Roxalana's Pad

Augh i'm very ded

Ok not really but I am so drained from this day at work. Have you ever been really busy and then a new project lands on your head and so you spend all day on that project and it's as if you didn't even come to work to do all the stuff you thought you were really busy with? Yeah well that's what happened to me today. The bright side is that at this job, since I'm in-house, if it doesn't get done sometimes it just doesn't get done. The people in my office actually just told me to just go home since it's New Year's weekend and all. Unlike in a law firm, where you would have to hold your wedding in the lobby if a client was waiting for a document.

Soooo anyway, I insist before I go on doing SOMETHING I wanted to do, and that something, lucky enough for you, is posting a picture of Roxalana's cage, which I recently remodeled. Well, that is to say I bought hot pink new sand, which is good for reptiles to digest, and new wallpaper. Well, wallpaper. As she didn't have any before. I figure I'm on a roll with the very original and oh so heartwarming concept of posting a picture of your pet and all. And also there's a new pink hot rock but I don't know if you can see that in the picture. Roxalana is an Irian Jaya carpet python and she eats mice. It is fun to watch.

Nemo!

Nemo the Magnificent

We're getting a dog. My housemate's son is 3 years old and this will be his dog. He's a German Shepherd, black with white paws, really cute. He's about 10 weeks old. He's gonna live in the garage and outside. It's California, he'll be fine. The people already named him "Nemo" because he seemed runt-like, "lucky fin"-like, I guess, but now he's just as big as any of them. However, we're keeping the name to minimize adoption trauma.

Tsunami

The death toll from the tsunamis is up to 80,000, I read this morning. And they worry that it may double from disease because of lack of access to clean water and stuff. I wonder what the last natural disaster was that caused this much devastation? I just read about two people from the US who were scuba diving during the tsunami and didn't even know anything was happening until they surfaced. There's a lesson there somewhere...
Speaking of tsunamis, I know a guy, 20, who has been saving up for a month-long trip in Thailand this January, just swimming, surfing, and hanging out. I remember thinking, "I guess he won't go now" -- actually, he left yesterday, and is going to spend the whole month volunteering, in construction and whatever else, helping to rebuild. Pretty cool...

YOUR NAME HERE

Watch your sales increase and your profits rise! It won't be from paying me $100 and so I'll use your business's name for this post title, but I'll do it anyway, if you want. OK, just kidding. I just hate seeing the same post up here for more than a day or so. Quantity, not quality, that's the name of my game. Anyway I have no time nor space to post anything. I'm at one of my brothers' homes for the holidays and every three seconds someone else comes in here and looks at the screen, asks what I'm doing, and wants me to do something else. I have a shy bladder, in the literary sense. I need PRIVACY to create these works of genius. On the bright side, I can actually pee anywhere, any time, for any audience. Well, I've never actually done it for an audience. At least, not on purpose. At least, not a paying one. Anyway, heh, I guess that wraps up this subject...

whose idea was working at this time of year anyway

I KNOW that some people don't get Christmas off at ALL (I used to be one of them! So there!) and furthermore that some people don't even have a job, and furthermore that some people eat lunch at the Costco sample tables every day, and some people don't vacuum unless they're going to have company, et cetera et cetera. But I'm talking about ME right now, and none of that applies to me, except for the samples. And the vacuuming.

Point being, I feel very cheated that Christmas is on Saturday such that the observed day off in my office is FRIDAY. First of all, although I am 32, I have still never fully recovered from the shock of learning that the working class, unlike the student class, does not get at least two freaking weeks off at Christmas/holiday time, or possibly six. Ludicrous.

Anyway, back to Friday -- who minds going to work on Friday?? Not me, unless for some reason I had some trip to the islands to go on or something that I could leave for earlier, which I obviously don't. Friday, the pain is almost over anyway AND there is a lot of fudge floating about, AND, it's Christmas Eve day anyway, AND it's a Friday, and half the people are gone anyway; you think we were really going to stay for the whole thing anyway?? Riiiiiigght. Giving us this day off to make up for the Saturday day off is like an almost completely worthless throwaway day off. Naturally, we should get MONDAY off. Friday, let the chips fall where they may, and Monday, when many people are suicidal about the return to laboring for a living, everyone can smoke a joint and stay in bed. Then, we have only a four-day week to get through till we get another holiday day off. Which, duh, of course, should ALSO be observed on the following Monday. Do I have to explain everything?!

