Computers & Technology, Personal

Retail: Pissing Me Off Since The Rise of Amazon

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What’s with retail these days?

Two weeks ago, I needed a specific audio patch cable — a 3.5mm TRRS cord to link my stereo mixer with my Surface Pro. The TRRS standard, which works with single-jack inputs blending stereo audio with a microphone, has been the de facto standard for iProducts as well as newer smartphones and tablets. It’s distinguished from other 3.5mm connectors by virtue of having three, instead of one or two, bands on the jack. Do you think Best Buy carries them? Nope — only online, although the company is happy to stock about a dozen identical versions of the TRS (two-band) patch cables by a dozen different manufacturers. Neither Radio Shack nor Staples had them, either. A common cord, using common plugs, used by a wide array of popular consumer electronics, is only available online. Despite that its less useful offspring is carried in superabundance. Couldn’t we maybe have just eight TRS plugs on the shelf, with four TRRS offerings? Why must it be 12-0?

This weekend, I wanted two books. One, an overview of the R statistical programming language, and the other, a product manual for the current version of SAS and its Enterprise Guide. I need them for my new job. After having visited both of the Barnes and Noble stores in Grand Rapids, as well as Schuler Books and Music, what did I find? If you guessed “nothing,” congrats! These retailers are happy to stack 20 different iterations of the same title — how many “Introduction to Photoshop” books does the world need, anyway? — but zero copies of somewhat rarer books.

I know, I know — just go to Amazon. Which is what I’ll have to do. But I remember a time when stores carried more diverse product offerings. Heck, I remember the old days, before Menards and Home Depot, when general-merchandise stores like Meijer had robust hardware departments with plywood sheets, shingles, custom-cut glass, 2x4s and the like. Now, the average Meijer may have two or three rows of generic tools and fasteners in its “hardware” section. And don’t get me started on the wonder that was Sears, Roebuck or Whitmark or Montgomery Ward. Or even Radio Shack, back when they sold more than cell phones.

It seems like the widespread adoption of online shopping has freed bricks-and-mortar retailers from carrying products that have a slower turnover rate. So you end up with bookstores that carry two dozen different titles about how to use Excel but no titles about using R, SAS, SPSS, Stata, Minitab, etc. Titles intended for the lowest common denominator move faster than rarer or more obscure titles, so bookstores shelve the faster-selling product. Thus, the rarer or more obscure your need, the less likely it is that you’ll find it locally — a distressing change from the pre-Amazon/pre-eBay days.

Sometimes I miss the pre-Internet world. At least then, when I wanted something, I could buy it in a store and take it home the same day I wanted it.

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Five Fridays

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This coming Friday, I will have finished my first week on the job at Priority Health, where I now work as a medical informatics consultant. The role presents an interesting career change and my first major shift in 13 years with the health system. I look forward to seeing the industry from the insurance carrier side, instead of the delivery system side. I’ve already had to buy a book on SQL programming, at the suggestion of my new boss. Interestingly, Bob will be both the first male supervisor I’ve had at the company (apart from a few transition weeks last summer), as well as the sixth formal upline I’ve had this fiscal year — started with Mary, then Tracey, then Big Jason, then Hollie, then Meghan and now Bob.

This past Friday, I packed my desk at Spectrum Health. Most of the Business Analytics team was off for meetings or work-from-home, so the wrap-up was quiet. I spent the morning updating my transition plan on the Confluence wiki and gathering my stuff into boxes. I got a hug from Vicki, then went to the Seward Street offices to give Meghan my hospital badge, laptop and parking pass. I left the kibble bowl (the candy dish) for everyone. It was, symbolically, empty. I left a note on my white board: “So long, and thanks for all the fish.” It’s a good group; I’ll miss them — Jen, Vicki, Alaric, Meghan, Gary, Lisa, Steve, Ronda, Gina, Allison, Bonnie.

The Friday before, I spent most of the day journaling, while encamped near Rock Harbor at Isle Royale National Park. Lots of insights gleaned that day.

The Friday before that, I struggled to get all my contract work done before I headed off on vacation. It was a day mostly spent as a freelance consultant, and the pressures that sometimes flow from it.

The Friday before that, I started telling my colleagues at the hospital that I had accepted an offer, the day before, from the insurance company. Thus marked my status as a short-timer. Folks started to come out of the woodwork, privately, to express their thoughts.

Five Fridays, each of which marked something significant.

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Isle Royale: A Recap and Reflection

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Late last night I returned from a five-day, four-night solo hiking trip to Isle Royale National Park. The island — actually, a very rocky archipelago — lies in northwest Lake Superior, not far off the U.S.-Canada border; its lush boreal forests, glacier-scraped basalt and abundant wildlife contribute to the park’s highest per-acre backcountry usage of all the National Parks, despite being the least visited of them all.

