Hallowed day of the sciences

Tis Pi Day! Do celebratory math or make decadent pastry that involves triangles, approximately spheroid fruit, and the one original ichor of the science gods who govern undergraduate life.

In unrelated news, I'm going to try to process the ideas that (a) Ridley Scott is doing a Robin Hood movie; (b) Russell Crowe will be stepping into the title role, following in the eminent footsteps of Kevin Costner; (c) Scott has cast a genuine musician as Alan-a-Dale; and (d) it's actually kind of a perfect casting choice: Alan Doyle, from Newfoundland's Great Big Sea. I first saw the band at Iota, which holds 50 people on a good day, and these days they sell out the Lisner, so I've followed them for a goodly bit of time, and I'm pleased to see them getting more recognition than the thirty-second looped hack job in "The Shipping News" (which, okay, I love me some Judi Dench rocking the peculiar NF accent, but Kevin Spacey needs a smacking). Hurrah for local boys making good, or at least making it to the screen.

Patience at the Monument

Inauguration Day approached DC like the standard blizzard warnings, with nobody really knowing what to expect and a general sense of festive bracing-for-the-apocalypse, we're-all-in-this-together, contingency-plans-ahoy.

My contingency plans were scuttled: AFI ran out of its tickets to watch the whole show for free at the huge Silver Theater before IE and I could get ours, and IE got a last-minute ticket to the Silver Zone and canceled the brunch/watch party she was planning. La Mère and I agreed to avoid the Metro and to bus it down 16th Street instead, although I attached a contractual rider that I was out of the party if more than three buses packed to the gills went by.

To its credit, though, WMATA did really well with the buses, and after waiting maaaybe four minutes we shared a merry ride downtown with the previously mentioned Canuck cutie and about 50 other people before being dumped at M Street, where holy shit it was the many people. The local bike group was valeting madly away, and the vendors were selling every possible bit of Obama swag that could be pinned to, wrapped around, yanked over, or otherwise donned by the masses in public. We joined the river of humanity flowing along L toward downtown, and at some point—maybe on 18th?—I turned to look back up the hill, prompting the first of many startled exclamations that there were, in fact, more people than I thought lived in DC following us. And we were late, having not gotten out of bed until 7 AM; the really dedicated people were already ensconced on the Mall.

We followed the crowds onto the Washington Monument grounds, which has enough of a hill that we could see most of the Mall and get a good view of a Jumbotron (the only way most of us saw or heard anything). Finding a place was a bit like being a fruit bit dropped into jello: We moved until we couldn't go forward any more, and shortly thereafter the crowd behind us solidified.

It was of course a very partisan group, with the "hey hey, goodbye"-ing to former President Bush and huge cheers for the Clintons and the Obamas. There was some quiet grumbling about Rick Warren (whose dreary presentation added little to the show and who should've been supplanted by Reverend Lowery), though the most eloquent reaction I saw came from the couple behind me, who silently raised a gauze rainbow scarf about their heads. And when the John Williams piece was played, my God. Who would have thought so many people could be so quiet?

The sound system was drastically out of sync with the visual, so there was some lag to our reactions relative to those further up the Mall. Cheers during Obama's speech were enthusiastic but short, since everyone wanted to hear as much as possible; the closed captioning was a nice gesture but not easy to read. Big cheers for the line about restoring science to American life (about damn time), huge cheers for the one about not sacrificing our values for security, and a murmur of surprise when "nonbelievers" were included in the list of citizens. Around this point I realized that my feet were slowly freezing solid—the morning's coffee was also a reality, but the prospect of portajons in 20-degree weather was sufficient to make me think of England—and as soon as the address was over we joined the throngs fleeing the inauguration poem. We were not alone.

The oddest part about this mobscene wasn't that it was ethnically heterogenous, or incredibly warmly dressed, or even that it didn't have any protesters; it was how gentle everyone was with their neighbors. People whose flags obscured the view of the monster screen were asked politely to put them down once the ceremonies began; they apologized promptly and did so; people who sat down to cram new heaters into their shoes didn't find their places usurped; when La Mère stumbled as we left, a stranger steadied her before moving on. Given the cold, the poor instructions for exiting, and the sheer masses of humanity, I'd expected at least some grousing, but no. "There's a look," said La Mère as we left. "Heavily dressed, tired but pleased, and doggedly trudging." The evening's dinner and pints at a local Irish bar went down very gratefully; being chilly and excited for that long takes it out of you.

I had teased La Mère that she was so bent on joining the throngs because she hadn't gotten to the Election Night parties. "No," she said firmly. "It's one thing I did and another I didn't. When the Iran hostages were released, they took them on buses from the airport to DC, and people lined the route to cheer for them. I was there for that, and I've always been glad I did. But when Pope JPII was in town, I didn't go, and I've always regretted it. So this is a case of not wanting to regret this, and if you don't want to join me, that's fine. But I live next to something that people are flying across the country to see, and I. Am. Going." And so we did.

