And as I type this on my Blackberry, folks from the Navy, State Department and GSA are talking about blogging. You wouldn’t think there would be so much regulation standing in the way of government talking to itself–let alone the public–via Web 2.0 tech. Procurement, congressional oversight, policy and administrative rules are all tooled against direct communication.

*and an edit from a real computer*

After taking in the whole conference, and looking at what 3 cups of coffee and a crackberry wrung out of me, I figured maybe I should expand on the buzziness above.

I had been away from covering government stuff for almost 15 years before this January. And as much as things have changed, the people in government IT largely haven’t. The average age of the Federal IT workforce is 47, according to a factoid I heard yesterday–which I’m going to have to get a cite for, but based on the folks I’ve seen at various events, it seems on target. Unlike the commercial world, there has long been a culture of risk-avoidance, and resistance to change is embedded in both the regulations and culture. One person I spoke to talked about how regulations are to the point that government employees now have to basically break them in order to get anything done.

Another problem is that there’s a dependency on contractors to do much of the deep technical work in government IT, and contracts are generally driven by specifications from within government. Cross pollination of new ideas — and a flow of fresh blood into the Federal IT gene pool– is something that hasn’t been made easy by the way the government does business.

Desi escaped Tuesday night when he got spooked by the storm and the wind blew the door open. He didn’t go far, but I looked for him almost all of Wednesday, and when I spotted him Wednesday night he was scared and cold. He took a nice piece out of my hand when K. and I finally coaxed him out from under a neighbor’s porch.

Sure, it’s nice that my shiny new minivan has such wonderful features as a “low tire pressure” light. But generally speaking, that’s not a feature you want to reveal itself less than a month after you bought the damned thing.

Apparently, something nicked the sidewall of rear left tire. When I got out of the van, I heard a loud hiss coming from the rear left side, and I followed the sound to a rather innocent looking little scratch on the tire that was rather non-innocently spewing the tire’s gasses into the atmosphere.

One feature I neglected to opt for when I purchased the van: that damn tire and wheel protection plan. So now it’s sitting over at D&J waiting for a tire.

F***socks.

Saturday was Soccer Day, with my Under 12 Boy’s CYO team on the road with a 2 pm game. J. had been skating the night before at a Katrina relief ice-skateathon or something with his friend C., and then had a sleepover at C.’s, so perhaps he was a bit more sluggish than usual. But in any case, we all managed to get out the door to the game together this week (the whole crew in one place…the logistics are mind-boggling).

K., now hard-core as he’s playing JV soccer at Poly, wanted to run the kids into the ground as a warm-up. I eased him up and reminded him that it was going to be a long, hot game. And it did get hot–90′s again. I don’t remember September this late being this hot recently.

In the end, it was a tie again (making Brood X’s record for this year 0-2-0, at least 50% better than our record at this point last year). Then we grabbed lunch and headed for HampdenFest.

After grabbing beers and snow-cones, we wandered down toward the Hampden Idol contest in time to catch:

• An adequate execution of “Gloria”
• A woman who made “Whole Lotta Love” sound like a cat in a dryer
• Ali’s inspiring rendition of “Don’t Stop Believin’” (to which K. and I waved our cell phones)
• Chris, the “Thin White Guy”, performing “Let’s Go Crazy”, and stealing the show

My ex A. and her husband D. arrived in the midst of this. As we stood there on the Avenue after the wrapup of Hampden Idol, Benn came by. He pointed out that the spot where P. and my ex were sitting on the curb was in fact the scene of a murder:a street person, known for being a loan shark to addicts, had grabbed a little girl walking to the community center after school, and she ran in to the center crying; her grandfather emerged with a cane and beat the guy to death in broad daylight.

On that note…we headed out shortly thereafter. The boys left with my ex for the night, and P., Z. and I headed to New No Da Ji for dinner before calling it a night.

