This one counts as a banner day at Rittenhouse.

First, I had the privilege of serving as subdeacon at Palm Sunday mass.

Yes, I think it's funny, too. Miraculously, I got through without any major blunders. Subdeaconing is actually simpler than it appears. Mostly what you do is stay out of other people's way. Which is important when they're carrying 10-foot-tall crucifixes or swinging a thurible full of red-hot coals.

later in the day, this being Wolf Dog's birthday month, we acceded to Squinx's insistence that we throw him a party. We've done this before—unwrapped a pound of raw hamburger and stuck Pup-peronis in it for candles—and Wolf Dog thinks it's all well and good but we need to get done with the singing and let him eat his "cake."

This year Squinx decided on a catfish for his birthday dinner. She's seen them swimming around the live tank at Fiesta and understands they're for food, not just show. And by five-year-old reasoning, since we never let Wolf Dog chase cats, why not let him have a catfish just once, for his birthday?

There are times when you realize there would be no good purpose served in denying a child's logic.

The helpful meat-counter people at Fiesta gave the fish its last rites in a kind of electric coffin, then gutted and skinned most of it. Squinx wanted the head left on; gotta admit there's a certain primality in watching one animal eat another, face-to-face.

Wolf Dog is raw-fed every day, of course. He's lean and healthy and his teeth are as white as when we first took ownership of him 6½ years ago. He finished most of the creature and buried the head at an undisclosed location. I hope he forgets where, too.

Afterward, Little Roo decided he didn't like anything in the universe, so we took him out front where he could fuss with impunity. High clouds brought out the blue sky in Technicolor, along with the neighbors, and an impromptu party coalesced on the lawn.

Hen party, that is. For about an hour I was the only grown male, but that just meant more beer for me.

I love few things more than having friends and neighbors over with no particular agenda other than to enjoy one another's company. (The trapeze thingy looks about to clobber the pink-tights-wearing Squinx on its way back to neutral, but she averted injury.) One of the ladies seated there is expecting her second baby in 20 weeks. The others each brought one or two with them. All in all, it was a wonderful day to be a young parent in Rittenhouse Estates.

Then enemy bombers appeared.

Actually, that's one of ours. The Frontiers of Flight Museum at Love Field is hosting a Doolittle Raiders reunion, and every couple of hours they send a few sorties over our house. At least, this time, they make it back to base.

I love to see and hear the beasts, now more than 60 years old, still hanging in the sky. I would not have felt that way as a resident of Tokyo or Berlin when these airplanes were new.

I'll sound like a little-old-lady greeting-card poet if I try to put a finishing touch on this. So I'll stop here and wish you a profound Holy Week.

Posted by: Michael Rittenhouse at 07:47 PM | No Comments | Add Comment
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My little boy loves to climb ladders.

Squeeky shot this from the kitchen window. How many more rungs would it have taken for disaster to strike?

Some help Wolf Dog would've been. I think he's tracking a squirrel.

Posted by: Michael Rittenhouse at 07:07 PM | No Comments | Add Comment
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I signed up as a GOP convention blogger, even though I'm unsure whether the GOP and I agree on what that means.

My plan would be to roam the back rooms and events to observe, Matt Labash-style, the people and goings-on, with the trust that I'm not out to embarrass the party or anyone in it, but to pick up interesting and preferably funny stories for my readers.

So far, there's no sign of that in the offing. They've sent me a string of ordinary press releases, to wit:

1. "2008 Republican National Convention Names Qwest Official Communications Provider" (press release)
   
   
2. "GOP Convention Unveils Advanced Website" (press release)
   
   
3. Links to YouTube videos urging me to submit a name for the GOP Convention Blog
   
   
4. "2008 Republican National Convention Names Official Innovation Provider" (press release)

One of these came with the admonition, "Haven’t pushed this out yet, but will within the hour…feel free to blog away…"

i don't envy their communications guy, whose job is to figure out what bloggers want to write about and lead them to it.

Bloggers are odd birds, and what little I know about them boils down to:

• The interesting ones aren't lazy like MSM reporters, most of whom prefer to have their editors or sources tell them what the story is, then write according to formula.
  
  
• However, bloggers write only about what interests them. They don't give a flip about what the mass public says it wants to read. (Old Media spews that junk out all day, anyway.)
  
  
• Relatedly, no blogger wants to compete with mass media for traditional "news."

The very last kind of writing that interests me (and, I believe, you) is advance pieces about an event whose outcome is a foregone conclusion. If I can't find something that lets me tell a Rittenhouse-style story, I'm not obligated to write anything at all.

But that does not mean I can't be a convention blogger.

Here's what I would like to write about a GOP gathering. (This one, of course, has already happened.)

my involvement with the '84 convention began with a call from my sister, who had contacts in the party looking for volunteers. I drove three hours from Austin to Dallas for a meeting that lasted 25 minutes.

In it, Secret Service advised us that if we were chosen for motorcade duty, we would be expected to show up every day in a three-piece wool suit.

One of us mustered the courage to ask, "In Dallas?"

"That's right."

Follow-up:

"In August?"

