For two glorious days I rode my bike from my University City home, down 5 blocks to my favorite theatre, the classy Tivoli, and nerded out.

New languages that were self-proclaimed of questionable utility (humility is refreshing).

Simplicity (al3x, formerly of Twitter, gave one of the most thoughtful and grounded conceptual discussion I’ve ever attended, including my years attending academic philosophy conferences).

Awesome slides.

The open bar at Blueberry Hill and Strange Passions night were thoroughly enjoyable from both an academic and bacchanalian perspective.

Of course, you should have seen the shill approaching. Strange Loop 2010 promises to be bigger and better. Register today for $150, rock out in STL (I’ll even show you around if you’re out of town), and enjoy FREAKING GUY STEELE AND DOUGLAS CROCKFORD!!!1!!!!1

Seriously, this was by far the best conference I’ve ever been to, blocks from my house, and tickled multiple parts of my lobes.

The service cuts implemented by Metro yesterday illustrate how harmful the actions of MDOT & the Missouri government have been to the health and vitality of public transportation in St. Louis.

Really, the fact that our neighboring state of Illinois funds public transportation at something like 10x Missouri’s level shows just how laughably short-sighted this state’s transportation policy has been. This shows a skewed vision of what St. Louis should become as a city, a trust in the continuation of a cheap-oil-based economy, and I dare say a immoral failure to serve the poor and helpless. For me, the service cuts are an inconvenience to my bike-and-train commute. For others in your community, they are the severing of their freedom of movement.

As the provider of vital infrastructure that serves the state, I request that you do all that is in your power to redirect funding and regulation in a manner that encourages and enables the success of public transportation, even at the cost of a reduction in meeting car-based needs.

Your Constituent,
Noel Weichbrodt

10:45: Cabela’s has failed us. However, Cassel-fashion has found a nice pair of Carhartts. And a bear. Ideu:

11:14: Distracted by shiny things in Circuit City. 100 CD-Rs for $12? Yes please. Nikon D40 for $599? Mmmhmm.

11:20: Determined to stay focused, Elissa calls Home Depot on St. Charles Rock Road. The woman who answers says that Home Depot does indeed carry traps, but her boyfriend is on the way to Cabela’s for the same purpose. Elissa bitterly tells her not to bother.

11:35: I almost plow in to the F-250 in front of me rubbernecking the Sprewells and lifts on the car in Jiffy Lube.

11:41: Trap found. Also, poison. Jonas will never withstand the double whammy.

11:53: Guitar World. Fender makes crappy-sounding banjos. Cassel-lachia moves on.

12:35 PM: The trap is assembled and first sprung. Whittier may fall the first victim if she’s not careful. As if.

12:56: The trap is set. Our “neighbors” in an Audi A8 hand me a Jehovah’s Witness tract. I fail to come up with a Prince reference before the conversation ends. Get on the boat, people!

2:17: We eat curry noodles for lunch. Jonas does not eat his fruit salad.

5:12: There’s a creature in the trap! Unfortunately, it is a smaller rodent than we hoped: a squirrel. Damn. We reset and try again.

6:29: We dash out for a quick trip to inject insulin in the diabetic cat we’ve been feeding. Still no groundhog upon our return.

7:18: We begin grilling our dinner of beer brats and corn on the cob. Jonas’s fruit salad remains untouched, but the cooling temperatures mean that he may be emerging soon.

9:03: Darkness has fallen and so have our hopes. Groundhogs’ other ‘active’ time is the early morning, however, so there’s still a chance that Cassel-catcher will get to meet Jonas before he heads back to Oklahoma.

8:56 AM, Sunday: Nope. Cassel-bartian returns from whence he came. We wait for church.

2:10 PM: I am Ahab. Where is my whale?

3:00: Mexico-Paraguay is about to kick off. Let’s hope Rocque Santa Cruz + co. put just as much of a beatdown on El Tri as they did on our Yanks.
Also, the trap is still empty. It’s kinda hard to take an exciting picture of that.

11:37 PM: Jonas is proving more elusive as hunted than as a spectacle. In an attempt to appeal to his Italian side (from the mom, you know), I’ve dropped a tomato into the cage after cutting it open using some of the glass he dug up. How the bugger hasn’t cut himself yet, I do not know.
I’ve had several generous offers of firearms to dispatch this matter with haste. We carry on unarmed save our hope.

