There is a season, turn, turn, turn...

Lying in my bed I hear the clock tick,
and think of you.
Caught up in circles,
confusion is nothing new
Flashback--warm nights--
almost left behind;
suitcases of memories….
--Cyndi Lauper

Two years ago this last week, I lost my beloved Jeanne. And I just lost the last link in my life that connected me to her. How does one mourn the passing of a blog? Is it like mourning a person? I don’t know, but, as of this week, AC is gone.

It’s ok, I can’t blame BF for shutting down AC. I’ve often considered ending this blog, marking it as completed. Well, not completed, I’ll never stop grieving for Jeanne, but perhaps marked as having reached a local maximum. And, of course, I’m supposed to be writing a book – I am sure my coauthor and editor would prefer I spent my time writing chapters rather than writing posts.

But I still have more to say, I think.

But the passing of AC makes me sad, sitting here in cold, rainy London. Once again, my mood matches the weather. One wonders if the weather causes the moods, or, perhaps vice versa. I’m just joking, by the way. Even though I’m sometimes described as compelling, I don’t think my bad mood can cause rain. Of course, my moods reign supreme, but that’s another matter.

Here’s to you, AC. May the path rise up to meet your feet, and may you always feel the blend of creation and invention that drives you.

Being married seems to be having someone who will slap your enemies or help you clean up body parts
--Bones

And a brief shout-out to Robert Mugabe – thanks for casting your basket over the light that was the nascent vestiges of democracy in Zimbabwe. I am, indeed, vicariously responsible, as are all of us who didn’t, or don’t, stand up to protest injustice. Not saying that my country doesn’t have great, terrible injustices, by the way. I’m just sad at the developments in that part of Africa, with such great physical beauty and such wonderful citizens.

To wit, our friend J. Several of us went out on my ski boat a few weeks ago. It was a lovely, hot day, and the water was totally empty of other boats. Very cool. However, it turns out you really don’t want to drive the boat over the rope you use to tow the inner tube. Yes, I knew that already, and no I wasn’t paying attention. Yes, I drove the boat squarely over the rope. Yes, the propeller got caught, cut the rope, and wound the end around the driveshaft. No, the prop didn’t fall off.

After an appropriate screamed warning from one of the boat guests, I killed the boat engine, and we drifted, lazily, towards the side of the channel. And went aground on the rocks. Sigh. Another day, another scratch in the clear coat seal. That’s ok, it was my fault, nobody to blame.

But someone has to go under the boat to unwrap the rope. Was it me? Nope, it was J, from Zimbabwe, swimming under to pull us free and rescue us from the clutches of the Delta rocks.

I didn’t want to swim under, but would have. It is, however, nice not to have to do something you don’t want to do. It’s like having a support system. Well, I guess it is having a support system, now that I think about it. At any rate, thanks J!

Do you often think of suicide?
--Bones

// Side note: I’m trying to expand beyond song lyrics in my side notes. It’s a new challenge. Hope you like it. If not, make a suggestion… //

// Side note, 2: Google Analytics is cool. Apparently I had exactly one blog reader from a particular Former Soviet Union state ending in –stan. That is very cool. I have never been there. Nice to “meet” you! Most of you use Internet Explorer to read this – but I don’t have data on those of you that RSS feed it. //

I was walking down the street the other day, entering an airport (surprise surprise). I was passed by a lovely brunette woman, wearing a tight dress that looked really nice on her. She was wearing expensive-looking high-heeled shoes. Her hair was done up nicely, and she smelled nice. Her hair was styled to fall across the right side of her face, shielding her eye.

All in all, she looked extremely trendy and well put together. But look a bit closer, and notice she was using her hair to shield a black eye. And she had a ring of bruises around her left wrist. Roughly in the shape of a hand.

She noticed me looking and glared back at me defiantly.

And I walked away.

Come dancing,
Come on sister, have yourself a ball.
Don’t be afraid to come dancing,
Its only natural.
--The Kinks

I spent a few hours sitting in an airport lounge the other day. I know, again, surprise surprise.

Whilst there, I found myself thinking about things that annoy me. Again, not a surprise.

There was a TV on the wall. The volume wasn’t overly loud, which was nice. It was set on a 24-hour news station, which is boring after a while – the news doesn’t normally change over a few hour period, so you get to hear the same stories over and over again.

A couple was sitting on a couch not far from me. After sitting there for 30 minutes or so, the wife got up and changed the TV to a garden show. On the one hand, I shared her boredom with incessant repetition, but on the other hand, what if I had been watching it? And, regardless, I hate garden shows, and so had to sit there for another hour being actively annoyed.

In the interest of self-reflection, I did spend a while thinking about why I was annoyed – and I think it came down to her not asking if anyone cared if she changed the channel. She didn’t even make the token eye contact to see if anyone was watching. She just changed it – it’s almost a sense of entitlement. There’s something about a sense of entitlement that makes me want to rebel… even when I agree. Strange, yes?

Just down the way a bit was a group of businessmen. They were, apparently, technology consultants for NASA. They won the annoying prize that day, however. Far outstripping the woman with the channel changing habit.

They were taking about work, which isn’t surprising. The fact that they each chose to talk on their cell phones, separately, to different people at the client, about the costs and details of the project on which they were bidding, was surprising. Nobody but me seemed to be listening, but, for what it’s worth, NASA is overpaying for this project, based on the margin math I did, comparing two of the calls.

And, yes, they were all employing maximum cell-yell.

After their lobbying session was completed, they went back to just talking. One guy was excitedly telling the others about this new technology – ringtones. Wow. I guess it’s new to you! (Thanks to NBC for giving me this line, which I have oft reused.) I was waiting for them to enthuse about text messages next.

And remember these are technology consultants to the US space agency. Does it frighten you, just a bit, that the people making technology to keep people alive in outer space don’t know what ringtones are? Do you think that means they, perhaps, don’t keep up with technological progress? And I wonder if they know the difference between metric and English units of measurement. (That’s a bad Hubble joke, by the way, for those of you who left your copy of “Guide to Technology Irony” at home.)

And a shout-out to the people at the Virgin bar on the plane on my overnight flight the other day. No, really, I wasn’t trying to sleep, despite having earplugs in and an eyeshade on. And, no, I don’t think anyone else was trying to do so either. So, please, by all means, get really drunk and yell at each other, and faux-wrestle in the corridor by my seat. Who needs to sleep, anyway?

