That black goo that you put on the roof

(listening to the Democratic convention on NPR)
My father-in-law gave us a lot of help on the house this past weekend. He fixed some drywall, did some realignment of the attic pull-down ladder and fixed a leak in the roof. None of it was terribly high-tech, but it was fairly time-consuming. It was not a problem for a man who has owned a number of houses, but I, a man who has always rented his roof, found the whole thing very reassuring. "That's not a problem; we can fix that," he said a number of times during the weekend. It was all typical stuff that needed to be fixed.
I got back from the house a couple of hours ago after dropping off some stuff and checking the mail. The rain gauge told me that 1.8 inches of rain had fallen in the 20 hours since I had last checked it. Most of it was during concentrated periods of deluge, and the attic was dry as a bone. I'm overwhelmed by relief that I can relax and enjoy the rain in my new home. I like rain.
I guess John Kerry seems like an okay guy. I'm still more anti-Bush than pro-anything, and that's unfortunate. Bill Clinton, Ron Reagan, and John Edwards are a little easier to listen to. A lot of people are just getting to know Mr. Kerry. He's just beginning to become something other than Mr. Not Bush. Perhaps the U.S. will enjoy more esteem in the world if Mr. Bush gets the boot. People hate a swaggering moron.

It went well. Hopefully they won't take too long to tell me yea or nay.

Yes, I'm going to the interview with orange socks. Sort of a terra cotta, really. 

A Prayer

I just finished a shift at Big Green, and it went well. I'm sautéeing some onions and ham. They will join two eggs inside a warm tortilla. A slick, black iron skillet is my tool for warming tortillas. In two and a half hours, I will enter a job interview. For a real job. I'm optimistic, and I'm fairly confident in interpersonal situations, but I am a bit nervous. I've been submitting resumés and shmoozing people for a year, and this is the first interview (for a non-awful job) that I've gotten. Do I suck, or does the economy suck?

I'm going to put on a suit and go to RTP with my paperwork all in order. I'm second-guessing myself like crazy. What will they find that is inadequate or undesirable? How many people are they interviewing? Will the security guards haul me out because I break down into abject begging and offering of sexual favors if they'd just please hire me and get me the fuck out of retail?

Perhaps it's just the effects of 11 months of rotten jobs. That sort of shit will suck your self esteem out like the Dementors in Harry Potter. It's tough to be excited about yourself when an hour of your time is worth so little money, and you are so replaceable.

Please, God, make the interviewers look favorably on me, and make my paperwork free of omissions and ugly things. Deliver me from the misery of crap jobs so I can afford take my wife out to dinner some time. So I'm not a crabby, negative stick-in-the-mud all the time. So I'm not spending so much of my time trying to cheer myself up. So I can get my life on track and do things like travel and have kids. Please, Almighty God, who has already given me more good things in life than I deserve, please give me this as well. Amen.

More Flashing than Mardi Gras

Lindz's Dad has been kind enough to come out to the house for some highly appreciated assistance and moral support.  We're fixing some drywall and a bit of flashing today.  We spent some quality time on the roof yesterday afternoon.  We also put up a hammock in the back yard.  The time when Lindsey and I actually wake up at the house is drawing nearer.  We currently just visit it to get dirty and paint-spattered.

I have written little here of late, largely because I have been busy with the house.  I have eaten very little interesting food; leftovers and fast food have been the bulk of my fare (we haven't spent much time in the kitchen where my cookware is).  I've had a bit of good beer at the Sawmill Tap Room, however:
Highland Brewing Company Kashmir I.P.A. -A nice, clean India Pale Ale
Duck Rabbit Brewing Amber Ale - I don't think they have a website.  It's brewed in Farmville, NC, a podunk town, I'm told.  The Amber has a lovely, sumptuous brown sugar body with a perfectly balanced backbone of hoppy bitterness.

I have finally gotten a phone call I was waiting for - I have a job interview on Wednesday at PPD Medical Communications.  I'm struggling to avoid getting my hopes up too high, but it looks fairly promising.  The idea of getting out of Starbucks is intoxicating.  Shitty jobs are ruining my life.