Sunday, we met up with the boys and A&D at the Irish Festival at the Armory. Nothin’ is as Irish as passing through an armed checkpoint to get a beer, I suppose; the Guard was conducting ID checks on every person who entered the Armory. Aside from the asses from Noraid (or, perhaps, the “reformed asses” would be more appropriate now that they’re allegedly behind the peace process–but from the stickers they were giving people, you’d think they were still shipping the Provos Armalites), it was a pleasant enough event, with Z. enthralled by the Irish dancing and K. intrigued by the Irish dancers. I got a free Smithwick’s as the beer concession tried to empty the kegs. J. shook us down for money for a shamrock ballcap and a faux-celtic dragon pendant. It was a Gallagher family heritage event.

Then, it was home and back to homework and other work and the grind of the week ahead.

We were in Sam’s Club today, when one of the staff came by to our cashier and said, “They’re closing all the gas stations until Tuesday. If you don’t get gas by 4, you won’t be able to get any all weekend.”

The woman in front of us in line turned to us and said, “That’s not true. My sister just called me and it’s only a rumor.”

Indeed, it was only a rumor. But that didn’t stop people from being lemmings.

On our way home, we ran into heavy traffic right after we got off the JFX. “I bet it’s the gas stations up at the corner that are causing this,” I said to P. A police car blasted its siren a few times as it tried to go up the median to the scene of the congestion.

I turned down a side street and took a detour home. When we got there, the same thing was happening in front of our house–a line of traffic had formed trying to get to the Royal Farms a block away. I had to drive through alleys to get home. After unloading the groceries, I turned on the TV and caught a report of how widespread the madness was.

So I took a little walk up the street to document how much humans are like lemmings. It seems everyone is so ready right now to believe the worst case scenario, to be frightened into irrational behavior. People didn’t seem to care that the Governor was denying the truth of what they had heard, or that the gasoline stations were telling them it wasn’t true. They were creating the crisis all on their own.

The old Dodge Grand Caravan urban assault vehicle (well, it’s 6 years old, but it looks older) has been drawing all sorts of snide remarks from the family. My eldest son keeps talking about getting it on “Pimp My Ride”, or painting it all haze-grey and adding gun ports. My wife is embarrassed to ride in it. Even my 4-year old says she wants a new car.

Well, today, just to humor them, I stopped at a few dealerships to look at my options. I tried steering the discussion something less…vanny, like a Pacifica, or maybe a hybrid Highlander.

Well, after being reminded why we had gotten the Dodge Grand Caravan UAV in the first place, I was left with the realization that I was stuck in van-land. And with all this “employee pricing” stuff, and my political bent, we were pretty well set on going American. So, we’re going with the Chrysler Town & Country Touring. At least it’s a little more tricked out than my current ride.

But it’s still a minivan. And even though I’d come to love the old champagne Grand Caravan for all its dents and scratches, it’s gonna take a while to get to love the new one, which we need to negotiate the details on on Monday.

But the Sirius satellite radio will probably help.

So, I got to take our daughter Zo? to preschool this morning. It was my first trip back to the Wee School since Jonah, now in 4th grade, graduated to kindergarten. Same place, some of the same faces, but a different crop of pre-schoolers and parents. Well, different in their actual identities, but the same in their cast roles.

There’s still the neurotic, pushover mom, who told her manipulative, clinging son that his friend was coming to school today (when she wasn’t) and watches from 20 feet away as he dances at the parking lot curb waiting for her car to show up, and then screams bloody murder when she finally decides to go pick him up and bring him in and deposit him and split. Different woman, different kid, same script, same roles.

The drill of arrival at the Wee School is familiar–find your kids cubby, and watch as she pulls a token with her name on it and slides it under the classroom door to announce her arrival. The laminated construction paper tokens are familiar; they’ve downgraded the backing that holds them to the door from a magnet to velcro, but the idea is still the same. Zo? quickly found her pink crayon tag on the door and slid it under, then climbed back up on me and told me to knock for her.

Ms. Karen, who has been pre-school teacher to all three of our kids now, greeted me warmly. It’s been five years since I saw her, and she’s still the same enthusiastic, warm, pre-school cast woman she was then. She gushed about how tall Kevin, our 7th grader, had gotten–she had been his pre-school teacher 10 years ago, and had seen him when he came in for the open house. She still gets Jonah’s name wrong, calling him Noah.

In two years, we’ll have completed another cycle through the Wee school, and Zo? will start pre-K at St. Pius, following her big brothers’ footsteps. Kevin will head to high school, and Zo? will take his place back at the bottom of the stack. It’s the circle of daycare, and we’ll have completed our third cycle.

