Do we read? No, really. Do we read? Do we stay up on current events? I hope that my supposition on this question is woefully wrong, but I don't think that it is. Please prove me wrong. Black people, please prove me wrong. I'm trying to give the benefit of the doubt, but I'm not encouraged at this point. To say that the information at our disposal is abundant is to grossly understate the facts. For those that cannot tear themselves away from the television, there's the run of the mill news channels and their corresponding websites. Of course, I'm talking about CNN, Fox News, Headline News, BBC and so on, and so on. These all have their own style of delivery, varying from the sensational to the downright slanted in a particular direction. You almost have to sneak a peak at all of them to get the so-called facts of any particular story. But then again, the anchor's need to be bigger than the story can often eclipse the meat of the news at issue.
There has always been something about the written word that has fascinated me, and it has always seemed to be more genuine than things that I might have heard someone speak in conversation or reported on television. When I was a kid, the encyclopedia was king. If it said so in there, then it was so. At the time, it never occurred to me that my 1979 World Book Encyclopedias were only useful for events that had occurred up to that point, and would become more and more obsolete with each passing day. In primary and secondary education we were fed text books and various period novels that spoke from a historical perspective but were never encouraged to question what we were reading. It was fact. The book said it. I believed it. That settled it. Luckily, I was led to pick up a Things Fall Apart and an Autobiography of Malcolm X to add some spice and different perspective to the very suburban catholic private school education that I received. This at least primed me for the multitude of new thoughts and, perhaps more importantly, schools of thought that I would be exposed to in the years after high school. I've always loved the exchanges that are born out of the hot topics affecting society and the different angles from which each of the exchange's contributors came.
Unfortunately, most of us don't spend alot of time in the Student Union, or by "The Bear" chopping it up or exchanging ideologies anymore. We go to work, and go home and try to figure out how to pay our bills when they come up. We catch our news in sound bites or on text scrolls at the bottom of the screen as we get our cardio workout done at the gym. We don't have time. We don't MAKE time to question any of the information, never mind actually verifying any of it. It would be an incredible travesty for our generation, stewards of the Information Age, not to take advantage of the wealth of material at our disposal. I have a hard time believing that the 18-35 set (which I'm clinging to for the moment) of 40 years ago would not have been infinitely more effective in their protests and Civil Rights Movements armed with the vast resources that most of us possess today. Yet, we sit idly by and check our Myspace, being much more in the know about who's going to get the shot at love with Tila Tequila than who's going to get the nod from the Democratic party in the next election.
I'm not trying to take a moral high ground here and point the finger at everybody else about not being informed enough, because I am by no means as informed as I'd like to be. At times, my life seems to be a sprint from one activity to another, with meals taken on the run and sleep often caught up on at inopportune times. That's actually one of the things I like about traveling. Not only do I get to interact with people from far away places and hear their take on things, but I also get to catch up on reading while I fly. I'm also fortunate to have a mother that incessantly clips newspaper articles for me to read and calls and emails me to "watch this on PBS" or "read last Sunday's Boondocks" or "listen to this guy on Fresh Air at 4pm". One such article shed an interesting light on some of the things that I've long suspected about Ronald Reagan. In his opinion piece on November 14, 2007, New York Times columnist Bob Herbert strongly suggested that Reagan's campaign trail stop in Neshoba County, Mississippi was not nearly as random as Reagan supporters would have you believe. "I believe in states' rights!" is what Reagan told them that day, implying that when it comes to issues of "you and the blacks, we're with you" [the good white folks of Neshoba County]. Recall that this is also the same guy that opposed Dr. King's Holiday, tried to weaken the Voting Rights Act of 1965, and opposed the landmark Civil Rights Act of 1964.
Another article talked about Senator McCain's gaffe during the YouTube/CNN debates (something about downplaying significance of the internet and information technology) and how big an issue the Internet has become for the candidates this time around. Ignorance on these issues could prove to be quite costly for not only the candidates (who might not get a ticket to the big dance next November) but also for us as constituents left to live with their antiquated ideas.
There is hope though. One of my friends that I least expected got on the topic of Benazir Bhutto recently, and we had a short conversation. A few more of these and we might have ourselves a bonafide revolution. What kind of revolution is unknown. Perhaps a fact gathering revolution, or even a stay in the know revolution. So please, stay hungry for knowledge and leave no stone unturned in your search for the truth. You never can have too much information.
Saturday, December 29, 2007
Friday, December 28, 2007
Bless this Mess...