Anyway, we'll see.

The Primary

(listening to "Automatic Blues" by The Cult)
I'm going to get off my ass and vote in a few minutes here.  I'm going to try and defeat my cynicism.
 
I suppose Linda Ronstadt should know better than to use her stage as a soapbox (she's paid to perform, not talk politics), but it's too bad the audience reacted in such a McCarthyesque fashion.  I haven't gotten around to seeing Fahrenheit 9/11 yet; I suppose I'm not in the mood to be outraged.  I'm too busy painting the master bedroom closet.
 
I'm not particularly Left or Right; I just think that things should be questioned.  The U.S. system is not perfect, but, given lots of questioning and participation on the part of its constituents, it provides a reasonable chance of common sense prevailing.  A sense of humor is also required.  Governor Arnold Schwarzenegger of California called some Democrats "girly men," using the old Saturday Night Live bit.  The Democrats are offended.  Get over yourselves, you assholes.  You're just jealous of a governor who is popular but isn't as spineless and slimy as most politicians.  The SNL joke poked fun at Arnold, so he's entitled to use the joke.  I think that being easily offended is a character flaw, not an excuse for righteous indignation.
 
"This Land" is a funny video.
 
(listening to "Two Step" by Dave Matthews and Tim Reynolds, the acoustic version)
 
Closer to home, things are proceeding on the house.  I grilled some Italian sausages and corn on the cob last night for our dinner break on the deck.  Starbucks is still hysterically miserable, but I have an interview later this week.

Making it Mine

I feel satisfied
In the discovery of things which are not quite satisfactory;
I get hold of something to remedy.

 
A furrowed brow becomes a happy and sweaty one
With turns of screws.
Mutterings are gone with the flick of a new switch.
 
A door swings open with long-absent ease;
A board is once again firm.
Power thrums up my arm from the hammerstrike
As a sixteen-penny nail goes home. 
 

The House has been Baptized with Fire and Meat.

We haven't moved in yet.  The only things in the house are tools, scrapings, sawdust and a stepladder, but we bought a grill today.  It just wouldn't wait.  I have never in my entire life had a real, non-crappy grill.  Here I am with the brand-new Broil-Mate 3844.  I was amazed at how fabulous the assembly directions weren't, but the grill works very well indeed.  Note the lush greenery around me, and the Pete's Wicked Ale behind me.  The surprisingly solid spatula was $2.99 at Food Lion.

We enjoyed our burgers and beer, and then we strolled around the lake.  We admired the variety of shrubberies and houses, and we encountered a startling number of geese meandering about the shore.  Ice cream sandwiches capped it off.

It's a pity we still need to move all of our stuff into the house.

Not Sufficiently Controversial

Lately I have written mostly about my house or my job situation. I have been remiss in my self-appointed job of bitching about something in the wider world. I will attempt to make amends.

Same-Sex Marriage:
If you don't approve of homosexual marriage, then don't have one. A great many people, preaching from their morally bankrupt soapbox, decry the "threat to the institution of marriage." What threat? What the hell are you talking about? The threat to marriage (and allow me to point out that 1 in 2 heterosexual marriages fails these days) comes from people who get married but shouldn't have, from asshole men who beat their wives, and from people who can't or don't remain faithful to their spouse. I fail to see how a union of two men or two women down the street is going to split up your home.
I respect marriage. I would not have pledged to share my life with one other person if I didn't. I do not, however, waste my time criticizing other people's relationships. I'm going to pay attention to mine. I actually expect to see gay marriages do better than traditional ones statistically. Some of these people have waited decades for this. That's a long engagement.

The opponents of gay marriage are fond of citing Holy Scripture. They miss some important parts, however. Here's what Jesus says in Matthew 22:34-40:

But when the Pharisees had heard that he had put the Sadducees to silence, they were gathered together. Then one of them, which was a lawyer, asked him a question, tempting him, and saying, "Master, which is the great commandment in the law?" Jesus said unto him, "Thou shalt love the Lord thy God with all thy heart, and with all thy soul, and with all thy mind. This is the first and great commandment. And the second is like unto it, Thou shalt love thy neighbor as thyself. On these two commandments hang all the law and the prophets.

