I've had Movable Type installed for use with my domain. Not that I plan to abandon LiveJournal, but I do plan to start using MT to manage most of my web site. Now, to learn how.

Remind me never to try explaining Boolean logic to lay colleagues again.

Gawker is reporting a "huge explosion" at Times Square, in front of the Conde Nast Building. I hear sirens.

From the New York section of this morning's Sun:

Mormons Make Inroads on Upper East Side

I'm just thinking of all the poor coffee vendors on the Upper East. How many of them do you think stock Postum?

As many other folks have pointed out, SFWA has released the final ballot for this year's Nebula Awards.

No surprise that paulmelko and mabfan and Jim Kelly and I all made it since there was no first round of voting in our category! But apparently the jury declined to add an additional work in our category, so the four of us now duke it out. I call dibs on rayguns!

Laura and I went to our new accountant last night for some desperately needed good news about our taxes. His office wall is loaded with bowling trophies and plaques. Two of the plaques commemorated "11 in a Row" achievements. The scorecards were reproduced. The one I could read had a spare in the first frame followed by 11 strikes, for a score of 290. (The only other way 11 strikes in a row could have been scored would be 11 strikes followed by nine or fewer pins in the third ball of the 10th frame, which also would have given him a higher score than 290—assuming, of course, that he didn't gutter the ball. But I digress.)

It may be completely irrational, but this helped me feel that our taxes were in good hands.

We didn't originally mean it to be a substitute for our Valentine's Day jazz-and-wine date. It just worked out that way, since I was stuck in Dallas all day on the 14th trying to get home to New York. (And unable to post to LiveJournal from a Neptune Networks kiosk, because for some unfathomable reason they consider this LiveJournal page to contain adult content. Not all of LiveJournal, mind you. Just the posting page. But that adventure is another story.)

So on Monday night, Laura and I ended up doing two things we've always wanted to do, and got them both done at the same time: taking a cheese class from Artisanal, and taking a spirits class from Brandy Library. The two birds were killed with a single stone called "Scotch Whiskey & Whey" at the Artisanal Premium Cheese Center at Tenth Avenue and 37th Street.

The instructors were Jon Lundbom from Artisanal and Ethan Kelley from Brandy Library. They were both excellent, engaging teachers, and they had selected a set of six pairings of scotch and cheese for us each to sample at our little benches. For some of you, reading this list will make your eyes glaze over; for the rest of you, reading this list will make your eyes glaze over, if you know what I mean.

1. Berkswell, Great Britain, sheep's milk
   Balblair 16 yr., Northern Highlands
   
2. Livarot, France, cow's milk
   Bunnahabhain 12 yr., Islay
   
3. Gouda, Netherlands, cow's milk
   Bruichladdich 15 yr., Sauterne cask, Islay
   
4. Isle of Mull Cheddar, Scotland, cow's milk
   Ledaig Sherry Cask, Isle of Mull (probably 4 yr.)
   
5. Valdeon, Spain, mixed milk (cow/goat)
   Cragganmore 13 yr., Distiller's Edition, Port Pipe Finish, Speyside
   
6. Bayley Hazen Blue, Vermont, cow's milk
   Ardbeg Uigeadail, Cask Strength, Islay (probably 8 yr.)

All the pairings were interesting at the very least, and it would not be hyperbole to call some of them revelatory. Looking over my notes, it seems that my favorite pairing was #5, though with the port finish that makes me feel uncomfortably close to a wine-and-cheese taster. #3 was a terrific pairing too.

Some of you know that Ardbeg Uigeadail is my very favorite scotch, so I was amused when Mr. Kelley warned everyone how violent the final pairing would be. According to my notes, when I went to record my impression of pairing #6, I couldn't even remember what the cheese tasted like. This may be because the Ardbeg was so powerful. It might also be because it was my sixth taste of whisky.

But we had a terrific time at the class, and we'd strongly urge you to save your pennies and try a class at either or both establishment. (And for our bourbon-drinking friends, we'll note that Artisanal has an "American Whiskey & Artisanal Cheese" class coming up at the end of May.)

I know I was only recently urging you to visit St. Andrews near Times Square, but now you will be as likely to find us lapping up knowledge at the feet (literally) of Ethan Kelley at Brandy Library. Possibly even at their upcoming calvados class! (Mmmm, calvados!)

I am never one to sneer at people with too much time on their hands. I am one, after all.

So please understand that I present this link to these "Lost" food labels with all due respect and admiration.

The serving suggestion on the beer is a touch of genius (though it would be funnier if it were on Kool-Aid).

(Via Laura.)

