I just put up some captioned photos from my birthday party.  I was gonna write a big thing about it, but photos are far more interesting aren’t they?

I will say that when you have birthdays like this one, it almost makes getting older something to look forward to!  A small group of close friends laughing the night away.  Perfect.

The timing was ideal, because Italian Girl in Algiers was in a rather stressful stage at the time.  We were quite short on rehearsal time and about to launch into tech week feeling unprepared.  As it turns out, the production is great and the preview audience loved it.  That eased the stress considerably for tonight’s opening.

Anyway, back to the party.  Paul put together a great spread of food from the Austin Rib Co.   I love that place.  Not only is it a true mom-and-pop joint, but the grub is out-of-this-world good.  Not good for you, of course.  But then, what fun would that be?  Austin Rib Co. is located in a non-descript shopping center in Orange, a hole in the wall eatery you’d never know about unless someone tipped you off.

Lesley has always made me a cake on my birthday, and somehow she manages to outdo herself every year.  This year’s was no exception.  I managed to pry out how long it took to make the cake, and it was measured in days.  I’m not the only who thinks she ought to be working as a connoseur of fine desserts at some high end establishment.  Girl’s got mad skills, I tell ya.

After everyone else had gone home, Paul and I decided to play a few hands of poker.  Those of you who play Texas Hold’em are undoubtedly smirking, knowing that there is no such thing as “just a few hands” in this game.  We finished around 3 a.m. and I drove home $20 richer.  Woo hoo!

Little did I know that my aunt Norma was going to pass away that day from pancreatic cancer.  In fact, I didn’t even know she was sick.  Until a few days before, she didn’t know she was sick either.  Apparently Norma contracted what the doctors diagnosed as pneumonia.  Two days later, a different physician figured out that what first appeared to be fluid in her lungs was actually end stage cancer.  She died on January 14th — the same day as my mother, 27 years earlier.

The speed with which her illness progressed is shocking, because she seemed to be in such good health right up to the end.  Yet it’s also a blessing, as she was spared the long and painful denoumont so many cancer victims endure.

What can you take away from something like that, except the obvious?  Life is short, my friends.  Get out there and live each day like it’s your last. 

A post over at Cockpit Conversation got me thinking about the 787 Dreamliner, a new all-composite airliner from Boeing.

That post referenced a British newspaper article whose title was a bit sensationalistic.  “Passenger aircraft rivals clash over safety of fuselage built from plastic”. 

Airplanes are not built out of plastic, they’re made of carbon fiber.  The two are both composite materials, yet interchanging them would be like saying a metal airplane was going to be made out of tin.

The article also states that the Dreamliner will be the first “passenger jet” made entirely of composites, which is untrue.  Smaller passenger jets are already made of composites.  The Raytheon Premier, for example.  The Hawker 4000. The Eclipse 500. The Citation Mustang. The Adam A700. And GA aircraft have been made wholly out of composites from the 1970s (witness the Varieze).  Many modern airframes are all-composite (Cirrus, DiamondStar, etc).  The 787 may be the first large airliner to be built mostly of composites, but the material and methods have been tried and tested for a long time.

Composites are also insanely strong.  I fly aerobatic airplanes that you can put 10 Gs on — an frankly they’ll take twice that without blinking.  You stress them that way over and over again.  A very hard life for a wing.  What’s it made out of?  Yeah.  Composites. The parts that tend to break are the metal ones (formers, stringers, etc) that you cannot see.  Which is Airbus’ whole arguement against composites.

No material is perfect.  Everything is a compromise.  But I’d have no problem flying (or flying on) a 787.

The new year is starting off right at work.  My boss just had a front page article published about him in the Orange County Register.  The Register is the largest newspaper in Orange County, with a daily circulation of about one million copies.

Unfortunately, the Register requires online users to register before reading the article, but you might be able to get a login from BugMeNot.com.  As I recall, it’s a copyright violation to reprint an entire article without permission, but I can quote from it, so here’s an excerpt:

The 62-year-old, Yale-educated native of the Virgin Islands whose floppy white hair, somewhat patrician bearing, and desert-dry wit call to mind an aerial George Plimpton likes to teach by doing, not telling.

His midair engine stall is designed to do just that. Among other things, he is forcing Kim to think of alternative ways to maintain enough altitude to glide safely back to the airport.

Safety being the prime concern for Church and his John Wayne Airport-based Sunrise Aviation school.

His 26 flight instructors must have a minimum of 1,500 flight hours to be hired. His 35 planes are stripped and inspected every 100 hours of flight. He writes columns on safety for aviation magazines. And even beginning pilots are trained in aerobatic “spin training” - an extra safety precaution that few aviation schools provide.

“You are in a significantly less friendly environment in the air than on the ground,” Church explains. Flying “has to be approached with significantly more organization than when you get in your car.”

Church’s obsession with safety won him the Federal Aviation Administration’s 2005 Safety Counselor Award.

The award is one of four given each year to the nation’s top small-aircraft mechanic, avionics expert, flight instructor, and in Church’s case, safety guru.

In his more than three decades of flying, Church has logged 12,000 hours in the air with a few near-misses - but nary a crash.

The average small-aircraft pilot may have fewer than 1,000 hours’ experience. And few pilots earn their hours by doing aerial loops, twists, dives and other aerobatic stunts that are Michael Church hallmarks.

“The guy knows what he’s doing,” says Terry Vance, the Huntington Beach motorcycle drag-racing champ who credits Church with saving his life.

Vance’s small plane went into an unintentional spin over New Mexico. The aerobatic training that Sunrise requires helped him pull out of a potentially deadly spiral.

“If I had not had spin training I would have been in serious trouble,” Vance says.

Church himself is more phlegmatic about his success.

“If you manage the risk and grow to a ripe old age, somewhere along the line people are going to start asking how you do it.”

It’s a delight to read something positive about GA, even more so in this case because it’s about the company where I work.  I hope that this article will help establish a relationship between the two and the Register will “go to Church” the next time they need information on general aviation.

A few years ago, most of my donations were to Angel Flight, a very worthy aviation-based charity which provides medical transportation to those in need. I also did a lot of flying for AF.

Lately, though, most of my charitable dollars have gone to organizations fighting cancer. It wasn’t a conscious change, but one that I now see was prompted by the fact that nearly everyone I know is being directly affected by cancer. My niece has had it — twice. Paul’s mom has it now. So does Jason’s wife. Both my sisters-in-law have had it. And the list goes on.

So it’s apropos that Lesley is fundraising for the Light The Night Walk, the Leukemia & Lymphoma Society’s nationwide evening walk to build awareness of blood cancers and raise funds for cures. Walkers carry illuminated balloons — white for survivors and red for supporters — to celebrate and commemorate lives touched by cancer.

According to LLS, approximately 747,465 Americans are living with blood cancers right now. Leukemia causes more deaths than any other cancer among children and young adults under the age of 20.

Odds are nearly 100% that you know someone who had, has, or will have some form of blood cancer. So please consider making a donation to help Lesley reach her goal of helping the Leukemia & Lymphoma Society reach theirs.

Because cancer really does suck.

Happy birthday to me!

I just returned from the gym. One of my favorite parts of working out at 24 Hour Fitness is that they have a dry heat sauna, and the temperature is always set just right. It’s even better when there’s no one else in there and you can soak up the heat in solitude.

Well today I was in there by myself. It was so relaxing I almost fell asleep!

And that was when I looked down and saw a large cockroach scurring over my foot.

Yeah, I got a good workout all right. As I hauled ass out the door (nearly stepping on another one).

Thanks, 24 Hour Fitness. You’re the best.