Funny, I can't seem to find the verse where Jesus says "Except fags and dykes. Don't cut 'em any slack." The New Testament is full of parables and exhortations to love, forgive, and do good deeds. God didn't appoint you judge, George W. Bush, so fuck off. No one is getting away with anything; the price of sin is between a person and the Lord. Holier-than-thou, reactionary assholes are not in the equation.

There's a Bar within Stumbling Distance!

We spent our first day fiddling around with the house today. We are starting to feel it sinking in. Ownership. Nesting. Territorialism. Disbelief. Any confusion which I ever had regarding why Home Depot is a successful company is long gone.

I feel the need for a real job very acutely now. I need tools. I need appliances. I need materials. The stove works, but it's a rattly old hunk of shit. The cedar siding needs to be stained. The deck is structurally sound, but a whole truckload of new wood sure would look nicer. Our back yard is a forest; some stone-paved paths and a gazebo back there might be nice.

Actually, I'm just in a period of overwhelmedness right now. My job situation remains a steady source of misery, but a house doesn't really change that. It just provides an opportunity to be preoccupied by it. A lot of what we are doing right now is actually pretty cheap. Lindsey is scraping the popcorn acoustic stuff off the ceilings, and I'm fixing stuff (a wiggly deck board, a barely attached mailbox, removing a pile of half-rotten firewood under the deck, some sketchy door hardware, a furnace air filter that was so old that it had deeper shag than the carpet, an exterior light fixture which apparently hides a wasps' nest behind its dangling facade, et cetera). I'm no carpenter, but I think I can surpass the workmanship on the guest bathroom's vanity. The hinges are the hardware equivalent of Britney Spears. They wiggle, and they will probably fall apart soon.

We will do a bit of painting as well. It seems that our predecessor entrusted the painting of all the trim in the house to a seven year-old spastic. The closet door in the master bedroom is either an original and very valuable Jackson Pollock painting or just a hell of a sloppy door.

But those are cosmetic things. The furnace is brand new, the water heater is rather new, and the roof is only four or five years old. We have 1/3 of an acre of woods to call a back yard. A lake is less than 100 yards from our door (ducks included).

AND....

There is a bar, which has good beer on tap, within walking distance. I enjoyed a Highland Gaelic Ale this afternoon. I am very, very pleased about that. We have one of the less impressive houses in a very nice neighborhood. Given time and a couple of bucks, it will be a hell of a home.

Stand Aside, Errant Knave; I'm a Homeowner

(listening to Benny Goodman live at Carnegie Hall)

Since I left home, I have never done anything but rent my walls. I left home in 1990. On Monday, July 12, 2004, Lindsey and I signed a bunch of pieces of paper, listened to a bunch of stuff that came out of a lawyer's mouth and drove to the house to make sure all the keys work.

Now begins a period of sweat, grime, profanity and unprecedented spending.

(listening to "Moby Dick" by Led Zeppelin)

I am excited, but I am also unnerved. We have bought something really big and expensive, and we have to do lots of things to keep it expensive for the next people that come along. Heretofore, I have never been a siding connoisseur or a pressure-treated lumber authority. Now, I have to be. I'm already getting handyman-themed junk mail, for fuck's sake. How did they know? The deed was recorded yesterday afternoon. These people who decide where to send junk mail should be in the CIA; they're damn near clairvoyant.

I can't wait to grill something. I can't wait to sit on the deck, look up, and exclaim, "Well, fancy that. No upstairs neighbors. No cigarette ashes drifting down into my martini this evening." I'm going to pull mail out of a regular old mailbox for the first time since before I could vote. Not a bank of mailboxes, my mailbox. Neato! Also, they left the fridge. We had assumed they were taking it, since it wasn't included in the contract. That's at least $900 we can spend on scotch and sushi. Maybe not. I married a sensible woman who will steer me clear of such wanton excess. Until I find a pile of money under one of the rocks in the back yard, that is. It will then be time for a bottle of the oldest Glenfarclas I can get my mitts on. I will also help myself to a wheelbarrow full of quiveringly fresh maguro. Fantasy Land is a nice place.