Now I know what I have to do…
--Iron Maiden

I spent a weekend in Las Vegas a short while ago. Was very fun – SL took me to celebrate (belatedly) my birthday. No, it’s not a birthday that ends in a “0”, but it’s close.

// Side note: I remember when I turned 30. I had just changed jobs, and someone guessed my age as 40. At the time I thought it was funny, until (a) I realized that he thought I looked ten years older than I was and (b) he pointed out that he now had a “superior officer” who was younger than his son. Neither made me feel very good. //

SL had planned various fun events for me, including a helicopter ride to the Grand Canyon.

Did I mention I’m scared of heights? Well, I am. But I’ve never seen the Grand Canyon (except out the window of the occasional jet flight), and I’ve never been in a helicopter. So, SL fixed both those two gaps in my education.

Was a great gift, and I was very, very excited.

So, we got to the place, and I was …well… terrified. I think my hands were shaking. I was trying to find some excuse to cancel.

Sometimes I am a weasel.

But I could find neither a weasel nor an excuse, so we walked out onto the tarmac to get in the copter. I could hear, distantly, the cry of “Dead Man Walking!”, but it was just the ghost of a memory. The helicopter was in good shape, and looked pretty new, so that was a comfort. It was parked in a little parking lot that was next to the Vegas airport. There was a road that connected the lot to the main tarmac, with pebbles on both sides of the road.

We took off, and hovered about 5 feet off the ground… and proceeded to exit the parking lot through the road. I mean, it required us to make some turns, and stop at a stop sign. Why not just fly over the pebbles? I expected to see the pilot using arm signals to mark a left hand turn! Anyway, the ride ended up being about an hour to the Canyon, 30 minutes in the Canyon, and about an hour back.

It was fun, sort of. But it was SO hot that I almost got sick, just from the heat, leaving aside how scared I was. I was slightly shaking most of the time, and holding onto the strap with a white-knuckled grip.

SL, of course, had a huge smile on her face, was looking around everywhere, and was generally having a blast. She was fearless. I was a chicken, but got some comfort from the fact she didn’t have a care in the world. And she reached over to pat me regularly and ask if I was ok – which must have been a funny question since I suspect I was whiter than Casper the Friendly Ghost.

Now, keep in mind that this paragon of bravery is the same woman who can’t watch action movies because she gets nightmares, and yet was more than comfortable in the hundred-degree-plus heat in a little bubble suspended impossibly from a stick spinning at greater than the speed of sound.

Oh, so strange. But thanks SL for being in my life, for comforting me when I’m scared, and for making me do things I wouldn’t do otherwise.

Are you some kind of freak
who lives to raise the ones who fall?
--Shakira

Well, during writing this post, the rain has cleared. It’s now sunny, and the air is clear. Perhaps, as I clear the air, some Godhead has done so, on some far greater plane.

Or helicopter.

I have profoundly mixed feelings, sitting in a taxi, here in London. As we cross Tower Bridge, I remember being here with Jeanne, with her trembling in excitement at getting to see a new play, or sit and have dinner with me, or walk through Hyde Park. Then she’d remember she was supposed to be a grown-up, and she’d compose herself and ask some question about history or philosophy or something. But a few minutes later, the happy little girl inside her would come out again.

I never took her to Paris, but I can imagine her awe as we walked up to Notre Dame, and how she’d try to find the bell tower where Quasimodo lived. I hope she enjoys the chorus there now.

But London was her favorite city. So I’m often a bit sad here. On the other hand, SL lived here for a while, and I’d visit her, and we had a café that was ours and we walked, hand in hand, through Kensington, and had fun and laughed. She made friends, and went out to the country with couples who cared about her.

So London also reminds me of SL, and happy times. Hence, the mixed feelings.

And, of course, I have guilt. The predominant emotion, my personal specialty. Is it ok that I have mixed feelings, or should I be sad, and sad alone? Key word being, of course, alone. According to my friend Bob, the guilt never leaves, it just fades into a tapestry of love, and life, and remembering that she loved you and would want you to be happy and fulfilled. And I do not, under any circumstances, want to lose SL.

So, day by day, taxi ride by taxi ride, I weave my tapestry. Some of the words here are in its woof. And so is the way she shook when excited. And so is the fear, and comfort, in a helicopter.

Yes, indeed, mixed feelings. But I shall focus on my weaving, and on the picture that appears, and hope to reach enlightenment in its face someday.

Come, pick up the shuttle and help me, and together we shall rise above.

And as we walk, we must make the pledge that we shall march ahead. We cannot turn back!
--Martin Luther King, Jr.

Another anniversary

Two years ago, at about 1:30pm Pacific, Jeanne died.

I feel fuzzy, like my brain is wrapped in cotton. I am flying to London this afternoon, so I guess I'll be able to sleep though much of today.

Thanks for the comments many of you have sent me. Bob, for the poem/thoughts. JM, for the kind email. SL, as always.

I still miss you, Jeanne. I hope you are painting, and playing with happy dogs, and sitting in the sun somewhere.

Ferris wheels, frights, and other amusements

Should I fly to Los Angeles
find my asshole brother?
--Bush

Well, it’s been a while, hasn’t it, my OtherEnders? In my defense, I have been crazy busy, with travel to 4 cities across two continents, and hours that are… well… long. In fact, my current work pace reminds me of the Google IPO. I think, however, this is easier, because I’m getting more sleep. Not enough, granted, but more than I did then.

Before I get into wherever the muse leads, I feel the urge to respond to my comments.

First, a shout out to Forsie, and her defensive gene. I know who to call the next time I’m in trouble – I’m telling y’all, Forsie protects her own. Nice to be on the inner circle!

And apparently there is some modern definition of nunnery that isn’t how Shakespeare used it – he used it to refer to a house of ill repute; it is worth pointing out that not all scholars agree that it was used thusly.

Many of you wrote to tell me what happened in that scene in I am Legend. I think I pointed out that many scenes were too dark to see. The bulk of that particular helicopter scene was among them. So I saw the bright outcome, but not the buildup before it. HJP explained why the film was so dark – it involved color densities and other stuff that was too hard for me to understand. However, it’s clearly a science and an art.

