Moleskin Notebook

One Sandal Mexico!

2009-01-16T06:11:00.001-05:00

One Sandal Colombia

2008-07-12T21:48:00.001-04:00

rusty

2008-01-12T09:23:00.000-05:00

ok so i should not go this long without traveling as my skills get rusty, which i guess is ok but the scammers abound. rule number one, if approached in a place frequented by tourists and are approached, say _ in french even if he speaks english _ we walk, we chat; that is fine. but i buy nothing and go to no shops. a dude honestly told me to f-(k off today (in english) because i would not buy a tee shirt for 15 bucks or any drugs from him

rabat is nice enough, the chellah is interesting and it was nice to see the sea but i am ready to dive into fes. i have a train at three fifteen and i think i am going to slum it at the hostel because i am ready to talk to someone in english (or even french if they are patient) who does not want anything from me

i am getting used to the very sweet morrocan mint tea. i had moroccan food last night; a good lamb tajine and a better dish of moroccan aubergine

for those new to my blogs they are usually more intersting but this keyboard tries my patience

check with yous later

Ohio!

2008-01-07T07:37:00.001-05:00

Oh come let's sing Ohio's praise
And songs to Alma Mater raise
While our hearts resounding thrill
With joy which death alone can still
Summer's heat or winter's cold
The seasons pass the years will roll
Time and change will surely show
How firm thy friendship ... OHIO!

Visit League Park

2007-12-16T12:42:00.000-05:00

"League Park opened on May 1, 1891, with the legendary Cy Young pitching for the Cleveland Spiders in their win over the Cincinnati Redlegs. The park remained the home of Cleveland's professional baseball and football teams until 1946. In 1920 the Cleveland Indians Elmer Smith hit the first grand slam home run, and Bill Wamby executed the only unassisted triple play, in World Series history. Babe Ruth hit his 500th home run over the park's short right field wall in 1929. With the park as their home field, the Cleveland Buckeyes won the Negro World Series in 1945."

So read the official Ohio Historical marker at what remains of League Park. Located in Cleveland's Hough neighborhood on the city's East Side, I visited the park in November of 2007. There's not much to see, but it's still a pretty neat place to check out.

Here it is at the corner of East 66th and Lexington.
View Larger Map

Here is a picture I found on the web of the park in its heyday. I think that the street at the bottom is Lexington, and the street on the left is E. 66th. If I'm correct, that makes the building in the bottom left of the photo the ticket office.

The biggest piece of the park that remains is what I understand to be that original ticket office.

The ticket booth is obviously in pretty bad shape. Unfortunately, as is much of the neighborhood. (That guy panhandled me and my brother-in-law moments before this photo.)

For whatever reason, the area immediately adjacent to the ticket office is fenced off.

This is the view from E. 66th - at the end of the wall in the photo is the ticket booth/Lex. Besdies the ticket office, this wall is all that appears to remain from the original park.

This is looking the other way on E. 66th. The brickwork is pretty cool. I think this is the wall that would have been immediately behind the grandstand behind home plate.

It's an ultimate neighborhood park, with houses all around. If you're ever been to Wrigley Field, it makes it easier to imagine a thriving park in the heart of an inner-city neighborhood. Pretty amazing that parks like Fenway and Wrigley have survived. My understanding is that the old Cleveland Municipal Stadium was built in an unsuccessful attempt to lure the Olympics to Cleveland in the 1930s. It makes me wonder, what sort of fate the park would have had, or for that matter the City of Cleveland, has this relic remained a thriving inner city park?

Evidently, there are efforts to preserve and restore the park, with both the Indians and the City uniting to do the work. I hope they are successful!

(For more on the history of the park, click here or here.)

On The Road Again

2007-12-02T11:46:00.000-05:00

I'm off again in January:

One Sandal Morocco احد الصندل المغرب Un Santal Maroc

yum

2007-02-14T21:21:00.000-05:00

huancgaco lunch
Originally uploaded by Tasty_Peirogi.

Fair?

2007-02-05T19:08:00.000-05:00

Discrimination is a charged word, so let me start by disarming it some for purposes of this post. Generally, when we think of discrimination in the political sense, we think of “unfair” discrimination, typically the type that hinders a person for (1) something outside of their control, and (2) objectively unrelated to the desired good or service. So there are some types of discrimination that most people acknowledge are bad, such as racial discrimination in employment, or gender discrimination for government services. Then, there are some types of discrimination that most people acknowledge are socially desirable, such as the laws that prohibit 10-year olds from buying tobacco. Finally, there are types of discrimination that are done by private individuals, for which most people don’t have problem with, such as the manager at 7-11 who refuses to hire people with facial piercings.

Regardless of whether we think that a particular type of discrimination is good or bad, discrimination can also be expressed as a preference for a particular group. For example, veterans of the US military often get a hiring preference for civilian government jobs, even when they are unrelated to their training or experience in the military. However, this preference, from a logical point of view, could just as easily be expressed as a bias against non-veterans. Now, as a non-veteran civil servant, I don’t have a problem with this policy either way because I think that people who have served in the armed forces should get a helping hand, even if it’s at my expense, based on their earlier social contract with the state. But whether I think it’s fair or not, I’m discriminated against.

I was reading in the Washington Post online today one of their new Blog columns. The writer is praising the 15th anniversary of the Family Medical Leave Act, which for the first time gave certain people the legal right to mandatory unpaid leave from their employer. Broadly speaking, the law allows people who work for a big enough company to take leave if they have or adopt a child, or to take care of a parent, child, spouse, or one’s self with a serious medical condition. Only 12 weeks every 12 months, though.

What does this have to do with discrimination? Like any law with eligibility requirements, the FMLA discriminates, in this case based on family status and health variables. That is to say that those who aren’t in one of the circumstances described in the statute are not legally entitled to 12 weeks unpaid leave. Very few would question the “neediness” of those people in the circumstances described in the statute, certainly not me. On the other hand, I think most people can agree that in many circumstances it is the employer and the other co-workers who must compensate for the employee’s absence.

However, isn’t the Act really discriminating against the childless, orphans, unmarried and the healthy? Of course it is. Then again, it’s hardly the only example of similar government policy. Today, the tax code (with a few pernicious exceptions) generally treats married people either the same as singles, or better. Ditto for parents.

Is it fair? I suppose that probably depends on who is answering the question. Compared to virtually every country in Europe, the US has a remarkably high native-born birth rate, despite having (in general) far fewer government programs to encourage childbearing. So I sincerely doubt that there is any (non-racist) demographic argument (unlike Europe) in support of the tax subsidies and benefits. On the other hand, I certainly acknowledge the benefits to both parent and child by allowing parents to stay home when Jr. arrives or is badly ill.

But in the end, aren’t non-parents – directly or indirectly – subsidizing parents? Or for that matter, those with smaller families subsidizing those with larger families? Is it not more equitable, at least, to broaden the circumstances for which “family” leave is available to employees who want to briefly return to school, travel to Africa, or learn a foreign language? Based purely on sympathy, I would guess most people would say “no.” On the other hand, from an equity point of view, why does the state decree that a person’s passion for childrearing is “better” than one’s passion for volunteering in Africa? Or learning to surf in Bali?

For me, I’m resigned to the fact that it’s merely a watered-down version of Jefferson’s “tyranny of the masses” – the breeders getting their way with the rest of us. But as this country debates things like gay marriage and gay adoption, I’m often struck with the feeling that if we are making things fairer (which I think is a good thing), there should be a lot more people at the table than just committed homosexual couples.

100_1547.JPG

2007-01-11T14:20:00.000-05:00

100_1547.JPG
Originally uploaded by Tasty_Peirogi.

I am experimenting, bear with me.

On Hiatus

2006-11-06T04:45:00.000-05:00

I'm off to Peru on Wednesday, and in the meantime I've created a separate blog for the trip at

One Sandal Peru

I promise to update more often than I do this page. Thanks for stopping by!

The Backpacker Cookbook No. 1

2006-09-09T16:12:00.000-04:00
Backpacker Fish Chowder

-One package local whitefish (trout, maybe)

-One can cream of asparagus soup (or mushroom, whatever you like)

-Half a can of water

-One can sweet corn

-Pepper to taste

Empty can of soup into pot. Add half a cup of water. Bring to a low boil, add fish. When fish is almost done, add corn and black pepper. Serve sprinkled with paprika and with local hot sauce on side.

It´s Been Good to Know You

2006-09-07T12:18:00.000-04:00
Tuesday night I make it over to Notting Hill Gate to meet up with Dawn, a Londoner I met last year in Pai, Thailand. A charming girl I met on the street corner, when she (along with an American girl she was travelling with) asked me if I knew how to find the Mexican restaurant in Pai. I didn´t, but they invited me to come along anyway, and I spent the next 3 alcohol-soaked days in the nearly constant company of Dawn and Whitney (the American). (Full details at onesandal at right).

Had a brief but lovely chat with Dawn, but the nicest thing was the strange familiarity. It´s hard to encapsule, but it´s the little things that make you realize how nice it is to re-connect with fellow travelers. I had my day bag with me when we met up at the pub, and she saw it it, and sweetly exclaimed, 'Oh, I remember that bag!´ Our familiarity, luckily, had a tangible relic along with me.

Nice to see you, Dawn, and un-storied honorable mention to Helen, a South African I met in Belize, and Guy, a Londoner I met in Chiang Mai, for taking time out of their lives to visit with me this week.