After all, most of the smaller things that I desire (music, 
books,  and the like) are well within my own reach, and those
things that aren’t impulse purchases that I find somewhat desirable are
just shinier, more expensive versions of the things I already
have.  Once I realize that, my desire for things rapidly turns to
indifference.

Sure, another guitar
is always nice.  But, as I tell my wife frequently as we stroll
through Ikea, “Where would we put it?”   (This generally
results in our escape from Ikea for under $200).

Maybe a newer, faster Mac G5 dual processor so I can videoconference
and render DVDs of my latest documentary epic at the same time. 
But where would I put it? Would that really make me happy?  (Well,
it would make Steve happy, probably)

Not any more happy than I am on average,
probably, based on what Jon Gertner reported in last Sunday’s NY Times
Magazine.  It seems that people just don’t get happier in the long
term from the acquisition of things, or the accumulation of more
money…they just get used to it.  (As the father of two boys
caught in the endless Nintendo upgrade loop, I could have saved Harvard
a lot of research investment on that point).

The Buddhists are right–things own you, especially Things on a macro
level, like houses, cars, and stock portfolios.  They require care
and feeding that distracts you from the rest of living.  And the
higher-end they are, the more care and feeding they require.

So, if you want to give me something for my birthday, give me an
extended deadline, or a day off in the park on my bike.  
Sure, maybe a new mountain bike might be nice (considering the terrain in the park) but my current ride
is more than most guys my age have indulged in.  Give me a
hand-drawn card, a Manhattan, a Che Guevara t-shirt from a Cuban thrift
store.  Give me a few minutes of intelligent conversation.

Save that other stuff for when I turn 40.  (Or, if you’re in a rush, for Christmas.)

I thought about this again the other day as I watched Eight-Legged Freaks
on HBO (David Arquette’s best outing yet–though that might not be
saying much). The movie was a great way to waste 99 minutes of your life;  I particularly enjoyed the  trapdoor spiders in the movie, and the “Gremlins”-like sound effects used to represent the scampering spiders as they overran town.

The movie reminded me of the giant orb spider (about 8
inches from leg tip to leg tip-sse the second photo at right) I saw in the brush when we stopped  on
the eastern shore of Virginia l–it looked like it could eat small birds that flew into
its web.

And
I wondered: is this what global warming has in store for us? Wetter
springs, more mosquitos carrying West Nile Virus (or malaria, or
whatever), and bigger and bigger arachnids that will one day start
snatching family pets and dragging them into their sticky lairs? 
Will I have to face down a thirty-foot mutant tarantula in my lifetime?

Probably not.  But it’s fun to think about, in some perverse, geeky,  sci-fi schlock way.

For this, and dial-up access from the road, I’ve been paying $50 a month.

So, the time has come to completely pull the plug. I just redirected my domains to a new domain name server at my bargain-basement hosting service, where my disk quota is larger by more than a factor of 10 and my hosting bill is $8 a month. I will no longer suffer in the name of supporting locals. As soon as the DNS refreshes, my move of all my weblogs (except for the one hosted by Userland) will be complete.

So much has happened that I’ve let pass without comment. The blogosphere is full of comment on these things; I have nothing to add to the parallel monologues of the past few weeks. I read the Wall Street Journal for the first time in 15 days this morning, and I think I feel a tiny bit of what Ken Bowersox will feel when he returns from the International Space Station today–a sudden return to a world that is familiar, yet changed.

We hooked up the rockets to some 20-guage wire with alligator clips. I stripped the other ends of the wires, and conneted them to the lantern battery we had brought and….
No ignition. Too much resistance in the wires, not enough amperage.

That meant there was only one solution: for me to shorten the wires. That meant getting up close and personal with four model rocket engines.

“This is either going to be on America’s Funniest Home Videos or Jack-Ass,” I said.

“Want me to turn off the tape?” Kevin asked.

“No, we’ll need a record for the insurance company.”

And here’s what happened.

Only one rocket fired, resulting in unbalanced thrust and a spectacular mechanical explosion as momentum of the rocket tore the helicopter apart. Pieces were thrown 10 feet away. No parents (or, for that matter, eggs–amazingly enough) were harmed in the process.