Sitting here at my desk, a moment ago, I laughed aloud at myself. I must be some sort of bumbling nutty professor or something like that the way my workspace is in shambles. I’ve got papers strewn all across the desk, more on the floor next to the chair and more still over on my bed. A hefty stack of unopened mail sits atop the glass shelves that connect to the workspace. A pair of Harmon/Kardon speakers serve as paper weights for all of paper clutter. I thought buying a new desk and comfortable chair were supposed to make me more productive, more official. I’m not feeling more productive. The chair is comfortable though and at least it doesn’t make me want to take a nap like laying on the couch with my laptop does.
If you walked in, you might say I look busy. You might even call me downright immersed in some heavy-duty project. So involved am I that I don’t even have time to stop and straighten any of this out. This would be cute at work. People would walk by and say, “Man! That guy is on it! He’s got a lot going on…,” as they hurried back to their cubicles and curtailed their incessant trips to the coffee machine for some mindless small talk. My mess inspires people at work. Well, maybe not. It’s a nice thought though. At least it puts them on notice that somebody actually does occupy that workspace, lest they get any ideas about commandeering any of my tools or supplies, or think about making room for some new employee to work there. At my last place of employment, I had built up quite a sculpture for all to admire as they walked by. Using the two reams of paper that propped up my flat screen monitor to make it more ergonomically correct as a virtual pin cushion of sorts, I placed all useless business cards so that they stick out from the edge, fanned out in an abstract, neo-classic paper sculpture. These business cards, varied in quality, color, and even language, are obtained during the many meetings that I attend all over the world during the obligatory card exchange that begins each one. Were it not for this work of art, these cards would have very little usefulness or life expectancy, traveling from hand-to-hand and then to my pocket or computer bag and maybe to the nightstand at my hotel or the round file.
The domestic cards are pretty boring. They are usually to the point in a Men In Black sort of way, giving only pertinent information such as title, phone number, email and maybe contain the company’s emblem. Equally boring was the manner in which they were presented to me initially as well. Often just tossed across the table or handed very nonchalantly and without any eye contact or anything. Sometimes they’re just set on the large conference table like hors d’oevres at a holiday party with the expectation that you’ll grab one of each during a fly-by before landing in your seat. Not so for the Asian ones. They range from the very ornate to the ones crammed with way too much information. Some boast very important titles like Grand General Manager or something else that translates to middle management in my parlance, while others profess to be involved in all things commerce. I recall one that not only listed Optical Fiber Installations, Internet Services, and Wireless Applications, but also Dredging, Banquet Services , Aerating, and Notary Public. Even more exciting is the manner in which they are presented.
It should be noted that failure to adhere to the proper procedure here is a major breach of International business etiquette and might lead to the premature demise of a deal or worse…an International incident! In my experience, it is customary for one to bow when presenting their card (referred to as Name Card, not business card) . The exchange differs slightly from culture to culture though. For instance, in Japan and China they bow humbly, eyes to the floor as if addressing royalty, and hand the card with both hands, while in Malaysia they also bow but extend only one hand with the card, placing the other one behind the elbow of the extended arm (think of a hapless smoker taking a break from work, again, holding cancer stick with one hand, other hand embracing themselves for warmth or posture or who know why…). This even extends past name cards to things like credit cards or room keys. I remember being startled when the lady at the registration desk handed my both my room keys and credit cards to me in this fashion. I probably gave a sheepish thank you, with a dumb look on my face, while attempting to mimic her routine. Well, that’s enough on the international business etiquette lessons for today.
I’ve got some cleaning to do. We’ll see if my productivity thrives in the sterile environment that I hope to create in here. Okay, perhaps sterile is too strong. How about military clean? I’m reminded of one of my former co-workers named Harry who was an Army Sargeant before joined the corporate ranks. He was one of the nicest guys you’ll ever meet, but that didn’t exempt him from the sophomoric shenanigans of myself and other playful co-workers on a daily basis. Completely juxtaposed to my workspace, Harry’s was absolutely pristine. All papers were neatly filed, all pens placed in the proper receptacle and any extraneous trinkets had a very distinct place as well. He was particularly fond of a fancy Cross pen set with something engraved on them. If memory serves me correctly, the pens were always placed completely perpendicular with the edge of the desk and directly below some military emblem-type shield. Just for kicks, we would move one of the pens about a quarter-inch off its straight line just to see if he would notice. Like clockwork, whenever Harry returned to his cubicle, the first thing he would do is restore that pen to its proper position. Harry was true man of precision, even down to the razor sharp crease he would put in his Lee jeans. Buddy Lee would be proud.