It seems I’m one of the few people in the northern hemisphere that doesn’t play poker on a regular basis. It’s more for a lack of time than invitations or interest.

Some folks get pretty serious about the game. Dan has his own Yahoo group for poker nights, and even went so far as to build a table — the famous Green Monster — for the events. Now all he’s missing is Dave Foley to color commentate the thing from his living room.

My desaparecido streak ended last night with a couple of entertaining games at Rich’s place. First, we feasted on microwave snack food that had been picked over by the dogs while watching the Patriots squeek out a win against the Colts. Then I went out in a blaze of glory (or, as I described it last night, a blaze of incompetence) at the poker table.

I had such high hopes, too. Things were going well. I was biding my time, eventually landing a straight directly off the flop. I went all-in only to learn The Hard Way(tm) that it wasn’t a straight at all, but rather a random collection of meaningless cards since you can’t wrap a straight around the ace. It’s either high or low, but it can’t be in the middle of a straight.

Oops.

On the positive side, the hand would have garnered major style points in Uno. Unfortunately, we were playing Texas Hold ‘Em.

It’s funny to step back and realize how intense things get over a five dollar game. But it’s not really about the five dollars, it’s about having to leave the table or just sit there as a spectator after you’re out. As long as you’ve got a couple of chips left, you’re still part of the game, making decisions and affecting the outcome.

This was the first Texas Hold ‘Em experience for me. Even without the smoky environment, green felt table, and watered down drinks, it was fun.

Freezer burn: it’s not just for food anymore.

Nothing brings out the grouch in me like heat. I hate heat with… well, with the heat of a thousand suns. Or whatever.

The past two days have set record high temperatures here in Southern California. And glory be, I’ve got no air conditioning! It’s over 100 degrees today, yet it’s forecast to be 30 degrees cooler tomorrow. The heat wouldn’t be so bad if there was at least some air movement. But when it’s hot and the air is dead still, that’s the worst.

Speaking of heat, it must be causing brain damage at my local gym. I frequently use the sauna there and have noticed a disturbing trend: people working out inside the sauna. Push ups. Sit ups. Exercising with free weights. Jumping rope, even.

I hate to point out the obvious, people, but it’s a sauna. It’s designed for relaxation. Not drying your laundry, exercising, or stretching. Last time I checked, that’s what the rest of the gym is for. If you want to read a newspaper in there, fine. But please don’t come in wearing a heavy track suit and shadow box like you’re Mike Tyson.

We’re not impressed.

There’s a new design in town. There are seven other skins here, but this is the first one that leaves the old layout completely behind. The others are all variations on a single design.

I’ve taken to calling this new skin the “Starsky & Hutch Go Flying” theme. It has a certain hip 70’s panache to it, don’t you think? The jets careening around at odd angles bring to mind my instrument flight training. Those of you who are IFR-rated pilots will know what I’m talking about. (continue reading…)

Check this out:

Anthony Rapp is a musician.
Melissa Rapp is a musician.
Mark Rapp is a musician.
Ron Rapp is a musician.

And those are just people with their own Rapp domain names. I also found musicians Barry Rapp, Marcello Rapp, Tom Rapp, Michael Rapp, and Sandy Rapp to name just a few.

Even those Rapps I found on the Web who are not musicians are in some sort of artistic business. Charles Rapp is a talent agent, for example.

Maybe we should have a convention or something.

Some people just can’t leave well enough alone. In this case, that someone would be me. So I came up with yet another Christmas skin for the site. What do you think?

The image was taken from the Christmas cards I used last year. The aircraft is a Cessna 185 Skywagon. This is what they look like in real life. Basically it’s the same as my Skylane, only with a tailwheel instead of a nosewheel.

I put this together because I wasn’t happy with the other Christmas skin. It’s not merry enough, though it does have a sort of “In the Bleak Midwinter” feel that is appealing in it’s own way.

I recently learned that two of my best friends from college will soon enter the ranks of parenthood!

For those of you who don’t know them, this might not make a lot of sense. But since picking out a name can be tough, I took the liberty of putting together a Top 10 list of potential names for the Schulz’s child:

10. The Wizard of Schulz

9.  Schlitz Schulz

8.  Product Schulz

7.  Gumshoe Schulz

6.  Chicken Diver Schulz

5.  Sargent Schulz

4.  Notorious B.O.C. (Big Orange Crayon)

3.  Rosarito Schulz

2.  Royale with Schulz

… and the number one name for the Schulz child:

1.  McSchulz

And how was your Thanksgiving? No knock-down, drag-out family arguements, I hope? Lesley and I spent a simple but pleasant day together. We didn’t even cook–we ate out!

Scandalous.

It’s the first time I’d ever done that, and it was actually fun. Leaving the kitchen duties to someone else allowed us time to relax, laugh, and think about what were thankful for. Sounds hokey. But with all the cooking, preparing, decorating, and traveling that most folks do, the “core” of Thanksgiving can get lost in the static. So it was refreshing to spend Thanksgiving just being Thankful.

Earlier in the day we had a light brunch in Costa Mesa, then walked around Balboa Island and admired the holiday decorations. Lesley pointed out that this is a weird time of year for that sort of thing. The laggards still haven’t taken down their Halloween stuff, while some have Thanksgiving decorations up, and still other homes are already adorned for Christmas or Hanukkah.

There’s one house right on the water that we’ve always admired. The architecture is a fascinating amalgam of glass, copper, and concrete. When we took the Newport Harbor Tour last year, the guide told us this was his favorite home.

Anyway, as we sauntered down the sidewalk today, Lesley said, “Hey–that’s the one the tour guide loved so much.” A kindly old lady trimming plants in front of the property said, “You like this one, eh? Go on in and take a look!”

After confirming that she was the owner and not just some stranger egging us on, we looked at each other and thought, “Why not?”. So in we went. Margie gave us some insight into the fascinating choice of materials. The walls are plain concrete. Ceilings are Douglas fir, and the steel beams that support the structure are exposed throughout the house. She also showed us how the famous motorized glass facade worked. With the push of a button, an entire wall of the house retracts into the side of the building. It’s like putting the top down on a Ford Mustang. But instead of a $15,000 car, this was a $4 million island home.

Margie was very kind and we didn’t want to impose, but bless her heart–she insisted we take our time and really look around. Add people like that to the list of things I’m thankful for!

I did a Google search this evening, trying to find a photo of some Balboa Island real estate to give you an idea of what the houses down there look like. Lo and behold, Google turned up an entire L.A. Times article dedicated to this very home! Apparently the architect was a well-known student of Frank Lloyd Wright.

Anyway, now that the turkey day is behind us, the Christmas season can officially begin. Sure, it’s been going on in the malls, catalogues, and stores for months now. But I don’t do any holiday shopping, decorating, or singing until after Thanksgiving. I know we’re supposed to celebrate Christmas in our hearts all year long, but when the twelve days last twelve months, I can’t help but think “when is this gonna end?”.

To celebrate the start of the holiday season, I’ve created a new skin for the House of Rapp. I’m not thrilled with the greyish colors for the content and menu containers, but oh well. If any of you have suggestions for better colors, let me know.

Now let’s get out there and shop, shop, SHOP!

Ever heard the phrase “bread ‘n butter”? If a couple walking down the street hand in hand are seperated by a pole, mailbox, or other obstruction, you say “bread ‘n butter”. I don’t know why, but you just do.

I consider myself fairly cultured, but this one completely escaped me until I met Lesley. I figured it was an English thing, but maybe not! Someone else wrote about it.

