How would your life change if you grocery bill increased 300%?

I realize now, and will admit publicly, that the bio fuels movement is a disaster. I regret any contribution we may have had to the use of bio fuels through our own evangelism of bio diesel.

I’m motivated to replace my entire front and back yard with a food garden and then giving most of it away to local food banks. I don’t know if that would work logistically. But I’d like to figure out a way to help.

Our oldest cat died yesterday. She was really my cat. She was with me for 16 years, Will has been with me for 11. Her name was Oweena (AKA “Big Kitty”, “Pukers” - by Will and “Oweena Kitty” - by P). She was named after the book, A Prayer For Owen Meany.

The book is all about Owen Meany’s journey toward martyrdom. Similarly, Oweena’s last years were a sacrifice to my daughter. P loved her more than anyone. She hugged her (laid on top of her), pet her (pulled her tail), groomed her (cut her whiskers), feed her (taunted her by taking FOREVER to actually place any food on the ground), and played with her (chased her relentlessly around the house).

But Oweena knew how to keep P in line when necessary: “mommy, Oweena hit me!” You see, she believed herself to be a bad-ass kitty. She often “fought” the neighborhood cat through the sliding-glass door and hissed up a storm at the boy kitties if they even thought about approaching her.

But in reality, she was a queen so throughly that she had hair growing on her toes (not a lot of outdoor time for this kitty). She sat at her thrown of a heating pad and walked just steps to eat (and pee - but that’s another story). She was our big kitty queen of the household.

I used to make fun of Seattle news coverage for often sensationalizing local weather events. I think it is one of the reasons Dawn and I got rid of our cable TV reception. I recall sitting in front of the tube, watching a news anchor take calls from viewers around the Northwest who would in turn tell their story from “Wind Storm 1998″ or whatever.

“Nancy from Bremerton you’re on.”

“Well we had some branches fall on our roof and at one point I thought the stop sign at the end of our street was going to fly off.”

“Well hang in there Nancy, we’ll be thinking of you. Hello to George from Kirkland.”

“Hey I live in Kirkland and the wind has really been kicking up out here. Our power went out for, oh, about an hour. But it’s back on now.”

“Glad you’re safe and now with power George. Be safe.”

I used to think Seattle was just full of wimps. We’d get an inch of snow on the ground, which everyone knew would melt in a matter of hours, yet half the office would call in with tales of difficulty in getting to work. So now here I am in Iowa. Iowa is known for tough winters. And Iowa is full of Iowans who’ve weathered many winters: they all have snow shovels and bags of salt and warm puffy coats. Not only do they know how to drive in icy conditions, but those roads are plowed and sanded quickly by their local government services.

So I got up this morning, looked outside at the ice, and then got dressed and ready to go to work. I went out to my car (which is not garaged) and spent fifteen minutes breaking in through the ice. It wasn’t hard - a little elbow grease and some hot water. I arrived at work at the usual time. The roads were clear and from what I could tell, safe.

Then it began. Dawn informed me our daughter’s school was closed. I started getting emails from different contacts and organizations canceling meetings and lunches. The employee parking lot for the local businesses is pretty much empty still (it’s 10:30). Yet ScribeStorm employees are showing up on time without a mention of the weather (I must have found the true Iowans in town during my recruiting).

I’m imaging that there is an news anchor on TV right now, here in Iowa, taking calls from all the people that stayed home due to “Ice Storm 2007″.

My office is right on the Square, which I normally consider the best place to have an office in this quiet small town. I’m within a block of food, office supplies, post office, a hair cut, free parking and of course the Square. The Square is nice not only for the view, but it’s essentially a park right outside the office door where I can go take long conference calls and walks when I get tired of sitting in my Aeron. It makes ScribeStorm feel like it’s on a campus.

However recently the Square has begun to annoy me on occasion. Or rather, someone I am unaware of has begun to annoy me, without their knowledge or intent of course.

About once a week, I arrive at the office to find music blaring from the gazebo on the Square. It’s as if someone in a ‘control center’ tucked away somewhere else in town accidentally tripped some switches with the result being obnoxiously loud, bad music being broadcast to innocent bystanders still trying to fend for coffee and start their day. To make matters worse the music is being streamed over a connection that cannot handle the load, resulting in the music cutting out every several seconds with that jerking high pitched digital crack noise (technical term).

The only way to make the situation entertaining is to imagine that the mayor is in his office, shuffling through a stack bike lane project proposals, and accidentally hitting the red button while going for his coffee. Which in the context of managing Fairfield Iowa, doesn’t launch any nukes, but rather initiates someone’s design to happify a town in crisis: a combination of flooding the town with music and launching Yogic Flyers from the Dome.

I joke of course (you need to be explicit about that in this town). I like the mayor, he’s a smart guy and I’m sure his panic button sends him away in a rocket ship. Or at least that is how I would build my panic button if I was mayor, or CTO of a small startup.

But I digress.

