Day Off (One of Two)

We went to Teatown this afternoon, wandering down a path along the lake I had not previously explored. My son was excited to spot a Green Stink Bug — I was even more excited that he knew what it was. (I'd never seen one before.) We even snuck in a handful of peanuts to feed the crows. (They have three in captivity — two had been injured, one was reared by humans and has lost the ability to survive in the wild.)

Apropos of crows — did you know they can apparently recognize different human faces?

I am saddened to hear of the demise of The New York Sun, which will publish it's final edition today, after almost seven years. I only read the paper once, perhaps twice — I was on my way out of New York when it arrived — but I was drawn to the design, deliberately evocative of an era of metal type. And I particularly liked the masthead. And I liked the idea that a determined upstart might compete with the city's long-established dailies.

Change

I spent most of Saturday reading up on Cascading Style Sheets, or CSS, as they're better known. If you've never spent time tinkering with a web page, and have no idea what that means, you're likely to find this as interesting to read about as it would be to write about, I'm sure — so let's just say it's a technique that offers a degree of creative control over the appearance of a web page.

I'm at a point where this is only beginning to not seem completely, utterly overwhelming. At a glance, it all still looks like an impenetrable form of computer programming — but it uses (mostly) plain language (though it all has to be presented in a particular format) and for someone like me, who works in design, the concepts are familiar, at least.

That minor change? At the top of the page? It took me about two hours to puzzle out how it was done, by examining the code on another page, and relying on trial and error. I have a few other adjustments I'd like to try, but this is a start.

Tidy

Most of today has been sent cleaning up the office, in the best tradition of procrastination, an effort to put off doing anything more worthwhile 'till tomorrow.

Most of yesterday was spent with a book, as I attempt to improve my skill set. More on that (and the results) soon.

Perfect

My son is pitching what I suppose could be the First Grade equivalent of a Perfect Game: four tests in three weeks, all 100%. I'm immeasurably proud of his accomplishment — but at the same time, I know this is unlikely to last.

He doesn't really understand the significance, of course — the tests and homework that will come to dominate his days in the years to come are still novel, even welcome experiences.

In The Way

Better that I didn't need to print anything. (That's a drawing by my son in the background, by the way. I think it was a birthday gift.)

Garage

See, this is why I need to get myself better organized ― I fixed the garage door this afternoon, a task that certainly needed to be done ― the door had come off its' rail, and the garage door opener hadn't been working for six or seven years (I wonder what I ever did with the remote?) ― but this was only because I just happened to think of it while I was in the garage this afternoon. I thought to myself "How difficult could this be?"

That's how the days often go here, as we wander leisurely into October.

Interrobang

It isn't every day you learn of forgotten punctuation (is it?), but today will be one of those days: I give you — the interrobang. Wikipedia describes it as “a nonstandard English-language punctuation mark intended to combine the functions of the question mark (also called the interrogative point) and the exclamation mark or exclamation point (known in printers’ jargon as the bang).” For all the years I've spent working with type, this is the first I've heard of it.

It was invented in 1962; six years later, an interrobang key was available on some Remington typewriters. During the 1970s, it was possible to buy replacement interrobang keycaps and strikers for some Smith-Corona typewriters. Even today, it's hidden away in several commonly-used modern digital typefaces. Wow.

Did you know that yesterday was National Punctuation Day? This is the first I've heard of that, as well.

To Do

I'm employing a new tactic in my never-ending pursuit of the goal of getting things done — the familiar To Do List. I tend to be well-organized by my nature, and it's rare that I completely forget what needs to be done. But I tend to procrastinate, and there are times when I'm far too easily distracted, and a moment away becomes an hour, becomes an afternoon.

My hope is that by compiling a list, I'll guilt myself — perhaps shame myself — into accomplishing more.

So I now have a program on my iPhone, which will synchronize with a web-based to-do list, which allows me to use another service, which will transcribe notes dictated into my cell phone and add them to the list.