I’ve only been flying out of the Los Angeles basin for about six years, but in that time I’ve been witness to some unusual stuff. September 11th comes to mind. I recall standing outside the fence at John Wayne Airport and listening to the sound of complete silence. The Southwest jets normally found on the east side were replaced with F-18s.

Today is another one to remember for those of us who fly. The ring of fires encircling Southern California has poked more than a few holes in the aviation system. I checked for NOTAMs (Notices to Airmen) on the web and found this:

HHR 10/032 ZLA CA.. SO CALIF APPROACH CONTROL OTS
HHR 10/034 ZLA CA.. SAN DIEGO AFSS CLSD
HHR 10/035 ZLA CA.. RIVERSIDE AFSS CLSD

The “approach control OTS” line is not something one sees everyday. It’s referring to Socal Approach, which controls all traffic in the Los Angeles basin below 10,000 feet. Everything from the Mexican border to Oxnard falls under their perview. The Socal Approach facility is physically located near Mirimar, and yesterday one of the fires nearly consumed their building. They evacuated the facility and have been offline ever since.

So for the immediate future, there is no one controlling this airspace. Which poses some interesting problems for someone (like myself) planning to fly through airspace which, according to Federal Aviation Regulations, requires radio contact with an approach controller.

Los Angeles Center is covering what airspace they can, but it’s dicey. L.A. Center is normally only responsible for stuff above 10,000 feet and they don’t have the charts, equipment, or procedures to deal with Socal’s lower airspace.

Socal Approach is made up of different “sectors” covering different areas of the L.A. basin, but as I said the controllers are physically located in the same building. I’ve been wondering about the long term impact this will have. If the fire burns down their facility, this gridlock could persist for months while air traffic functions are transferred to a new location.

I have a few other concerns about flying in these conditions. For one, contaminants in the air could clog the intake filter to the point where the engine doesn’t get enough air to operate. But I’ve called around to several FBOs in the area and they’ve been flying all weekend with no problems. I also wonder if it will be possible to get anything productive done in the air with the visibility so low.

Still, I’m looking foward to flying today. It will be an educational experience and a good chance to see what things look like from the air. I’ve actually flown through smoke on more than one occasion. My last flight to Mammoth was like this. Worse, probably, since the route takes you through the narrow Owens Valley where the terrain climbs something like 15,000 feet in less than two miles. There are no IFR routes through the Owens Valley, so technically you have to rely on your eyes to keep you out of the rocks. But with the advent of GPS, you can back up your visual cues with hyper-accurate satellite navigation.

Irvine is a pretty square place.

This isn’t always a bad thing. I mean, all the neighborhoods are nice–there are no “bad” areas of town. The schools are the best in the nation (Irvine has a University of California campus, a private university, and a junior college). The Spectrum, Irvine’s business district, is one of the largest high-tech meccas in the United States. There’s a lot of greenery, lakes, parks, and people always smile and say hello to you on the street. If I try really hard, I can probably think of worse places to live.

But the cookie cutter “planned community” aspect of Irvine gets old after a while. For example, it’s hard to find small, quirky, one-of-a-kind stores. One of my favorites, a small sandwich & liquor store called Mesa Foods, is closing at the end of the month. Why? “Too little business,” the owner told me.

I was so sad. They make the best sandwiches, and the people who work there are real characters. One of them is an over-bleached, blonde, gum-chewing transplant from New York, replete with accent and attitude. Another one is more down to earth, very chatty, and always knows the regular customers by name. Every time I pop in for food or a Coke, she takes the time to ask what show or concert I’m working on. You just don’t get that kind of thing in a national chain store.

Now that I think about it, all my favorite quirky Irvine people are gone. One of them was a moderately well dressed middle-aged woman who, despite the bundle of cash she carried around, would walk through the parking lot at Alton Center begging for enough change to buy “a small iced tea with lemon”. She must have asked me for change a hundred times on a hundred different days. Hot, cold, sunny, stormy–it didn’t matter. She always wanted a small iced tea with lemon, and she always bought it at Togo’s. And by God, when she finally did get the tea she was the happiest person in the world. I always meant to ask her why she didn’t use her own money, but I thought that would somehow be sacrosanct.

Iced Tea Woman was great, but the all-time best must have been Sign Man. As far as I could tell, this old guy was completely insane.. He would always appear on a major street corner carrying large rectangular signs which said things like “will maybe required” or “and that’s how now sometimes” or “some things you know”. They made absolutely NO sense, but he was out there just like those 16 year old kids who get paid minimum wage to wave signs touting the newest housing development, sale or grand opening. Okay, they were on roller blades while he sagged pathetically against the light post, but you get the point.

Sign Man’s appearances seemed to coincide with the hottest days of the year. He had a long white beard, and beneath his cheap hat looked like a cross between Dr. Gene Scott and George Bernard Shaw: unconventional, brash, vaguely intimidating, certainly brilliant in some cosmic way, and definitely off his rocker. For a while, I even convinced myself that Sign Man and Iced Tea Woman were an item. Was he ever forced to drink tea when he really wanted milk or water? Did she understand his signs?

I could never determine if the signs were supposed to be of a religious nature, or if they were just completely random. Maybe he wasn’t crazy at all, but like so many people just thought Irvine needed a square peg for a round hole. I don’t know why he went away, but after a while he just stopped appearing. Maybe he wasn’t getting the response he was looking for. Or perhaps God told him to go somewhere else. Whatever the reason, according to a friend he’s recently surfaced near her home in Tustin carrying the same old signs. So I’ve made a mental note to drive by there next time I’m in the area.

Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got a hankering for some iced tea.

I enjoy going to the gym, but the crowds really get to me. From about 3:30 to 9:00 p.m., it’s wall-to-wall people. And it seems that the average age of a person there is trending downward. I’ve seen kids as young as eight or nine years old working out. What the hell does an eight year old need to be at the gym for? It’s disturbing.

It’s almost as if you have to pick your life’s path out of the womb and work relentlessly toward it as soon as you’re physically capable of walking if you want to achieve the pinnacle of success. It’s not just ice skaters and gymnasts that start at such an insanely young age.

I’ve always considered myself a well-rounded person able to converse intelligently on a wide variety of topics. Unfortuantely, that sort of thing just isn’t in vogue. The world doesn’t reward you for that. Jack of all trades, master of none, I guess.

Class

Exiting Interstate-5 and Jeffrey, I came to a stop at the light and my eye caught something large off to the left. It was a car, specifically a late ’60’s Pontiac Elektra. This thing was huge. So huge, in fact, that some serious pretzeling was necessary to get a glimpse of the back end. A rolling work of art and, like the Queen Mary or the occasional DC-3 you’ll see on it’s way to Catalina, a harbinger of days long gone. Decked out in a gleaming silver paint job, the simonized Pontiac was spit polished to a “T” and framed by flawless, twinkling chrome.

Inside, an older couple perched regally on the low-back bench seat. He sported a white button up shirt, tie, and a felt hat tipped just so. She, a light blouse. Windows down, the soft sound of some classic ditty (”real music”, he would have said, “perfect for a Sunday drive”) flowed from what was likely the original AM radio.

Green light, the thirsty big block engine purred, and they motored off into the sunset as the anemic performance of my efficient 95 horsepower Mitsubishi brought me back to 1999.

Easy Street

It was late in the afternoon, and the deli/liquor store was largely deserted. I leaned on one of the many low aisles filled with alcohol, condoms, and other necessities while waiting for my sandwich to be made. Slowly the door creaked open and a small oriental man peered inside. After a moment of examining the place, he came in–and was almost immediately followed by about a dozen other random personages. Among them was a baby boomer clad in a polyester maroon pants suit. She pointed at a handwritten sign taped to the cash register (”The phone line is out”) and demanded, “Does that mean you can’t do any tickets?”