Everyone's a winner

Not only did I get me a brand-new President this week and survive an OTTB's racing-days flashback ("AAAAAGH, Lear, you know I'm too heavy to be an exercise rider even if I am trying to post your canter, so just slow the hell down AAAAGH!"), Spotted Sparrow informs me that I won her January giveaway, a set of 80s-inspired Valentine's Day cards. Hurrah!

I am not a Valentiney person in general—not that I'm given to spending the day moping around in black, I just don't much care for dealing with the logistical hassles of sharing a day of affection with so many other people—but sometimes I make exceptions. The year there were Lord of the Rings valentines I went to three WalMarts in search of them, because nothing was going to keep me from giving out scruffy Aragorn "be my honey" cards. Another year I ended up dancing at a Last Train Home show at the Barns of Wolf Trap, spinning across that gorgeous wood floor under the mirror-ball lights, at a show that only happened to be on Valentine's Day (and for which frontman Eric Brace very kindly got comp tickets for Sunflake, who was suffering the effects of a wretched breakup and in no mood to stay home alone on a Saturday V-Day, sold-out show be damned). Other years, I've found the least romantic and therefore least crowded bar in town and solved the world's problems over drinks with friends.

This year the trouble will be deciding whether to give these cards away or to frame them for keepsies. If you're lookin' for romancin', give some thought to picking up a few of Sparrow's cards or naughty tickets for your sweetie.

On the fourth day of Christmas

Chilly rain and raw winds notwithstanding (and, come oooooon, if it's going to be cold and precipitating, can we not get a little snow around here?), Christmas was lovely. The folks had decorated the tree to a fare-thee-well, though La Mère had to requisition a bunch of replacements for the gold origami cranes that I made several years ago, and there was festive food of the dairy and carnivy varieties. I went to the early service, while Il Padre served the later one, so Seesterperson and I whiled away the wait for him by replacing key words in carols with "cheese." Our soulful "Christmas Cheese, O, Christmas Cheese" is destined to become a classic.

As has become tradition, La Mère declared that we'd be giving and getting very few presents this year, and as usual her plans were scuppered before they were announced. The living room was awash in wrapping paper and bows, because while we are firm believers in recycling gift boxes (Il Padre was taken aback to get a gift card and a "A Wok for All Seasons" pot holder in a holographic Bath and Bodyworks box), we don't have much truck with ironing out the paper and ribbons for reuse. It's somehow more satisfying to have to rummage around a pile of wadded-up paper to find, say, the box of marzipan fruit, while Il Padre hangs candy canes off his ears and Seesterperson belts out, "Christmas Christmas cheese is here, Time for love and time for beer!" or La Mère interprets, "Hogswatch is coming, the goose is getting fat. Please put a dollar in the old man's hat. If you haven't got a dollar, a penny will do; if you haven't got a penny then murfleflrurblmf!"

To my relief, because my record on gifts for her is about 50-50, Seesterperson liked the Loyal Army shirts I got her in San Francisco; poor 5*joe had looked agonizingly uncomfortable as RockNinja and I rifled through the store's stacks of cutesy shirts, gamely holding our bags and not bolting out of the shop to Amoeba Records. We did go to Amoeba eventually (RN: "Lots of stores have a world music section, and some even have an African section, but I don't remember being in one that had a Senegalese rap section, so...WIN!"), whence Il Padre got a collection of all sorts of Georgian music. La Mère liked the deerskin purse I got her, though she did correctly suss out that I'd bought it largely because I'm worried that she'll steal the one I've carried for the last few years (Potomac Leather, for all your fine tanning needs). I had to dig my own self out from under a pile of excellent gifts: Lush bath goodies, L'Occitane unguents, a HappyLite, cupcaking supplies sufficient to induce instant sugar shock, a book on piracy, and various small candy treats. Fun was had by all.

Unfortunately, I'm too old to believe in Santa, so I'm 90% sure that the cold germs that are now manifesting themselves were really from Il Padre. Bah snorfle.

Lazy bloggin'

Also known as big pimpin', also known as "someone else wrote it better and I'm not going to bother competing or writing something to complement it, I'm just gonna link to it": Seesterperson sums up the season. I too have last-minute wrapping to get done tonight, but for obvious reasons I cannot discuss the ribboning issues posed by, f'rinstance, Seesterperson's new Peruvian hairless puppy.

As for the seasonal affective cures she proposes, I admit that I do not yet have a sun lamp, despite annual protestations that I'm totally getting one this year, and that I got the dilute Slavic genes, since my winter-blues high-proof straight potable of choice is Macallan rather than vodka or some other white samogon. Good scotch is sufficiently engrossing as to make conversation unnecessary, rendering it the ideal drink for sipping as you meditate on whether a good bonfire might help bring back the sun. This is when a trip to the High Atlas starts to sound extremely appealing.

[ETA: Santa brought me a sun lamp. Whining does work!]

Barrages of applause

It's about time that there was some good news for Terry Pratchett—excuse me, Sir Terry Pratchett—on this, the eve of the Year of the Pensive Hare.

