November 8, 9 and 10 of 1989 were a few days of an emotional roller coaster ride for me.  It all started on the 8th, with the death of Grandma Edith, my paternal grandmother.  This being the first time I had lost a close family member, it hit me pretty hard.

The next day was different.  I don't remember exactly where I was or what I was doing when I got the news, but I got the news nonetheless.  East Germany was lifting travel restrictions for its citizens.  In minutes, Berliners from east and west headed for the checkpoints and the Ku'Damm, and the border guards could not keep the East Berliners out.  A mass of people flooded into the West, literally into the waiting arms of the West Berliners.  Pandemonium ensued (but the good kind of pandemonium).

We did not go out on the night of the 9th, as we were still in mourning for grandma.  My dad left for her funeral on the 10th.  That night, my mom decided to take me and my siblings Kurt and Carolyn out.

We left our house in southern Zehlendorf and took the S-Bahn through Steglitz up to the city center.  The train was packed, standing room only.  We stayed on for the segment of the S-Bahn that went through the east, as it passed through the eerie abandoned Potsdamer Platz station.  We got off in the West, and I'm not sure how which direction we walked, but we ended up just outside the Brandenburg Gate.

The festive atmosphere from the night before had died down.  Now there were guards lining the top of the wall, and news vans from networks all over the world parked everywhere.  Mom wanted us to see this to show how important an event this was not just to Germany, but to the entire world.

After that, we had to walk through Tiergarten to find a train station, which we eventually did.  Mom was a bit worried about walking all the way through Tiergarten, but I wasn't particularly worried - I was having fun!  We eventually caught the U-Bahn, I'm not sure which station it was, but I want to say it was Gleisdreick.  After a few transfers, we found ourselves home.  We didn't go to the Ku'Damm, probably because Mom didn't want to take three kids to a crowded shopping district.

A few days later, we found ourselves with hammers and chisels at the Steinstucken exclave of Berlin, chipping away at the wall and bringing home as many pieces as we could.  We still have a box of pieces of the wall in our garage at home.

They were three incredible days.  While I don't exactly remember the details of what happened (I was nine, give me a break!), I don't forget how it felt.

I look forward to writing about the twentieth anniversary of reunification day next year!

Sometime in 1989, my parents started talking about a potential move.  I don't know when the discussion started, but they eventually told the children that we might be moving back to Germany.  We had already lived in Germany for five years - while I was born in Kansas, we moved to Germany shortly afterward and I spent my earliest years there.  I was happy with our home in Washington, but being a military family I wasn't too surprised about having to move.

I knew we were going to Berlin, and I started to learn a few things about the city.  Its role in World War II, the blockade, the Cold War, and of course, the wall.  When we arrived in Berlin sometime in July, we went to see the wall in the American sector, near an apartment complex in Duppel where many Americans lived.  The western side of the wall was covered in graffiti - some of it simple vandalism, some of it art - and there was a wooden observation tower for us to scale and look over to the eastern portion of the wall.

The image of looking over the wall was unforgettable even to my nine-year-old mind.  The death strip was a stark, lonely strip of land, littered with tank barriers, ditches, and cordoned off by multiple fences, most of which had barbed wire over the top.  On the other side of the wall, you could just see the small town of Kleinmachnow.  There was a single guard tower in the middle of the death strip, and we could see two guards keeping watch.  I waved at them, and one of the guards waved back.

In the first few months of living in Berlin, the realities of the divided city hit me.  We went to Checkpoint Charlie, the Brandenburg Gate, and saw some of the memorials set up for those who died trying to escape into West Berlin.  I saw the monument to the Berlin Airlift at Tempelhof Airport (and later, saw its corresponding monument in Frankfurt).  And of course, we walked along the wall at Potsdamer Platz.

I was perhaps too young to truly understand all the context of the Cold War, and why the wall was there.  But I was old enough to realize what an injustice it was, and what it stood for.  I figured it would remain standing for the three years we were planning on living in Berlin, and that it would stay up for most of my life.

Twenty years ago today, that all changed.

Lately, my roommate Christian has had an obsession with crawdads.  Some of the local lakes (Lake Union and Lake Washington) are supposedly teeming with them, and he had the idea of creating a trap to catch them.  So, he bought some wire fencing and got to work, eventually creating three traps.

It's hard to describe how these traps look, but they're quite unusual.  They are cylindrical, with a cone pointing inward on either end, and a suspended wire cube in the middle.  When looking at the completed trap, I almost expected Carl Sagan to show up and begin using these traps to model the theory of a cylindrical universe (I would have been very surprised if he had shown up).

Last night, Christian and Stephanie laid the traps in Lake Union and waited a little over an hour.  We returned to check on them and alas, no crawdads.  Just a few bottom feeding fish and nothing else.  Obviously some of the parameters of the crawdad hunt are going to need to change (perhaps leaving them in the water longer will do the trick, or using different bait).

Of course, crawdads are never going to help me fulfill my dream of having lobster rage fists, but they're a step in the right direction.

I find myself unable to get away from the topic of same-sex marriage and domestic partnerships these days.

I think it's partially civic pride--pride in my home state of Washington, the first state *ever* where same-sex domestic partnership rights won on a popular vote. And partially just being appalled at the fact that these same rights have lost ALL previous popular votes: 31 states. And even here in good ol' liberal Washington, it's only winning by a small margin.

Because of last year's Proposition 8 in California, Mormons have become a major part of the debate. Much to my personal chagrin. And there has been much anger brought up against the Mormons. Anger that I am unable to argue with.

But the thing about yelling at Mormons, is that Mormons love it. You see, Mormons grow up with stories of persecution: the brutal murders of Joseph and Hyrum Smith, Parley P. Pratt, and other 19th century LDS notables. The Utah War. Haun's Mill. Lots of story of persecution in Mormondom. Lots of stories of violence. But don't bring up the Mountain Meadows Massacre. We only like stories where *we* are the victims.