Recap/Travelogue

Monday. I departed from Grand Rapids around 4 p.m., after having celebrated a surprise 80th birthday party for my beloved grandmother. With gear stowed and cats provided for, I set out for Houghton, Michigan — an 8.5-hour, 500-mile journey that ended up costing about $90 in gas. I routed north on US-131 until somewhere in Charlevoix County, whereupon I connected through side roads to I-75 until I crossed the the Mackinac Bridge. From St. Ignace, I took US-2 to M-77, then M-28 (including the infamous never-ending, perfectly straight road between Singleton and Seney), then US-41 to Houghton. Ended up snoozing around midnight in a rest stop just outside of Houghton.

Tuesday. Finished the last 30 minutes of the drive to Houghton. Swapped my misprinted tickets for the ferry with Ranger Barb. She was totally awesome and makes me feel happy about paying taxes for the National Park Service. Watched the USNPS Ranger III get loaded. The ship — a 165-foot, twin screw behemoth displacing 835 tons — provided a quiet, comfortable ride. Which is good, considering it’s a six-hour trek across Lake Superior. We got a late start but arrived early because we skipped a port call at Mott Island. One of the dedicated volunteers, a sweet 18-year-old girl who says she has “lived” on the island all her life because she volunteers her summers there, said that her only real advice for first-time visitors is “to give it a chance, despite the cold.” Our voyage proceeded without incident; the 10-knot winds gave 1-to-3 foot waves that barely ruffled the 60-year-old ship. While on board, I received my backcountry permit from Ranger Paul. He very gently suggested that my original itinerary, which included a day of off-trail hiking, might be less optimal than a route that he suggested. He was proven correct. After we arrived at Rock Harbor, around 2:45 p.m., we got our stuff from the cargo hold and all six of us — me and a five-man party of young dudes from Purdue University, the only hikers in that scheduled voyage — hit the trail by 3:30. I covered 6 miles in about 3 hours, stopping occasionally for water and photos. I went from Rock Harbor to Daisy Farm by the Tobin Harbor Trail and the Rock Harbor Trail. The terrain was damp and steep, with much of the trail either muddy or an honest-to-goodness rivulet from snow runoff. I set up camp around 7 p.m. and had the entire site to myself. While preparing dinner, I learned that double-insulated steel mugs don’t heat on a white-gas stove, and also that my tent site was some sort of central party zone for many of the island’s massive population of snowshoe hares. Hares, more to the point, that have no fear of humans whatsoever. Two rabbits meandered around my camp, cool as cucumbers, and got close enough that I could have touched them. Bed by 9 p.m.

Wednesday. After studying my topo map in greater detail, I altered Ranger Paul’s planned expedition in favor of my own (to his prior approval; he said our agreed-upon route was “Plan A” but I was free to make my own “Plan B” as circumstances required). I awoke at 7 a.m. and broke camp by 8:35. It had rained intermittently throughout the night, but my tent stayed dry — glad I brought a tarp as ground cover. Pumping drinking water from Lake Superior wasn’t bad until I slipped on a rock and fell into the sub-40-degree water up to my calves. Good thing I was wearing my neoprene-and-rubber camp shoes at the time. Breakfast consisted of hot oatmeal and hot tea punctuated by another hare visit. After I broke camp, I trekked from Daisy Farm to the top of Mt. Ojibway by around 10 a.m. Although the elevation change was steep, the scenery was beautiful and the trail, away from the lakeshore, was challenging but not wet. The mountain ridge was warmer, with temps in the upper 60s and a light breeze. Few bugs. I enjoyed a lunch of canned tuna along the Greenstone Ridge Trail between Mt. Ojibway and Mt. Franklin — there was a huge, flat basalt boulder just off the trail, so I took off all my gear, including my boots and sweater, and laid on the rock for like a half hour just soaking up the sun and enjoying the sounds and smells of the backcountry. The ridgeline is much drier and as much as 30 degrees F warmer than lakeshore trails, so I had a great time just sunning myself. Later on, at Mt. Franklin, I ran into the Purdue gang and then went down to Lane Cove. After seven difficult miles and two major elevation changes (lake to Mt. Ojibway; Mt. Franklin to lake), I made camp at Lane Cove around 3 p.m. Camp setup there was more interesting — a consistently stiff, warm breeze off the bay required some creative use of rocks to get my tent set up. My little camp site was a mere 20 feet off the lakeshore, and again, I had the site to myself. The fun thing about Lane Cove is that it shelters a bunch of loons — and I saw plenty of them. Only downside: I kept hearing some bird call that sounded like one of my cats, and that made me sad. I missed them. And I spilled two-third of my dinner on a log. Spent the afternoon enjoying the sun, journaling and reading some of The Nicomachean Ethics. Bed by 9.

