Back in the early ’80s juggling defined me. It was, as my mother said, the only discernible skill with which I returned from college.

I juggled regularly in college. I had juggling friends. I juggled outside in the good weather with a band of friendly juggling geeks. I juggled inside in any weather every weekend at the official juggling club meetings. Paul, the club president, would pop “Tea for the Tillerman” into his boom box, share some cream cheese sandwiches or other vegetarian snacks, and we would all juggle for hours in the Women’s Building on Syracuse University’s campus.

I learned how to pass clubs, do a few tricks, comfortably (at the time) juggle four balls and occasionally four clubs. I handled fire and knives on loan from friends. And, since so many juggling/circus/clown tricks are learned by the same sorts of folks and even more so shared among the same sorts, I learned how to twist balloon animals. Really, there’s nothing quite like the kind of particular subset of geek party where everyone brings there juggling props and someone throws a gross of 260 balloons in the middle of the floor and ridiculous creativity ensues.

In those awkward first days away from home at college and going through the awkward student years, juggling was a meditative activity where I could focus all sorts of pent up energy.

Later, after my first couple of “real” post-college jobs in the cold, hard world, as I worked out the things I didn’t want to do in my life, I practiced alone every now and again, performed, badly, for a few charity events and entertained my nephews, as much as they ever found me entertaining. But, by and large, I let some of interest wane.

Then, in the late ’80s, circa 1989, I caught up with my first non-profit toil. Basically, I learned with my skill set and demeanor I was destined for a life of less than exorbitant wealth. In that reality, I may as well make shitty, cog-in-the-wheel dough, it might as well not profit anyone. The funnest part of those glorious no-money-making career path days was the number of beer-drinking, science geeks, who became my friends, co-workers and colleagues. And, among them were a handful of jugglers.

I was back in my pattern. Juggling in the sun, going to regular club meetings (this time at MIT). Where there are numbers nerds and academic swaths of green grass, there are likely jugglers.

Instead of the college-based festival circuit, where I headed regularly in the springtime of college, I had the posse and the green in my pocket to check out the big time. I went to the International Juggling Association convention, juggled all day and all night and met “stars” in that world. Anthony Gatto was just a kid. “Contact” juggling had just been given a name, and Michael Moschen’s hand, standing in for David Bowie’s, was semi-famous.

Teeny little nerd fun fact, as part of a multi-person, late-night, star-shaped passing formation, where a few folks were passing clubs as anchors, feeding clubs to other folks with skills who wove through the pattern, I can truly say I juggled with Michael Moschen. I was an anchor, he was/is a talent.

I only juggle a little these days.

Color me surprised tonight, when I ended up through a work-related thing dining with the real deal. A juggler who had managed to earn a few dollars back in his youth. Someone you can google, as the kids say, but I won’t hear on account of the work connection. Someone who juggled for the goddamn Rolling Stones and in front of Princess Margaret (in a related event). Someone who trained with Dick Franco.

By the weeks end, I’m planning for some throwing down.

Technorati Tags: Anthony_Gatto, juggling, Las Vegas, Michael_Moschen

I almost did nothing today. I did rather little all weekend. Of this, I am proud.

It’s been raining in between gusts of wind of house shaking velocity. In other words, perfect weather for lying around in bed. M., prince that he is, accommodated this lying around joy by trucking a small table next to the bed, filling it with bagels, coffee and granola. Propped up on pillows with a giant, hot mug of joe, listening to frightening gusts that have me shaking in my boots for the future of my fruit trees. So far, survival.

I did manage a couple rather placid activities this weekend.

It started when the workplace’s IT dude gave me back the old, first generation iPhone I lent them for testing whether they could work on our network. I took it home with an eye to hacking it, thanks to the kindness of Saurik and the good fellas at the iPhone Development Team. When I plugged it into the ‘puter, iTtunes asked to upgrade the software, and I figured I’d start with an updated slate. Alas, shortly thereafter, I couldn’t use the bottom buttons in some, but not all, applications. No joy in lacking the ability to put spaces between words or hit return.