Church

2006-09-05T08:19:00.000-04:00
There is a theatre just outside central London known as the Forum. Some rather wiley capitalists here in the UK realized that the key to maximizing real estate is to book as many events as possible in one space. As a result, on Sundays the Forum hosts an event known as 'Church'. It is a little like how many college campuses in the States have a bar nearby called 'The Library'. That way, kids can tell their mums that they spent Friday night at 'the library' and she'll feel proud of her offspring, not realizing that Friday night involved 7 shots of Yaegermerister. In any event, promptly at noon on Sunday, Church opens, to relatively cheap beer, numerous Australians, loud thumping dance music, contests, strippers, and riotously good fun. At noon. On Sunday. By half four, the streets outside are filled with crazily drunk people, stopping off at the chipper, or heading on to the next place (Walkabout in Shepherd's Bush is quite popular).

What kind of a city has ritualized all day benders on Sunday? My kind of city.

Icelandair

2006-08-31T11:54:00.000-04:00
An important warning for those who might fly it - no free booze on transatlantic flights. $5 isn't a lot of money for a glass of wine, but it's the principle of the thing. On the other hand, wow, they sure do grow em pretty in Iceland. I have never seen such beautiful flight attendants.

Even better news: despite the terrorists, duty-free booze lives. A very welcome bit indeed.

Unrelated travel news: Kelly, the BWI terminal E bartender, pours a really, really stiff drink. Wow.

And it is a pretty day in London!

Cherry Blossoms 2006

2006-03-30T11:12:00.000-05:00

Check out my photos from my Thursday morning stroll along the Tidal Basin.

Palmetto State Mini Bottles

2006-03-14T05:20:00.000-05:00
South Carolina, in a post-Prohibition streak of idiocy, enacted a law designed to limit the consumption of hard alcohol. Until recently, liquor bought in bars in the Palmetto State could only be served in "mini-bottles," those tiny contraptions rarely seen outside of airline carts and as contraband at sporting events. The reason I refer to this rule as "idiocy" is because of the size of the bottles: 1.75 ounces. A normal shot of booze in most states is 1 ounce. As a result, order a drink in South Carolina and you get a shot and 3/4. Pretty good deal, but not particularly effective in deterring alcohol consumption. Moreover, because most manufacturers of cheap booze (I won't give those labels the dignity of calling them "distillers") don't tend to sell booze in mini-bottles, the “well” or “house” booze is usually a fairly palatable brand (e.g. Smirnoff vodka). Again, pretty good deal.

However, as a result, ordering a shot or a cocktail in Secessionville is slightly complicated. For example, if you were to order two shots of Jack Daniels, the barmaid will likely ask, "One shot, two ways, or two shots?" In other words, do you want a small or a giant shot? And you'll get some pretty clever ways of ordering (and challenging for those of us that struggle with fractions) - "I'd like 3 shots, 5 ways," for example. In addition, because these laws are 60+ years old, a lot of bars have had the backside of the bar designed for mini-bottles. And one can also find some really strange pricing arrangements: Kettel One might cost you $7.25 a "bottle", but then a 190 proof "bottle" might cost only $5.25 (this correspondent found such a pricing structure at Hemingway's Bar in Beaufort, SC).

Recently, though, the elected branches in Columbia finally caved to the lobbying of the South Carolina citizenry and bar industry, and liberalized the drinking laws. As the locals put it, a bar can now "choose" to use mini-bottles, or move to "free pour", or use a combination of both. As far as I can tell, that means that there aren't any rules about mini-bottles anymore.

But here's where culture and habits make things interesting. Many of the bars simply don't have the space behind the bar to put full size bottles of booze, or at least they don’t have the space for a full complement of full size bottles. Moreover, many of them still have a pretty large inventory of mini-bottles. So what you have now is a haphazard mix of cocktails priced, and spiked, to widely varying levels. For example, a bar might move to "free pour", but a bar patron might still expect a 1.75 ounce cocktail. But he might get a 1 ounce cocktail. And what's he to pay, for a Palmetto shot or for a regular shot?

In a bar in Columbia, they've moved to free pour for Yaegermeister: they even have one of those goofy chilling machines that offers, "Yaeger on tap" (that’s such an odd bit of marketing…a shot tastes better if the bottle it comes from is hanging upside down?). So Yaeger does not come in mini-bottles. Yet if you order "two shots," the barman still asks if you want "two shots" or "one shot, two ways." Why on earth do I still have to choose between a minishot and a megashot? The answer is that USC kids still order it that way. It's like South Carolina has its own little drinking metric system.

I suppose it's part of the fun of travel, but how many South Carolina bartenders have carpel tunnel syndrome, and how many landfills have been filled with tiny bottles of booze?

Very Proud of Them

2006-02-01T10:35:00.000-05:00
I'm in a meeting with a boss talking about this tax shelter where someone contributes property to a "foundation" to get a favorable tax result. My boss is like, "Well, typically it's a charity run by some family member."

Me: "You mean like the Little Lebowski Urban Achievers"?

Boss: [Blank stare.]

Nuw Yerk Citee!

2006-01-26T06:59:00.000-05:00
I'm off to the Big Apple for the weekend, and am getting in on Thursday night so that I might actually accomplish something other than sleeping off my hangover. Plus, a birthday party on Saturday in New Jersey. Should be fun.

What's your favorite part/thing to do/sight in the City? If you've never been, what's the thing you'd most like to see/do?

My Bags Are Packed, I'm Ready to Go

2005-12-05T16:32:00.000-05:00
I leave for Paris tonight from Dulles Airport, if Mother Nature cooperates. Hopefully I'll have some interesting bits from the road, because damn, this blog has been boring lately.

Sportsfans: How Do You Feel About ESPN?

2005-11-30T11:46:00.000-05:00
http://www.everydayshouldbesaturday.com/?p=1406

Anti-Meles Protest

2005-11-15T11:31:00.000-05:00
-Four Stars out of Five-

On November 15, 2005, protestors assembled for a march down Constitution Avenue to protest the rule of Meles Zenawi in Ethiopia. Quite frankly, I don’t know anything about Mr. Meles’s government, but what I can say is that American protestors could learn a lot from African immigrants.

First off, like anyone who has followed events in Ukraine or Georgia, they know that protests need a color, or colors. In fact, the green, yellow and red three-striped flag of Ethiopia is perfect. Color, color, color. Want to protest in DC, people, pick a color scheme, and make some flags. Got it?

Next thing they have: melody. Their protest chants don’t have that annoying, nursery rhyme boredom of American protestors. (Next time I hear, “Hey, hey, ho, ho, [insert person] has got to go,” or the even worse, “One, two, three, four, we don’t need your stinking war.”) MELODY, really, protestors, you need to throw out the ‘Nam era leadership and find some new blood…maybe a choreographer?

And the whistles are a nice touch. And the clapping! Great stuff.

Also, nothing gets people excited by bringing out Ol’ Glory. Yes, that’s right, Lefties, the red, white and blue can work for you!

Chants, with reply chants! I love it.

Anyway, I usually tune out the protestors, but these guys are good. A truly entertaining protest, recommended for all.

Tropic of Cancer

2005-11-08T11:15:00.000-05:00
Today there was a used book sale in the lobby of my office building to support charity. There were slim pickings, but I did find a book that I've been wanting to read for some time, Henry Miller's Tropic of Cancer. The reason, interestingly enough, had very little to do with the book and mostly revolved around a dissenting opinion in a Pennsylvania Supreme Court obscenity case about the book, Commonweatlh v. Robin, in 1966. The majority opinion failed to find the book obscene within the meaning in First Amendment jurisprudence. Justice Musmanno, didn't like the book, but if I were the publisher of it, I'd put this on the jacket:

The decision of the Majority of the Court in this case has dealt a staggering blow to the forces of morality, decency and human dignity in the Commonwealth of Pennsylvania. If, by this decision, a thousand rattlesnakes had been let loose, they could not do as much damage to the well-being of the people of this state as the unleashing of all the scorpions and vermin of immorality swarming out of that volume of degeneracy called the "Tropic of Cancer." Policemen, hunters, constables and foresters could easily and quickly kill a thousand rattlesnakes but the lice, lizards, maggots and gangrenous roaches scurrying out from beneath the covers of the "Tropic of Cancer" will enter into the playground, the study desks, the cloistered confines of children and immature minds to eat away moral resistance and wreak damage and harm which may blight countless lives for years and decades to come.

That's just the introductory paragraph, it only gets better. The opinion can be found at 421 Pa. 70 (Pa. 1966).

On va a la France

2005-11-03T09:22:00.000-05:00
Bonjour, Madames and Messeiurs,
I've been on the shores of these united 50 for a shade long, so I'm going to Paris. Haven't been since '99, and I was a bit of a wide-eyed traveling neophyte in those days, so I'm hoping that 5 nights in the City of Light this time will let me figure out if I'm a Left Banker or Right one.

Direct flight from Dulles to Charles de Gaulle on Air France for under $500 bucks is something of a steal, with our fuel prices being what they are these days. I've been to Amsterdam and to London in the period between Thanksgiving and Christmas, and I have to say me experience then was that this is a great time to visit the Old World.

I've even pulled out my "Invitation" from college French class to try to brush up a bit on my French, we'll see.

Tips and suggestions are welcome...

Please Support Me!

2005-10-16T17:51:00.000-04:00
I am proud to let you know that I will be walking in
the America's Walk for Diabetes fund-raising event to
benefit the American Diabetes Association. The event
is THIS Saturday, which means I'm getting a very late
start on my fundraising and I need your help!

You can help by supporting my fund-raising efforts
with a contribution. Did you know that more than 18
million Americans suffer from diabetes and another 20
million are at risk for developing diabetes? Your gift
can make a difference.

