The mosquitoes, however, are hanging on, even in the mid-day. I planted a new Bourbon, the Souvenir de Malmaison, shortly after noon today, and wound up with four mosquito bites for my trouble. Hey, it's already October, and the nights are in the upper fifties. So where's the fall we usually get around this time? You know, the one where the yellowjackets and mosquitoes give it up for another year? At least we don't have any kudzu.
His movies seem dated to me now. Like me, I suppose. We've used his salad dressing for years. The jokes on the labels were some of the first that Mr. B. could read, and he insists on buying more whenever we shop for groceries. I also liked his wife. Didn't everyone?
MORE: I used to write obits, but I would never have attempted a movie star. This one is good.
UPDATE: Glad I missed this aspect of him, however: "President Jimmy Carter appointed him as his delegate to nuclear disarmament talks at the United Nations...In 1995, Newman bought a controlling interest in The Nation, a liberal political journal, and even began writing for it occasionally....Newman is also on the board of Cease Fire, a gun control group funded by prominent celebrities...."
I didn't watch much of it live. I have seen several clips, and I followed some of the live-blogging, and read the conclusions of others--some of whom thought that, while Barry may not have won, he didn't lose, either. Mr. B.'s mom, whose job it is to watch such things, thought it was a tie. She thought Mac won on content but Barry won on style. Style. Like an Olympic gymnast. Sigh. In some of the clips I saw, he was clearly irritated. I thought it was Mac who was supposed to have the temper?
All in all, I don't think any of these "debates," are very meaningful, since the participants seldom say anything imaginative. Just their stump speech points. Nor do I think they have much impact on the elections. On the Big Media and the soundbite collections, sure, but how many people do they persuade? I think Biden and Palin will be more fun to watch and I won't miss that one.
Tom, OCS buddy and rare reader who cannot make the TypeKey comment system work, reminds me that I have not written much about sailing this year. The reason is I haven't been doing much of it since April, for various reasons, mostly involving rancho chores, family travel and driving Mr. B. around to baseball, summer camp and, now, basketball and Cub Scouts.
In fact, the family sloop has been for sale for a few weeks and last Sunday I picked up two interested buyers. Am waiting on a local fellow to get his money together (he has to sell some stock, and this is not a good time for that, obviously), while the other one, from northeast Texas, says he is ready to buy it if the local one doesn't. If Mr. B. enjoyed going sailing, I would have kept it, but, alas, he doesn't. On one of our few outings, he pointed at a passing stinkpot (motorboat) and said: "Why don't we buy one of those, Dad?" Sigh.
UPDATE: The sloop is sold. Feel a little bit sorry already, but that's relieved by the young, local buyer's enthusiasm and excitement. It's in good hands--younger and more energetic ones, too.
Twenty minutes away from starting the prep for my sixth colonoscopy in twenty-five years. The actual procedure isn't particularly uncomfortable. It's the prep that's the killer. The Ducolax tablets are easy, but the ten ounces of Magnesium Citrate is yechy. And the three-plus liters of NuLytely to be drunk in eight-ounce portions every fifteen minutes is unspeakable. I picked the orange flavoring this time. But the flavoring is pretty irrelevant. It still tastes like motor oil. Further affiant sayeth not. Until this turkey is over tomorrow morning.
UPDATE: All went smoothly, though it took me about nine hours after the procedure to fully awaken from the sedation. That is, I awoke, immediately afterward, but stayed drowsy and slept a lot. Turned out well, the doc said. Nothing immediately concerning. Two small, extracted polyps remain to be examined.
Mom's friends who live in Kingwood, on the northeast side of Houston, didn't choose to evacuate before Hurricane Ike arrived. But, now, they're thinking about moving to Austin temporarily, if they can find a motel. Many of them already are full with other evacuees. We may wind up taking them for a few days.
Like blogger Melissa Clouthier, a chiropractor who lives in the Woodlands, on the northwest side of the city, they're tired of the squalor. The power is out, so there're no lights, no air-conditioning, no water, and no refrigeration. The phones don't work, and cell phone service is spotty. Their neighborhood grocery is open but they have to use what they buy pretty quickly or it will spoil. Even their employers are without power and therefore shut down. It's like a return to the 19th century, without the ice deliveries.
This could be my last post for a while, if the power goes out tonight or early tomorrow, as it may. The wind is picking up. No rain yet. But we have an upgrade in the weather forecast and there is an abundance of trees around power lines in Austin.