So this is uncharacteristic of me, I guess

in that I really cannot stand George W. Bush and that I usually do not see eye to eye politically with the people who tend to be the flag-waving, yellow-ribbon posting Support Our Troops people. Not that I don't support our troops; I do. But I don't support whatsoever the foreign policy of this administration. And our pre-war, war, and "post"-war strategies seem to have been dreamed up by -- oh, I don't have the strength for this.

ANYWAY, I have a troop pen pal soldier person. It's not HIS freaking fault that his President is the biggest idiot in the history of short, powerful white dudes (isn't he short? or was that just compared to Kerry?). I just got his name and address today, and I'm gonna write to him and send him cheery, funny notes and care packages. I think the guys who sign up for this are the ones who don't get that much mail or something so anyway. If you want to comment to this post and send any messages along to him, I'll add them to my letter(s). I can't tell you his name for his own security, but to give you some background on him, um he's a military dude, he probably has a canteen, maybe he took one of those pictures where he looks all serious in his uniform with a flag in the back, and um he gets up really early, I'm betting. OK I'm being silly because they really did not tell me anything about him except his name, so anyway there you go. But I think it will be fun to send him stuff. Maybe I'll make him a camo scarf!

a story about Walter, enemy of parking meters and hero of the people

For one semester during law school I was a Certified Law Student, which means that through a law school clinic I could represent indigent clients in criminal court under the supervision of an attorney. Looking back, it was probably my favorite thing in all of law school. We represented clients on misdemeanors, although I think one can also do felonies in California in this context.

My first client’s “crime” – if you can call it that – I thought of it as more like a karmic good deed – was stealing quarters from parking meters. Yep, that’s right folks. I doubt that there are any real criminals in San Francisco, so of course it makes perfect sense that the cops and DA’s office would spend their resources arresting and convicting people who steal….quarters. From parking meters. (Just by the way, Walter explained to me that his procedure didn’t affect the time on the meter, and so he didn’t cause unwarranted parking tickets.)

The irony about this particular violation of the law is that the immediate “victim” of the crime is that public object of affection, known as the Department of Parking & Traffic. The DPT is more widely beloved even than MUNI (SF’s public transportation system that is similar to the efficient and functional system in Tokyo in that they are both on the earth). Now anyone who has lived in San Francisco knows that this is a fascist organization, possibly led by Satan, whose unrelenting persecution of the citizenry and cunningly-designed labyrinthine bureaucracy has caused a respectable share of insanity, general despair, and bankruptcy. I suspect that its ultimate goal is the mass and grisly suicide of all car-driving, -owning, or -parking individuals within city limits.

From no parking signs (or is it yes parking signs) whose interpretation actually requires a law degree, to street cleaning signs that promise (and deliver) $30 tickets between 12:00 a.m. – 2:00 a.m. Tuesdays and Thursdays (which of course means you can’t park there on MONDAY or WEDNESDAY night – gotcha!) to a $150 ticket for the tow (by a city-contracted towing company) of a non-running car parked too long on the same street because it was waiting for a scheduled tow from the same city-contracted towiug company so it could be donated to the “Give it to the Kids” program – yes, this really happened to me – the DPT’s practices surely violate several Geneva Conventions. The DPT is not, then, among the world’s most sympathetic victims of crime and mayhem.

But I digress. Anyway, to a person, those who heard about my client’s “crime” expressed regret that he hadn’t embezzled the DPT profits from fiscal year 1999 and bought crack for his entire neighborhood. Suffice it to say that while some people felt that Walter should be knighted, no one felt that he should – as the DA proposed – go to jail. I won't use this particular post for any pondering about the criminal justice system and the related issues of mental health, drug addiction, and homelessness.

With all this digression and such perhaps you are expecting something very amazing. I’d like to adjust any wayward expectations at this point. It was an interesting and rewarding experience that I thought I would recount. No one becomes president or wins the lottery. OK, now back to our regular program.

So, I don’t mean to paint Walter as some saintly individual; from his record, it appears that Walter was a bit too comfortable on the fuzzy side of the criminal code, mostly as a result of what appeared to be a substance abuse problem. Apparently he had gotten a few warnings about his parking meter habit, and I guess the police finally decided to take a bite out of crime by taking him in.