As many of you know, I've lost a dear friend to this
silent killer, and I know from speaking to friends
since then that many of us have loved ones currently
living with the disease. So please consider helping
out.

The event is in less than a week, so if you are able
to donate, please don't delay. No amount is too small!

It is fast and easy to support this great cause. You
can make your donation online by clicking the link at
the bottom of this message. If you want to do even
more to help, please consider joining me in this great
event. Our efforts will help set the pace in the fight
against diabetes.

I greatly appreciate your support and will keep you
posted on my progress. Thank you very much!

More information on the American Diabetes Association,
its programs and diabetes in general can be found at
the Association's Web site: www.diabetes.org

For more information on America's Walk for Diabetes,
please visit www.diabetes.org/walk.

Click to Support Me
If the text above does not appear as a clickable link,
you can visit the web address:
http://main.diabetes.org/site/TR?px=1683629&fl=en_US&s_tafId=23684&pg=personal&fr_id=2779

Click here to view the team page for The Hans
Haverstick Memorial Walkers
If the text above does not appear as a clickable link,
you can visit the web address:
http://main.diabetes.org/site/TR?team_id=97638&fl=en_US&s_tafId=23684&pg=team&fr_id=2779

snips and snails and puppy dog tails

2005-10-12T15:14:00.000-04:00
I like that I got to pull out a sweater today and wear it to work. I also like that it's not going to be over 90 again for the rest of the year. I don't like that Ohio State got spanked by Penn State this weekend. I like basil and ripe red tomatoes and fresh mozzarella. I like croissants. I like the sound of shattered glass. I don't really like barbeque sauce. And I think that olives are sort of gross. And I hate the sound of styrofoam rubbing against styrofoam, it gives me goosebumps. I like sending emails. I like receiving emails. But I really like sending and receiving postcards, but it's a lot more fun when you're someplace interesting, or you know someone going somewhere cool. Sometimes I even like writing letters, but despite my rather neat penmanship, I prefer typing. I like that I went for a rather long run yesterday, over an hour, and I sort of liked "Insomnia" (the Swedish film), but I don't like that I didn't get as much work done as I should have. I like that the Yankees lost and the Browns won this weekend. I still don't like that the Indians failed to make the playoffs. I like laughing with others. I like being alone. I'm not sure I like how my apartment is decorated, but I'm not sure I care enough to spend the energy to change it. I'm not sure I like that about me, though. I like four day work weeks as much as I like the long weekend. I like glassware. I didn't really like "Confederacy of Dunces" but I am enjoying "Winter of Our Discontent." I like my new printer, and don't like that I still don't have my iPod from FedEx.

Livin' in a Liberal's Paradise

2005-09-23T13:49:00.000-04:00
To all of the left-leaners out there, I may just have found you the perfect storm of pacifism, environmentalism and anti-globalization. September 23-25 in Washington, DC has been officially decreed Left-Wing Heaven (that is, if the term "heaven" didn't suppose a judeo-christian deity, a notion that offends our atheist/Hindu/agnostic/Zorastrian/Buddhist comrades.)

(1) I'll actually have a flat-full of folks coming up for DC Green Festival. I sort my recylables and haul them out to the dumpster (rather than throw them down the rather convenient trash chute), and don't vote for Republicans, I feel like my eco-card is punched, but hey, the world needs its Greenies. Have at it, girls.

(2) The IMF-World Bank meetings are the weekend, so we'll have the anarchists as well as the loony left out protesting those evil Bretton-Woods folks for...trying to advance standards of living in the developing world? (Hey Anarchists: If you don't get the Bretton-Woods reference, you should spend the weekend reading some economics books rather than protesting a system you don't even understand.)

(3) And for those of you who like to return broken merchandise and ask for a full refund, there's a "Get Out of Iraq Now" anti-war march on the Mall.

(4) And while a handful of conservatives actually do read books, I imagine the featured food will be granola and selected scent patchoulli at the 2005 National Book Festival.

Hey, this is part of living in the capital and all, so I can roll with it. But please stand to the right on Metro escalators and don't saunter down the sidewalk 4 abreast, OK?

The Drink That Made an Island Famous

2005-09-18T21:45:00.000-04:00
A few years back, as I was wrapping up my last bit of formal education, a friend of mine had come to the National Capital Area on business, and we agreed to meet for drinks and dinner. We met for a cocktail at an outdoor bar in NW DC, and as I ordered some sort of "microbrew", my friend - who, I must say has always exhibited a shade of class and demeanor far above our common roots in a working class borough of Cleveland - ordered an Old Fashioned. Not only had I never seen anyone I know order an Old Fashioned, I'd never even though about ordering one - and was extremely entertained by the various steps our barman endured to produce this time-tested concoction. The vast majority of cocktails that I'd consumed were lazy, recipe-titled swill that I'd ordered when too bloated from a full-day of beer swilling and football watching.

Fortunately, about the same time I was also engaging in an eye opening journey through the delightful, other Celtic spirit, Irish Whisky. Unfortunately for me, several trip to a gastroenterologist convinced me that perhaps this hobby was getting the better of me. Whiskey, I'm afraid, had to wane from my diet, and by the grace of God, vodka happily took its place. And I like vodka, quite a bit actually, but it will never have the complexity and attraction that whiskey does, not matter how many Stolichnaya -club sodas I consume (and trust me, I've tried).

Whiskey, like so many friendships I've managed to maintain over the years, remains like a dear friend who has moved away - always intimates, regardless of the unfortunate, circumstance-induced infrequency of our contact. And there's few things I enjoy more, to this day, than any of the various Bushmills products imported to this country, but I've also felt a need to investigate more local products. Bourbon, a sweet, corn-heavy whiskey so popular here in the States, has never struck my fancy - in fact, I do all I can to avoid it. Our friends and neighbors in Canada produce some rather pleasant whiskey blends, but a bit of research led me to discover that the Canucks are largely impersonating a spirit once common in the liquor cabinets of many North Americans: rye. Yes, rye, that spirit that to most people is an obscure reference in a very long, oddly sweet piece of Americana that's actually the second-best Don McLean song ever written (go download "Vincent" from iTunes if you don't believe this blogger).

Rye, my friends, is a gentle, lovely, dry, delightful, inexpensive piece of America that sparks a bit of nationalism in me that no amount of xenophobic, paranoid political speech could ever hope to inspire. Rye - when, like many American things - is thrown together with a bit of Europe - Italian sweet and/or French dry Vermouth - creates a genuine classic that has entertained men and women on both continents since Winston Churchill's mother allegedly invented it in the 19th century. Like all truly worthwhile works of art, the Manhattan has a dash of bitterness, Angostura seems to be the preferred choice for most fanatics of this tantalizing cocktail. The Manhattan - a drink that so perfectly shares a name with a place distinctly American, yet more like Europe than any other place in these United States. Manhattan, a drink that old men cherish, but bastardized by the few bartender that think they know how to make it - bourbon, my friends, has quite a nice bit of Americana to itself in the Kentucky Derby and the Mint Julep, please leave rye its rightful role as the prime spirit of the Manhattan. The Manhattan, the sweet vermouth rounding our the dry rye, the dash of bitters adding the third, subtle leg to this stool on which I rest the end of my evening, thank you for finding me.

Friends, my stomach only allows me one of these a night, and my glass is empty, plus "Vincent" is about to finish, and now I'm relaxed, satisfied, and sad enough to retire for the evening. Mes amis, boun appetito, and so long.

Multi-Tasking

2005-09-14T22:24:00.000-04:00
I'm flipping back between ESPN and ESPN2, both with major league baseball games on, while listening to the Indians radio webcast online, all while simultaneously following the electronic Gamecast of the Yankees-Devil Rays game. Has the media age led us all to be obsessive compulsive freaks, or just me?

It's gone and you can tell that one goodbye!

2005-08-26T09:35:00.000-04:00
Tim, my co-worker and avid blog reader, called me into his office a few weeks ago. He’s only been here a year, so I figured there was some basic principle of the tax code that he failed to grasp, for which my help was required. “Jason,” he asks, “what are you doing next Thursday?” Puzzled, I reply, “Nothing, probably.” “It’s the last day game for the Nationals this year,” he sagely suggests. “I’m in,” I eagerly reply.

And there we are, on a shockingly temperate and sunny August afternoon, in the ancient behemoth that is Robert. F. Kennedy Stadium. Tim, again wisely, has brought in sunflower seeds. The draft Coors Lights slide down the throat like Rickey Henderson stealing second. The concourse smells of kosher dogs and spilt beer. The baseball diamond shines brilliant under the glow of Helios. What a bastard is nighttime baseball! The crack of the Northern White Ash against a Livan Hernandez fastball!

The Cincinnati Reds, one of baseball’s most hopeless franchises, was in town, which might seem disappointing but for the fact that Ken Griffey Jr. still prowls centerfield for these Red Stockings. Griff’, as is well known, has been plagued by injuries the last few seasons, but it’s hard for me to forget the sweetness that he was when roaming the outfiled in the Kingdome some years past. That fluid, compact left-handed swing. The swagger. That homerun trot, complete with the bat toss. The boyish grin. The seventh inning, Griffey is at the plate, and BOOM, he launches his thirtieth homerun of the year into the seats!

The seventh inning stretch! Raise your voice, lift your glass, and on your feet: Take Me Out to the Ballgame.

Daytime baseball, my old dear friend, how I’ve missed you in my seven-year hiatus in the Nation’s Capital.