(One of the other features this service provides is the ability to compose simple, brief blog posts — in fact, parts of this post were composed by phone. I can't imagine using it all that often, though. Not only am I limited to 15-second recordings, I tend to compulsively re-write and edit my work. And I cannot abide the thought of spelling errors.)

It might sound much more complicated than it is, and perhaps it is, but we'll see how it works.

Door

For the first time in (I think) almost ten years, the garage is off-limits to stray cats, wandering wildlife, and anything else that would have been small enough to fit through a pet door.

When we first bought this house, our hillbilly neighbors across the street (we used to refer to them as "The Bumpases," a reference that will be familiar to anyone who has ever read Jean Shepherd) had somehow accumulated a large number of outdoor cats. They were reasonably well cared for, but friendly and affectionate, and would wander over from time to time.

The Bumpases were evicted about a year later, and we agreed, reluctantly, to care for the half-dozen or so cats they couldn't bring with them. We couldn't take them in, or place them (they had become accustomed to living outdoors) but we fed them regularly, and they lived in the garage during the cold winter months. I installed a pet door so they could come and go.

Of course, in feeding the cats, I was also feeding the raccoons, who were quite fond of dry cat food. And when they discovered the cats were occasionally fed in the garage, they would come and go, as well. (I would occasionally see the backside of one trying to fit itself through the pet door.) I like the raccoons, I really do — I find them irresistibly adorable, watching them grow larger and larger in the months before winter. But they tend to be curious, and they're often a bit destructive. It became impossible to store birdseed or cat food in the garage.

Most of the outdoor cats died over the past two or three years, the last just a few months ago. They lived longer than most, I think.

Yesterday, I found the perfect piece of scrap wood and closed off the pet door.

The Lorax

I would imagine my son and I have read The Lorax close to a hundred times by now — there was a phase he went through where it was the book he wanted me to read to him, every night, and it remains one of his favorites. In fact, when asked to choose a favorite book to bring to school not too long ago, this is the one he selected.

(Often when we notice a building or vehicle belching smoke into the sky, he'll remark "The Lorax wouldn't like that.")

According to this, the Ohio Sea Grant Program wrote to Dr. Seuss in 1985 and asked that he reconsider the reference, “I hear things are just as bad up in Lake Erie,” as conditions had improved considerably since the book was first published, in 1971. (The Cuyahoga River, a tributary that feeds into the lake at Cleveland, Ohio, famously caught fire in 1969.) Dr. Seuss agreed, and said that the line wouldn’t appear in future editions.

The well-read, much loved copy I have, which dates from the early 1980s, still includes the line. (I bought virtually all of the Dr. Seuss books I have almost 20 years before my son was born.) I checked Amazon's "Search Inside The Book" feature, and while it does appear that the reference has been removed, they can't show me that page.

This will require a visit to the book store...

Mr. O'Malley

The kitten has officially been named Mr. O'Malley, after the fairy godfather in the comic strip Barnaby by Crockett Johnson. He's seen here on my desk — where all cats in this house seem to end up, sooner or later — next to the cactus garden, which has done quite well, much better than I expected. Mr. O'Malley seems to be growing almost as fast.

Like most cats, he is often aloof — but genuinely affectionate, when the mood suits him.

Easy-Bake

Have you noticed? The beloved Easy-Bake Oven has been redesigned to resemble a more modern microwave. I suppose it still uses an ordinary lightbulb, though the package goes to great lengths to disguise this fact. (Has this always been the case? I don't remember.)

Call Me Irresponsible

I'm in the mood to set aside my responsibility for today and have an adventure.

Where should I go? What should I do?

Systemizing

This is interesting — the suggestion that the increase in rates of autism might be due in part to "assortative mating," the tendency of individuals to seek out partners that are similar to them. Where once we might have chosen mates in deference to social tradition or for economic benefit, we now do so for largely different reasons, seeking partners who fit our notions of compatibility or similarity.

In simple terms, the theory suggests that "parents who are not themselves autistic, but who both possess...'systemizing' qualities — the tendency to sort things, an interest in rules or laws — have a higher risk of producing offspring that are themselves 'systemizers.'"