Anyway, during my first meeting with Walter, we went over the charges against him, which included the parking meter thing as well as “possession of paraphernalia for smoking crack” or some such thing. Knowing that you can smoke crack out of any old glass tube, and it’s not necessarily against the law to have a glass tube, unless of course there’s actual crack in it, and figuring we could get this part dropped at least, I asked, “What did this so-called “crack pipe” look like?” Walter helpfully reached into his pocket in the middle of my office at the law clinic, pulled out a glass tube with some burned residue of something that I’m sure lightens the mood and said, “Oh, just like this!” Ha. OK then. That clears that up, and, a picture’s worth a thousand words, as they say. All the same, you can go ahead and just put that away now, oh there goes the dean, how’s it going, sir, fine here, thanks so much.

Anyway, in my discussions with Walter, in reaching for some signs of stability to tell the judge about, such as residence, or employment, or family – we uncovered the fact that he had worked at a carnival that sets up in Chinatown/North Beach area for awhile each year and that it was in town right now. I went to the carnival director person and got a letter from him, stating that he would hire Walter back if he came to him for a job.

Armed with the letter, I eagerly went to court on our scheduled date. Walter didn't show. He also hadn't shown at our scheduled meeting at the law clinic, but I hoped he was saving his bus fare for the big day. I was able to reschedule and prevent a warrant, but I wasn't sure what I would tell the judge if he failed to appear again. There wasn't a way to call Walter, as he didn't have an address, much less a phone. So, armed with his mugshot photo, I took to the grimier streets of downtown and asked around.

Walter wasn't a handsome guy, at least anymore, but his photo really did not do him justice. Mughshots rarely do, as any visitor to the Smoking Gun can attest. I found myself in the unlikely position of defending him to laughing transients who wondered why anyone would trouble themselves to look for someone who looked like THAT. These comments from people for whom a shower is a luxury and a change of clothes a distant memory. After they stopped joking about the branches of the ugly tree, et cetera, several people did say they had seen him around. I felt like I kept just missing him. I never did find him on that trip, but he mentioned that he heard I was looking for him when he finally showed up at the clinic one day, unannounced.

I learned that for someone addicted to rock cocaine, too high or not high enough is a bad time for a court appearance. These things are hard to manage, as the time your case will be called on some date in the future is as hard to predict as how much crack you will have that morning. Although Walter seemed to be mostly passed out while we waited through the calendar, he was able to perk up during our appearance. We got the paraphernalia charge dropped, the theft charge reduced, and his sentence cut to probation. Considering that the DA was recommending something crazy like three months locked up, I considered that a victory, and Walter definitely did. As probation is one misstep away from losing one's freedom, I did worry about what would happen the next time he decided to take $1.25 that didn't belong to him. However, Walter had a plan to go to somewhere in Southern California, where I think he had some family. I hope he made it.

in Japan they have some weird toilets

I don't just mean the traditional kind that are on the floor so you get to squat - like a urinal on the ground - although those are fun.

I mean they have these extremely computery, digitaly, many-fangled contraptions with all sorts of inscrutable symbols, pastel-colored stick figures, and mystery functions. There are controls whereby you can warm the seat, cool the seat, have a bidet, flush, go for a swim, and do a lot of other things that I don't know why you'd want to combine with going to the bathroom. Not all toilets that I saw were like this - some were your standard flush with a silver handle type thing, or push a button on the top of the tank, but many were really rather confusing (at least to me). Of course, everything in Tokyo seems to be very digitalish, including the vending machines that dispense hot or cold canned drinks out of the same machine (cool), and automated trains that are always on time and working (we all understand that the Apocalypse will come before this happens in San Francisco).

With this in mind it is easy to understand how that in the subway restroom one day, as I sat there for a while, pondering the myriad buttons at my disposal (heh) and wondering which one might actually flush the contents of the toilet bowl, I finally settled on a likely-looking panel that flashed red and seemed bigger than the others. I pressed the button firmly, and stood up confidently, pulling up my pants and waiting for the quiet, respectable flushing sound to commence. Instead, the red button began flashing faster, and the airwaves were assaulted by repeated high-decibel squeals in rapidly-changing tones, not unlike an air raid siren sampling a violent video game. With astute logic, I rapidly ascertained that I had actually pushed the automated subway bathroom alarm, the one that indicates I AM HAVING A HEART ATTACK ON THE TOILET AND I NEED IMMEDIATE ASSISTANCE AND WIDESPREAD ATTENTION.

