Reminiscing about our childhood, a couple of friends and I realized that despite the effort our parents had put into making our birthday parties special, none of us could remember any of them, except the few that were marred by sudden violence.

Surely, we recognized, such a revelation would crush our mothers' spirit. We resolved never to speak of it in their presence.

We also resolved to ensure our own kids would remember their birthday parties by arranging at least one episode of sudden violence.

Posted by: Michael Rittenhouse at 08:23 PM | Comments (1) | Add Comment
Post contains 541 words, total size 3 kb.

I'm not sure what it is about that photo that breaks me up. Vote for your favorite:

• A guy in a university of T-shirt operating a chainsaw.
• Eyes downcast, as if to say, "Sorry about that."
• Total absence of eye protection aside from spectacles.
• The sheer size of the limb just lopped off.
• Hearing protection worn years too late to prevent tinnitus.

The winner will get a free tree-trimming, provided proof of sufficient liability insurance.

Posted by: Michael Rittenhouse at 08:49 PM | No Comments | Add Comment
Post contains 76 words, total size 1 kb.

As if to prove my point:

A man takes his shirt off, no one notices.

A woman takes her shirt or bra off, it's national news.

Posted by: Michael Rittenhouse at 07:51 PM | Comments (1) | Add Comment
Post contains 30 words, total size 1 kb.

Wolf Dog is holding down Rittenhouse for about a week, and he refuses to learn how to type.

I'll be remote and unable to post. For a taste of what we'll be doing, see this entry on last summer's vacation.

'Til the solstice....

Posted by: Michael Rittenhouse at 08:17 PM | Comments (1) | Add Comment
Post contains 44 words, total size 1 kb.

Only a Yankee like James Taylor could sing so lightheartedly about the arrival of summer.

In Texas, it begins with the kind of heat that hits you at the door like walking into a blast furnace. Once outdoors, you can only get a couple hours' work done, especially if you have to wear long pants and sleeves for yard duty. (Never, ever operate a line trimmer in shorts, unless you also like to fry bacon shirtless.) Before giving up, I switched to shorts and got in another half-hour of pest control.

On cue, the fire ants' annual insurgency has begun. They seem to be the only creatures other than cicadas that thrive in 100º+. I opened a fresh can of whoop-ass—Amdro in a jug—and found, under its cap, a sealed for freshness label.

Was this to prevent tampering? Because, you know, it's already poisonous.

As I rained the magical anti-manna onto a suspicious-looking mound of earth, mosquitoes swarmed my bare calves. These aren't the lethargic, clumsy arthropods of Colter Bay, Wyoming, but Texas mosquitoes, which barrel out of their larvae looking like the state police you suddenly come upon in a median: You know you've been targeted and locked on, because those antennae are not for show.

I danced in and out of their rangefinders while delivering Amdro per the directions, atop the mound and in a circle around it. Wolf Dog seemed to think this amusing. Of course, he's the one with the fur coat, who never seems to suffer from mosquitoes.

He began his semi-annual molt this week, leaving little tumbleweeds of hair all over the house. These gather and eventually roll down the hallway toward the HVAC intake. Another of summer's little calling cards.

the weekend got off to a thrilling start with the arrival of my new cell phone. I ordered a Motorola RAZR online from Verizon about 5 p.m. Thursday. By Friday noon, the package had arrived at my house.

And I saved the moment for you.

The best kind of unboxing-porn is unboxing-phone porn. Because—at least for me—it only happens every two years. In that time the capabilities of phones, even the free ones you get on subscription renewal, have roughly tripled. Some of that is in ways I couldn't care less about: ringtones, web access, streaming video, etc. I'm holding out for a phone that doubles as a wireless mouse. But the Bluetooth interface is pretty much standard equipment now, and I snagged an earpiece on clearance. We are now a two-Bluetooth family. They're indispensable when you have a grabby kid on your hip.

By now, Squinx and Little Roo think nothing of Mommy and Daddy wandering the house like schizophrenic Borg, talking to ourselves while one ear blinks blue. I absolutely love the convenience of these things: one button to voice-dial, and no dangly cord to catch on a drawer pull and spin my head around. For me, there are few cooler acts than to touch my ear, say my wife's name, then speak to her within seconds. But I still do it furtively, because the public is no more ready for such a display than they are for me to whip out the Flowbee for a touch-up.

reactionary sidebar: Someone needs to publish an updated etiquette book and get it into the hands of every Gen Eleven clown traipsing around out there looking like Lobot. Yes, we can see that you have a Bluetooth. No, we are not impressed with the technology (it's old) nor your manners (your attention appears to be elsewhere at all times), and it will never be socially acceptable (so give it up). I know these things are so lightweight that it's easy to forget they're still hanging off your head. But there's no excuse for wearing them through an entire social dinner, as I saw a young man do a few weeks ago.

