A few months ago I was at our local equivalent of Jiffy Lube getting an oil change. The guy working on my car not only had rehearsed and delivered their customer service script impeccably, as he worked on cars he'd yell out all the "check point" items that he'd finished. It went something like:

Brake fluid. CHECK!
Wiper fluid. CHECK!
Tire pressure. CHECK!

You get the picture.  The zeal with which he shouted his checklist was commendable - I'd wager a drill sergeant in a bootcamp somewhere either smiling, because of all the effort, or frowning, because effort like that seems out context when it's a matter of the wiper fluid or windshield wipers on a car - by extension a mockery of that much ceremonial bombast as applied to anything.

Before I could think to snicker I realized I actually liked it. If this kid took the trouble to shout and scream over an oil change, he'd take it seriously enough not to make a mess - the silly kinds of messes that I've paid for in the past - a broken wire that opens the car's hood, or a tire that's been ignored an nearly flat as I left.

These days I'm liking the people who take themselves seriously even if it seems like pomp or pretension.  Risking ridicule in the hopes of achieving something - that's something I can admire and even aspire to...

Today I had this thought: only you can make yourself happy. I wonder if it's my age but I hang around sites like The Happiness Project gleaning tidbits, finding little infusions of wisdom that make me retrench and work for it.

I read fantasy books. You know: swords, magic, etc... I should say I used to - of late they don't work for me quite like they used to.  But a recent quick read is reminding me of all the myths I used to envelope myself with in those books: duty, honor, true love, and, of course, a quest. Maybe it's reading about all those quests that gave me wanderlust in the first place, and that's not such a bad thing, is it?

The "serious" book I am enjoying at the moment is The Craftsman, I'll do my best to muster a review when I finish.

I listen to the Merriam Webster "Word of the Day" podcast in batches. I wrote a program to download 2 months worth and then work through them when mowing or commuting. Anyway, the word of the day on April 7 was luftmensch, a particular favorite of mine. Not to be all "meta" about it but I actually just like Yiddish words in general.  

Friday was the anniversary of "D-day" - it's hard not to know that on that day Americans stormed the beaches of Normandy in what was to be an Allied push towards Berlin.

Despite the patriotism and memories of "the war" most people here would be hard pressed to remember having (if ever they did) to learn of the Battle of Stalingrad.  I'm not going to argue about the importance of various World War II battles having already done so* with "Brat Paul" - my Korean Russian friend from college. I'd like simply to point out that war, death, and the memories of it are universal.

So why is it that different countries celebrate their own Memorial Day and make it on different dates?  I wish it were not so - I wish there could be a global day of memory for people who die in war. It should not be restricted to those in combat; there should be remembrance of the people who die for being in the way, at the wrong time in the wrong place.

I've been wanting to write short fiction about Ugandans involved in the Iraq war.  Perhaps the story would be based on my cousin who is not from a "poor" family, but neither is he rich.  He goes to Iraq to "fight for freedom" with the hopes of making some money and has a relationship with someone very American - how about a girl from South Dakota who enlisted after graduating from high school?  Their turbulent relationship ends when she comes back but she thinks about him every Sunday that the church asks those who "fought for their country" to stand up.  About a decade later he finds her "mommy blog" and writes to ask for help immigrating to the United States.  He comes on a tourist visa but it expires and somehow he is deported. 

Just some complicated thoughts from the memory of war around here.

*Conversation as follows:
Paul: Russia was win!
Me: What... ?
Paul: World War II, Russia was win!
Me: O.K.

Paul Graham wrote about cities this week. It was probably coincidence but I was one of the first to see and respond to it.  It's quite difficult to read things like that from the vantage point of Sioux Falls because it takes no stretch of the imagination to figure out what Paul might say about this place.  I think I'm like Paul in some ways, so I'm sure I have a good idea.

But there are a lot of people who choose to live in small places, off the beaten path and they find a way to thrive off of it.  I'm going to have to write to John Udell or Marian Bantjes not to seek a person to validate my existence here, but to see how there can be a path for people like me who don't live in a metropolis.

Here's some big news: the company I work for is not continuing existence and my fellow coworkers and I will become employees of Daktronics. 

This is exactly the kind of prattle I'd start writing and delete but I'm trying to get this blog going again.

