A friend’s comment about the passing of Senator Kennedy:

It takes a certain kind of person who has everything he needs, but is more concerned about helping others get what they need than he is about keeping what is rightfully his. Ted Kennedy was that kind of person.

She’s not very precise about what she admires–does she admire that in his personal life, Ted Kennedy gave his own money away to the needy? Or does she admire that in his political career, Senator Kennedy gave so many tax dollars to the needy? Knowing her, I think it’s less of the former and more of the latter.

Now, I may be putting words in her mouth, but think carefully about charity: it means giving what is rightfully yours to the needy. That’s not what politicians do, because they’re spending other people’s money.

Politicians take money from Person A (taxation) in order to give it to Person B (welfare transfer). Sometimes it’s because the politicians think Person B needs the money more than Person A. Sometimes it’s because Person B promises votes or campaign contributions to the politicians. Either way, if Person A doesn’t pay up, he goes to jail. That’s not admirable on the politicians’ part, and it certainly isn’t charitable. The best we can hope for is that it’s the most efficient way to help Person B, but it probably isn’t that, either.

Ted Kennedy giving away what was rightfully his was admirable. Senator Kennedy giving away what was rightfully somebody else’s was not. Same goes for any politician.

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Allow me to beat a dead horse and tinker with her quote a little bit. Suppose my friend had written this (my changes are in italics and boldface):

It takes a certain kind of person who has everything he needs, but is more concerned about helping others get what they need than he is about letting others keep what is rightfully theirs. Ted Kennedy was that kind of person.

I think that’s a more precise statement about his political career. Thoughts?

The little darlings return to school on Monday, meaning summer is over. It’s been a good but not entirely productive summer. I moved, which seems productive, but it was out of necessity rather than desire. It was productive in the metaphorical (and, I suppose, literal) sense that fixing a broken window is productive. The move also forced me to trim my vacation plans, and sadly the Chicago part of the plans were trimmed. That means Resolution #10 got thrown out the window, unless I drive up there in December.

I did keep my resolution (#5) to write at least once a week, but most of this summer’s entries seem like starch and veggies instead of meat. Most of the time it felt like I was writing because I was obliged to write. I only really enjoyed writing two or three of this summer’s posts. Worse, I’ve made no progress on Resolution #2, which is to get my weight down to 192 by year’s end. It was almost down to 200 in March, but it’s shot right back up to 210 this summer.

Since it seems I was more productive when I had entirely too much to do, I’ll take the opportunity, upon my return to drawing a steady paycheck next week, to attack my resolutions with renewed resolve. I’ll exercise, I’ll eat and drink less crap, I’ll get down to 192 by 31 December. I’ll write stuff I want to write, I’ll get the unread book situation resolved, and I’ll finish the sequel to the Dilbert entry I wrote three years ago. Which reminds me: I’ll keep working on procrastinating less.

Last on my itinerary was Baltimore. My brother and sister-in-law were in town to watch AC Milan vs. Chelsea and they were kind enough to buy me a ticket. As soon as I got downtown, I saw a cop on horseback. The horse pulled up behind me at a red light, and I managed to get a not-so-great picture through my sideview mirror:

The game wasn’t until 8, so we had to kill some time in the Harbor. I insisted on visiting the USS Constellation, thinking it was one of the original six frigates commissioned by Congress back in the 1790s. Turns out that this Constellation was actually a sloop built in the 1850s after the original ship was scrapped. She hunted slave ships before the Civil War, served in the Mediterranean during the war, was used for diplomatic and training purposes after the war, and eventually became a floating museum in the 1950s. We weren’t allowed to climb up the masts (which was probably for the better), but we were allowed on most of the rest of the ship, even down to the orlop deck, where we could see the ballast. Some pics:

 

 

Our next stop was the National Aquarium, full of animals that could quite easily pass for aliens in a sci-fi film if we didn’t know any better. On the lowest floor was the ray pool, which held many different shapes and sizes of stingrays, a few sharks, and a three-legged turtle. Some of the rays got pretty close to the surface and looked like they were waiting for a foolish-enough tourist to lean a little too far over the pool. The guides assured us that the rays and sharks were definitely not going to jump up and grab anybody, probably.