Parting thought: Hopefully, my creativity and passion for random thoughts and useless information will not be harmed by The Great Workspace Transformation.
If you walked in, you might say I look busy. You might even call me downright immersed in some heavy-duty project. So involved am I that I don’t even have time to stop and straighten any of this out. This would be cute at work. People would walk by and say, “Man! That guy is on it! He’s got a lot going on…,” as they hurried back to their cubicles and curtailed their incessant trips to the coffee machine for some mindless small talk. My mess inspires people at work. Well, maybe not. It’s a nice thought though. At least it puts them on notice that somebody actually does occupy that workspace, lest they get any ideas about commandeering any of my tools or supplies, or think about making room for some new employee to work there. At my last place of employment, I had built up quite a sculpture for all to admire as they walked by. Using the two reams of paper that propped up my flat screen monitor to make it more ergonomically correct as a virtual pin cushion of sorts, I placed all useless business cards so that they stick out from the edge, fanned out in an abstract, neo-classic paper sculpture. These business cards, varied in quality, color, and even language, are obtained during the many meetings that I attend all over the world during the obligatory card exchange that begins each one. Were it not for this work of art, these cards would have very little usefulness or life expectancy, traveling from hand-to-hand and then to my pocket or computer bag and maybe to the nightstand at my hotel or the round file.
The domestic cards are pretty boring. They are usually to the point in a Men In Black sort of way, giving only pertinent information such as title, phone number, email and maybe contain the company’s emblem. Equally boring was the manner in which they were presented to me initially as well. Often just tossed across the table or handed very nonchalantly and without any eye contact or anything. Sometimes they’re just set on the large conference table like hors d’oevres at a holiday party with the expectation that you’ll grab one of each during a fly-by before landing in your seat. Not so for the Asian ones. They range from the very ornate to the ones crammed with way too much information. Some boast very important titles like Grand General Manager or something else that translates to middle management in my parlance, while others profess to be involved in all things commerce. I recall one that not only listed Optical Fiber Installations, Internet Services, and Wireless Applications, but also Dredging, Banquet Services , Aerating, and Notary Public. Even more exciting is the manner in which they are presented.
It should be noted that failure to adhere to the proper procedure here is a major breach of International business etiquette and might lead to the premature demise of a deal or worse…an International incident! In my experience, it is customary for one to bow when presenting their card (referred to as Name Card, not business card) . The exchange differs slightly from culture to culture though. For instance, in Japan and China they bow humbly, eyes to the floor as if addressing royalty, and hand the card with both hands, while in Malaysia they also bow but extend only one hand with the card, placing the other one behind the elbow of the extended arm (think of a hapless smoker taking a break from work, again, holding cancer stick with one hand, other hand embracing themselves for warmth or posture or who know why…). This even extends past name cards to things like credit cards or room keys. I remember being startled when the lady at the registration desk handed my both my room keys and credit cards to me in this fashion. I probably gave a sheepish thank you, with a dumb look on my face, while attempting to mimic her routine. Well, that’s enough on the international business etiquette lessons for today.
I’ve got some cleaning to do. We’ll see if my productivity thrives in the sterile environment that I hope to create in here. Okay, perhaps sterile is too strong. How about military clean? I’m reminded of one of my former co-workers named Harry who was an Army Sargeant before joined the corporate ranks. He was one of the nicest guys you’ll ever meet, but that didn’t exempt him from the sophomoric shenanigans of myself and other playful co-workers on a daily basis. Completely juxtaposed to my workspace, Harry’s was absolutely pristine. All papers were neatly filed, all pens placed in the proper receptacle and any extraneous trinkets had a very distinct place as well. He was particularly fond of a fancy Cross pen set with something engraved on them. If memory serves me correctly, the pens were always placed completely perpendicular with the edge of the desk and directly below some military emblem-type shield. Just for kicks, we would move one of the pens about a quarter-inch off its straight line just to see if he would notice. Like clockwork, whenever Harry returned to his cubicle, the first thing he would do is restore that pen to its proper position. Harry was true man of precision, even down to the razor sharp crease he would put in his Lee jeans. Buddy Lee would be proud.
Parting thought: Hopefully, my creativity and passion for random thoughts and useless information will not be harmed by The Great Workspace Transformation.