So Wave to the Tractor, And to the Tractor Shed

2005-08-04T16:18:00.000-04:00
At a recently attended wedding, held in the majestically grand Quad Cities of Middle America, the fun for the author here doesn't end at the reception. Or at the bus trip to the Indian casino. Three brave souls have ditched the baggage that is the significant other, and have bravely soldiered on to the sole bar in downtown Moline, Illinois still serving alcohol until three in the morning. These exemplary citizens of the Vagrancy Republic proudly down as many cans of Pabst Blue Ribbon as the young, rather unattractive barmaid will serve them, but the hour of three strikes, and like Cinderella at the ball, they are unceremoniously driven from this farm country watering hole. Our three brave soldiers of indecency are thrown onto the unforgiving, mean streets of farmland urbanity.

En route to their temporary abodes in the five-star Moline Radisson, they appear. These gigantic, green behemoths of childhood legend: the display farm tractors of John Deere Commons. The huge machines of Agrimerica beckon, unguarded in the warm summer air, and the "Do Not Climb" placards are no deterrent for these upstanding members of the bar. Steel cabins, rubber wheels taller than an NBA center, scoops of yellow large enough to hold an automobile: how marvelous is the intersection of technology and agriculture!

Ascending these tractors is no small feat considering our heroes level of intoxication, taking into account also their formal wedding attire of suit and tie. Climb they did, take pictures they did. Dismount gracefully, they did not.

My friend has a broken foot, ladies and gentlemen, he just called me from the doctor's office. Several weeks of walking into courtrooms with a walking cast and cane for Mr. Local Prosecutor. And his wife is furious. But the photos are worth it.

Forever In Debt to Your Priceless Advice

2005-07-28T18:52:00.000-04:00
Do you think that to be happy in a relationship, two people have to have comparable intellectual prowess?

I’ve met a lot of people who say things like, “I love my wife because she challenges me,” or “my boyfriend is great because he doesn’t let me get away with things.” It makes sense, of course, to want to be with a mate that serves as an intellectual counter in your life. But my question is, for an educated person (and education comes in many forms, formal and informal), is it possible to be content with someone who is well, not very educated? (Perhaps the better word is “intellectual,” rather than “educated,” if that helps.)

But let’s assume that a husband is significantly less intellectual than his wife, does it mean that she is “shallow”? Does it mean that she has an empty space in her life? Let’s say she’s an engineer, finds her work and co-workers interesting and stimulating, loves her book club, and goes to see theatre regularly with her brother. Her husband is kind, caring, a fantastic father to children they both adore, and shares with his wife a love of restaurants, the Kansas City Chiefs, gardening and kayaking. But husband doesn’t read much beyond the sports section in the USA Today, and would rather be caught dead than spend time doing traditional “cultural activities.” And he has a 12th grade education.

In other words, they have much, but not everything in common. But frankly, while they have interests in common, she’s never found a single thing he’s said remotely intellectually challenging. And she swears she’s delightfully happy because she thinks it is absurd to expect one-stop shopping in life. Moreover, her job is stressful (but satisfying), and it can be so full of “intellectual” conflict with co-workers and clients, one of the things she claims to cherish about being at home is that it’s a significantly more harmonious environment.

And because husband and wife aren’t real people, I am asking people to judge them – no, actually, judge her. Forget the fact that they have kids, and go back to the beginning of the relationship. If you were friends with wife, would you tell her she “could do better” than husband? Would you think it?

Is it reasonable – or just lazy – to value being content over being challenged? Is she compromising herself? Her self-worth? Her gender?

It's Cliche, But I Know Why They're Called Northworst

2005-07-25T17:19:00.000-04:00
I am sitting at my computer desk on Friday morning, leisurely nursing a cup of tea, going over the latest work-related news on the internet preparing for a pleasant (if slightly hungover) morning working in my skivvies in my living room. The phone rings, I ignore it, and it rings again a bit later, and a friend is on the line.

The reason I’m working from home is because it’s closer to the airport than my office, and I’m flying out that afternoon to the storied Quad Cities of the Great American Plains. [Ten points to anyone who can name all four without use of a reference aid.] A friend of mine is getting married at a small country church in the middle of an Iowa cornfield on Saturday, and I’m looking forward to the event and the mini-reunion nature of out-of-town weddings of former classmates.

My friend, the one who was calling, had just been called by a reservations agent for Northwest Airlines. (I had just missed a similar call.) My friend, his wife, and I are all scheduled to fly from National Airport (only tourists, newscasters and right-wing freaks call it “Reagan,” thank you very much. I’ve got no objection to throwing RWR’s name on Trade Centers and aircraft carriers, but keep it off airports in towns where he couldn’t muster a majority vote, OK?) We are supposed to fly to Minneapolis-Saint Paul (MSP), with a two-hour layover, then off to Moline-Quad Cities Airport.

Well, there are “mechanical difficulties” for our flight to Moline from MSP. Eight hours from now. They’ve cancelled the flight. And they cannot get us into Moline before Saturday morning as the other flights are all full. But wait, there are later flights? All full. So why not cancel one of those flights, and use the plane for my flight? Why pick my flight to cancel, why not pick another one? Later, I discover that some of the people from the flight that was cancelled were booked on the later flight. Why not us?

OK, let’s make the best of this. Can we get to Chicago? Sure, but it’s a three-hour drive. OK, how about Cedar Rapids? One-and-a-half hours. Not nearly as bad. Seats on that plane? Sure, we’re rebooked, and still getting into the QC’s around 10:30 after the drive in a rental car (which somehow we are paying for?) Get to MSP, and wander down to out gate for the flight to Cedar Rapids. We get to the gate, and look at the monitor.

Cancelled. That’s right, the rebooked flight (into a city 100 miles from our destination and several hours later) is also cancelled due to “mechanical failure”. Somehow, we get onto a later flight to Cedar Rapids. Later, I discovered a pair of people who were sold tickets to get to Moline, and were willing to go to Cedar Rapids, but they didn’t have seats for them by then. Why did we get on, and they didn't? What possible rhyme or reason is there to this clusterfck of a business? Shocking that their stock is worthless.

And how on earth did they not know earlier that they weren’t going to have enough planes to get people to Cedar Rapids? Or is there some pimply-faced recent Big Ten graduate with a degree in “Business” that makes decisions as wise as those that are exercised by this scourge of mass transportation? OK, we’ll cancel this flight, but wait until people are in the middle of their flightplan so that we have to pay to put them in a hotel, that’s the way that to save the most costs. If we’d have gone to Chicago in the first place we would have been in the QC’s two hours earlier. How horrendous can one company be?

Then Sunday we had to get home.

I was returning to National (not Reagan) Airport via Detroit (DTW). My flight from Moline to DTW yesterday was, as appears to be NW’s invariable custom, oversold. My friends decide to get on the plane, but I take the free roundtrip ticket and agree to get on a later flight (5 pm instead of 10 am departure). Now I'm going into Dulles instead of National, and don't get in until 10:50 instead of 3:30, but I’m addicted to travel like a crack addict is to tiny glass viles, so I bite on the bargain.

And thank God I did. My friends get to DTW, and their (i.e., "my") connecting flight to National (not Reagan) is cancelled! NW can't get them to any of the three airports in metro DC, so they have to get on a Delta flight to Atlanta, then get sent to Baltimore – about 75 minutes away from their home – yet still don't land until after midnight.

I got off my plane at Dulles and head to the ticket counter to cajole Northwest into giving me a taxi voucher, but it’s 11 o’clock and there’s no one there. I thought about getting a taxi and just sending them the bill, but decided that I’d rather deal with a bus ride back to my apartment than have to quarrel over a 50 spot with customer service agents of this corporate mess. The bus was three bucks, and at least I was in bed asleep about 1. My friends weren't home until after 230 and no free voucher.

What a total nightmare. And the worse part? Somehow I thought I got a deal by getting a free flight coupon…I mean, that means I have to get on another Northwest flight in the next 12 months.

As Johnny Knoxville recently said, “It's kinda like catching herpes from Audrey Hepburn: You're bummed about the herpes, but you're psyched you got them from her.”

I Used to Sometimes Try to Catch Her, But Never Even Caught Her Name

2005-07-20T10:43:00.000-04:00
The playful nymph. Asian butterfly, gaily floating about, morphs into Eastern yellowjacket, striking with ease at the vulnerable underbelly of her hapless and hopeless victims. The fluttering, flirty, flimsical femme fatale. You dangerously hover about with coy smiles, playful hands, and silly words that turn men into boys and melt iron hearts. Philosophers suggest that women learn to flirt with their male ancestors to gain their favor – in all of Siam, can there be a woman who is spared the spoils of her father? Cheekbones that rise like the sun, smiles that haunt the soul, sparkling, slightly hidden dark eyes that invade and conquer the id. This diminutive sprite, with slender limbs like a palm tree, narrow shoulders, delicate hands; oriental chili pepper, hot as an equatorial sun, brilliantly blazing a scorched earth. Exotic yet familiar, foreign while domestic, forbidden but attainable. Angel of Ayutthaya, Scamp of Sukhothai, insurmountable obstacle to the Middle Path, infect the world with virtue and vice.

A Hangover and a Black Eye

2005-07-15T10:53:00.000-04:00
I awaken, sensing that dullness and confusion that is a hangover. Am I at home? Thankfully. Am I alone? Yes, I may begin this process with peace and tranquility. What did I do last night to feel this bad? What was that bartender's name? Dear God, do I have to go to the bathroom.