That summer turned out among the hottest on record. Trammel Crow had just finished constructing his flagship Loews Anatole hotel, a sprawling, three-towered, Turkish-themed red granite plaza where the Reagans and Bushes would stay. Its air conditioning wasn't quite up to task yet, and the enormous atria peaked every day right about 80 degrees; we drivers learned to roost outside the Picadilly ballroom in a wide, low-ceilinged, windowless hallway lined with cool marble tile.

I say "roost" because most of what we did all day was wait. The whole idea of a motor pool is to have plenty of drivers on-call. So most on-call time was off-call, in between assignments. All day from our circle of sofas, we enjoyed watching the volunteer girls walk past, and this was the first realization I had that women's clothing designed for a slimming effect works pretty well until it moves.

I've already written about our typical daytime adventures here. At night, we made our own amusement.

As I knew from my chauffeuring days, waiting outside a restaurant while your guests fill themselves is just about the dullest job available. That's where I found myself with three other drivers, all SMU frat boys who knew their way around town and had even less tolerance for boredom than I. We'd just let our people out for dinner at Patrizio's in Highland Park Village, and we agreed that standing around a parking lot was no way to spend the next 2½ hours.

After we piled into one car and nabbed a 12-pack at a convenience store, one of the guys suggested we venture over to the Trinity River bottom, where hundreds of Reagan-hating activists had been corralled. "I want to see protesters," he insisted, until the rest of us shrugged and went along.

the river bottom is a flat floodway about 15 times wider than the actual Trinity, which is a dribble comprising mostly storm-sewer runoff and effluent from Fort Worth. The bottomland is so dry most of the time that you can drive on it in a passenger car, though no one does because there's nothing to see between the levees.

Except in the summer of 1984. With the President in town and no chance of a late-August flood, someone had set up a protesters' confab down there on the free real estate. It took the form of enormous revival tents laid out like a checkerboard, surrounded by RVs and assorted campsites constructed according to how much heat the protesters were willing to suffer.

We drove our dark-gray Oldsmobile 98 over the levee and down alongside an area crawling with tie-dyed hippies, aggrieved Third World wannabes, and women who, on principle, wore no makeup. One of these was the first to notice four white guys in suits squeezing between the tents in a luxury sedan, and signaled us to stop.

"What are you guys doing here?"

"We live here. We wanted to see the protests."

"You're not supposed to be driving here," she said, gesturing in front of us to the space between the tents, which was about 1.0002 Oldsmobiles wide. A black man in clerical garb joined her, as did a wrinkled old dude in a psychedelic T-shirt whose hair and beard looked to comprise about half his body weight.

"Is this where the protests are?" another of our guys chimed in. This, I later learned, was a frat-boy sport called "playing dumb." The minister's neck stiffened.

"You shouldn't have a car here," the woman shook her head, hoisting a two-way radio to her ear. More people appeared. Apparently we'd attracted the camp's leading citizens first, and more would follow.

"Is it all right if we have a look around? We live here." Our driver had no fear.

The minister cleared his throat and spoke up.

"You need to go that way," he said, gesturing ahead, "then turn right and go up the ramp. There's no room for car traffic down here."

At this point I realized the vehicle was surrounded on three sides, which I'd always imagined to be the point at which, in a scene of civil unrest and/or lawlessness, I would—with no further comment—floor the accelerator so as to avoid casualty status. We were completely outnumbered, and although there were no signs of imminent violence, I sensed that these people were onto us and if we failed to exit as instructed very soon, we could tempt them to urge us along with dirt clods, spit, and other sticky projectiles we'd be hard-pressed to explain to our passengers, who were, by the way, just finishing up dinner on the other side of town.

"That way?" our driver played dumb a little more.

"That way," the minister said flatly, and began walking ahead of us. He waved us on, and I guess we figured that defying him would expose us to mob rule, so we rolled up our windows and waved good-bye to the crowd.

on the tollway back toward the restaurant, one of the frat boys quizzed me as to what I knew about the various fraternities at UT. I professed total ignorance, and when the other guys heard, they stopped talking to me.

That was my first exposure to the slyness of snobbery, where you look down on someone without actually appearing to do so. He had asked "What are the Tekes like at UT?" not "Are you a Teke?" So if I didn't know the answer to the first question, he didn't need to ask the second, which would have advertised his status a bit too directly.

enough of us worked hard at the convention that none of that mattered. These were 18-hour days, no exaggeration. I left my parents' house in Richardson at 6 a.m. and returned at midnight, four days straight.

My pinnacle assignment was driving Lyn Nofziger from the Anatole to the convention center one morning. He said little on the 10-minute trip, going through his papers most of the way, but I knew who he was from his high profile as Reagan's spokesman and felt honored to serve him.

As I let Nofziger out near the hall, someone in a small band of picketers recognized him and egged his fellows into spoiling for a confrontation. With 50 feet to walk from the car to the entrance, Nofziger was going to have a difficult time getting past them. When I saw this, something visceral caused me to stab the brakes, throw the car into park, and come out of the door. The picketers stopped short and fell silent. Nofziger turned, nodded toward me, and went on his way.

The simple explanation for the easy face-down is, I have the sort of look that convinced Oliver Stone to cast me, with one passing glance, as a Secret Service agent in JFK. At nearly six feet with a dark suit and aviator glasses, I must have made the same impression on the convention-hall protesters, and rather than risk a dozen more just like me coming out of thin air to put them on ice for a week, they retreated.

