I’ve lost track of how many and micra-leathermans I’ve had stolen by TSA agents and sold on ebay confiscated for national security purposes. Thus, I greeted the recent TSA Announcement – that they are lifting the ban on small knives and various sporting equipment in carryon luggage – by opening a can of It’s About F**ing Time.
The policy change, which will bring US airports in line with international standards, is based on a recommendation from an internal TSA group, which decided that nail clippers, tiny pocket knives and corkscrews represented no real danger, said David Castelveter, a spokesman for the department of Duh the agency.
Don’t you just feel like booking the next flight to wherever, and boarding with the largest allowable carryon bag filled with two golf clubs, a toy bat, ski poles, a hockey stick, a lacrosse stick and a pool cues…and, of course, your USS Enterprise pizza slicer.
Speaking of national security issues, a New York man was arrested for laughing too loudly. In his own home.  Yep. Robert Schiavelli was charged with acting “in such a manner as to annoy, disturb, interfere with, obstruct, or be offensive to others,” after Daniel O’Hanion, Schiavelli’s next-door neighbor, complained to police that the man’s  laughter could be heard – gasp – across the driveway.
I’ve always assumed my driveway to be an impenetrable, almost sacred barrier protecting me from the giggles, chuckles, titters, tee-hees, chortles, and unrestrained mirth of my neighbors. But…really?
I keep hoping to read a follow-up report, in which the complaining neighbor is arrested and charged with with acting in such a manner as to “in such a manner as to annoy, disturb, interfere with, obstruct, or be offensive to the non-douchebag population of America.” But until that glorious day, there must be a way to find this woman and pay her to stand in front of Mr. O’Hanion’s.
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Son K turns twenty today. It seems like only yesterday I was screaming obscenities at the delivery nurses and threatening to castrate MH counting the seconds until I could hold my widdle cootie wootie snookums ookums in my arms. Happy Birthday, my boy. This Khaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaan’s for you.
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On Monday I did my first volunteer shift at Jackson Bottom Wetlands, where I will be helping collect data for a small mammal survey. While I was there I saw at two groups of small mammals: first graders  on a field trip, traversing the trails with their teachers and adult chaperones. One of the adults walked ahead of her group, to where I sat (just off-trail) with my data cards and supplies, and asked what I was doing. I showed her a data card and started to explain that I was helping with a biologist’s small mammal survey. She waved her hands above her head, exclaimed, “Kids, come here, it’s a scientist!” and then quickly whispered to me, “I’m going to say you’re a scientist, okay?
Not wanting to act under false pretenses, I made no dubious claims for myself, but did my best to don the veneer of a madman bent on world domination a friendly, responsible scientist.
I showed the students one of the tracking papers, upon which was imprinted the paw prints of voles and other rodents that had sampled the tracking tube’s bait. There were ooohs and aaahs for a minute or so, then their teacher led them down the trail, toward one of the wetland’s bird viewing shelters. A little boy turned around as his group was leaving and stepped back toward me. He made eye contact, smiled shyly, looked at his shoes and said, “Good scientist-ing!” I returned the smile, and the compliment: “And good student-ing to you!”
One boy and his father apparently stayed behind after their group had returned to their school busses. I saw exploring the trails, just the two of them. They came to where I was finishing up refitting the last of the tracking tubes. I gave the boy an inside look at the contraption, and told him how we used an upended film canister was used to hold the bait. As soon as the words had left my mouth I flashed a knowing glance at his father and said, “What am I saying? It’s a digital age – he probably doesn’t even know what a film canister is.” The boy’s eyes widened and he started telling me, in the great and glorious detail that can only be provided by an enthusiastic six year old, about how he uses a film canister to hold his “special dice collection.”
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I assume y’all have made your plans for Pi day? The symbol pi, from the 16th letter of the Greek alphabet, (π) is the ratio of the circumference of a circle to its diameter. Pi is usually calculated to 3 digits, 3.14, thus Pi Day is celebrated March 14 (which also happens to be Albert Einstein’s birthday). On the annual celebration commemorating the mathematical constant π (pi), you can eat pie, discuss the discussing the significance of the number π ,listen to the pi song…and have plenty of time left over to eat more pie.
In the past few years I’ve made special dinners on Pi day, serving different combinations of foods that are not necessarily pie but that are…well…round food. I’ve no menu plan for next week, and haven’t yet decided how much thought I want to put into it.
When I can’t or don’t want to think too much about what to make for dinner, I have a fallback dish that I’ve come to think of as my Portlandia special: put a bird on it.
Or, in this case, an egg.
I love my Portlandia dinner because it’s easy, tasty, healthy, and I can cuisine-it up or down: Italian, Spanish, Indian, Mexican, Moroccan, pacific Northwest …. even Norwegian . Gather finely diced onions; carrots; celery; garlic; peppers; ginger – whatever base your cuisine fancy requires. Sauté your aromatics  in a large cast iron skillet. Add other sliced and/or diced veggies, greens, whatever you have on hand, whatever spices fit the taste you’re going for, some cooked grains or leftover plain pasta you have in the frig. Or you can skip the stovetop and go the roasting route: toss everything together with some EVOO and stick the skillet in the oven. When the veggies are done to your preference, add the eggs. One egg per person; crack each egg into a small bowl, gently press down with the back of a spoon to make a “nest” for each egg in the pan, add the eggs, and return the pan to the oven (if on the stove, cover it and turn the heat to low) until the eggs are set.
Top it all with a light sprinkling of freshly grated Parmesan if you’re going an Italian or Mediterranean route, or a dollop of Greek yogurt thinned with lemon or lime juice (for Mexican or Indian flavors), or other cheeses, any fresh herbs, and a good grind of black pepper.
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The SCM Department of Because I’m Petty That Way
Ah, the cheap thrill, remembering that feeling akin to schedenfraude…. How do I adequately describe the perverse satisfaction I received the other day when I was driving home from an errand and had to stop at the stoplight by an LA Fitness Club? I looked at just the right moment at just the right place, and saw a young(er), moderately fit woman attired in fashionable exercise togs exit the club, pull a bag of Cheese Doodies  (not to be confused with Cheetos ® ) from her purse, and begin noshing like a bulimic on death row.
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It was a slow week for politics…oh, that’s a lie. I just wasn’t paying attention. Until this caught my eye.
Karen, I’d advise you to aim the knife a good deal lower.
And let the hijinks ensue.
Thanks for stopping by. Au Vendredi!
 Schiavelli, who suffers from seizures and neurological impairments, told reporters his neighbor often taunts him due to his disability.
 As long as you hold the herring and lutefisk. And please, don’t tell me where you’re holding them.
 If you really want to put the joi in the joi of cooking, why not try some acrobatics while you’re prepping the aromatics?
 Not a real food.
 Also not a real food.