I swing my feet out of bed, thud, thud. In my malaise I drag my bare feet across the hardwood of my home. I've left the toilet seat up. Sweet relief. A wash of the hands at the bathroom sink, while I stare at myself in the mirror, searching for bloodshot eyes and dark circles beneath. I don't look all that bad, but I do need to shave.

The dehydration of excessive alcohol use is exacerbated by the fact that I've donated blood earlier in the week. I don't usually have headaches. Turn on the computer, head to the kitchen. "Water", I say to myself, using SpongeBob's voice the time he went to visit Sandy inside her underwater air-filled lair. I fill up a souvenir Cleveland Indians cup that I got several years ago at Spring Training in Winter Haven with water from the Brita pitcher. (Of course, the plastic mug was filled with beer when it was purchased.) Head to the medicine cabinet: milk thistle and men's multivitamin for the hangover, and fish oil capsules and a zinc supplement for overall health. I sit down at the computer, and I finally notice the burn.

That wicked warm, oddly familiar feeling of heartburn. Or, more clinically, gastroesophageal reflux disease induced by a hiatal hernia. I prefer just to say, "I got stomach problems." The constant, discomforting warmth. That damned cheeseburger last night! And the pommes frites. Why do I put such toxic, manipulated filth into my body? "Alcohol quickly depresses inhibitions and judgment," says the website of a random 12 step program. Right, got it. Where are the tums? I'm not going back on that Nexium crap, the stuff is almost a buck-a-day even with health insurance. Why on earth did you eat deep-fried foods twice in two days, you fat, ignorant boob? Take a Tagamet. Doesn't help that much. Chew on a few rolaids, no relief is spelled. Wait, wait for the bubbling stomach acid to recede back from my esophagus. "Down, down," I sing to my stomach a la Fred Schneider in "Rock Lobster."

Afternoon sets in, and of course I end up at a Mexican restaurant, just what GERD-boy here needs. "So we are having margaritas," suggests one of my dining companions. Yes, yes, let's add alcohol to those fried tortilla chips on the table, perfect.

But the tagamet has begun to work, and the margarita eased the alcohol withdrawal. It's late afternoon now, and the celly's jingling with social calls. The weekend is here. The evening shift bar workers are setting up shop. The office worker's workday comes to a close. After a nap, I bet a can of beer will be awfully tasty.

We've each only one life to live, right?

That's What I Savor

2005-07-12T18:45:00.000-04:00
"What would you like to drink?" he asked her, as he stood in front of the liquor cabinet.
"What do they have here?"

"Pretty much a full bar, martinis, margaritas, there might be some wine, and then there's some beer..." As he offered the choices, she opened the refrigerator and reached into an open 12-pack of cans of Pabst Blue Ribbon beer. She pulled the silver, red, white and blue can out of the icebox and set it on the kitchen counter. The cold can of Pabst took on a Middle Earth mist, a blurry whitish hue when removed from the refrigerator. She popped open the can, kerr-ACK, and lifted it to her mouth.

She left the kitchen, sat down, and reclined across half a couch, leaning into the sofa's right arm. Her tight, white-ribbed tanktop clinged to her supple upper body. Her long, slender arms laid across her stomach, with her right hand holding the perspiring Blue Ribbon in the inside of her left elbow. "This is the original Pabst Blue Ribbon Beer," says the can, "Nature's choicest products provide its prized flavor." The claim could equally apply to the girl with the dark, short-cropped hair consuming the 12 ounces of golden goodness. "Selected as America's Best in 1893." Not bad at all for a girl her age.

She again raised her arm, the thin upper arm flexing as her delicate wrist escorted the finest hops and grains down her throat. Qwup, qwup, ahh. She looked to her right, away from the room, and her green eyes glistened in the satisfaction of the red-sashed, hand-held barrel of honey-touched lager. She let out a soft sigh. She placed the can on her bare clavicle, resting the aluminum cylinder just below the bottom of a simple, white rock necklace. She took another drink of her PBR. She sat up some, curling her legs under her, and rested the can on the blue jeans covering her right knee.

Oh beautiful, lovely girl. Ye of hopsy hotness, malted magnificence. You sweet, effervescent soulful wonder. Simple, sexy, award-winning source of unspeakable pleasure. Satisfy this unquenchable thirst!

She Looked So Pretty as She Poured My Coffee

2005-06-29T08:18:00.000-04:00
I simply don't get it.

I didn't use to be much of a coffee drinker. Once in a blue moon, maybe a cup of Dunkin' Donuts (real cream, yum). Now and again for a really boring professor, I'd pick up a cup of joe to stay awake when I was in law school. But I'd drink whatever was cheap, and besides, coffee makes my breath foul (as it does for most people, a fact that is unfortunately lost on so many members of American society), so I didn’t drink it that often.

Then when I got out of school, I got a part-time job as a waiter in a coffee house. The first week that I was there was training week (the restaurant was closed at the time), and all of the new baristas learning to make the various espresso drinks got to try out their newly acquired skills on the servers-in-training. Including me. And a coffee snob was born.

There are several other reasons that I developed such a bourgeois attitude toward java while working as a coffeeshop whore. First, I was working a full-time day job, and the cafe kept me up well past a reasonable bed time for a guy with a 9 ayem start time. So when I was working (either at the day job or the night job), I was in dire need of a stimulant. Second, the coffee drinks at the cafe were free. Third, I'd actually never had a latte or a cappuccino in my life until that point. And goshdarnit, they just taste better than drip coffee.

However, once I left my job schlepping lattes to ungrateful, poorly tipping pimply-faced college kids and condescending suburban moms, I didn't really need the caffeine. In fact, when I'm well rested the stuff makes me sweaty, nervous, and virtually unintelligible I speak so fast. And let's not forget the stinky breath. I toned down, and now drink no more than 2 coffee drinks a week - the rest of the time it's green or oolong tea.

The thing is, when I do get a taste for coffee (or an inclination to offend a co-worker with firey-foul Juan Valdez breath), I can't seem to justify $4.50 for a freakin' latte. It's really just milk and coffee (albeit made with a somewhat fancy machine). So despite the fact that I think drip coffee makes Gatorade seem "full bodied," I occasionally succumb to my inner cheapskate, and buy it.

There are a lot of reasons that people use to justify hating Starbucks. And I really find none of them persuasive. Fair trade? Misplaced, xenophobic protectionism. Ruins local coffee houses? If people wanted to go to the local coffee shop, it would still be open, you Marxist buffoon. Big corporations are evil? Wow, that’s ignorant: Bill Gates has singularly done more to help sub-Saharan Africans than any other private citizen in the world in the last 5 years.

Here's a good reason, finally, to embrace the oh-so-fashionable Starbucks hatred: their coffee is gross. That's right, there is a mass delusion in this country that that nasty crap that they charge two bucks a cup for is GOOD. It's not. In fact, diner coffee is often better. Quite simply, Starbucks over-roasts (read: burns) their coffee beans. Somehow, the ignorant masses have interpreted this as being “full-bodied,” or “strong.” The crap tastes like my office smells when someone burns microwave popcorn (which, incidentally, should be a crime punishable by flogging). Yes, Starbucks coffee is full of flavor. So is burnt toast.

People, coffee is a delicate, diverse, and wonderful bean. It requires care, attention, and to be roasted with the proper temperature and duration of heat, in order for it to taste right. It also requires a minimal amount of water – which is how Arabs drink it (coffee probably originates in Ethiopia, but was popularized by Arab traders). Yes, coffee should be strong (the addition of steam and pressure is what allows espresso to be such a concentrated form of coffee). But espresso is not necessary – a French press makes a decent enough cup for everyday use. (The paper filter might be the single greatest scourge on the developed world’s palate.) But what Starbucks has done is decreased the flavor density by serving weak, American-style drip coffee, and tried to overcompensate by burning the beans. How do so many people drink this foul, putrid bastard product? Wake up, America, stop drinking that crap. To sum, here is all the average person needs to know about coffee:

(1) Buy good, properly roasted beans appropriate for the device you are using (espresso maker, French press or percolator). That means no Starbucks.
(2) The parenthetical in point (1)? NO PAPER FILTERS. A few grains in the bottom of your cup is a small price for flavor, you spoiled jerk.
(3) Brew for the proper allotted time.
(4) Less water, more concentrated flavor.
(4) Heat the milk. Froth if desired.
(5) Either drink it without sugar, or with sugar. That artificial stuff can’t be good for you. If your worried about the calories or diabetes, that’s good. Change your tastebuds, not your biochemistry.
(5) Pour and enjoy.

[Consider the 5 Moleskine Points offer as standing for all postings – sialacci, with 10 points, is currently leading Nigela with 5 points.]

I’m the Type of Guy That Likes to Roam Around

2005-06-22T08:04:00.000-04:00
Rough Guide has a book called First Time Around the World. As fortune would have it (or perhaps if misfortune would have it), my plan to circumnavigate the globe didn't come into fruition (at least yet), and I was left with the booby prize of a two-month journey through Southeast Asia. (By the way, my trip was amazing and I still have a job I like, so I'm being a bit melodramatic.)

Anyway, in the book they talk about how tough it can be adjusting back to "real life" after an extended period of living out of a rucksack. It hasn't been as bad for me as I've expected - and so mostly I've been focusing my childish whims on buying a houseboat rather than traveling. But you know, no matter how often I scratch the travel itch, it comes back. Rough Guide's suggestion to adjusting back: go somewhere, even if just for a weekend. And the truth is it's been almost a month since I've left metro-DC: I gotta move.

And I looked and behold, a pale horse, and it's name it said on him was "Williamsburg".