Later that day, I had the good fortune to be sent out for Nofziger's return to the Anatole. As we arrived, he said "Thank you," and handed me a lapel pin.

I later learned it was a staff pin, and it tells Secret Service that its bearer is an administration official who does not need to be challenged in secure areas. Which is why, before he left the car, he added, "Be careful where you wear that."

So I was.

Posted by: Michael Rittenhouse at 08:24 PM | Comments (1) | Add Comment
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Squeeky and I took the plunge, voted in Tuesday's Democrat primary for ... Hillary Clinton.

Mischievous? Yes and no. There weren't any contested races on the GOP side at our precinct, except for sheriff, and I'll leave that one to people who know who's best for the job. (I don't.) So, it was either just vote for a bunch of folks who are certain to win anyway, or vote for the Democrat more likely to lose in November.

The funniest observation of all this came from a commenter at Ace of Spades, who called voting in the other party's primary a "Wile E. Coyote" stunt that would end with us all knee-deep in Acme glue, or something.

Maybe. But I see it as either way, Rittenhouse wins.

Let's say McCain comes out on top in the general election. I figure he owes me an ambassorship, preferably in some country where I can wear my fez.

Or, if Clinton wins the general, she still owes me an ambassadorship for helping keep her alive in the primary. Then I can keep my promise—which I haven't made yet, by the way—to leave the country if she is elected president.

there is, of course, the possibility that we will inaugurate President Barack Hussein Obama in January. Then we'll all link arms and sing together 24/7 for the next four years anyway.

Posted by: Michael Rittenhouse at 08:32 PM | No Comments | Add Comment
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In Texas, we like to say "If it ain't broke, don't fix it."

In certain other states, they keep "fixing" broken things until they're hopeless. AP headline:

Utah fine-tunes complicated liquor laws.

I've had a drink in Utah. Also hiked with Samburu tribesmen in the Kenyan outback. I'm not sure which experience left me feeling more alien.

The amount of liquor allowed in the standard cocktail will increase from 1 ounce to 1.5 ounces....

This is state business?

... bar patrons' option of ordering an additional 1-ounce shot to pour in their drinks, known locally as a sidecar, is being eliminated.

Now there's a law certain to alleviate alcoholism, reunite families, restore polar-bear habitat, etc.

Customers will still be able to order shots while they have a drink on the table, but only if it is of a liquor that's not already in their drink. In other words, customers drinking a margarita couldn't order a shot of tequila, but they could take shots of vodka.

A request for Long Island Tea must send the bartenders reeling.

Lawmakers have even coined a contemptuous term for wine coolers and flavored malt beverages: "alcopops." The money quote:

"I know beyond a shadow of a doubt that these alcopops are directed to our kids. It is a gateway drug," said Rep. Mike Noel, R-Kanab.

Then they outlawed wine coolers, except at government-owned dispensaries.

frankly, if they consider alcohol a "drug," I don't know why they don't take the next logical step and require a prescription. Then the pharmaceutical companies could get in on the act, rewriting those antidepressant commercials only slightly to recommend that you talk to your doctor about Cuervotril.

Teetotalers writing liquor laws is like dogs making rules for cats. "Kitty must wear a bell. No hiding behind the couch. And no more claws."

Republican Gov. Jon Huntsman has said he wants the change so Utah won't appear so strange to the rest of the world.

Well, the state law forbidding same-liquor shots should do the trick.

If the Governor is serious, what he actually needs is one set of liquor laws for locals, and one for out-of-towners. Show your driver's license and if it's out-of-state, you can drink just as you do at home. I'd sign up for a New Orleans learner's permit just so I could take my piña colada for a walk.

Posted by: Michael Rittenhouse at 09:19 PM | No Comments | Add Comment
Post contains 435 words, total size 4 kb.

More than a few acquaintances have told me how much they'd like to have an old car to drive, work on, and just enjoy.

I drove the vintage convertible above every day for 16 years, and I have some enlightenment to offer.

It's neither all good nor all bad, but an admixture of experiences in no particular order.

Some of the great moments included when:

• I was asked to lead a parade.
  
  
• A hotel valet parked my car right out front.
  
  
• A co-worker told me I made him laugh that morning when I passed him with the top down, singing.
  
  
• On a dark, snaky rural road, the headlights failed, and the only way to restore them was to step on the dimmer switch, which meant the lights went off with every gearshift.
  
  
• This picture was taken:
  
  
• I built an air-conditioning system and installed it. And it worked.
  
  
• Patrons at a happy hour stood helplessly watching as their new cars outside got hammered by hailstones, which either bounced off my top or disintegrated on the heavy-gauge body.
  
  
• Over several weeks I took the engine apart piece-by-piece, and upon reassembly, started it on the first try.
  With vintage cars, "dependable" means "it breaks with advance warning in ways that you can fix."
  
  
  
• The defroster only added to the condensation, requiring me to stop several times on a cold night to clear the view. This endeared me to my date, which demonstrates once again that cars are more easily understood than girls.
  
  
• The ignition coil failed at a gas station in rural Tennessee, where a stranger, traveling with his family, offered to drive me to a parts store.
  