Weather service is now looking at 50 percent chance of thunderstorms tonight and wind gusts to 45 mph. Then, early Saturday, 100 percent change of rain, heavy at times, with gusts to 50 mph. Still looks like a normal fall thunderstorm, even with the wind gusts, so long as they're not sustained for long periods. Fortunately for us, Ike's core is forecast to stay well to our east. If you want to follow events in Houston and Galveston, where the worst is certain to occur, go to KHOU television for their video reports as long as they have at least generator power to stay on the web. Also this Houston area blogger, and this one. Both have local blog rolls for more. And Houston Chronicle's blog.
Lots of folks at the grocery this morning buying up bottled water, batteries and canned goods, in anticipation of possible lengthy power outages if Ike's core comes close to Austin after crossing the coast early Saturday. Mom, visiting friends in Maryland, is scheduled to come back Saturday but now may have to wait until Sunday, if Austin's airport is closed. Texas Longhorns home game Saturday with Arkansas has already been postponed.
Local forecast sounded dire yesterday: Not just torrential rain all-day and all-night Saturday, but sustained winds of 50 to 70 mph. Meaning trees downed and flying limbs and other debris. Today's forecast is milder, with winds only gusting to 45 mph and less rain. Evacuees from the coast still may be sorry they came. All depends on how close the core comes to us. Fifty miles east would be good. Ten miles west would be a true disaster. Meanwhile Ike is already bigger than Katrina in '05. It's pussyfooting through a patch of cool water in mid-Gulf this morning, but is expected to strengthen. Lots of uncertainy yet, but Houston looks now to bare the brunt of the winds and rain, and the storm surge is expected to be a killer on the coast, sweeping miles inland. Possibly overtopping Galveston's seventeen-foot seawall.
Looks like Fay will not be joining us at Port Aransas, although some big waves from her intensity as she sweeps through Florida just might. It happened with Ivan in 2006. In any case we're outta here until Thursday. Off to see the likes of Ruby Begonia, the Presidio La Bahia, and other familiar but still amazing attractions, along the trail to Port A, which is on Mustang Island in the Gulf of Mexico. Adios.
UPDATE: Returned sunburned but happy on the 21st. Drove down in the rain, and it rained off and on for a few days. But there were some afternoons when the sun came out, so the gang had a good one. Mr. B. even got to try boogie boarding, similar to surf boarding, which he pronounced strenuous but fun.
It's been cloudy all day. The drought-breaking rain we've been promised has yet to appear, thougn the temperature is a relatively-cool 89F at this hour. LCRA meteorologist Bob Rose says we're scheduled for a good chance of light-to-heavy rain through the end of next week, and he adds that there is "much uncertainty" in the ultimate path of Tropical Storm Fay. She's now predicted to turn north and strike the west coast of Florida, but just might decide to head west, instead. That would be a bummer as we are leaving the rancho on Monday for our annual jaunt to the beach at Port Aransas before Mr. B.'s school resumes on Aug. 25. Even her hitting Florida might raise some big waves that sweep across the Gulf of Mexico and pound the beach where we're going. It's happened before.
This looks and sounds like a heckuva book. I did a feature story years ago on a Tupperware sales "party" in West Palm Beach. I had heard about them for a while, even knew some of the mechanics involved in the sales program, but had never seen the products. I was amazed to discover that they were "just" various sizes of colorful plastic bowls with tight lids. I think about that sometimes now when I put some of our own collection in the dishwasher.
It annoys me, sometimes, dragging the extension cord around behind the mower, and trying not to trip or run over it. It does look mighty Green, and should easily qualify for the EPA's proposed new Global Warming rules on every emission.
As long as the lawnmower inspector doesn't complain that the source of the electricity is the city's power plants which are run mainly by fossil fuels. In their case, a lot of natural gas, supplemented by a little nuclear and a little wind. I suppose I should worry what will happen to the landscaping guys I pay to do the front yard. They use plain old gas mowers trailing black smoke exhaust. The restrictions could make them significantly raise their charges, ultimately putting me out dragging the extension cord of the electric mower in the front yard as well.
From the Rancho Roly Poly Recipe File:
1 13.5 oz can pineapple chunks, drained
1 cup flaked coconut
1 cup mini marshmellows
1 can (11 oz) mandarin oranges
1 cup sour cream
Mix pineapple & oranges, coconut, marshmellows, sour cream. Chill, at least 3 hours.