As any parent of an autistic child knows, there's much, much more to autism disorders than a predisposition toward "systemizing" qualities — it involves a range of different tendencies and behaviors. I've no doubt whatsoever there is a genetic component, but it seems too simplistic to assume that inheritance is the only factor, or even the predominant one.

Books

I've just dropped off several books to be donated to an organization that supports our local library, for a book sale to be held early next month. I'm pleased to support the library — but I must admit to a certain degree of self-promotion in doing this, the hope that someone might be intrigued enough by the bargain they've discovered to see what else is available.

I love books — and I've loved publishing them. It hasn't been the successful endeavor I'd hoped for (I'm sure that's the experience of most small publishers), but I never expected to find my fortune — I only wanted this to be self-supporting, to be able to continue to publish more books. If I had the resources, I'd do it again without hesitation. (And I may yet.)

Playground

Scattered

I just can't seem to concentrate today...

Ectoplasm

I'm proud to say I was several years ahead of the cultural curve, for what it's worth, in the resurgence of interest in the work of Raymond Scott, best known for his energetic, slightly eccentric musical compositions from the 1930s and 1940s (most with memorable, unusual titles, such as "Dinner Music for a Pack of Hungry Cannibals"). His work had been indelibly imprinted on me, thanks to repeated exposure during my adolescence (Scott sold his music publishing business to Warner Bros. in the early 1940s, and his compositions were frequently featured in cartoons released by the studio), though I never really knew it. But from the moment I heard Scott's original recordings, they became part of my (almost) obsessive curiosity about pop culture from days long ago.

My girlfriend at the time gave me a collection of Scott's work as a gift, a cassette tape compiled from vintage 78 RPM records that had been generously provided by Irwin Chusid. (He was largely responsible for the rediscovery of Raymond Scott, beginning with small steps like this one, and would later go on to produce a series of reissues of Scott's work). I listened to it constantly. (I still have it, too. I wonder if it still sounds as good?) I was often drawn to a few songs that were clearly from a different phase of Scott's recording career, perhaps a later one — they seemed to sound different, somehow, both in composition and in the way they had been recorded. But this was 1989, back in the days before Google —how did we ever get along? — and despite his fame in the 1940s, Scott had become a relatively obscure and mostly forgotten part of music history. I was quite curious, but had no way to learn more.

And now I have. Ectoplasm, released earlier in the year, covers this era of Scott's recordings, from 1948-1949 (the first for his own record label), and includes an illustrated booklet with essays and interviews. (I came very close to buying this on iTunes, but I knew I'd regret missing out on the supplementary materials if I did.) I can't wait to listen.

I bought another CD, too, but that was something else entirely.

Truth

My six-year-old heard a story on the radio this afternoon, about the reopening of the I-35W Mississippi River bridge in Minnesota after its' collapse last year. He asked if anyone was hurt when the bridge collapsed — I told him that yes, that several people were injured and some were killed.

Not too long ago, I would have avoided the issue altogether, or I might tried to tell him that no one had been seriously hurt. He went through a phase not too long ago where he would become overly concerned with the possibility of catastrophe — a thunderstorm, or a lightning strike that might cause a tree to come down, or even a tornado. This would become a regular topic of conversation (he'd always want to be reassured) and a part of his pretend play (his way of working through his anxiety). But he's past that now, he seems more secure. I didn't even hesitate in answering his question.

There is a lingering part of me that can't help but wonder if I've made the right choice, if six years old isn't a bit too early to confront such difficult truth. I know he doesn't really understand what it all means — but perhaps just enough, in his own way.

Shuffle

An entire chapter of The Perfect Thing is devoted to the "shuffle" function of the iPod, the feature that selects and plays music, almost at random.

Apparently, this is one of the most popular features of the iPod. (There's even a model that does almost nothing but.) Some people are convinced that these random selections are anything but, even that the device has it's own agenda or distinctive moods. In fact, "random" can be a surprisingly elusive ideal, and the human mind does rather badly with this concept — we're quick to see trends and connections where there really are none.

