My Nephew, the Aspiring (and Adorable) Mountaineer

Can you blame me for being utterly smitten by this little boy who walked an entire mile to the bottom of the trail and then ran back for more?

Digging Out and Digging In

Inspired by a much needed hiatus from school, I have been spending my days of late as part-time archeologist, part-time writer. A rather rhapsodic quest for adventure and meaning, don't you think? I thought so.

My first archeological dig was the top of my bedroom dresser. I've always maintained that the degree of chaos in my house is a precise reflection of the degree of chaos in my life. Based on the state of my dresser, one can safely conclude that I've had months of extreme chaos. The piles that had accumulated were stunning, both in their magnitude and the way they managed to defy gravity ala the Leaning Tower of Pisa. Finding very little of historical value, I gleefully filled three sacks slated for removal to a landfill. I salvaged a few artifacts, but only a very few. (The older I get, the more I embrace the mantra, "leave no evidence.") Dusting the surface area of the dresser was deeply satisfying, due to the amount of dust I collected and the fact that I could now, at long last, see some surface area. I have now moved my dig to the back bedroom aka The Place Where Piles Abound. I fear I'll be digging out at that site for a multitude of days.

When I'm not digging out, I can hopefully be found digging into my dissertation. Unfortunately, but also fortunately, I have to dig in daily with a tablespoon. I'm learning that the only way to sustain an enormous, ambiguous task is by going at it consistently, but in bite-sized chunks. There are days when I'd like to go in with a bulldozer, but then I'd just find myself demolished. (I know this from sad experience.) With any luck, my dissertation will be finished easily before my 75th birthday. And when the happy day arrives, you're all invited to the celebration!

Going Ga-Ga for Google

Some day when I am old and writing my memoirs from a veranda on the French Riviera, I shall organize my life story pre- and post-Google. I'm just old enough to have keen recollection of life without internet (I took a typewriter with me when I went off to college). And I'm young enough to have thoroughly embraced the thrill of cruising down the information highway. In fact, googling for answers to a diverse array of life's perplexing questions has become part of my almost-daily repertoire. For instance, in the recent past I've googled the following topics:

• how to make granola in the crockpot
• the pros and cons of freezing cilantro
  
• interpretations of Leviticus
• memorable quotes from "Monsters, Inc"
• exercises to bolster wimpy triceps
• how to say "thank you" in Swahili, and
• whether the international dissertation tribunal prefers citations to be listed alphabetically or chronologically

As you can see, it's difficult to imagine how deprived my life would be without such crucial bits of information. However, each of these significant searches takes a back seat to yesterday's Googlicious triumph.

Having finally arisen from my prolonged slump of pathetically unproductive days, I was sitting at my kitchen table diligently transferring a slew of video files from my dissertation project onto my new external hard-drive. All was going well until an error message popped up informing me that "the file is too large for the destination file system." What the heck? It was only 4.5 GB and the hard-drive holds 500 GB! I fussed around with it for a while, to no avail. At this point I called the tech-support guys at the university.

"Hmmm," helpful computer geek responds. "I don't know. Maybe you should try restarting your computer. If that doesn't work, google it."

(Might I add that I'm pretty sure this guy is getting paid for his advice.)

Restarting the computer did not fix the problem. So I googled the error message. To make a longer story shorter, I discovered that the problem was likely that the hard-drive was formatted in FAT32 instead of NTFS. Of course, why didn't I think of that?!

I then proceeded to follow recommendations by various benevolent computer gurus who had shared their knowledge online. In the end, I did this:


All by myself. Reprogrammed my computer to transfer files into some new and miraculous form of digital matter. I now have an equal-opportunity hard-drive that is happy to accept files of all shapes and sizes. Furthermore, those few strategic Google searches have practically transformed me into a computer programmer.

Now it's your turn. Seriously. I call on all seven of my loyal readers to post one of your favorite Google searches in the comments. What life-changing information have you acquired recently from googling?

A Fifth-Grader's Perspective on Dissertation Writing

I have a very smart first-cousin-once-removed, who is already smarter than I ever hope to be. Sophie is eleven years old and quite the Renaissance woman. On the phone today she asked about my dissertation (usually she calls it my "disorientation"). Our conversation went something like this:

Sophie: How long does your dissertation have to be?
Me: About 300 pages.
S: 300 pages?! How is that possible?? You're going to write 300 pages about how kids interact with each other? I think you could say everything about that in one page. That's unlawful! Absolutely criminal!
Me: I know. Let this be a lesson to you.
S: Right. To never get myself worked into a dissertation.
Me: Exactly.
S: We'll have to have National Dissertation Mourning Day.
Me: Good idea.
S: Well, I'm extremely sorry from the depths of my soul.