I won't wear mine unless it's in use. I'll keep it on while driving, but I doff it like a hat when I step into a building. Makes me feel kind of 1940s that way, with farm-boy manners.

Just recently a guy in his 70s drove past me with a Bluetooth in his ear. Not many things make me laugh out loud, but Wireless Grampa did just that.

the queerest thing about all this tele-nology is realizing our kids will never associate a phone with its place (a key point in this entry). When phones had cords, they were as much a part of a house as its refrigerator.

There was a time when a telephone number's prefix told you roughly where the person lived. Now, even an area code signifies almost nothing. A phone is associated only with a person, and the 10-digit number can follow him around forever.

I'd say the best thing about that is, cell numbers come unlisted by default. Wonder how long that will last?

we spent sunday at my sister's place out west of Fort Worth. Along U.S. 281, we came across a hand-lettered cardboard sign reading blackberries.

Bush-borne blackberries, that is. And, although it was about 400 degrees in the shade, we stopped, piled out, took the proffered cut-out gallon jugs and went a-pickin'.

Most of the bushes' perimeter had already been cleaned of ripe berries. Squeeky used me as a vaulting pole to pivot over the thorns into a clearing, and I lobbed Squinx in after her. From the outside, Little Roo took advantage of his height to peer under leaves for fruit that others had passed over. Wolf Dog threatened to chase off our host, and got the short leash after that. We gathered a good half-gallon in 15 minutes and decided that was enough.

As we paid for our purchase, Squeeky made conversation with the proprietor, asking him if he lived nearby. He gestured over his shoulder.

My retired life flashed before my eyes.

So that his customers could cleanse their berry-pickin' hands, he had thoughtfully set out a bucket fed by a garden hose running from his well pump. Almost pure profit, this operation.

Not even someone whispering past in a Jaguar could resist roadside fresh berries. I'm pretty sure Mr. Home Depot Shed wished he could've doubled the price per gallon just before that car approached.

The rest of our stay went unremarkably except I met my first T-shirt-wearing Obama fan. I gather that "love" is the most important factor in selecting a president, because that was the first reason cited. Also, he's not President Bush, which is apparently important even though Bush isn't running this year.

I failed to ask about any legislation sponsored by the Agent of Change in his first four years as a Senator. You know, to start changing things.

Still looking for that, myself.

In the meantime, enjoy a slice of cold blackberry pie, topped with yogurt.

Summer's here!

Posted by: Michael Rittenhouse at 02:44 PM | Comments (1) | Add Comment
Post contains 1159 words, total size 9 kb.

All the little changes you've made in your life over the past couple of years suddenly add up when the power goes out.

If you already knew your cordless wouldn't work, you probably went to the back bedroom and used the hard-wired phone. But for me, that was just the first consideration; I'd dropped our land line months ago. But with two cell phones at my disposal, I figured I could still call in a trouble report.

I got out the phone book—online directories being, well, off-line until the power came back on—and tried to look up Oncor, which has maintained the lines since deregulation separated electric providers from their grid. No listing.

Next, I looked for Reliant, my provider. Not in the business directory. I dragged out the yellow pages and found it under Electric Service (still nothing for Oncor) but Reliant offered no trouble-reporting line. I called the main number.

Their VRU wanted an account number right off the bat. I looked again at the dark, silent computer; I had gone paperless-autopay a long time ago. Then the voice assured me it could still look me up via my driver's license number if I keyed that in. Having wasted nearly five minutes getting to that point, and with the temperature inside the house climbing, I found it simpler to press end and call TXU, the former local monopoly, whose quarter-page ad boasted a service line.

to take my trouble report, TXU's robot first wanted my phone number, which gave me pause: Our cell phones could not possibly hint as to our location. So I took a flyer and punched in our old land-line number. The VRU responded with my home address. (Brilliant, but I don't want to know how.) Then it sent me to a live rep, whose Spanish accent I found ironic since I'd pressed 1 for English.

He expertly took my report, though I had to try not to wonder why he asked if we lived in a mobile home. (Beer on my breath? Little Roo screaming in the background?) While holding, I took the opportunity to step outside and ask the neighbors if their power was out, too. Answer: Yes. Of course, I could not have done that while holding on a land line.