And my friend GW told me what the “Polite” sign meant. He was going to write a comment explaining it, but then wasn’t sure it was acceptable. Well, let’s see if he does it now with a bit of encouragement…

I nearly lost you there
Let’s try to sleep now
--Screaming Trees

The majority of comments, public and private concerned my “cheating” at cards. It’s interesting – various readers perceived it as condescending, while another interpreted it as “typically you, sacrificing for others”. Neither is correct. First of all, forsie nailed it – SL knows. And JR did as well. No surprises here. But they do both like to win, and like it that I don’t care if I win. I prefer them winning – because I think competition is destructive to me. And, by cheating, I get to play the game several times – if I lose, I lose. If I win, I get to decide on a new strategy to try. Playing a second game without shuffling the cards, and with some of the cards already used, is quite difficult. I have to count the cards pretty accurately to be able to do well the second time around. It’s a fun challenge for me.

I’m doing the best I ever did
I’m the best that I can
I’m doing the best I ever did
Now go away
--Godsmack

But because of all of your comments, SL and I decided to talk about the “issue”. We talked, over a few glasses of red wine, at a little sidewalk cafe in Kensington where she was living. In that discussion, she admitted that it made her happy when she won, but felt even happier when she won without my help. Based on that, we decided that I would only cheat sometimes. But she didn’t tell me how to define sometimes, so I predict we will struggle over a few games, eh?

I have a love/hate relationship with the Screaming Trees
-Richard Beckwith

A quick shout out to the Big G in the sky. Two questions – why did you put a call to the GMail blog onto the GMail login screen? If your network has any problems at all, it takes FOREVER to get a response from blogger, so the screen rendering is waiting for a noticeable period of time. Ironically enough, the other day, as I was swearing about this, the blog entry finally came up. And it was about speeding up GMail response. The irony drips like rain from a cloudless sky.

And while I’m complaining about products from the company that prided itself on simple interfaces that were lightning quick… What’s going on with the Reader interface? My stuff, My friends shared items (whether they share or not), blah blah. Basically, they’ve added a bunch of header information that leaves precious little room on my screen for the feeds themselves to be seen. I have to scroll down to see most of my feeds. Yes, not a big deal, but I want to see my feeds, and find some other way to do sharing. Sharing is very cool – but the UI is all wrong. Makes me wonder what happened to UI review?

If I could,
I’d make a deal with God,
and get him to swap us places
--Kate Bush

I was riding in a cab through London the other day, and noticed a woman walking the same direction we were moving. Given the traffic, she was going faster than we were. She had a two-piece work suit on, of some dark color, and it was reasonably nicely tailored. She had blonde hair, cut in a bob about shoulder length. When she walked, her shoulders didn’t move. It was as if her legs moved, but her upper body was somehow disconnected or on springs or something. And she was wearing heels.

I couldn’t take my eyes of her. Yup, you have all figured it out. It was Jeanne. Well, I mean it wasn’t, but for a second I thought it was her. I wanted the cab to speed up so I could see if it was.

So we caught up to her. Surprisingly enough, JR’s still dead, and the lady walking didn’t look so much like her when I got close. But I thought I was going to vomit. And I was slightly off balance for days.

I went to Phoenix for a day trip and didn’t say hi to Jeanne. My excuse? I didn’t have a car. I set it all up, though, I was going to spend the afternoon with FiP and ask him to drive me to where she is. He and I had lunch, and were just chatting, and I lost my nerve. I’m not sure what I do when I’m there, and maybe it’s not pretty. So, I didn’t see her.

Anyway, I remember how she used to walk away from me – to go to a meeting, or whatever. She had that funny little shuffle – legs and hips move on the VERY high heels – but body doesn’t move. Until she turns, just her shoulders and neck, and gives me a little wave, with a shy little possessive smile.

She didn’t have that smile much at the end. Her smile had a weariness, not just tired, but weary, as if her soul was being worn down. I saw that smile but once that I can recall during the end. It was that trip down to Santa Monica.

I have to pause to thank, by name, Kim Cooper, Sergey Brin, and Korianne Cremona. The trip to Santa Monica was at the very end – about a month before she died. I needed a lot of help getting her there safely and comfortably. The three of them were amazing – giving, supporting, and executing to get the trip together.

During that trip, I saw Jeanne smile that way twice. We flew down on a private jet, and she got to fly in the jump seat in the cockpit. As we took off, she turned around and flashed me the biggest smile I’d seen in a long time. My little girl was excited, just for a second, not dreading, or tired, or weary. Excited. Later in that trip, we ditched her family, and I pushed her (in a wheelchair) up the boardwalk toward the Santa Monica Pier. We stopped on a concrete barrier to talk. I think I told her I was sorry. I know I told her I love her. And I hope she told me she forgave me. But I don’t remember that.

Thanks, guys, I got those two smiles because of you.

I wish I had taken her on the Ferris wheel at the pier. She wanted to go, and we just never made it. I think I put up barriers – I’m afraid of heights, I’m afraid of change, and I’m generally anxious about stuff. I bet I spoiled that for her. Sorry, Jeanne. I know you understood me, but I didn’t mean to let you down.

I guess I learned, somewhat. SL wanted to go to that Ferris wheel. I tried to get her there, right then… but it had closed. I’m still terrified of heights, and the idea of going makes my stomach turn, but…

…it’s the bitter taste of losing
everything I held so dear
--Sarah McLachlan

…I’ll be damned if I make the same shallow, selfish, silly, stupid mistake again.

I’m going to get on that Ferris wheel with SL. And try to keep my fear and anxiety to myself. She deserves it.

There is no turning back now.
You have opened the demon
in me.
Get up, come on!
Get down with the sickness!
Open up your hate
and let it come into me
--disturbed

Picture a boy, walking down a small street, shaded on both sides by old Oak trees, with their arms over the road protecting you from the heat of the sky. The day is humid and hot; the air still as death. The boy walks with his head down, his shoulders slumped, carrying a trombone in a grey plastic case. Off to his left, and just in front, he hears a small dog barking. The dog is super upset that the boy is near his yard. Behind him, he hears the squeals of tires turning the corner, racing towards him. His well-trained sense of self-protection causes him to run off the road, to his right.

Sometimes what you learn kills someone else.

The dog followed the boy, still asserting his dominance, as the boy ran. In some peculiar modern dance, the car sped on, the dog sped on… and the two collided.

The street is now silent. The car speeds on, leaving a perfectly round blood pool in the middle of the street, that grows with each labored breath of the dog. The blood is so red. It doesn’t look like Hollywood at all. It’s thick, syrupy, and reflective. It reflects the boy’s shock, and the horror of the dog’s owner as she comes rushing out, defending the car driver (“He tried to stop!”).

The boy gets a box, and inserts the dog, who is lying very still, but looking at the boy with pleading eyes. The boy picks up dog-in-a-box, and starts to cross the street. At the midpoint, where he heard the tires squealing he stops to look back.

