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Brought to you by Rob's Giant Head
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For one of my classes last semester, we were encouraged to give back some of our tech skills to the community, encouraging the sense of service learning. I had been approached by the Champlain Valley Folk Festival to do some improvements to their web site for them. Since the organizers are good friends, and I believe in the cause, I offered to do the work for them as my service project for the class. Other factors took over my life, and I ended up volunteering at an intro to Computer Science seminar for local scouts instead (Can somebody give me an example of an embedded device? I.C.B.M.s. Correct, but scary.) A draft example of the new site is up at http://stamper.uvm.edu/cvff/index.html. Not done yet but should go live relatively soon. I’m also providing some CSS and design advice to MacLeod Information Services, and it’s good to flex these particular muscles again. Anyway, nothing too exciting, as I’m rusty from not having bloviated online in quite some time.
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I never cease to be amazed by the continued relevance PONG has to every aspect of my life. 
Photo Credits: 9 0 0 0 from Flickr.
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I just got back from a week of fiddling up in the Great White North, or more accurately, the Great Sandy Nord. I attended for the first time the first annual Camp Violon Trad Quebec, where the likes of Andre Brunet, Stephanie Lepine, Martine Billette and Eric Beaudry crammed notes into our skulls by the shovelful. Because there were so many tunes to learn, there was absolutely no time to have any fun. 
The individuals in this photo, despite appearances are NOT having a grand old time at a Mardi Gras evening on Tuesday. This is simply a display of the tremendous acting skills of the students at this camp. From left to right, you will find the following serious individuals pretending to be having a heck-uv-a time. - Carol D. - English teacher and schoolmarm at a private school in southern Vermont
- Joan F. - Law enforcement officer at an institute of higher education in central Illinois
- Donna M. - Research Librarian for a large municipal library in Canada
- Doug L. - High school science teacher in central Vermont
- Rob R. (no relation) - Computer programmer for a large state university in northwestern Vermont Though the preparatory materials indicated that there would be a Mardi Gras evening, I would like to point out that I came completely unprepared, not knowing what such would entail. I suspected I would sit in the corner, ready to be entertained by the outlandish outfits and antics of the less repressed. Then I walked through the lounge near the entrance to my sleeping quarters. A chorus of angels began singing one of those songs from the Little Mermaid. A silver spear of light pierced the windows, and through my tears of joy, I saw... the curtains. Sheer beauty, I tell you. Other than the color choice, the pattern and the drape. At that moment, I knew I would come to the party as Carmen Miranda (Really? No idea? Check her out on youtube). We had the fruit technology and duct tape in the kitchen, we had the appropriate swathes of material. How could I possibly go wrong? Oh yeah. No frikkin' time. So a few safety pins from the basket on the sink in the (ehem, women's) rest room, an excursion up the wall to liberate a few yards of material, and there you have it: a colourblind Scotsman. I was asked what was holding up my kilt, but I believe the appropriate question is, "Whet's hauldin' her doon, aye?" I was kilt clad throughout dinner and the subsequent improv show (similar to who's line is it anyway, only with fiddles and a language barrier). The next morning, the only indication of these curtains had gone for a bit of a road trip was a few wrinkles where I had been "settin' ma' wee hiney on the carrick*." You can see some of the curtain hanging loops below my left fist. By midnight, these curtains were back on the rod where they belonged, and only this photo to remind us of the rollicking good times that occurred on Tuesday evening at the first ever Camp Violon Trad Quebec. * Yes, I know that Carrick is constituency represented in the Irish House of Commons between 1614 and 1800, and thus this statement makes no sense, but I was in the middle of an improv and a carrick sounds like something a fake Scotsman might sit upon, especially if he has a certain red-green color differentiation issues. Photo Credit: Elizabeth Szekeres, 2008
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The whitepages.com site allows you to see a geographic distribution of individuals with a particular name within the United States. When I googled myself (Images, specifically), the first hit was from http://names.whitepages.com/Kansas/Robert/Rohr and contained the following image: 
I know of another Robert Rohr in Vermont who is a retired attorney with links to Margot's law firm. I think that's about all of the Rob Rohr that people around here can handle.