  
• After replacing the clutch disc, I mated the engine and transaxle on the garage floor, which is like mating a pair of particularly uncooperative, quadriplegic horses covered with oil.
  
  
• I learned to strip paint with a baking-soda blaster, which is like firefighting but much more messy.
  
  
• The body shop finished the restoration and I drove home in a gleaming, new classic.

The not-so-great moments:

• The collision six months after the restoration.
  
  
• Spending several weeks and more than $200 on parts to troubleshoot a charging problem, which turned out to be a rotten wire at the ignition switch.
  
  
• The second top replacement.
  
  
• The third clutch job.
  
  
• An annoying vibration which continued until I found its source in an "improved" part I had added several years earlier.
  
  
• Somebody made off with my shift knob.
  
  
• Ignition failure, on the way to work.
  
  
• Rain dribbling in above the windshield, increasing with speed.
  
  
• The purchaser told me he had put the car in storage.

In the 10th year I owned the car, a fellow at my company asked if I would look at a similar model he wanted to purchase. On the way to view it, I quizzed him on his mechanical experience. He had none, but he thought he could find someone to maintain the car for him. He asked if I was interested in the job. I said, No, I couldn't be responsible for the reliability of someone else's car.

We drove the vehicle a few miles and returned it. Although it felt sturdy to me, I suggested he locate a mechanic knowledgeable in old cars, or be willing to learn patiently and invest in some tools. He thanked me and, a few days later, bought the car.

The next week he called to ask if I knew where to get a battery. And how to install it.

The car sat in the office parking lot until he sold it a month later.

to most people, "dependable" means you turn the key and go. With vintage cars, "dependable" means "it breaks with advance warning in ways that you can fix."

To have a healthy relationship with your classic, you cannot ignore a leak, or a noise, or a funny smell, or a drop in performance; these portend a breakdown. All moving parts eventually need repair or replacement, and most of them give warning signs, with the exception of electrical stuff, and in my case the cam gear, which expired one winter day on IH-35E, bequeathing just enough momentum to usher me down an exit ramp to a parking lot. Remedy: full engine rebuild.

Which leads to my second point: I would not keep a vintage car unless I drove it every day. Absent that need, I would rarely devote the time to fix it.

Of course, if you are retired or otherwise free from the commitments of career, family, etc., then an old car can be a joy to maintain. You'll have the time to upgrade some of the outmoded systems (e.g., ignition) and to study others' techniques for improving reliability.

Toward that end, the Internet alleviates much of the frustration in keeping a vintage car, because you can quickly tap the experiences of others in times of trouble. My marque even had an e-mail list that spat out daily conversations among owners on the myriad improvisations that keep a 40+ year-old car running. As well, over the Web, the parts vendors can reach their small customer base inexpensively.

Before that, it was Hemmings Motor News and your local club, and if you didn't live in a city large enough to support a club, you were on your own.

finally, never think of an old car as an investment. The only people who claim to make money in old cars are experts who know exactly which models to buy and sell at the right time. They have others maintain their collections. I doubt they actually operate at a profit, based on the number of dealers I've seen come and go. If the professionals can't even make a dollar at it, odds are that amateurs can't, either.

That said, because I drove my classic as I would any other car, it could be thought of as a good investment transportation-wise because I made no payments and it cost little to insure. I spent plenty on parts, but nothing like the cost of a new car. When I sold it, the price about equaled the purchase price in constant dollars. You cannot say that for any car bought new.

Posted by: Michael Rittenhouse at 05:40 PM | Comments (1) | Add Comment
Post contains 1034 words, total size 7 kb.

Following a fully laden dump truck down a six-lane street yesterday, I noticed intermittent spurts of water popping up behind its wheels.

On closer inspection, it appeared that as the truck crossed each expansion strip, ground water from the day's rains shot straight up from the gap.

That can only mean the concrete itself is floating, loose enough to bounce under the truck's weight. That's going to be an expensive fix for me, Mr. Taxpayer.

Meanwhile, city crews turn in more performances like this:

Which brings to mind a public/private sector comparison put up by a UK resident who decided to stop watching the BBC and, concurrently, to stop paying the fee collected from everyone who receives broadcast television in the British Isles. The ongoing response from BBC must be seen to be believed.

At the bottom, he shows us the letter he got from British Gas, which competes with other suppliers for the same customers. You'd have thought they were written by a different species.

What can be said about government services that hasn't been said before? And yet we still vote for the candidate(s) spouting the most audacious promises.

Posted by: Michael Rittenhouse at 09:31 PM | No Comments | Add Comment
Post contains 192 words, total size 2 kb.

I seem to have just made a cup of gay hot chocolate.

Follow me on this and tell me I'm not mistaken.

We begin with a metal container; atop is a brass-colored handle, I suppose in case the lid gets stuck. The label tells us this is not some pedestrian hot cocoa mix.

Because it's produced from shavings of premium chocolate rather than cocoa powder, our hot chocolate is intensely chocolaty with a well-rounded body, rich taste, smooth texture, and exquisite aroma.

Exquisite. They had me at "well-rounded body," but "exquisite"? Say that aloud.

Inspired by the famed Café Angélina in Paris,

Uh-oh.