(See. I told you Sophie was smart!)

Gearing Up for Mother's Day

As a single woman nearing 40, I have generally accepted my marital status – or lack thereof. Quite frankly, these days I don’t spend that much time worrying about it. Like everyone, I experience seasons of self-doubt, disenchantment, disappointment, or despair. But overall, I am sincerely happy and at peace. All the same, Mother’s Day wins a slot on my list of “Top Five Things Most Likely to Rip a Hole in My Personal Security Blanket.”

It’s not that I’m opposed to Mother’s Day; on the contrary, I’m all in favor of celebrating mothers and motherhood. It’s just that nothing seems to scream “You are NOT a mother!” more loudly than walking into church on Mother’s Day. It’s the feeling you get when you inadvertently set off the bomb detector in the security line at the airport and all eyes are immediately riveted suspiciously on you. I realize that in reality, nobody in the chapel is actually paying any attention to me, notwithstanding the neon sign over my head emblazoned with the epigraph, “single and childless.” But still, this is how it feels every year, even when I’m on my best behavior and have sincerely and prayerfully tried to look outward and upward on Mother’s Day.

More awkward than walking into the chapel, however, is walking out of the chapel when the meeting ends and the Mother’s Day gifts are distributed. Lately, I’ve tried to sneak out early before this ritual begins. But invariably, some kind soul will notice that I’m not carrying a plant or wearing a candy necklace and will seek to rectify the oversight. But chocolate and flowers – as lovely as they are – make for poor consolation prizes in this case.

I know. You don’t have to have children to be a mother.

I know. God operates on His own timetable and He’s not in the business of forever withholding blessings.

I know. Mother’s Day can be painful for women of all walks and circumstances, including those who have children.

I know. Members of the congregation are only sincerely trying to show love to all the women on Mother’s Day.

And quite frankly, I really wouldn’t have it any other way. It’s good to have a day set aside to honor our own mothers and the mothers around us. All women, with or without children, ought to be a part of the celebration.

And so, this Sunday, I’ll try again to be filled with a spirit of gratitude and unselfishness. I shall attempt to rally all the self-assurance I can muster. Perhaps I’ll even come to church with a red wagon full of potted plants and a magnificent corsage on each wrist.

Regardless, I fully intend to have chocolate for breakfast.

The Benefits of Swine Flu

Swine Flu seems to be the hottest virus in town. The trouble is, I don't have it -- not even the slightest indication -- which sadly implies that I am expected to move forward as though a possible pandemic were not hovering menacingly. Even the illustrious university I attend has issued a warning called "Swine Flu and Final Examinations." This helpful memo reminds us of the health benefits of "social distancing" and recommends that students be seated at least 3 feet from each other to avoid spreading Swine Flu (or answers to test questions). However, since I am not taking any final exams this year, my chances of contracting the virus are slim. And that is an unfortunate fact since I could truly benefit from being quarantined.

In between coughs and sniffles, here's how I'd spend my time if it were my civic duty to remain in my apartment for several days:

a) Sort through the multiple piles of papers that are quickly overtaking both my study and my bedroom.
b) Give away clothes that don't fit, are threadbare, or are seriously out-dated (thus, dispensing of most of my wardrobe).
c) Hang the stack of pictures that have been waiting for over six months to adorn my bare walls.
d) Begin transcribing and analyzing the mountains of data I've already acquired from the first couple weeks of my dissertation study.
e) Read Silas Marner -- our book club read for the month.
f) Write thank you notes for the past three years' gifts and kind services.
g) Do something with my three crates marked "for scrapbook." (This could involve a bonfire.)
h) Sleep.

In other words, I'm dying to do some serious digging out from the pile-up that's been accumulating for months.

Anyone wanna go to Mexico??

Random Tidbits

March passed by with the grace and elegance of a herd of hungry hippopotami. The good news is that I get to try again in April. Here are a few highlights from recent weeks:

• I finally submitted my first research article for publication in an academic journal. This silly paper has been several years in the making. I shall send up a flair the moment I receive my first rejection letter.
  