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I'm a big fan of the web comic, Sheldon. One of the main characters is a talking duck named Arthur, to whom I can particularly relate. 
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I've had a whirlwind year and haven't been sharing unnecessary or inappropriate information about the minutia of my life with total strangers, so I thought it was time to grant the internets a glimpse at my deepest, most private insights. Fortunately for you all, I'm not that much of a sadist to inflict that upon you. Instead I'll give you a short recap of the last year. - Attended the Dance Flurry in Saratoga last January. Awesome experience, with bands like Raz de Maree (Tidal Wave) and Nightingale. The music was great, the contradancing was great, the jam sessions were good too. This was my first opportunity to try out the new lumber. Very exciting.
- Another semester of successful, but punishing classes in the Computer Science curriculum. Got A's in both Neural Computation and Wireless Sensor Networks. Glee! Job + Classwork = Grueling. Grueling + Time = Success. Success leads to a celebration dinner and a full tummy. So I guess I'm effectively shutting myself off from the world for four months at a time in order to get a pile of sushi (seriously, folks, try the Tempura battered Sweet Potato sushi rolls at Sakura in Burlington or Williston). Yum!
- I finished up my first year as Staff Council representative for the School of Business Administration at the University of Vermont. Because of the massive reorganization of the Staff Council, the Bylaws had to be gutted, and as a Rules and Elections committee member, we had some serious work to do, which was ultimately passed. Sorry folks, no photos of this grim business.
- Attended the New England Folk Festival (NEFFA) in Mansfield, MA in April. Again, tons of contradancing and jamming opportunities. Got to play with the folks from Raz de Maree in a kicking Quebecois jam session. Seriously cool.
- Started attending a local Irish Session/Seisun about a mile from my house at the Lincoln Inn in Essex. It's mostly mid-speed stuff with some really great people attending. The every-other-week schedule conflicted massively with my vacation & business trip schedule for June and July, so I wasn't able to attend a single session those months, but I should return next week.
- First week of June, I went to TechEd (my tenth time there). Ton's of good info as always. The jam session was quite good, though not nearly as frequent as I would have liked. I tried to organize an impromptu Irish session midweek, but there was not sufficient response in time to do so. The regular session in the area (Orlando) was the following week during the IT-Pro conference.
- Third week of June, I went to Northeast Heritage Music Camp (NHMC) in Johnson, VT. This was my second time at this camp, as I first attended last year. This year I brought a real fiddle, and the experience was so much better than the phenomenal experience I had the year before. Absolutely stunningly talented faculty, each one so generous with their time & experience. Worth every penny. The Quebecois instructor, Daniel Lemieux, was sadly unable to attend because of a shoulder injury, but Donna Hebert proved to be a capable replacement that introduced me to the music of Louis Beaudoin, from my hometown. Who knew? Dorm living, but you get your own room. Plenty of food, plenty of class options, plenty of jamming, plenty of sleep deprivation. Almost overslept & missed my ride home.
- First week of July, my niece and nephew came to town to visit for a week. We took trips to the library for books and strawberry shortcake, went exploring in the gully beneath the hydro dam, biked along the shores of Lake Champlain, saw fireworks from the top of one of the taller buildings in Burlington, and ended with a trip to see Circus Smirkus, a touring circus whose talent is made up of teenagers. They were awesome. The circus performers too.
- After the week was up, Margot, Maggie, Robert and I headed over to New Hampshire to go camping with a large fraction of my family. We stopped on the way to visit my Grandmother, who at 91 years of age, was missing her 1st year of camp in years due to a bronchial infection. She was so glad to see us, almost as glad as we were to see her. At camp, there was much swimming, eating, hiking, and catching up with all the parents/sisters/nieces/nephews. It's always a good time, except the parts where everyone is cranky. A good dunk in the lake usually solves that.