Ladies and gentlemen, we have a house. 

Women and Children First

Lindz and I attended a birthday party last night. She had received the invitation from a former coworker whose husband was turning 40.

(listening to "St. Tropez" by Pink Floyd)

We had to backtrack a bit in our search for their house, but we found it without much difficulty. It was 6 o'clock in the evening, and the sky was rapidly darkening with the approach of what appeared to be an impressive thunderstorm. Trees wagged around, lightning snaked across the sky, but no drop of rain had yet reached us.

We parked on the street among numerous SUV's, and the sound of live music was unmistakable. I identified the song immediately as "Ain't Talkin' 'Bout Love" by Van Halen. My wife is younger than that song. We walked around the side of the house to see four clean-cut suburbanite men playing on the deck. They weren't a great cover band, but they were a hell of a lot better than most people who get together and jam in a back yard. The singer didn't have David Lee Roth's falsetto shriek (no one does, including Roth himself anymore), but it was still an interesting feeling to have returned to college life through this strange time portal. They played a Guns 'n Roses song next, and it reminded me of moving into the dorms 14 years earlier.

The rain arrived.

Several canopies were set up in the back yard, so I stood under one of them and drank my beer. I was taken aback by the amount of water pelting down. I occasionally wondered if lightning would send me to my eternal reward at any second, but I mostly enjoyed myself. Lindz dashed out from the house to join me. Water streamed off the edges of the canopies. I stood there watching the lightning whip through the glowering sky, and I reminisced about going to parties where I knew more than four people in a place where it never rains. It wasn't a gloomy reverie; I was looking at things with regard to how ridiculous they were. Standing under a metal-framed canopy in a thunderstorm at a party where I knew almost no one, watching a bunch of guys frantically moving drums and amps indoors seemed silly. I just stood there with my arm around Lindz's shoulder, soaking it all in.(not literally; I remained fairly dry).

The rain subsided, the band began to set up their kit anew, and we hit the food. It was copious and varied, and eating some of it passed the time nicely. While we were indoors, Lindz and I looked around the house with our homebuyer's eyes. Hmmm... crown molding. Ooh, I like the wicker chair in that corner. Nice chair rails. Dormers, home office. Wood floors, lots of square footage. We've turned into typical, salivating consumers, but who cares? You should see me when I enter a house with a nice kitchen. It's a pathetic, depraved display, and if someone had a 36" Viking Range, they would be mopping up the drool.

We sipped a few more beers, listened to some more Van Halen and Ozzie Osbourne tunes (Lindsey had never heard the original, non-television version of "Crazy Train"), and decided to make our goodbyes. "Oh, by the way," Andi said, "do you want some leftovers?"
"Er, yeah, sure," I replied, not wanting to seem like a mooch.
"Here. Take these hamburgers. And these hot dogs. Go ahead and bring your cooler over here..." Eight or nine beers, three unopened packages of hot dogs, an untouched peanut butter pie, and some grilled burgers went into my cooler. "Oh, and we'll never drink this wine," she continued, putting two magnums of good pinot grigio in there.
"Gosh, this is awfully neighborly of you..."
"We've got so much stuff here. Enjoy."

I lugged the cooler out to the car. A man carrying free beer and peanut butter pie is never very sad, my granpappy always used to say.

The Insidious Soul-Sucking Power of Starbucks

(listening to Ben Folds Five)

When I allow myself to think about it too much, and this happened yesterday morning after work, Starbucks is more horrible to me than ever. I spent seven years working in very busy stores in San Diego. I couldn't decide what I wanted to do, and I am addicted to routine and predictability. I wasn't happy, but it paid the bills, and I earned the respect of coworkers and patrons. It was hard work being in retail management - always problems to solve, plenty of day to day work that needs to be done well in order to keep a store running properly. Lots of babysitting of employees. I found it to be a taxing strife, less taxing than being a doctor in an ER, but pretty much devoid of fulfillment.