Artisanal.

*ding*

Artisanship.

Okay, I get it: I'll need to prepare this in a kimono.

The directions seal the deal. I'm supposed to heat one cup of milk in a saucepan until "bubbles just begin to form around the edges...." Then "Whisk 5 Tbs..."

Whisk.

Counting the measuring cup, I've now dirtied four utensils making one cup of hot cocoa chocolate, not counting the flakes that spilled over and melted on the stovetop. Why all this trouble for just one person?

Unless I live alone in a small apartment, habitually assuaging my inner agonies with sybaritic indulgence and pretense. Like a "warmed mug."

I am a father of two currently managing three households. I want a foil packet and water I can boil in the microwave without injuries.

but it's lent, and i've given up coffee, and in desperation to jump-start my insides in the morning, I have turned to this, a tin of hot chocolate gifted to me a while back. Apologies if the giver is reading this; it was ápropos and I do appreciate it. In fact, you've given me the gift of a fresh entry at Rittenhouse, so consider this my second thank-you. Or my first if I forgot to send you a note.

The product itself: not bad. It holds heat longer than water-based cocoa, so the first thing I did was scald my tongue and palate. Perfect: the lingering taste of burned meat I'll enjoy for the rest of the day. But it is creamy, and chocolaty, and ...

... exquisite.

Posted by: Michael Rittenhouse at 03:21 PM | No Comments | Add Comment
Post contains 414 words, total size 4 kb.

Yes, I know.

If you need a reason, fine: I like the fez because, if you wear one, you can't help but have a good time. As will all the people around you.

It is Old World, genteel, official, yet Third World. Maybe Colonial. Ambassadors could—and should—wear them.

To follow Rittenhouse, you always have to look forward. Ataturk made a clean break when he outlawed the fez in Turkey. That was a forward step, though an incorrect one, even from his own perspective. For it was critical in this next phase of fez popularity.

What launched the fez to the top of my Amazon Wish List was this quote I came across in research:

Sold!

I've been looking for a subtle way to let the Islamists of the world know I'm at odds with them. (Somehow those terrorist hunting permit bumper stickers just didn't work for me.) With a fez, I stake out my territory with a smile.

Buy yours and wear it now. When you see me, swing your tassel, and I'll respond in kind.

Posted by: Michael Rittenhouse at 07:34 PM | Comments (1) | Add Comment
Post contains 218 words, total size 2 kb.

In winter, I start showing up in places without my wallet. It's inevitable that I've left it in a jacket or coat, at home, in a closet. I don't know how Yankees work around this during their eight straight months of outerwear.

I'm also not sure where my wedding ring is, after six months or so of missing it. I'd lost it for a week, then found it in the garage next to the paint dissolver. Makes perfect sense: I'd shed the ring to protect it.

Now it's just gone.

Wife is still here, though. We had dinner out on our 10th anniversary, promising to take a celebratory vacation as soon as Little Roo can be left for a couple of days with her parents.

As a kid, even a young adult, I wondered why people applauded each other's anniversaries. To me, parents just stayed together; that's how it worked. Splitting up, well, that would be cause for attention. Staying married? That's like the grass coming up green every year. It just happened.

in elementary school i came to realize there were 1 or 2 kids in each class who caused most of the disruptions. I also learned they lived in apartments, not houses like the rest of us. I also heard them use phrases like "my real dad," and I wondered what that meant.

Michele lived in a house, but she had a "real dad" and a "stepdad," and one day she explained all that to me but I didn't follow the storyline. The next year, her last name changed, as did her sister's. Later, she was the first girl I knew of who'd had sex. She was 12 years old.

John was an apartment kid. In first grade, he was the meanest of all the boys, and the rest of us avoided him. He had a devlish grin and never stopped looking for an opportunity to upset somebody. His most annoying habit was, if you had something in your hand he'd insist on seeing it up-close. One-half second after you held it up, he'd slap it out of your hand just for the pleasure of watching you scramble after it. I saw this happen enough that when I lost a tooth and was carrying it around in a paper towel all day and he demanded to see it, I moved it out of the way just in time and he smacked his own leg. Years later I saw him at a fast-food restaurant near his apartment complex. He looked cowed, and he never noticed me close by.

Candy lived one block from the school. Her mother delivered morning newspapers to most of the neighborhood from the back of an El Camino. No father was ever mentioned. At age 7, Candy got sent home for wearing a blouse tied off at the midriff. She had a boyfriend, David. He got to grow his hair over his ears and could draw psychedelia. The last memory I have of Candy was at age 12, when I saw her climbing out of my neighbor's window as his parents arrived home.

the real-dad kids made the school-discipline headlines; the rest of us, not so much. We weren't perfect, but teachers knew the difference and held us to a higher standard. Perhaps you remember trying some crazy stunt on a lark, and getting punished worse than the class outlaw did for essentially the same deed. Happened to me every time.

So now I know why people cheer each other's anniversaries. It's another touchdown, or halftime, and you're winning. There's more to be said than that, of course, but sometimes polite applause is worth a thousand words.