- This past week I went to Quebec to take part in Camp Violon Trad Quebec (the home page with links to the French and English versions throws a suspicious popup) in Rawdon, about an hour north of Montreal, PQ. However incredible NHMC has been (see above) these last two years, this camp was even better. A little smaller in scope, a little more rustic in accommodations, but even more personal and it would be tough to beat the talent and teaching ability of the faculty. If you are a Quebecois Trad music junky like me, there is no question. There is nothing like this available elsewhere in this concentration, aside from moving to Joliette or St.-Côme and getting adopted by one of these fantastic musicians. At the end of the week, the campers performed the tunes they had learned...
 ...on the main stage of the Festival Memoire & Racines at Joliette, PQ. The festival was incredible amount of fun. Wall to wall music, dancing, camaraderie, and all-night-jams. I got to teach the tricky bits of St.-Côme Reel #4 to Pascal Gemme of Genticorum. Oh, bliss. Luckily, I had sufficient practice dealing with sleep deprivation the previous week and at NHMC that I was able to survive on only 5 hours sleep combined on Friday & Saturday nights. Returned home on Sunday a functional zombie, but infected with surely illegal levels of Canadian Bliss (TM). If I have to choose only camp/festival to attend next year, it will be this one. I will of course apply a wedgie to the individual that makes me choose between NHMC and CVTQ, but will have to choose north of the border. Don't make me use my mad wedgie skillz.
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A good friend of mine, Lisa Cox, has just started blogging, while starting a grassroots run for president. This gives you an idea of her energy level and verve for multitasking. Personally blogging while running for President. That's virtually unheard of, and may be the edge she needs to overcome the Romneyatch political juggernaut that has swept her state. Lisa's still figuring out the little niggling details, like inserting images, hyperlinking, and universal healthcare, but if I know Lisa, these technicalities do not stand a chance when pitted against the sheer force of her will.  Lisa recently brought my attention to the artist, Alex Katz, who she had "discovered" at the Denver Art Museum. In her stead, I offer an artwork by Alex Katz found at the Neptune Fine Art gallery in New York, titled Cow.
Click the image for a larger view. Now look into the eyes of this bovine. You will not win a staring contest with this artwork. It's unnerving, yet fascinating; disturbing, yet soothing. Lisa, best of luck with your Presidential bid, and with your blogging. If you need any assistance with any of the more arcane aspects of blogging, I'll be glad to help. If you need assistance getting elected to represent the folks of this fine country, I believe there will be a lot of unemployed staffers for the Romneyatch campaign in the near future. By the way, anybody wishing to join in my not-so-subversive campaign to give Romneyatch a new, hip, 21st century nickname so he can connect with the younger generation of voters, feel free to ask me how to "juice the google."
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The saga so far: - Had violin growing up. Decent quality. Crack in top plate under tailpiece, glued but not well. Serviceable tone, but low volume.
- Started playing again about two years ago, and about a year after I picked up the fiddle again, the repaired cracked stopped being repaired and any note on the A-string would buzz mercilessly. Cost to repair this acoustic instrument? Much more than a replacement instrument of similar value and known tone/volume with no guarantee as to sound quality once the repair is complete.
- Solution? Get another instrument. Bought an electric fiddle from Bridge Instruments in the UK, which had good tone, but again, low volume when not amplified, and a bit tinny in the top end (also when playing acoustically).
- Went to jam sessions and music camps and had problems hearing myself when playing in groups. Major bummer.
