The cable guy came today. He set us up with a nice new box, a remote with its own dedicated on-demand button, a spanking-new modem that seems to work with blistering speed BUT CANNOT COMMUNICATE WITH MY WIRELESS ROUTER. JUST LIKE THE LAST ONE. WHICH MEANS I MUST STORM THE APPLE STORE TOMORROW AND INSPIRE FEAR AND TREMBLING IN THOSE WHO WOULD TELL ME THIS ROUTER IS FINE, JUST FINE, LIKE THE LAST ONE DID.
What this means is, in addition to my house being full of haphazardly packed cardboard boxes, I also have internet service that only works when I’m hard-wired into the modem, which is in the basement. My basement is fine, but I don’t like hanging out down here. So this will be brief. Sorta.
The move went OK. Of course it was the coldest day of the year, in the sense that the mercury never topped 20 degrees and we had the front door standing open half the day. The movers were pleasant and uncomplaining, so I bought them lunch. They were pretty easy to please, preference-wise, but one guy was adamant that he would eat no beef or pork. He had a lilting West Indian accent, so I asked where he was from.
“Jamaica,” he said.
“They grow a nice marijuana down there, I hear,” I replied.
“Everybody wants to stereotype us like that!” he exclaimed. “We are not all ganja smokers!”
“I didn’t say you were,” I said. “Just commenting on a well-known cash crop of your native land.”
The other mover jumped in with a story about another time he’d moved a family to Grosse Pointe, and discovered a tall marijuana plant growing in the back yard. And the third mover told us about moving one of the Mrs. Fords, and how she made them rearrange her furniture — including a piano — half a dozen times and was a real rhymes-with-witch.
Everybody has a good story to tell. If you buy them a sandwich, frequently they’ll tell it.
So now we’re settled, sort of, and I’m starting to see the place the way I want it to look. Window treatments are first, then paint. The house has good bones, but it needs some pizazz. I’m reminded of a New Yorker cartoon, two yuppies talking to one another: “Like lots of people in the ’80s, we over-shuttered.” Like lots of people in the suburbs, our previous owners over-neutraled. Our bedroom is mocha-on-cafe au lait, our family room white, our living room sage. Even the one vivid room in the house, the dining room, is sort of a …neutral shade of burgundy. So we have lots to do.
Thank God I’m married to a man who looks at the sage living room and says, “That color needs more silver, and less olive.” And he’s heterosexual!
I’ll post some pictures directly. In the meantime, here’s a bit o’ bloggage:
David Edelstein writes the story I’ve been waiting to read about Ralph Covert, for whom parents of young children would happily make burnt offerings. He makes children’s music, but is to Raffi what Jimi Hendrix was to Pat Boone. In other words, you — the parent — actually want to listen to it.
Frank Kovas died Saturday. More on that later this week. He was the man who brought talk radio to Fort Wayne and…a complicated man. Gotta think on that one for a while.
A small confession: In the last weeks before I moved, I discovered the reruns of “CSI” on Spike TV. To my everlasting shame, I actually watched a few of these, even though I hate the show, but not as much as Alan, who won’t allow it to be left on for longer than 3 seconds. I hate it so much I had to watch them, sometimes two in a row. Here’s what I hate about the show, in no particular order:
1) It’s lurid, in a creepy way. I don’t want to go up the bullet hole behind the bullet, OK?
2) I particularly hate its icky take on sex, which, to watch “CSI,” you’d think no one ever has in a pleasing, affectionate non-fatal manner.
3) But I most of all hate the preposterousness of it. Anyone who’s covered the public sector as a reporter, or anyone who’s even paid five minutes of attention to their own particular public sector, finds the suspension of disbelief required to watch this show almost unendurable. On “CSI,” simple muggings are given the sort of manpower only presidential assassinations would garner, and except for Marg Helgenberger’s occasional throwaway line about the budget, virtually no attempt is made to square this with reality. And it takes place in Nevada! A conservative western state, where no expense is spared the taxpayers! As if.
In real life, DNA results take weeks to get. On “CSI,” they come back before lunch. In real life, no one has a $10,000 gadget that can sniff the air in a bathroom and tell which perfume was worn by a person who passed through earlier in the day. OK?
All of which would be harmless, but I understand judges are now identifying a “CSI effect” on juries, some of whom are reluctant to convict criminals because the police didn’t do the Super-Deluxe DNA Test AND call in the blood-spatter expert from Amsterdam AND have other chemical analyses of evidence.
Anyway…how did I get on this tangent? Oh, yeah: Jon Carroll brings us down to earth.
Can you tell I have a Caribou Coffee on the corner, and I stopped there recently?