“Yeah, the line has been out since this morning.”

“Well, when will it be up again?”, she scowled.

“I don’t know. Pac Bell is supposed to be coming by to look at it sometime today.”

She paused to consider her options, then turned to a very young boy standing next to her.

“C’mon”, she said in total earnest as she started for the door, “we have to go somewhere else and get a Lotto ticket or mommy won’t be able to pay for your college fund.”

Flyboy

As I slowed the plane and veered left at the end of the runway, the call came: “Decathlon 389, left at Golf, taxi and hold short one-nine left via Charlie and Kilo, this frequency.”

“Left at Golf, one-nine left via Charlie/Kilo, 389″, I replied while allowing the aerobatic taildragger to continue the slow roll toward taxiway Charlie. The crosswinds this day had been very demanding, and it seemed that both plane and controller were conspiring to prevent The Perfect Landing. Why am I doing this to myself, I asked? It’s just not my day.

But as I continued northbound, a tall man came into view just off to the right of the taxiway. I noticed he had something on his shoulders. Eventually it took the form of a small boy. A smiling boy. And he was smiling at me, missing teeth and all. I sat up a little straighter, returned the smile and gave him an impromptu salute which broadened the grin and set the two little hands to clapping in that uncoordinated fashion only young people can accurately muster.

Just then the strangest thing happened–the joy was back, and it turned out to be my day after all.

I’ve been away from the House of Rapp for a while. Probably you have too. Life has a funny way of and overtaking you like you’re an old lady leisurely cruising on Interstate 5 at midnight. If you can’t relate to what I’m talking about, then you should consider yourself lucky to have internet access in that hermetically sealed bubble.

One of the things I did do recently was an Illumine collaborative project entitled Postcards from the Edge. The project involved each Illumine member writing a postcard to himself at some pivotal point in life, some moment when we he was “on the edge”. The moment I chose was my birth. That’s pretty pivotal, though it’s not something I had any control over. What makes this project unique is that we were supposed to create an image for the front of the postcard. You’ll understand better when you see it.

• Front Side

• Back Side

One of the unfortunate things about the passing of time (besides hair loss) is that my college friends get together less and less often. Oh, there are still parties here and there, but it’s just a reality of life, I guess, that people go their own way.

My good friend Greg, who is the WBA/WBC heavyweight Quake II champion of the world, or something like that, celebrated his birthday yesterday. The whole Quake culture on the ‘net is a mystery to me. There are so many mods, weapons, and other add-ons for the game that it’s more like a battle of the nerds than a battle of the game junkies. Greg’s Quake “clan” is called DUH–Death Under Homer. I don’t know if he’s the one that named it, but it’s definitely the kind of thing he would come up with. When he plays on the internet, his character appears to be Homer Simpson. Greg’s fiancée threw a fun shindig at his and Rob’s place in Lake Forest yesterday. She made wet burritos, which are not as scary as they sound. Very tasty, actually, and without the El Conejo-like after-effects.

A surprisingly large number of the gang made it to the party, which was followed by a few hours at the bowling alley. It’s always cool to see everyone again, but sad that we don’t do it more often. We all got caught up on who’s doing what. Everyone in Burbank seems to be moving to Studio City, or thereabouts.

After the bowling was over, a few of us went back to Greg and Rob’s place and sang some very pathetic karioke run by a shareware program Greg got off the net. It’s a freakish little program, complete with the bouncing ball that tells you when to sing the lyrics. It was fun, but cheesy MIDI sounds can only go so far, and something about singing Metallica on top of a MIDI background is just wrong. But once you add a little alcohol, everything starts to sound much better. Even the singing.

I could never really get into the Doom/Quake scene. I’m painfully aware that I spend too many hours a day at the computer already. As the years have passed, aside from maintaining The House of Rapp, I’ve been moving toward getting as far away from the computer as possible. The more connected I am, the less I want to be connected.

Oh, and lest I forget another big piece of news, Kevin proposed to Marla today! They even have a date already: November 6, 1999 (or, as Kevin put it, 6 months 2 days and 17 hours from now). They’re probably rushing to get married before the whole Y2K bug throws a wrench in the plans. I love Y2K, you can blame it for anything. So Greg, Dan, and Kevin are all engaged right now. Must be something in the air.

Sometimes a picture is worth a thousand words.

This is my stress level:

This is my stress level after taxes:

Any questions?

greed \Greed\, n. [Akin to Goth. gr?dus hunger, Icel. gr[=a][eth]r. [root]34. ] An eager desire or longing; greediness; as, a greed of gain; vehemently desirous; eager to obtain; avaricious.

Before I begin, a disclaimer seems to be in order: I am not, nor have I ever been, a member of the Communist party. Please keep that in mind. In fact, I tend to vote Republican. Nevertheless, it seems that greed is, in ways too numerous and ugly to count, America’s favorite deadly sin.

I know it’s mine. Like a Chris Carter television series (”I made that!”), greed is slippery and oh-so-justifiable slope we climb and descend all our days as our fortunes change. There’s no use trying to deny it. Perhaps it’s only human to want to improve ones condition, to want more. Where would we be if people hadn’t striven for such things? But it’s always material, and something about America makes us prone to excess in a way that embarrasses me, especially for those who don’t recognize it. And I guess that’s really what bugs: so many people don’t seem to realize it.

The stucco-infested land in which I live goes by the name Orange County, California; it is literally the most prosperous county in the world’s most prosperous nation. So it can be hard to maintain a level perspective when you live in a community like Irvine or Newport Beach. Count the Mercedes, Beemers, or face lifts, and you realize pretty quickly that we’re the ones who should have the 90210 zip code. But in a way it’s great–whenever you go any where else, it becomes instantly obvious that we live in a bubble. Like the intravenous pyelogram dye doctors have often injected into my bloodstream before taking x-rays, the contrast is unmistakable. You don’t even have to leave Orange County. Just travel to Santa Ana (highly Hispanic) or Westminster, home to Little Saigon (the world’s largest Vietnamese community outside of Vietnam). Wonderful and highly cultured communities just down the road, yet a world apart from where I live.

If greed is “an eager desire or longing”, it’s not always a bad thing. Greediness for civil rights or equal justice under the law would probably make for a good lawyer. But that’s not how it manifests itself here. We want stuff. Bigger homes, better cars, more exotic vacations. Hell, I’m as greedy as the next guy. More so, probably. I’m twenty-seven years old, and I just bought an airplane. No, not a model–a real airplane. I charge clients up to $80.00 an hour for my consulting, design, and programming services. I mean, c’mon. Is there anything I could do short of prostituting myself that really justifies $80.00 an hour? But it’s the going rate in the field, I say to myself.

I sometimes wonder if the likes of Michael Eisner, Bill Gates, Warren Buffett, or Queen Elizabeth are kept awake at night by such things.

As for me… in that half-asleep/half-awake moment before nodding off at night, strange thoughts dance across the plateau of my mind. I find they’re usually laced with truth, with reality. They flit in and out of my mental vision just as I pass equilibrium between commercial reality and dream world fantasy. A certain damning question has recurred to me regularly over the past several years. It’s usually a variation on wondering how many people starved to death or died of disease in Africa today while I was trying to find a spare half-hour to get my car waxed.

Now where the hell did I put those rose colored glasses?

A pleasant surprise awaited me at the Orange County Performing Arts Center when I arrived for yesterday’s performance of Pagliacci & Carmina Burana: one of the tenors in the chorus had put a couple of old photos on my dressing table as a gift. One of them was from Carmen (1996), and another was from Rigoletto (1997). It’s such a trip to look back on those shows now; so much has changed in my life since then. I look at the pictures and wonder who that guy is, the one who looks so much like me.