My new TXU friend promised to have Oncor send a truck out as soon as possible. I asked if I could have Oncor's number for the next time this happened. He demurred and said I could just call him and he'd forward the message.

So: I would report a problem to a business I didn't patronize, which couldn't actually fix the problem themselves, having looked them up in an obsolete directory, referencing a phone number that wasn't mine, in a language that wasn't native to the operator.

The next challenge for me would be sharing all this with you while awaiting the restoration of power. (All murk and no laptop makes Rittenhouse a dull scribe.) I would have to compose with pen and paper, which I hadn't done in about 25 years.

And just as I finished that sentence, a light bulb went on. And then another. And then another.

Thank God something still works the way it's supposed to.

Posted by: Michael Rittenhouse at 08:04 PM | Comments (5) | Add Comment
Post contains 545 words, total size 3 kb.

1 HATE when that happens. That's why we keep all the phone numbers on an index card tacked to the bulletin board next to the computer.

Posted by: RebeccaH at June 05, 2008 09:43 AM (JAQT9)

2 Low tech FTW!

Posted by: Michael Rittenhouse at June 05, 2008 06:41 PM (8Z50G)

3

though I had to try not to wonder why he asked if we lived in a mobile home. (Beer on my breath? Little Roo screaming in the background?)

HAHAHAHAHAHA! Please don't make me laugh right now. It hurts.

Posted by: pajama momma at June 08, 2008 02:34 PM (f3xJa)

4 Then you'd better not see today's entry, about the blackberry proprietor.

Posted by: Michael Rittenhouse at June 08, 2008 02:46 PM (z5c04)

5 I'll wait till my next serving of drugs then.

Posted by: pajama momma at June 08, 2008 08:25 PM (f3xJa)

Hide Comments | Add Comment

The reckoning comes when you confront the whole picture of what your parents gave you, the good and the bad. Because, although we should—and many profess to—love our parents, part of love is recognizing your loved one's faults and what those have done—and continue to do—to your unconscious.

For illustration, I won't air dirty laundry here. (Not fair.) Instead, I'll examine a high-profile airing with which we are all familiar.

Mel Gibson's father gifted him with an education in a very serious variant of the Catholic faith. So serious, in fact, that the Vatican doesn't accept it. Some call it misguided, but my point is, it's not a light church in the feel-good-about-yourself strain that keeps so many Christians from getting as close to God as they need to be. Perhaps "uncompromising" is a better term.

That faith laid out a path which Gibson fils followed directly to his life's achievement, The Passion of the Christ. That film will live long after him.

Unfortunately, so will his subsequent drunk-driving arrest.

While in custody, Gibson was quoted railing against Jews he said were out to get him. That outburst echoes Gibson's father, whose anti-Semitic comments are on the record without apology.

This illustrates perhaps the most insidious form of damage a parent can pass along to his child: poisoning his lizard brain.

I don't believe that Gibson was in his right mind that night. Alcohol had turned off his conscience, and with it much of his life's willful learning. What remained active was his childhood programming, the information and attitudes which enter the memory before discernment can parse right from wrong.

In his home, where the sunlight of public view can neither inhibit nor disinfect, his father undoubtedly spoke even more freely against Jews. Mel got a full and regular dose of this, beginning even before he was able to speak.

The crutch of hatred tempts all of us: Blaming others explains so much about the frustrations of the world, especially with regard to those wealthier or more influential than we. Listen closely to the next angry speaker you hear. Odds are, he's talking about people and things beyond his control. That's the bane of personal success, the tendency to focus on what's "out there," rather than what's "in here," in one's own mind, body, soul.

(This may have much to do with why Gibson the elder's religion is not approved by the Roman Catholic church. Orthodox Christianity recognizes the monster within each of us and instructs us to mitigate it every day.)

Perhaps Mel got that part of the Catholic faith correct, and learned, at a certain age, to cut the monster down each time it reared its head. In his career, he would have to: The movie business wouldn't tolerate an anti-Semitic employee.

But, thanks to his father, that particular brand of suspicion and loathing was part of him, and always would be. One thing the devil never does is give up. He's on a battlefield, and when he starts to lose, he retreats just long enough to change weapons.

so, on the fateful night in question, his brain swimming in cocktails, Gibson simply couldn't activate his conscience. (Conscience requires consciousness, which alcohol reduces one step at a time.) His lizard brain took over, programmed from infancy to fight or flight. In this case, he chose to fight, using the words planted in him by his father, whose failure to recognize his own sins would find fertile ground in the vulnerable mind of his son.