Thursday. Up at 7. Broke camp at 8. Occasional showers the night before left the camp cool and damp. Oh, and I had a huge spider in my boot. The trek along the trail from Lane Cove to Mt. Franklin was easier than I had been dreading. I guess I was starting to get used to the 40-lb. pack strapped to my back. That, and I was taking greater care to keep properly hydrated. The difficult part of that 2.4-mile segment was the roughly 500 feet of elevation gain in the last half mile; the trail consisted of a series of steep switchbacks that included large boulders, roots, mud holes and the prospect of tumbling down one side of the 18-inch-wide trail hundreds of feet to your gruesome death. Arrived at Three Mile by 11:30 — I knocked out a 5-mile hike with all that elevation change (lake to Mt. Franklin; Mt. Franklin to lake) in just a few hours. The downside, however, was that the entire journey was conducted in a light but consistent cold rain and I neglected to bring a pack cover. So I used my poncho to cover my pack, but by the time I got to Three Mile I decided to skip on the tent and make use of one of the shelters. Chilled to the bone, I realized that even my sleeping bag had gotten slightly damp, and the ambient air hovered in the low 40s. At one point, I contemplated breaking camp and making for Rock Harbor because I was worried about hypothermia. Then I remembered that I had an emergency bivy bag in my waist pack, so I put that inside my sleeping bag and put myself in the bivy. The trick worked; my “dry heat” warmed up my bag, and the bivy warmed me. By nightfall, I was confident that I’d have a warm, dry place to sleep. Plus, some hot tea at 5:30 helped boost my spirits. I read more Aristotle to pass the time, and did a lot more journaling. Plus I watched a trio of large birds — I don’t know the species, but they were jay-sized, with dark grey bodies, white necks and black faces — eat worms at my camp site. They paid me no heed; they even perched on the table within an arm’s length of me on several different occasions. A group of six campers stayed at Three Mile near me, but the consistent drizzle kept them quiet and in their tents most of the afternoon. In the bag by 7 p.m., reading by candlelight until sleep-time at 9 p.m.

Friday. Up at 6:50. Used the outhouse and obtained more water from Lake Superior. Broke camp at 8:25 and made the 4-mile trek to Rock Harbor by 10:15 with no stops and only two slight falls on wet, mossy basalt. Set up shop in shelter No. 6 and hoofed it to the general store to get more stove fuel plus some chips and sour-cream dip. The day was sunny and warm, and I was in a great mood. I spent most of the day — after paying $6 for a 5-minute hot shower — journaling and working on various possible novel plots for this year’s NaNoWriMo. In the early afternoon, the Purdue Five grabbed the shelter across from me. And I had repeated visits from my “pet” red squirrel. He had no fear of humans; he often hopped up on the picnic table with me, or brushed by my ankles. I didn’t feed him, but I think he was on the lookout for crumbs from my bag of Ruffles. Then another snowshoe hare visited later. Then I watched a curious 10-minute battle between a black fly and some small ants: The fly kept molesting the ants, and the ants kept trying to grab the fly. It was odd. I retired by 8 p.m. when a sudden squall line moved in. The lightning was awesome.

Saturday. Up at 7 a.m., and a bit sore. I have a great zero-degree bag, but it’s a mummy and it constrains movement. I toss a lot, and often fall off my Thermarest pad and getting back on while you’re cocooned requires some gymnastics skill. Broke camp by 7:45 and made it to the dock by 8. Boarded at 8:30 and we were out for early departure by 8:45. We did, however, stop at Mott Island this time. The passage back to Houghton was quiet. The entire lake was in a fog and waves ran 2 to 4 feet. Around 1 p.m., Ranger Paul entertained me, the Perdue Five and one of the grad students departing from Mott with some self-composed songs and poetry readings. It’s stuff that you’d expect from a park ranger with a guitar and a fascination with Dylan. Still, he is clearly passionate about Isle Royale and his job and cares deeply for the hikers he shepherds. Good fellow. By 2 p.m., I got a cell signal again. I had left the dock on Tuesday with true Inbox Zero; by the time I returned to Houghton I had 669 unread emails in four different accounts. Of which, I responded to just two — both, my mother — and kept a mere 13 for later action or response. Puts email connectivity in a different persepective. Arrived at Houghton by 3:10 and after a welcome-back hug from Ranger Barb, I was on the road by 3:30. Stopped for gas in Christmas, Michigan, and was sorely tempted to stop in a moment to see the Indian casino there, because given its size I would have expected to see three slot machines and one table game. Happy to see Lake Michigan again at Naubinway. Route through the U.P. was the same as on the way North. However, the southbound trek through the Lower Peninsula was different — I-75 to US-127, connecting to US-10 between Clare and Reed City, then US-131 at Reed City back home. I have no idea why Here Drive (Nokia’s vaunted GPS routing system) recommended two radically different routes between Grand Rapids and the Bridge. Got home by 11:45 — much later than I hoped — and found Fiona in the kitchen. I petted her a bit but Murphy didn’t show up. So I said, “Murphy, I’m home!” and then I heard him meow and then scamper into the kitchen. I petted them for a long time because I missed my little fuzzy buddies. I’m glad my mom and my friend Stacie were willing to alternate days to come and check on them.