So here I am, one year after spending a medium-sized pile of cash on an electric fiddle to replace the instrument I grew up playing. It's a very nice instrument, but there are times when it's just not right to pull out an amplified instrument. So I had my eye out for an acoustic fiddle with decent tone that wouldn't break the bank. This past September, I wandered into the local folk instrument shop (Vermont Folk Instruments, Burlington, VT) to see what they had in consignment fiddles. It turns out that they had three new and one consignment instrument hanging on the wall. I tried the two new models (one was a duplicate), both factory-made student models fresh out of the shipping container. The "expensive" model came with case and bow for $225. I didn't have high expectations, and found that I had overestimated the quality of the sound that I was able to produce. I don't usually use the word "dreadful" as that makes me sound like I'm 90 years old and talking about various body-modification techniques in vogue with the youngsters today, but I felt it was fairly applicable to the tone produced by these beasts. Then I took the consignment fiddle off the wall. I tuned it, and started noodling. The sound was surprisingly full and rich, considering the price tag. The price had already been dropped by $100 from the seller's original request. There was a 2-inch long gouge in the top, running in an arc from the fine-tuners towards the bow hand side. Strictly cosmetic. The ribs in the lower bout of this instrument (see Wikipedia - Violin construction and mechanics for terminology) was made of two pieces of wood, joined where tailpiece enters. In inspecting the join between the two pieces, I noticed about a millimeter gap. Since I had already had issues with a bad repair on an instrument giving way on me, I was not ready to part with the asking price if I weren't sure of the structural stability of a replacement fiddle. The last thing I need is a third instrument that I can't use. I expressed my concerns to the shopkeeper (lovely plumage, but it's stone dead), he shrugged his shoulders, couldn't tell me anything about the viability of the join. So I put it back on the shelf and walked out. Margot has told me, and I agree, that pricey purchases should be set back on the shelf, and you go home and think about it for a week (or a month) and if it still seems like a good idea after subjecting the purchase to cold calculating reason, then you go back and buy it. So I let it sit for a month, then two. Just before Thanksgiving, I was meeting Margot downtown for our daily carpool, and I thought I'd stop by the folk shop to see if the fiddle was still there, and if not, if any other consignment instruments were there. The telltale gouge in the top face greeted me cheerfully from the row of fiddles on the wall. I checked the price. Still no movement from September, but the instrument was still there. I played it a little more, then talked with an instrument tech about my concerns about the lower bout. Once assured that that join isn't structural (there's a block behind the join that connect the upper and lower plates and acts as the seat for the endpin), I made an offer on the instrument that was about 20% lower than the listed price. After Thanksgiving, not having heard back about my offer, I visited the store, the seller of the instrument was called, a tiny bit of haggling ensued, and I left with a new (to me) fiddle. It ain't the prettiest, but I think it's gorgeous. I brought it to my Gram's for Christmas, and I'll bring it to my folk's for New Year's. Pictures/audio samples to follow.
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 My Uncle Bill Bauer died last month, and this has hit me pretty hard. His diabetes had flared up pretty hard over the last decade, forcing him into early retirement. As a priest, early retirement is not a good thing, as the church houses you as long as you can say the occasional mass, but doesn't pay you enough to go out and buy your own home once you retire. Bill was a brilliant man, from a brilliant family that seemed to marry the best of faith and reason, and combined with a remarkable empathy, left a deep impression on those he served. He had very firm principles, and he would battle for what he believed, even if that meant stepping on some toes in the Diocese administrative offices. In conflicts between dogma and the lives of real people, Bill looked to the people first, ensuring that nobody suffered needlessly from inflexible dogmatic pronouncements of the church.
My far-flung family got to see Bill in his last week before he died, and hard as it was to see him in such pain, I'm glad we were able to gather round him in his last days. In the hospital and at his funeral, I played a lament for him on my fiddle. Bill has gone on the longest journey and we will all miss him terribly. Good-bye, bold William. My notes for Bill's eulogy:  I was born on William Bauer’s 22nd birthday, on Sept. 23rd, 1969. Ever since I’ve known that we shared a birthday, that day has been extra special; not because it was my birthday, but because it was his birthday. I also found out that Uncle Bill and I share our birthday with Bruce Springsteen, but neither Bill nor I ever held that against him.