Posted by: Michael Rittenhouse at 07:24 AM | No Comments | Add Comment
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This seems to be the week when everyone posts his abortion memories, so here's mine:

As a teen in the late '70s, I thought abortion was an expensive, yet fortunate, form of last-ditch birth control. In the heat of competition with my peers I wasn't willing to pass up an opportunity for sex with a real girl just because a condom wasn't handy, so a clinic served the same purpose as the backstop on a baseball field. Misjudge, and you might need it.

I knew there was a debate raging out there, but it didn't impose on my world. One woman I worked with at a politician's call center gave me a short lecture to the contrary, and I shrugged it off. I lived in the here-and-now. The subject was never discussed at home, so whatever I learned came from the popular culture.

in my college years, i was interning in d.c. One night I took the Metro out to the suburbs to visit a girl I knew from UT-Austin. Some months earlier, we'd had an appalling, drunken encounter at my college apartment, which we'd both regretted but never spoke of again. As we sat down to dinner, I asked how she'd been. She said not so well; she'd been in the hospital. I asked why.

"When you're three months pregnant, you have to do something."

My breathing stopped, and I stared down at the checkered tablecloth for a very long time. My left brain was busy counting months backward; my right brain pictured a silent, still baby, resembling me, covered in blood.

At that moment my heart aligned with my mind, and I realized I'd been horribly wrong in behavior and attitude for a very long time. The spectacle of an innocent other dying for my selfishness settled down in my conscience and wouldn't budge. In theological terms, I'd been confronted by my sin.

The secondary matter was, the math didn't add up. She'd been with men other than me, assuring them she was infertile just as she'd done that night in my apartment. But somewhere else, in another conversation with her, there would be another young man like me, and I hope he'd stared at a tablecloth for a very long time as well.

d.c. seemed to be where i took most of my moral bearings. It was also where others revealed theirs to me.

A couple of years into my career, I returned to Washington for the weekend to visit with friends and former roommates. Inadvertently, I'd chosen the same weekend as some sort of rally for "choice." I knew what that meant, but what I didn't realize was, the party we were headed to on Friday night was a kind of preparatory rally of its own.

From inside and out, it looked like any other D.C. townhouse blowout: Dozens of casually dressed twentysomethings downing keg beer with R.E.M. filling the space between them.

About an hour into it, and after much goading by his friends, the host stood up on a crate to make an announcement. He didn't say much more than a welcome and a benediction to have fun tonight, but somewhere in the middle he remarked that it seemed funny we were all enjoying such a great time considering "why we're here." That's as specific as he got, "why we're here." He came back to the phrase at least once more before offering a toast.

Then the R.E.M. started up again, and the party went on.

I stood staring at him for a while. Then I turned to the others, and watched them laughing, drinking, dancing. All had taken time away from their usual weekend activities to support a cause, but they could not call it by name.

"Choice" was the word of choice, and they couldn't even say that.

It told me all I needed to know.

as our second child approached term, I made a very bad joke in asking Squeeky if she was sure she wanted to have the baby. She looked puzzled.

"You know it's legal to abort in Texas even now, right?" I asked.

She sat silently for a moment, then burst into tears. No, she didn't know that. She had no idea you could legally kill a baby right up until his hour of birth.

That's what Roe v. Wade did to America. So many of us don't even realize the monstrosity of—as the button I saw taped to a D.C. friend's refrigerator—abortion on demand and without apology.

When I saw that, the plaintiff in Roe v. Wade had not yet admitted she'd lied about being raped.

Seven judges used a lie to blunt the will of the people of 50 states.

That's what we commemorate each January 22.

Posted by: Michael Rittenhouse at 07:08 AM | Comments (1) | Add Comment
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A week or two ago, Tim Blair linked to a post here, and I swelled up so big I feared a rib might pop loose. My site-meter pegged; I felt like tap-dancing on the ceiling. From the other side of the planet, he'd made my year.

The next day, Tim announced he had cancer.

There is no one else who does what Tim does every day and appears to have as much fun doing it. Which is why his site is among the first three I call up each morning. And one reason I should long ago have placed a see-through coffee shield between me and my monitor.

I do not want to see his name as the subject of an e-mail. Do add him to your prayers for courage and a prompt recovery. The only other way to ensure his immortality would be to wangle him a front-row seat in the White House press room.

Posted by: Michael Rittenhouse at 06:59 AM | No Comments | Add Comment
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I may not be able to post for a few days. We're dropping the Rittenhouse phone line and going with "dry loop" DSL, which, in AT&T's inscrutable logic, may require five business days' downtime.

Since I don't post from my day job, this puts me out of commission.

So, in the meantime and on the subject of housekeeping, ponder this study on the physical condition of hotel maids, before and after they were told how much work they do in a day. I'm still scratching my head over the results.

Posted by: Michael Rittenhouse at 07:55 PM | Comments (1) | Add Comment
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It has been determined that, as I approach my drinking limit, I begin speaking in palindromes.

Which is a good indicator to those around me that perhaps I could use another gin-and-tonic, minus the gin.

Yes, that's my CD in your player. I'm flattered that you want to take it. I have another one, or three, stashed throughout your house, for our later enjoyment.

I am not to be interrupted.

You may, at your discretion, collect my car keys, but do not take my car. It rarely starts without a kind of monastic ritual, lots of chanting, incense, etc. Besides, the looks you'll get in the rear-view from motorists reading my bumper stickers may cause you to stay home for weeks.