Reflections

  • You don’t appreciate just how remote the Upper Peninsula is until you spend some time there. In all my years as a Michigan resident, this trip marks the first real experience I’ve had in the U.P. It’s telling that between St. Ignace and Marquette — nearly four hours of driving time — I may have seen exactly one fast-food joint (in Munising, I think). Many of the towns along the way consist of one stoplight and any three of the following: A gas station, a trading post, a sit-down local diner, a church, a 1950s-era motel or a generic service outlet like a barber or an auto garage. Grocery stores? Hard to find. Unless you live near the larger cities, like Marquette or Sault St. Marie, you don’t have a lot of places to go that aren’t The Great Outdoors. Cell service is spotty. And I’ve decided that “Up North” in a cultural sense begins around Gaylord.
  • Be very, very careful with pack weight. My gear weighed in somewhere between 40 and 42 lbs., which was still below the recommended maximum by the National Park Service for my weight. Still, Isle Royale has lots of difficult trail with sudden elevation changes, mud bogs, wet basalt and the like. Every unnecessary pound makes the trek that much more miserable.
  • Do not attempt a hike at Isle Royale unless you’re in decent cardiovascular condition. If you can’t run a 10k, you won’t really survive an average hike on an average trail on the island with a heavy pack. See my photos, above, for some snapshots of the trail. Then mentally picture miles and miles and miles of it.
  • Do not attempt a zone hike (off-trail) unless your last name is Grylls. Despite the appearance from satellite imagery, the terrain on the island is astonishingly dense. You will absolutely need at least a good machete — kissing Leave No Trace principles ‘tween the buttocks — and expect a slow slog. I’m not kidding: The terrain is wildly erratic with elevation changes, dense undergrowth and giant boulders. Even the rangers say they’ve done it once, and once was enough.
  • If you hike solo, make sure you’re OK being alone with yourself. When you’re on the island, you’re on the island. There’s no going home until the next boat departure. There’s no firing up the cell phone for Twitter therapy. Just you and your thoughts. I think I wasn’t quite prepared for my initial feelings of loneliness — when I spilled my chili on Wednesday, I spontaneously burst out in tears and screamed at the trees, “I don’t want to be here anymore!” — but after I had some time for reflection and journaling, I was in good shape. If they told me on Friday afternoon that the boat wasn’t sailing for another week, I’d have been totally cool with it and plotted my next destinations on the trail. Just have to get through that first 48 hours of being with no one but yourself. On the bright side, I had some deep insight on the island that absolutely will stay with me and has already begun to color some of my long-term goals.
  • Visit the island only after you understand map-based orienteering and have a bit of trail sense. Except for a few discreet wooden posts at major intersections, none of the major trails (at least, on the east side of the island) are marked or blazed. In some places, rangers have left small, discreet rock cairns to mark the trail when no other option would suffice (e.g., when you’re crossing a large field of mossy basalt with no dirt to mark the way). Generally, though, you need to survey the terrain ahead of you and just figure out where the trail leads. Which is easy to do when you know how to do it. Likewise with map-based orienteering. If you want to known where you are, you can’t point to a marker that says “half-mile to camp, go that way.” Instead, you’ll need to pull out your map and either orient by taking bearings against landmarks like the lighthouse or the observation tower on Mt. Ojibway, or by looking north or south and comparing the topography of the train against the topo lines on your map.
  • Gear correctly. I wore my trusty Doc Martens and had no foot-related problems; one of the Perdue Five wore Vibrams and said he was fine, except I saw him apply ointments and moleskin to his feet on Friday. Although NPS has its standard gear list, I’d go a bit further and say that the following items should be considered standard for an Isle Royale visit: A sturdy staff (not collapsible trekking poles), waterproof boots with solid ankle support, a tarp as groundcover, a pack cover, fuel at the rate of 4 oz. per day per person, a good technical base layer, clothes and a bag for 20 degrees cooler than you expect, food for one day longer than you plan to visit, and the capability to haul 4L of water if you plan to go anywhere near Greenstone Ridge. Save weight by skipping most redundancies; just go with the 10 Essentials and, possibly, an emergency bivy bag in case stuff gets wet.

Hiking at Isle Royale National Park wasn’t what I expected. The scenery was even more lush and awe-inspiring than I imagined. The terrain was tougher. The isolation hit harder. But I’d go back again in a heartbeat, especially if I had some fellow travelers and suitable cat-care lined up back home. Ranger Paul’s folk songs about how the island touches you might be a bit of an overstatement … but not by much.

Chalk one more item off Ye Olde Bucket List.

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Let the Detox Begin!

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As I make my final preparations for my upcoming trip to Isle Royale National Park, it occurred to me that for a full five days — yea verily, 120 continuous hours — I’ll be “going without” for a handful of things for which I don’t normally abstain. Including, in no particular order: Cigars, Scotch, Internet, caffeine, diet Coke and the news.