I very much want to post one of my squintillion favorite Richard Wilbur poems here, but considering the lack of written permission from the publisher blah blah blah, I'll just link to "Year's End" here. It's beautiful and dark, and it reminds me of the late and much lamented Johnny Cunningham, who once summed up the "dank spirit of a proper Celtic holiday season" in his inimitable brogue: "Ye're born en pein. Ya live en feir. Ya die aloone. [beat] Mairy Christmas."

Happy New Year to all, drive carefully, eat a lot, drink in moderation (champagne hangovers are vicious unforgiving things), and I'll hope to see everyone when the calendar has flipped.

Well, I woke up today, and the world seemed a restless place

From Zooborns.com

For those not celebrating on January 7, best wishes for a happy Christmas Eve, a happy third night of Hannukah, and a joyous return of the sun. Y'all otter know you're loved.

Baila, baila

The Silver Spring Thanksgiving Parade has an agreeably funky local feeling. I don't always go, because it's on a Saturday morning and I belong to the Church of the Sacred Lie-In, but when I have crawled out of bed in time I've enjoyed myself. You get the might-as-well-be anonymous councilmembers perched on the back of convertibles, marching bands from the various area schools and the Washington football team, assorted scout troops, and, eventually, Santa. It's cute but a little staid, or at least it used to be.

Because now, the Bolivian dance troupes have discovered the parade, and these days it's like Philly's Mummers Parade by way of the Andes, which is to say sparkly, jingly, and sometimes deeply strange. It can also occasion profound audience sympathy. Flying Lily mentioned the other day that her students were wearing shorts on a 13-degree day; is that better or worse than having to shimmy down the street in a miniskirt when it's 20 degrees with the windchill? Discuss.

After the parade, most of the girls wrapped heavy blankets around their waists. You wouldn't have known it to watch them dance, but they were definitely feeling the cold.

ETA: I eventually retreated into Nicaro, home of the dreaded Negroni debacle, for brunch second breakfast and general thawing out; the restaurant's huge window onto Georgia meant that I could enjoy the parade while restoring feeling to my fingers and toes, not to mention while narfing down an omelet full of asparagus and brie and, oh God, the free brunch offer of hot beignets with creme fraiche. AND they offer dessert after brunch. How can a poor girl stand such times and live?

And now for something completely different

Photocred to JackZodiac

A rare year, in that I had and executed a costume idea, mostly in honor of the Zodiacs' willingness to host a fantastic party. Scrubs and hat were from a local costume chain; the vampy claws were an impulse buy in RiteAid. They looked cool but drove me nuts the entire night. Mental note: no acrylics for this witch. They get in the way when you're trying to go through a box of Christopher Elbow truffles like locusts through the seven-year harvest.

Excuse me, rum and WHAT?

Ah, the idiocies of procrastination. I spent much of the holiday weekend hunched over the computer, frantically seeking whereat to lay my head during my three nights in Quebec City. The confluence of the high season, a religious festival, and, oh right, the town's 400th anniversary meant that the pickings were supermodel thin. I finally found two places that could offer me a (charmant) roof, but calling the one that required telephonic reservations struck me down with utter mental paralysis when the receptionist greeted me in French. Contrary to earlier assertions, I do speak enough pidgin francais to make myself understood, but every word of it vanished in fickle Gallic fashion when I heard the crisp sing-song, "Bonjour!" Anecdotal data suggests that the cure for linguistic fumbling is but a nip of dutch courage away, so if my brain doesn't pick up some slack I am going to be cirrhotic by the time I get home.

I finally managed to dig up a review of the ride I'll be taking between sessions in the QC, and holy peepers, the metric system dun betrayed me: 170 km works out to be real distance. My packing list has been hastily revised to include my knee braces, assorted bandages and unguents, a couple-five chemical heat packs, and the full analgesicopeia, all of which have saved my bacon on past trips. That same review led me to anecdotal tales of "caribou," sometimes described as "jus de caribou," which originally (and apocryphally, one suspects) consisted of cheap whiskey and reindeer blood but now is made from rum, maple syrup, and port. Picture it: I'm limping through the customs line, hauling a bag reeking of horse, smoked trout, and Tiger Balm, and malaproppin' en francais all over the place. This oughta be fun.

In ink-removing news, the laser burns are fading and no longer look like hickeys or spider bites. The tattoos themselves are clearer than they've been in years, except that they are now freckle-colored, presumably because the macrophages are jamming in to chew up the inky fragments. Thanks again to everyone who posted comments or sent messages (the lurkers! they support me in e-mail! and in the Annals of Internal Medicine!). May you all get to do something similarly happy-making in the near future.

Ah, America: You are great. But you are weird

Consumer fireworks, yea unto the weensiest sparklers, are illegal in this county. Judging by the current noise level, though, the ban only ups the ante: If you're going to break the law, you want to break it long and loud. Good job, team; just watch the fingers. Happy Fourth!