So, now I have a handy brass paperweight.

Over lunch, we discussed the various laws of physics that we were going to need to take into account as we built this strange bird. It?s great that his sixth grade science class is so focused on physics right now–we can talk about Bernoulli and Newton and apply what he?s learning now directly to this project.

Now, to get it to fly will take more than physics. But he does go to Catholic school…..

Zoe is just over 25 months old, and she blows me away every day.

A: “Because Jesus didn’t eat that much, and we’re trying to be like him.”

Jonah decided to build a snowman. Chelsea, his cousin, found the remains of a traffic cone, which became the snowman’s hat. Jonah found a Bud Ice bottle; what else would a snowman drink? A stick became a…cigarette. And voila, a truly urban snowman was complete.

Zo? is the consummate pretend picnic hostess. “Let’s have a picnic! Want coffee, DaDa?” Her favorite must-read bedtime books are “Snow” by P.D. Eastman and Roy McKie, and Sandra Boynton’s Pajama Time. She likes olives, blue cheese, and smoked mackerel. Life is a cocktail party, and it’s never time for bed–and never time to get out of her striped pajamas.

Zoe Makes Breakfast

click on the image for video.

Eastpointe is on the eastern edges of Baltimore. Its clientele that evening were sketchy–Paula observed that it looked like an Eminem lookalike convention. By the time the party got rolling, just about everything else in the place was closing down.

Much to my son’s chagrin, I was the leading scorer for the evening. He accused me of taking advantage of my “military training.”

While I have to admit I did shoot .22 rifle competitively in college, and did a half-hour mock assault once on “Combat Town” at Camp Pendleton during the summer after my sophomore year of college, I somehow doubt the killer instincts I developed as a deck officer, a damage control assistant, and an administrative officer had a whole lot to do with my success in laser tag. I think it had more to do with the fact that I was playing against 8, 12, 13 and 14-year olds, a social worker, my ex-wife and a biology grad student.

In tribute to Kevin turning 12, here’s a short video (no audio, sorry) from this summer of Kevin at the Silver Penny Theatre camp at Towson U. doing a number from…Grease (you may need to click on the image below to start the video):

A minute later, her resolve having fled, she returns. “It’s…still…MOVING!”

I hand her our sleeping daughter, and stroll out with the rat shovel. Sure enough, there it is; a 1.5 pounder, still twitching from the effects of rat poison like a drunk with the DT’s. I scoop it up and stroll to the nearest storm drain…a wrist shot, and it’s a GOOOOOOOOOOAAL.

Then Tuesday, I came down with a fever. I think it might have been West Nile, but it could have just been a 24-hour flu. Anyway, I was out of commission.

Wednesday, I was still recovering, and had deadlines to meet.

Thursday, I was back in Detriot again.

Today, I got a ride in, a hill-climbing mountain biking run up the back edge of the Disc Golf Course and along the Baltimore Zoo’s perimeter fence, then back down mountain bike slalom style, using disc golf “holes” and tees as waypoints and launchpads. It was a good upper/lower body workout, and fun; any time a 280-pound guy can get airborne on a bike, there’s fun to be had.

A week ago, I noticed this decent-sized female (I think) spider dangling outside my office window on the second floor of our house. At first, I thought it was hanging from the screen, but then I realized it had weaved a web directly in front of my window.

When we finally got some rain this week, it washed the web out. But the spider went to work repairing her handiwork, and still stands guard over my closed, screened-in window, apparently in hope of something flying through it. (I guess she’s caught something while she’s been there, because she’s still kicking–though I have no idea what the caloric intake requirements for a 1/2 inch female spider are).

We dropped Kevin off at a farm run by the CBF in Upper Marlboro, Maryland–it was once a working tobacco farm–on Sunday. It was hot–almost 100 degrees F, and humidity above 90%. After a short orientation, it was time for us to go–and Kevin was eager to get rid of us.
Kevin had to write an essay to get into the program, and get two teacher recommendations. He worked hard for this; it’s his first big solo adventure in life, the longest he’s been away from home by himself ever. He’s supposed to complete a project of some sort during the trip, and do something to share his experience with kids at school when he goes back at the end of August.

