I had an Animal Planet moment a few days ago.

Here in FLA, we have lots of geckos running around all over the place. And everyone, aside from the bugs and pests they eat, love them. Even folks who are usually scared witless by spiders and all manner of creepy crawlies don't mind them. After all, they eat pests, have no interest in any and all human food, and they're kind of cute looking. Plus, in a pinch they'll sell you auto insurance! :-)

Geckos rarely are seen indoors . . . certainly not in our condo (on the fifth floor) unless it is extremely cold. OK, that's a relative term . . . for Floridians and geckos that means anything below 40 degrees.

So imagine my surprise the other night when I saw a baby gecko in the kitchen. He couldn't have been more than an inch in length. Remarkable, even though he was tiny, his eyes were adult size so they looked very out of proportion. My guess is the huge eyes are part of the baby gecko's defense mechanism.

Naturally, my first instinct was to capture him and release him outdoors. But these critters are remarkable quick and after two half assed attempts to capture him I gave up. After all, if he found his way in, he could find his way out.

About an hour later, I spotted him again in the kitchen . . . maybe he couldn't find his way out. And since our place is bug free (knock on wood) he might not have been able to find any food, perhaps he wouldn't survive.

So I grabbed two glasses (imagine a bartender trying to make a martini) and was able to trap him. He looked at me, I looked at him. He was either very calm (that's what I'd like to think) or was so scared he couldn't move. Either way, I whispered some words of encouragement and tried to relax him.

When I got him outside and tried to release him, he wouldn't leave his glass prison. But when I stuck my hand inside to grab him, he happily crawled on my finger. His suction cup fingers and toes felt pretty cool (in a weird way) as he traversed his way up my finger. We played for a few minutes, had a meaningful conversation about the fragility of life and then I released him.

Not exactly on the same level as the Crocodile Hunter but who knows, maybe there's an Animal Planet show in the works for me!

iPad & the toilet reader

In the 1990s I worked in IT/Tech support at Brown University. It was an interesting time and place for an Apple user. IBM and the Thomas J. Watson family provided a lot of money and equipment as well as research grants to the University. Indeed, initially I worked at the Watson Institute for International Studies.

When I arrived, most of the staff were using IBM microchanel PCs and Wordstar 2000 or WordPerfect. Within a few years, the Institute was almost exclusively using Macs. (Sadly this was reversed sometime later as Apple's fortunes declined and the Institute sought more funding for their new and improved facilities.) I even got to demonstrate Apple's QuickTake digital camera [http://tinyurl.com/3k4c33c] to Mr. Watson's widow, Olive, who seemed suitably impressed.

So how does this relate to the iPad? Well the man in charge of all things computer at Brown was Don Wolfe, himself a former IBMer. Once a year he'd hold court with all the departmental computer coordinators and deliver his "State of the Computer" speech. For IT folk, it was a must see event.

Mr. Wolfe's speech in 1995 (or 1996) was prophetic (and off base). When talking about future computing trends at the university, he declared that as Apple was in decline, support for Macintosh would be limited and perhaps eliminated. In fairness, this was before the return of Steve Jobs. Had Steve not reclaimed his role at Apple, Brown wouldn't have been the only university to abandon the Mac. So Don came to the wrong conclusion but given the facts as they existed at the time, who could blame him?

But on another point he was quite farsighted. One of the major concerns at Brown (or any university) was the impact of technology (and the then new internet phenomenon) would have on books, newspapers, journals and the world of publishing. Mr. Wolfe's thoughts? "You can't take your computer into the bathroom! Until then, books are safe."

And he was right. Even if you did take your laptop to read on the toilet, were you going to bring along a power cord and a phone cable? Who had phone access in the bathroom? And if you could connect a laptop, how long would you want a hot computer resting on your bare flesh? Laptops would be just a tad unwieldy.  And how much stuff was there to read? No, he argued, the future was still bright for book publishing.

Of course I doubt that Steve Jobs had the iPad toilet tested but it certainly would meet Don's criteria: as easy to hold (maybe easier) as a book or magazine, plenty of material to choose from and . . . video as well. All brought to you by Apple.

iPhone noPhone

I love my iPhone but sometimes I'm just not so crazy about the phone. 

Don't get me wrong, there's nothing wrong with the phone itself. But sometimes you'd like to not be so connected. It really is quite liberating to free oneself of constant connection to the rest of the world via phone and voice mail. 

Simple solution? Turn the iPhone off. Or better yet, leave it behind.