M. needed to go to the mall, and we figured, what the hell, might as well ask how much the geniuses behind the counter in the back of the Apple store how much something like that would cost to get fixed. I wasn’t feeling optimistic, lacking the desire to sink any cash at all into a spare 2-year-old (I mean ancient) phone with some dings and other signs of hard usage.

I undid all of the hackery I had begun, blanked everything out, and we headed to what’s general the mellowest, friendliest Genius Bar around. Here’s a hint if you are in Steve Jobs’ neighborhood, avoid the main Apple Store, possibly one of or the first of the retail outlets, on University Ave. in Palo Alto. It’s almost always crowded throughout the store, and maybe the employees are afraid the master himself might enter, but except for one person I’ve encountered, they seem kind of clenched.

You can wander that big store for a while, and while the folks with the matching colored t-shirts and handheld scanner holsters will smile, nod and say “hi,” they generally are rushing around so much helping you doesn’t seem to be a primary concern.

Down the road at the Stanford Mall, the store is less store and more boutique, tiny compared to its neighbor, and sitting in the swanky, most well-heeled of all area malls. Those guys, they like to help you. Pretty much, you can’t stand there looking at headphones or otherwise not seeking help for greater than three minutes without some offer. I got concierged, despite already seeing my name up there on the reservations board.

So, I sat down and I told my genius about upgrading the software and then trying full restore, etc., etc. He took the phone into their mysterious back room, and I fiddled with my actual working 3G phone out front. He grimly gave me the verdict that it couldn’t be fixed. And, then, he slid an unmarked, plain white box towards me and asked if it would be OK to replace it. He said despite the clearly out of warranty nature of my phone, the dings and scratches, the dead bottom row was a known problem, and Apple would just assume give me a new one.

I got me a brand-new, old-style iPhone.

I promptly took it home and hacked the living shit out of it. It is a phucking sweet device now. It’s not a phone, but my working phone’s SIM card worked just fine, when I tested it. It’s a tricked out iTouch with the capability of VIDEO RECORDING. Rock on Cycorder developers. I heart you.

OK, that’s enough geekage. Especially since I had a major moment of developmental disability in the geek world amidst the iPhone jailbreaking. Wanting to test the possibility of putting a prepaid cell phone SIM card into the refurbished iPhone, I picked up a cheapo throwaway at Rite Aid with a plan to activate and pull the card out of the cheapo. Only, after a major brain cramp, I bought a $10-dollar Virgin Mobile phone. AKA, one without a SIM card, because it ain’t on that kind of network. D’oh.

Back in the rain, today, Rite Aid actually took the phone and the initial call-time card back without hassle. Shocked I was, considering I had to slice the shit out of the damnable plastic packaging to get to the phone to open it and discover it was useless.

With M. serving breakfast in bed, Apple slipping me a new phone and Rite Aid cooperating and giving me back my $10, I can’t stand how well the service economy is working out for me.

Technorati Tags: Apple, computers, economy, Apple_genuius, customer_service, iPhone

Back in my old life, the one of sweating on the east coast, toiling for pennies and dancing like a monkey for unappreciative researchers in the medical establishment, I came to hate people. Well, actually, I’ve always hated people. I was born to be a misanthropist, because after all plenty of mouth-breathing members of the human race suck.

To the specifics of my current hating, I used to hate folks so assertive or aggressive that you were always having to deal with their demands. Yes suh. No ma’am. Please, sir, may I have another. Someone, somewhere, somehow was always trying to keep m in my place and tell me what to do. Detestable for sure.

Now, though, I have a new target. The uber-accommodating. Fuck you, nice people. Seriously.

If I always have to take action or make a decision. If I have to keep things moving. If I need to check in with you. YOU are not fucking doing anything. If you aren’t doing anything, you are in other people’s way. Get out.

There’s an assertion to apologizing and deferring. Strike that, there’s an aggression. It’s passive, as in passive aggressive, but the whole dance of “Oh, you decide, don’t worry about me, oh, you take care of it, I don’t want to be a bother.” All of that takes a lot of energy to do and more energy from me to accommodate. Here’s a thought, fuck the pleasantries and pitch the fuck in and share.