He sees the blood pool, strewn about by his feet, his hands, the box. It’s so red, but darkening even as he watches. It’s brown under his nails, on the creases of his hands. But that could just be the boy’s vision darkening, instead of the blood.

The mother reassures the boy “I’ll watch your stuff while you put him in the car.” The boy couldn’t even get out the words to explain he wasn’t worried about his stuff… he was worried about the blood.

Did he have to clean it up? Would anyone help? What if he got it wrong?

And what happens when the next car races around that corner?

The boy didn’t clean the blood, and neither did the woman. The dried stain was there the next day.

When I look up at you looking down,
say it was only a dream
--Mary-Chapin Carpenter

He was late getting home, and very quiet, and very pale. His family asked him what was wrong, and where he had been.

Almost as if acting, he told the story. Aghast, his sister grabbed him and asked how the boy felt. But the truth was, deep inside, he didn’t know how he felt. And deep down inside, at that level of instinct that teaches you what is right and what is wrong, deep down there he knew that he SHOULD have known how he felt.

And the boy began to wonder if he was different from everybody else.

I’m trying to tell you something about my life
Maybe give me insight between black and white
…
Now I wrap my fear around me like a blanket
And I sail my ship of safety til I sank it
I’m crawling on your shores
--Indigo Girls

Thank you, SL, for saying yes, and I promise we will get on that Ferris wheel.

12 steps along a road to nowhere

Well, here's a slightly more uplifting post than my last one. This one will be short, I should think, but definitely more uplifting than the last.

As usual, I'm at an airport, or on a plane. Probably not both, since usually when on plane-at-airport, I'm not able to have my technology turned on -- you know that whole "please power your brain off" bit at the start of flights? It impacts my ability to write, which means that I'm usually unable to make fun of the initial take-off routine, despite the fact it is full of funny things on which to comment. But let's move on, for now, shall we?

I'm currently sitting in the BA lounge at Heathrow. I had planned to check my email and do some actual work, but since both wireless networks I can reach have essentially no throughput, I can't actually get anything done. Very annoying. So, I'm writing to you...

The answers are... they are looking at you, not me. And, because she said yes.
--The American President.

For those of you playing the home game, SL said yes. I'm happy, although slightly terrified. And I'm looking forward to her being home. This cross-continental thing really (really) stinks.

But she said yes. So that's a good start. I may, indeed, be trapped like a squid in a dryer, but at least we are together in the dryer, which is... well... probably crowded.

Get thee to a nunnery!
--William Shakespeare

By the way, a "nunnery" is not a convent. And, while we are on the subject, "wherefore" does not mean "where". Juliet is not asking *where* Romeo is, she's asking something quite different.

Words matter, and their meanings are sometimes more subtle than you might expect. Now, if only our President (and some of our current crop of Presidential-wanna-bes) understood that.

Anyway.

I've been paying attention to funny wordings lately. Specifically, funny wordings at airports. Airports are not only an infinite source of security humor to me, but also a nearly inexhaustible source of funny expressions. Believe me, with as much time as I spend at airports, I need to laugh once in a while.

So let's go through the humor together, shall we?

At the Oakland airport, you are forced to hear an announcement repeated every few minutes about "our heightened security stance". First of all, why does the announcement have to happen every 5 minutes -- and why does it have to be so amazingly loud? Second, surely there's a statute of limitations on how long we can talk about "heightened" -- at some point, it must become "normal", right? But, anyway, the funniest part of the announcement is the end "Do not take packages from unknown individuals!" Ok, where to begin on the grammar fun... Can I take packages from unknown groups? For example, if a bunch of people who, as a group, are unknown to me, each wearing a shirt that reads "I'm a terrorist" offer me a box that is ticking, shall I carry it on the plane with me? Continuing in this vein, the key words are "unknown individuals". OK, what if I know the individual, and know him to be a terrorist? Can I then take a package from him?

// Side note -- I use the masculine pronoun because English doesn't have a good gender-neutral pronoun. And I can't get comfortable with "him/her" or any of those constructions. I guess I could alternate between masculine and feminine, but that also seems awkward, especially inside one paragraph, because it's then harder to figure out which pronoun refers to ... which noun. So I'm stuck, sorry. //

// Side note, 2, unrelated. It's almost my birthday. That means I missed my sister's birthday. Sorry, Sis. Happy birthday. You knew I was a flake anyway... //

Back to my airport giggles. At the Burbank airport, I noticed a set of signs over the urinals that read "Please do not throw foreign articles into urinals". To be honest, I can't remember if this was Burbank or LAX or any of the other airports I've been in within the last two weeks, but I think it was Burbank, so that's close enough. So, if I can't throw foreign articles in, what about domestic ones? And does a monograph count as an article? What about a sidebar? And, naturally, what if, instead of throwing it, I place the foreign article-not-monograph carefully into the urinal -- would that be acceptable? These are, indeed, the things that make you go "hmm..."

Airports are, of course, not the only places that have interesting wordings. For example, I was walking around the Kensington Gardens this weekend, and I saw a sign on a driveway. The sign was intended to keep people from parking in front of the driveway, and used a normal expression for doing so. However, the sign was labelled as a "polite notice". Well, the request was polite, indeed, but is there a "rude notice"? And, if so, what does it say? And how does one decide whether to use the polite or the rude one? Or does the rude one get put up after the polite one fails, or perhaps on particularly unpleasant days? Such things keep me up at night, wondering about the truth of it.

Bars are good too. You can order well drinks. But what if you have a cold? This is, indeed, a deep subject. Worse, what if you are hung over? Do you order a get-well drink? And do they price it differently?

// Side note, 3, I think -- have you noticed that almost every city has a two-level bar or dance club called "Heaven and Hell"? The decor is as you'd expect from the name. I almost always like them. But then, I'm partial to that theme, as my birthday party last year showed... //

Let us not forget sporting events. How many times have you heard the talking head on a sporting event say (at a basketball game) "there's a 10 second differential between the game clock and the shot clock." No, there isn't. Or, if there is, some piece of time-keeping equipment needs to be replaced, and quickly. There might well be a ten second *difference* between the two clocks, but I suspect each has a roughly similar definition of a second. The word differential implies that things are changing at a different rate, not that they have different values. Thus, the differential between the two should be vanishingly small, even if the two clocks have different values. Calculus is your friend.

// Side note, number n: No, I don't believe Newton got hit on the head with an apple.

