Those ghastly necks of old men

Two months of near-constant travel and I skipped the end of summer and early beginnings of fall (rain) in Boston this year. Places I’ve been in the last two months: Utah, California, New York, Texas, Nevada, Barcelona, Beijing. I have heard that regular supersonic travel mysteriously favors the production of XX-chromosomal spermatazoa in men; so if you want to have girls, learn to fly an F-15. Or just convince your wife to take human menopausal gonadotropin or FSH and selectively excise the budding baby boys. But if you want to castrate your social life, snap the rubber band of constant (subsonic) travel around its scrotum and watch the little boys rot and fall to the dirt.

Seriously, dating is impossible and your friends just stop calling you when you’re never in town. Not that I want to “date,” the most awkward and stupid of many awkward and stupid American social rituals, but the point is that follow-up is impossible. Your friends learn to stop counting on you. Every situation must be closed on the spot, because you just don’t know what the future holds. Geographically speaking.

I didn’t expect the jetlag from the China trip to wipe me out as badly as it did but for four or five days after returning I dragged my useless carcass to work and did my best to stay awake in my office. We managed to launch Better Desktop and Tango to great interest and acclaim, but I mainly just tried to stay out the way.

BetterDesktop.org

After the fatigue and sleeplessness wore off, I had a dinner party and met a grip for Extreme Makeover: Home Edition which, he explained, is a popular TV show whose premise is that the home of some down-and-out American family — the victims of heart-wrenching tragedy such as a death in the family, bankruptcy or a badly retarded in-law — is summarily razed by the producers and a new McMansion is built in its place in five days by local contractors working for free advertising while the family is sequestered in a Hilton Hotel in some sunny locale (having been conveyed there by the good people at SouthWest Airlines) until REVEAL DAY when, returning to find a brand-new home filled with Sears/Kenmore appliances in place of their old hovel, they burst into spontaneous tears of joy.

“Everybody cries,” he explained.

This is a so-called reality TV show that won an emmy for writing last year.

You’ve got to love it.

Last weekend halfway through what was clearly the best GNOME Summit ever I took the high-speed train to New York to hang out with my cousin Fiona. I’d last seen Fiona in 2003 in Dublin where she was playing expat for two years, during yet another GNOME conference when we stayed on the grounds of Trinity College. Before that Fiona and I hadn’t been in the same room for twelve years, and I caused a minor stir in a Dublin pub repeatedly quizzing female strangers, “are you my cousin?” It seems Americans frequently come to Ireland in search of distant branches of their ancestral families, and I seemed to the locals to be implementing some kind of shotgun method of genealogical archaeology…

New York with Fiona was uplifting. Fiona is an actress at the beginning of what is sure to be a pyrotechnically brilliant and celestially enduring career. In personality my cousin and I are similar people, so much so that I began to worry that many elements of my character were preprogrammed at conception and aren’t my own creations at all. We both love Nabokov and we are both prone to black out when we drink too much and we spent an afternoon terrorizing the new MoMA together. That night we had separate dinner engagements, and we met up after for drinks. “How’d it go?” she asked when we were sitting together at a bar. “Fine. I tried too hard,” I said. “Same. Me too.” The next morning in the $250/month rent-controlled apartment in the village where we were crashing we helped each other piece together the night’s alcohol-fueled rampage across the lower east side. It was sweet and tender. Family is forever.

Fiona

I’d had hardly any alcohol or refined sugar or anything for weeks before the weekend with Fiona because I’d been training for another bicycling stunt, this time from Boston to New York in a single day. But apparently running along the great wall of China was a bad idea, and I’ve damaged some ligaments in my left knee and ligaments are white because they get almost no blood and so they heal very slowly. So I figured extremely cold weather will be upon us before my body is sufficiently conditioned to make the 240-mile ride in less than 24 hours without doing permanent damage to something and gave up training. In fact, my bike was still packed in its carrying case until today when Toshok and I went for a nice ride to Walden Pond and back. He was a champ to do the whole 40-mile course, considering he hasn’t been on a bike in about 9 months.

Training in China

Sunday I imported all 40,000 of my photos into F-Spot, and the last four years of my life are now in chronological order in a single scrolled window. Truly awesome.