Five days without these things. Whilst foraging in the backcountry on a rocky archipeligo in northwest Lake Superior. The only “electronics” I’ll have, besides my flashlight and watch, are my camera and my handheld ham radio. No cell towers. No Twitter. No email. No texting. I am, however, bringing a book (The Nichomachean Ethics) and a lightweight candle-powered reading lamp. Heck, I’m even using a paper chart and compass and “blogging” by means of a Moleskine notebook.

I’m either coming back refreshed and renewed, or a first-class troll who needs to indulge before he goes postal. Let the oddsmaking begin.

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Drug-Assisted Accomplishment

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I had a pretty nasty cold this last week. I rarely take drugs for any type of illness. I don’t pop Advil or aspirin or cold pills or go to the doc for a scrip every time I sniffle. This time, though, was an exception. I hoofed it into a local Walgreens last Sunday, plopped down my ID and walked out with a box of cold pills fortified with pseudoephedrine.

I don’t know if it was the stimulant in those cold pills or what, but I despite the sniffles I got a bunch of stuff knocked off my to-do list. Including tasks that have been rolling around for years.

Highlights:

  • Finally finished the migration of old content from the “old” HTML site to the “new” microsite, for the Quality and Productivity Section of the American Statistical Association. I’m in the third year of my appointment as Q&P’s webmaster. I should have done this, oh, two years ago, but could never seem to find the time. Now, I’m done — and I’ve even offered an informal webinar for one of my fellow section officers on how to update the site.
  • Wrapped up a Joomla site transfer. A friend subcontracted the project out to me, and we finally got through the giant mess that he inherited from his client.
  • Booked the stuff for my Isle Royale trip, and even sent out a couple of query letters about it. I might — might — have a bite from one of the higher-profile hiking magazines to do a piece on the trip. I’d love to get the publishing credit on that one.
  • Completed, for the most part, a registration-productivity project at the hospital that’s bedeviled me for three years. Getting a license to Tableau — a data-visualization tool — helped immensely. With Tableau, we can pull in hours-worked payroll data as well as transaction files from our two primary registration systems. Tableau then lets us visualize — down to the hour — how many cumulative transactions and patient encounters we’ve performed, by staff member. Cool stuff.
  • Started the surprisingly complex process of moving my free-text notes for the local journalism text I’ve been working on with Alaric. I’m transferring the rough outline we collaborated on using OneNote, into Scrivener. Each section has a synopsis. The point of all this is to take the entire book and plan it down to the 500-to-2,000 word sections, thus making writing a modular process. The upside is that this approach puts pride of place on planning before writing. The downside is that, so far, the projected target word count will top 160k. Heaven help me.

Moral of the story: Apparently I’m more productive when I’m on stimulants.

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Smorgasboard of Updates and Pithy Observations

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Today’s exercise in stream-of-consciousness blogging follows. Hold on to your buttocks.

I am now apparently hosting a family of feral cats in the garage. A white cat with a little black nose and sapphire eyes — I’ve named her Snowball — has taken residence of the garage attic, along with her three children. The kittens are old enough to scurry about independently, but young enough to occasionally nurse. One is solid white, one is solid black, and one is solid grey. Advice from Stacie is to simply trap them and have them humanely euthanized. Others suggest a trap/neuter/release program. The advice mirrors battles among animal-rights activists. My solution, which I freely admit is the least responsible thing I could do, is to give them food and water.

The last few weeks have featured a packed social calendar. Yesterday I saw Iron Man 3 at Celebration South with Julie, Steve, Brittany and the “other” Jason; the week before I caught Oblivion at Celebration Rivertown. Last week, Tony came to town to record and we ended up enjoying some cigars and premium adult beverages before trekking to Erb Thai for some tasty, tasty curried food. On Friday, Stacie came over to meet my cats and slog back a few beers. Last week, I had cigars with The Irritable Bastard. The week before, Tony and I hoofed it to Horseshoe Hammond for the Midwest Smoke Out.

Life has been interesting on the writing front. I’ve been making more progress on some of my sundry manuscripts and I also purchased three of my friend Duane’s recently released novels, from Amazon.

Since last month’s deluge, the weather in West Michigan has been downright cheerful. Consistently in the 70s, with a mid-80s day last week, and sunny. Fairly moderate humidity, too. I think I’m going to go for a nice long walk along Kent Trails later today. I hope this pattern holds for the Isle Royale trip at the end of the month. On the extra-special bright side, it’s transitioned into “walking around with very little clothes” season, and so far the folks with the best bodies are the ones most likely to flaunt them. Please, oh please, let the trend continue. Remember: Just Say No! to muffintops.

I finished reading The Origins of Political Order by Francis Fukuyama. Most of the book was solid and well-presented; his conclusions largely tracked what I’d expect from a political science perspective of evolutionary social biology. The key insight I pulled from his work — which ended with the French Revolution — is that political order waxes and wanes and one of the forces leading to social decay is repatriomonialization. This fancy term identifies the tendency for political elites to create systems that support their kin or tribe. In small societies, the kin are usually blood relatives, but in larger societies, the tribe may well include fellow elites. Hence the tendency for the political class to resist change that harms the political class, and the reason why elite activists favor the erosion of federalism. Fukuyama’s belief, obliquely expressed, is that violence is typically the tool used to undo repatrimonialization. Hence, the only way to break gridlock and self-serving behavior in government is to overthrow the government, because political leaders are almost never willing to voluntarily cede their elite privileges for the good of the state as a whole. His observations should give pause to those who dismiss recent public opinion polling that suggests that a large minority of the American public expects widespread political violence within the next decade.