Here in Cary, at a slower store, even without the burdens of authority, I find myself fighting back tears after a four hour shift. I worked nothing less than eight-hour shifts back in the day. It is such a micromanaged, corporate, unhappy work environment that I look back on UPS in a different light. I don't regret quitting Big Brown, but it didn't have these high-talking notions of respect and dignity in the workplace. Starbucks has all sorts of cute mission statements. When the chips are on the table, however, the employees don't have any chips. We serve the drinks, like the kid that Joe Pesci shot in the foot in Good Fellas. I used to at least take pride in my abilities to give good service to customers, but now I'm stuck on the register most of the time. Some dipshit make the drink, poorly and slowly. There's a whole bunch of us bumping into each other behind the counter, and the line moves slowly. At other times of the day, there might be only two of us, and a bunch of customers come wandering in as if someone tipped over a cageful of idiots.

In brief, the store is poorly run. I could do better, or at least a customer would think so. I have this arcane belief that customers are at least loosely associated with the success of a retail business. I also believe that they come in for something other than fake platitudes, marketing and often-scrubbed baseboards. I guess I'm nuts. Everything is clean, though. This is because we have an encyclopedic checklist of tasks to do every day. Most of these involve cleaning things which are already clean. Other things we do are prepare trays of samples of sickly sweet drinks to offer to customers. Never mind the fact that they don't want a sample of some foo-foo shit. They came in for the drink they always come in for, at the same time every day. In San Diego, we realized this. We gave people what they wanted, quickly and accurately. We didn't try to sell them a bunch of shit they didn't come in for. Of course, we were told to, but I didn't bother to do it. And still we made more money per store than this little backwater I work in now. Basically, employees are not supposed to think for themselves. The job pays poorly; I guess they have to lower the requirements to the meanest understanding. They expect a lot of work for a few bucks, though.

I'm rambling. I liken this store to chemotherapy. It's invisible, but it destroys me. I'm weakened and sick. I'm having trouble remembering when I enjoyed work. I apply for jobs, but I can't seem to shake the belief that no one will ever hire me, I'm not good at anything, and I will never be excited about anything again. Nearly all the jobs I see are shitty jobs that would just make me unhappier anyway (plus the indignity of starting at the bottom). It's depressing. I'm honestly at a loss to think of anything that I have that is worth a salary. I was elated after I quit UPS, but a malaise has set in. My shitty job and my miserable lack of income removes the savor from my meat and wine, and it dulls the sunshine. Lindsey is in need of a vacation; she's been working hard at her job. We can't really get away to do anything because my lame ass doesn't make any money. In past times I never used to feel an ungovernable urge to drink at 9 in the morning, which is precisely what I'm doing now.

I believe, ladies and gentlemen, that I have now written the shittiest post in this blog. Ugh.

Free Activities to Entertain Oneself

Here are some no- or low-cost activities that help keep me from turning to a life of crime.

-Wander around stores looking at merchandise
-Look at people and judge them
-Read good books
-Call a credit card company or Internet Service Provider to cancel your service. This will kill plenty of your time. If you are sufficiently gullible, it will also make you feel like an important customer.
-Keep a journal
-If you have a DVD player, watch movies in foreign languages.
-Bake bread
-Walk in the woods
-Spend several hours in a bookstore reading (buying nothing, if you can do it)
-Listen to an hour-long symphony by Bruckner
-Search for fulfilling, well-paying jobs that do not exist.
-Housework (last resort)

 
A pressed summer sandwich. Lindsey found a recipe in Real Simple magazine, and it looked good. In fact, there were many handsome sandwiches in that issue, plus a blurb about boxed wine that's actually good. It's a good magazine, but I digress. I baked a round/semi-flat loaf of bread, and we sliced it in half and filled it with goodness. There are kalamata olives, grape tomatoes, red bell peppers, red onion and hard boiled eggs in there. The flavor comes from a tasty puree of garlic, olive oil, fresh parsley and capers. The recipe called for anchovies, but we just added some salt. We weighted this thing down with a pan and cans of tomatoes in the fridge overnight. It's nice and Mediterranean. We could do all sorts of interesting things with this sandwich genre.