The result of the blaring music on the square, whomever or whatever the cause may be, is that I find myself working in an office with occasional, unannounced muzak playing, without the courtesy of an elevator ride even. Last month it took me nearly two days to get ‘Rock You Like A Hurricane’ out of my mind. Especially the part that goes, “here I am, rock you like a hurricane, come-on-come-on-come-on-come-on”.

And just this week I spent another couple days trying to lose the rythm to some really horrible country music rendition of ‘Jingle Bell Rock’. I didn’t think Jingle Bell Rock could be made worse, but leave it to the Country Music people to prove me wrong.

Anyway. Whoever is in charge of the gazebo sound system on the Square, I beg you: wait until everyone has their coffee buzz (and headphones) on, or turn it down, or get a better playlist. How about U2? The ultimate party music compromise. I mean, know one hates Bono do they?

Do not press the play button.

I beg you.

Kittens will die.

Your ears will bleed.

You’ll grow a mullet.

Don’t do it.

Yesterday the Quad City Times reported the following:

DAVENPORT, Iowa (AP) - Pigs running loose on the streets? That’s not the kind of call an animal control officer relishes. Take it from Leah Messmer, who spent about 35 minutes chasing down two pot-bellied pigs Wednesday morning across several Davenport streets. “You really have to go after them,” said Messmer, noting that this was not the first time she had to chase down a runaway pig. “They dart in and out of cars and somebody could get hit. That’s why you have to catch ‘em. Poor little buggers.”

The pigs darted between passing cars and explored various streets on the city’s west side - all while their pursuers tried in vain to corner them, even attempting a few unsuccessful dives.

The chase included two officers from animal control, two police officers and a couple MidAmerican Energy employees.

The pigs were first spotted about 7:30 a.m. by a caller who alerted authorities. Right away, Messmer knew she was in for a long morning. Luckily, experience was on her side. Learning from her first pig chase, Messmer knew to grab a blanket.

“They’re tough,” she said. “They have no necks so you really can’t get a collar on them.”

The first pig was captured behind a hotel. The second wandered behind the hotel, then doubled back. Along the way, workers at various businesses stuck their heads out in disbelief. Some went back in to retrieve cameras.

Patrol officer R.F. Grover didn’t quite believe the call. He texted some friends and called his wife while he tried to head off the pig in his squad car.

The last one finally was captured in a car lot, cornered between two vehicles awaiting repair.

The pigs will be sent to an animal shelter, Messmer said. She presumed they were pets from someone living in the area.

“They’re like dogs,” she said. “They tend to go back to familiar places.”

This was NOT the first time she had to chase down a runaway pig?! This is the most noteworthy and yet we are left hanging.

My business partner (CEO of ScribeStorm working out of our Burbank office) called me this morning to tell me he was evacuating his family for fear of two fires near his home. He was unreachable by mobile phone for several hours while I tired to find more information. I was unable to get any clear details at CNN or LA area news sites. Then I came across this Google Mashup. Cool.

Looks like this mashup is pulling data from the LA Times, which is funny because I went to the LA Times website and couldn’t really get a good idea of what was going on. I thought about this for a while while navigating the Google Maps mashup and it occurred to me that I would prefer to get all my news in the form of a Google Maps mashup.

When I first moved to Fairfield I met someone who was moving away. They said to me, this town would be paradise if it weren’t for the winters and the bugs. I got through the winter and it wasn’t a big deal. Since last November when I spoke to this person the bugs really haven’t been that noticeable. And then Fall started.

About 3 weeks ago, when we had our first cool night, I went down to my basement to find (and kill) no fewer than ten of some of the largest spiders I’ve ever seen outside a zoo. About 2 weeks ago I stayed out riding my bike till just before dusk and my daughter and I were bitten several dozen times in the span of several minutes by mosquitos. Last night I went to fetch a glass of wine I left unattended for an hour in the kitchen - sitting in the liquid were ten to twenty dying fruit flies.

And now, the past couple nights, my family has been waking up with big, scratchy red bite marks on our bodies. My wife woke up late last night with over a dozen of them and was up for hours trying to alleviate the irritation. I have no idea what is getting us but it’s creepy to know something is feeding on you as you sleep.

There must be more bugs living in Fairfield than people on the West Coast. The other day I was sitting in the grass in our backyard and it appeared as if the grass was moving. I looked closer and what I was seeing was hundreds of small crickets in the grass crawling around.

It’s like some sort of invasion is under way.

Parenting advice started flooding into my world the moment my wife announced we were having a baby. Most of that advice was total crap, but the one gem I heard most often from mothers whom I respected was, pick your battles. Of course this is the same advice I heard from my guy friends after I told them I was getting married. But I digress.

Pick your battles is brilliant advice and yet completely meaningless. Why? Because it’s advice to make a decision without any instructions on how to make that decision. Essentially, it’s someone pointing you in a general direction and it’s up to you to make your own route there.

It’s life advice. I accept the challenge and I mostly enjoy the journey and for that, it’s brilliant advice. But for now I’m going to focus on why it’s somewhat meaningless as advice.