10:23 PM, Monday: I’ve had no resolution, and neither will you, forlorn reader. Twice more hath the dimwitted squirrel been caught, none more doth the thrice-cursed Jonas shew his nappy head. We soldier on, waiting.

11:32 PM, Wednesday, July 18: Boris, a bigger, smellier version of Maud, has temporarily settled in the trap. It takes some firm coaxing, but he finally scuttles out of the trap and into Jonas’ hole. Gross.

1:41 PM, Thursday, July 19: Triumph!

Totally didn’t mean to talk about that. Now you know where my fascination with prime numbers began. However, none of the numbers we will discuss next are prime.

38 out of 62 beers. That’s my scoreline from Saturday afternoon’s pilgrimage to the St. Louis Heritage Brewer’s Festival.

Apparently, in 1806 (one hundred years before our house way built, and two hundred years before we moved into it), some immigrants got themselves some dark malts and mixed St. Louis Dark Lager, which was theinaugural brew of the city and the special beer of the festival. Time’s march turned this strong, proud history into a weak tale, tinged uncomfortably yellow and insipidly tasteless.

Thankfully, we’re getting back to our roots, and the festival showcased six breweries boasting a combined total of 62 different beers tastefully arranged into two tents sorted by style. Yes, style. And for a bunch of white beer geeks and their assorted hotties tromping down the straw pathways between tents on a Saturday afternoon in sandals, this was actually a stylish event.

Augusta Brewery from some small town in Missouri, and Square One Brewery from the heart of St. Louis in Lafayette Square, not coincidental sharing common a common owner (who came out from behind one of the taps and introduced himself to us), won over our group with their expert execution of a wide range of educated styles. I tasted 38 different beers, which topped our group. However, thanks to a strict training regime I had followed in preparation for this event, I remained upright and ambulatory the entire time. No substitute for hard work and visualization combined with natural talent.

If you’ve never tried East African fare, and I had not until Queen of Sheba opened, it’s a fascinatingly novel experience (well-introduced by Ian Froeb in the Riverfront Times a couple of months ago). If you’re a connoisseur, the caring co-owner Mr. Berak and his attentive staff do it right: making the injera from scratch every day; pulling the chicken, beef, and lamb dishes into harmony with fresh sauces and new menu additions every few months. In a town that doesn’t care about anything that doesn’t moo, they have a whole menu of vegan entrees & appetizers for under $10. And, having accidentally ordered a combo plate from said menu, this omnivore attests to the satisfaction these dishes give.

The wife and I are fairly obsessive about the presentation of our meals, and the similarities between the presentation, if not the actual act of eating, of Japanese and Ethiopian meals is remarkable. Who knew that bento and ker wat were so similar in aesthetic. They both strive to harmonize the orders of a whole table into a single large plate with each unique piece given a single contrasting attribute which sets it apart while tying it in with the rest of the plate.

And then you eat it all.

The beer list randomly consists of Red Stripe, Budweiser products, and Guinness. Loosen up your tie and give the place shot, perhaps at the DJ Mystifiya gigs this Friday & Saturday. No cover dancehall, baby.

Cancer, finances, the war, and children addressed with a juicy, raspy wheeze. Without the accompanying lisp, it would be scary. With the whole package, I have to keep my head raised and eyes open looking at a slight sixty year old man with a white combover and a bolo tie so that I don’t slip into a mental picture of the leader of the Ferengie asking for blessings on someone’s kidney stone.

The Randall Roberts has been supplying a steady stream of contributions to an emerging academic discipline of Wu-Tang Clan critical literary analysis. Currently midway through a song-by-song translation and annotation of Ghostface Killah ‘s The Fishscale.

Their amateur food critic, Malcom Gay, mixes unholy foodstuffs and Philosophy 101 lesson plans like a Fear Factor hosted by Will Durant.

You may recognize the name; my wife attends the same institution of higher learning. A complete coincidence. Contemporary art historians have no influence in matters of science. WashU was just the closest train stop.

I’ve enjoyed the last two and a half years of earning money, reading whatever the heck I want, not taking tests, puttering around in the evenings, and in general flaunting the non-academic life. At least I get to keep the money.

–Lunch guest today