Thursday, December 27, 2007
Red, Red, Wine...
The day after Christmas and I had to be at work bright and early. I even had to be attentive. What is this!??? I don't think I've ever worked somewhere that didn't all but shut down between Christmas and New Year's, and even if they did remain open it was just a formality since no customers were ever really around then. I remember one time when my co-workers and I were trying to putt a golf ball into a coffee can down the hallway some 65 feet away. The phone never rang and in the customer service position that I was in at the time, it meant that we had absolutely nothing to do otherwise.
While everyone else was out returning unwanted gifts, taking advantage of the after-Christmas sales, or putting together their new toy train, I was sitting in a very cold conference room (the heat never works right, unless its a hot day!) listening to each department talk about current issues and assign action items. I was struggling to stay awake. Those tamales and that pecan pie were still sittin' pretty heavy on my stomach, making it yank down my eyelids as I fought to keep them open. I jumped out of my seat like Hong Kong Fooey the moment the meeting was adjourned and rushed to the break room for some sort of refreshment that might restore my energy level. I had a couple of phone calls to make to customers that were having issues, so I figured that I had better knock those out sooner than later. The good thing was they were both in the Eastern time zone so I knew that I'd be done with them no later than 1:30pm or 2pm.
We all know I get hives if I spend too much time in the office, so I start devising an exit strategy almost as soon as I get there each time. My office is so small now that I almost have to be like Harry Houdini to escape. I'm exaggerating a little (they don't really chain me arms and legs to the desk. Just my arms...). My fans were getting a little bored with my last few escapes, so they turned up the degree of difficulty this time. My boss, who sits right next to me was also in the office.
"Hey...ain't nothin' wrong with me...ain't nothin' wrong with the twizayy. It's just gonna take a little bit longer that I thought." --Eddie Murphy's Marcus Graham in Boomerang.
Several members of my family were scheduled to go wine tasting on this afternoon, trying to keep the family Christmas activities going for one more day (brunch on Sunday, made tamales on Monday, Dinner on Christmas, and now this), so I definitely had just cause to blast my way out of confinement. I made my phone calls, and made them loudly so that my boss could ascertain that I was indeed engaged with the customer and making progress. I even copied he and another account manager on correspondence with said client, creating a paper trail for all to see.
When time started to get really critical, I started throwing hints. I started talking about the traffic and how he should get a jump on it since he lives about 15 miles further than I do from the office.
I got mind control over Deebo. He be like "shut the f**k up." I be quiet. But when he leave, I be talking again. -- Chris Tucker's Smokey from Friday
He started to take the bait and pretty soon, both of us were packing up our laptops. I sped down the highway to Cinnabar's Wine Tasting room in Saratoga. Mercury Rising was the first pour that I would enjoy. Modest, yet confident. The 2005 Merlot wasn't bad either. Very dry. I suddenly had a craving for an 8oz. filet from Morton's. But the winner was the Petit Verdot. Until now, I had never heard of this variety. I was informed that usually, Petit Verdot's were used to blend with other varieties that were then bottled and sold as, say, a Pinot Noir-Syrah-Zinfandel blend. But Cinnabar had a 100% Petit Verdot that grabbed me today. Unfortunately, I couldn't indulge as I had 145 miles to knock out and fast. There was a ticket at Arco Arena's will call with my name on it for the Kings vs. Celtics game.
Someday, my fairytale-like existence will involve helicopters, limousines and maybe a Gulfstream 5 for such endeavors, but today the 2005 Murano shouldered the load. I made it to the stadium in the middle of the 2nd quarter, just in time for witness the Celtics 33-5 run that blew the game wide open. Gang Green's Big 3 were as advertised and did not disappoint on this evening. I rounded out the evening with some snacks and spirits at Downtown Sacramento's Bistro 33, a swanky bar/lounge with about an eclectic and hip a crowd as one could expect in our state's capitol. For a second, I thought I was in San Francisco.
While everyone else was out returning unwanted gifts, taking advantage of the after-Christmas sales, or putting together their new toy train, I was sitting in a very cold conference room (the heat never works right, unless its a hot day!) listening to each department talk about current issues and assign action items. I was struggling to stay awake. Those tamales and that pecan pie were still sittin' pretty heavy on my stomach, making it yank down my eyelids as I fought to keep them open. I jumped out of my seat like Hong Kong Fooey the moment the meeting was adjourned and rushed to the break room for some sort of refreshment that might restore my energy level. I had a couple of phone calls to make to customers that were having issues, so I figured that I had better knock those out sooner than later. The good thing was they were both in the Eastern time zone so I knew that I'd be done with them no later than 1:30pm or 2pm.