Except . . . while I might not want to talk with anyone, I don't want to deprive myself the pleasure of surfing the web or using some of my netcentric apps. What to do?

Technically, the phone is one feature/app that you can't just turn off. If you could, you'd have an iPod touch. However, there are ways to disable the phone.

The first option is to set your iPhone to Airplane mode. This will immediately terminate all cellular [3G] transmission and reception. It also will shut down any WiFi connection. So now you've eliminated phone calls but while you'll be able to use some apps (Camera, iPod, Calculator, etc.) you won't be able to use any netcentric apps. Solution?

Once you've engaged the Airplane mode, you can now go back and reconnect to your WiFi connection. Now you can sit back and enjoy your iPhone without having to deal with any pesky phone calls.

Enjoy!

Just can't be left alone . . .

Do you remember Paul Buchman? He was the lesser half of the NBC sitcom Mad About You. The character was portrayed by Paul Reiser (the evil company man from Aliens).

In one episode Paul Buchman joined a gym. For Paul, his time at the gym wasn't just an opportunity to buff up but an escape from his otherwise busy schedule. In fact, he wore dark sunglasses in order to preserve his anonymity and add an air of mystery.

Much like Paul I like to go to the gym to exercise and yes, to escape. But for me, wearing sunglasses indoors is a tad impractical and there's little I could do to add an air of mystery. But I do wear headphones and listen to music on my iPhone to aid in motivation and isolation. Sadly, some folks just can't take a hint.

There's Ned, the 62 year old former/current stoner. He still  wears his graying hear in a ponytail (actually I wish I still had enough hair to do that) and walks around with a toothpick dangling from the right corner of his mouth. He's 6' 4" but probably only weighs 135 pounds. He's constantly updating me on his prowess and progress. As if i care that he can now curl 10 pounds instead of the 5 pounds he did just last week  He always wants to talk to me. As if that weren't bad enough, he's deaf in one ear and can't hear himself talk. Sadly, neither can anyone else as he's a "low talker". A boring two minute conversion turns into a 15 minute snoozathon.

Wait, there's more. They say there's nothing worse than an ex smoker. Yes there is: an ex fatty. And because I'm a pound or two over my ideal weight (ha ha) they love to share their tofu and sprout recipes and regale me with tales of their weight loss. I'll admit, when a really hot looking woman wishes to share her weight loss success story I'm happy to listen. The first time that happens I'll let you know. Sadly, it is the porkers who are down to a svelte 325 pounds who feel the need to share.

But the absolute worst ones are the Amway types. They've lost their once great careers but things are looking up because they're selling vitamins or urinal cakes via the Amway model. And now that they've been suckered (I mean successful) they want to suck me in as well to share in the misery (and presumably the "profits").

Just when I was sure it couldn't get any worse, it did. This morning I was chugging along on the elliptical when I spied an old man with a cane and a yamika huffing and puffing it up the stairs. This guy was old enough to be Moses' grandson.

Anyway . . . I'm doing my thing while wearing a towel draped over my head and listening to the Allman Brothers' Les Brers In A Minor. I'm sure it was pretty obvious to anyone, except Moses' grandson, that I was deep into song and exercise. It should have been equally obvious that I wasn't in a talkative mood. This didn't stop our friend.

He began waving his bony hand in my face to get my attention. I tried to ignore him but he wouldn't stop waving and I thought that maybe, just maybe, he had some trenchant observation to make. Boy was I disappointed.

"You look like a monk." 

I was about to remind him that monks often took vows of silence so that they could contemplate great theological questions. Instead, I realized he was still trying to say something.

Smiling a smile that did little ameliorate the disparaging remark that he was about to deliver, he said:

"No, I mean you look like a Muslim!"

Only the fact that he probably would have died of a heart attack prevented me from responding by saying:

"Allahu Akbar!"

Obviously the headphones haven't detered these busy bodies. Neither has profuse sweating and the lack of deoderant. Maybe I do need the sunglasses. And a big sign that says FUCK OFF!!!!

I smell like garlic and I don't care!

This weekend Delray Beach was host to the garlic festival which sparked several thoughts.

The obvious reference is of course the use of garlic when cooking, in almost every type of cuisine, except in certain quarters of the old West Berlin. When I was there 21 years ago for a college semester abroad, I remember one of my fellow students was warned against using garlic in the meal he was preparing for his host family.

Thankfully garlic was not universally shunned in Berlin - especially in Kreutzberg. I made a special appearance on the rehearsal stage of what was once an up and coming band: the Klingons. Making my vocal/rap/hip hop debut, I joined bassist Nancy in a spirited rendition of my once classic hit: "I smell like garlic and I don't care!"