There is a literary agency directly above me, on the 13th floor of this office building. (And thank god we're in a building that's not afraid to admit it has a 13th floor!) Sometimes when the 12th floor men's room is occupied, I go up to the 13th floor, and inevitably I see, through the glass of the agency's door, a little spaniel of some sort lying on the floor, asleep. I never see any people.

On my most recent visit to the 13th floor, though, I saw people in the office but no spaniel. This is not a story about mysterious happenings on the 13th floor, but it is a story about a runaway spaniel, and I was reminded of it by the absence of the agency dog. This happened this past Saturday night, as Laura and I were on our way to a wedding celebration.

We had just left the house. It was cold and dark and windy and wet out, and when we reached the corner a brown and white adult spaniel of some sort, probably a Cavalier King Charles, was wandering around. Its person was not in evidence.

"Hello, little puppy," said Laura, bending down.

A woman in black was hurrying toward us. "I was just trying to catch it," she said. "I don't see its owner."

"Let's see if it has a tag," I said.

The dog was dragging a sparkly silver leash. Laura reached for the leash, but the dog ran out into the street against the light. A car was coming. I yelled—it wasn't a word, just a loud primal sound. The dog came three feet or less from running right under the tires of an SUV. It got to the far corner before the next car could squash it.

Relieved, Laura and I dashed across the street (when traffic allowed), and she caught the dog half a block down. I turned and flashed the lady in black a thumbs-up. "It has a tag," I shouted.

We walked the dog farther down the block to where we could read the tag in the light from an Eckerd. It was a rabies tag. The only contact info was the phone number of the vet.

"What do we do?" Laura said.

"I'm not sure," I said. Then we realized that we had both left our cell phones home. Not that the vet was likely to be open at that hour.

"Maybe take it to the pet store?" We were on our way to a wedding, remember. "They might be able to keep it until they can contact the vet."

"I wouldn't take it there. Maybe that vet down Steinway is open?"

"Okay."

We started walking. The spaniel was not a quick walker, not like Ella, and it was whimpering and maybe limping a little, so after a bit I picked it up and carried it. We didn't like the vet idea, really, but was also didn't want to leave the dog at our apartment unattended, not unsupervised with a dog of our own. But the farther we walked from where we first saw it, the more the dog began to whine and squirm.

Finally Laura suggested we take the dog back the way we had come. We would see if maybe the owner was somewhere around looking for it. If not, we would close the dog in one of our rooms with the door closed, and with water. It would drive Ella nuts, but we didn't know what else to do.

As we approached the corner where we had first seen the spaniel, we could see about four people. The woman in black was there, as was a long-haired woman in her mid-twenties. The long-haired woman had her back against a wall, and a man in a big black coat was standing very close to her, talking. There was also a kid of about twenty, standing near the entrance of a little store around the corner.

"Here they are!" said the woman in black.

Laura and I both saw that the long-haired woman had tears running down her cheeks. "Is this your dog?" I asked.

The woman burst our sobbing and took the dog from me. "Oh, I thought you were gone!" She clutched the dog to her chest and slid down the wall until she was sitting.

The woman in black said, "I told her the dog almost got runned over, but a nice couple went after it."

Laura had squatted down beside the long-haired woman and was making comforting small talk. I noticed the dog was standing next to the sobbing woman.

"For God's sake!" I told the sobbing woman. "Keep that leash in your hand and don't let go!"

According to Laura, when I yelled, the woman wrapped the leash around her hand several times. Also according to Laura, the woman was on something.

When the long-haired woman had calmed down some and was standing up again, she said, "Where did that man go?"

"What man?" said the woman in black.

"The policeman. He was talking to me right here. He has my wallet."

Indeed, the man in the black coat had somehow slipped away in the confusion of returning the dog.

"Why does he have your wallet?" asked the woman in black.

"He said he was a policeman," said the long-haired woman. "He asked for my wallet."

"Did he show you any I.D.?"

"No, but he said he was a policeman."

"That guy took her wallet," said the woman in black. "Did anyone see where he went?"

The kid near the store said, "I think maybe he lives upstairs?" Another kid had come out of the store by now.

"We need to call the police," said the woman in black. "The real police. Who has a phone?"

We didn't, but the kids outside the store went inside to call.

Laura was already hurrying up the block, trying to see if a man walking up the sidewalk was the same one who had been at the corner. He wasn't, but that didn't keep me from worrying that Laura was going to get herself shot peering into people car windows.

We returned to the group on the corner, reported that the man in the black coat was nowhere in sight, wished the long-hair woman good luck, said goodbye to the spaniel, and rushed off to our wedding. We don't know what happened next.

Moral of the story? Um, if your dog is missing, don't give your wallet to a random stranger?

And for God's sake, don't let go of the leash!

You always wondered what really goes into Kentucky Fried Chicken and Taco Bell food, right?