(Apple later introduced a feature that allowed users to tweak the shuffle function, to make it appear to be more random by actually making it slightly less so.)

As I was reading about the "shuffle" function, I suddenly realized, I've never, ever used it. I suppose it's just never occurred to me. (I listen to my iPod just about every day, but I only use it to listen to music once in a while. I tend to listen to Podcasts while driving, mostly news and documentary programming.) I'm sure this will sound unimaginative and monotonous — but I enjoy an element of control over what I'm listening to, even prefer it.

Impulse

I'm probably not the best person to buy a book for as a gift. It isn't that I don't love to read — I have endless shelves lined with books, boxes full of them, too. But if you've bought me a book, even if I'm sure I will enjoy it, if it doesn't immediately grab my interest, it may end up sitting on a shelf or on my nightstand for some time. That even happens with books that I've bought — I'll start to read them, but my interest wanders away to something else, and they're left unread.

I have two books next to my bed at the moment — a biography of cartoonist Charles Schulz (I started reading that several months ago), and Physics of the Impossible. Both are books I've been looking forward to reading (though if I had known it would take me this long to read the Charles Schulz book, I might have waited for the paperback, which is due early next month), but today I was excited by The Perfect Thing about the development of the iPod. Very likely what will happen is I'll spend the rest of the day and most of the evening devouring this book, and it will be finished before the dust that has accumulated on any other books I have is even disturbed.

I adore books — but I'm not the person to buy them for as a gift. Perhaps a gift certificate is a better idea.

Balance

Try as I might — and believe me, I've tried! — I just cannot seem to keep my business checking account balanced. It isn't as though I use it all that often (my publishing business hasn't been particularly active over the past several years) but every so often it inevitably ends up a few dollars different from my bank statement, and no matter how often I reexamine the records it doesn't seem to make any difference. I end up having to manually adjust the balance.

It can't be that difficult, can it?

Wasps

I've been having a problem with wasps for the past several weeks — I suspect they've made a nest in a crawlspace under the house, and they've been coming up into the house through the bathroom downstairs (though I'm not sure just where). They're often weak and lethargic, so they don't seem to be much of a threat. I just caught a half-dozen of them and put them outside — they may be lethargic, but they're not always easy to catch — though most I find only after they've died, often on the windowsill.

Fly Away

The House Finch seems to have gathered up the strength to fly away.

House Finch

Hours later, the finch has now set herself up for the night on the large circular perch of the bird feeder. At least she'll be safe there.

Birds

Earlier in the afternoon, I saw an uncharacteristically sedate Blue Jay at rest on the corner of the deck, it's head buried among ruffled up feathers. I was concerned, but it has been a little colder than usual. Several hours later, it was dead.

A House Finch was similarly settled on the deck, beneath the bird feeder. She seemed unconcerned when I got close enough to take a picture, glancing up at me only briefly before burying her head back into her feathers. I've gently picked her up and placed her in a shallow plastic box I could move somewhere not so out in the open, somewhere she will be less likely prey for the neighbor's cat who comes around every so often.

She's now perched herself on the edge of the box, and returned to rest. I'm not all that optimistic about her chances, but at least she'll be able to die quietly and peacefully.

Backpack

Do you suppose a child's backpack is machine washable? There are no care instructions on the label, not that I could find.

I think it's time to find out!

Electricity

My plans to spend the afternoon at work have had to be unexpectedly put aside, for the moment — the electricity is out, for the second time today. (I'm composing this on my beloved iPhone.) But it isn't all bad — the only sound that remains is a gentle breeze rustling through the trees.

And that's got me thinking — how enjoyable it would be to spend some time without technology.

Five Twenty Nine

According to the paperwork I got in the mail today, my son has just over $10,000 in his college savings account. That seems like a reasonable amount, considering he just turned six last month.

