast gun possession -- it makes one both a target and a threat -- but i know that, besides me, there were at least two other households on this small block where residents keep or kept handguns in their houses.

because part of my relationship with andy involved the fact that we both owned guns and went shooting at his exclusive outdoor range once, his then wife, adament that she would not live in a house with andy and guns anymore, gave him an ultimatum: i would "hold" his collection indefinitely, or she would leave. i think andy agreed because he did not want his marriage to dissolve, although it did end not long thereafter. and then he asked for them back.

nancy an i attended a memorial today at which, according to another friend, mourners were to talk about "crazy andy" -- crazy, in this context, being neither ironic, literal or pejorative. there were many friends and family and colleagues who had many touching memories. but i was mostly moved by the several grown children and young adults whom andy had mentored and loved and in some cases even taken in as their parents went through an ugly divorce, all of whom considered him a surrogate or second father and pivotal in their lives, and whom he has now abandoned.

andy's former wife and last girlfriend sat together and embraced often during the ceremony. they are friends and see each other regularly and that is how life should be for those who decide, even every day if necessary, that life is worth living. if andy blamed anyone but himself for his demons (i doubt it), i think he would have been wrong. he pulled the trigger, for better or for worse. he bailed, leaving others to feel pain and guilt, if they so choose, in addition to the sadness one might have for another person's despair or weakness or for the senseless waste. i hope no one feels it necessary to enable andy posthumously by accepting any culpability for his action.

i will remember andy as a curious, intense guy who seemed to like himself way too much to do what he did. but, there you go.

i'm sorry (if i must be)

On slippery slope, Bode Miller apologizes - Sports - International Herald Tribune

When I was a kid and some altercation with another kid was getting a little out of hand some well-meaning adult would always step in and make one of us, or both, apologize. “Tell Billy you’re sorry, John,” would be the usual refrain, delivered lyrically, as if sing-song would add power to the command.

I’d always comply -– no other way to get rid of the narc and prevent escalation to the court of mommy and daddy -- but it was not sincere, expressed in the most grudging way possible. And if “Billy” was foolish enough to gloat when the adult left I would retract it with a new dose of pain. “I didn’t mean it, stupid!” I’d say, delivered lyrically, knowing sing-song would rub salt into the wound.

I still find myself occasionally reluctant to apologize for something that I should be sorry for, still wrestling that old instinct to the mat before doing the right thing. I don’t have much to apologize for these days, fortunately, but I am reminded of this sort of evasiveness very often. Apparently we all had the same experiences growing up because public people don’t seem capable of apologizing directly for bad behavior and dumb remarks and never seem to do so without pressure from, well, a grownup.

An apology is: “I was wrong.” An apology isn’t: “I’m sorry, if anybody was offended by my [words][deeds][what my words/deeds were interpreted to mean].”

Bode miller is the latest practitioner of the art of the non-apology. In an apparently true statement on “60 Minutes”, the reigning overall World Cup champion said he had raced drunk. Under pressure he issued a statement, because his comments had “caused a lot of confusion and pain” for his team “and even just family and friends who have supported me, who I think are subject to only what the media puts out in America.”

Some inner circle. They only know what they read about their homey Bode in the newspaper.

“And because of the way I made those comments in the 60 Minutes interview it caused a lot of confusion and pain for all those people and obviously that’s nothing I want to do so firstly I’d like to apologize to them,” Bode said.

So, he’s sorry for outing himself about being guilty of RUI? For letting the world know what his friends and family and team might have known all along and kept silent about for his benefit?

An apology is: “I’m sorry for drinking on the job. It is especially poor behavior for an elite athlete. I have set a terrible example, and I’m sure my bad behavior has contributed to poor performances that let my teammates and fans down.”

Oh yeah -- I’m sorry for wasting your time with this diatribe. I mean it -- really.

Santa, Science and the Holidays

My favorite "season" comes to an end today with the dismantling and storage for another year of our outside Christmas decorations. For us the season begins back in October, with Halloween -- not my favorite holiday but a fav of my wife and daughter who, at 12, is developing new takes on, well, just about everything (more on this later).

Our spirits begin lifting in earnest as October begins, as we anticipate the next three lighthearted months. After halloween passes, and everyone is officially sick of whatever remains of "our" candy, we stay on an upwardly spiralling emotional trajectory through Thanksgiving, no matter how we choose to celebrate it, which is followed a week later by my daughter's birthday, and then Christmas.

By New Year's (a sort of phoney holiday, I have decided, although not quite as bogus as Groundhog Day) I am not so much weary from all the work that has been associated with holidays as I am irrationally apprehensive about what is to come, or just let down that it will be three quarters of a year before the fun begins again.

And now the next few seasons will be transitional, I think, since my daughter is far from the wide-eyed believer of all manner of things that she was, for far too short a time, only yesterday. She tried to find a middle ground for Halloween, at first declaring that she would not wear a costume — but would go out and collect candy, studiously not describing this activity as "trick or treating." She then blinked, I think after gaining consensus with her two best friends, and the three set out in disguise (Audrey as Gogo Yubari from "Kill Bill Volume I") with dads in tow, but at a respectful distance.

For these next few years, the better to establish her credentials as a adult, Audrey will cease to believe in Santa, returning to the fold after only a few soulless years, I hope, as I did after my skeptical, uncomfortable and often angry teens.

Nancy and I have already outed ourselves as the handmaidens of the Easter Bunny, a fiction Audrey discovered was not entirely as we had described when I forgot to lock a door and she saw several dozen plastic eggs and bags of candy on our bed a few years ago. She herself scientifically proved the non-existence of the tooth fairy a couple of years ago by intentionally not telling us that she had lost a tooth before putting it, in secret, under her pillow and discovering the next morning -- Eureka! -- that nothing had been exchanged for it as she slept. Quod est demonstratum: The tooth fairy depends on parental notification.

But santa, like god, is another matter, beyond the reach of science. While I count myself as a defender of this faith I will not be evangelical: Not just because that isn't my style but because I don't have to be.

Audrey will see the truth of the matter for herself when the time comes, or she will not. That is the way of the world.

all for one

so the fam has decided to join me in vegan-ville, each for their own reasons. my wife, nancy, has been a vegan and a vegetarian and has always been a wiser eater than i, light years ahead of nearly everyone on nitrites, trans-fat, etc. my daughter, who recently turned 12, finds it appealing i think because there is a certain cachet about it just now -- there are hip eco undertones, with so many pop icons living the veg lifestyle (or at least saying they do). or perhaps i sell her short.

but as a family of vegans it will be the first time in living memory (sorry for the hackneyed journo phrase, but i am a hackneyed journo and am using it exactly as intended: to gloss over the fact i don't know the fact and am too lazy to ascertain it) that we will all be eating from the same trough. For the previous two years, give or take, i had been an atkins adherent, which didn't exactly exclude my wife and daughter but meant i had to be picky in other ways, and avoid such communal food as bread and pasta. when my wife was a pure veg a few years ago, she was the odd one out.

so now we are potentially in sync and, since i am mr. mom at the moment, will happily bear the lion's share (can vegans use that metaphor? this one, not a fanatic, certainly can) of meal prep.