A Warm, Sultry Evening Swirling with Shouts and American Idol Songs

(listening to Portishead)

It was hot today. Lindsey and I walked over to the pool as the sun was going down, and the air was just right. Warm and just humid enough to embrace you. Only two people were there when we arrived, a couple of quiet readers. We swam and tossed around a tennis ball we found floating in the pool. Two chubby, noisy kids arrived and started playing contrived, splashy games. We got out and did some reading in chaise lounges. Two girls arrived. They were not beautiful people. Things grew noisier, splashier, and darker. The pleasant moment was lost. "I won't miss this," I muttered over Homer's Odyssey.
"Me neither," replied my wife.
Some distorted, saccharine music began to blare from a nearby balcony. We wrapped ourselves in our towels, and the gate clanged behind us.
(listening to Mogwai)
I'm sipping a glass of what may turn out to be a real problem. I discovered a boxed wine which is very good. Other countries put good wine in boxes because it makes sense (Australia, Japan, various European nations). Here in the States, shitty Kool-Aid wines like white zinfandel or "grape wine with natural flavors" found their way into these packages first. Thus, this medium got a trailer trash reputation. The wine which I presently sip is Black Box Wines 2001 Sonoma County Merlot. I haven't tried their other offerings, but I paid 22 bucks for three liters of smooth, well-rounded wine. It is dry enough to go very well with a Greek salad, but juicy enough to be instantly gratifying on its own. No, it is not a mysterious, complex wine. Just nice plumminess with a dusting of tannin.
("Blow Out" by Radiohead)
Three liters is equal to four bottles. It's open (but not so vulnerable to oxidation as a bottle) and on my countertop. With effort, I am just managing to slow my consumption. The title of this blog was not erroneously chosen; I wear orange socks, cook with orange silicone spatulas, and drink wine or beer daily. If they were black socks, I would be a German tourist.
("Cure for Pain," Morphine)
I hate my job. I can't walk out on it; it's the only one I currently have. It's demeaning, unrewarding, and absolutely corporate. My boss is a micro-managing, condescending, company-brainwashed, Napoleonic bitch. She's not getting any dick from her husband. That isn't surprising; she's an emasculating twat with cottage-cheese thighs. I have some cool customers, but Napoleon is always on patrol, making sure she gets her money's worth. She is forever reminding us all of the numerous tasks on the checklists. Life at Starbucks is governed by checklists these days. I almost asphyxiated myself the other day; breathing wasn't assigned to me. She also has to make sure no one's self esteem creeps dangerously high. No one likes it there.
("Eleven" by Primus)
So I write, read, and drink wine. I could say that I job hunt, but I also await the time when I can shoot lasers out of my eyes.

The Classics

Years ago, when I was a studly young English major, I read a good deal of what is called classic literature. I read works of Homer, Virgil, Sophocles, Euripides, Aristophanes, Thucydides, Tacitus, Seneca, and more. I am currently reading The Odyssey again, and I will do likewise with The Iliad (out of order, I suppose). I have the books in my boxes back in Michigan (I assume Mom hasn't sold them yet), but I bought new ones to read here in North Carolina. Barnes & Noble and Borders both offer many works of literature cheaply under their own brands. Perhaps I was reminded of these by the release of the movie Troy. I haven't seen the film; I doubt I will bother. Given the track record of the American film industry, there is simply too high a probability that the movie is a peanut-encrusted turd.

At any rate, I'm enjoying the book more than I did the first time. I love the grandeur of the characters, and I savor the language. I wish we, as modern citizens of the world, spoke with more gravity. Here are some examples:

The wind keeps blowing out this cheapass little propane grill.
translation:
Oh, that this grill were more richly wrought; mighty Aeolus, god of winds, doth vex me.

You keep leaving the toilet seat up.
translation:
Oft times have you left the throne unprepared for me.

God only knows how you get laid.
translation:
Aegis-bearing Zeus has left the secret of your manhood unknown.

Paper or plastic, sir?
translation:
The path that the immortal gods have chosen for you is a difficult one; wouldst thou carry your barley in well-sown sacks or in amphorae?