A Week Ago Monday

This was when the kitten was found, wandering in the dark among the underbrush next to the house, meowing quietly. (That's the only way he knows how.) He's found a home here. It's taken some time, but the older cats are beginning to accept him — except for his tendency to play when the others want to sleep.

The name? The name is still a work in progress.

There Goes The Bus

A slight adjustment has been made to the schedule, and now the school bus is arriving about ten minutes earlier than it had been. Needless to say, this has thrown the well-oiled machine of my morning into complete and utter chaos. (We missed the bus both yesterday and today.)

Lessons

On this date seven years ago, our government became preoccupied with threat (imagined and otherwise), adrift in paranoia, eager for war, and quick to betray many of the most important legal and moral principles this country stands for. All in the name of "security," and almost to the exclusion of all else.

That, to me, for those of us with only a tenuous or indirect connection to the events of that day, is what must never be forgotten. We will have to live with the consequences of those actions for many years to come.

Restful

Particles

The first proton beam has circulated around the Large Hadron Collider. The world has not come to an end, et cetera et cetera.

While a few of those concerns had been raised by other scientists (a few of them outside of mainstream science), I often get this sense that they're taking advantage of the tendency of science not to rule out even the most outlandish theoretical possibilities if there's even the slightest uncertainty. Ordinary people read of this, of the possibility of calamity, and many seem to come away assuming the worst.

I was reminded of something James Burke said at the end of Connections, hat individuals have within themselves the ability to understand anything, as long as it's explained clearly enough. Trouble is, of course, these are complex, perhaps even abstract concepts, and difficult to explain clearly. I doubt most people even care to ask for explanations.

Pinky Dinky Doo

New episodes of Pinky Dinky Doo began airing on Noggin a few days ago. If you've never seen it, this is a wildly imaginitive and very, very silly series designed for preschoolers, one that I enjoy just as much as they do. (Possibly even more.) "Great big fancy words" has become the reference of choice more often than not when I explain a term that my son doesn't know the meaning of.

But the new series looks and sounds very, very different ― where previous episodes had been animated in Flash, and designed to play to the strengths of that process with intentionally flat character design and movement, the entire production is now computer animated. Motion is now more fluid, and the same basic settings have been enhanced with a sense of depth ― but it just doesn't seem right somehow. Most of the elements remain flat, but the addition of the occasional dimensional objects seems incongruous. And the young actress who is the voice of Pinky Dinky Doo (India Ennenga, who from what I gather is now about 13) is obviously maturing.

But the writing seems as clever as ever. Perhaps this will just take a bit of getting used to.

Homework

My son is bringing home homework. Not too much, not so much that it's a burden, but this is going to take some getting used to.

I've been thinking about getting him a sort of miniature version of the desk I have in my office (it came from Ikea) — wouldn't that just be adorable? — but that seems like a bit much for a six-year-old. I think we'll just use the kitchen table for the time being.

Fiction

I spent most of the day yesterday working, on a series of three books. Unusually for me, they were fiction — just text, no photographs or artwork of any kind — so they came together fairly quickly.

The process has not, however, been without it's unpleasant surprises. Text files for two of the three book had long since been lost, and had to be extracted from PDF files, created for an earlier attempt to get the books in print. (How could anyone spend all that time writing a book and not keep back-up files of the manuscripts?) The covers had been professionally prepared — sort of — but need to be reformatted to fit a different size, and reconstructed from whatever materials she has on hand. (Today, I have to see what I can do with the one that looks to have been scanned from a color xerox. Ugh.) Having to emulate someone else's mediocre design work seems nearly as time-consuming as creating my own. It's certainly more irritating.

The books are — well, let's just say they're not something I'd be all that interested in reading...

Kane Branson makes an explosive entrance in chapter one when he plants a bomb in an enemy’s car and watches from a distance as the vehicle bursts into a ball of flames. Returning home to his bottle of booze, he ponders over his beloved wife’s murder and the whereabouts of his daughter. Clothes strewn on the floor, several days’ dishes stacked in the sink, trash more than a week old; his place misses his wife and so does he. The chapter ends with him mounting his Harley, leaving that old life behind, his destination unknown."