I’m really starting to get interested in photographs. Taking them. Getting ‘em. Storing, organizing, scanning, and showing them. Most people are shutter bugs, but I’ve been contrarian in that respect for quite a long time. I never wanted to be one of those people who missed out on enjoying a moment because I was too busy trying to record it with a camera. Life is supposed to be lived, not “captured”.

I recall one college professor who epitomized this behavior perfectly. He was a professor at Concordia University’s music department. Whenever we were performing locally or on tour, he would invariably be trying to get everything on tape. He was into videography in a big way, and though he always seemed to do it out of enjoyment, I felt as though he had to be missing out on experiencing a good portion of what was in front of us. After all, anyone can see Europe or the Rockies on a screen, right? But that’s how I’ll always remember him. I think he remembers me as the guy who always had a can of soda in his hand.

Recently, my attitude about photography has begun to change somewhat. It started when my grandmother and sister-in-law gave me a number of photographs of my parents and other family members. Some of these were taken as recently as the 1970’s, and others as far back as the 1930’s. My parents have been deceased since I was a little kid, so those photos are a priceless memory for me. Or rather, a replacement for ones I never had. Secondly, I’m finally realizing that unless I take some pictures and make sure they survive, no one is going to have any idea what I did with myself for all these years. The shows, the flying, the traveling, the friends I’ve made and lost. I’ve worked hard to build a life. If I ever have kids, I’d like them to be able to see what I’m doing today, just as I can look at the photos of my dad when he lived in Burbank 60 years ago.

Organizing all these photos is a lot of work. I’m trying to build up a library of electronic images as well, since they’re so convenient for e-mailing and posting on the web. I’m thinking of trying the Kodak CD method, where the photo lab automatically puts scans of your photos onto a compact disc when they’re developed and printed. It’s a little more expensive, but at least it would be done right.

I really have some great pictures in my collection. Some are from shows; in fact, I have two great ones from Flying Dutchman which I’ll post in the near future. One of my favorite photos of late was e-mailed to me by a friend who went skydiving for the first time. As you can see, he’s having a lot of fun. Either that, or he’s trying to sign-language his last will and testament before he hits the ground at 130 m.p.h. I’m no expert in signing, of course, but I think what he’s indicating in this photo is that everything, including the Playboy collection, is supposed to go to me.

You’ll have to pardon my current mood. Perhaps it’s due to the gloomy weather we’re having. Whatever the cause, I’m really starting to hate people. No one in particular. No specific ethnicity, sex, or religion, but rather the ever-present, seething mass of humanity from which there seems to be no escape.

Locales ranging from movie theaters to airports are beginning to repulse me. This crush of bodies is everywhere. It’s the reason I don’t really like Disneyland. Even state-of-the-art new entertainment centers like the Irvine Spectrum or The Block in Orange are ruined by the lemming-like quality the place takes on during the weekend. During the week, even. I love the concept sketches designers draw up before these places are built. You ever notice how there are very few people, very few cars in these things? They must have the same fantasy I do. People are everywhere, en mass. Actually, I take that back; when I’m producing a show, they’re everywhere except at my theatre. It’s maddening.

I’m trying to figure out how this mood came upon me. It’s always been there to a small extent. I think it’s reared its ugly head because of my activities of late. I traveled to San Francisco for an audition. Now, I like San Francisco. Really. The culture, the geography, the architecture. What I didn’t like was the 3½ hours I spent in my car getting to and from LAX, or the way every square inch of LAX and San Francisco International was lined with people. Not to mention the trolley cars, busses, restaurants, and streets along the way. I’m sure the lack of sleep and stress were really helpful.

At one point during the day, an image of Charlton Heston popped into my head; he was screaming “Soylent Green is people! It’s people!” as the camera panned back. And he was wearing that flaming scarf, just like he did in the movie. Go figure. Someone once said that the moral of Soylent Green (a.k.a. The Worst Story Ever Told) was that one day everything would look like the 70’s again. Far be it from me to argue with such wisdom.

Okay, I’ve vented. Time to return to reality. You just have to find the humor in all this. San Francisco is teeming with the homeless and impoverished, a majority of whom suffer from some mental problem or other. The city is also afflicted with an inordinately large population of elderly women who find pleasure driving vehicles the size of aircraft carriers, only slower. But seriously, they have no one and nothing, and here I am complaining because my local entertainment center is too crowded. Nice. Very nice.

For me, the holiday season begins when the leaves almost imperceptibly start changing color in October, when those warm, pumpkin-ish earth-tone appear in fields, supermarkets, and on the trees. In rapid succession we get Halloween, Thanksgiving, Christmas, New Year’s Eve, and it ends with my birthday in January (what can I say? Nature saved the best for last). It also ends with five or six additional pounds, but let’s not go there.

Life being what it is, it’s often impossible to celebrate on the actual day. This year, for example, I have an opera rehearsal on my birthday. So you sort of end up celebrating around it. For ‘99, it started this evening when a group of old college friends (collectively, The Gang, aka Club Zeta) took me and a fellow Capricorn out to dinner to celebrate our respective birthdays.

The restaurant was a suggestion of mine. One of my favorites, a California gold rush themed restaurant called Claimjumper. If you haven’t been there, Claimjumper can be described in one word: big. Everything is big. For example, one person ordered a baked potato for dinner. Not hungry, you say? Au contraire, this potato weighed five or six pounds and was filled with chicken, grilled vegetables and other assorted goodies. I kid you not, this thing was a lethal weapon. It’s roughly four times the size of the typical large Idaho potatoes you’ll find at a grocery store. I don’t know where they get these things, but every time I go to this place I feel like I’m in the middle of an Alice in Wonderland episode. Either I’m shrinking or the food is growing.

Claimjumper is most famous for their Mother Lode cake. The Mother Lode is an insanely rich chocolate cake measuring about 16″ in diameter and about 20″ tall. You can gain weight just looking at it. I eat at this place quite a bit, but I can’t claim to have ever seen anyone actually order a slice. If portion sizes can be used for shock value, Claimjumper epitomizes it. They’re the Jerry Springer of the restaurant industry. Not that I’m complaining–I often eat two meals just off of what I take home, and the food is always excellent. You may be aware that Federal law requires restaurants to make nutritional information available upon request for the food they serve. I one requested the nutritional information on the Mother Lode. Total calories: 880,000.

That’s Claimjumper.

Anyway, my own selection was the black tie pasta, which is a combination of tortellini and bow tie pasta in a rich cream sauce. It’s completely decadent, and I enjoyed every bite. Oddly enough, the topic of conversation somehow got onto diets. Claimjumper is the anti-diet restaurant. But it seems my friend Dave and his wife Michelle on a self-imposed diet. They’re not supposed to eat any carbohydrates or sugars, which basically means no breads, cereals, and certainly no pasta. But they can eat all the meat and fat they like. In fact, their recommended breakfast is eggs and bacon. Kind of weird, but they claim this diet is used in hospitals to get heart patients in shape for surgery in a hurry. Almost as an additional twist of the knife, the waitress kept bringing plates of cheese bread to the table, a food Dave loves. By the time we were done, there were about 15 large pieces on various plates. At the end of the meal, the server invariably asks what (as opposed to if) you’ve got left to box up.

The conversation was pleasant and friendly. This was the first time I had seen Ken and Miriam since their wedding in December, so it was a good opportunity to hear about their honeymoon and the New Year’s Eve party they threw at their place. Miriam said she was a dishwashing fanatic because all the china and dishware was, of course, new. I think as the years go by we’ve become somehow more appreciative of each other as members of a group with a special bond.