So I'm off this weekend for a visit to fellow ABA member Moose. Little Sister - a unique quasi-member of the ABA as a non-blog-owning blog poster - will also be there with spousal unit in tow. Should be good fun, but I'm afraid it'll be so hot I'll be jumping like a jumping jack. Then again, it can't be hotter than Singapore, so I'm sure I will survive. Check back here or at Nat's blog for details on the weekend. If it works, maybe I'll have an ABA party.

Anyone got any cool travel plans this summer? Anyone got any cool thoughts on travel? Here are two of my favorites:

Not all who wander are lost. - JRR Tolkien

There are three wants which never can be satisfied: that of the rich, who wants something more; that of the sick, who wants something different; and that of the traveler, who says, 'Anywhere but here.' - Ralph Waldo Emerson

You Can Stop Genocide

2005-06-17T10:40:00.000-04:00
Friends in the Blogosphere,

I feel like one thing that those of us on the left and right can agree on is that genocide is very bad. Please consider this petition to ask the US government to pressure the UN and African states to intervene in the crisis in Darfur. If you aren't familiar with what's going on there, please see Nicholas Kristof's recent work in the New York Times.

I know that many of you have problems with the United Nations, but I think this issue is far too important for the world to sit idly by. Please note that this is NOT a call to send US combat troops to Sudan, it's merely a request that the administration use its bully pulpit to stop the slaughter, rape and torture of hundreds of thousands of people. It only takes a few minutes, and it seems the least that each of us can do to give meaning to the phrase "Never Again."

Warning: Blogging May Be Dangerous to Your Career

2005-06-16T09:36:00.000-04:00
Ladies and Gentlemen of the Blogosphere,

This article is a must read if you have ever blogged about your job.

Dragostea Din Tei

2005-06-15T18:01:00.000-04:00
I was trying to find this really catachy Eurodance song that I heard a million times in Thailand - and here it is. This dude has too much free time, but it's pretty funny. It's Romanian, for those that are curious.

An Endless Stream of Cigarettes and Magazines

2005-06-15T08:35:00.000-04:00
The District of Columbia is considering enacting a
comprehensive smoking ban in bars and restaurants. (Interestingly, pundit Christopher Hitchens actually testified before the DC Council over the matter.)

I hate smoking. It’s bad for you, bad for me, makes you smell bad, and it tastes like you are licking an ashtray if you kiss a girl who smokes. On the other hand, I enjoy passing around the flavored-tobacco hookah once in awhile, and also like to have a nice cigar every 2 or 3 months. But I’m OK with only being allowed to do those things in a private home (people who smoke cigars in regular (i.e., non-“cigar bars”) are obnoxious anyway). And if Hollywood has taught me anything, it’s that smoking is sexy (I don’t care what the American Cancer Society says, it is.)

I suppose I have a bit of a libertarian streak in me, and I have some sympathy with those who resent the ever-encroaching “nanny-state.” Libertarians, broadly speaking, believe that you should have an absolute right to do what you want with your body. But not really. No libertarian that I have ever met thinks that one’s absolute right of self would extend to being permitted to blow themselves up in a crowded shopping centre. So, the rule is really more, you have an absolute right to do what you like with your body as long as it doesn’t harm anyone else. Which is why smoking bans have absolutely nothing to so with libertarianism at all. Science firmly establishes the health risks of second-hand smoke.

The libertarian argument might hold water if what DC (or, in the past, NYC) was proposing a complete ban on use, possession, or sale of tobacco products. (Regardless of the issue of bodily freedom, the government already wastes enough money on an ineffective war on drugs, I’d much rather the government spend its limited resources on securing the citizenry from criminals and terrorists than enforce a total ban on tobacco use.) But NYC’s, California’s, and now (probably) DC’s smoking ban don’t prohibit anyone from smoking – they prohibit you from smoking in public indoor spaces where you are polluting the lungs of the people who work there (and, incidentally, the patrons).

And I don’t buy that the conservative panacea of “the market” should be relied on. The market is failing – in my informal, but broadbased survey of DC bars, I am aware of none – zero – than ban smoking (I can only even think of a couple of restaurants that do it). I also know that DC has one of the lowest smoking rates of any city in the country. The simple fact is that bar managers are mentally stuck with the status quo, and the market is simply failing.

But are there less restrictive means? It depends. If you truly believe that the ban is designed to protect workers, probably not. (I’m not an expert on these anti-smoke tobacco filters, but my understanding is that they are quite expensive, and not extremely effective). On the other hand, if you cynically believe that the purpose of the ban is to protect patrons (which is almost certainly true – if jurisdictions cared about the health and welfare of bar staff, they would have a minimum wage higher than Uncle Sam’s shameful $2.13 per hour), I think that the proper way to handle the issue would be to sell smoking licenses. A proposal:

(1) Ban smoking in restaurants, except in outdoor seating.
(2) Take the number of bar liquor licenses, and multiply that by the percentage of people who smoke in the target jurisdiction.
(3) Take that number, and auction off the smoking licenses.
(4) Require smoking-licensed bars to prominently display – inside and out of the restaurant – that they allow smoking inside.
(5) Raise the minimum pay for employees in smoking establishments.
(6) The auction proceeds, along with the proceeds from any fines levied against unlicensed bars who allow someone to smoke, should be used to (a) pay for the smoking police, then (b) what’s left should be sent into the jurisdiction’s public health programs.

Not perfect, I suppose, but seems like a reasonable compromise to me.

Michael Jackson Look What You’ve Done

2005-06-14T08:30:00.000-04:00
I've been reading the news today, and I've the following thoughts about the verdict in the MJ case:

(1) What a colossal waste of energy, money, and (barely remaining) credibility by the US media outlets. This is not a right-left things (although Fox News may have been the worst, it's enough of a close call that there is plenty of shame to go around). And I don't care that the media is simply paying attention to what the people want. I’ve been trying to avoid this like the plague, and all four cable news outlets had this story running yesterday evening – and I’m trying desperately to avoid it. In a fit of elitist delight, I'm going back to getting my news exclusively from NPR and the NewsHour.
(2) Every day, he looks more and more like his likeness standing in Madame Tussaud's, and less and less like a human being. What that man has done to his face, is, quite simply, disgusting.
(3) "Smooth Criminal" and "Billie Jean" - those are absolutely sweet jams. No amount of child molesting will change that.
(4) That kid's parents should be prosecuted, or at least heavily investigated by child services. How awful are those parents for risking the health of their child by allowing a man, for whom there is a reasonably possibility of being a molester, to be alone with their child? Shameful.
(5) I mean, where there's smoke there's fire...or is there? Seems to me that in all likelihood, MJ has inappropriately touched a child. But did he with this one? Or is he just really, really weird and childlike?
(6) No doubt, in any case, that verdicts are still for sale in this country. The jurors did their job, but would reasonable doubt have been present had MJ had a public defender? The scary thing is that the Supreme Court, in its recent decisions about ineffective assistance of counsel in capital murder cases, pretty much acknowledges how bad public defenders can be - IN DEATH PENALTY CASES. Can you imagine the overworked, underpaid schmucks that defend your average assault case?
(7) Five Moleskine points to anyone who gets the title reference without aid of a search engine.

I Don't Like Mondays

2005-06-12T22:26:00.000-04:00

Exactly 52-weeks ago, I spent the weekend in a flurry of charity. On Saturday, I walked in "Lawyers Have Heart," an annual fundraiser that benefits the American Heart Association. On Sunday, I rode in "Cure de Tour," a 100-mile bikeride, raising money for the American Diabetes Association. This weekend, those events were again held here in the National Capital Area.

What did I do this weekend? How does one top a blockbuster weekend of charity, health, and hope for the human condition? One doesn't. Instead, he spends the entire weekend eating out, drinking loads, chasing skirts, shunning all exercise, and laying on the couch watching marionettes copulate on DVD.

My closest chum here in DC, "F", is moving back to his hometown, and this was his last weekend to go out as a DCer. The good thing about F is that he and I are not just friends, but what (I think) mental health professionals call co-enablers. Hey, as any good drunk knows, it's much easier to justify one's existence when surrounded by similarly unhealthy individuals. So of course, all weekend F is like, "C'mon dude, it's my last [insert day of week] in DC, you should really [drink this/go out/ skip work]."

Thursday night was Happy Hour @ Penang (Malay food, yum!), then the ultra-stiff drinks at Ascot (I love any bar that serves 22-ounce bottles of beer) followed by an evening on the rooftop deck at Five. Suffer through a workday redacting documents (if you don't know what that is, thank your lucky stars) all day on Friday, then hit the rooftop deck at Local 16 for F's farewell party, which was followed by karaoke in Adams Morgan, then dancing at a club, and then a trip to The Diner - sleep sitting up on a couch as a friend's. Go home, take shower, nap, and jump on a bus to head to Bloody Mary brunch in Georgetown, followed by an afternoon sipping beers on the Georgetown Waterfront. Evening drinks in Adams Morgan, again.

Based on the foregoing, I have the following random thoughts about benders:

Take Milk Thistle. This stuff is gold - take one before going out, one when you get up, and then another at lunch and one at dinner. Nurse the day with tea (green or oolong), water, a B-vitamin supplement and a green apple. Exercise if you can.

Laugh. Preferably with a childish film - this weekend it was "Team America," but I also suggest "Eurotrip" or "Old School." Such a film should be in your DVD player as you were sure that you were going to stay up and watch it the night before at 3 ayem.

Even if you are going to go back to drinking before your body is done flushing out the prior day's toxins, do at least some minimum maintenance - eat, and drink as much water as you can. But once you start drinking, give it up, man. Don't get responsible about your bender, that's lame.