Yum
Inspiration by Miriam's Ideas.
Got ourselves a wireless router and plugged it in and so Mom was wandering the Web, in between some last-minute office work, in the kitchen last night. Only problem now is to arbitrate Mr. B.'s desire to use his Nintendo DS gameplayer's Wi-Fi ability. Have to see how that works and where it will take him before turning him loose with it.
This is the retina--the light-sensitive tissue on the back wall of my right eyeball--in a digital photo taken by an optometrist Monday in my complete eye exam for new glasses. He said the point where the optic nerve comes in (the white area) has a bit of normal degeneration (for a sixty-four year old) on one side, but the blood vessels are clear, and the dark spot on the left of the retina is only a normal amount of macular granularity. The left retina was the same. Hence, with no disease discovered, my insurance wouldn't cover the test and I paid the whole sixty-eight dollar fee. But the good news was that my eyesight seems to be good to go for a while longer.
Whew. That's a relief. I was taken in by this idea from a YouTube clip some high school chums were passing around. Then I passed it on in conversation on our trip last week to California. I've since emailed the correction to those folks, and will post the link here to the refutation (and explanation) by the American Chemical Society's Chemical & Engineering News for anyone else who has also been taken in by the trick video.
Once again, the TSA has flagged my name on a flight to California tomorrow, as we leave the rancho for a week to visit relatives. That means I can't print out a boarding pass tonight, but must go to the ticket counter tomorrow and present my driver's license so they can verify that my address is not the same as the person they're after. The weird part is this doesn't come up every time I fly. It did back in the fall of '06, for a flight to the East Coast, but not earlier this year for a trip to Mississippi. Maybe it's the coasts the TSA is worried about. For this guy who shares my name. Or it's just an old list of names that keeps recycling through the system. Bureaucrats.
Ten days of a hundred degrees and four of ninety-nine so far this month. The front forty at the rancho is turning brown, despite our best efforts to water it after midnight--which is illegal now that Austin is on mandatory water rationing for things like lawns. Meaning you can water two days a week only. Trying to balance whether the five hundred dollar fine for watering other days would be cheaper than buying new sod and starting over. Probably not.
After getting everyone off to school and work, respectively, I tied on my tennies and set off on a mile-walk, as part of a new resolve to lose some suspiciously-reforming around-the-waist weight, and clear the old brain pan for future effort at whatever might come along. I listened to the twittering birdies, and felt the cool morning breeze at the start of what promises to be a scorcher of a day, with an unseasonable high in the upper 90s, before I turned on the MP3 player for a fresh round of Dixie Chicken, etc. Not like some people I could mention who only get up early to stoke up the charcoal smoker to spend all day smoking some artery-clogging brisket. But they're young and I'm not.
April may the cruelest month, but May definitely is the wettest, at least in Central Texas. Think of Austin at the center of the circle and you have the radar situation last night a little after eleven. This morning the rancho had received almost an inch in twenty-four hours. But Tow, near Lake Buchanan, had had almost four inches. No rising lakes yet, and none forecast. I like the rain. It keeps the nights cool. The only bad part is that it makes the grass in the upper forty grow faster.
UPDATE: Some others weren't so lucky, mainly south, north and east of us. We missed it all.
It's May, so the day white lilies must be in bloom at the rancho. And, sure enough, here they come.
Mr. B. held the fort while I went to the grocery at the crack of nine a.m. for flowers, frozen pancakes, fruit and orange juice. We'd all come in late last night from his Little League team's last-game-of-the-season pool party (they lost the game 5-3, but Mr. B. got a good hit, even if he was thrown out at first), then Mom and I stayed up later reading. All made up by 9:30, Mr. B. presented everything for breakfast-in-bed, but Mom chose to come to the table instead. Then he handed over his card with promise coupons, such as cleaning his room without complaint. A revolutionary idea, right there. One of these years, he can drive to the grocery and get it all done himself. I await the day. ;-)
Replace it. Especially if it's a GE.They don't cost much because the parts are cheap. Ours broke down after five years. It was arcing, like a miniature lightning storm inside. So I called a repairman. First mistake. He came in twenty-four hours. I was impressed. I shouldn't have been. He replaced the magnetron that makes the microwaves, and charged $180. Said to wait twenty-four hours for the white enamel he sprayed over the burn spot where the microwaves come in to dry. We did. But it didn't work. Called him back. Took four days this time. He discovered the plug to the new magnetron wasn't seated. No charge. Worked fine for three days. Friday morning it started arcing again. Burned another spot where the old burn spot was. So it's off to Lowe's today to order a new one. But it won't be a GE.