Worse yet, nice people, I now am going to accuse you of being good Nazis. You see, if you spend your time deferring to others without hesitation or judgment there’s a more than average chance someone more fucked up than you is going to use that very quality. So, when you find yourself holding the door open for a bank robber, your stupid has wandered into criminality. Part of every day, grown-up decision making is calling a pig a pig and a spade a spade.

If all arguments are equal, all situations relative, you might as well have gotten your nice little brown and tan outfit and practiced your goose stepping.

Ah, pointless ranting, I feel better already. I’ll just wander back into the realm of hating and/or getting annoyed by everyone.

Technorati Tags: lemons, life, women, work

Yesterday’s breakfast in bed prepared courtside, as it were.

Technorati Tags: infomercials, photos

We got wine, and we got smug folks who think they live in the best place on earth. And, we have a multi-stage, multi-day bike race that brings folks from around the world to ride very fast on two wheels. So, maybe it is France.

The Pacific Coast Highway/Route 1 was closed right up the street from our house for a few hours on account of the cyclists for the Amgen Tour of California. Despite the pouring rain and the fact that normally I love nothing but a seep in on a Monday holiday, M. and I headed over to watch bikers from around the world.

Somewhere in these crowds, America’s cancer-surviving, yellow-wearing, don’t even suggest that he’s a doper, biker boy, Lance Armstrong, was rolling along.

When the approximate six minutes of watching bikes fly by was over, we shrugged and decided to drive down to the finish line about 75 miles down the coast in Santa Cruz.

I’m pretty sure this is Thomas Peterson and Levi Leipheimer right before Peterson pulled out in front at the finish.

And, for sure, I got to see the uber-famous rider Lance, in yellow on a yellow bike racing, #2 for Team Astana.

Technorati Tags: Bay_Area, bicycle, bike, California, Lance_Armstrong, photos, race, racing, sports, Vice_President

I’ve been ruminating on the latest mom to let loose a litter recently giving birth to eight babies.

Guaranteeing her infamy in webbish ‘blog circles everywhere, including the special snarky tag of octupussy, gaining her unwanted negative attention, with a soupcon of intelligent discussion, Nadya Suleman already had six kids. Weirdly, since I didn’t think it was that easy to get the medical hook up, all 14 of the spawn were from in vitro.

Of course, like any good American, I could shit on Nadya all day long about her being on various kinds of dole and not being able to afford her private breeding farm. But, my hate ain’t really for her. I figure there’s some stuff in her head I just don’t get at all, and I suspect requires a crack team of mental health professionals to sort.

I also have mixed feelings about the various charges that the mountains of criticism heaped upon her have to do with the classist, racist, anti-choice and sexist society in which we al stroll through our days. I don’t buy the extreme comments on the hypersensitive left that suggest as a brunette mom was being treated like any disrespected brown person. But, I can see where all sorts of shitty comments on all sort of ‘blogs and news sites by all sorts of shitty people have shitty racist, sexist, classist slants. And, to me, choice, of which I am extremely pro, is a legal construct, like no one should legislate that we can’t (or we must). That isn’t the same as saying it’s always good to have babies or always good to abort before it goes too far.

Right now, though, I’m not interesting in hating on Nadya. Nope, I hate this guy.

It’s the Beverly Hills fertility doc, who apparently sucks at his job, and who apparently stepped in with a “sure I’ll do it,” after some legit doctor told Nadya a big “no” on his doing the procedure.

I figure it this way. We are not actually as a group, you know society, up for making these kind of ethical decisions. How the fuck did fertility treatments ever come to be such an unalienable right? One thing that bugs me is a whole slew of folks say, including this chick, imply that they go for the multiple birth load of eggs, because the alternate would be throwing them away and that’s somehow a problem, ’cause they have that supposed sacred baby potential.

Here’s a fucking awesome idea. If you are so moral that you can’t fathom killing the extra embryos that result from in vitro, they you shouldn’t be mucking about with that kind of voodoo.