Of course, before we left Kevin (the other birthday boy) and myself were subjected to a third-rate birthday song from the servers. Don’t they do that at all restaurants? It’s some sort of Health Department regulation, I think. Whey they do a surprise inspection, they check sanitation, food prep, and that you sing a dorky birthday song to customers. The desert they served, a cookies-’n-cream ice cream cake, was fabulous, as expected.

The worst part of the evening was battling the cold I’m stuck with. If feeding a cold is supposed to work, it sure backfired this night. After dinner I went to a walk-in clinic, sure that I had strep. Thankfully that turned out not to be the case. Despite that slight unpleasantness, my 98-99 holiday season is winding down to a pleasant though exhausted end. And just think–it a few months the stores’ll be pulling out decorations to start it all over again.

Usually the holidays are the busiest time of year. For everyone, yes–but for me especially. Choral music concerts are a lot of it. The Messiah, the Pacific Chorale’s annual Christmas concert, the annual Candlelight concert at the Performing Arts Center, caroling, opera rehearsals, etc. It all adds up.

But this year was going to be different. I skipped all the concerts, despite the fact that it’s just not Christmas for me unless I’m singing. This year I was going to cut way back and take time to enjoy the season. Do the Norman Rockwell thing, hang out with friends, call all the people I’ve callously ignored throughout the year, write personal Christmas cards to everyone. You get the sickeningly syrupy picture.

Well, Christmas is eight days away I just realized that my well-laid plans haven’t amounted to “jack squat”, as Chris Farley might say. In fact, I’m busier than I’ve ever been. And holiday shopping? Haven’t even started yet. I know a lot of other people feel this way. The holidays come and go, and by the time January arrives you’re exhausted and left with a scorching case of the flu, laid up in bed and wondering where all the time went.

Is there no way around it?

Maybe not. Perhaps the problem is that the holidays start earlier and earlier every year. I do believe that I actually saw Christmas decorations in some stores as early as mid-August.

I’m not going to give up, though. Some close friends are coming over next week for dinner and a casual evening; perhaps that will get me into the spirit.

It’s been a year since the the day the wedding didn’t happen, and I’m still alive. There were times, especially early on, when I thought I might not make it–but with the help of God and some great friends & family, here I am.

I almost didn’t notice that it had been a year! But I was driving around the North Lake today and realized that it was autumn, and that I missed it. More than usual, in fact. Then I remembered why I wasn’t able to enjoy it last year.

So to all those who have been there for me in those less-than-stellar times, thank you. You’ve been a blessing in so many ways. I don’t say it often enough, but I hope each of you knows that your support and continued friendship mean the world to me.

Vacation ‘98, Day Seven

Every vacation should end with a “recovery day”. This one did. Slept in like crazy, then went to look at new housing developments around Irvine. They’re trying to build stuff which doesn’t look like tract housing. I’m not sure they’ve totally succeeded, but I have to admit they’re trying very hard. Dinner was at the Crab Cooker in Newport Beach, followed by a stroll along the board walk. While waiting for a table, I paged through an O.C. Weekly.

I don’t know why I continue to read this paper. If it leaned anymore to the left it would end up on the right again through some sheer law of physics which must have been brought into existence simply to balance out the skewed perspective, rampant narcissism, and deflating pessimism about Orange County which only it can provide. And that’s on a good day. But at least it makes you think about what you believe. It would shock no one to learn that I often disagree with O.C. Weekly; but you gotta love any rag where they routinely use words like “fuck” and “bitch slap”. This particular issue contained an article on the evils of college courses via the Internet.

So Vacation ‘98 comes to an end. Doing a “local” vacation was kinda nice. Not only inexpensive, but really fun. There is so much to do in Southern California that this vacation could probably have continued for another two months and not run out of new stuff to do.

Vacation ‘98, Day Six

Someday I’ll laugh at the fact that I paid $14.00 for two tickets to see The Avengers. I really will.

Mind you, I’m not a harsh film critic. Very rarely do I see a film I really dislike, and most of the turkeys, like Spice World, I just avoid from the get-go. But The Avengers is one of the worst movies I’ve seen in a long time. Which is too bad, because I like the cast. I have to wonder how Uma Thurman and Ralph Fiennes could they have committed themselves to a script so bad. And Sean Connery, who will always be near and dear to my heart as the original James Bond, was absolutely ridiculous as the villanous Sir August. Who came up with the idea of having him prance around in a Scottish kilt? It was probably a decent film to begin with. Or maybe they signed on to the project based on the concept alone, and the execution was simply lacking. Either that, or the studio’s “testing” with sample audiences resulted in a bunch of changes.

Oh, who are we kidding. Even all that couldn’t have accounted for what I had to sit through tonight. Perhaps some things are better left as comic books.

The day wasn’t a total wash, however. I went to see an Angel game against the Royals. I was planning on buying tickets for the “good” seats near home plate, but as it turns out there was no need! No sooner did I walk up to the ticket booth than a gentleman who was passing by gave me a free ticket right behind home plate! I ended up sitting next to him during the game. Apparently he has four seats and this particular evening it was just he and his wife. It was a great game, perfect weather, and to top it all off the Angels won while Texas lost. So the Angels are now 2.5 games in front of Texas in their division! Will this be their year? Probably not, but it’s looking good so far.

This was my first time at the Big A (or, as it’s now officially named, Edison International Field). I love the renovation. They repainted the stadium in a dark green & light tan scheme which looks great. There’s a large water fountain and rock sculpture outside the center field fence, and they set off a huge water display whenever the home team hits a dinger. I also learned that they only light the famous 200 foot high “A” only when the Angels win. I thought that was a nice touch, because Angel Stadium is located at the junction of the 57, 22, and I-5 freeways, so you can see if the Angels won their last game as you drive through the area.

Today, there’s not much chance to sit on one’s front porch and chat with the neighbors. It’s just not something we do, sad as that is. That’s why, as much as I love basketball and football, to me baseball will always be the Great American Pastime. There’s no experience quite so relaxing as sitting in a major league stadium with a bunch of friends, eating peanuts, hotdogs, and enjoying the crack of the bat and the smell of freshly cut grass. That’s America, baby.

Vacation ‘98, Day Five

The Aquarium of the Pacific , located in Long Beach, has been touted as another Morrow Bay Aquarium. That tends to create some pretty high expectations; Morrow Bay is one of the world’s greatest aquariums.

I tried to visit the Aquarium of the Pacific a while back–a week after opened–and when I drove up, the ticket line was six abreast and stretched for about a quarter of a mile. So I ditched that action and went to the Queen Mary instead. I love the Queen Mary. Unless you’ve got six thousand dollars and can get a berth on the QE2, there’s just no sailing like that anymore.

Initially the Aquarium was kind of a let down after Sea World. Sure, it had some fascinating stuff. The sea turtle exhibit was great. But I found that the aquarium really does live up to it’s name: it concentrates mainly on the sea life of the Pacific Ocean. After lunch I got to the good stuff, especially living coral. Coral never excited me until visiting the Aquarium. We learned about the complexities of creating a self-sustaining salt water aquarium from a very patient volunteer who was working there.

Apparently they started a year before opening because salt water aquariums require specific time and elements to generate a proper habitat. I snapped a picture of some giant crabs which were probably five feet in diameter. If you look carefully at the photos, you’ll note the size of the crab in relation to the water bottle sitting next to the glass.

Vacation ‘98, Day Four

A snag. The plan for today was to visit the new Getty Museum complex in Los Angeles. Unfortunately, it’s already booked to the end of the year.