I come from a very big family, and family gatherings were raucous, boisterous affairs. The white-hot glow of the many competing personalities forced us each to jostle for a slot in the conversation. Bill burned particularly bright in that scintillating crowd. He was brilliant, funny, friendly and approachable. But in all those numerous, rambunctious family gatherings, at no time had I ever really been alone with my uncle. It wasn’t until I was 28 that I felt I really got to know Bill at all.  In March of 1997, I had been living for a few months in Germany, sorting through the then current shambles of my life, when I headed to the Vatican City for Palm Sunday weekend where Uncle Bill was on Sabbatical. As a male relative, I was allowed to stay in a spare room in Bill's dormitory at the North American College. I took the train through the Swiss and Italian alps, Lugano, Milan and Florence to Rome. I was one of thousands of people pouring into Rome for Holy Week. Street vendors and pickpockets hoped in their own way to separate us from our tourist dollars, and the chaos that is Rome was ratcheted up another notch, for the celebration of the highest holidays of the Catholic Church.
 Bill met me at the railroad station where he taught me my first lesson. As in any venture, there are rules and there are realities.
Rule: Pedestrians have the right of way in crosswalks, and any motorist involved in a fatal accident involving a pedestrian loses driving privileges for life. To be fair, the pedestrian loses her life. For life.
Reality: So long as pedestrians move at a constant and predictable speed in the cross-walk, it is a simple matter for motorists to avoid the pedestrians (without slowing down), and nobody need lose anything.We safely made it to the dormitory, and I got a lesson in faith and trust and the comfort of safe havens in our journey through chaos. The next morning, I met Bill in his room before we were to head out and visit a few of the achievements of Imperial Rome and the Catholic Church. As I arrived, Bill was checking his email, and we received news that my sister, Liz, had just given birth to my nephew, Robert Carter Parke. I was an Uncle for the first time. There was no time to revel in that news though. We were due at the Vatican Museum when it opened if we had any hope of visiting all the sights I had hoped to see.  At this point in Bill’s life, the diabetes had already started to take its toll on his mobility. I don’t think I knew quite how much I pushed him over the course of those two days until long after we had both returned home, but Bill led me past the Pantheon, Trevi fountain, Spanish Steps and the Colosseum on our way to see the magnificent Byzantine mosaics in the Basilica of Sts Cosmas and Damian at the edge of the Forum. While wandering the grounds of the forum, Bill pointed out a  particularly striking young woman, braving the cobbles and rubble in her improbably high heels and outfit as glamorous as it was abbreviated. He turned to me and said, “when the Lord invented Italian women, he certainly knew what he was doing.” I agreed wholeheartedly, but felt I should at least register some level of shock. “Uncle Bill!” He turned to me and said, “I’m a priest, Robert. I’m not dead.” We continued to wander through the ruins of the palaces of past emperors, and as we descended a stone staircase on the  side of the Palatine hill, I saw an empty niche where a statue used to rest. I decided to climb up into the niche, a fleeting chance to be a stone angel or saint, emperor or hero. I decided to try for sainthood, fashioning my face into a most beatific countenance, clasping my hands as in prayer, eyes cast skyward looking for heavenly blessing. Bill took my picture then, laughing to himself.
 The next morning burned hot and clear with the Mediterranean sun giving everything a white halo. It was Palm Sunday, and the Vatican had granted the College some tickets for the Palm Sunday mass on the steps of St. Peter’s Basilica. There were enough tickets for me to go as well, so I joined Bill and his fellow students at the great square, already teeming with people waiting for their chance to see Pope John Paul II say the Palm Sunday mass. Even with preferential seating, we were back far enough in the square that the pope was only as tall as a nickel held at arm’s length. With the pointy hat. The pope said mass with appropriate pomp and pageantry. Messages for the youth were spoken in a dozen languages, exhorting peace and spirituality in all endeavors, and the 200,000 people from all parts of the earth who gathered in the spirit of harmony and love remained in remarkable spirits in the heat of the day.
