Welcome, Knightley!

There’s been some confusion amongst the family and friends about the status, number, and make of our new family member, so I thought I should clear up whatever I could.

• The cat’s name is Knightley. However, that is subject to change. If you remember, Emma was first named Flannery, but I kept calling her “Fannie,” which is one of the Morefield’s cats. Other names that rose to the top of our lists were: Spike, Thursday, and Marlowe. Sherry seems to be edging towards Marlowe should Knightley fall through. Of course, much of this will be moot since…
• Knightly is about 2 years old. He was brought to the Humane Society as a stray, so the folks there didn’t have any real gauge of his age. During the check-up with the vet, he concluded that Knightley was roughly 2 years old. This makes him the same age as Emma. He is a tad bit bigger, weighing in at 8.1 lbs to Emma’s 7.5.
• Knightley is a boy. In fact, he is very, very much a boy. I’ve never seen a cat with such large…well, you know. Thus far, the only other think about his maleness is that his urine STINKS TO HIGH HEAVEN. Fortunately, he keeps his stink in the box. I have a feeling the Truffin litterboxes will be cleaner than they have ever been. There was a small concern that people might think we named him after Keira Knightley. While Keira is a fine actress with certain feline characteristics, she is a GIRL. We named Knightley after the character in the Jane Austen novel Emma. See, Emma and Mr. Knightley.
• I don’t believe that Knightley has stopped purring since we brought him home on Thursday. He is an extremely sweet cat who is always looking to have his head rubbed and to cuddle up. Don’t know yet if this is normal or if he’s just really happy to be out of the shelter.
• Emma has been doing as well as might be expected. She still hisses at him every chance she gets, but they have spent much time in the same room together, and Knightley seems to be accepting the fact that Emma is in charge.
• We have only adopted ONE cat at this time. Sherry saw a very engergetic yet sad orange tabby kitten while we were picking up Knightley; she very much wanted to bring her home. I thought it best to a) only bring one cat at a time into the house and b) only have two cats for reasons of smell and my allergies.
• We did go into the selection process wondering if we should get another orange tabby. We dearly loved our Tigger, and we’ve both seen other orange tabbies that were wonderful. In the end, however, we just spent time with the available cats and let them speak to us. Mr. Knightly won us over.

Well, that’s about it. We take him back to the vet in two weeks for his final round of shots, but right now we’re just getting to know each other.

2006 Glen: Arrival

Rolled out of bed this morning around 4am so that we could be on the road by 5. The new cat–whose arrival and name need a separate post–was totally baffled but very happy that we were up at such an early time to amuse him. It wasn’t until we were on the Turnpike that I realized that I’d forgotten my waterbottle and beltstrap; one doesn’t go without a water bottle in Santa Fe; looks like I’ll have to buy one. We swung through the Meijer’s to pick up Wade, and then we were off to an uneventful drop-off at the Detroit airport. Sherry and Wade proceeded on to IKEA while I checked my luggage and found my gate.

While we were driving, Sherry and I discussed how/when/if the romance of air travel had worn off. For Sherry, her horrendous trip to Boston last spring was the kicker that took the sheen off. Beth has been jetting all over the place like crazy for her job, and we bet there’s precious little romance left in her eyes for the old jet-setting. I thought I might be over it. I’ve flown enough that I don’t listen to the flight attendant speech, and today I caught myself doing the in-flight magazine crossword puzzle during takeoff; I’ve also had my share of layover horrors and delayed flights and screaming/kicking children. Why, my flight today from Chicago to Albequerque was a perfect example of a flight that could take off the sheen:

After a delightful trip from Detroit to Chicago, I found myself in the next-to-last row of a Boeing MD-80. I was in the aisle seat, but that didn’t matter since the only view out the side windows was of two big engines. I settled back in my seat and commenced to reading my manuscripts for the Glen. As soon as the pilot turned off the fasten seat belt sign, an endless stream of people began to trudge back to the restrooms located 5 feet away from back. It didn’t stop. For the next two hours, there was never less than three people standing in the aisle waiting–sometimes with puckered faces and squeezed knees–to relieve themselves in the two water closets. After a while, it started to get to me, the thought of person after person sitting their hot tushies on the seat and eliminating waste. How much could the plane hold? When would they stop? Didn’t they go before we took off? I’ve never felt so intensely that I was in the rear end of the plane. If this didn’t take the romance out of flying, what would?