UPDATE: It's a Sharp, more powerful than the old one and cheaper than the repair bill. Working OK. GE, I see, is having financial problems and may be getting out of kitchen appliances.
We had a power surge at the rancho the other day, from an electrical transformer on a nearby power pole that inexplicably burst into flames. The upshot was no harm to our computers, but our microwave started arcing when we used it. The GE tech who came to fix it said it would be cheaper to buy another one, but I figured since the fix-it price was about the same, why not forgo the hassle of getting rid of the old one and going out to buy a new one.
So he took it apart to replace the microwave generator, and I saw that it was stamped "magnetron." Which reminded me that it was a descendent of World War II's great secret: the cavity magnetron. It was a British invention that, with some American tweaking, became radar to help bombers find German and Japanese targets through clouds, track enemy planes and help pilots land safely in snowstorms. Not to mention later being used to track storms and tornadoes for all of us. And now we also use it to heat frozen food and coffee and cook fish, broccoli, potatoes and oatmeal. Pretty amazing.
This native climber, renamed after the Civil War, is blooming these days where it covers the south fence at the rancho. Its sweet fragrance was especially heavy today after last night's gutter-swamping rain. More rain is expected tonight and tomorrow.
The first Iris of spring at the rancho. Dated, sure, by a few months now. But a nice memory.
Mr. B.'s second grade teacher sends home a sheet every week wherein he is supposed to log his daily reading of AR (Advanced Reader) books--at least twenty minutes a day. In fact, he reads an average of an hour each day, and by the end of each week has close to four hundred minutes of total reading. So far he prefers fantasy stories. The Pendragon series is his latest favorite. Also Magyk, the first of a trilogy plus. Products, I suppose, of our previous bedtime reading of Harry Potter, Narnia and Lord of the Rings. Despite his own reading, he still likes to be read to, especially at bedtime--fortunately for Mom and Dad, who would miss it more than he might. Someday, I know, the bedtime stories will end. But not too soon, we hope. I have sent off for Tom Sawyer, Detective, now that Huckleberry Finn is drawing to a close.
Got to finish the edging this morning, after yesterday's first mowing of the back forty. Then wait a week or ten days and do it all over again. I waited longer this year to start. Well, twelve days longer. I'm back on the treadmill. The bane of home ownership.
For the feds it was 12.72 percent. For state and local, via real estate and estimated sales taxes, it was almost 10 percent. That's roughly what some others pay in state income taxes, which pols here like to crow that we don't have. But they do find ways to make up for it. Sadly, we will not be getting a federal refund this year. But all-in-all, I think we're getting off light.
This is one of the oldest synagogues in Mississippi, dedicated in 1905 in my father's hometown of Lexington, in the hills on the edge of the Delta. There were never more than eighty in the congregation, and the rabbis always drove in from Vicksburg or elsewhere. But, like the ark, symbolized by the handles (or horns) up there on the sanctuary's roofline, the believers have remained steadfast. There's talk now--as the Jewish population has dwindled--of moving the building to Ole Miss, but I wonder if that wouldn't be a mistake. Could be there's still some draw left in the place, and the population will rise again.
It's embarrassing not to remember the name of a spring flower, but it's too pretty not to use. Any ideas?
Mr. B. was livid. He saw fresh, red and blue eggshell on the patio this morning and he was just positive that somebody had crushed the last cascarones before he could get to them. He only got to do ONE, he insisted. Probably two, I muttered, having noted Easter morning that only two were missing from the carton. Okay, he said, two. And smiled. Now he remembered. What he was looking at was the aftermath of the cascarone battle he'd had with his buddy Cyrus Sunday afternoon. A bit behind in my housekeeping, as usual.