• I became so sleep deprived that I could actually feel my brain cells evaporating. I'm quite sure if I were to have an MRI, the scan would show several large regions of my brain that strangely resembled Cream of Wheat.
• Since I was already operating on minimal cerebral power, I decided to run a 5K with my friend. It was thrilling! I took something like 145th place and won a purple toothbrush AND a gold medal worth approximately 18 cents. The exhilaration was only slightly diminished by the post-race crippling effect. My early morning walks with another friend apparently did not count as sufficient training!
  
• Last Sunday, I got a flat tire, accidentally flung a pitcher of water on the floor during nursery, and watched with amazement as one of our new nursery children managed to cry with such determination that she threw up. The day was redeemed, however, by the opportunity to sing with our wonderful stake choir for an Easter concert.
  
• Thanks to divine intervention, I finally was able to acquire enough participants to start my dissertation project. In the process, I have been forced to enter the 21st century since high schoolers seem to communicate almost exclusively by texting. So in the past week, I've met and exceeded my all-time record of text-messaging -- although it still takes me 10 minutes to text one sentence.

On that note, G2G. PLZ have a GR8 day!

In Praise of Sleep

Am I the only one who finds it completely impossible to live with myself (let alone with the rest of the world) when I'm sleep deprived?

It's stunning how bleak everything seems when I don't get enough shut-eye. I even resent the cute little birds chirping outside my window. Can't you critters at least sing on pitch?! I can't decide whether to shoot the birds or jump off the balcony myself.

On the other hand, after a good night's rest (even better, a string of them), my melodramatic tendencies subside considerably and I am able to go about my business in a cheerful sort of way. The impossible takes on an aura of possibility. The annoyances seem less important. And the little birds become downright charming.

Amazing.


Image used under creative commons license. Photo by SMN.

Dealing with Drugs (not to be confused with drug dealing)

This is not a joke. But it is testament to the stunning inefficiency of our "state-of-the-art" healthcare system.

Background:

One day a friendly drug rep walked into my doctor's office.

"Hear ye! Hear ye!" the swankily-dressed drug rep proclaimed, "The FDA has approved a new and remarkable drug for your patients suffering from Megalufidum!"

(Disease name has been changed in accordance with the Patient Privacy Act of 1612).

"You'll be thrilled to know that instead of a 10-inch horse needle, this magical serum can be administered with a teeny tiny needle that does not inflict pain, but provides the patient with the sensation that he or she is sipping lemonade on a beach in Honolulu."

She goes on to explain how this new drug, Lemonada, has been clinically proven to be as effective as the old drug, Maximus.

"Furthermore," she says, "we are sensitive to the insurance travails you regularly experience trying to get Megalufidum drugs approved and paid for. Thus, as part of our welcome package, Lemonada customer service agents will do all the work for you to make this transition as smooth as possible. And if there are any insurance troubles, we'll provide Lemonada free of charge to your patients diagnosed with Megalufidum. You can rest assured: We CARE about your patients' health!"

My doctor is not one to fall for the antics of every drug rep who walks through the door, but he is sympathetic to the horse needle required to inject Maximus. He responsibly reads the research on Lemonada and is convinced of the drug's efficacy.

So at my next appointment, the nurse cheerfully tells me about Lemonada. It sounds good.

"I'll try it," I say.

I fill out a form that she will fax to the Lemonada folks.

"They'll take care of the rest," she assures me with a smile.

What Happened

After spending nearly 7 hours on the phone over four days that involved 2 doctors in two states, 3 clinic receptionists, 2 registered nurses, 2 pharmacists, 1 persistent drug rep, 1 patient training representative, 1 home health nurse, and approximately 9 customer "service" agents from my insurance company . . . .

I decided NOT to switch to Limonada for the following reasons:

a) The insurance would only cover a dosage lower than was not what my doctor recommended. The dosage I needed was going to cost $7000 (I'm not kidding.)

b) The "too good to be true" salespitch from the Limonada folks turned out to be, in fact, too good to be true.

c) My insurance went ahead and delivered Maximus to the doctor's office even though I had canceled the order and had verified that cancellation with at least three insurance reps.

Meanwhile . . .