So, your average Mormon has heard lots and lots of these stories growing up. And the suffering of the Mormon pioneers, like the Martin and Willey Handcart companies has turned into its own hagiography.

So what kind of persecution does a Mormon from, let's say Orem, face here in our 21st Century?

Exactly: nothing. People just don't tar-and-feather anymore.

Ah, but suddenly in the wake of Proposition 8, some wannabe anarchists are spray-painting LDS churches? Some righteously angry activists are demonstrating (legally, mind you) outside temples?

YAY! MARTYRDOM TIME!

Yes, nothing thrills a Mormon more than the thought that he is being persecuted against. It's a kind of fetish.

It's no coincidence that Glenn Beck is Mormon. There is a strain of drama queen in the Mormon character.

Karaoke, as we all know, is awesome.  Wednesday night, I had the opportunity to do some karaoke with a few friends, and a good time was had by all.

The funny thing about karaoke is how my favorite songs or favorite musicians may not always make great karaoke songs.  For example, I love Pink Floyd, but most Pink Floyd songs aren't much fun for karaoke (given the fact that some of them are over twenty freakin' minutes long).  On the flipside, some songs that I would rarely or never listen to on my own volition make surprisingly fun karaoke numbers.

The first time I ever sang karaoke was when I was 18, at a school activity.  The song was "Pinball Wizard," which was appropriate given that I sang it with some friends who happened to be appearing in the all-city musical Tommy (I was the hawker, incidentally).

When my family and I went on a cruise back in December 2005, karaoke was a regular activity as well, and last year my brother created his own karaoke system, which turns out to be awesome.  It is now a regular activity when I visit family once a month or so.

The key to enjoying karaoke (besides being drunk, of course, and as a teetotaler I am never in that situation) is to first pick a song that's fun to sing, and then just get up there and put everything you've got into it.  Don't worry about looking ridiculous because EVERYBODY looks ridiculous doing it.  The question is what kind of ridiculous you're going to be: awesome ridiculous, or embarrassing ridiculous?  I prefer the former.

For the record, I sang two of my favorite karaoke songs (Sabotage and Born to Run), and one that I'd never done before (Out on the Tiles, which I didn't do a great job on - Zeppelin was not meant be sung an octave lower).  When I'm with the family, Queen is usually a popular selection - my brother and I have a killer duet of Under Pressure, and the whole family joins in for Bohemian Rhapsody.

Now if you'll excuse me, I need to practice for my rousing rendition of "Baby Got Back."

After having worked in the building at 5th and Jackson in the International District for two years, my corporate superiors finally saw it fit to move me to a different location.

Four blocks away, in fact.

My new office is in Seattle's Pioneer Square district, a building I've worked in the past back in 2006.  The building is nice, and it has a certain older charm to it than the relatively young 5th and Jackson had.

I have mixed feelings about the move.  I like being closer to the teams with whom we coordinate, and a change of scenery can be nice.  On the other hand, 5th and Jackson is the place where I got my first "real" job in February 2006, and I have a lot of fond memories for the place.  I also like its ideal location in the heart of the International District, just two blocks away from Uwajimaya and many good restaurants.

Not only that, but the dreaded team split finally took place, and there are now only three developers and one database guy on my team.  We have a new boss, who I met earlier this week.  And most impactingly (I am allowed to invent new words), I find myself with newfound responsibilities on the smaller team.  I won't describe too much how that's been, but suffice it to say, I am being asked a lot more questions now, and I frequently don't have the answer.

I must admit I am a little intimidated about all the new demands that are placed on me, but I will do everything I can to rise to the challenge and fill the void left behind by the team split.

Either that, or I'll start a bakery and sell cookies for a living instead.

Referendum 71 (allowing civil unions for same-sex couples that are legally equivalent to marriage) appears to be heading towards victory. And I believe it is the first time that civil unions have won in a popular vote in the U.S., so that's good news.

I am, however, quite annoyed by the opponents of Ref. 71. The anti-marriage folks have long used the, pardon my French, stupid argument that marriage laws aren't discriminatory towards LGBT people since 'they can get married to someone of the opposite sex.'

So now, we have civil unions... a 'seperate but equal' (except not really) version of marriage, and what are they arguing now? 'Wahh! It's not fair! I should be able to have a civil union with someone of the opposite sex! It's discriminatory!' Absolutely shameless.

So an analogy occurred to me. Marriage is like major league baseball in the 1940's. Any talented ballplayer is allowed in, as long as he's white.

Slowly, the Negro leagues evolve. It's a sort of a separate-but-equal situation, except not really: the major leagues have much more money, nicer ballparks, media exposure, and of course, Cooperstown and the World Series. So just imagine, a ballplayer loudly decrying how unfair it is... that as a white man, he is not welcome in the Negro leagues.

The anti-marriage zealots truly are those who can see a mote in another's eye, but do not notice the beam in their own.

I'm sorry about Maine, but the forces in favor of same-sex marriage are growing, while the opposition is weakening and getting more desperate.

Recently picked up one of Apple's new 27" iMacs so thought I'd post updated room pics... =)

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Pomegranate juice with an ounce of white rum is fantastic.

I suppose I should update the LJ community to let everyone know that I took a bartending course for fun and got a 100% score on the final exam.

Picked this up today, thought I'd take some pics for those curious about the game and limited edition release. Cheers, please post your comments and questions below! ^_^




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According to the Canadian Air Transport Safety Authority, it is not permitted to pack catapults of any kind in your carry-on or checked luggage*.

* Unless approved by Air Carrier for checked luggage.