But I am writing this on an Apple.

And oftentimes people want to hit me over the head, so, I guess there's some connection.

And, no, I am not sure why I went there. Back to work now... //

I watched a movie called "I am Legend" the other day. Really fun, all in all, although the scary scenes were a little bit dark for me -- not dark in the psychological sense, dark in the cinematographic sense. As in, literally, they were hard for me to see. But there were some highly effective scenes. A question to my dear OtherEnders: I didn't know what happened to the wife and daughter -- that scene wasn't clear to me. If anybody understood, feel free to leave me a comment, which I won't post, because I don't want to spoil anyone's enjoyment of the movie.

I've been watching a lot of TV on my iPhone lately. Well, it's not just lately, as many of you know. I watched the first season of Heroes, I watched the first season of Dexter, I watched the first season of Jericho, as well as Battlestar Galatica episodes, and scads of other stuff. I recently have been watching Bones. Bones was recently described as "a cheap copy of CSI".

That may well be correct, but I think of it more as a union of Remington Steele (from the 80's) and CSI. There is the god-like science magic of CSI, with the romantic tension and general social awkwardness of Remington Steele. I understand that juries are apparently now expecting forensic evidence of the sort that appears on CSI. And, true, any sufficiently advanced science appears to us as magic, but some of what is done on the show is... well... magic as far as I can tell.

My personal favorite is when they zoom in on a grainy camera image and then "the computer" makes the image totally clear, with lots of new detail added. I'm not an expert, but generally, information content is not added by reductions. That whole Claude Shannon thing applies.

Come on Barbie,
let's go party!
--Aqua

However, I'm quite happy to see shows where scientists are regarded as smart, helpful, and interesting. It was not that long ago that there was a Barbie who talked, and said "Math is hard!". Now, that's terrific messaging to girls. And messaging matters -- take a look at the percentages (in the US) of women who say they are good at math and science before high school, and the percentage that says so afterwards.

It's scary, and stupid, and bad for the world.

Why am I talking about Barbie? Because I got to play a game using "Barbie" cards this morning. Barbie cards bought for SL by a friend of ours in Dubai.

SL and I play cards. We play a card game that Jeanne taught me. I'm not very good at card games, because I just can't really pay attention to what's going on. I can count cards, if I put my mind to it, but I'm not very good at reading people. As far as I can tell, the strategy part of the poker-esque games isn't too hard, but the tactics involve making educated guesses about other players' behavior. Since that's not my strength, I can't really enjoy the poker-esque games. CarPool Pal is great at the games, and reading people; as a result, I've outsourced much of my thinking to him.

His rates are pretty good, as well; I'd recommend considering such an operation.

I am not particularly competitive in games. I save my competitive side for stuff that "matters". I discovered that Jeanne loved to win at this card game -- she'd giggle and clap her hands like a little girl. Just the memory makes me smile, and tear up.

So, I being a smart, adaptive chap, figured out that I could cheat, fairly easily. Not cheat in my favor; no, I could cheat to make sure she won. There are a few different algorithms for doing so. The simplest is just to do stupid things with your hand, biding time for her to do something smart with hers. This tactic, however, is too ham-handed, too easy to spot; JR noticed it immediately, and so it stopped being fun for her. There are two more complex tactics, but I won't explain them here.

Why not? Because I get to play cards with SL sometimes, and she likes to win too.

I like to make her smile.

So what if I cheat, a little, now and then when SL and I are playing? Surely my karma won't be harmed by a little lie that creates such happiness?

Smiles are precious. In my life, they have mostly been fake -- right before some bit of violence -- or related to the other person's pride in something I did -- "look how good you made me look!". Very few have been genuine expressions of happiness. When you see one, or, better yet, can cause one, pay attention. Store it in your memory. Notice how her eyes move when she smiles and what she does with her hands. Does she grasp at air, or push her hair back, or grab at you? Or all three? Does she laugh, or giggle, or just gasp a little. How does the light reflect off her eyes and skin and hair. Does she tilt her head back in a way that is special to her and to you?

Trust me, store them up. There are never enough such smiles. It's ok to displace some fact like the speed of light in a vacuum, or the formula for the instantaneous velocity of a point-elephant fired out of a point-gun. Make some room in your brain for that which matters. Her smile.

Remarkably enough, SL wins regularly at our card games, and smiles a slightly sly grin when she wins without me cheating. She doesn't complain much when she wins, even if she suspects I am cheating. But since she doesn't know the two more complex algorithms, I still come out ahead in coming out behind. She doesn't always know that I helped her.

And that's good enough for me. I'll always help. That's what I do.

And she said yes.

Another day, another year

Happy Birthday, Jeanne.

Happy birthday to you,
Happy birthday to you,
Happy birthday, dear Jeanne.
Happy birthday to you!

(I think the "and many more" line is inappropriate).

Jeanne Michele Russell,
April 27, 1961 - June 23, 2006,
RIP

The Sun (still) also rises

Don't judge a book just by the cover
Unless you cover just another
--Sex Pistols

Well, something strange is afoot, perhaps not at the Circle K(tm). I would like to give a warm welcome to some new readers. However, I feel like I should give my disclaimer again. In fact, I should put some label in the body when I give my disclaimer, so OtherEnders can write some client-side code to strip it out when I include it again. I think I’ve given it a lot over the past year or so.

So, here is the Disclaimer. I don't talk about work. Really. Regardless of what I do. I won't post comments about work, and I rarely respond to comments -- but I love reading them, and sometimes comments respond to other comments. And when I pose math problems, Ryan always answers them. That's all good. I don’t talk about work. Instead, I talk about ... nothing very predictable.

But I can predict I won't talk about the music industry, because I never talk about work.

Heh. I can hear you now -- "Wait, the music industry? I thought you were at Google?"

Yes, I was.

A few weeks ago, I met a really inspiring guy. And, as a result, decided to leave Google to work for him. So, now I'm a music executive. In the deepest part of my heart, I worry that I don't really know anything about music.

Except that music is the wallpaper of my life. You may listen to a song and hear notes. I hear memories. And the songs bring them back. Some good memories -- the Prince song that SL danced for me -- and some sad memories -- the Depeche Mode song that was JR's ring tone when she was ill.

I hear a soundtrack to my thoughts all day, regardless of what I'm doing. I spend all day surrounded by music.

What a gift. I wish I had the talent to make music, but I don't. But I'm a fan, and grateful to the artists who do have that talent. I appreciate being able to hear your art; thank you for sharing.

