paul·a·ver

Just got back from Wild Sweet Orange and greasy bratwurst at this year’s first Waterfront Wednesday, read some Artemis Fowl with the boys, snuck some ice cream and tucked them in, all before Jenn got back from Book Club.

I heard on NPR today that a recent study has determined that Mac users are smug, arrogant, elitists.

Two thoughts:

1. Duh: Who funds this shit?
2. NPR: Pot; Kettle; Black.

So, I love this time of year in the Derby City, and I love Waterfront Wednesday.

It brings out all of Louisville’s other nerds. It makes me feel like I’ve found my tribe and everything will be OK. Other people wear glasses and like beer and college rock even though they’re, well, old.

The waterfront was filled with more NPR-listening, probable-Obama-voting elitists (not me, I’m a Nader guy) than a Michael Feldman show–more nerds on the waterfront than cattle in a Lincoln stockyard. I’ve been to Nebraska’s capital and seen the Penis of the Plains, so I know.

There were probably some science fiction readers down there.

There may have been some Mac users–though I can’t identify with them.  Their smugness makes me want to rub their faces in a pile of bison droppings.

Derby time is sweet here. Music is on the wind, and the dogwoods are blooming. The kids are in bed, and the Dalmore shines amber in the Lismore. Crystal on the teeth, and peet on the gums. A fine night.

“What the fuck is that, Jenn? Is that an earthquake?” I woke Jenn up, looking for a truck outside and listening for a helicopter.

I’m still up since this morning’s minor (5.4) quake along the New Madrid (or Wabash?) fault.

At first, I thought the dog was wiggling the bed. Then, I realized she wasn’t on the bed–though she soon jumped up scared.

No significant damage reports, at least as yet.

I had an amazingly busy day yesterday, off to work early, then out for an appointment with my son, Graham, back downtown for another meeting, then back out to the East End for another, then back downtown to the office to handle a translation an localiz(s)ation fire drill, then off to coach soccer. I never actually ate.

It ended well, however. Jenn and I went to Eddie Izzard last night. He’s the funniest action transvestite there is. He had the crowd from the beginning, hotting and hollering for his hand movements. I choose cake.
Well, no aftershocks.

I’m glad it wasn’t a pile of weapons of mass destruction accidentally exploded down in Fort Knox, an explanation for the shakes that did cross my mind.

My last day at the University of Louisville was yesterday, Good Friday.

I’m officially unemployed for two days.

Monday, I return to usability testing and user interface design for software applications, work I’d intended to make the focus of my career when I moved to Louisville almost six years ago.

(Mercifully avoiding torturing the Easter metaphor by suggesting that I’ll rise again in 3 days in fulfillment of the scriptures…)

It was extremely difficult to leave UofL, to leave good friends and colleagues, a fantastic supervisor, the excitement of being part of a university community, tremendous autonomy, and the most positive working environment I’ve been part of in many years.

But, the opportunity I’d written off as not existing in Louisville in several years ago jumped out and surprised me.

I just couldn’t say no.

I’m joining a dedicated, forward thinking team of developers, quality assurance professionals, product managers, and other sharp IT folk in a funky downtown office with exposed brick and high ceilings to work on consumer products in the wireless industry.

So… don’t be surprised if I try to recruit you for experiments.

“So, would you guys like to do a Shakespeare camp this summer?” Jenn asked the children between bites of dinner. “You’d get to learn a play and act it out.”

“Yes!” Graham pumped his fist. “I can be very dramatic.” He smiled a “What me worry?” smile.

My eyes surveyed the table to confirm utter agreement.

“Shakespeare is Dad’s favorite writer, you know,” Jenn nodded.

“I took 3 classes in college just on his plays and poems.”

“Really,” Evan asked, shaking his head in disbelief, “that’s dedication.” He took a bite and continued, “What kind of plays will we do?”

“My ghost will appear,” I said wiggling my fingers to be spooky, “to tell you not to worry about Denmark. It’s a silly country. Maybe go north across the sea to Norway. They have fjords. And quit picking on Ophelia.”

“You’re weird, Dad,” Evan remarked, erasing any doubt.

“What other camps do you want to do?” Jenn asked.

“Fencing, for sure,” Graham parried-six and riposted in the air. “Fencing will be cool.”

“Yeah I want to do fencing too,” Evan nodded.

They discussed a few other camps they’re excited about: Eco Camp, Nature Camp, and Soccer Camp, but they’re most excited about Shakespeare and fencing.

Huzzah! The nerdliness is inherited. I need to invest in some quality high-impact polyhedrals.

Tonight we’ll cement the damage, taking them to High School Musical at the Kentucky Center. Muhahaha…

“Die, Pikachu! Die!” I hear Graham yelling from the basement, and I go to investigate.

I see my two seven-year-olds jumping up and down, flailing like teenage punks at a Circle Jerks show in the 80s.

“I thought you liked Pikachu,” I say, raising an eyebrow.

“We do,” Evan fires back through quick loud breaths. “It’s a game. They want to die. DIE PIKACHU!”

He turns his attention back to the screen, swinging his Wiimote like a serial killer might swing his machete.

What could turn two die-hard Pokephiles to Pikacide?

Super Smash Bros Brawl, released this past weekend for Wii.

Graham has been counting down to the Super Smash Bros Brawl release for several months, ever since he pre-ordered the game, trading for Dragon Quest Swords, a title he wanted so much that he offered to exchange his services mopping the kitchen every week until he went to college for my purchase on his behalf. We have a tiny galley kitchen, so it’s not that much really.

I was saved from taking Graham to the store at Midnight Saturday for a release bash by a surprising late-season snowfall of 12 inches. It shut Louisivlle down for two days and allowed me to put off pressing and unpleasant outdoor chores for another week.

We picked the game up at noon Sunday (opening time), and other than an hour of reading they do each day, meals, one racquetball class, a school day, and chores, my children have done nothing except play Super Smash Bros.

Well, for about 20 minutes their mother and I played Cooking Mama while they sat with frowns, arms crossed, and brows furrowed on the futon, but that’s it.

My family is as pacifistic as a congregation of zealous Quakers, but Super Smash Bros. Brawl clearly triggers a suppressed violent instinct even in those bearing my peace-loving genes.

If my two are any indication, Super Smash Bros. Brawl is a hit, and it’s destined to swiftly turn the world’s young people into raging Wiidiots.

Honestly, Pikachu is a little too cute for my taste. I’ll join the battle cry: “Die, Pikachu! Die, you annoying little electric rat!”