And yet it didn’t. I still got a charge out of the fact that my first flight left at 8:45, I traveled for 5 hours, and I arrived in NM at 11:45. I’m flying faster than TIME, baby! (Yes, I know I should never use ‘baby’ as an intensifier. It makes me look silly.) While I was waiting in Chicago, a young boy got of another flight and stood shining as his grandmother took his picture with the pilot. He was so excited to fly. At the terminal in Detroit, they’ve got a quilt hanging up that depicts various historic moments in American Airlines history: the end of the prop age, the 747, “coffee, tea, or milk.” It was a reminder of the glamorous and pioneering past not only of AA but of the whole industry. And even if the surroundings are stale, there’s always an endless sea of people going and coming. Whether its the ebb and flow of commerce or the joy of people on vacation, people are moving with purpose. You never see someone at the airport who’s wandering about aimlessly; or if they are, they’re doing it as an adventure.

So, yeah, I still get excited when I board a plane and glimpse the cockpit on my way to the sardine can section. I still am a bit put out that folks don’t dress nicer on planes. And I still get a little bit excited when I get to fly.

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On the shuttle van from Albequerque to Santa Fe, I sat next to a guy who was also going to the Glen. Actually, there were 7 of us on the shuttle. The woman on my right was one of the odd ones who wasn’t; she was a chinese-american woman who was “spending her son’s inheritance.” She was from the San Francisco area and was in Santa Fe to see the opera. At any rate, the gentleman next to me had recently graduated from Ohio State’s MFA program, and had Erin McGraw as an advisee; he also knew one of the fiction writers from last year who had been a student at Brown. The connection there was that he and his wife had worked as Inter-Varsity staff for 12 years at Brown. He had dropped out of the ministry to write. We had a good talk, being thankful for the kind of encouragement IMAGE and the Glen provides.

Well, I’m settled into my room. This year I’m in Driscoll and have a balcony that overlooks the mountains. I haven’t met my suite-mate yet, but I did see Sara Zarr. For now, I think I’m going to write up a post about the new cat and take a nap before supper.

Dune: The Battle of Corrin

When men achieve paradise in this life, the result is inevitable: they go soft, lose their skills, their edge. –Zensunni Sutra, revised for Arakis

When I picked up what is hopefully the last of Brian Herbert and Kevin J. Anderson’s last attempts to feed off the legacy of Brian’s dead father, I didn’t really have any high expectations. Could Dune: The Battle of Corrin be all that much better or worse than any of the other Dune pablum offered by these two? One may even ask why I bothered, and 263 pages in, I was wondering as well. Was finishing up the story begun in the previous two volumes of the “Legends of Dune” series really that important to me? Wouldn’t it be better simply to go back and re-read the classic original? The answer was “yes” and “yes” but still I soldiered on. At least I’d checked the book out of the library and wasn’t out any coin.

The back cover features “praise for the Dune novels of Brian Herbert and Kevin J. Anderson.” Scifi.com’s assertion that with Dune: Machine Crusade, they “have finally stepped out of the shadow of Dune’s creator” made me chuckle. How exactly does one step out of Herbert’s shadow while not only writing stories in the Dune universe but also copping mannerisms from the master? The Science Fiction Chronicle declares that in Dune: The Butlerian Jihad “the authors have managed to capture much of the feeling as well as the names and places of the Dune series.” “Managed to capture”? “Names and places”? If I received praise like this, I’d trash commit myself to an asylum and order them to keep all forms of writing utensil away from me. Normally, one figures that publishers splash the best remarks on book jackets. And this is what they came up with?

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WAMP5, MySQL, PhP, and other horrors

So, after about a month of being on our new host and running WordPress, I really, really, really want to modify/create a unique template for truffin.com. Yesterday during a break from GRE scoring, I stumbled upon the UrbanGiraffe who has a very interesting WordPress Theme Guide. Feeling warmhearted towards my fellow man for making such information available, I began perusing the guide after scoring was over and decided that I wanted to try out his disection methods. Doing so would mean installing a web-server, database, and WordPress ON MY OWN COMPUTER. Ack.

UrbanGiraffe makes some good arguments for why you want to do such a thing. Mainly, you can try stuff out without crashing your entire live site. Having worked for a commercial website, I can say that’s a good thing. Having only provided member support for a commerical website, I hadn’t a clue about setting such things up. Fortunately, UrbanGiraffe did. Just use WAMP5; it really does make most of the things simple.

UG’s guide makes the process look very painless. And, actually, if you don’t do anything fancy, it probably is. After 4 hours or so, I gave up trying to set up multiple domains; one will have to do. The famous “5-minute-install” of WordPress took another 2 hours due to a) my wanting to copy over the live site so that any designing I do can be done with my current content in mind and b)PhP weirdnesses having to do with mystery whitespace popping up in out-of-the-way places. After six hours of tinkering, I finally have a fully functioning web-server, database, and WordPress on my local computer.

Yes, I feel proud

A Friend is on the way

So, after a late night of computer bashing and a long morning of publishing frustration for Sherry, we headed out at 1:00 to the Seneca County Humane Society to find a friend for little Emma. People have been asking us what we were looking for in a new cat, and both Sherry and I were having trouble even thinking about it. Tigger and Emma both kind of fell into our laps. Tigger belonged to the son of a woman with whom Sherry worked, and Emma was found on the grounds of the Tiffin University art building. In both cases we were given a “go/no-go” sort of choice. Walking into the Humane Society and getting an animal is a totally different proposition.