All for now.

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A Week To Remember

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It’s been a week, hasn’t it?

  • Boston Marathon.  Two young Chechen males bombed the finish line of the 2013 Boston Marathon. That’s bad. First responders in Boston lived up to the heroic archetype. That’s good. Many marathon runners crossed the finish line and kept running until they hit the hospital; so many, in fact, that the hospital had to start turning people away. That’s inspiring. Regardless of the subpar performance of the press this week, and setting aside a “we must do something, no matter how useless” response from federal leaders, Boston proves a point: You can bloody Americans, but you can never kill the American soul. God bless Boston.
  • Gun bill fails. Joe Manchin and Harry Reid proved incapable of getting a federal gun bill through the Senate. President Obama was mad about that vote — more angry, in fact, than he seemed about Boston, and he berated Republicans directly with victims of gun violence (Rep. Gabrielle Giffords and families from Newtown, CT) as stage props behind him. America’s gun laws are a mishmash of crazy; reform at both the state and federal levels seems necessary. But wrenching regulation ever-tighter isn’t the sort of reform we need, nor is using the grief of victims as a rhetorical ploy for strong-arming flawed bills the kind of tactic we need to advance the legislative process.
  • West, TX plant explosion. A fertilizer plant in Texas exploded. Many are dead, wounded or displaced. We send them our prayers, and we mourn the volunteer firefighters who lost their lives in the explosion.
  • West Michigan floods. The torrent of early April rain led to record flooding. The Grand River crests today, considerably higher than the previous record flood of 1904. Lots of prep work and lots of localized flooding, but no real sense of panic or disruption seems to grip the city. Infrastructure planning over the last few decades has undoubtedly paid handsome dividends now, even as we chuckle a bit as Mayor Heartwell counsels people to “shower with a buddy” to reduce stress on the water treatment plant.
  • New bishop in Grand Rapids. This week, we learned that Pope Francis has named David John Walkowiak, a priest from Cleveland, to succeed Walter Hurley as bishop of Grand Rapids. For local Catholics, this is a big deal. Many dislike Hurley, although they struggle at identifying why. Insiders within the diocese didn’t appreciate the clean break between Hurley — who aggressively pursued parish consolidations and cleaned the roster of abusive priests — and Robert Rose, who was significantly more lax and let a handful of lay people effectively run the diocese during his tenure. (Kevin Britt actually succeeded Rose, but he served only a year before dying unexpectedly in 2005.) I worked with Bishop Hurley as one of his masters of ceremonies. He’s a good man, and a far-sighted administrator. I will eagerly welcome Bishop-elect Walkowiak, but I will miss Hurley.

What to make of all of this?

First, the words of Blessed John Paul II should be declaimed from the rooftops: Be not afraid. Neither guns nor bombs nor wild floods should shake our cores. We will survive; we always do.

Second, we should remember just how lucky we really are. Even when our lives seem to suck, we still enjoy unheard-of levels of prosperity and freedom. Whether we’re cleaning up after a terror attack or sandbagging before a flood, we still are better off than so many others in the world. Truly, even our worst days are better than the best days of many people in North Korea or sub-Sahara Africa. Remember that.

Third, we should not allow tragedy — man-caused or natural — to serve as an ideological inflection point. Bad things happen. If we let those bad things turn us into a herd of panicked minds, shepherded by opportunist politicians, then we help the first evil to grow deeper and more corrosive than it otherwise would have been. So when you see victims on stage, using their tears to affect legislation, the only right answer is to stand athwart the legislative process saying Stop.

This week was one for the history books. Let’s work to ensure that our response to these events earns fair treatment in those history books.

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“No, Mom, I’m Not in a Texas Prison,” and Other Updates of Note

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If you believe my grandmother, I’m apparently writing this from behind the walls of a Texas prison. If you believe the GPS unit on my phone, I’m writing this from Grand Rapids. Where, oh were, could I be?

Texas Pokey?

Funny story. So last week, my mother calls and asks, point-blank: “Where are you?”

I was brutally honest in reply: “Well, I’m on my back porch right now, with a bit of grog and a cigar. Where are you?” 

To which, she burst out in laughter. Her own mother — St. Dorothy the Matriarch — had just called her upset because she had received a collect call from a Texas prison from someone whose muffled name may have sounded like “Jay.” Of course, granny didn’t accept the call that she feared may have come from her own flesh and blood. Instead, she hung up and called my mother to demand that she figure out where I was. My mother, ever the practical sort, dialed my cell phone. So although I do intend to visit the Metroplex at some point (perhaps this fall?) to see my friends from the Denton Dallas and Beyond podcast in their natural environment, I am not presently in the custody of the Texas Department of Criminal Justice.