So, in the same cultured and heady spirit of the great artistic masters, I endeavored to select something similar as a replacement. A place of learning, a place of priceless works of art in the midst of beautiful gardens and architecture high above the metropolis. In other words, Magic Mountain.

The good fortune I’ve been having on this vacation continued today. This time I were smart and avoided the heat by getting there late (around 2:00 p.m.), and surprisingly there was nobody at the park! Not a line to be found anywhere. I ended up riding Viper six times, Riddler’s Revenge (the hottest new ride) twice, and so on. The only bummer was that Flashback, my favorite coaster, was closed. I also hit Colossus, Raging Rapids (got totally soaked), Psyclone (aka the PAIN machine), Buccaneer (yawn), Revolution, and Freefall. Batman was also closed for some reason. Probably weather. There was a major downpour around 5 p.m. which lasted for about 30 minutes, but again, it all worked in my favor. I had time to eat, then play carnival games. I won a stuffed Toucan bird on my first try. Well, actually I didn’t WIN it. The game malfunctioned and so I won by default. Plus, as you must know by now, I love the rain. It was a great day, no exhaustion, no burns, just a great day.

And for the comic event of the day, I got trapped on the newest roller coaster, Riddler’s Revenge, and had to wait for about 20 minutes while they figured out how to free us.

I don’t know why people insist on getting to theme parks, zoos, etc. the moment they open. And the ones who stay till closing time weather they want to or not are just nuts. By then you’re exhausted and miserable. It’s so much nicer to get there late, avoid the heat and crowds, and enjoy yourself.

I swear, I’m getting old. My father could have written that last paragraph.

Upon returning to Irvine, I found the sky was grey there too, but for a different reason: there were huge forest fires burning nearby in Santiago Canyon. Ash covered everything. It looks like the day after a nuclear war.

Vacation ‘98, Day Three

God may have rested on the seventh day, but hey, I’m only human. So after Sea World and the San Diego Zoo, I did the geriatric thing today and stayed inside. It wouldn’t have been so bad were it not for the heat. I do believe I picked the hottest time of the year to engage in all these outdoor activities. The “dog days of August” appear to be unaware that we’ve ventured into September.

Aww, what the hell–I’ll just blame it on El Nino. Seems to be a good catch-all for weather related ailments this year.

Vacation 1998, Day Two

Day two! Still in San Diego, spent the night at the Hanalei Hotel, a halfway swanky place with a perfect halfway location between Sea World and Day Two destination: the San Diego Zoo. It was another scorcher of a day (100+ degrees with 40-50 percent humidity), but did that stop me? Hell no! We were once again blessed with a small crowd at the park.

I love L.A., but the San Diego Zoo is puts the L.A. Zoo to shame. If nothing else, they have two Giant Pandas, which are on loan from China for 10 years. Talk about pampered! The pandas had fresh veggies, luxurious habitats, water vapor misters to keep them cool, and everyone was instructed to be extremely quiet so as not to disturb them.

Contrast that with the monkeys. They didn’t seem to like people, but Iwalked up to the railing to get a better look. All of a sudden one of the primates leaped out, bouncing off the fence and back onto his perch while baring his teeth at her. It should have been scary, but it was really sort of funny. Any movement we made was interpreted as a threat by this guy. Any time I’d approach the railing he’d go nuts. Did I smell bad or something?

I waved at him, and in return he started to hit himself on the head over and over again; then, his leg spontaneously came up and attacked him. He grappled with his leg like it was some sort of voodoo doll… all I could do was stand there, laughing at it all. Of course, this only upset him more, and he started making the teeth-baring faces again. I admit, I should have just left, but it was the funniest thing I’ve ever seen. So much as a raised eyebrow on my part resulted in a manly show of force from the monkey. And Lord help you if you decided to actually talk to him! Then he really went nuts. I decided it would be best to get out of there before a Zoo employee saw me I got tossed out of the park.

The next sign I saw after leaving the Upset Monkey said something like: “Please do not tease, torture, torment, upset, bother, molest, touch, irritate, or entice the animals.”

The San Diego Zoo always makes for a long day, because it’s located in a warm area of the county, and it’s very hilly. Many of the paths are too steep for wheelchairs or anyone not in half-way decent condition. After two long days in the sun (two of the hottest, most humid days of an El Nino summer, I might add), I was ready for some indoor time to relax and regroup. So back to Orange County we go…

It’s here, it’s here!! Vacation. I can’t believe it. I haven’t had a week-long vacation in years, and boy am I due.

I’m off to a little place a like to call “nowhere”. This is gonna be a local vacation, but it might as well be in the Amazon, because as of now the pager and cellphone are off, the ringers on all the phones are off, the computer is off, and I’m not contacting anyone in the outside world.

The summer of George started today with a visit to Sea World in San Diego. As much as I dislike theme parks, this one is not bad–especially today. The usual summer crowds were nowhere to be found.

The one thing I couldn’t control was the weather, and man was it hot. I slathered SPF 45 sunscreen all over myself and still got burned.

Sea World has a new Florida manatee exhibit. I’d never seen one of these things up close before. They are adorable and ever so gentle. Unfortunately, manatees are also slow moving creatures which live near the surface. And as a result many of them are injured or killed by propeller blades from passing boats. I saw the deep cuts made into the back of one rescued manatee by a prop. It wasn’t pretty. There are only 3,000 of them left on the planet.

But the best part was the “hands on” stuff. Sea World has become much more interactive over the past few years. For example, I spent about 20 minutes petting bat rays. I loved rays–they were so friendly and graceful. The bay ray pool was large enough that they could have avoided the edges (and therefore, any human contact) if they’d wanted to, but they were happy to swim around the perimeter and let dozens of hands pet, rub, scratch, and grab at them. I was struck by how aviary they are–as if at any instant they might zoom out of the water and take flight with those massive wing-like bodies. Under the water the appear somewhat fragile, moving with great economy in perpetual motion through the clear, wavy fluid–but once you lay a hand on them, you realize that you probably couldn’t stop them even if you tried. Their bodies are cartilage surrounded by masses of sheer muscle. If they want to flap their wings, you can grab at them all day, they’ll just keep on movin’. I’m sure Sea World would have considered it to be in poor taste if I’d attempted to smuggle a 40 lb. bat ray out of the park.

One of the most intelligent creatures in the ocean is the dolphin, so I parted with about $10 in exchange for a handful of anchovies to feed them. You don’t have to feed them to pet ‘em–in theory. In reality though, they’re remarkably elusive for an animal with such a people-centric reputation. As long as you have food, you’re their best friend. Once you run out of merchandise, though, they’ve never heard of you.

Come to think of it, that is very human behavior.

One of the dolphins (we named him Grumpy) was hugely obese. I mean, this was the only dolphin I’ve ever seen that had wrinkles and rolls of fat all over his body! True to his name, he wasn’t even friendly while you were feeding him. The World According to Grumpy was this: feed me, but don’t touch me.

The last big interactive exhibit was the seal/sea lion pool. They were a blast! The harbor seals would actually wave at you, turn in circles, and sing for food. I love them–in fact, whenever I’m in San Francisco (which has been every February for the past several years, but that’s a different story) I always make time to visit Pier 39. A rookery of 70 or 80 California sea lions has commandeered part of the dock there. Humans don’t interact with them, but they are plenty entertaining–pushing each other off the docks, playing King of the Hill, and posing for the crowd (actually they’re “thermoregulating” their body temperature, but I’d rather put a human spin on it).

Toward the end of the day I was meandering around the park and though to myself that it would be a dream come true to swim with the dolphins. Just then I saw a sign that said “DOLPHIN INTERACTION PROGRAM — Swim with the dolphins!”

