Good news: Moppet’s butt isn’t at bad now as it was earlier this AM. Bad news: she must have wiped it off on something she sat on.

Good news: I discovered the source of the bad smell in the kitchen and took out the garbage, toter for compost, and your ceramic jar for compost, which eliminated the smell. Bad news: while I was at the CST, some raccoons got into your jar and spread food all over the deck.

Not sure if that makes me want to laugh or weep, or both.  Probably both.

Speaking of wild animals — we’re about two weeks into converting our code from PHP to C# in a very well developed framework.  When I say “well developed,” I don’t necessarily mean well-coded (I am reserving judgement until I understand what I am looking at thoroughly) — rather, I mean that the platform is bulging with implicit functionality and assumptions about methodology that are nowhere spelled out.  It’s funny seeing all our safe, familiar structure broken apart into little pieces and reassembled in this new territory, built of unfamiliar material.  Probably like seeing the book of <a href=”http://www.npr.org/templates/story/story.php?storyId=113842476″>Genesis reinvented as a “comic” book</a> or seeing the comic book Spawn reinvented as a german opera (so far as I know, that latter item has never been done — but I think it has great commercial potential).

The death toll is looking as though it will level out somewhere between 150,000 and 200,000, a number which only takes on its full meaning when considering that Haiti’s population is only about 10,000,000 and that most of that population is concentrated in urban areas, where my instincts tell me that a substantial percentage of the casualties have occurred.  Simply horrible.  By comparison, 9/11 killed about 0.01% of the population of the United States — let us hope that the vitriolic rhetoric of madmen like Pat Robertson does not make the Haitians think God has declared war on them, or they may simply never recover.

Damage is funny…  it’s never localized.  I see in local news that a native of Port Orchard, where my father works, was killed in a collapsed orphanage.  Molly Hightower’s parents hoped she might be recovered even though a survivor from the 7th floor had located her on the 5th — but alas, it was not too be.  They have updated Molly’s blog with a final post.  I struck me that she had titled the blog “525,600 minutes - how do you measure a year?”  Which for some reason makes me start to tear up.  Weird.  Then again, it’s been a rather emotional week.

What to do?  Mostly nothing.  As my old friend Jon Grout noted via Facebook just a few moments ago,

There is enough misery in the world that you can be unhappy all day every day if you choose. For me, I feel like I need to expose myself to enough media to be informed, and then go on living my life, being happy, supporting my loved ones, doing my job, and being prepared to donate when bad things happen. You don’t have to feel guilty for living a happy life, and sometimes that means limiting exposure to unconstructive vicarious trauma.

Which is true.  I have poisoned myself by taping my eyelids up and forcing myself to watch shit before, out of some conviction that if the world was suffering, I should suffer (at least a little bit, passively) along with it.  Not very useful, really.

Of course, if you’re an adventurous individual of independent means, and you happen to have a plane handy (for instance, a Pilatus), and you care deeply about your fellow humans, you could always get behind the wheel and ferry equipment and supplies into Haiti directly.

Further documentation that my sister is a certifiable, unrestrainable, grade-A, punch-first-and-ask-questions-later ass-kicker.  Yes, people — that’s MY sister.  So you better treat me right, or I will point her in your direction and tell her you kicked my cat or insulted one of my paintings, and she will do her thing.

Of course, she is totally crazy:

(10:48:35 PM) Emma Bush: so thankful.  that same punch split me open, can you imagine if she got to keep pounding me in that eye? what damage COULD have been done?
(10:48:37 PM) Emma Bush: lol
(10:48:46 PM) Emma Bush: that, is the definition of blessing in disguise
(10:48:49 PM) Kevin: shit
(10:49:03 PM) Kevin: there were two dozen people shouting for the ref to let the fight keep going
(10:49:10 PM) Emma Bush: ha!
(10:49:13 PM) Kevin: stupid blood sports
(10:49:23 PM) Emma Bush: i know, if they wouldn’t have stopped it, I would have kept going
(10:49:36 PM) Emma Bush: but honestly i was so relieved when they did because i couldn’t see a damn thing
(10:49:38 PM) Emma Bush: lol

So consider yourself warned.  My sister does NOT need her sense of vision to keep on kickin’ your butt.  And she’s still on my side for now

Contemplation often makes life miserable.  We should act more, think less, and stop watching ourselves live.

Upon cross examination, she revealed that this quote’s author is Nicolas Chamfort — a French playwright, and a contemporary (and fickle courtier) of Louis XIV. The sentiment is lovely — that the best life is one lived close to the heart, relatively uncontaminated by the cold and exacting influence of logical deliberation, or the alienating effect of metacognition.  I find that part of my mind buys into this.

Unfortunately, after his days as a courtier he fell in with the revolutionaries — he was amongst the first to storm into the Bastille in the first, heady days of the Revolution.  Unfortunately, his loyalty to revolutionary causes was too sane to follow the fanaticism of the Terror, and his satirical tongue, unrestrainable, got him in trouble.  He was imprisoned; then after release, the authorities issued another warrant for his arrest (fie, seditious tongue!).  Poor Chamfort decided to take his own life.

Sadly, he was a lousy suicide:

Chamfort is the very exemplar of the botched suicide. Unable to tolerate the prospect of being imprisoned once more, in September 1793 he locked himself into his office and shot himself in the face. The pistol malfunctioned and he did not die even though he shot off his nose and part of his jaw. He then repeatedly stabbed his neck with a paper cutter, but failed to cut an artery. He finally used the paper cutter to stab himself in the chest. He dictated to those who came to arrest him the well-known declaration — “Moi, Sebastien-Roch Nicolas de Chamfort, declare avoir voulu mourir en homme libre plutot que d’etre reconduit en esclave dans une maison d’arret” — which he signed in a firm hand and in his own blood. His butler found him unconscious in a pool of blood.