That's why I accept Gibson's apology and forgive him his conduct. I've also been slobbering drunk and had my actions recounted to me later, and I recognized the stranger in those stories. It is unfair to take a snapshot of someone in that state and hold it up as his curriculum vitae.

Gibson isn't responsible for his father's programming. But he knows it's in there, and he also should know his limit and stick to it, to keep the monster in check.

Shakespeare wrote, "The evil that men do lives after them. The good is oft interred with their bones."

Good only occurs when we take the lead in managing ourselves. Depending on our inheritance, that job may be difficult or easy.

Posted by: Michael Rittenhouse at 05:57 AM | No Comments | Add Comment
Post contains 724 words, total size 5 kb.

Little Roo and I stopped by Pep Boys for a transmission filter while a sidewalk sale raged out front. If I ever lacked for a 10´ x 10´ nylon canopy, I'd have been in the right place: They had dozens of them under a demo model. I picked briefly through a pile of help! specialty parts before realizing I needed none of them. We went inside for our filter.

While at the register, however, I noticed a few air compressors amid the sale items out front. I've never owned a compressor, but I've always wanted one, especially when I've had older tires that don't retain pressure more than a couple of weeks. With Little Roo distracted by construction equipment across the street, I paused to compare two models selling for $30 and $60—about half the normal price.

Then it happened: Someone picked one up right in front of me, and went to the register with it. That left only two, one of each kind.

My buyer's itch grew into a rash. What if one of these other bargain-hunters ambled over while I was dithering and snatched the very one I had my eyes on? But I still wasn't sure which one was for me. The larger model was more capable, but June is a tight month with vacation expenses coming up. Could I justify spending the higher amount for a tool I rarely need?

But it was on clearance! Half price! God himself must have put me here because he knew I needed a compressor.

I stepped forward, inched the smaller box up my leg (Little Roo counterbalanced on the other arm), and duck-walked into the store with my prize.

The clerk beamed at us, and when she'd run my credit card through, she offered to carry the box out to the car. I accepted: Always accept a kind favor when it's offered sincerely.

sixty minutes later i came down with buyer's remorse. I had no compressed-air needs that couldn't be met by the foot pump I already own, or by the service station one mile to the west. (They provide a high-pressure hose that fills a tire in seconds, no charge.) But this was a clearance purchase; all sales final. I would not be able to take it back.

Or would I? This was a retailer that allowed its cashier to leave her post to help a customer with carryout. As fast as these compressors were running out the door, surely they'd bend the rules a bit, knowing it wouldn't actually cost them anything.

I trooped back to the store and approached the customer-service desk with my box and receipt in hand. Sorry, said the supervisor, you'll have to see the manager outside.

I found him perspiring under the canopy. I explained that the compressor wasn't big enough for my plans (it wasn't, being too weak for the spray-painting project I hope to get around to one of these days), and since they had all sold out in less than an hour, surely he would take it back knowing it'd be gone as soon as he set it on the sidewalk?

"All these things are no-returns," he said flatly.

I picked up the box and started for the car.

"Thank you," he added.

I sat in the parking lot and steamed. I understand what "all sales final" means. I also know this particular item would disappear into somebody else's hands the instant....

Okay, then. I'd Craigslist it and get my money back that way.

Still irritated, I did something I'm not terribly proud of. I grabbed the bag with the $22 transmission filter in it and tramped back into the store for a refund.

Spiteful? You bet. Company policy works both ways, Mr. Manager.

Then I picked up a filter at the O'Reilly's down the block. It came to $10 and change, which was a nice surprise.

Only, now I feel bad that my spite earned me back some cash.

And I just got a hit on Craigslist for the compressor.

Posted by: Michael Rittenhouse at 08:16 PM | No Comments | Add Comment
Post contains 702 words, total size 4 kb.

In my first foray into improv, our director noted that I was channeling Korman by struggling with whether to laugh at critical moments. She didn't discourage it, but warned me not to overdo the shtick.

Thing was, I didn't even realize that's what I was doing. Korman had imprinted his style on me as a kid, and it unwound from me onstage with no conscious effort.

In so many ways, we are who we see.

RIP, Harvey Korman. There will always be a little bit of you in those you entertained.

Posted by: Michael Rittenhouse at 05:26 AM | No Comments | Add Comment
Post contains 94 words, total size 1 kb.