Without stopping for the standard hygiene-related activities, I raced out of the bathroom, found my waiting friend and shoved him into a subway train soon to depart in the opposite direction from our destination. As the doors closed I noticed at least five uniformed, grim but determined-looking subway employees descending on the screaming restroom, ready for the life-saving task ahead of them. They would probably have efficiently taken out my appendix if necessary. It was a narrow escape.

the ugly hat

Usually my posts are earth-shakingly significant. This one is no different. Anyway, one time I went skiing with a bunch of people, including one of my brothers. Middle Bro was wearing a rather --- interesting hat/beanie/touque thing. It was not so much a fashion disaster as a state of emergency. Anyway, in true Middle Bro fashion, he didn't care what everyone thought of his hat, since he liked it, and so he wore it cheerfully all day.

At the end of the day, as we were leaving the park, I remember that Middle Bro was receiving some additional feedback regarding his headwear. In more Middle Bro fashion, he started speaking to a total stranger as if they were best of friends. To a random, pretty woman, he said, pointing to his head, "What do you think of my hat? Isn't it a nice hat?" She smiled at him, seemed to look up at his hat and then look him in the eye, and said, "Yes, it's very nice." He trotted off happily, exclaiming "Hey! You guys! SHE likes my hat! See that woman, she said she likes my hat!" I looked at her again and realized she was a woman I'd seen earlier that day --- skiing with a guide. At the time she'd had a vest on that said BLIND SKIER. I heard her friend laugh and say to her, "I don't think he knows how insincere you were..." I guess you know it's time to give it up when a blind person is the only one who likes your hat.

Some of my best friends are women

As if we are not interesting enough, here are some interesting tidbits of information about some women that you may or may not know:

*In 1873, Belva A. Lockwood had completed her studies at the National University Law School, but the school refused to give her a diploma because she was a woman. Finally she wrote a letter to President Ulysses S. Grant, who was also the President of the school:

"No. 432 Ninth Street., N.W.,

"Washington, D.C., September 3, 1873.

"To His Excellency U.S. Grant, President U.S.A.:
"SIR,---You are, or you are not, President of the National University Law School. If you are its President, I desire to say to you that I have passed through the curriculum of study in this school, and am entitled to, and demand, my diploma. If you are not its President, then I ask that you take your name from its papers, and not hold out to the world to be what you are not.

Very Respectfully,

Belva A. Lockwood

A week later she received her signed diploma.

Stuff about Marie Curie:

*Marie Curie almost didn't get her name on her first Nobel Prize -- the one she shared with her husband and another man, even though she did most of the work -- because she was a woman. They listed her as "Madame Curie" although she had a doctorate.

*Dr. Curie apparently had no idea that radium, with which she worked with her whole life, was dangerous, or else she ignored the signs. She slept with a vial of the blue glowing radium beside her bed each night. Many of the "Radium Girls" died of cancer. They were girls who worked painting radium on tiny watch dials so they would glow in the dark, licking the tiny paintbrush between strokes. Dr. Curie, her daughter, and her son-in-law all died from (complications due to) exposure to radium.

More stuff about the above in case you care:

Lawyer Chick

Marie Curie

I so suck at crocheting

There's no other way to say it.

My friend L had the coolest, most beautiful scarf on the other night. It was brown with purple and green fringy stuff - it would have cost like a million dollars in the store. My rooommate N and I found out L made it herself! For $8 of yarn. So of course we came over the next day to learn to crochet too. We'll have as many scarves as we want, in every color imaginable! We can make all our Christmas presents! We can sell them on ebay! We can rule the world!

Suffice it to say that although we started at the exact same time, N's scarf is roughly the length of a football field while I am still on my fourth or fifth row. I mean, it's really probably like my 20th row, but there are only 4 or 5 actual rows that actually EXIST since every so often I notice there are way too many loops or not enough or something and I have to tear it all out. OK, mine has more rows than that, but seriously it's about 7" long -- N's is almost a scarf already. "I think I'll be done with this one tomorrow!" she said perkily, absentmindedly typing a paper and plucking her eyebrows while her fingers nimbly wove three inches of scarf every ten seconds or so. Sigh.