Get the hell out of the left lane, you moron.
translation:
Oh, if only clear-eyed Athena would plant zeal in your breast, for to speed your travels.

I think it would be a better world to live in if we talked that way.

Materialism seems to be interfering with my lust for life

Last night, Lindsey and I returned from a weekend at Lake Norman, North Carolina. Her parents have a condominium next to the lake, and we are often their guests. I am exceedingly fond of my in-laws, and we have a good relationship. In addition to this, their condo is an absurdly pleasant place to be. Allow me to rewind:

Friday afternoon: Traffic abounds on Interstate 40. Independence Day traffic, in addition to typical Friday traffic, is a major irritant. Mind you, it is nothing compared to the volume one sees in SoCal, but there are some handicaps:
1)Perpetual construction. These people can't seem to get the lead out of their ass and finish a freeway.
2)A couple of accidents.
3)Retarded fucking drivers. North Carolinians cannot drive. They tailgate. They slow down to stare at accidents. They drive slowly, perfectly matching speed with the neighboring car, in the fast lane (they drive in formation like this for miles). They have not mastered the use of turn indicators. Their speed varies between 60 and 80 miles per hour (each individual vehicle, that is). Take your tobacco chewin', shit kickin', wife beatin', NASCAR-watchin' ass and your Mustang GT back to Driver Education. I though California drivers were bad, but at least they got in my way less of the time.

One of these morons almost shaved the right side of my car off at the very last exit. The shoulder is not for high-speed passing, peckerwood.

That being said, we made it. The transition from fatigue to conviviality was instantaneous.

Within five minutes of dropping my bags in the guest room, I was in an Adirondack chair, wine glass in hand, toes in the sand, surrounded by friendly conversation. Their condo is close enough to the beach to allow a game of catch between one person whose ankles are wet and another person whose feet are in the patio shrubbery. The neighbors are all either retirees or professionals who vacation there. Every last one of them is pleasant, articulate, and gracious (if any of them aren't, I guess they stay in their living room). Each time I visit the lake, I meet someone new, and all the regulars know me. I have married the daughter of their favorite neighbors (Hub and Andie are very well liked). They inquire about our welfare, and we chat about everything from buying houses to fishing to politics. This is all happening as the sun goes down in front of us.

Friday evening passed very pleasantly, and Saturday did not disappoint. Coffee and breakfast were followed by a few hours of idle television watching. I accompanied my wife and mother-in-law for some shopping. We looked at furniture first. This has become strangely mesmerizing to me since getting married. Perhaps a nesting thing. I have some work to do in order to persuade Lindsey of the merits of staining a piece of furniture orange. The real substance of the day followed, however.

We were tasked to shop for dinner. The neighbors had all agreed to meet for a potluck dinner on the beach. I was honored with providing the family's offering, and I had decided to do ribs. Unfortunately, these were not photographed.

Ribs of the Orange Wino(Costillas al Borracho Naranjo)
Time, start to finish: about five hours
The goods:

Two racks of pork ribs
Half of a large onion
Two large, ripe pineapples
An entire head of garlic
Plenty of soy sauce (probably at least 1/4 cup)
Salt and pepper
Apple cider vinegar
A splash of olive oil
Cornstarch
White wine as necessary
The juice of a lemon

The hardware:

Two cookie sheets
A grill (this one had an upper rack)
Plenty of aluminum foil
A blender
One of those cheap disposable aluminum roasting pans
Two pairs of tongs
A saucepan
One beach

I turned the oven on to 275 degrees. I sliced the pineapples without removing the skin. This adds structural integrity on the grill. I put them in the cheap roasting pan. I cut about 1/3 of a pineapple, in chunks, in the blender. I put the onion, in chunks, in there too. I peeled the garlic and put it all in there. I dumped in the soy sauce, some vinegar and wine, a bit of oil, and some pepper (I decided not to make it spicy, but next time I'll toast a guajillo pepper and throw it in there). I believe I added a couple of tablespoons of cornstarch last, but I doubt it matters what order the additions go in. I pureed this until it was a slushy consistency. If I had a food processor, I could have done it thicker. As long as it's thick enough to stick to the meat and pineapple, it will do. I removed the whitish membrane from the concave side of the ribs and put one rack on each of the cookie sheets. I poured most of the goo on the ribs. I dumped the rest (about 1/4) on the pineapple. I added a bit more soy sauce for additional saltiness. I flipped and shuffled them for even coverage. I covered them with foil and set them aside. I covered the ribs with foil and put them in the oven. I did some reading, and I chatted with some folks down on the beach. I switched the pans of ribs hourly for even heating.