I love the Wall Street Journal and I think it's the last of the interesting newspapers in America.

There are moments, however, when I realize much of it just isn't written for people like me.

Last week, I clambered up into the attic to see if there are enough 2x6 redwood braces up there that I could use to refurbish my small deck. Redwood's expensive, although it wasn't in 1956, when builders used it to frame this house. Swapping cheaper pine out for those braces wouldn't compromise the house's structure, and I'd get a great-looking deck for next to nothing.

Measuring the boards up there involved a lot of sweating and stretching amid dusty ducts, glass fibers, and mouse droppings. All for maybe a couple hundred dollars in savings on a home improvement and, perhaps, a good story here at Rittenhouse, provided I didn't break my neck or a ceiling panel in the process.*

Then I read the following story in the WSJ:

I've written here before that there's not much on the Internet that causes me to laugh out loud ... but that paragraph did, in two places.

Poor guy only had half his home's value available for refurb, and can't afford to move closer to the kids' private school.

I guess gas prices are eating him up.

It appears that, in today's "housing crisis," I'm in some middle territory, between upscale tragedies like Mr. Salinger's and the government-engineered deception that led too many lower-income people to shoulder up mortgages.

I still like the WSJ. I've just found another facet—unintentional humor—that I hadn't noticed before.

* Or maybe that'd make the story even more interesting to you, my sadistic Houseketeers.

Posted by: Michael Rittenhouse at 06:14 AM | No Comments | Add Comment
Post contains 499 words, total size 5 kb.

In my senior year of high school, my friend Charles' girlfriend decided to get back at him for cheating on her, by cheating with me. So she practically begged me for a date, and I foolishly took her out on one.

Scandalous, but it gets better. Let's back up a few weeks.

charles and i are driving around, which is what high-school kids do when they're bored on a Friday night: They just drive around. We mixed a couple of Jack Daniels-and-Cokes to take along, and went cruising into parts of Houston known for debauchery.

As we approached a dim intersection, Charles pointed to a young woman showing a lot of skin and leaning against a wall.

"She's a prostitute," he said, winking at me with his voice.

"How do you know?"

"Three weeks ago, I paid her $20 to blow me in my car."

I felt unimpressed. Prostitutes have always seemed pitiful to me. And although I continued to stare at her for the sheer spectacle—she looked tantalizing, of course—I let the matter drop. I did not need to know any more.

Now fast-forward.

i'm out with gloria, Charles' very recent ex-girlfriend, and after dinner we motored over to the same part of town that Charles and I had toured, hoping for a glimpse of the wild side before heading back to suburban safety. At the very intersection where Charles had made his unbecoming boast, Gloria pointed to three women leaning against the same wall.

"You know those are guys, right?" she half-asked, half-prompted.

"Who?"

"Those 'girls,' over there."

I squinted. At this distance, they could have fooled anyone.

"No, I didn't know that."

"They hang out there and hustle guys for money. They use it to pay for their sex-change operations."

I paused to think that one through.

Then I started laughing.

I looked up at Gloria, paused, then continued laughing.

And I looked at her again, and burst out laughing again.

This continued for several blocks.

Gloria never asked why I thought her revelation was so funny.

And I never told her.

Or Charles.

Posted by: Michael Rittenhouse at 08:09 PM | No Comments | Add Comment
Post contains 353 words, total size 2 kb.

Perhaps everyone except me has heard this man's last lecture, which he gave after he learned he was going to die of pancreatic cancer. He will leave three young children and a widow. And that, in combination with some recent events in my life, caused me to put off learning more about him as long as I could.

I am still wrestling with the estate of my father, who died in 2006 without a valid will. (There aren't any contests, thank God; just a mess of financial entanglements that my mother isn't fit to resolve.) This experience forced me and Squeeky to confront our own lack of a will, and to make time for that awful conversation where you decide who gets charge of your children if you both die simultaneously.

For me, that's what echoed Prof. Pausch's situation, and led me to read the linked article. In it I learned that, once he'd accepted that he wasn't going to be around much longer, the truly sad part was to imagine his children growing up without their father.

His realization weighed on me as I padded around the kitchen tonight singing James Taylor tunes while Little Roo fell asleep in my arms. I recalled my earliest memories of my father: laughing and wrestling on the kitchen floor in our pajamas. If he had died young, and if that's all I'd ever known of him, I would be grateful.