The tour took us up a series of escalators, stopping off at each floor to look at various types of small aquatic life, some very colorful, some well-camoflauged. At the top was an artificial rainforest, and then we descended a spiral staircase encircled by a shark tank that included some rays.

I managed to get a few videos of sharks, rays, and some jellyfish:

If anyone can digitally add laser shots and sound effects to the jellyfish video, I would be eternally grateful.

By the time my phone’s camera finished taking the picture below, this guy was facing me head-on, just on the other side of the glass, as if to gruffly ask what I thought I was looking at:

Highlight: while looking at a nurse shark (two barbells jut from their mouths, resembling tendrils or tusks), my sister-in-law asked, “What’s that one called?” Being a smart-aleck, I answered, “Oh, that’s Ted.” A kid standing nearby asked, “That shark’s name is Ted?”

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After the aquarium we had dinner at the Cheesecake Factory, long-notorious for having the worst menu on Earth. The food is fine, but the menus themselves were a perfect example of the “paradox of choice”: they were far too long with far too many options printed in teensy-tiny type that makes it too difficult to read, and therefore too difficult to decide what to eat. The first time I encountered this menu I was overloaded with options and paralyzed with indecision. Happily, this Cheesecake Factory had a much more compact menu with very readable type, and I was able to enjoy my meal rather than be wracked with regret at choosing the wrong entree.

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Game-time finally arrived. On the way into the stadium, we saw the real-live FA Cup, currently held by Chelsea:

We were up in the nosebleed section, but the view was pretty good. We were a little worried that since it was an exhibition game, both teams would play their second stringers, or at least sub out their starters pretty quickly. But both teams played their starters during the whole first half, and most of them well into the second half. I wouldn’t have complained too much if they hadn’t, because even the bench players from these two squads would have made for the most skill I’ve seen on a pitch in person.

The teams lined up for the kickoff:

…and I asked my brother if he could imagine having to explain to the typical American coach why the players were so compact (the widest players are about 30 yards apart, and the teams’ defenders are probably only 50 yards apart). The short answer is that the players are quick, fast, and smart enough that they can afford to be that compact.

They played not the most exciting game I’ve seen in person, but probably the most skilled and tactically sound game I’ve seen in person. Drogba scored first for Chelsea, ripping a shot from about 35 yards out to the opposite upper 90. Seedorf tied it up with a dead-on shot from just outside the arc, and Zhirkov scored off a long rebound with about 20 minutes left. Chelsea, 2-1. Not the result I was hoping for. Oh well. Some highlights, courtesy of YouTube:

 

Other, non-goal highlights: Ronaldinho megged a guy–from where we sat it looked accidental, as if the guy had simply ran past the ball, but the replay (at about 0:25) shows it was deliberate. Oguchi Onyewu, only the second American to play in Serie A and the first to play for Milan, received a standing ovation when he was subbed in. Gennaro Gattuso got subbed in. Andriy Shevchenko, formerly of Milan and currently of Chelsea, was subbed in during the second half (Zhirkov’s rebound goal was off a Sheva shot). We saw the stars, we saw some goals, we saw some moves–it was exhiliarating.

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The voyage home was uneventful, aside from a stop in Columbia, SC to have dinner with my pal Robert. He is, without a doubt, both the kindest and strangest person I’ve met in my life, and whenever I bet people that he’s the kindest and strangest person they’ve met, I win. That said, Robert has what humans would consider an unusual perception of spacetime. For instance, the most efficient way for a normal person to travel from Point A to Point B, which is roughly 30 minutes away on the same road, would be to travel along that road in the direction of Point B until reaching Point B. But someone from Robert’s dimension would travel 45 to 60 minutes in a direction perpendicular to the road connecting A and B in order to get gas and visit an ATM. This would not, in any way, be unusual for Robert, and I stopped questioning it a long time ago for my brain is stuck in lower dimensional-thought. Our brains can handle dimensional axes such as x, y, and z; his handles q, Ψ, Я, and ♣.

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I got home midafternoon on a Sunday, had to leave for three back-to-back soccer games, scored a natural hat trick in the first one, got dehydrated and barely played in the next two games, had severe leg cramps and heart palpitations in bed, and fell asleep in agony. But the next morning I woke up late, went to lunch and due to waitress error received two deep-dish Chicago pizzas with pepperoni and black olives for the price of one. It was a great vacation.