I had to google to find the translation, which is:

“I, Sebastien-Roch Nicolas Chamfort, declare that I wished to die a free man rather than be enslaved in a house of detention.”

Which, when you get down to it, is extremely banal for a so-called “famous” quotation.

Well, so much for lovely thoughts.  The contemplation of this one has made me rather pessimistic.  In retrospect, I wish that I had spent more time working, and thought less about this quote, and not learned anything at all about how poor Nicolas Chamfort had lived.

Rough House Blues

I’m Going Down The Road Feeling Bad, Bye And Bye
Deep Fried Blues But I’d Rather Die Than Cry
Gas Station Food Bound To Go Stale Soon
There’s A Curse In The Air And A Toe-Nail Moon
Yeah, Some Of These Towns Are Still Non-Friendly
And This Is The Hammer That Killed John Henry
I’m Sick Of Being Tired, Sick Of The Circus Life
Here Day-Dreaming Of A Waitress As The Perfect Wife
Utterly Inappropriate, Taken Out Of Context
Degenerate Nervousness, Developing A Complex
No Good With Money, Left-Overs In A Bitch Bag
Fryin’ Pan Soul And A Face Like A Dishrag
A Million Old Movies, I Figured I’d Tell
Childhood Memories Triggered By Smell

So Now What, You May Ask, Well That’s Hard To Say
Because That Old Jack Of Diamons Is A Tough Card To Play

All The Wrong Reasons, Just Another Skull To Crack
Askin’ The Dust, I’m Stuck In A Cul-De-Sac
And It May Sound Silly But To Me The Threat Is Very Real
So That’s Why I Sing Love Songs And Carry Steel
Women And Warfare, Roaches And Roadkills
No Easy Answers, No Deadlines And No Frills
Catchin’ Your Drift, Receivin’ The Warning
Packin’ My Things, I Live In The Morning
I Drive All Night, Gone To See My Friend
One Day This Highway Will Be My End
Now The Hills Are Alive And The Motor Is Dead
That Man Has A Zero Floating Over His Head
I Follow My Instincts, Sometimes Follow Dogs
Drink Muddy Water,Sleep Inside Hollow Logs

So Now What, You May Ask, Well That’s Hard To Say
Because That Old Jack Of Diamonds Is A Tough Card To Play

Graph of Browser Shares

That is pretty darn tootin’ amazing!

Hopefully, our next day of celebration will be the day when IE6’s market share drops below 1% — on that day, there will be toasting and dancing and, if I have anything to do with it, widespread public drunkenness.  To the future!  *clink*

This morning we were running an errand in town and we stopped for coffee on the way home.  The individual who took our order (for some reason an offensive, five letter word beginning with “b” and rhyming with “snitch” comes to mind) did their best to counteract the general cheeriness of the sunny weather, and we both griped about her on the way home.  Also, all of our receipts got dumped accidentally into our paper recycling before I could enter them into Quicken.  With that as preface, I just received this from Cathy in an email titled “Zealous about Paperwork”:

I’m feeling proud of myself. I just spent too long on a phone conversation with a passport official that made the coffee chick this morning look cordial. Then I overassembled the documents they requested from me to annoy them.

I also went through the reclying piece by piece and retrieved all the receipts. Now I feel holy.

Darling — you are holy and wholly wonderful.  I am so grateful to share my life with you.

Okay, now I’m going to wipe the besotted expression off my face and get back to the serious bidness of griping.  If there is an occasional smile on my face…  well, you can’t blame a fellow for occasionally pausing to count his blessings.

The water appears to still be rising.  I walked down Lynn to West North street and then down North West street (a ridiculous juxtaposition of names, especially considering that Northwest Road is just a few blocks away).  There were people *everywhere* — it looked like a sporting event. Where Squalicum creek passes under Squalicum parkway and West street, the extremely capacious waterway had been completely overwhelmed, and the street surface looked like a river in its own right.

Crazy.  Feels a little biblical.  But cool, so long as Noah doesn’t forget to stop and pick me up before my backyard falls into the creek and washes out to Bellingham Bay.

1.   I am getting old.

2.  One of the advantages of getting old is that your old-person hands enable you to make *massive* snowballs.  At least compared to those that a 10 year old can make.

3.  All those childhood memories of snow making your hands tingle and ache until it feels like your fingers are going to fall off?  Those memories are TOTALLY accurate.

(Incidentally, if you look closely you’ll see that my right ear is packed full of snow in this picture.  I thought I’d lost hearing in one ear, a la George Bailey.)

In other news, I was overcome by a new form of modern “rage” in the supermarket today.  On the way in, I inadvertantly crossed paths with this other fellow — one of those accidental “dances” where, traditionally, you keep saying “excuse me” and “oh, I’m sorry” after each step, and then getting in each others’ way again.  Except in this particular case, I was the one saying “pardon me,” “excuse me,”"how silly of me” and this other guy just glared at me through the whole thing.

Once inside, I brooded about this exchange — and about how ridiculous it was for me to be so civil and apologetic while he was so arrogantly terse.  After a while, I parted ways with Cathy and went to fetch some tea.  When I saw this other fellow in baked goods, I looped around and came back along the same aisle he was in and, when he turned around, I used my cart to force him to back out of my way, glaring at him the entire time (he looked totally flummoxed).  Later, I realized I was probably suffering from something best described as “cart rage” — and even though it’s something I should probably be ashamed of, and might even need professional help with, I felt a little pleased with myself.

Watch out, all you scrooges and sourpusses out there — this is Kevin, full of The Milk of Human Crankiness, and ready to unleash it upon you.  Beware!