I’m really proud of him, in case you hadn’t figured that out.

Zoe obviously felt the same way about the commute as I did this morning–not quite up to it.

Of course, I have little to complain about. My commute is a round-trip, back home, and upstairs to my office. Compared to some of my past commutes–an hour and a half to DC, a monthly trip to Palo Alto–this one is cake.

This doesn’t go over well with my eldest son, who recently read a kid’s horror book about giant evil rats coming out of a New Jersey landfill for a book report; he now has a fear of rats. He whined about taking the trash out the other night because it was after dark, and he thought he might get bit by a rat with rabies and die.

Okay, the problem isn’t that bad. And maybe that’s just an excuse from my 11 year old, who would do anything to get out of doing his chores. But you get the picture.

1 wild turkey.
1 rough-legged hawk–on the ground, with prey.
15 turkey vultures.
1 red-tailed hawk.
1 raven.
And the usual assortment of other members of the family corvidae. (crows, blue jays).

We spotted the rough-legged hawk standing tall on a grass median. It was startling to see a bird that big so close to the road, with such bold features–and since we passed it doing 75 mph, I wasn’t sure about the identification until we got home and I checked the Sibley guide.

BOF Session in my backyard

Last year, I put up a bird feeder in my backyard. Being in the “greatest city in America”, I didn’t expect much; sparrows, house finches, and flying rats, mostly. And that’s what I got. Until this last fall, when the goldfinches started showing up around the sunflowers we had planted.

However, that didn’t prepare me for the crowd in my backyard this last week. It was a black bird blowout–Red-winged blackbirds, boat-tailed grackles; I thought I was in a salt marsh or something. They were pigging out on birdseed and making a ruckus.

Paula called me from her cell phone and told me to come to the window to see; she was in the car with the kids, and had just pulled into the driveway. They were sitting in the car, watching the mob up close and personal as they emptied the feeder. A few “rock doves” joined in, while the house sparrows watched mostly from the sidelines waiting for the crowd to thin.

We’ve been in this house for more than five years, and I’ve been in Baltimore for 11. And I don’t recall seeing this many RWB’s–or any grackles to speak of–inside the city before. Maybe it’s the drought. Maybe we’re on a migratory lay-over map somewhere posted by a crow on the bird Internet. Who knows? We appreciated the visit anyway.

Zo?’s first haircut

On March 5, Zo? got her first bang trim. Paula got a little help from our friend, Ying Hue, in administering the unpopular exercise.

Bear On Board

I have a confession to make: I watch Bear in the Big Blue House. My wife got my our daughter Zoe two BBBH DVDs for her 1st birthday, though I suspect it was more for her and me than for our daughter. Sure, Zoe likes Bear–but Paula and I were watching BBBH before Zoe was born, and when the kids weren’t home.

Who is this ursine guru, this orange furry fakir who draws child and adult alike into a hypnotic state, unable to break contact with his beady, blinking, hood-browed eyes?

Now even our oldest son seems to have fallen under his tutelage. Maybe it’s the way he cha-cha-chas.

Aces

In other Gallagher news:
Jonah brought home a straight-A report card last week!

Kevin brought home 2nd honors, with just two B’s and the rest of the card in the A zone!

Kid Weekend

We just had one of those rare, wonderful kid-oriented weekends (and I mean that without any trace of sarcasm) that come along every now and then and remind you why you repeat the experience of being a parent.

Saturday morning, we went to see Dan Zanes do a benefit concert at the Charles Theatre. Dan used to be in the Del Fuegos a couple of lifetimes ago, and now he does kids’ albums grownups can love. Everybody had a great time.

Then, on Sunday, we had what had been planned as a low-key cake and milk birthday party for Zoe’s first birthday. We went to church that morning, went to brunch with friends, and casually mentioned the event to them; we also invited some of Zoe’s play-date friends from around the corner and a few other family friends.

Just about all of them showed up. We ended up with about two dozen people in the house–about half of them kids playing down in the boys’ playroom in the basement.

Zoe turned 1 today

Here’s my 11-month old daughter demonstrating her poise and grace. Actually, she has been walking since New Year’s, but this is the first chance I’ve had to document it online.