The whole process had serious consequences on my mental and spiritual well-being since it a) drove me to the verge of a nervous breakdown and b) left me with such un-Christian feelings towards the insurance folks and drug marketers that I've probably lost any hope of a place in heaven.


P.S. I actually do not blame the insurance reps I spent hours on the phone with -- they are merely pawns in the hands of a broken, dysfunctional, self-serving system established by someone else.

Finally . . .

After five months of being cold most of the time, on Friday I experienced a rare and wonderful sensation: warmth. In my drafty, poorly insulated apartment. Without several layers of clothing, the heat turned up to unaffordable levels, or my little space heater dutifully forcing frozen electrons to burst out of their happy orbits.

In fact, I was even a tiny bit hot.

Of course, Saturday and Sunday were back to chilly, rainy, and gray.

But I'll take what I can get. Besides, the proliferation of bugs in my apartment can only signal that spring is on its way.

World Peace in the Basement

I just returned from teaching English at the Refugee Development Center. We meet in the basement of an old church in downtown Lansing. My class in some ways is a microcosm of the world -- the main difference being that my students peacefully co-exist. The largest group is from Cuba, but others come from Iraq, Egypt, Myanmar, China, Burundi, Somalia, Afghanistan, and Mexico. They are Christians, Muslims, and Buddhists and speak nine different languages. Each has come to America hoping for a better life for their children. Most are unemployed (the curse of Michigan), but each one would gladly have a job -- anything. The ones who are fortunate eek out meager livings working at a factory, doing housekeeping, or preparing food. The women cook and clean the house. Everyone watches a lot of television. They study English. The American dream seems awfully tarnished, but they don't complain - except about the weather. I don't blame them.

Meanwhile on Monday and Wednesday evenings, we struggle together to figure out words that are commonly taken for granted.

"Boyfriend? Like a small boy who is your friend?" one man asks.

"A cousin is your mother's sister's son or your father's sister's daughter or your mother's brother's son. You know - your grandmother's grandchildren!" I gaze out at a room full of blank stares. I had hoped that the funny-looking family tree I drew on the board might be helpful. But no - "cousin" turns out to be more complicated than I had anticipated.

We press on, forging through the linguistic impasses that continually creep up. The students whisper translations to help their friends or to double-check their hunches. They smile at me and play along with my sometimes misguided plans.

I tell them that my mother has seven brothers and three sisters. But she only has two daughters.

"How many children do you have?" they ask.
"I don't have any children."
"No children?" They seem surprised.
"You are not married?"
"No," I confess.
"What your birthday?" a middle-aged man (a former army officer) from Afghanistan asks. I know what he's trying to say.
"I'm 38." (Or am I 37? I never can remember these days.)
They don't know how to respond. Their faces reveal a combination of pity and astonishment.
"I'm old," I interject. "I need to find a husband." The Afghani man nods in agreement.
One of my Burmese students, a young woman with striking features and gorgeous brown eyes reassures me.
"I don't see 'old'," she says, "I see beautiful."

We spend the last ten minutes of class singing along with John Denver. I've discovered that people will often sing when they're too nervous to speak.

"'Cuz I'm leaving on a jet plane. Don't know when I'll be back again. Oh babe, I hate to go. . . ."

The lyrics seem to resonate.

Now the time has come to leave you.
One more time, let me kiss you.
Close your eyes, I'll be on my way.
Dream about the days to come
when I won't have to leave alone. . .

Class is over and my students gather their things. Echoes of "Thank you, teacher!" fill the room.

"No," I think. "Thank you."

Visualizing the Scriptures

For the past several months, I've been taking notes during my scripture study and focusing on what the Book of Mormon teaches about the Atonement of Christ. This morning, I put my notes into Wordle. This is the word cloud that was generated from the 70 most frequently used words from my text. (Click to see a bigger image. The larger the word, the greater its frequency.) I think it's a rather nice summary.

The Ministry of Microfilm

I always thought the IRS was the gold standard for bureaucracy, until I was introduced to the Ministry of Microfilm (MoM) and learned that microfilm is 21st century gold standard for document preservation. I came upon this crucial understanding at the dissertation formatting workshop I attended on Friday, which left me quite convinced that although the dissertation formatting office was obviously inspired by the IRS, MoM is indeed the final frontier of red tape. (Only in this case since color is strictly verboten, the tape must not be red. I'll explain in a moment.)