And if I were to depart tomorrow, how would Little Roo remember me, if at all? As the big man at the desk who turned to smile at him once in a while in the evenings?

both kids are in bed now. Squinx just called for me because she'd bitten her thumb "and now it hurts." We said a prayer for healing and I kissed her, then let my hand linger just a moment on her fine-textured hair. It's my color and gauge, straight and soft. She also has my green eyes. Fortunately, she got her mother's features.

We spend much of our lives trying to avoid pain in its many forms, painful thoughts included. Writing our will is one of the most emotionally grueling tasks either of us has ever undertaken. Yet if we don't do it, or put it off too long, the consequences would be immeasurably worse for the children.

For me, this is only a taste of what God himself must have confronted when he chose to send his only begotten son to save us from a life without him. To let all his children go on without knowing him … was simply too awful a thought for even the creator of the universe to bear.

Posted by: Michael Rittenhouse at 08:14 PM | No Comments | Add Comment
Post contains 464 words, total size 3 kb.

Our honeymoon didn't take place as scheduled. Our planned destination, Kenya, held national elections the same month we were married. Kenyans have their own idea of "negative campaigning," and, Africans being more careless with machine guns than I'd like—especially around foreigners—we chose to stall our official visit by about eight months.

Which put it one week after the embassy bombings.

It may be needless to say that for most of that year, in Kenya and Tanzania, tourism was a buyer's market. We figured the violence was over since Al Qaeda had made its point, so we went ahead. This put us in Nairobi a few days before a week-long walking safari.

We chose Lufthansa for its short connecting time. When the DFW ticket agent heard we were on our honeymoon, he bumped us to business class and we got some semblance of sleep on the way to Frankfurt. We left Dallas in the afternoon, arrived in Germany the next morning, then flew most of that day over the Mediterranean and Sahara, arriving about 10 p.m. local time. The near-total loss of a calendar day proved to be as disorienting as the transit from the world's most advanced nation to one of the world's most backward.

for those of you who've never visited a third world capital, let me enlighten you to the most problematic inconvenience among many: You are not allowed to carry your own gun. The criminals, however, can pack all they want. Since the police are mostly criminals, this puts the foreigner in an awkward place. You want to enjoy the scene, smile, take pictures, meet new people. This behavior makes you a mark.

Of course, as anyone will tell you, the best defense is not to get into defensive situations. Upon landing in Nairobi, I promptly walked us right into one.

Traveling mostly between the major commercial centers of North America and Europe, Squeeky and I are accustomed to spotless airports staffed by courteous employees, and, and the least, taxi stands where someone with a badge will be keeping order. This is unheard-of at Jomo Kenyatta Int'l Airport and Bazaar.

Immediately after customs cleared us with a cursory glance, we hit the Third World Wall of Solicitation, an arrival hall packed with hectoring cabbies, tour guides, hotel reps, and a few sloppily dressed airport officials wielding absolutely no control over any of them. The hawkers go after Caucasians the hardest, assuming we're clueless, and they're right.

I had anticipated this and, before leaving the States, had quizzed a friend who'd been to Kenya recently. He said to walk straight to the cab stand and take the first car in line, expecting to pay $30 to get downtown. This was more than the locals pay, but there was no way around it.

However, I couldn't even see the cab stand through the wall of waving, yammering hucksters, and I wasn't about to wade into the middle of them with my carryons on one arm and my wife on the other.

Instead, I took us sideways toward the rental-car and hotel counters, where we attempted to confer in private over our next move. A circle of solicitors followed us and would not yield any space, grinning spookily and interjecting every few seconds to proffer a hotel or taxi. I took to glaring silently at them, hoping my sullenness and coat-and-tie would suggest I was among the many U.S. law-enforcement officers who'd arrived recently to investigate the bombing.

It seemed to work, and as they gradually lost interest, I spotted a young man in a red greatcoat with a name tag bearing the Nairobi Hilton logo. When I asked him for suggestions, he beckoned to another fellow across the room who he said would drive us downtown for $20. I thanked them both but, still on guard, would not let go of my bag.

As we stepped out of the airport's noise, I discovered another novel feature of Third World public facilities: Parking-lot lighting isn't mandatory. Our "driver" led us through row after row of haphazardly parked cars, and the darkness grew thicker, triggering an adrenaline flow within me I can best describe as torrential. As we got farther from the terminal, I began to doubt whether the man I'd spoken with back there was actually an employee of the Hilton, or that it would even matter once we were robbed and unconscious. I gripped my little flashlight and mentally rehearsed Sanders' instructions.