After signing in, we were directed to two rooms where the cats were kept. There were somewhere between 20-30 animals ranging from small kittens to full-grown adults. Unlike Sherry’s last visit there with Pat, we were immediately greeted by a dozen mews and cats reaching through their little doors to make contact, begging to be petted. Immediately it became apparant that this decision was going to be difficult. “This was supposed to be fun,” I moaned. Instead, there were several wonderfully adorable creatures begging to be loved.

After going through the two rooms, we filled out an adoption application, got some info on a few of the cats that really got our attention, and decided that we needed to go for a drive to clear our heads. We were both a bit overwhelmed by the weirdness of “shopping” for one of God’s creatures. The only time I’ve felt weirder was when I’ve checked out adoption websites that have ads for kids with copy written like you’re picking out a car. We even stopped back at home to see what Emma had to say about things. She indicated that she really wanted a boy. So, we narrowed the field down to three: there was a cute black kitten and two orange and white kitten/cats that we thought we’d look at again.

Upon returning to the Humane Society, we were informed that our application for adoption had been accepted. In that short period, I’m not sure what information they could have accumulated to accept or reject us, but it felt good to be accepted at any rate. We just had to pick. We asked a few questions about our shortlist. They had all been strays; that was about all the info they had. We confirmed that the two orange and white candidates were male; they were unsure about the black kitten. We decided to visit with the orange and whites for a bit first–the staff would check out the black kitten. The O&W’s were even more adorable out of the cage: they purred and cuddled and assented to our petting. As we were cuddling these adorable creatures trying to decide which one we’d like to take home, one of the staff informed us that the black kitten was female. That was disappointing.

We put the O&W’s back and looked around again. Our attention was grabbed by two adult black cats that had escaped our notice the first time around. Upon inspection, one was definitely female. The other black cat–in cage #8–was very, very male. It might be the most male cat I’ve ever seen. He was very gentle and friendly. While Sherry visited with #8, I went back to the desk to inquire about his information. As soon as I said #8, everyone at the front nodded and said something nice about him–”He’s one of the nicest cats we have.” “Isn’t he the really neat one?” “Oh, he’s wonderful.” Like all the other cats to which we were drawn, #8 is a stray, and they really have very little information about him. I returned to Sherry with the information, and she wanted to know if how I felt about taking him home.

So, there it is. We’re adopting #8. He’s an adult–which was interesting since we’d been looking mainly at kittens or just over kitten-age cats. Generally, he’s a very black black. He does have a very small white splash in his crotch area, and in the right light he seems to have reddish-brown highlights in his rear area. The Humane Society arranged to have him neutered tomorrow, and we will bring him home Thursday afternoon.

Now we just need to name him. Sherry’s looking at something out of a gothic romance. I said that’s fine as long as it isn’t Heathcliff or Rochester.

The Kingdom: Series 1

Last year sometime we rented Kingdom Hospital, Stephen King’s adaptation of Lars von Trier’s made-for-Dutch-television series Riget. The American version was had a kind of quirky Tales from the Crypt meets Chicago Hope-musical sensibility that, while interesting, did wear a bit. We’re still not quite sure what the giant ant-eater was all about.

Having now just finished the first series of the Dutch original–thanks Netflix–both Sherry and I were a bit disappointed that the second series is not available on Netflix, and that the third, and final, series was not and probably will not be filmed.

What was pleasantly surprising were the number of bits seemed really campy in the King version that really did have their genesis in von Trier’s work: The odd salute of the lodge members, operation sunshine, and the DS kitchen workers. Being made for Dutch TV in the ’90’s, the production values aren’t always up to snuff (the pregnant woman’s belly seems to be made of clay), but the eeriness and atmosphere are always spot on.

I’ll post more after I’ve digested this a bit.

Let us break pizza together

So, 13 years ago at this time Sherry and I were eating supper in a McDonald’s on our way to Ashtabula, OH where we had reservations for our first night as a married couple.  We would spend the next few days in Niagra Falls and Toronto, taking in Phantom of the Opera and a Blue Jays-Orioles game. I do remember being very glad we didn’t have the big party brouha that went on and on into the night. (more…)

The Lectionary Muse Meta-Observations

So, the lectionary based on the Book of Common Prayer features a three-year cycle.  Each year is labelled A, B, and C.  There’s some formula for figuring out what the year is; I’m sure that there’s someone out there who has discovered that it’s based on some Druidic astrological incantation that will send us all to hell.  Whatever the case, there’s three years.  When I started the Lectionary musings, I failed to indicate which year it was.  I now think I should.  However, the simplest way of doing this—at least the way that seems simplest to me—results in a nomenclature that resembles nothing more than a bingo call:  Pentecost B7, Advent C2,  Season-Year-Week.  I’ve decided to let it be, but be aware that I’m aware.  And now you’re aware that I’m aware that you’re aware.