I posted a link to someone's little rant about Anaheim that's come back to haunt me; what thoughts were my own got drowned by a complaint of misunderstanding, some of which I know.

How do you do Anaheim? Drive down Beach Blvd. It's the chief thing I lament about southern California: you absolutely need a car.

It's not that Beach takes you through Anaheim directly.  But it's a way to really see the place on the ground, to see real people and real places. 

You'll see Koreans, Filipinos, Indians, Mexicans, Middle Easterners, Vietnamese, Africans, African Americans, and yes, some white people but the Real Wives of Orange County will be limited. 

You'll see skater boi trying to do an ollie onto a curb while you're at an intersection.  A dream and a trick - that's what I had when I lived there.

You might see a gang banger. Or a kid trying to look like a gang banger. In either case, don't look to hard; it's a sure way of getting beat down.

From Beach you can branch off - if you took La Palma east in my day you'd hit Book Baron. It's closed, but you needn't branch far to find something similar. 

You can still take Katella over to Angel Stadium, home of my favorite baseball team.  When Justin and I were there for a game we were asked if we were "down for the cause." 

Further south you hit places like Stanton.  If you want some Indian food made by Indians for Indians, this would be a good place. For each nationality mentioned previously, ditto.

Along the way there are other things to find: basketball courts where kids live like LeBron, enormous cemeteries, record stores, cruiser bikes, coffee shops -

The thing about it is you have to look.  Anaheim is not the downtown that is so obvious the tourist bus drops you off and you go looking for the faux local hangout.  There aren't tour buses with retirees and honeymooners...

... well there are, but they are at Disneyland, if that's your thing.

But if you're like me you want to see real people, eat real food, mellow out and find things.

Next time I'm around I'll fight the urge to head up to Pasadena or Hollywood and kick it in the OC.

This post feels a little vague though so here's a call out to the people I know there or nearby right now: how does one "do" Anaheim?

"I heard a good snippet on NPR today... "

Don't you love how so many people like me, "NPR nerds," converse around that opener?  One testament to age is hearing oneself talking, methinks.

It was an interview of Joe Wright, under whose direction the film Atonement was created.

Wright was talking about how he doesn't read quickly, a capacity that I share despite my love of a good book. But he said one of the things about that is that you live with the book a little longer; the characters, the time period, the themes - they inhabit your life in a more permanent way.

That's a bright side for me because a lot of the why in my reading is the ability to travel without moving or to get away from myself. 

I'm currently reading Foreign Land and with it, the experience of being 60 years old looking back and forward in life.  What really added to the story was that my father, who is also 60, stayed with us and inspired a lot of the sympathy and empathy - the emotional response I have to the story.  I'm soon to finish but having a story live with me for a month is a welcome impact on thoughts and daily life.

I wonder, for instance, about Cornwall. I read so many Enid Blyton books that painted too  idyllic of an English seaside - something which I can now see a little better with retirees, boredom, and open questions of meaning, purpose, and adjustment.

I'm also struck by the emotional range of the older protagonist (if one could call him that). I had thought, before this, of an older man more self assured, anxious for solace, and with it the requisite nostalgia,

This year I've got to live through some interesting books and I'm making it a goal to write reviews again. First Draft reviews that will hopefully sound like what they are: my attempt to hold onto the experience the book gave me and figure out if there's a larger meaning. I hope not to sound pedantic. I hope not to offend anyone, but in the last year I've realized that fear of offense is what makes the most silence.  I've thought about big disclaimers or password protected entries - it may come to that but ultimately I will just write what's on my heart. Apologies in advance, but they will be for feelings, not for what I write.

"Anaheim, California should be paved over, if it weren’t already... "

Dervala writes about her experiences going there for the last 6 months. There's a lot I wish I could disagree with, but can't. My solution to living in Buena Park, Anaheim's northern cousin, was to get on Interstate 5 and drive north.

pi:

This week I've done updating around a few of my websites. It began with a few reports from friends that my pi page was down. I'd known as much but because I made it a long time ago and lost the original code. For geeks: I used Reflector to disassemble the original assembly and then cobbled it back together. It works now for all of you who are just dying to know what the 69,000th digit of pi is.

phoDak (oPhoto):

I also got around to some long overdue updates to phoDak (software which I'd originally called oPhoto). It started with some comment spam that was advertising porn.  I'd seen comment spam before but never on a new photo. I'd periodically clean things up, but didn't feel a dire need to write any code (laziness!).  But I couldn't take a chance with that kind of spam since it's the site related to me that people visit most often and also because someone may confuse the link with something I put up there. 

