Ironically, we’re going camping this weekend so we’ll be driving up to the mountains. But no driving for 48 hours after that!
Here’s a ponderable: was a man at JFK actually required to remove his t-shirt because it had a peace protest slogan in arabic? If so, what does that say about the (police) state of our airports?
I have no idea what this is, but I went ahead and ordered it. Should be entertaining, I think.
[Editor's note: Deana did fieldwork in Rocamadour, a small town in France known as a pilgrimage destination.]
Four thirty. A.M., as in oh-dark-thirty. Ben and Karen will be asleep for another three hours. Uh huh. Why am I up this early? Because I have to leave for the airport in an hour. Uh huh. Why is that again? It takes me a moment to focus, to remember. Oh yes. It’s because I go into berserker paroxysms of geeky hyperactivity whenever the triggerword API is spoken, and I don’t stop until some kind soul utters the safeword.
In this case the fiend is Chris Messina, and the cause of the utterance is Mash Pit. It’s the latest bud from the BarCamp bush, a one-day test to see if meatspace interaction can produce cyberspace results. If successful, a number of Mash Pits would follow, each building on the the code and content of the last. It’s in San Francisco, of course. I’m in San Diego, of course. “It’s not that far,” I think, glossing over the realities of security checkpoints, delays and AirBART. “The flight is barely as long as my old commute to Encinitas.” Uh huh.