We all know I get hives if I spend too much time in the office, so I start devising an exit strategy almost as soon as I get there each time. My office is so small now that I almost have to be like Harry Houdini to escape. I'm exaggerating a little (they don't really chain me arms and legs to the desk. Just my arms...). My fans were getting a little bored with my last few escapes, so they turned up the degree of difficulty this time. My boss, who sits right next to me was also in the office.
"Hey...ain't nothin' wrong with me...ain't nothin' wrong with the twizayy. It's just gonna take a little bit longer that I thought." --Eddie Murphy's Marcus Graham in Boomerang.
Several members of my family were scheduled to go wine tasting on this afternoon, trying to keep the family Christmas activities going for one more day (brunch on Sunday, made tamales on Monday, Dinner on Christmas, and now this), so I definitely had just cause to blast my way out of confinement. I made my phone calls, and made them loudly so that my boss could ascertain that I was indeed engaged with the customer and making progress. I even copied he and another account manager on correspondence with said client, creating a paper trail for all to see.
When time started to get really critical, I started throwing hints. I started talking about the traffic and how he should get a jump on it since he lives about 15 miles further than I do from the office.
I got mind control over Deebo. He be like "shut the f**k up." I be quiet. But when he leave, I be talking again. -- Chris Tucker's Smokey from Friday
He started to take the bait and pretty soon, both of us were packing up our laptops. I sped down the highway to Cinnabar's Wine Tasting room in Saratoga. Mercury Rising was the first pour that I would enjoy. Modest, yet confident. The 2005 Merlot wasn't bad either. Very dry. I suddenly had a craving for an 8oz. filet from Morton's. But the winner was the Petit Verdot. Until now, I had never heard of this variety. I was informed that usually, Petit Verdot's were used to blend with other varieties that were then bottled and sold as, say, a Pinot Noir-Syrah-Zinfandel blend. But Cinnabar had a 100% Petit Verdot that grabbed me today. Unfortunately, I couldn't indulge as I had 145 miles to knock out and fast. There was a ticket at Arco Arena's will call with my name on it for the Kings vs. Celtics game.
Someday, my fairytale-like existence will involve helicopters, limousines and maybe a Gulfstream 5 for such endeavors, but today the 2005 Murano shouldered the load. I made it to the stadium in the middle of the 2nd quarter, just in time for witness the Celtics 33-5 run that blew the game wide open. Gang Green's Big 3 were as advertised and did not disappoint on this evening. I rounded out the evening with some snacks and spirits at Downtown Sacramento's Bistro 33, a swanky bar/lounge with about an eclectic and hip a crowd as one could expect in our state's capitol. For a second, I thought I was in San Francisco.
Tuesday, December 25, 2007
Feelin' Real Good!
Its another good day to be Destah on this fine 25th day in December of the year 2007. I not only had enough energy to get through the day's myriad of activities, I enjoyed them tremendously. It's definitely time for me to go to sleep, so says my contented countenance, and lethargic movements that would make any python proud. I sampled just about all of the veritable cornucopia of items on both the food and dessert tables this evening, and am struggling to tell you about it now. If this were a handwritten entry, I might be dragging the pen down the side of the page or scribbling by now.
You gotta love Christmas. What a glorious day it was today! Sure, it was a crisp mid-50s morning in the Bay Area, but it eventually got up in the mid 60s, and there wasn't a cloud in the sky. When I were a kid, this would be the kind of day that would find me out riding my new bicycle or throwing around my new football or something.
Driving around was a snap as only a very few vehicles graced the roadways. I smiled as I drove past a shopping center with its empty parking lot, recalling the chaos that occurred there just 18 hours earlier. I made it over to see my kids at about 1030am, holding out a small glimmer of hope that they might just be getting up (NOT) or that they might have possibly waited to open my gifts until I arrived. Yeah, right! They were already bouncing off the walls and playing with their new stack of toys when I arrived, barely looking up to say hi and give me a quick, oh by the way type, "thanks for the Fatheads, Dad". I didn't mind. They were in hog heaven. They made out like bandits. Oh to be 8 years old again.