I felt slight relief when our driver opened the door to his Nissan Sentra and gestured politely. We took our seats in the back and I positioned myself directly behind him. As he sat down, I leaned forward so he could feel me breathing on his neck. No move of his would escape my notice, for whatever that was worth.

The roads leading from Third World airports also aren't lit, so once we left the property, all we could see was night broken occasionally by the lights of passing cars. Every vehicle sold in Kenya has a little chime that rings when the driver exceeds the national speed limit of 50 mph, and everyone ignores the sound. I used it as my red-alert: Anytime our driver slowed down—as in, to pull over for prepositioned thugs to whack us—I leaned a little closer to him. Whether I deterred him, or whether he actually had any plans to set us up, I'll never know, because after about 20 minutes he found the Terminal Hotel and let us out.

this place had been suggested to us by a friend whose adventuresome tendencies I envy but may never fully share. He admitted that for $20 a night we couldn't expect much, but we'd get a clean bed and some privacy.

This particular night wouldn't be so simple. The clerk, sitting behind a worn countertop with a cracked-plaster wall for a backdrop, said he had only one room left and it would have to be vacated by 8 a.m. He offered to escort us to another hotel, as it wasn't safe to walk Nairobi's streets at night. I figured we'd already eluded one ambush, so I insisted on his last room even if it meant checking out before breakfast. He shrugged and handed us the keys to a door four flights up.

By the time we reached our floor, cracked-plaster walls and peeling paint no longer registered on our sensibilities. We just wanted a bed and a door that locked. We found those, with a bonus: a mosquito net suspended from the ceiling.

Squeeky seemed nonplussed by the events of our arrival. My adrenal glands, however, had become raisins. We brushed our teeth, lay down on the boat-shaped mattress, and shut our eyes.

nairobi is equatorial and mild, on a high inland plateau. Most times of the year, and most times of the day or night, there is no need for shelter from the weather.

From outside, several storeys down, came the sounds of an outdoor party. Maybe a half-dozen to a dozen people, possibly drinking, definitely laughing. A little music, too, a style I didn't recognize.

In any other hotel room I've ever stayed in, that would've been the impetus for my sitting bolt upright and phoning security in high dudgeon, demanding an end to the festivities keeping me awake. But something caused me to listen for a moment.

I have heard the sounds of many parties. From this one the laughter had a peculiar warmth. These people were laughing with, not at, one another. I couldn't understand their words, but their affection for one another carried all the way up to our room.

We fell asleep to the sound of foreign friends in a foreign land.

Do everything you can to avoid the noise and the business of men. Keep as far away as you can from the places where they gather to cheat and insult one another, to exploit one another, to laugh at one another, or to mock one another with their false gestures of friendship.

Thomas Merton, New Seeds of Contemplation

See also Honeymoon, Part III.

Posted by: Michael Rittenhouse at 05:22 PM | Comments (1) | Add Comment
Post contains 1432 words, total size 10 kb.

I stopped by each business this afternoon, and left my card. Neither owner has called me back yet.

I think I understand why. Entrepreneurs don't have time to talk to writers. They don't have time for anything other than the business.

There's also risk. Reporters have given the journalism business a black eye. I'm referring to those who fool their sources into speaking frankly, then go back to the newsroom and gin up a hit piece. They don't care how this reflects on the source; that's even a teaching point in public-relations school.

I hate reporters.

If I have the chance, I'll explain that I am a journalist, not a reporter. Talking to me is like talking to a book author. I gather information, sort it out for my readers, and write a story that's interesting, funny, and novel. Then I post it here.

entrepreneurs don't have time to read entire web sites, so in case my source is reading this, let me suggest some introductions to my work:

• Service businesses get honest reviews from me.
• I write essays that reflect on the culture, but don't judge it.
• I am a free-market fan, and I like to drink.
• A lot.

Obviously, I'm the writer for this story. And it won't cost the owner a thing.

Furthermore, I left my card at each of the two businesses, which operate side-by-side in hot competition. I'll see who calls first.

Posted by: Michael Rittenhouse at 06:09 PM | No Comments | Add Comment
Post contains 240 words, total size 2 kb.

$12.44 for twelve beers.

Minus three.

I'd have paid fifty cents more for a box with handles made to withstand carrying.

Posted by: Michael Rittenhouse at 07:20 PM | Comments (3) | Add Comment
Post contains 26 words, total size 1 kb.

1

You know what else makes me cry? The fact that those are Corona Lights. What the heck man? 