So what’s up with the prison call? It’s a scam, of course.

Social Wrap-Up

Tidings of social merriment:

  • Last night, I enjoyed wine and cheese at Reserve with my friend Michelle. The server slipped me a note with the name of an online-only wine retailer that, in her view, makes the best “nerdy whites” on the market. I’ll have to check it out.
  • Friday was WriteOn. Writers and pizza and creative brainstorming, oh my! We even had the rare twofer of Cassidy plus AdamSmash.
  • Two Saturdays ago, I had cigars and cocktails with Brian and Mark. That was fun.
  • My new department at the hospital had an “un-birthday” party recently, to celebrate everyone’s 27th non-birthday all at the same time. We went to Ichiban and had sushi and assorted adult beverages. Mmm.
  • A few weeks ago I trekked to Lansing for a recording session with Tony that transformed into a dinner (at Gilbert & Blakes) and cigar (at The Corona) extravaganza with him and his lovely better half.
  • This coming Wednesday is the monthly Cigar and Cocktail Evening, to be held at 7 p.m. at Grand River Cigar. All are welcome, no RSVP required.

Writing Deliciousness

My writing group embarked on a year-long voyage of creative discovery through the development of Mechlanberg, a steampunk-type city for which we’re all collaborating on a series of short stories.  Each member of the group is responsible for one aspect of the city’s development. My assigned area is “crime and danger.” Every meeting, we discuss and rehash various aspects of how the world functions — its history, topography, culture, economy, etc. I’ve started writing a series of short stories based on the crime/danger paradigm through the eyes of a young girl named Elyse entering Mechlanberg from the desert to become a “firefly” (a member of a prostitute’s guild). I’m underplaying some of the more “out-there” aspects of Mechlanberg lore — like memory water and tentacle forests — to focus on a character-development story arc. If I keep doing one short story each month, and each builds on the last, then I’ll have developed a novella before NaNoWriMo ’13 kicks off. Not a bad accomplishment.

Read Chapter 1 and Chapter 2, if you wish. Be ye warned: They’re both in “first draft status” (thank you, Scrivener) and haven’t been edited for word choice, detail, etc. So they’re a bit rough.

Of Marathons and Half-Marathons and Iron Men

The plan, at present, is that Tony, Jen and I will compete in the Las Vegas Rock ‘n’ Roll Marathon in mid November. They’re thinking “half marathon,” which makes sense given everyone’s relative level of fitness. The event is one of only two times a year that The Strip shuts down to vehicular traffic (the other time is New Year’s Eve) and the run occurs at night so the lights of Las Vegas take pride of place.

There’s also the North Country Run, an event I just learned about and fully intend to attempt in 2014 (registration for 2013 has since closed). It’s a trail run — half, full or ultra — in Manistee National Forest, presumably along a segment of the North Country Trail. Apart from a brief loop on a semi-paved road, the entire race is conducted on the single-file foot trails of the forest and includes such features as roots to trip you up, mosquitoes to drain your blood and flags to guide you so you don’t accidentally run off-trail and get eaten by a bear. Sounds heavenly.

I’m still pondering a triathlon at some point. My cousin Callista completed an Ironman event last year and that’s just freaking awesome. She worked really hard at it, and I respect her for that. I just need to work on my biking skills a bit and re-learn how to swim without a tank on my back.

Isle Royale

… and speaking of the outdoors, it’s a 95-percent probable “go!” that I’ll be doing a backpacking trip to Isle Royale National Park in late May or early June. The expedition involves an eight-hour drive to Houghton, followed by a six-hour trek by boat to the island. Spend four nights on the trail, then return the same way. Scheduling isn’t final yet — I have to stagger it with other people’s vacations and a three-night training trip to Madison, WI, in May — but I have everything lined up for a peaceful trek in the Lake Superior backcountry, with just the island’s wolves and moose to keep me company.

The Fuzzies

Readers of this blog know that I don’t post a lot of pictures. No LOLcats, no funny pictures with meme-style overprint, no “look at me, I’m drunk in an exclusive club” selfies, no “look at my hippie dinner” Instagrams.

So here’s your exception:

 

Yes. I now have two cats. Long story, but they’re fabulous little critters who are perfectly litter trained, people-friendly and just all-around adorable. Even when they wake me up at 4 a.m., having decided in their feline wisdom that it’s time for me to get up and pet them.

Meow!

