Squirrell Highway

It’s probably a mutated gene I picked up somewhere in youth.  My mom used to yell, "Come here, come look!" and I would come running down from my room, probably expecting a dragon or something equally as dramatic based on the tone of her voice.  But, no dragons, it was always a deer.  Or should I say, another deer.  Sometimes they were does, sometimes bucks, always brown and always seemingly uninterested in my family’s voyeurism.

I don’t have anyone to yell to here in my ex two-car cottage.  So, I have submitted to mom’s second action in the situation: ‘Where is the camera? I’ve got to get a picture!" 

My camera is in a sock.  I call it the case, but it provides for an easy draw, which, even on my fastest of days, is no match for the speed limit on Squirrel Highway. Squirrels are kinda brown too.  Though often I don’t get the chance to focus directly on them.  It is more likely that I see a sinuous blur or a rash of leaves settling outside my door just after a calamitous thump.  You can get my drift by looking at the picture above.  What I have captured in this picture is a typical passerby on Squirrel Highway, though, as you can see, this little monster has disguised himself as a slithering dragon to the lens of my camera.

Nonetheless, I find myself just as persistent as mom.  Every time Mr. Squirrel tutters across my roof or throws himself blindly (and with great tact) into the branches of a nearby tree, you can find me ready—camera in hand, sock at my feet—for a chance at the next great photo for my archives.  And, as soon as I live within range of a possible witness to this exposition of stealth and cunning nature, they will be sure to hear me calling.

The “Danger Zone”

If you are a friend of mine you may be familiar with a conversation like this:

YOU AND ME: <40 minutes of solid discussion>
YOU: Why yes ben, What you said does sound very reasonable and I…
ME: Uh, Oh! Danger Zone! Danger Zo…
<click>

While the Silicon Valley flourishes in some technologies, others (AT&T Wireless for example) have pockets of disintermediation.

Tridge Revision #1

It seems I have miscalculated my audience.  Where I thought I could craftily sneak in a sleight of word and omit vital information, my father, a native of Midland, Michigan and one of the two people who has closely watched the evolution of my lying habits over the last 26 years (I don’t know which attribute may carry more weight, but rest assured that both of these factors are essential to the full understanding of this story), has called me on the following portion of my last post:

The three legs span the shores over the confluence of two docile, unknown rivers that will remain inessential to the full understanding of the story.

The rivers are, in fact, known as the Tittabawassee and the Chippewa.  They are even available for walleye fishing year-round.   Though, I will add, nobody was fishing on the day that I was there.  And although this new information has surfaced, the rivers remain, with me as the empirical witness, docile.

The Nostalgia that is Midland

The story begins with me helping start up a research unit out of the Department of Economics at San Jose State University.  The story has no ending yet, but somewhere in the middle I find myself running across the infamous Tridge of Midland, Michigan in the middle of a blizzard.

Before going any further, I must warn you that being from California, I carelessly use words like blizzard in reference to any weather that does not involve a sun.  The spelling of Tridge, however, was not careless; it is meant to imply a bridge with three legs (as opposed to the implicit two legs of the bridges with which you are most likely familiar).  The three legs span the shores over the confluence of two docile, unknown rivers that will remain inessential to the full understanding of the story.

While we’re off track, I used to spend my winter breaks in Midland.  This is where I first met snow.  This is where I would watch my grandfather devise intelligent bird-feeders that could throw a perpetrating squirrel a good ten feet and not spill but an ounce of seed. 

Also in the middle of the story I meet lots of really intelligent, passionate people and they teach me how to start and operate a think tank.  No, it is not that easy.  Nor is driving through a blizzard to an airport.  On return from Midland we missed our plane.  It’s the first time this has happened to me.

Taxes and Brushes with Fame

This April 15th, I had the pleasure of celebrating taxes in good company.

For concern of any stray tabloid-employds, I will not publicly assert any of the names of the involved parties, though I will mention that included in these parties was a hero in the world of economics and his wife.

Unfortunately, I did not get to, as they say, shoot the bull, with this particular Noble Laureate, however, I did have the chance to direct him and his wife to the restroom.  Let me tell you the story.

As there was a high price tag on the event, volunteer work was quite a hot item and I was one of the first on the list.  Furthermore, getting to the event just a tad late placed me in the “limbo” category of the volunteers - all of the roles were already assigned by the time of my arrival.

I was meandering with a sophisticated presence near the entryway when they approached.  They first looked behind a plant and then down a dark hallway; that is when I made my move.

“Are you looking for the restroom?” I rhetorically questioned.

Quickly, as the dark hallway exposed itself as simply a repository for chairs, the couple changed directions.  The wife looked my way and smiled with an inquisitive affirmation.  Surely, she had not heard a thing I said but, positioned awkward and available in the middle of the side of the room, I could only have one purpose.  I continued in a bit louder voice,  “Right at the other end of the hall on your left.”

Without breaking stride, she cordially replied “Thank you,” as she looked back over her shoulder and the wake of their high-speed trail came upon me as a small breeze from the elbow down.