I’ll have to check the archives in my basement. I’m pretty sure I have a Mac OS X Public Beta CD ($100) and an original Mac brochure from 1984 ($200) down there.
The Bard apparently did have a portrait painted in his lifetime. Neatly kicks another leg out from under the Bacon theory.
Milton Babbitt by the Bad Plus, plus dancers — awesome. This will do more for “thorny” modern music than … well, many other things… Do click through to Ethan Iverson’s blog for the cover notes explaining the modernist covers that the group did on their most recent album.
Making enterprises secure by demanding that all code be secured at the border — of the organization itself. Meaning: don’t purchase anything that you haven’t examined for security issues just as though you created it yourself.
Sasha Frere Jones thinks the new Neko album is her best yet. I’m still working on deciding that.
Day: March 9, 2009
More snow, and bistro
Words cannot express the emotions I felt, after a weekend in the 50s, I awoke this morning to see big fat flakes of snow coming down. I keep thinking that I’m used to it, but at heart I’m still a Virginia boy; snow is a rare treat at the beginning of winter and a stupefying chore at the end. I can tell my town is reeling a little bit too; our street wasn’t plowed, a fact I didn’t fully appreciate until I began the descent down the steep hill leading down to Mass Ave. The hill was completely covered in snow turning rapidly to ice, and I had to really jam on the brakes at the top of the hill to keep it a controlled descent.
We’re supposed to get four inches today. Sigh. I guess what they say about March is true.
March has been an insanely busy month for me already, so I was relieved to get a rare night out this weekend. We went back to Petit Robert, which I see I haven’t plugged yet on this blog. If there were ever a perfect combination of Parisian elegance and comfort food, it’s this place. Lisa had beef bourguignon. I started with a plate of mussels, then moved on to calf’s liver with onions and bacon. Let me tell you: it’s moments like these that made Proust a household name. I was instantly five or six and eating liver at my mother’s table, back in the days before cholesterol counting removed it from our diet. It was spectacularly earthy and tender, and I had to make myself stop before I devoured the whole thing; it’s deceptively easy eating, until the last few bites when you suddenly realize how rich it really is.
Now: snow. Sigh. Ah well, I have memories.