 After mass, on our way to lunch at the College, Bill told me of the audience Pope John Paul II had granted to the priests at the college. Bill told me he was struck by the brilliance of the mind of a man trapped in a frail and failing body. These last 3 years, it has hurt me to see my uncle experience the same frustrations and limitations.
 I left Bill to his continuing studies that evening on a northbound train, returning to the confusion of my own life. The ailments that had slowed Bill at that point in his life had paused briefly, then continued their relentless consumption of his body, leaving the hotly burning fire of his spirit to battle with the ever greater restrictions and confinements. My mother later told me Bill considered his time in Rome to be the high point of his life. I was so glad to be able to share some of that time with him, a brief but searingly bright moment in my own life. We were able to see behind the facades we had each constructed for the benefit of others. I showed Bill some of the pain I had been feeling, pain I was reluctant to admit even to myself. In turn, my uncle showed me aspects of himself I had never seen before.
To him I say now, You are a priest, William, and you are not dead. You’re pain and suffering are over, and in all our hearts there is a home for you. You have all the time in the world now to come visit us and share with us the peace you have now found.
Obituary (Troy Record): Rev. William M. Bauer TROY - The Rev. William M. Bauer, 59, a priest of the Albany Roman Catholic Diocese, entered into eternal life on Tuesday, Aug. 21, 2007, at St. Mary's Hospital in Troy while being cared for by his family with the assistance of the Community Hospice of Rensselaer County. Father Bauer was born in Buffalo, on Sept. 23, 1947, and was the son of the late Elmer M. and Mary E. Niles Bauer. Raised in Buffalo, until the age of seven, Father Bauer then moved, with his family, to Troy where he graduated from St. Mary's Grammar School and Catholic Central High School, Class of 1965. He then entered the Mater Christi Seminary in Albany and later Christ the King Seminary, from where he graduated in 1973. Father Bauer was ordained into the priesthood on May 19, 1973, at the Cathedral of the Immaculate Conception in Albany by Most Rev. Edwin B. Broderick, DD, eighth bishop of Albany. Following his ordination, Father Bauer served briefly as chaplain at the Albany Medical Center and as an educator at Cardinal McCloskey High School in Albany. He served as associate pastor in various parishes in the Albany Diocese, including Sacred Heart, Cairo; St. Stanislaus, Amsterdam; St. Ambrose, Latham; and St. Alphonsus in Glens Falls, where he also served as pastor from October 1982 until September 1987. His final assignment was to serve as pastor of St. John the Baptist Church in Greenville from Sept. 13, 1987, until ailing health forced his retirement on March 1, 2004. In his earlier years, Father Bauer was a volunteer firefighter and was a member of the Brunswick Fire Company 1. In recent years, he enjoyed traveling, with his friends, to St. Thomas in the U.S. Virgin Islands. He had a lifelong love of books, especially science fiction, movies and crossword puzzles. Father Bauer was the dear nephew of the late Rita (Edmond) Pascucci and Mary Pillsworth. He was the much loved brother of Rita T. (Paul) Rohr of Enfield, CT, Anne M. Dowling of Troy and Mary C. (John) Maxwell of Troy; cherished uncle of Paul C. (Kathy Evans) Rohr of Massachusetts, Elizabeth (Bill) Parke of Buffalo, Jennifer (John) Goode of Maryland, Robert (Margot Schips) Rohr of Burlington, VT, Liam Dowling of Coconut Creek, FL, Seamus Dowling of Troy, Sean (Cindy) Maxwell of Coconut Creek, FL, and Casey Leibach of Troy; special great-uncle of Emma and Braeden Leibach as well as to several other great-nieces and great-nephews; dear cousin of James Pascucci, Edmond and Mary Rita Pascucci, Nicholas and Karen Pascucci, Martha and Bill Bridgewater, Mary E. (Walter Schooler) Pascucci, Rita Madigan, John and Anne Pascucci and the late Anne Weaver, whose husband, John Weaver, survives. Funeral services for Father Bauer will begin on Friday at 4 p.m. with the reception of his body into Our Lady of Victory Church, Marshland Court at North Lake Avenue in Troy. Visiting hours will immediately follow, on Friday, from 4:30 until 7:30 p.m. The evening will conclude with an Evening Prayer Service at 7:30 p.m. The Mass of Christian Burial will be concelebrated on Saturday at 11 a.m. in Our Lady of Victory Church, Troy, where the Very Rev. Michael A. Farano, V.G., will serve as principal celebrant. Interment will follow in St. Mary's Cemetery, Troy. Contributions, in memory of Rev. William M. Bauer may be made to the CHOICES Program at St. Peter's Hospital, c/o Care for Life, 40 North Main Ave., Albany, NY 12203. For on-line guest registry, please visit www.parkerbros memorial.com.