Speaking of "hearing", have any of you seen that ad on late-night (cheap) television for the new hearing aid that the doctor inserts into your ear? It's small and supposed to yield great sound? That claim could be true, I don't know; but the ironic part is that the ad doesn't have a URL, it has a phone number. They tell *hearing impaired people* to make a phone call to find out about a new hearing aid. But phones are super-hard for hearing impaired people... doesn't everybody know that? Or at least, shouldn't people that make hearing aids know that?

// Side note: If you have called me, and I wasn't chatty, it's probably not that I don't like you. It's that phones are hard for me. Luckily, the folks at the place I *used to* work did a great job getting me wireless headsets that covered both ears and were well amplified. So, I could take calls and do lots of stuff on a phone. Thanks, gang. Despite all the jokes I made, and times I complained at you, the team was awesome. I'll miss you all. //

I think this is the first time I have referred to Google by name -- or as my brother sometimes calls it "The Big G in the Sky".

// Side note: yes, my brother works at Google. No, I didn’t hire him – he got hired on his own. He's a *real* engineer. Yes, he's smarter than me, and can actually do stuff. When I have programming, math, or statistics questions, I call him. He is useful, that’s true, but I'm taller. That's something. And nobody has ever called him "Captain Obvious". //

// Side note, on a side note: I think that the person who called me “Captain Obvious” recently was trying to insult me. I've decided to take it as a compliment. I mean, lots of amazing things were obvious in retrospect. The sun does not revolve around the earth -- obvious in retrospect. Energy and matter are transforms of each other -- obvious in retrospect. The war in Iraq would be long and bloody and not at all easy -- obvious... well, to some anyway. Regardless, I have decided to wear my Obvious-ness proudly. I'm going to make myself a Captain Obvious costume. Don't worry, my costume won't have a cape. But I need a sidekick. Perhaps Transparent Boy would be an appropriate one. Ok, enough of this. //

I was stopped in a parking lot the other day by a sad and distracted looking woman in a late-model American car, who asked me where a particular local funeral home was. At first, I answered -- reflexively -- "I don't know." Then I realized I did know.

It was where we cremated Jeanne.

I looked at the woman again, and saw a vagueness in her eyes that I recognized. I was wearing it when I went to pick up Jeanne, in her little brown box. (There's a post about that -- go read it if you want details.)

So I gave the woman directions -- it's hard to find the place actually. I wonder if that's on purpose?

God speed, madame.

From an information perspective, most of us die in vain. Nothing about our life or death helps the next generation.
--Ian Ayres

And if that weren't enough, the next morning K made me go through all my files -- in preparation for changing jobs. And I, of course, came upon the bill for cremating Jeanne. It's surprisingly inexpensive to transform a lovely woman into a pile of light grey ash.

And I sat on the floor of my lovely office, surrounded by boxes and trash, and cried. Thank god I have an office door I can close.

That night at home, I was sorting some more papers, and I came across a card that she wrote me right after the Google IPO, when I was in the hospital. She wrote how proud she was of me, and how I'd been part of something that would change the world, and how she'd be with me when I woke up. A very sweet, loving note.

So, I sat down in my home office, surrounded by boxes and half disassembled computers, and cried again.

In the name of whatever is Holy, that's enough reminders of JR for one day.

I was thinking about what a
Friend had said
I was hoping it was a lie.
--Neil Young

K then told me off, again, nicely. She told me that Jeanne wouldn't like me holding on to sadness like this. I think that's probably (still) true. Now, if I just knew what to do with that fact.

It is funny what makes me sad these days. It seems to be changing, somehow. For example, I was listening to my XM radio the other day, on the 80’s channel.

// Yes, yes, I know, SL, my radio is always on the 80’s channel. But can we focus on the story here? Yes, I know, you prefer the world music station, but this is my story – you can write about your music on yours. Ok, ok, I’ll change it! Give me a second… Done, like that music better? //

Anyway, back to my story. I was listening to the radio the other day, and there was a BeeGees song playing. For the longest time, I confused the BeeGees and ELO. I have no idea why, since they don’t sound at all alike, but I confused them.

And one summer day, JR got tired of me confusing them, and so got out her CDs of each, and we listened to a bunch of each one, and I figured out that they are different.

But, unfortunately, now that I can tell them apart, hearing either of them makes me sad. For me, the music takes me back to the moment.

I still listen to Crowded House, though, even though it reminds me of her, because it also reminds me of other things, and of how I first shared my music with SL.

There are even sillier things that make me sad. There’s a pleather pouch, full of random small bills from random countries. Some of the currency is no longer in circulation, and the whole lot was probably worth $100 or so at the peak of its value. It sits in the back of what was JR’s desk. It’s been sitting there, probably, since I put the desk together, years and years ago.

I hate that pouch. I have no idea what to do with it. And every time I see it… well, you get the picture.

You can play the game and you can act out the part
Though you know it wasn't written for you
--James Taylor

Allow me to change the topic, suddenly, without any warning, and without much knowledge aforethought.

I went house hunting in LA the other day. Now, I need to make a real side note. Do you all know that SL's friend M's family *owns an island*? Yes, really, an island. Of their own. I've never even owned as much as an Atoll -- suddenly I feel out of my league. Perhaps I should have said something like "out of my 30,000 leagues under the sea" but islands are actually not, generally, under water.

However, I'm sure that if this island were to find itself underwater, the current administration would send trailers for people to stay in -- but they wouldn't show up for the better part of a year, and they'd contain extremely hazardous chemicals. So, avoid the flooding. That would be my suggestion, but it is just my perspective. Your mileage may vary, and, as we all know, past performance is no guarantee of future success.

And a quick shout out to Megan S -- it was cool to see you on that flight, and thanks for the comment that I didn't post... but you didn't include your email address, so I can't email you back.

In our current circumstances it is actually the will of the people that is often the objective being sought -- yet there is still a tendency to use overwhelming military force in the belief that winning the trial of strength will deliver the will of the opponent.
--General Rupert Smith

While I'm on the topic, a few others have sent me comments recently -- a fairly large contingent from that small town in Arkansas where I grew up. I haven't posted most of them, because many of you *did* include your email addresses, and I didn't want spam crawlers to get your addresses. Hopefully I successfully sent each of you a reconnect note. If I didn't, please forgive me -- I probably lost the email in my queue.

So much for the "world's most organized man", eh? I guess I just have good PR people. Oh, wait, I have *great* PR people. Useful, pretty, and skilled -- and in London, still at the moment.