Personal

"No, Mom, I'm Not in a Texas Prison," and Other Updates of Note

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If you believe my grandmother, I’m apparently writing this from behind the walls of a Texas prison. If you believe the GPS unit on my phone, I’m writing this from Grand Rapids. Where, oh were, could I be?
Texas Pokey?
Funny story. So last week, my mother calls and asks, point-blank: “Where are you?”
I was brutally honest in reply: “Well, I’m on my back porch right now, with a bit of grog and a cigar. Where are you?” 
To which, she burst out in laughter. Her own mother — St. Dorothy the Matriarch — had just called her upset because she had received a collect call from a Texas prison from someone whose muffled name may have sounded like “Jay.” Of course, granny didn’t accept the call that she feared may have come from her own flesh and blood. Instead, she hung up and called my mother to demand that she figure out where I was. My mother, ever the practical sort, dialed my cell phone. So although I do intend to visit the Metroplex at some point (perhaps this fall?) to see my friends from the Denton Dallas and Beyond podcast in their natural environment, I am not presently in the custody of the Texas Department of Criminal Justice.
So what’s up with the prison call? It’s a scam, of course.
Social Wrap-Up
Tidings of social merriment:

  • Last night, I enjoyed wine and cheese at Reserve with my friend Michelle. The server slipped me a note with the name of an online-only wine retailer that, in her view, makes the best “nerdy whites” on the market. I’ll have to check it out.
  • Friday was WriteOn. Writers and pizza and creative brainstorming, oh my! We even had the rare twofer of Cassidy plus AdamSmash.
  • Two Saturdays ago, I had cigars and cocktails with Brian and Mark. That was fun.
  • My new department at the hospital had an “un-birthday” party recently, to celebrate everyone’s 27th non-birthday all at the same time. We went to Ichiban and had sushi and assorted adult beverages. Mmm.
  • A few weeks ago I trekked to Lansing for a recording session with Tony that transformed into a dinner (at Gilbert & Blakes) and cigar (at The Corona) extravaganza with him and his lovely better half.
  • This coming Wednesday is the monthly Cigar and Cocktail Evening, to be held at 7 p.m. at Grand River Cigar. All are welcome, no RSVP required.

Writing Deliciousness
My writing group embarked on a year-long voyage of creative discovery through the development of Mechlanberg, a steampunk-type city for which we’re all collaborating on a series of short stories.  Each member of the group is responsible for one aspect of the city’s development. My assigned area is “crime and danger.” Every meeting, we discuss and rehash various aspects of how the world functions — its history, topography, culture, economy, etc. I’ve started writing a series of short stories based on the crime/danger paradigm through the eyes of a young girl named Elyse entering Mechlanberg from the desert to become a “firefly” (a member of a prostitute’s guild). I’m underplaying some of the more “out-there” aspects of Mechlanberg lore — like memory water and tentacle forests — to focus on a character-development story arc. If I keep doing one short story each month, and each builds on the last, then I’ll have developed a novella before NaNoWriMo ’13 kicks off. Not a bad accomplishment.
Read Chapter 1 and Chapter 2, if you wish. Be ye warned: They’re both in “first draft status” (thank you, Scrivener) and haven’t been edited for word choice, detail, etc. So they’re a bit rough.
Of Marathons and Half-Marathons and Iron Men
The plan, at present, is that Tony, Jen and I will compete in the Las Vegas Rock ‘n’ Roll Marathon in mid November. They’re thinking “half marathon,” which makes sense given everyone’s relative level of fitness. The event is one of only two times a year that The Strip shuts down to vehicular traffic (the other time is New Year’s Eve) and the run occurs at night so the lights of Las Vegas take pride of place.
There’s also the North Country Run, an event I just learned about and fully intend to attempt in 2014 (registration for 2013 has since closed). It’s a trail run — half, full or ultra — in Manistee National Forest, presumably along a segment of the North Country Trail. Apart from a brief loop on a semi-paved road, the entire race is conducted on the single-file foot trails of the forest and includes such features as roots to trip you up, mosquitoes to drain your blood and flags to guide you so you don’t accidentally run off-trail and get eaten by a bear. Sounds heavenly.
I’m still pondering a triathlon at some point. My cousin Callista completed an Ironman event last year and that’s just freaking awesome. She worked really hard at it, and I respect her for that. I just need to work on my biking skills a bit and re-learn how to swim without a tank on my back.
Isle Royale
… and speaking of the outdoors, it’s a 95-percent probable “go!” that I’ll be doing a backpacking trip to Isle Royale National Park in late May or early June. The expedition involves an eight-hour drive to Houghton, followed by a six-hour trek by boat to the island. Spend four nights on the trail, then return the same way. Scheduling isn’t final yet — I have to stagger it with other people’s vacations and a three-night training trip to Madison, WI, in May — but I have everything lined up for a peaceful trek in the Lake Superior backcountry, with just the island’s wolves and moose to keep me company.
The Fuzzies
Readers of this blog know that I don’t post a lot of pictures. No LOLcats, no funny pictures with meme-style overprint, no “look at me, I’m drunk in an exclusive club” selfies, no “look at my hippie dinner” Instagrams.
So here’s your exception:
 
Yes. I now have two cats. Long story, but they’re fabulous little critters who are perfectly litter trained, people-friendly and just all-around adorable. Even when they wake me up at 4 a.m., having decided in their feline wisdom that it’s time for me to get up and pet them.
Meow!