By the way, this is not a cabernet glass.

Have I told you about my acting career? I'm in the middle of it now. I'm only acting this part, you see. So are you. Casting has done a magnificent job. Set design could take a few pointers.

Please see to it the non-smokers are sent outside. It's for their health. Also, maybe they'll stop complaining.

Don't say you don't want me at your party, especially after I've gone to the trouble of lint-rolling my fez. (Beaver felt, in case you're wondering.) I solemnly promise that most of the cover charge I collect from your guests will go toward the 11:47 beer run.

Okay, the 1:47. I don't mind helping at all, if it'll save you the embarrassment of running out.

People don't seem to know the rules of entertaining anymore.

Posted by: Michael Rittenhouse at 08:57 PM | No Comments | Add Comment
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Friday I donned a coat and tie for a wedding, then arrived at church to find it was scheduled for Saturday. So I went grocery shopping instead.

Whereupon I was reminded that strangers treat you better when you're well-dressed. The cashier, smiling and more courteous than usual, complimented me on my necktie. I thanked her and then, perhaps unnecessarily, noted that I'd bought my last one in 1992. (That was the year my company stopped prescribing business attire.)

Several years prior to that, after graduating from college and adopting the office dress-up ritual, I learned quickly that my weekday appearance mattered to just a few people, namely my boss and his colleagues. I took their sparing comments to heart because, frankly, I had little idea how to build a wardrobe. Dad had always worn suits to his office; he once told me of the wary looks directed at him when, early in his career, he showed up for a company event wearing a sportcoat, while everyone else was in a suit.

But I also came of age in the 1970s, when leisure suits, three-prong belts, and cartoonish lapels and collars warped the social fabric of fashion. The 1980s saw a return to tradition, but I didn't trust it enough to buy in. Besides, I thought skinny ties were fun.

at my third post-college job i would answer to a female boss. By then I'd tamed my enthusiasm for baggy pants, etc., and she always took note when I'd invested in a well-cut, quality suit or new pair of shoes. My male bosses never did that. They might have offered some backhanded correction ("Are those trousers really your size?"), but they never went out of their way to offer compliments. It usually takes a female—and one who has no interest in you as a mate—to do that.

Our office building had a common area where retail vendors would set up shop each day to sell to employees. One morning I was looking over some neckties when my boss happened by. She singled out several of a style I had overlooked, holding them up to my collar before approving or setting them aside.

Right then it dawned on me that I should let her choose whatever I could afford. I realized that once I'd knotted a necktie and left my house, I never saw it the rest of the day, but she'd notice it every time I came in sight.

Had I been able to take her clothes-shopping with me after hours, I'd have done so. My opinion of what looked good on me didn't matter; it was, and would always be, up to the approval of her and others.

frankly, i've never had room in my head for thinking about how I'm dressed. I've heard about how some people are winters, others autumns, and that the colors we choose should key on our eyes, skin tones, and hair. Whatever. My only concern is whether I'm within my budget, and that my clothes look new and smell clean.

For me, it was enough to remember, when leaning over a typewriter (later, a printer), to place one hand over my necktie so it wouldn't get mangled; to hitch my trousers before sitting, so as to preserve their crease; and to shape my dress shoes with cedar trees. These habits I learned from Dad. Although his fashion sense was from another era, his manners are eternal.

In his time, the unwritten rules were simpler. You couldn't go wrong by just wearing the same things as everyone else.

In the age of dress-casual, you can no longer do that. Each department and echelon has its own set of unwritten rules. Managers who want a promotion always wear collared shirts and slacks. Their subordinates puzzle over whether they can wear jerseys and sweatshirts given to them by the company. The secretaries aren't afraid to look feminine, as many of them are single and the office is where many meet their mates. And the ever-important tech types show up in flip-flops and ironic T-shirts, to the consternation of company officers who okayed "office casual" 15 years ago when everyone knew that meant you didn't show up ready to play beach volleyball.

Helpful criticism has gotten even more sparse in the politically charged office. A heterosexual male cannot say he likes a female's choice in clothing, and he certainly isn't going to take her down a notch, either. The guys only comment on each other's dress when it pushes a boundary (see the above with regard trouser sizes).

In any event, I still look to my boss (and now, my wife) for approval of what I wear. It's just one less thing to think about as my world grows more complex and demanding.

Posted by: Michael Rittenhouse at 10:21 AM | No Comments | Add Comment
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Headline, Christmas Day:

"Man Murders Wife, Puts Her Under Christmas Tree"

And a very merry Christmas to you.

Posted by: Michael Rittenhouse at 12:51 PM | No Comments | Add Comment
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Cogito, ergo sum.

"I think, therefore I am."

Woof, ergo Supercanem.

"I bark, and lightning cowers before me."

In his seventh year, Wolf Dog has learned to apply the same scare tactic to thunderstorms that he's used successfully against postmen. I show you my ferocious side, you go away; we practice again 24 hours later.

About 1 a.m. this morning he alerted me to an approaching storm front. He's a master of the obvious as well as the subtle, I suppose. I welcomed him back into the laundry room from outside with a towel and a stern warning to knock it off. Then, for insurance, I closed his dog door.