It has been years since I thought of this riveting vocal tour de force. I was, of course, magnificent but sadly all I have are my memories. In spite of my intensive 15 second google search, I was unable to find this song anywhere on the net.

If there are any collectors who have a copy of this performance, please contact me asap. Ideally I'd like to find a super clean soundboard version but at this point I'd even settle for a less than perfect audience copy.

Thanks in advance.

Spending some time in the chair with Cat Woman!

Last week I got to spend some quality time with cat woman. Sadly, it wasn't the Cat Woman, although given that Eartha Kitt is no longer amongst the living, maybe that's not such a bad thing.

No, I didn't get to spend time with Eartha, Lee Meriwether, Julie Newmar or Michelle Pfeiffer. Truth be told, I was rather scared and nervous especially since she was armed with numerous pairs of scissors . . . and a comb . . . and extremely long nails.

You see, I was attending my bi-monthly hair salon appointment. When you're as follicly challenged as I am, appointments with the barber are short, sweet, and quite infrequent. When I was in Rhode Island, I never had to worry about getting an appointment at the barber shop -- he could always find a spare 7 minutes to take care of me.

It's really weird, but for most of my life, I've only gone to two barbers. Until age 13, my hair was cut by Lou (once or twice by Don) at the Garden City Barber Shop. When that shop closed down, I switched to Dick of Van Dyke Hair Salon. No, he wasn't Dick Van Dyke but he did cut my hair up until August 2009.

Which brings me back to Cat Woman. The person who usually cuts my hair wasn't in so Cat Woman took over. She's a latina of a somewhat indeterminate age. Upon first glance, she appears entirely sane. And in the end, she did a fine job (although with so little hair to deal with, there was only so much damage she could do).

But what scared me, and why I call her Cat Woman, was the conversation she began as she stood behind me with a comb in one hand and a pair of scissors in the other. She began to regale me with tales of stray cats. She told me of the stray who hung outside her condo waiting for breakfast just a few hours earlier. Sounds innocent enough. Heck, as a cat lover myself, I might had done something similar.

When she told me her condo board told her she had to stop feeding the strays, I became a bit nervous. Especially when she told me she didn't see anything wrong with feeding 10 cats! She didn't care if the cats had fleas! She said it was better that these cats came to her rather than live on the streets. As she's telling me this (and cutting my hair, now with electric clippers in hand) all I can think about is those shows on Animal Planet with deranged people who have had their homes taken over by dozens of cats. Let me tell you, sanitary is never a word used to describe their homes.

For a moment, part of my brain felt sorry for her condo neighbors. And then I felt just a wee bit concerned for my own safety. Fortunately, she finished up (did a fine job) before she related any more tales of her feline induced dementia.

Brush with fame: George Harrison

In the late 90's I was working in University Hall at Brown University. The school had become quite popular among children of celebrities such as JFK Jr., Amy Carter, etc. I guess having your child attend Rhode Island's oldest institution of higher learning was a status symbol of sorts. Among the more famous parents in the 90's was George Harrison whose son Dhani was studying physics and industrial design.

Apparently the final exam schedule for the first semester (classes ended in December but exams took place in January) conflicted the Harrison family's holiday plans. Try as he might, Dhani just couldn't convince the Dean to be flexible and allow him to take his exams before, or after, his trip to the UK.

What Dhani didn't know, or more accurately what I suspect, is that the Dean was a Beatles fan. I'm sure in the back of his mind, he was hoping for the Harrison family to put on a full court press. If they wanted Dhani home for the holidays, they'd have to make a special effort to seal the deal.

Sure enough, before the semester came to an end, George Harrison made a trip to Brown University to beseech the Dean on Dhani's behalf. Anyone who learned about his visit was warned in advance not to approach George or fawn over him. Naturally, I ignored that admonition and made sure that I camped out in the Dean's outer office until the quiet Beatle made his appearance. While I didn't fawn over him or ask for his autograph, I did get to shake his hand and have an extremely brief conversation with him before he met with the Dean.

In the wake of his visit, Dhani was indeed granted his special dispensation and rumors of a legendary conversation began to circulate.  Apparently, before his meeting with the Dean, George was having lunch (alone) in the Blue Room (a student/staff dining facility). An enterprising student approached George and asked if he'd be interested in joining the student's band. Legend has it that Harrison cracked a smile and resumed eating his lunch.