It's OK to switch from beer to booze and back again. And it's probably actually wise, as it's much easier to moderate your level of intoxication by mixing in a barley pop every now and again.

Shower, but under no circumstances should you shave. Look the part, you derelict.

Most importantly, don't feel bad about yourself. Youth isn't wasted on the young as long as you refuse to grow up. I'll try to find a way to balance out this decadent, hedonistic weekend in some way, but for now, I'm still laughing at puppets having dirty sex.

This One Thing's Always Supposed to Stay

2005-06-07T13:19:00.000-04:00
Is it strange that I can derive intense, soul-satisfying pleasure from finding a new song that I really, really like?

Natalie, a friend of mine from my Ohio youth, was in town a few weeks ago on business (you can read about it on her blog, if you like). She'd recently been cleaning her place, and has discovered a mix tape some boy had made for her back in the '90s when she was at university. She was going to throw this tape away, but thought kind enough to have me see if I enjoyed any of it - and if not, I could throw it in my dumpster. I'm coming off a four-day bender, and couldn't seem to find the energy for a proper work-out, so I plopped on a stationary bike yesterday for all 90-minutes of the cassette. And frankly, it's not that exciting. And I was reading at the same time, barely even paying attention to the thing.

But somehow, towards the end of side 1, I was hooked on a track - and while I'm dubious of love-at-first-sight, there is something almost as amazing, love at first-listen. The vast majority of songs require repetitive exposure - I love Radiohead's "OK Computer" and Lauryn Hill's "Miseducation," but owned each album for over a year because the first few spins, well, I didn't get "it." Anyway, I've been walking around with my Sony Walkman Cassette Player, rewinding & replaying the same song again, again, and again.

I suppose life's all about simple pleasures, and finding a new song can actually make my day (even if it's a 10+ year old song from a band no one listens to in the States). And it has made mine - thanks Moose.

Come on knock on our door...

2005-06-06T11:55:00.000-04:00
This is my life, with very little exercise of my literary license. I’m Jack, and my friend Larry stops by yesterday afternoon.

“Jack, I need a huge favor from you – one that I know you’re gonna love.”

“What now, Larry.” Jack was used to Larry constantly asking favors.

“You know that fox that I’ve clamoring to go out with who lives on the same floor of my building as me?”

“Of course, Lar’, you’ve been talking about her for weeks.”

“Well, I was down at the pool today and who sits down right next to me – but my tenth floor beauty!”

“That’s great, Larry, but what does this have to do with me?”

“Well, she said that she and her friend were thinking of going out tonight, and so we are meeting them at the Regal Beagle at 8:30 tonight!”

“WE, Larry? Without even asking me. I can’t.”

“What do you mean, you CAN’T. These girls are young and fun and looking to party!”

“You know I promised my friends Janet and Chrissy that I would make dinner for them tonight,”

“Jack, dinner for Janet and Chrissy can be any night. Did I mention that they were STEWARDESSES!”….

OK, the girls weren’t stewardesses, and I’ve never been to the Regal Beagle. But they were fun and young, and did like to party.

I need a night off.

Find My Blog Boring? Try These

2005-06-06T08:30:00.000-04:00
Some new posts by Gas Guy and Giant Bladder. I'm related to Giant Bladder, but Gas Guy's just some random dude whom I find both talented and hilarious. Be prepared for a healthy dose of cynicism from each.

Katie buys a kitchen size

2005-06-03T16:17:00.000-04:00
I love hungover Fridays. I feel crappy, but it makes everything a little funnier than it should be.

Rip-roarin' time bar hopping in the Nation's Capital, and for those of you who live here, or even for those that occasionally visit, some thoughts:

-Two dollar Bud night at Lucky Bar - good call.
-The nachos at the Meeting Place are foul - cold cheeze whiz poured over chips, with a couple of dollops of salsa and sour cream and some jalapenos. They're like the ones they serve at baseball games but much, much worse.
-Smooth jazz doesn't sound any better live than it does on the radio. Awful, awful stuff.
-Bucket night at Front Page in DuPont Circle - way, way too many frat boys to be fun. I'm proud to say that for once, my idiot friends went, and I didn't.
-Nobody gets a cell phone signal in Buffalo Billiards. It's really pathetic how much we have become dependent on those goofy things. I'm as bad as anyone, too. But can't they put a cell tower in a basement bar?
-Patron Tequila - very, very nice. Doing shots of tequila after 5 hours of drinking? Very, very dumb.

This burn in my gut is soon to turn to rather wrenching pain - I need to say off the booze for a couple of days. Beers only for me tonight.

[Five moleskine points to anyone who can get that title reference without use of a search engine.]

The Big Cheesy

2005-06-01T11:21:00.000-04:00
How is it that I can spend 2 months wandering Southeast Asia, eating mostly street food, brushing my teeth with tap water, and drinking alcohol every single day, and come back feeling fine, thin, and without any stomach ills, yet a mere three nights in New Orleans and I still feel hungover, with stomach pangs and look like I haven't slept in weeks? What a great, fun, hilarious place. And while a few of my friends had their wallet/credit cards stolen, no one was arrested or kicked out of our hotel rooms, so I suppose all's well that ends well.

A friend of mine is getting married, and several of our friends have been throwing bachelor parties of late. We've done Las Vegas a few times, so it seemed that a change of pace was in order. Was it ever.

As I mentioned, one of the guys lost his wallet at some point on Friday night, under circumstances that are still uncertain to all of us (due to the obvious condition that results from several hours on Bourbon Street). My friend realizes that his wallet is stolen, and that he cannot (a) get any money for the rest of the weekend, or (b) get on the airplane on Sunday. I suggest he call his woman to see if she can FedEx him his passport. The one-sided exchange:

Hi.

I'm never going to see you again.

I lost my wallet somehow last night.

I'm not sure.

Well, people were yelling at me, I don't know.

Well, my friend then decides it is appropriate to call and place and incident report with the security guard at the hotel. The guy gets there, and he's a good sport, as we all have a sense of humor about this whole affair. The guy asks us if we are sure that it isn't in the room (suggesting that perhaps my friend hid the wallet from himself the prior evening). So, he pulls up the mattress from the bed.

And there it is.

No, not the wallet, but three hard core gay pornographic magazines. After the guard has regained his composure, he calls Housekeeping. "Hi, Christina, you might want to tell your staff to be a little more careful when cleaning the rooms, a guest here just found some porno mags in between the mattress. Yes, gay porn magazines were in the room."

It actually gets better. This same friend goes to the airport with no money and no ID to get on the plane to fly home. Of course, at this point the boys decide to create one for him. On the bottom of a pizza box. And he walks up to the TSA officials with this as his ID. Unsurprisingly, they pull him out of line. Surprisingly, after a thorough investigation and search, they let him on the plane.

And some idiot spent all night Saturday walking around with a feather boa, a Thai tribal hat and several strange women. Not that I know him.

As you can imagine, most of the weekend consisted of gallivanting about New Orleans, drinking too much, sleeping too little, and spending far too much money. You can see some of the action on my photo page. I had quite a bit of fun at the karaoke bar - that's me in the Von Dutch shirt singing "It's the End of the World as We Know It" at the Cat's Meow - a rather fun bar, as best as I can recall.

Anyway, I'm now a very big fan of New Orleans. Anyone else got opinions on the place?

Blogging Alliance

2005-05-31T16:10:00.000-04:00
His Majesty King Norodom Sihanouk of Cambodia has a weblog. Pretty amazing that a man with as colorful a history as the King would turn to the internet as a means to remain a force in Cambodian (and world) politics. Mostly the blog is scanned documents - and most are in French or Khmer - but this CNN.com story serves as a nice reference point for those of us who struggle to remember the five years of Khmer language training we all took in elementary school. In addition, Dan Gillmor's blog has several links to other people's opinion on His Majesty's blogging.

Anyway, I suppose his blog isn't a proper fit for the ABA, but I though it interesting to show the power and reach of the blogsophere.

Going South for the Weekend

2005-05-25T07:54:00.000-04:00
Anyone got any suggestion for my friend's bachelor party in New Orleans this weekend outside of not getting arrested? I'm with a big group, so I should have some time to peel away from the entourage at some point. I don't like casinos, but do like meet markets and live music.

Check in next week for photos and stories.

What a Big, Old World

2005-05-23T15:28:00.000-04:00
Thought-provoking piece from New York Times columnist Nicolas Kristof this week. (Also see the related multimedia story.)

It is amusing to me that Americans hate New Yorkers so much for their arrogance, when so many of the same cultural arrogance lies in the fervent nationalism of people throughout this country. Several months ago, a national politician was widely scorned for suggesting that the time will come in which the US is no longer the sole, dominant military power in the world. Even as an American, I was astounded that verbalizing this historic certainty could result in near universal scorn - it's like getting upset because someone said that the sun was going to burn out someday.

New York is the world capital, and it's full of really fantastic people, places and sights. And the United States is the world's biggest economy. So what? The failure to recognize the value of trade - both intellectual/social (anti-immigration) and goods (anti-NAFTA/CAFTA "liberals" in bed with aging, inefficient industries and Big Agribusiness like Sugar), and the pathetic level of investment in physical as well as human infrastructure, leave me with a lot of doubt as to this country's ability to even remain an elite power, no less THE elite power. How is it people fail to see that free trade requires extensive investment in human capital, or that the gains will be enjoyed by only a small portion of the population? Why is it that so many of today's conservatives insist that the answer to bad government is NO government, rather than good, effective and efficient government? How can the party in power turn surpluses into deficits, while the major concerns of the electorate (safety, health care, jobs) all require substantial financial investment?