He looked apologetic. He seems to know that works.

Posted by: Michael Rittenhouse at 02:36 AM | No Comments | Add Comment
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We are a two-Ford family, which is not how I came of age. If my father had any brand loyalty, it was to GM, because that's all he owned from 1954 to 1974. I liked our Chevys and Oldses, even when Dad and I were elbows-deep under the hood trying to make them last another year. Opening a machine up like that, you get a feel for it, an appreciation for what makes it run. The handshake between man and machine takes place through a 9/16 end wrench.

On the contrary, I never liked the feel of the Fords I rode in or worked on. Something felt plastic and hollow about them, as if a much smaller car were operating beneath an enormous, tin façade.

When I actually started driving, it was Ford's column shifters that unnerved me. Like pulling on a stick jammed into a bucket of badly mixed epoxy and river rocks. The détentes felt springy and imprecise. I wondered if r really meant r sometimes, because it never felt the same way twice.

My Explorer continues that tradition. Its shift lever's placement always makes me guess whether to grip it underhand or overhand, because neither feels right. My Taurus, built in the Years of the Dominant Oval, has a spongy rubber shifter that looks sort of like a paddle jammed sideways into the steering column. Its resistance is a little too strong for fingertip operation, but so weak that gripping it with my whole hand seems like overkill. (Ever watch a kid drink from a cup with both hands? Like that.) I've learned to sort of throw it into gear, the way Will Smith worked the alien fighter ship's controls in Independence Day.

GMs never made me guess. My old Monte Carlo's gear selector made two bends on its way out to meet my hand with a flared knob, perfectly engineered for cupping three fingers around it, underhand, and pulling it down in the victory-hoo-ah fashion precisely into the gear I wanted. It also went firmly into park, so I never had to wonder if the car would roll away after I stepped out.

Ford ignition switches also feel wrong, with too much throw and too little feel. Mushy, as if something has snapped inside and the whole thing's about to pop out onto the floor in a pile of tiny springs and pewter coggery. In fact, the first moving part to fail on our Explorer was its ignition switch.

i got to compare these makes side-by-side in my chauffeuring days, when we ran a mixed fleet of Cadillacs and Lincolns. The stretch DeVilles were driver's cars, heavy and solid-feeling; you knew that when you turned the wheel, the car would comply immediately with no nonsense. After a bump, the chassis promptly returned to neutral and the car continued its cruise as if nothing had ever happened.

Not so with the Lincolns. They careened on curves and never seemed to come out level in the end, as if they were still traumatized by lateral g-force. Their engine speed had some relationship with acceleration, but it wasn't linear. You could also steer them easily with one finger, which made me wonder, Why not just put a joystick on the console? No need for this 16" grab handle blocking my view of the instruments.

I will concede that FoMoCo leaves GM sucking wind in the intermittent-wiper category, all because when you turn off a GM wiper, even if the blades are down they jump up and sweep across one last time, as if to say, "You missed a spot." Fords obediently lie down or stay there when you switch them off, no back talk.

Wipers shouldn't upset me this much, but they have a way of bringing the worst out of people. Perhaps it's just the way they operate, snapping across your field of vision as you're trying to see through the rain. You know they're there to help; it's their haphazard, noisy manner that irritates.

but only an ingrate grouses over a convenience such as the automobile. One of my greatest little pleasures in life is basic maintenance, or even a major repair if I know what I'm doing.

It's when I don't know that my faith in God is tested.

Within its first year under my ownership, at 71,000 miles, the Taurus cannibalized its camshaft position sensor. This takes the place of the distributor in a distributorless ignition, and sort of advises the computer on when to send sparks out to the cylinders. The car will run without it, but you can't get an inspection sticker with the service engine soon light on. So I had a deadline.

Locally, parts stores wanted $80 plus for the item. I found it online for about $25. That's a suspicious savings, the kind you get for that few weeks between the Chinese knock-off's arrival in California until the domestic producers sigh and mark theirs down accordingly. I even took the cheaper one to my local parts store, where the counter guys held it up side-by-side with their offering and just shrugged. Looks the same; let us know how it works out.

I'll spare you the details except that I had to machine about 1 mm of metal off the mounting to make it fit. The time this consumed in realizing the problem and fixing it easily burned up the $55 savings.

nonetheless, taurus and i bonded through the experience, our first repair. I try to be grateful for God's little favors like that. He didn't have to point me to this $4,000 cream puff, but he knew I needed it right then, and he did.

Posted by: Michael Rittenhouse at 06:25 AM | Comments (1) | Add Comment
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I don't know why palindromes make me laugh. Just saying "Was it Eliot's toilet I saw?" breaks me up.

I only wish the word for palindrome were, itself, a palindrome. Then they'd be perfect, and I'd be institutionalized.

Posted by: Michael Rittenhouse at 06:25 AM | No Comments | Add Comment
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Because I am neither nonpartisan nor nonprofit—I must be a profitable partisan, then—I've no qualms about using this space to promote the most bestest candidate for President, Sen. Fred Thompson.

That clip was selected for use at the Thompson campaign web site.

Probably Fred's first major blunder, that.

Posted by: Michael Rittenhouse at 09:36 PM | No Comments | Add Comment
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