After three hours or so of baking, I carefully poured the pan juices from the ribs into a saucepan. I sprinkled a bit of salt on them, re-covered them and put them back in the oven. I also put the goo from the pineapple pan in the saucepan. I turned it on to medium in order to start reducing it. I believe I added some more vinegar and salt. Taste often. I skimmed the fat with a spoon and discarded it (there was a lot). I adjusted the heat so it maintained a steady bubble.

After four hours or so of baking, I turned off the oven. The sauce had reduced by about an inch or so. I added the lemon juice and thickened it with some more cornstarch. I turned off the heat and covered it. I fired up the grill. I soaked some mesquite chunks (hickory would be good, too). I started grilling the pineapple a few minutes before the ribs. I put the ribs on the upper rack, just for smoke and color. I had the saucepan full of goo sitting next to the grill. When the pineapple was nice and marked and semisoft, I pulled it all off. I sauced the ribs off-grill. It was pretty good, and people seemed to like it. Many had not seen grilled pineapple before.

I ate some of my own cooking, plus some of the vast spread that everyone else brought. The culmination was the banana pudding. I think Sue, a very nice neighbor, made that one. Gooey, vanilla wafer-studded bliss.

We digested and drank wine. Some neighbors, Alan and Jolita, invited us up for munchies and wine. We didn't exactly need to eat more, but said munchies came from Dean & Deluca. We sipped a dignified and stony Barolo, a good cab, and a decent Valpolicella. A and J are grownups with good taste, some money, and what appears to be good perspective on life. Their two daughters were in bed. It rained intermittently. Fireworks shot off here and there. We sipped, ate and talked until after midnight. We enjoyed deep and varied conversations. It was so enjoyable; I felt like an adult.

Someday, I want to actually buy stuff at Dean & Deluca with my very own money. I want to invite people over, rather than being a lucky guest eating someone else's truffle mousse paté (Good Lord, that was good). Am I a materialistic person? I love life and people, not things. But I have made a worrying observation: money aids in the enjoyment of life. I can cook good food with basic, inexpensive ingredients. Great. But I can't afford to go home to visit my family for a week. I can't take my wife on a honeymoon. I don't exactly have future college tuition stuffed into my mattress, either.

Why does money spoil my fun? We have a good life. We have all we need and much more. But why do I find myself in a black funk after driving around shiny, cosmopolitan Downtown Charlotte? Because I can't check into a nice hotel and eat my way through all those restaurants? Perhaps looking through the shop window gets tiresome after a while. If I want a $165 Viking saucier, I would like to actually buy it.

But that's not it.

Perhaps all I want is the choice whether or not to buy it. Perhaps I would simply enjoy the feeling of not being out of place in a good wine shop. I've had money before, albeit never very much. My current circumstances reflect an intersection of low income, reasonably good taste, entry into home ownership, and more introspection than my former life allowed. I don't try so hard to distract myself anymore. I can't afford distractions anymore. This is a good thing. It builds character. The dust and debris of character building are bitching and whining.

Lake Norman, North Carolina. Lindsey snapped this picture. We happen to be under a VOR jet pathway. Several airliners passed 5 or 6 miles above us within a few minutes. They are too high to disturb us with noise,and it was an interesting thing to watch as we sat on the beach doing crossword puzzles. I could have cropped the picture and said we were at a hot, crowded airshow.

SOI

Saturn Orbit Insertion has been successfully executed, and Cassini should be sending back pictures in two hours (8am Eastern Daylight Time). The probe is almost a billion miles away.