Preakness

2005-05-22T10:24:00.000-04:00

I made it to the second leg of horseracing's Triple Crown on Saturday. For the uninitiated, the three most prestigious races in the US are the Kentucky Derby, the Preakness Stakes, and the Belmont Stakes. Luckily, the Preakness Stakes is held at Baltimore's Pimlico race track, and amounts to one of the biggest parties I've ever been to, seen or heard of in this country.

The amusing thing about the race is that the vast majority of "racegoers" barely see a horse. Most of the 115,000 people there sit on the infield, a large lawn surrounded by the oval race track. There are a handful of proper people who sit in the grandstand, a less expensive, more civilized location to view the race. Unsurprisingly, I found myself on the infield along with some friends of mine. A smaller crowd this year for my people (last year we were almost 10), but that didn't keep the revelry small. The five of us arrived at the gates about 8:15 ayem, where there was already a line of college kids with beers in hand, waiting to get into the track. (While there is a heavy police presence at Preakness, it's one of the remaining places in the U.S. where the police recognize that it's not a sensible use of their manpower to enforce this country's absurd 21-year old drinking laws). The crowd at Preakness is quite a collection: college kids, rural rednecks, urban trash, and pathetic professionals who are in a state of denial about what's appropriate for their age. The sole thing that unites these disparate groups is the desire to spend all day outside drinking bad American swill and gambling on the ponies. (Note to the blogosphere: National Bohemian is alive and well, and still thriving in Baltimore).

The reason to get there early is that you need to stake out your area for your group (I mean that literally - you bring stakes and either twine or yellow caution tape). Of course, as the day goes on, people encroach further and further into your territory as more and more people get there (and get more and more intoxicated). After staking your ground, lather up with sunscreen, wrap you cold one in a can coozie, buy a program, and get to the betting window. There are 13 races throughout the day (the 12th race is the actual Preakness Stakes), and minimum bet is two bucks. Win some, lose some, drink some, and try to hold your bladder as long as you can. When the weather is nice (and it was beautiful yesterday), it's absolutely one of the most fun annual events on the eastern seaboard.

Afleet Alex was the winner, by the way. And no, I didn't win on that race, but lost less than a 20 spot for the entire day, which is within my budget.

As these types of things go, however, getting a cab from Pimlico is a nightmare, and our cab driver was an abrasive hack who ran up the meter by insisting on engaging traffic filled roads and avoiding the interstate - which resulted in my friend telling the cabbie to pull over in the middle of the Baltimore ghetto to toss his cookies. Where, inconveniently and unbeknownst to us, his Blackberry/telephone slipped from his pocket. Needless to say, later driving through the 'hood in B'more searching for a vomit spot in hopes to find a rather expensive electronic device was not the preferred way to spend my Saturday evening, but we did find it (and it was working even if it'd been run over a few times).

And check out my photos if you like - but the Baltimore Sun and Washington Post have some nicer ones of the day.

Silly Photos From Pai

2005-05-19T08:29:00.000-04:00
For those of you that cannot seem to get enough of my silly vacation photos, check out the pics at my friend Whitney's photo page. The ones from my epic adventures in Pai begin on Thailand 3 and end in Thailand 5. How rad is that hat?

CIMG3162 is a classic as we all look rather perky despite the fact that it's 8:30 in the morning, we've just finished a 20 km motorbike ride, and none of us have slept.

Blood Day

2005-05-18T08:20:00.000-04:00
Blood day might just be my favorite 6 workdays of the year.

Working for Uncle Sam undoubtedly had its perks, and among them, is that every 60 days or so, the American Red Cross sets up one of its mobile phlebotomy labs in my office building (people should only donate whole blood every 8 weeks or so). To be frank, giving blood is not pleasant: it's painful, uncomfortable, and leaves me feeling like I've just finished eight days of carousing without any rehydrating. And while I like to think myself charitable, the federal government (more specifically, the federal government via the negotiation process with my labor union) provide me with an extra incentive: I get paid leave for my actual donation time, along with up to three hours of recovery time. Which means, give blood after lunch, and take the rest of the day off.

Today, dear friends, is blood day. So it's a morning of serving the American people, then off to helping the American blood recipient, followed by an afternoon of slackery.

And hey, save a life, give blood. And don't bother me with your excuses, I haven't the time for them, and neither do the people on the operating tables.

May Flowers

2005-05-17T09:21:00.000-04:00
Baseball is back in the Nation's Capital, and that makes me happy. For those of you who don't follow America's Pasttime, the Montreal Expos picked up shop last year and moved into Robert F. Kennedy Stadium here in DC. The place is old, decrepit, and reminds everyone I know of the stadium that they grew up in (the Vet, Cleveland Muni, Riverfront, Three Rivers, etc.). The stadium is also huge, and tons of the season tickets have been bought by law firms, consulting firms and corporations - as a result, there are plenty of spare tickets floating around my circles here, so I doubt I'll pay for a game all year. And shockingly, the Nats are actually pretty good so far.

Made it to my first game last night, and brought home a winner. The fun thing is all the guys in suits you see at the weeknight games - fortunately business casual Jason can leave right from work and not look too goofily dressed at a game.

Spring hopes eternal, my friends, and the weather's changing, I'm boat shopping and I can see major league baseball 60 more times or so this year just by plopping on the Metro.

Oh yeah, and I'm meeting up with moosemunch tonight as well!

Picture Link - Updated!

2005-05-11T22:38:00.000-04:00
[Please note that I have 210+ photographs from Cambodia that need to be added to this album - check the link out later today and this weekend for lots and lots and lots of photos from Angkor Wat.]

Here is Kampuchea, Cambodia, Cambodge.

The last round of pictures from my camera, but I may link some photos from friend's cameras in the future.

Angkor Wat is very, very cool.

(1) Check out the statutes that look like the 4-faced creature from "Transformers: The Movie."
(2) Angkor Wat itself reminds me of the Klingon Homeworld.
(3) Pick the places that are in "Lara Croft: Tomb Raider"
(4) Check out the rack of petrol bottles and Sari, my motorbike driver.

Goodbye to Kim and Peter

2005-05-10T14:57:00.000-04:00
As inspirational founders of Moleskin Notebook, I'd like to take some time to wish well my good friends Kim & Peter C.

For background, when I first started my job for Uncle Sam, I was moonlighting at a coffee shop in Arlington in order to both meet some new people and pay my rent (**the recurring theme of my oppressive law school debt**). One of my first friends I made at our orientation (a week of 6 hour classes to learn how to schlep lattes to ungrateful, poorly tipping morons?) was a meekly brave business continuity analyst: Kim the Waitress (5 moleskine points to anyone who can get that reference without aid of a search engine). Kim and I became fast friends - mostly over after-shift drinking bouts at her tiny, tiny place in Sheffield Court in Courthouse. Well, having shepherded m'amie out of one relationship, she quickly found herself in the throws of passion with Mr. Peter -- coffeeshop waiter/spiritual guru extraordinaire. Time passes, we all quit the cafe, and Kim and Peter are wed in an Alexandria Courthouse one fine day.

Alas, Peter's life journey is now taking him to graduate school in Durham, North Carolina (any bloggers who live nearby should let me know so that you can meet them!) and Kim is (shockingly) taking her job with her as a Durham-DC telecommuter.

Cheers, Kim and Peter, thanks for all the good times and for having that one quality most important in being my friend: a reluctance to judge me. Good luck and get that guest room ready a/s/a/p!

Thematic Cohesiveness

2005-05-08T18:31:00.000-04:00
Some new pics are up on ofoto from my Thailand trip. Quite a few are dead hilarious.

Houseboat

2005-05-07T10:11:00.000-04:00
Since my return Stateside, I've been spending a lot of time contemplating my present lot in life. Frankly, I've got a real job, it's probably time to stop renting. This thought turned me to an informal review of the condominium classifieds here in the national capital area - and gave me a rather severe case of sticker shock. One bedroom condos in this town are absurdly expensive: think $300,000 for a halfway decent area. (Check out what Warren Buffett and Charles Munger of Berskire Hathaway, Inc. have to say about the "real asset-price bubble in places like parts of California and the suburbs of Washington, D.C.")

Unfortunately, I made a rather silly decision some years back to go to a private law school (a tirade on why GW will never get a penny from me will be saved for another day), which has left me saddled with a riduculous monthly payment to my creditors. With condo fees hovering around $300 per month as well, perhaps it isn't the proper time for me to become a homeowner.

Then my friend Horace and I were on the telephone recently, virtually thumbing through the housing listings at craigslist.com (along with eBay, the most useful and intelligent use of the world wide web) and saw this.

I can afford a houseboat.

I'm spending the next week doing my h0mework on all of this, and trying to decide just how cold it would be in the winter. But how cool would it be to live on a boat?

Moleskin Notebook

2005-05-06T20:28:00.000-04:00
In addition to being my dear friend and close confidant, Kim C. is an excellent gift giver. Before my departure to Asia, Kim and her husband Peter bought me a Moleskine (mol-a-skeen'-a) notebook for my travels. Legend has it that the moleskin notebook has been popular among artists from Van Gough to Hemmingway. Regardless, the one I had was a treasured possesion during my One Sandal days. A good notebook is an essential travel tool for me, from writing down phone numbers, airline reservations, contact information for fellow travelers, and just various random thoughts. At this point, I feel like this blog will be that sort of grab bag of thoughts, stories and ideas - so I give you www.moleskinnotebook.blogspot.com.