Battle 1

It was a Saturday morning, and my daughter and I had plans to spend the day together running errands, playing at the park and eating out. I gave her the 5 minute warning that we were leaving, and that she needed to put on more than her underwear. She came out of her room with pastel flowered pants that were too short, worn over teal tights that were too long, an old hand me down pink and red nightgown with Strawberry Shortcake on the front, yellow socks, several barrettes in her hair, and a pair of Crocs.

She was proud of what she was wearing (that she had picked it out herself) and I could sense that it would be a struggle to get her to “change”. The only reason I wanted her to change was to save my own embarrassment. And did I really want to participate in conforming her? Ok so this is an easy one. Battle avoided because it was unnecessary as the issues were all mine. We had a great time together and I loosened up a bit.

Battle 2

This past Saturday, early evening. I’m in a hotel room in Kansas City with my daughter. My mother and wife are waiting downstairs to go out and eat. Again, I’m faced with a child picking out clothes to wear. This time she chooses a short sleeve shirt and pair of tights over . . . another pair of tights. Not only is it a ridiculous outfit, but it’s inappropriate for the weather. She’ll be cold outside from wearing a t-shirt and she’ll be hot in the restaurant wearing two pairs of tights.

So I’m looking at a struggle either in the hotel room or outside or in the car or in the restaurant. I decide that the lesson my daughter needs to learn is, style aside, to dress appropriately (as well as listen to her father). I picked my battle.

My daughter proceeded to run around the hotel room, tossing clothes, banging doors and screaming at the top of her lungs. I got a hold of her and dressed her myself, over the course of 20 minutes, using a combination of soft but stern words, a quick and useless spanking and various toddler oriented wrestling moves to get her into an appropriate set up clothes.

After I got her fully dressed, her screaming turned to a deep long sad sob. I opened the hotel door and invited her to join the family for dinner - battle over right? She exited the hotel room and then, using that mysterious toddler logic, she decided to throw herself down onto the hallway floor and started screaming and wailing again. Determined to win the battle, I tried to pick her up. She went limp, slid through my grip and threw herself (again) onto the hallway floor.

The nearest door opened and out popped the head of an older man who was in the middle of shaving. “What’s going on here?!” He demanded. Shouldn’t it be obvious I thought. Here is a small child, wailing on the floor, and here is an adult man, standing, exhausted and without expression, above the child. What more needs to be explained?

“Well”, I said, “my daughter is throwing a fit.”

“This has been going on for an hour!”

“I’m sorry for the noise. Do you have children?”

“Yes”

I pleaded, “well then I’m sure you can relate to my frustration right now.”
“My children never acted like that!”

At this point I really wanted to make some crack like, “looks like Alzheimers is setting in early.” But I decided to be nice.  “Well maybe you can give me some advice then,” I said.
“Yes, leave!” and with that he slammed the door.

Fuck! I should have used the Alzheimers line! I picked up Penelope, cradled her (firmly) so that her limp noodle technique was useless, and took her into the elevator. She continued screaming while a teenage girl looked on in horror. I walked across the crowded lobby, carrying a kicking and screaming child while everyone stopped and looked on. I made sure to walk a little slower than usual so that no one would think this was an abduction.

I got her outside and set her down in front of the car, where, unsurprisingly she dropped flat on the pavement and began rolling around, continuing here high pitched screaming. I stood there with my mother and wife, speechless. My mom asked, “what is she saying?” I realized that in the past hour, my daughter had been repeating a phrase over and over and over again. But between the sobbing voice and the screaming voice, I have no clue what she was saying. Hopefully it wasn’t something like, “Daddy I have a sharp thorn in my toe please remove it.” And this could have all been avoided.

Eventually I got her into the car, while my wife and I started arguing the point of actually going to a restaurant. Then we stood there some more, in a parking lot, silent, around a station wagen with the muffled sounds of a screaming child coming from within. I looked up and noticed that we were right outside the window of the man with Alzheimers. I expected DHS to show up any minute.

At some point I finally won the battle. My daughter was broken and announced with tears in her eyes that she had her shoes and coat on and was ready to go eat. She fell asleep in her car seat minutes later.

Someday I’m going to be the man poking his head out into the hall with the screaming child and father. And honestly, I have no advice for him. Maybe I’ll just say, “pick your battles” and then shut the door, and snicker for only me to hear.

My stereotype of LA was only strengthened on this last visit. One encounter said it all.

A homeless man asked me how he looked, not for change but how he looked!

I told him he looked OK. He retorted with, “OK?! Just OK?.  Am I a 9? Am I a 9?!”

After being in Seattle for 16 years I had forgotten the frequency and showmanship of the good ol’ Midwestern thunderstorm. For a couple weeks now we’ve had them roll through daily here in Fairfield. As long as they continue to be unaccompanied by tornadoes I’m happy to have them around.

The other day at the office we had a power surge during a short but fierce thunderstorm: the electricity went out for less than a minute. No equipment was damaged except for the surge protector guarding the DSL modem and router. Surge protector dead, modem and router fine. I immediately plugged in an extra surge protector.

So is that how surge protectors are supposed to work - like the Secret Service, taking the bullet for someone else?

So long “CyberPower 525SL”, thanks for your service.