Apparently I come from a long line of people who bite at this stuff. Neither of my grandmothers knew/know how to knit or crochet. My mom says she learned how to knit and forgot three times. I can vouch for this, as last year she tried to "teach" me to knit at Christmas time:

Mom: OK, see you go like this, then you put it over here...no, wait. OK, start over. You loop around, here you go, now I've got it..wait a second here....this silly thing.
Me: What are you doing?
Mom: I'm just starting it off here for you. It's called "chaining." See, first you have to start it off and then you knit from that.
Me: Um, OK. Do you know how to start it off?
Mom: Of course I do! See, I'm doing it, here, OK, now where does this string go? Oh, I'm all mixed up. Anya, I'm no good at this stuff! Do you know I learned to knit and forgot three times?
Me: Yes.
Mom: OK, well anyway, just let me do it myself for a minute and then I'll remember. OK, take your yarn like this...
Me: Like this?
Mom: Yes -- no. Let me see. Yes.
Me: Two strings hanging down?
Mom: No, two strings?! Why would you have two strings hanging down? What, this extra one's just hanging out there? You only have ONE.
Me: Oh, OK. I thought you had two.
Mom: OK, let me go back to my own needles now and show you how to go...
Me: You have two strings!
Mom: I do? Oh, yeah, I guess I do. Yeah, well, I mean, well, you need two strings.
Me: Maybe I could get this plant here to teach me....

At this point we wisely gave it up.

So! It is apparent that I have no natural talent for crocheting. I actually have what would appear to be a severe learning disability for crocheting. However, I am determined to make a go of it. My scarf, though it doesn't strictly have the same NUMBER of loops on every row (the Nazis were really into everything all neatly in a row, you know), is going to be very very pretty. It's blue and sea-foamy green and turqoisy with a hint of light purple. It would cost many dollars in the store. So ha! By this time next(leap)year, I'll be sportin' it proudly.

100 guilty men, 1 innocent man, and all that

At some point I'll post some cites to back this up, but in the meantime, let's just pretend that I know everything:

1) Eyewitness testimony is one of the LEAST RELIABLE types of evidence
(because our memory of what we have seen is very inaccurate --- our brain makes up missing pieces, and details, events, etc. can be suggested later and "inserted" into our brains and made a part of our "memory." The insertion can take place through participating in or hearing conversations about the events, looking at pictures, re-visiting the "scene," etc.***

2) Jurors consider eyewitness testimony one of the MOST CREDIBLE/RELIABLE type of evidence.

3) [Insert any race here] people are generally not good at distinguishing or recognizing the faces of people of [insert different race] heritage.

If the above is true, then in criminal cases there must be many "eyewitness" identifications of people that are incorrectly made. And these bad identifications are probably given undue credence by jurors. And the wrong guy is probably convicted a lot. DNA evidence has freed a lot of people lately, which seems to indicate that, for whatever reason, the wrong guy in fact does get convicted, all too often. This is troubling.





***Have you ever looked everywhere for something and imagined its color in your head? I've been loooking EVERYWHERE for my bright orange Black & Decker drill case. Just yesterday I finally found it, but you know what? It's not orange. It's BLACK. It has one orange buckle thing. The drill ITSELF is orange, yes. I transferred the drill & buckle color to the case in my mind, and I would have sworn -- ha! I would have testified under oath that it was orange. I also told my roommate that I was looking everywhere for my ORANGE drill case. She didn't say, "Orange? That thing is black!" She said, "Hmmmm, I haven't seen it." When I found it, I said, "Hey you know my drill case? I thought it was orange. It's really black." She said, "It is? I was imagining it orange!" If I had told her I was looking for my black drill case, what do you want to bet she would have imagined it black (as it really is)? We BOTH would have testified under oath that it was orange. I don't think we would have even thought of the color as an issue in question at all -- we would have had no idea we were lying (is it lying if you think it's true?). TWO EYEWITNESSES, SAYING THE SAME THING. You see?

This is my pet snake. I am glad I'm not a mouse.

The Wildflower ; this is probably interesting only if you ride bikes

This summer I did a century ride (100 miles), called the Wildflower, with some of the folks in my cycling club. If you'd like to relive it with me, in great and excruciating detail, it is your lucky day:

At the last minute, I joined 15 or 16 of my comrades to do the Wildflower. Although I grew up in the town where this is held, I never cycled back then, except around town. It was fun to do a century along the same roads I'd been on as a kid, looking for picnic spots and swimming holes. The food was really good, but since I'd heard so much about how good and gourmet it was, I think I was expecting waiters and linen tablecloths or something.

The first hill, a 4-mile loop up Humboldt road, was an evil, pothole-laden and deceptive gradient, and it made me feel slower than your grandmother trying to make a left turn when straight has the right of way, and I remember thinking, "How can I possibly do 100 miles when my legs are screaming bloody murder the first time we get above sea level?!?" However, the Hill Possibly Designed by Satan rewarded us with an almost-screaming descent, and after that, the roads were much better, and much prettier.