After disabling comments for a few days I used the following strategy:
1. I leveraged an Akismet library.
2. I added a picture/word because it seems to work well for Jeff Atwood.

If things are still getting through I may do a few more things like enabling some sort of "mark spam" link for people to get rid of bad comments. The worst case scenario for me would be to disable comment visibility until it was approved. 

In the process of doing that update I thought I'd roll in a feature people have asked me for quite a bit: the camera settings I use on the photos.  I'd been a little apprehensive about it because the first thing it will do is show how much of an amateur I am since my settings are more often than not quite bad.  But I've been needing to get more purposeful about really learning my camera rather than trying to compensate with photoshop. I'm doing my Canon 20D no justice by maintaining willful ignorance.

I updated my photo upload page which, get this, has never had a password.  Of course the URL is unknown except to me but it still was an irksome little thing that I finally got around to doing.  It's still got a secret location but I can rest easy that my heroes wouldn't think less of me.

Hobbitwerk:

My final software update (is anyone awake at this point?) is that Hobbitwerk now aggregates from this blog rather than the error message it's been displaying since I pulled the plug on my old blog on Userland.  I'll also be updating the blog link from it to seruyange.com/david along with the picture preview.

That's it for updates, stay in touch.

From an entertaining letter my friend writes:

Sawadi ka!
Bangsai Village was pretty darn cool!  It is everything one would dream a village to be.  It was quaint, green, guardedly friendly with visitors, and serene.  When I arrived, Urai-my host and I rode bikes to the local Buddhist temple.  As I was concentrating on keeping as close to the edge of the narrow road as possible without trying so hard I fall into the surrounding greenery, I was marveling at the lotuses doing their best to pretty up a mucky pond, the expanses of rice paddies swaying in the wind, and the canopy of trees giving a brief but welcome respite from the sun.  I kept thinking to myself, "I love this!  I should be wearing one of those bamboo triangle hats!"  As much as Urai is a typically diminuitive Thai female, she is just as generous in her hospitality, kindness, curiosity, and industriousness.  Man, could that girl work!  In fact, that's pretty much what she would do from 5-6 in the morning until about 6-7 at night.  And she's a young-un ( or at least what I would like to think as young at 30 years old)!  Her mother could probably kick my ass at 78!  She pretty much has the same schedule as Urai but wakes up a little earlier to make food for the monks who come rowing down the river at about 6:30 every morning.  Thai food is made completely from scratch-none of that pre-made preservative crap that we/I eat.  I made green curry and tom yam/yum soup and I had to scrape and squeeqe fresh coconut until my fingers were raw and sweat was nearly dripping into the fruits of my labor.  I also helped to feed a monk one morning-but don't worry I didn't give the venerable elder my food-it was Urai's mother's cooking.  Buddhism is closely tied to the culture and is an integral part of one's socialization and socializing in Thailand, especially in small close-knit villages that are somewhat the equivalent to the American version of Cheers.  The only unpleasant, unidyllic part of my stay in Bangsai was the Thai massage.  I didn't know that an 86 year old women with a gummy smile could have such powerful hands and feet! Yes, feet!  For those of you who picture a relaxing massage given by a young petite Thai beauty with a tropical flower tucked neatly behind her ear, well, think again!  This great grandmother stepped all over my body, including along my more intimate seams.  I was worried I would be made infertile, but Urai informed me that she's been giving massages along with delivering babies for 60 years, so I guess she knew what she was doing, and I was the fragile foreigner who kept repeating "bow-wow!" which means gentle in Thai ( but I wish it meant could you please just stop because this is really painful and I'd rather be at the gyno than lying here with your footprints all over me).  Ok, I know by now you're dying to hear about porn, prostitutes, and Pattaya, but that'll have to wait till my next update because I'm sure I've lost your attention after green curry-if you're anything like the students I'm teaching anyway!  More about that later, too!
La-konn, Sawadi,

Y/L