To paraphrase my perennial social network status, I still miss SL. Only a few more weeks until she returns. She’s been gone a few months, and I really miss her.

But she’s learning a lot, and having fun, and meeting cool new people and doing cool new things.

And soon she’ll be back here.

My brown dog still runs to the door to check and see if she’s behind me when I come home at night, sits and waits a few seconds until he decides she’s not here. Then he turns and sighs; a second or so later, he brightens back up and runs over to have me scratch his back, and the evening begins.

Don't be discouraged!
Oh I realize
it's hard to take courage
--Cyndi Lauper

Apparently, one of the most downloaded ring tones is “Girls just want to have fun”. So there, Mike – it’s not just me!

Yes, I had that ring tone for a long while. It was hilarious. I had it when I had the bright pink RAZR that my team bought me for the holidays that year. I loved that phone – then the roof leaked over it, and the phone spent 12 hours submerged in about 6 inches of standing water. It didn’t work so well after that.

I retired the ring tone with the phone. Now my default ring is “Ballroom Blitz”, but I have many custom ring tones, and I put a silly amount of thought into what I select. SL has a snippet of our song. BF has “London Calling”. One of my favorite ex-coworkers (now) has a bit of “Wish you were here”.

And yes, I bought all my ring tones legally. I do believe that people will pay for music.

Have you ever poured a glass of champagne, and noticed how lovely it is? The bubbles swirl randomly, creating chaos. It’s unpredictable and off-kilter. But then, suddenly, the bubbles even out, and a steady stream of bubbles comes upward from the bottom of the glass in a nice neat line. Suddenly, order emerges, but the order is not static. It’s an orderly change process.

Something happens that changes the entire interaction, the entire situation, from chaos into an orderly set of changes. There’s a lesson there.

Go pour yourself a glass, and raise it. Raise it to your family, your pet, your job, your friends. Raise it to your favorite writer, or songwriter, or… well, whoever.

But watch the bubbles.

It’s a fine, fine day for a reunion
It’s a fine, fine day for comin’ home
--Tony Carey

If you don’t want to say it, you probably shouldn’t do it.

Well, she's shaking that thing
Bam-a-lam
Boy, she makes me sing
Bam-a-lam
Whoa, Black Betty,
Bam-a-lam
--Ram Jam

Well, I think I should hurry up and post this – I’ve been working on it for about three weeks. Seems that I’ve lost my ability to craft prose quickly, without thinking. I used to sit down at my keyboard – usually on a roughly one-hour flight – and craft a 2,000 word post that was interesting (to me, anyway), and often heartbreaking.

Not so true anymore – I labor over each word as if it were being forced to the surface, a rock driven into my skin by a bad bike accident that requires pressing on the skin, over and over again, to get out. It still feels good when it comes out, but it somehow feels less… immediate.

But I hope the result is still worth reading. The posts these days feel different – first of all, I write less about Jeanne. It’s not that I don’t miss her – I do, believe me. It’s just that the pressure of those stories has lessened – I prefer now telling stories live. I’m no longer traumatized by the trauma someone feels hearing Jeanne’s story. And I find myself telling more happy stories about her – her laugh, her perspectives, her thoughts, her love. But I think telling the heartbreaking stories here was compelling for readers and helped me. So, thank you. Really.

I have spent lots of time on planes lately. I flew Lufthansa back from Dubai recently. Ironically, for an airline that prides itself on punctuality and performance, my seat didn’t work – and seats aren’t really that complicated, I think. And despite the fact that they had reserved a gluten-free meal for me, they insisted on giving my bread with it. After telling each of them that I couldn’t have it, and being ignored, I finally took a piece so they’d stop bothering me! I guess that I should have expected a singular focus on giving me some kind of bread, because my pre-wrapped, and totally taste-free gluten-free meal had jam inside the plastic wrap. I can’t imagine what they thought I was going to put the jam on when they wrapped the meal, but, given that it was there, I suppose that the flight attendants were compelled to give me something to coat with the sugar derivative.

We flew out directly over Palm Island, just offshore from Dubai. It’s a manmade island, in the shape of a palm tree. Apparently, houses on the … fronds? … are quite expensive and lovely. I was just blown away by being in a 747, looking out the window, and seeing obviously recognizable shapes – it’s akin to looking at a satellite picture of the Great Wall and realizing that you can see a man-made object from space; this wasn’t from space, but it was from a couple of miles up – and the shape was clearly visible. I don’t know why it stuck me so much, but it did.

Many things struck me in Dubai. Dubai is lovely – it feels like Vegas-meets-Disneyland. I stayed at a hotel that was really nice, immense, and made to look like an old Arabic construction. Yup, made to look like one – but it was brand-new construction. In fantasyland, you have to maintain appearances. There was a river running through the resorts and you could take a boat from one part of the hotel to another. I don’t know which part of Arabic fantasyland yielded a boat system; nonetheless it was there. So, yes, we rode it – or should that be “road” it – to dinner one night. It was cold, and the driver didn’t dock the boat – instead he just crashed it into the pier and we hopped out – scary, and I bumped my head, but it was fun, I have to admit.

There’s lots of money there, consistent with the Vegas theme. But there is no oil in Dubai, proper, so they are investing heavily in infrastructure, technology, and financial services. And they are quite liberal in their attitudes – I didn’t feel any judgmental feeling from anyone. Many times I saw a woman covered from head to toe in traditional Muslim dress (traditional for her region and flavor of religion, but covered) walking through a mall with a woman in a micro-miniskirt and high heels (looking for all the world as if she were going for a very hot night outing in Vegas). No tension between them was visible; and, sometimes, they were close friends – just with different dress codes. One of my friends that I met there wore the traditional Muslim headscarf – but she didn’t start wearing it until she was in her 30’s and didn’t feel that she was better than others who didn’t wear it. It was her choice, and she was comfortable with others making different choices.

I’m not sure many of our Christian faiths are so comfortable with choice – and I am not sure how many people believe that the Islamic faith is pretty kind, in general. For example, there is a religious rule that forbids cutting someone out of the conversation – you all know the feeling, right, of being the “third wheel”. You are ignored by the people talking, and feel like a loser. That’s against the Islamic religion, as my friend Mo taught me.

I wonder if kids in Islamic faiths who have that model are kinder and gentler to others? I know that I was profoundly shaped by being ignored, or receiving only negative attention. Makes you wonder, doesn’t it?