Although I don't actually have any words on paper beyond my dissertation proposal, I figured when the time came for text generation, I might as well have my margins correct. And since the workshop was 90 minutes, I assumed there must be more to it than 1-inch margins on all sides. Ha! What I didn't realize is that the Ministry employs thousands of office elves who fight over rulers and the chance to be the one to discover that a doctoral candidate's 12-point font is not actually 12 point, but 12.2 or something equally shocking. But this is not all. I also learned that any footnotes, subscripts or superscripts must be manually enlarged, and that leader dots must follow your table of contents, and that only one faculty member can be listed as your dissertation director even if you had two. (And did I mention that by the time you buy the special, hand-pressed, watermark paper and pay all the fees, it will cost well over $200 to submit the dissertation for final processing?)

As far as I can tell, however, the most egregious error one could make in dissertation formatting is attempting to insert color into your text. No, no. Dissertations are strictly black and white propositions. If you have a truly compelling reason for a dash of color, you have to fill out a form called "Letter of Exception for the Submission of Color Images." This important document has to be signed by approximately 63 people, including Joe Biden, Joe the Plumber, the Prime Minister of Zimbabwe, and the associate dean of your respective college.

Why all these rules? (And trust me, dear reader; I have mentioned only a small fraction of them.) Because microfilm is the 21st century gold standard for document preservation! As the graduate school dean astutely explained, "When Microsoft has ceased to exist, someone will still be able to read your dissertation on microfilm just by holding it up to a candle."

I'm pretty sure that these sacred microfilms are stored in an underground vault somewhere near Roswell, New Mexico where they are kept safe from flood, fire, alien invasion, or nuclear holocaust. What sweet comfort it will bring in time of affliction to know that although the world as we know it may cease to exist, my dissertation - my magnum opus -- will remain intact as a legacy to the never-ending pursuit of knowledge.

Thanks, MoM!

Pink Coats in a Strange Land

Scene 1:

No one bothered to tell me that virtually no one in Moscow was wearing hot pink in the winter of 1992. Coats were mostly black, grey, navy blue, or brown in just barely post-Soviet Russia. I, however, was a young, idealistic, clueless American with a fuschia coat – fuschia lined with green and purple plaid, no less. And every time I hopped aboard a bus, heads turned and usually, people smiled. They immediately knew I was a foreigner. Occasionally, a brave soul would say something to me and in those cases, it usually came out that I was an American.

“Oh!” the person would exclaim in delight, “you’re from America? Have you been to New York?”

Then they’d want to know what I was doing in Moscow, what I thought of the city, and they'd recommend an interesting place for me to visit or some Russian cuisine to taste. Sometimes, they’d apologize for unfriendly people or the lackluster conditions of their country. Often, they’d ask if I needed help getting somewhere. Typically, they’d compliment me on my Russian, acting honored and impressed that I’d even tackle their formidable language.

Scene 2:

The other day, I was on a bus in Michigan riding home from campus. A young man wearing a bright pink coat boarded the bus. When our eyes met, he brandished a most contagious smile. It was M, a former student of mine from the Refugee Center. He is a refugee from Burma, a country plagued by a ruthless military dictatorship, a recent spate of devastating natural disasters, and impossible economic conditions. Each week, he’d come to my class with his buddies. They were refugees, too – several of them were the only survivors in their family. Everyone else was dead. If they were lucky, they worked menial jobs in Lansing, cleaning hotel rooms, washing dishes, or sewing uniforms at a factory. Now that they were in America, they knew that learning English was the key to their future. With English, they could attend school, get a better job, make friends, understand television shows, and read the newspapers.

I’ll never forget the week when the weather turned cold. It wasn’t that cold yet, but still my Burmese students showed up in the most wonderful array of winter coats. To their Southeastern Asian sensibilities, it was plenty cold. My guess is that they picked out their coats from a pile of donated winter wear. I had seen this once. The director of the Refugee Center had announced a new arrival of donated clothing. Behold: a random assortment of clothes strewn in the hallway, some items in boxes, others simply tossed on the floor. Humbly and gratefully, some of them a bit embarrassed, my students selected items that might be worn by themselves or friends or family. I imagined a similar pile of coats. I don’t know if M chose the pink coat because he liked it or if it was the only one remaining. I wonder if he knew that most young men in Lansing wouldn’t be caught dead in a fuschia coat. I wonder if he cared. After all, it did the job.