Seriously. IVF loads up a lot of eggs. That’s how the procedure works. And to prevent worse things than not having a baby, the process is meant to involve letting some of the eggs die or stay in the refrigerator. A few more embryos are best stopped when one takes hold. All of that is part of how the shooting match works.

Our bodies aren’t engineered for more than a couple puppies at most at once. Multiple births can fuck a woman up, what with all them heads smashing up your nerves and arteries and all. The only way the scientists have around that is getting rid of the extra.

If it bugs you, don’t go through it. Simple. Litters need not be born and ethical decisions of hand-wringing, god-invoking proportion can be avoided.

Christians don’t let Christians make embryos.

Technorati Tags: in vitro, Nadya Suleman, family, motherhood, Politics, Sex, women

Driving home tonight, I thought of something interesting and witty and just right for the writing of the blog. Somewhere between that drive, some raindrops and lying my sorry sore ass on the couch, it went away. And, when I say my sorry sore ass, I mean it figuratively not literally.

My asshole may be the one place on my body right now that is not sore. I mean sure, I like to push myself in the circuit training class on Mondays at the gym, but feeling the burn does not include anal. Thankfully.

The place of employ has a couple of different trainers come in during the week and force march those of us who volunteer to play grown up gym glass. I haven’t been going what with being busy, not giving a shit and all. Plus, I’m really enjoying the extra me that I’ve developed. (M. has been instrumental in the extra layers of me. A little while back he had the great idea of bananas, chocolate sauce and ice cream with a couple of spoons not far from bedtime. Before the half gallon was done, my ass had extrapolated.)

I’m in pain now, though, only because I just don’t like the Monday afternoon trainer. There’s something about his strut and preen in the mirror and his extra attention to the young, fit women in the class that brings out a perverse competitiveness that’s like sixth-grade gym class. Only it’s not my sixth-grade gym class, because then, in that oh so glorious awkward time of life, I was not competitive or macho. Jocks were jocks and I never ever never tried to outdo them.

But, now, some pent up, unused corner of my soul, the one I neglected in childhood where reading far outweighed sweating as a pursuit, that bit squats, stretches and pushes up with wild abandon. As though, at the end of the work out, I’m going to be able to throw the barbells down and just wail on the trainer. Knock his little baseball cap off and thrown him down UFC-style. It would have to UFC grounding and pounding, because he talks a lot about how he does all sorts of hard-ass, boot camp training like we’ve never seen with some kind of gang of mixed martial artists with whom he roams.

It says something meager and small about myself that I once even felt it necessary to let him know that I got his references to Ken Shamrock, Randy Couture and Chuck Liddell.

Here are my regrets then for tonight. If only I had been physically small when I was a little girl. And, if only I worked this hard at gym back when it was mandatory and went on my permanent record.

Technorati Tags: MMA, death, excercise, gym, work

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Maybe it’s the fog. Maybe it’s the ocean, the pounding surf and municipal pier. I think it may be the dramatic sunsets over the water into shadowy darkness and fog.

Tonight my worry may be fueled by the full moon. I fully expect that any day now, wondering the streets on my bike or running errands at the local shopping strip, that I will encounter a few young men named Corey. It’s inevitable.

In truth “Lost Boys” was filmed down the shore a little ways in Santa Cruz, but our town has a certain vampiral je ne sais pas. Maybe it’s the immortal deathless stare of our neighbors who only come out at night and have enlarged canines. Or the vast array of hoodies and hair styles and colorful attire.

When we bought this place, real estate listings and general PR touted the low crime rates and oceanside, idyllic living.

What they didn’t mention is the no less than three no-longer-living human bodies that have been found around town. Now, the authorities are suspecting that the fresh-water drowning victim on the golf course may actually have been a victim of methamphetamine and an unfortunate, cold dip in a water hazard. The paraglider entangled in ropes and nylon was allegedly practicing his sport. And, the latest woman found may have been either an accident or a suicide.

At least all of those stories are according to official reports. But, you know, and I know, it could also be vampires.

Technorati Tags: California, death, Scotland, vampires