Day Two of the Virginia leg: I drove to the Mole’s house and helped him take down two small trees in his front yard in preparation for his wedding reception in September. Actually, I didn’t do that much aside from watch and get hit by a branch as the second tree came down. I helped out a bit more with dragging the felled tree to the curb, cutting the stumps down as much as possible, and raking up the mulch and woodchips.

 

Later that day, Dr. Hmnahmna and I went to the Prince Michel vineyard to try a few wines. I tried seven or eight and ate a whole bunch of oyster-shaped crackers. The waiter gave a florid description of each wine, talking about oak and strawberries and stone and potpourri and God-knows-what-else. I smiled politely, nodded, and tried to look like I was thinking really, really hard about what flavor registered on each taste bud. Then I bought bottles of the three I thought tasted best: I bought a semi-dry reisling, a dry rosé, and a viognier. (Oenophiles need not share their thoughts or recommendations with me.)

 

The next morning, we went to the Luray Caverns in northern Virginia. I haven’t been in that many caves, so I don’t have much to compare it to, but this cave impressed me enough that for two hours I was that tourist who needs a picture of everything. I took almost 150 pictures and nearly wiped out my phone’s battery. Since my phone’s camera has no flash, the photos didn’t all turn out that well, but here are some of the highlights:

 

There was a very shallow pool early in the tour, and I swear that if you weren’t looking almost straight down into the water, you couldn’t tell that it was a reflection. I think they said that it was only a foot-and-a-half deep at its deepest point.

 

 

These stalactites looked like drapes. Instead of tapering to a point over the course of bazillions of years, they looked like sheets in the wind. The second picture was shot from below.

 

 

 

At times it felt like we were walking through a Giger sketchbook, minus the eyeballs.

 

 

 

This is the Stalacpipe Organ, which taps stalactites with rubber mallets to make music. It sits in a large, open area that often hosts weddings. I recommended that Mole and Moladette have their wedding down there, they passed.

 

 

Near the end of the tour was a wishing pool of sorts. Over the years, they’ve collected over $700,000 from the water and donated it to various charities. The greenish tint of the water was due to the copper coating from the coins.

 

 

Unfortunately, my penny hit a rock before bouncing into the water, thus negating my wish for world peace and eternal happiness for all. Sorry about that.

 

 

These are the famous “fried eggs” near the end of the tour. If I remember correctly, they were the last items in the cave that people were allowed to touch, but 20 or 30 years ago even these were put off limits (human skin oils interfere with the natural development of the rocks). Oh well.

 

 

Unfortunately, I did not capture images of what, to me, were the two most memorable images of the foray into the caverns. First was a large stalactite that had fallen so long ago that a stalagmite (the ones that grow upwards) had started to grow over it. I took a picture, but it’s too dark to make anything out. 

 

The second was watching First Lady Michelle Obama enter the caverns with her daughters and 15 or 20 of her closest friends in the Secret Service. I was too awestruck to even think of getting my camera phone out. She, as are many people in this age of high-defintion, is far prettier in person.

 

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Near the entrance to the caverns was a hedge maze, like the one in The Shining but without the snow and crazy failed writers chasing you with an axe. Mole’s 8-year-old niece and 10-year-old nephew challenged Mole and me to a race to get through the maze. To win, you had to find your way to each of four stations, get your ticket stamped to prove you’d been there, and find the exit. Despite the blazing sun, the light sunshower, the dizziness, the confusion, and the taunting phone calls from the niece and nephew, Mole and I emerged victorious.

 

 

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After walking through a small antique carriage-and-car museum (which housed Rudolph Valentino’s 1925 Rolls-Royce Silver Ghost, painted to resemble “alligatored” leather), we headed back to Mole’s house for dinner. For appetizers, Mole threw some hot dogs and hamburgers on the grill, and Moladette prepared her epic pasta salad. The main course in my book was Dr. Hmnahmna’s famous “Mama’s Whup-Ass Dip,” prepared for this occasion by Mrs. Hmnahmna. Yes, I know I said chips-and-dip were the entree, but it’s pretty filling and pretty damn tasty dip. I’ll let Dr. Hmnahmna post the recipe in the comment section if he so desires.