Shady, tree-lined Honey Run Road follows the curves of a creek up to a cool and historical Covered Bridge. After the Bridge, the climb gets steeper, and the shade gets scarcer. I heard a few folks opine that the road to Paradise (the town at the top) was no paradise... Anyway, it was windy and steep in parts but still fun. Photocrazy (company that takes pictures of people during events and posts them on the web for you to buy) chose to set up at a stretch that was very close to the top of the (big) hill, but not at the crest, so we were raggedy and sweaty and cotton-mouthed, and still climbing, when we were supposed to smile and look sexy. Right before the top they had the nerve to put up a sign that said "Slow Down." Yeah, I WAS going to blast up this mountain range at 22 mph, but since you asked...

Howard, a cousin of somebody with us, flew in from Washington to do this ride. Before the ride started he told us numerous times of the many thousands of miles he’d ridden, how “Seattle to Portland” (200 miles in 2 days, or 1 day if you’re a little sick) is not that hard, and about how superb and otherwise Navy SEAL-like he was. He looked like he weighed a good 250, so I figured maybe he was one of those sleeper cardio-fit guys. Around one curve on the side of the road up to Table Mountain, I saw Howard half-standing, half draped all over his bike seat, looking like his heart rate was roughly 300. A passing cycling yelled out, “You OK?” Howard didn’t notice me (someone who knew him) also riding by. With a weak lift of his hand he tried to wave in a cool-guy manner and quite unsuccessfully attempted to twist his drooling grimace into a smile. “Thanks, just waitin’ for my wife, man,” he said. I let out a surprised guffaw that I quickly tried to change into a cough and rode on by. Poor Howard.

The fabled wildflowers blanket the top of Table Mountain. “Fabled” is the operative word here -- I think they must have bloomed too early this year or something. I counted like three or so. Anyway, as we climbed, I remember thinking that it sure was hot for April 25th. We heard later that the temperature set a heat record for the day. Although it was only about 85 or 90 F, I heard that the temperature coming off the pavement was 99, and I'm telling you that going up Table Mountain Road, it.was.hot. Coming around one curve, I saw one poor guy throw up at the side of the road, and several people walking their bikes. I guess the combination of the heat and the climb, my own relative lack of conditioning, and, I realized later, a caffeine deficiency (I hate it when I forget to shoot up) was giving me a headache that threatened to turn evil. Mostly I headed it off by hydrating a lot, but at one point I really wanted to throw my bike in the back of the sag wagon and ride on up in style. I did stop by the side of the road, twice, for a couple of minutes each, to let my heart rate get down to a calm 180, but still. Luckily, all good things come to an end, and so do hills. At the lunch stop they had run out of turkey sandwiches, so I chose ham instead of duck paté. (Really.) But they had good cookies.

The last 25 miles were somewhat hot and quite headwindish, but I was so happy not to be climbing anymore that I didn't care. Also, four of my cycling club homies and I kept up a lovely pace line for the whole 25 that really helped get us home. At the fairgrounds we ate yummy chicken and salad and some rice-with-sweet-spices dish and bread and ice cream sandwiches and, for those so inclined, Sierra Nevada ales and such. All things considered, it was a lovely ride, with good views, good food, and good sweaty fun.

Alvira Holtum, Champion Juggler

I have a relative named Cannonball Holtum, a perfomer who caught cannonballs for a living and performed other miraculous feats such as holding, with arms outstretched, two horses pulling in opposite directions, and other strongman stuff. He performed in his own shows and in circuses, etc., in Europe and the US, including a "most successful" two month run at the American Roof Garden (above the American Music Hall in NYC) in 1893. His daughter, Alvira Holtum, a champion juggler and other stuff-er, sometimes performed with him.

ebay mania

So I have a regular job and everything, but I've always thought it would be cool to buy stupid stuff at Goodwill/clean out my closets, and sell the stuff on ebay, so I can have extra money to use for stuff like traveling. So far I've sold:

Hawaiian dress, $1 at Goodwill; sold for $5.00
Russian dress, $30 (OK, I bought this in Russia), sold for $75.00 (resulting in interesting correspondence with buyer who wants to go to Russia)
Eddie Bauer rain poncho, $6.00 at Goodwill, bidding is at $11.50
Anyway, as you can see, I'm well on my way to riches and fame, and it's fun too.