What are the odds?

They have a program that allows normal people to swim with the dolphins and learn about them from their individual trainer. It’s expensive, but I thought it was such a great opportunity! How often in life do you get the chance to live out a dream like that? There were no more sessions available that day, but we got a special dispensation from The Pope of Sea World to come back to the park another day and do it.

I think there’s something wrong withh me, because more and more lately I just cannot make a choice. I am paralyzed with indecision.

Okay, this is a very minor example–which makes it all the more ridiculous–but I have been trying to come up with a new design for this site. And I can’t decide on anything I wanted to redesign it to look better at 1024×768 and above, because 17″ monitors are becoming the standard for new computers. I use one at 800×600, but I read with incredulity a C|NET article suggesting a 17″ monitor was more than sufficient for use at 1280 by 1024 pixels. Perhaps they should read an article on the leading causes of legal blindness.

But I digress. Indecision just took all the fun out of the re-design. The more I took the site apart, the more time I spent just staring at all these half-constructed ideas I abandoned and what was left of my web site. It was bugging me to the point where I was grinding my teeth in frustration. It’s not about people reading this stuff either. I’ve seen the logs, I know no one visits this site. The doors to the House are closed, the lights are off and I’m the only one here. Perhaps I’m in a bad part of town. What if I sold the House and moved to Newport Beach or Malibu? Naaaaaaah. Who’d wanna live in a multi-million dollar house on the beach, surrounded by movie stars, paroled junk bond brokers, raging parties, and shapely blonds with a knack for silicon? I mean, really.

The inability to just choose happens with other things too. Frustrating as hell. If I had one wish it would be that I could get back all the time in my life I’ve spend in indecision. Well, that wouldn’t really be my wish if I only had one (unless I could use that wish to wish for more wishes, of course). But if I had, say, 13 or 14 wishes, that one would definitely be in there. It would come right after the wish that Paul Moyer would stop anchoring the Channel 4 News in Los Angeles, because frankly the man must be frightening little children with those oddly chapped lips and his unique way of turning the most mundane “news” item into proclamation of “disaster” or make a “hero” out of people who do nothing more than fix a hang nail on a six year old.

But as I was saying. Indecision. Not a good thing.

Oh yeah. Sometimes I also have trouble staying on topic. Hmmm.

A day of reflection. A day of family conflict too, but I’ve decided that’s inevitable. It’s all part and parcel of being human. Not that I’m making any excuses for their not working things out, mind you.

I drove to Point Loma Military Cemetery for the funeral service of a family member. Not someone I knew terribly well or had spent a lot of time with. In fact, John Christofferson was I person I didn’t know at all. He was such a quiet guy. Sure, I had spent time at his home, had exchanged the usual meaningless banter about this or that. But to claim to have really known him would be an exercise in self-deception.

Nevertheless, the memorial service for John and his late wife was very moving. Full military honors. Honor guard, taps being played after the sharp crack of a uniformly fired series of rifles had been absorbed by the cloudless sky. The presentation of the flag to the next-of-kin. Even the shell casings were preserved to mark the event.

I’ve seen military/state funerals on television, and always wondered what was said at the moment the flag was presented to the survivor. Essentially it’s an acknowledgement of their loss and the “presentation of the flag as a token of thanks from a grateful nation.” Isn’t it odd how a few words from an ordinary naval midshipman can somehow put the whole world back into it’s proper order, if only for a moment? I was very surprised at what he said, and my reaction to it. This honor guard performs a memorial service at that site every hour of every day. I’m sure he’s said those words hundreds if not thousands of times. Yet it was not just lip service. I can spot false platitudes blindfolded at a hundred paces with the greatest of ease. It’s a gift.

I hate cemeteries and graveyards. Did you know that? I’ve been to too many funerals, spent to many hours in them for someone my age. The last thing I would ever want to do is wander around one. But at Point Loma it was actually calming. It was cathartic to see the dignity and honor with which those who served our country are laid to rest, how their final resting places are cared for. How the most beautiful vantage point in San Diego, and perhaps the whole country, was not relegated to the developer with the fattest checkbook but rather the ones who really paid the most for each square foot of that land.

In keeping with the military tradition of uniformity, each of the granite headstones is exactly the same size and shape. From the loftiest admirals to the lowliest ensigns, everyone is treated equally. Jim pointed out that he liked the granite headstones because they presented a physical manifestation of the cost of war. With over 70,000 veterans are buried at Point Loma, I had to agree. I’ve got some photos on an as-yet unfinished roll of film. Once they’re developed I’ll post them here so you can see what I’m talking about. For now, just imagine an army of gravestones dotting the rolling hills as far as the eye can see… a cool breeze wafting through precisely placed rows, one after the other, without end until freshly cut green grass meets blue ocean.

Well, everyone’s favorite world-class NASCAR precision driver has made yet another exhilarating trip to the Winner’s Circle.

I was feeling so good. The strike for Pick Up Ax had gone very smoothly and only taken about four hours. Everything was accounted for, cleaned up and on it’s way to storage. So I’m on my way to Angstrom Stage Lighting to return the instruments we had rented for the show, and after dropping everything off I’m told that we’re missing three adapters and two spare lamps. Total hit: about $175.00.

Then, as I was leaving, I backed my Eclipse into a steel pole. Nice. Smashed the right rear tail lamp and scraped up the rear side pretty good. There’s more damage to the car, but you get the picture. And the total estimate for repairing it is exactly $34 over my deductible.

After I got back home, I had a surprise package from Microsoft on my doorstep. A complimentary copy of the final release version of Windows 98. It seemed almost too good to be true. That’s probably because it was. The installation went very poorly to say the least, and I ended up having to delete the registry in order to get the system going at all. The install applet said it would take about 30-60 minutes to complete the installation, but because I was forced to use slower DOS drivers for the CD-ROM, it ended up taking more than two hours, and I had to install several times.

Finally, the HP Scanjet 4p would not show up in the hardware detect. Couldn’t manually install it. After struggling with it for about a day and a half, I finally wiped out the scanner drivers and the registry entries for the Scanjet and SCSI card with RegEdit, then reinstalled Windows 98 one final time. Thankfully that did the trick. Total hit: about 16 hours of work time lost. Now that Win98 is behaving itself I have to say it’s a big improvement over 95.

But enough about that. A big trip is coming up. New Hampshire, for my cousin’s high school graduation. It’s quite a sojourn. First you fly to Boston, then drive north for about three hours until you reach a Grover’s Corners knockoff called Littleton. I’ve only been back there once. Although there’s a lot of respect there, I’m too much of a West Coast native to really enjoy the New England style. I’m not really looking foward to the trip, but I’m not dreading it either. It’ll be good to be away from the ringing phones and incessant e-mail and yes, even the web for a few days. Maybe I’ll have some pictures when I get back.

Somehow I inadvertently planned things so that I’ll be driving out of Logan airport at 5 p.m. on a Friday. If you think L.A. traffic is bad, just take a gander over to Boston. You’ll never complain about “gridlock” in Southern California again.

Los Angeles grew up in the mid-late 20th century–the century of the automobile. Boston matured as a metropolitan area more than two hundred years before Henry Ford was even born. As a result, two hours in L.A. traffic will move you 50 miles. The same two hours in Boston might not move you even a single mile. Bean Town is a much smaller place, to be sure. But that doesn’t make it hurt any less.

Memorial Day is the official American barbeque day. I honestly think that’s what it means to a lot of Americans. Either that, or just another random name for a three-day weekend.

Holidays are such funny things. Did you spend any time toda