...but the author seems very sweet and earnest (if perhaps a bit short-sighted), and she's obviously very excited that these books are going to be in print. It's a pleasure to be a part of making that happen.

Signs

My son occasionally exercises his developing skills in writing by making signs, which are often displayed on the projects he builds. They can be disarmingly simple, yet wonderfully complex — he's taken to using pictures and symbols along with words. Writing a still a little new (and often a bit frustrating) to him, so the pictures make it easier for him to get his point across.

There's one taped to the back of the chair in my office ― I forget the reason why, really, but I think I had warned him that I intended to clean up some project he had been working on in the not-too-distant future. So he drew a sign with a very large and emphatic "No", with an arrow pointing to a small drawing of me ― you can tell by the bald head that it's obviously meant to be me ― with a wobbly arm outstretched, about to touch a drawing of whatever it was he didn't want me to touch.

The reason the sign has long since gone, but I've left it up because I like it so much.

Welcome

Still working on the name.

Imperfect

"...Decide to be imperfect, reconcile yourself to that...be loyal to your imperfection: find out what it is, then continue on your track."

— Joseph Campbell

There's no time like 3:00 AM to be thinking upon one's imperfection...

Kitten, Continued Continued Continued

Results of the blood tests have the kitten in good health — the best guess is he's about four months old. Pending the results of one more test, he may the opportunity to meet the other cats and enjoy the run of the house tomorrow.

Which means it's time to select a name. Watch this space!

Letters

I'm corresponding with a woman, someone, I will admit, I'm only just beginning to know. But there's an honesty in what she writes, as she slowly reveals herself to me, that I truly adore. I admire that. It's so difficult to share yourself, your true self — yet it is often so very rewarding.

I knew a woman once — I loved a woman once, long ago — who wrote of herself and of her life, but in a sort of idealized way. Who would paint pictures of herself as thoughtful, intellectual, but also lonesome, isolated, surrounded by but not a part of a world of superficiality and polite conversation without depth, or meaning, or truth.

I've come to understand this as not much more than comfort, a defense against the despair that her life had become — having kept herself apart from the world and safe from the threat of emotion, this was the life she created for herself, the life she wanted (and wanted others) to believe she led. She wasn't strong enough to create that world for herself outside of her imagination, and it was not the truth.

Secret Life

I've recently taken to watching The Secret Life of The American Teenager — though to be honest, I don't really remember why! It might have had something to do with this tepid review in the New York Times a few weeks ago, though as I read it now, I can't imagine what it was that motivated me to have a look.

(I don't know, maybe it was just curiosity at the thought of a 40-year-old Molly Ringwald. She plays the mom.)

My impressions have been similarly mixed. The series is built around a compelling story (the unexpected pregnancy of a 15-year-old girl), and the writing has moments of wit, but to find them you have to sift through so much standard-issue teen drama — or, at least, what I would imagine that to be. I haven't given up, but this hasn't been made easy.

I'm sure I've been spoiled by watching Degrassi — even at its' worst (and my interest in that series has been in a steady decline over the past year, as cast members have departed and those that remain have been mixed and matched with unlikely stories as if to find something, anything to keep them occupied), it's still maintains depth and resonance.

I've come in with the ninth episode. I'll be able to catch up with the rest next week, and then the series is off air until January. (It remains to be seen if I remember to set the DVR in four months' time.)

Kitten, Continued, Continued

The kitten has an appointment with the Vet tomorrow morning. Several new signs had been posted in the neighborhood this morning, but all were in search of another cat entirely.

He's very friendly and affectionate, but he also seems very self-motivated — he likes to be with people, but doesn't feel it's necessary to cling to them. (Even now, he's sitting on the opposite side of the room.) This behavior has me somewhat puzzled — I've had a great deal of experience with kittens over the past several years, but most of them had either never been handled or were just slow to become accustomed to people. This one just has his own agenda.