The thunderstorm we'd been awaiting since Monday finally crashed in yesterday afternoon just as I was getting ready to leave to go pick up Mr. B. from school. A real frog strangler. All I had was Mom's puny little umbrella, so I got soaked. But before I left I was standing in the living room watching the rain cascade off the roof. It was like being behind a waterfall. The rain was overwhelming the roof gutters which reminded me why most people in Central Texas, at least, never put gutters on their houses until fairly recently. Nowadays the Yellow Pages is full of gutter seller ads, and practically everybody seems to have them. But they really are pretty useless. Oh, it sometimes rains lightly around here and the gutters effectively channel the water so it doesn't splash on your head as you go in and out the door. But, more often, when we get a rain it's a big one, and the gutters simply can't handle all that water all at once.
The Seablogger, whose income has long been derived from his stock market investments, urges the rest of us, whose current income may be derived from 401K retirement accounts, not to panic this week as Wall Street goes wacko. "Keep calm, don’t throw good money after bad, or vice versa."
I suppose it was inevitable. Neglect to buy your grandmother's 100-year-old house in Mississippi and someone else will turn it into a business--or, in this case, a government-funded rehab center for the emotionally-disturbed. Hence the added railing on the front porch and the wheelchair access ramp there on the left. But since my late father, who was said to have been born in the front bedroom on the left-hand side, didn't see any need to keep it, I couldn't decide why I should. Sentiment inevitably collides with money, I suppose, especially when the sentimental aren't rich to begin with.
Heading out to Mississippi via Southwest Airlines late this morning to visit relatives during part of Mr. B.'s spring break from elementary school. As I have no glittering stable of substitute writers, like Instapundit and other blogging stars, there will be no posts until we get back on Thursday. Have a pleasant week, y'all.
First time I've missed the switch to Daylight Savings Time in some time. I just noticed the kitchen clock was an hour ahead of my wristwatch. Asked. Found out. Oops. Fixed the watch. My grandfather called it "Roosevelt Time" because FDR imposed it during World War II. But it had actually been first imposed by the government in the summer of 1918, during World War I.
Mr. Boy is seriously in the dog house after leaving some crayons in the pockets of his blue jeans. We caught all but one, a blue one, which went harmlessly through the wash cycle but then coated the inside of the dryer. It got on some of the clothes, mostly his, but we spent several hours trying to get it off the drum. Searched a little to find solutions when it was obvious elbow grease wasn't enough. Finally found this advice from Crayola, to use WD-40, followed by dish soap and water. Left the dryer open all night to dissipate the WD-40 smell, so the fumes don't catch fire when the gas dryer runs. We still have a ways to go, however. Two days before our spring break trip, naturally, when the dryer is needed. We had him do some of the scrubbing, but, of course, he isn't strong enough to make it more than symbolic.
A little more spring at the rancho, to combat this chilly day with the nighttime temp plunging into the low forties. Or, I guess, you could call it flowers with power pole. Not the best composition. Still, red buds are cool. You just have to move fast to catch the flowering. Pretty soon they're just all green.
Okay, that's enough on Barry. Even I am getting tired of writing his name. Besides, I have my domestic tranquility to think of, and I am already being accused of too much cynicism in the face of Barry's niceness. And his hope. Did I mention his hope? Mr. Hope, to be polite about it.
Dad's idea of a cowboy birthday theme thwarted, Mr. B. went off with Mom to Party Pig yesterday and picked a G.I. Joe one. We have an M-1 Abrams tank pinata, plastic soldier favors and plastic camoflaged combat helmets for this afternoon's four invitees. There's even an inflatable M-16. I was amazed, but she said he's been trying to do this since he was three. Confessed she had always steered him to something else because, well, this is Austin and she was worried the other Moms might not like it. Decided to be bold this time, now that he and his chums are eight. Told the tale of one political extremist in our old neighborhood who let her kids consume sugar packets at a restaurant but went slightly mad, (yelling "No chemicals!") when one of them tried to eat a packet of Sweet 'N Low. Will have to watch out for offended parents today. Already practicing my "boys will be boys" routine.
Now here's a shocker. I went to H.E.B. this morning to order Mr. B.'s birthday cake for Sunday. Chocolate cake. Check. Chocolate icing. Check. Last year we did Harry Potter, the year before it was Spiderman, and before that Bob the Builder. So, this year, how about a plastic cowboy and horse or two on top? No cowboys. No cowboys? No cowboys. This is the oldest and largest grocery chain in Texas, found only in Texas (and Mexico), for that matter, and it has no cowboys for a kid's birthday cake? No cowboys. Sheesh.