Yes, yes, I’m sure some of you are now reacting badly to my praise of Muslims. But to judge the entire Islamic tradition by the terrorists is, I think, to judge all of Christianity by white supremacists who use the religion for their own evil purposes.

I got you under my wheels now
--Alice Cooper

I think sometimes people focus too much on the outward look of things, and allow themselves to be seduced by simple, bumper sticker versions of complex issues. I’m a big fan of bumper stickers as vision statements – but they, on purpose, ignore a lot of complexity. I think we might be better off taking some time to understand what’s under the surface.

Most Muslims aren’t terrorists, and the Christ I understand doesn’t believe that whites are better than others.

// Side note: Speaking of the Christ I understand, thanks to C & DF, I got to watch Palm Sunday mass in the Vatican in Rome. Wow – I didn’t expect it to be so impactful. It was. Amazing – and the Pope is way more conservative than I believe. But still… //

I often ride BART to work. I’m partial to ripped jeans, slip-on kicks as shoes, and T-shirts. I have a particular warm coat that is a funny color, with strange patterns – it looks like a school Home Economics project gone horribly awry. I was wearing such an outfit the other day, walking down the platform to the train door I wanted, listening to my music. As I walked, I noticed a woman in line; as I walked toward her, she edged away, as if to hide from me. As if I were a threat. Strange, but … whatever, sorry lady.

Ironically, many of the same people catch the same train day after day. A few days later, I showed up again at the train; this time I was wearing nice Italian loafers, slacks and a bright colorful button-down shirt. And a smooth leather jacket. Yup, you’ve guessed the end of this story already, haven’t you.

I saw that same woman again, and she didn’t shy away from me this time.

Nothing had changed – other than my clothes. And my hair was probably dirtier, but who knows. I think it’s sad that we focus so much on the outside looks, but I guess it’s a good heuristic. Just an unfortunate one. Do you think the woman recognized me the second time? Or perhaps, will she recognize me the next time she sees me in my ripped clothes and decide I’m not a threat?

And if I’m a threat, I’m still a threat wearing expensive Italian shoes. Think about it.

He said "Practice Electra,
You might need it someday.
...
Practice laughing
at my jokes
...
Practice crying
when I leave I you."
--Megan Slankard

I ran into an old friend on a flight back from Austin recently. I was at South by Southwest – a cool conference that captures the connections between the web and film and music. I was there to give a brief talk... and to go to parties, I guess. There is a significant party element to SXSW – my company threw one, as did just about everybody else.

// Side note, 2: Much of my good thinking time happens at urinals. I’m not sure why that’s true, but it is. I used to do all my best thinking when I was running, but not anymore. I’m not sure this is a good side effect of aging. Regardless, one of the things I think about is the design of stalls in men’s restrooms. I really don’t understand them. They all have locks, but it’s usually impossible to tell whether a stall door is locked or not without pushing on it – which scares the person locked inside. I’ve always wondered why the locks don’t work like they do on airplanes – have the lock turn a sign that says “Occupied” or “vacant”.

Now I wonder no more! In the Four Seasons in Austin, they have exactly that system, so, from a distance, you can tell if a stall is free or not. But the one guy who was in a stall while I was at the urinal didn’t lock the door, and so got… surprised… a few times. Sigh. Anyway. //

One night, we went out dancing – to an 80’s club, appropriately enough. The club was super fun, but several of the people were super-aggro. Really more aggressive than need be. A group of women dressed to go out – and wearing massive wedding rings – came up to one of my friends to ask who we were. Nothing untoward here, none of us were interested, and their husbands were 20 feet away. All good, nobody damaged. One of the women tripped and fell – it’s possible she was slightly intoxicated – my friend helped her get back up. A few minutes later – after they had all wandered off – her husband came over and told my friend “if you touch my wife again, I’ll kick your ass.”

My, my – thank god for Texas hospitality! I didn’t feel like getting into an issue, so I ignored it, and my friend bounced back quickly from the bummed out feeling. But, really, dude, why don’t you keep your wife from tripping, or at least “defend” her in front of her, so she can tell you that you are being a tool. Or, best of all, why not thank my friend for helping your wife?

I was once at a punk show, and a guy had brought his girlfriend into the pit. She wasn’t dressed for it – high heels and a skirt. The guy was trying to keep all the banging off of her, and was doing a great job until he slipped and fell. She had this look of terror on her face that was pretty heartbreaking. So I stepped up to her and put my body between her and the crowd until her boyfriend stood back up. Then I passed her back to him – he said “thanks”, as did she, and we all went back to enjoying the show.
Y’all, if SL trips, I hope you will help her back up.

In the morning
you can tell me your dreams
--Melissa Etheridge

Anyway, my friend and I haven’t seen each other for a long time – a few years. I was sitting on the plane and I saw her walk on. I called her name, and she barely recognized me. I found out later that she had already seen me, and had a hint of recognition, but thought I was some second-tier rock guy. Ironic, actually. Anyway, I ended up spending about half the flight sitting next to her, listening to her talk about her career (which is going well), her boyfriend (also going well), and how her family has changed in the last few years (some have jobs, some are moving away, change happens, I guess).

She hadn’t heard about Jeanne, so I told her the story. I told her about Jeanne’s wake. It made her cry, which I didn’t mean to do.

I just read something in a magazine about a famous author who died of cancer; she was in denial that she was going to die, trying lots of alternative treatments, but was apparently in agony the whole time. She refused to talk about death, apparently; her son felt that this denied him the chance to say goodbye.

Thank you, Jeanne, for giving me the chance to say goodbye. Thank you for being open and honest about your death. Thank you for your amazing grace during a time when so many would struggle, during a time when I did struggle.

Jeanne planned her own service – she picked the music (Elton John, of course) – chose the people who would attend, and selected the format. We served champagne, and cheese. I drank coffee – needed the composure. We all told stories about how she affected our lives. I told the story of how I met her, and the story of how she passed. BF couldn’t bring herself to talk – she’s still embarrassed about that, but there’s no need. Jeanne understands, and knows how you feel. Anyway, the stories ranged from funny to sad to off-beat. That was my girl. Complex.

Great, now I feel like crying again. No wonder my young friend felt like doing so.

Instead of crying, I shall wrap this post up. I’m on another plane, coming back from Europe. I’m on United, not Lufthansa, but, once again, my chair doesn’t work. It is the circle of life’s discomforts, I guess. They attendants brought me no bread this time, though.

Here’s to the coming of spring, and change, and those things which remain the same, reminding us of joy and loss.