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 My first TechEd post is about the deep technical issues, and the first party of the week where they can be discussed. Party with Palermo!
And so it begins. I haven't been to this one, but it looks like it will be a fun time. The party is at the Glo Lounge, with it's apparently eye-searing decorative sense, but I'll have my shades so all will be well. Some of the big names in my developer world will be in attendance. Update: I didn't end up going to this event, as my flight didn't arrive in Orlando until 10:30PM, and then I had to deal with my missing baggage, and didn't end up getting to my hotel until almost midnight. Garumph.
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Finally! 
Tom the Dancing Bug (Edited by Ruben Bolling) has realized the true drama that is encapsulated in every PONG battle.
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In a previous post, I mentioned a shirt with a built in graphic sonic frequency analyzer. I was morose because it wasn't machine washable. Too much work was necessary in keeping that garment in a presentable and working state. Now I am tormented by a new offering in animated clothing: the Animated Retro Table Tennis Shirt from thinkgeek.com. 
Long time readers (hi, Mom) know I have a more than passing fascination with the classic videogame PONG. The thought of anybody taking bleeding edge technology and accomplishing something completely retro with it just makes me giddy. Viz: electric violins. Here, our garment manufacturers have managed to combine the timeless classic of a t-shirt (the raiments of Valhalla and Olympia) and combined it with solid state electronics and a laminar display that shows a trivial, yet oddly compelling animation of a game of PONG. Even better, this shirt is machine washable.* Progress! But still too much work for a t-shirt, no matter how cool and PONG-oriented. * Ribbon cable must be disconnected from the concealed battery pack. The battery pack should be removed from its pocket, and the animated decal must be removed from the shirt (held in place via velcro) before laundering. Do not operate motor vehicles or heavy machinery while gazing at this shirt. Pregnant women or people with heart or liver conditions should check with their doctor before being seen in public with a person wearing this shirt. Babies who have parents who think this shirt is "just ducky" should lobby their congressperson to legalize late term adoption for children of terminally embarrasing parents. For a video of the shirt in action, check out the embedded video on the product page (scroll down). Note to family members looking for easy gift ideas for a boy: I don't want a shirt like this until the electronics and screen can be embedded into the material, can be laundered, and can be powered by the glow from my computer screen, or my motion, or my B.O. or something. Most anything else at thinkgeek.com would work for gift ideas for either Margot or me. Have you seen the USB Rocket Launcher? It has twice the range of the USB Missile Launcher...
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My photo from my previous post introducing the new fiddle didn't have the proper light to show some of the finer details of the fiddle in question, so I'm including a couple of snaps here from the Bridge Instruments website to show the instrument off a little better. 
There is a battery clipped to the back that engages the internal electronics whenever a 1/4 inch cable is plugged into the bottom. There are two controls on the front for volume and tone. The hollow body resonates quite well, and the fiddle is nearly as loud (unamplified) as an acoustic violin. The tone is quite good, though the high end is a little harsh. The brightness is smoothed out under amplification though. Once I get a few tunes sussed out, I'll try to record them and post MP3s for our listeners at home.
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 I am pleased to report that I have a new fiddle.