He's taken to sleeping inside of the rocket in my son's room, into which all of the soft toys have been thrown. Is it the sensation of sleeping with his litter mates he enjoys? I've been wondering if he wandered off from his siblings, and is more interested in playing with other cats than with people...

I think he's actually grown a bit over the course of three days. That should come as no surprise — he has a very healthy appetite. (And he doesn't seem to have a problem with using the pine cat litter, which is a great relief.)

Thursday

For all of my plans and good intentions, Thursday morning was given away for a nap.

Kitten, Continued

There have been no indications of a lost kitten in our neighborhood — no signs posted, no inquiries. (There was, however, an older cat missing, and it seems someone has misplaced a chihuahua.) If it were me, if I had lost a kitten, I'd be out wandering the streets, knocking on doors, posting flyers on every utility pole.

I wonder if I should try to schedule him in for a Vet appointment today...

First Day

Today is the first day of school.

We waited a half-hour for the bus, and decided to drive over. (His school isn't far from the house.) I suppose I should have expected this — I don't remember what happened on the first day of school last year, but for the first day of Summer School the bus was late, and it turned out that the buses had been scheduled to drop the kids off at school a half-hour before classes actually started! Clearly, there are a few organizational issues that still need to be worked out. (Next year, I'll try to set my expectations accordingly.)

I have all sorts of plans for this coming year — goals I want to accomplish, things that I want to be. For today, though, I think I'll just relax and enjoy the peace and quiet.

Sixty-Three

I noticed today, for no particular useful reason, that Jupiter has sixty-three satellites. Sixty-three. You know, I was deeply interested in astronomy when I was in grade school, but to the best of my recollection, there were ten, perhaps fifteen at the most, back in the day.

(This was suggested as a good place to look for a name for the kitten, should he take up permanent residence here, but nothing seemed appropriate. I've become partial to "Jasper," myself.)

And did you know? There's a minor planet, Ceres, in the asteroid belt, as well. (A probe is scheduled to explore it in 2015.) How did I miss this?

Lost

I had an encounter with a woman, a compelling and fascinating woman, many many years ago. We soon lost touch with one another (such was the nature of the encounter), but I've always wondered — perhaps even fantasized — about the possibility that I may have a child I was never aware of.

That seems silly, doesn't it?

Kitten

I found a kitten outside of the house this evening — orange and white, with beautiful and delicate brushstrokes in his fur. (I'm sure there's a term for these sorts of markings, but I don't know what it is.) My guess is he's no more than a month or two old — you might think I'd be a better judge of such matters, with all the experience I've had with kittens over the past ten years, but I can do no more than venture a guess.

It took some coaxing to convince him to come close enough to be handled while he was outside, but he has quickly become very friendly and comfortable. He seems healthy, and he's very clean, and even smells a bit of shampoo — this is obviously a cat that has wandered away from home, and may not have been away for all that long.

He stuffed himself with food, and seems quite content. I'm sure someone will come looking for him tomorrow — tonight, he's fast asleep in my son's room, hidden away from the jealous suspicions of the other cats.

Science

I was listening to an interview with the author of a forthcoming book on the persistent belief that childhood autism is caused by exposure to certain childhood vaccines, despite a substantial body of evidence to the contrary.

I'm frustrated by the way people seem to cling to this belief — discounting legitimate science when it doesn't tell them what they want to hear, quick to seize any opportunity to claim that the evidence remains inconclusive.

I can't help but empathise with parents — it's easy to be frightened by the statistics, and the experience of having a young child seems to introduce this irrational insecurity that every decision you make is somehow wrong, and will have disastrous consequences. (I've always felt reasonably confident and secure as a parent; my wife had a completely different experience.) And it's easy to be motivated by fear.

There was a woman who called in, a parent, who spoke of refusing to have her child vaccinated. Even as each of her concerns were addressed, one by one, in the end she admitted that nothing would ever convince her to change her beliefs. Scientific evidence, in her view, would always be suspect.

I put more faith in science than I do in faith.