M and I exchanged a brief greeting as he made his way to the back of the bus. The bus wasn’t full, but that was where his friends were sitting. I listened to them cheerfully chattering in Burmese.

I waved to M as I got off the bus. Again, he smiled broadly.

I wondered. Do people here express interest in M? Do they care what he thinks of our country? Do they apologize for unfriendly people? Are they impressed and honored that he is trying to learn English? Do they know or care where Burma is? Can they even begin to imagine what it would be like to be the only living soul in your family?

Do they wonder who’s inside that hot pink coat?

A Cabbie, a Concert, and a 3.5 million-dollar Stradivarius

If Joshua Bell were a basketball player, he'd be Michael Jordan. If he were a movie star, he'd be Brad Pitt. If he were a politician, he'd be Barack Obama. If Joshua Bell were a violinist, he'd be . . . oh wait, he is the violinist of his time. The guy's a rock-star, except he happens to play the violin. People all over the world pay big money to hear him play, which is why I took notice when I heard he was performing at Michigan State. And why I was really glad I still qualify for student rates at the box office, and why I convinced my friends that this experience was crucial to our education. This is also why I felt perfectly certain that Joshua Bell would have a driver.

"Of course he has a driver," I confidently explained to Marjorie, my friend who was accompanying me and Ann to the concert, "I just can't imagine them crammed into some economy rental car."

I had just received an automated telephone message explaining that the performance was postponed till 8:00 p.m.. It turns out poor weather had grounded all the flights out of Louisville and Mr. Bell was therefore en route via car to Michigan.

After a delicious, leisurely dinner, we made our way to the Wharton Center. It was 7:55 and people were still milling about. We learned from the usher that Joshua Bell had arrived about 15 minutes earlier.

A few minutes after 8:00, Mr. Bell and his pianist, Jeremy Denk, walked on to the stage. Both adorned in fairly nondescript black attire, button-down shirts (untucked) and sleek black pants, they seemed perhaps just the tiniest bit frazzled, but only the tiniest bit. Any molecule of frazzle evaporated, however, the moment they began playing. After a few measures, they were carried away by a compelling musical conversation between the violin and the piano, carrying us away with them. Their virtuosity was evident, the interpretation brilliant, the performance impeccable. The hall was utterly silent as they played, punctuated only by a few coughs that escaped between movements.

After intermission, Joshua Bell, slouching down to reach the microphone, told us the story of their adventure getting here. They had originally planned to take an early morning flight out of Louisville where they had performed the night before. Upon arriving at the the airport, however, they discovered that every flight had been canceled -- except for theirs. Their sigh of relief was short-lived as their flight was also canceled soon thereafter. Plan B was to drive to Cincinnati, about two hours away, and catch a flight from there to Detroit. After negotiating a price, they found a cab-driver who agreed to take them.

But in another turn of misfortune, a dead battery sabotaged plan B prompting the two musicians to explain their plight to the next driver in line. In solidarity to his comrade, he said that instead of taking them himself, he'd jump the first driver's car. The taxi successfully jump-started, they piled into the cab with an uncertain battery. They were very certain, however, not to leave behind Mr. Bell's violin, an 18th century Stradivarius worth 3.5 million dollars.

The stream of bad luck continued when they learned that they weren't going to be able to get a flight out of Cincinnati after all.

"Would you like to keep going?" they asked Neville, the driver and their new-found best friend.

He agreed and drove another six hours to Lansing.

"Neville decided to stay and hear the concert," Joshua Bell continued, gesturing to a somewhat under-dressed gentleman in the audience. The man stood up and received his own round of enthusiastic, grateful applause.

"If the tempo of our music seems on the fast side tonight," Joshua Bell quipped, "it's because the meter's still running."

The second half of the concert was as glorious as the first. And somehow, it was even better laced with this tale of human kindness, ingenuity, and determination. I'm pretty sure Neville had no idea at first that he was transporting two world-class musicians who regularly rub shoulders with the creme de la creme of society. Yet regardless of wealth and social status, it was a cabbie from Kentucky who made it possible for the show to go on.


(As a bonus feature to this post, I'm linking to a wonderful Pulitzer Prize winning article about the day Joshua Bell played incognito in a Washington, D.C. subway station. It's aptly named Pearls Before Breakfast. )