I am, however, sad to announce that I needed to go out and get a new fiddle. The image shows the new wee sleekit beastie in repose. The new fiddle is a four-stringed Aquilla model by Bridge Instruments in the UK. Yes, it's black, and oddly shaped. The body is made of a carbon fiber composite with kevlar added to the front plate. Unlike most electric fiddles, this has a hollow body resonating cavity, so it is nearly as loud as a traditional acoustic wooden instrument. It has a pickup in the bridge as well as a jack on the back for routing the sound to an amplifier. What happened to the old fiddle?
I've been playing violin since I was in 3rd grade, and when I got old (large) enough to need a full sized instrument, I found out that my grandparents had an old violin in their attic. The violin had been my Dad's grandfather's instrument, and had passed to my grandfather who didn't know how to play. It was old, grimy, had broken strings and a snapped bridge and a pressboard case that was coming apart. I had no idea how it would sound, but it was the most beautiful thing I had ever seen. My folks brought me and my "new" violin to Blodgett's in Springfield, MA, to have the violin rehabilitated and brought back to playing form. A few weeks later we returned to the shop and I got to squeak a few notes out on it. For the most part, it was in pretty good condition, but a crack beneath the tailpiece had been clumsily glued in a previous repair, and as such would never be able to sound as loud as an instrument with an unbroken top plate. The tone was pretty good, at least as good as this young violin student could produce, and worlds better than the 3/4 size rental student violin could produce. That instrument is the instrument I've played since that day. Aren't you that guy that wouldn't practice if he could help it?
I had played classical violin pretty constantly up through college, taking a brief hiatus, then joining my Uncle Jim on Sunday afternoons at the Schenectedy Hibernian Club to play some Irish music. When I started working for a living, the fiddle started making fewer and fewer appearances. With my move to Vermont, I would be lucky to play the thing once a year. When Margot and I started dating, she introduced me to her favorite bands, Great Big Sea and La Bottine Souriante, as well as some other great groups who have phenomenal fiddling and danceability as a common bond. It didn't take me long to get thoroughly hooked on the contradance music, and we went to various contradance/folk festivals in the area (Falcon Ridge, the Dance Flurry, NEFFA) as well as local dances, and I got the itch back to start up my fiddling. After attending a couple of old-style kitchen parties where all are encouraged to bring instruments and join in the folk-style fun, I knew I was hooked and had to get back to playing. The fiddle was dusted off, and I started to play again. I went to (Contradance) Band Camp in Tunbridge, and started looking forward to opportunities to play and learn. Back in January, about a month or so before the Dance Flurry, I pulled the fiddle out, hoping to get my chops into some sort of shape where I could play for a few days without hurting myself. It was then that I noticed a harsh buzzing when I played notes on the A-string. New strings didn't solve the problem, nor did adjusting the bridge or any other tricks I know. Looking under the tailpiece, it appeared that the glued crack had worked itself unglued. A trip to the fine folks at the Burlington Violin Shop brought to light a host of other issues that, when combined, brought the repair bill for this old fiddle to the level of the cost of a brand new (significantly better) instrument. Harrumph. So why not another traditional wooden acoustic instrument?
Although it is not cost effective to repair my old instrument, I am not abandoning this violin forever. Someday, when I have purely disposable resources, I'll probably commission a repair of this violin. It means too much to me for it to become a sad old instrument that never gets played again. Four years ago, at my second Falcon Ridge folk festival, Bridge Instruments had a tent in the vendor village showing off their instruments. They had a couple of violins (4-string, 5-string), a cello, and some amplifiers that were perfectly matched to their instruments. I played around with with their 4-string model, off amp and on, and I got a serious case of the covets. At that point, I was appreciating but not playing the folk music, so there was no real case for buying a fiddle when I had a perfectly good violin gathering dust at home, but I told myself, "self, someday, this beautiful instrument will be yours." Well, my violin, while not dead, had a serious case of the illin's, and after some Margot assisted soul searching, I placed the order. It didn't arrive in time for the Dance Flurry, so the old wooden instrument got one more chance in the limelight.
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