Posted by: pajama momma at May 02, 2008 10:07 PM (f3xJa)

2

Yeah, I tried on my suits the other day. To wear them again, either they must be let out a couple of inches, or I must go in a couple of inches.

Posted by: Michael Rittenhouse at May 03, 2008 09:58 AM (7N6iU)

3 hahaha, after four kids I wouldn't know anything about that.

Posted by: pajama momma at May 04, 2008 10:05 AM (f3xJa)

Hide Comments | Add Comment

We had a fun time at Blog Talk Radio last night. I met Pajama Momma and learned I'm not the only Granola Republican who's also an Ace of Spades fan.

I have more to report tonight, so tune in tomorrow.

Posted by: Michael Rittenhouse at 06:07 AM | Comments (4) | Add Comment
Post contains 56 words, total size 1 kb.

I was thinkin' I should start an Alan O'Day tribute band, and call it Midnight Tennessee.

Not everyone gets that joke.

Posted by: Michael Rittenhouse at 08:18 PM | No Comments | Add Comment
Post contains 23 words, total size 1 kb.

If you want to see how easy it is to get Rittenhouse all weepy, have a look at this Australian military father's tribute to the U.S. forces serving alongside his son.

There are times when I look across the table at Little Roo in his high chair, and I wonder how it would feel to have him off somewhere battling the conscripts of some dictator we'd let run amok for too long. At moments like that, the profound silliness of debates over waterboarding comes fully to mind.

You bet I want them interrogated, and hard. They chose terrorism and all its consequences. I want them stopped right now, so no more sons have to go over there to stop them again.

Posted by: Michael Rittenhouse at 08:25 PM | No Comments | Add Comment
Post contains 127 words, total size 1 kb.

Fred got a late start in the campaign, which at the time was said to be either a stroke of genius, or an ill-advised attempt to bend the system to his own rules.

Turns out to have been ill-advised.

I still believe he'd have made the best president. Unfortunately he would've had to be the best candidate, also.

Posted by: Michael Rittenhouse at 06:58 AM | Comments (1) | Add Comment
Post contains 64 words, total size 1 kb.

From dallasnews.com:

When I worked at The Daily Texan, a similar affliction hobbled the university's Black Student Alliance. Every time they were about to start a scheduled meeting, someone would phone the newspaper threatening to blow them up. The Texan dutifully relayed this to campus police and wrote a little news item for the next morning's paper.

The second or third time this happened, somebody at the paper chose not to make it a news story. By the next morning, BSA representatives mobbed our office demanding an explanation. The editor shrugged and said it was no longer a news item, but a security issue for the police to resolve. This was not satisfactory, according to the BSA, which wanted front-page attention on every disrupted meeting.

Later that week, we set up a call-trace system on the paper's telephone lines and instructed the whole staff on how to use it. (This was just before Caller ID became available, so it was a big technological deal.) We let the BSA know about it, too, so they'd believe we took their safety seriously.

Imagine our surprise when the bomb threats ceased.

The BSA president had his own scare-issues, though. He insisted someone was after him personally, with menacing phone calls at all hours, and shadowy characters tailing him anytime he left his apartment. Also, someone poisoned his iced-tea pitcher. In his refrigerator.

The police couldn't get enough evidence to act on, and eventually the FBI took an interest. They invited him downtown for a friendly interview. After listening to his story, they left the room for a moment to confer. When they returned, they told him he was lying and could leave their office now.

what strikes me funniest about the BSA's and Rev. Wright's antics is the idea that anyone would care enough to threaten them. In the Jim Crow era, when certain whites felt they were in a war to defend segregation, some of them actually committed crimes, and threats were to be taken very seriously.

Today these claims merely underscore that the civil-rights battle is over, and those still fighting it are pretty much holding Pacific islands for the emperor. Tawana Brawley and Crystal Gail Mangum get exposed as liars, and the Jena crisis fizzles like Kohoutek, while actual white-on-black violence fails to register in the U.S.

The dearth of real crimes tells me that segregationists know their fight is lost, and no one in their diminishing ranks wants to risk anything, even to make a point. It's just so over now.

But every grudge merchant needs a persecutor, even if one has to be invented. Rev. Wright will call off his appearances if it means a headline; that's got to be worth at least as much in fundraising and book sales as he forgoes in honoraria.

Posted by: Michael Rittenhouse at 07:01 PM | No Comments | Add Comment
Post contains 534 words, total size 4 kb.