UPDATE: Cowboy figures with lassos also are in short supply in local toy stores. Found plenty with six-guns, but then I ran across a shelf of Papo's handpainted knights and decided to go for two more. Mr. B. already has several and enjoys them. All mine were one color. I'm envious of these.
Doing a bit of housecleaning, I discovered a dead link at one of our earliest postings concerning the origin of the rancho's name of Roly Poly. Therein was linked a wonderful drawing of the humble terrestrial crustacean which the artist apparently has removed from the Web. So I thought to find a new link and discovered a few interesting facts about the roly poly (perhaps best known by its unromantic name of pillbug), including that they breathe through modified gills, come in a bewildering two hundred species, and not only look like miniature armadillos, but their scientific name actually recalls the armadillo: Armadillidium vulgare. Though I see nothing exactly vulgar about them, unless you tend to the squeamish. Otherwise, a perfectly Texan critter.
I suppose it was inevitable, the Web being what the Web is. But I had clean forgotten the possibility of Skype attracting spam. Until a few moments ago when Sex Bomb attempted to insert her? its? self into my Skype address book. Offered the opportunity to do so, I declined. I hope that's enough. Time will tell. It always does.
We're converts, here at the rancho, to Skype, the Internet phone service that works with video cameras so you and your interlocutor can see each other as you talk. My cousin Jerry in Dallas, a ham radio operator since the 1930s, got me onto it, and I talked my out-of-state sisters into it. So the four of us have now had conversations and video visits weekends since the middle of January from one end of the country to the other. The camera and a headset (or a microphone) are all you have to pay for. Skype is a free download, and so are the calls, if you have broadband, of course. The video's a little jerky sometimes, but it's still more fun than a phone call--and cheaper. Jerry talks to his son in England all the time. Maybe I can interest Snoopy the Goon in it. It would be fun to talk to Israel.
KVUE's pollen count for cedar/juniper is way low, just 100 grains per cubic meter of air. So why am I as stuffed up as I was when the count was in the thousands? Maybe the rancho needs a good cleaning.
He's one of my favorite members of the family tree, a founder of Phoenix, AZ, though he called it Swilling's Mill. He was the brother of my maternal Texas grandfather's maternal grandmother. Or, in other words, my great, great uncle. Quite a character. Reared in Georgia, he was a Mexican War and Civil War veteran who's said to have changed sides from Rebel to Union when it was in his interest to do so. That's the butt of a pistol in his right hand, the barrel resting on his shoulder. He's reputed to have killed many a man, as they used to say. But he also made use of some old Indian canals and founded an irrigation company to make the desert bloom. He married, had children, and died in federal custody, accused of robbing a stagecoach, though his admirers believe it was all a mistake.
I was sitting on the patio under the outside light, smoking and reading "A Thousand Splendid Suns" when a raccoon shuffled up to me out of the darkness. I was amazed. He appeared to be the size of a small German shepard. A really big raccoon, in other words, though wearing the usual black mask. But he looked friendly enough. Hungry, perhaps. "Good evening, Mr. Raccoon," I said. I almost expected him to say something polite in response, maybe ask for the time or some leftovers. I would have directed him to the garbage can on the other end of the rancho. Instead, he stopped in his tracks, retreated slowly into the darkness and scurried away. Adios, Mr. Raccoon.
Says here, via KVUE, that it's medium, but it feels like a lot less, at least around the rancho. Yesterday when I ventured out to pick up Mr. B. from school I came back with a snootfull, itching eyes and plenty of sneezing. Today, nothing. Usually, all the high wind we've been having the last few days, stirs more pollen into the air. But, this time, it seems to have blown what was there away, which probably means the season is almost over. Which is fine with me.
UPDATE: Down even more Saturday morning. No more Prisoner of Zenda routine for me.
Little revolution underway this morning in the music industry. We're trying to sort through our technology here at the rancho to decide what it all means to us. For instance, we had not upgraded our CD player. Now we're glad, as CDs apparently will not be made in the same quantity as before. Mom has an MP3 player in her car, but Dad doesn't. But Mom has an iPod, and Apple is trying to hold out, whereas Dad has an iRiver, which presumably will not. Confusing to us. More to musicians, I'm sure.
UPDATE: Well, it would be free, for the "price" of suffering through a little advertising, but the purveyor apparently is still trying to convince the music companies. But if they can't sell CDs, and they admit they can't in the quantity they need to, and the young will turn to independents before paying for MP3s, th