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Although not as visible and controversial as other actions of the 2006 General Convention, the ECUSA has chosen to abandon the BCP lectionary in favor of the Revised Common Lectionary.  The RCL is also a three-year cycle; it is also labeled A, B, and C.  You can read more about the RCL here.    I’m not entirely sure of the differences.  It does appear though that Roman Catholic, Lutheran, Methodist, Reformed, and Presbyterian churches all use the RCL with various exceptions on feast days, so it appears that every Christian attending those types of churches will thus be reading the same scriptures, mostly.  Something to be said for gestalt, I guess.  I’m not really sure this will have any effect on the Lectionary Muse.

The Perils of Living in the Country

So, Monday is our 13th wedding anniversary, and we had planned on celebrating by going to an Indians game Friday night, attending the Cleveland Irish Festival Saturday, and maybe going out to a nice dinner on Monday.  The week leading up to the weekend couldn’t have been less inspiring.  We returned from Chicago with Todd having a cold.  Monday, Sherry had gum graft surgery.  Tuesday, in addition to mouth pain, Sherry developed the most monstrous sinus headache known to man.  Then on Thursday, it appeared that Sherry was coming down with Todd’s cold.

We did manage to drag ourselves to Cleveland Friday for the Indians game; unfortunately, the Indians couldn’t be bothered to show up.  We sat with Ted and Nancy through four hours of painful baseball as the Twins beat up the Indians 14-6.  Fortunately, the seats were nice and the after-game fireworks really great.  We spent the night at T&N’s, woke up late, and decided that Sherry was too sick to go to the festival.  Instead, we spent 5 hours playing hearts.  After a dinner break, we decided it would be rude to eat and run, so we played more hearts.  The real bummer was that in all that time I didn’t win a single game.

The drive from Cleveland to Tiffin takes about two hours.  About half of that is on the Ohio Turnpike.  The rest is on rural two-lane highways.  At night, the main problems on the road are big trucks and–as we’ve come to learn–animals.  Before moving to Tiffin, I drove for 17 years without killing a single creature larger than a mosquito.  In the last two years, I’ve hit and killled three mammals.  Tonight, as we were heading into Republic, a large raccoon trundled across the road in front of us.  I was slowing from 60 to 45 and a car was coming the other direction.  I had nowhere to go, and we hit it squarely.  There were two sickening thumps as both the front and rear wheels impacted the poor creature.  Sherry was very upset; I was almost angry.

Just a couple of weeks ago, driving home late from N. Ridgeville, I was driving Pat’s car and hit a possum; we were going 60-65 at the time.  Last year, I also killed a rabbit.

I must say, this week could have been better.

On the plus side, we brought home a Baker’s Square raspberry pie, and Ted and Nancy are sharing seasons 5 & 6 of The West Wing with us.

I’m going to eat some pie now in remembrance of the raccoon.

Just plain wrong

Today’s IMDB “Daily Poll” asks “Which Academy Award-winning Best Adapted Screenplay of the past ten years is the best?”.  Thus far, with 3223 votes cast, the leading selection with 31.3% of the vote is The Lord of the Rings: Return of the King.

Now, it is no secret to anyone who knows me that a) Tolkien’s Lord of the Rings book is near and dear to me and holds a very special place in my heart and b) I loathe and abhor Peter Jackson’s desecrating films and everything for which they stand.  So, I first must re-exert my absolute denial and confusion that, of all things, PJ’s films won a writing Oscar.

But for TLOR:ROK to be selected over any of the other choices by supposedly intelligent, engaged film people is just plain wrong.  Vote for its special effects, sound, possibly its acting, shoot–even vote for its direction or best picture status; I’ll still disagree–well maybe not with the effects stuff–but at least you would have the ability of having a cogent argument.  But not for the writing.  No, no, no.

The best adapted screenplay, a screenplay based on previously published material, must show some semblance of a relationship to the actual published work.  Sure, there’s hobbits and wizards and Gollum; battles, ships, and oliphaunts.  But the similarity ends there.  The three noodleheads responsible for the box-office stuffing drivel that dares call itself Lord of the Rings misses the themes and values of the text so completely that one wonders if they actually read the thing at all or just combined a viewing of the Bakshi film with the Cliff’s Notes.

No IMDB.  No Mr. Jackson.  and No you 1100 and counting dunces who don’t know that books have pages that can turn.  Your support of this film’s screenplay is one of many signs that the literacy levels in our world, no matter what the numbers say, are nil, zero, zilch. You may know what the symbols are, but you have no idea at all what they mean.

Good day.