 

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I have to say that the real highlight of my whole vacation was meeting Mole and Moladette’s son. I have several first-cousins-once-removed, but I feel like this baby is the closest thing I have to a nephew right now, because my brother and sister and their respective spouses are slackers in that department.

 

The most remarkable thing about the kid is how surprised he looks whenever he’s awake. His eyes nearly pop out of their sockets in utter amazement at everything he sees. But the more I think about it, the more I think that’s how all babies should look. After all, they’re seeing almost everything they look at for the first time ever. Everything should be a surprise to them.

 

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Next time, my last two stops: Baltimore, Maryland and Columbia, South Cackalacky to dine with The Robert.

My second stop was a three-night stay in Charlottesville, VA, home to Dr. and Mrs. Hmnahmna, and about 45 minutes from Waynesboro, home to Mole, Moladette and their baby boy. The first order of business was tagging along with Mrs. Hmnahmna to pick up a bureau drawer, which in and of itself was not noteworthy except that on the way back, we stopped at a Mennonite grocery. The majority of the groceries were homemade and were very inexpensive. I don’t know whether this was due to low costs of production, massive tax exemptions, or an aversion to profit. I do know that they made some pretty good pumpkin bread, and I eated it.

 

That night, the Hmnahmnas, the Mole family and I met for dinner at a downtown Charlottesville restaurant, cleverly named the Downtown Grille. It was a pretty good meal. An expensive one, but a pretty good one. We almost got off to a rocky start, because Mole’s niece wanted to order her steak well-done with ketchup. We talked her down to medium well and got her to leave out the ketchup, and called it a win. We also convinced Mole’s nephew to try a crab cake, which he liked well enough, I suppose.

 

Anyhow. We ordered an appetizer of calamari, crab cakes, fried oysters, and shrimp cocktail. I tried a little of each; the calamari was good, but since I don’t eat much seafood, I don’t know whether the rest was good or merely average. We ordered several side dishes, family style: mashed potatoes, fries, zucchini mixed with squash, and asparagus doused in what turned out to be the low point of the meal, a bland Hollandaise sauce. They should’ve just gone with a teensy bit of butter and lemon juice. Overall, the sides were decent enough.

 

The entrées came with a wedge of iceberg lettuce and a choice of two dressings. I didn’t like either option, and asked if they had any other dressings. The waiter responded, “Blah blah blah tomato basil–” and I said, “That one. Tomato basil.” This led to the evening’s happiest accident. I was expecting the wedge with a tomato basil dressing. What actually came out of the kitchen was the best caprese salad I’ve ever had–huge slices of mozzarella (the best and most important part of the salad), tomatoes, basil leaves that looked puny next to the other ingredients, and just the right amount of balsamic vinegar. Later, I checked the restaurant’s website to look at the menu, wondering how I could possibly have missed the caprese salad. Turns out it wasn’t listed as “caprese.” It was “Fresh Mozzarella, Tomato & Basil with Balsamic.” Maybe there was some essential ingredient missing that kept them from calling it caprese, but it was more than close enough for me.

 

Onto the entrée. I ordered the special: a 16-ounce boneless ribeye, cooked medium, with chunks of crab. Long story short, it was the best steak I’ve ever eaten. It was actually quite an emotional experience for me; at most restaurants the steak is a letdown, overshadowed by a really good appetizer, or it’s a little bit overcooked, or it isn’t cooked medium throughout, or it cools off too quickly. Not this steak. This steak was the belle of the ball. It had just the right amount of fat on it. The center was reddish-pink and stayed warm throughout the meal, and I took my sweet time savoring every single tender, juicy, buttery bite, and following each one with a sip of the Shiraz chosen by the teetotaler-turned-drunken-louse Dr. Hmnahmna. I almost wept when it was all gone, but I stayed strong.

 

I don’t know whether the ribeyes are always that good at the Downtown Grille. It may be that the stars and planets lined up just right when this particular meal was concocted. I don’t know. But rest assured that I’m composing an epic poem about this steak so that its story may be known to generations yet unborn, and I’m going to find out exactly which cow died for my culinary pleasure, so I can lay a wreath at the entrance to the abattoir.

 

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I’ll get to the rest of the visit, which included meeting the closest thing I have to a nephew right now, in part 2B tomorrow.