We made 2 more stops and they continued to amass more and more goodies. I had such a good time just shooting the breeze with various family members from all over the place. Somebody asked me if I had received everything that I wanted for Christmas. That question always throws me, as I don't ever really expect or want too much these days. My gift was to be able to hang out with the family and to be in such a good mood about it. It sure felt good to laugh, joke, and delight in the very international cuisine that we had (korean bulgogi with egg noodles, tamales, dressing, turkey, ham, pineapple coconut cake...). Jesus is indeed the reason for the season. Goodnight all you happy people. It's sleepy time.
You gotta love Christmas. What a glorious day it was today! Sure, it was a crisp mid-50s morning in the Bay Area, but it eventually got up in the mid 60s, and there wasn't a cloud in the sky. When I were a kid, this would be the kind of day that would find me out riding my new bicycle or throwing around my new football or something.
Driving around was a snap as only a very few vehicles graced the roadways. I smiled as I drove past a shopping center with its empty parking lot, recalling the chaos that occurred there just 18 hours earlier. I made it over to see my kids at about 1030am, holding out a small glimmer of hope that they might just be getting up (NOT) or that they might have possibly waited to open my gifts until I arrived. Yeah, right! They were already bouncing off the walls and playing with their new stack of toys when I arrived, barely looking up to say hi and give me a quick, oh by the way type, "thanks for the Fatheads, Dad". I didn't mind. They were in hog heaven. They made out like bandits. Oh to be 8 years old again.
We made 2 more stops and they continued to amass more and more goodies. I had such a good time just shooting the breeze with various family members from all over the place. Somebody asked me if I had received everything that I wanted for Christmas. That question always throws me, as I don't ever really expect or want too much these days. My gift was to be able to hang out with the family and to be in such a good mood about it. It sure felt good to laugh, joke, and delight in the very international cuisine that we had (korean bulgogi with egg noodles, tamales, dressing, turkey, ham, pineapple coconut cake...). Jesus is indeed the reason for the season. Goodnight all you happy people. It's sleepy time.
Monday, December 24, 2007
Christmas Eve at Denny's
The name Starving Students is one of my favorite misnomers in the service industry. Usually, you'll be hard pressed to find a single solitary student among the crew that might show up if you hire movers from Starving Students to help you relocate. Furthermore, you'll probably find that students of the moving profession they are not, as I can attest to, once offering to lift my own television after I had watched the very slight little fellas that they sent to do my move awkwardly handle some of my bedroom set and irreparably damage my living room furniture.
I'm reminded of Starving Students because here I was playing mover today and starving like, well... a student at the end of the day's activities. Up and down the stairs, in and out of the garage, through the hallways we went, lugging this and toting that. It was freezing outside, but that wasn't necessarily a bad thing as the 40ish temps kept you from breaking a sweat, also kept you pretty alert. It never ceases to amaze me how much faster the truck gets unloaded at the destination, than it got loaded at the original location. There's something about having a light at the end of a tunnel that kicks your body into that extra gear that it saves for just such an occasion. I was almost jumping off the truck with the lighter items that were nearest the door of the truck. With a renewed spirit, I took some trips with both arms and hands full whereas I begrudgingly carried loads half that size on the way into the truck.
I was dying of thirst as the truck was slowly filling to its capacity at the first site. I did cartwheels off the ramp and galloped down the hall with youthful exuberance as the truck was quickly emptying out into the house. Ah man, homey, my mind was playing tricks on me.
How festive I must've looked stepping out of the uHaul truck, looking like a skinny, white sneakered Santa Clause in my red Nike sweatsuit. When we quit for the evening at about 10pm, we were faced with the reality that it was in fact Christmas Eve and our dining options would be limited. After a fairly exhaustive search of the local eateries, we landed at Denny's.Well, actually, it wasn't a really exhaustive search. I just felt like saying that word for one, and two, I kind of felt like some pancakes. Not like a short stack of course, but like a half-hearted, cornball attempt at being clever about the menu of the much maligned all night diner with the friendly yellow sign.
Rejoicing in the accomplishment of having completed a full day of moving, I sat down and casually thumbed through the very familiar menu, my posture suggesting how spent I was, while my saucer like eyes indicated that my waiter might be very busy as long as I'm in the building. I decided on a good, old-fashioned grand slam, but wisely substituted another pancake (or 3) for the additional pieces of toast. I don't know why the grand slam calls for me to get an additional 4 slices of toast to go along with my heavily carbed hashbrowns, and thick buttermilk pancakes.
I sipped some tea after the waiter took my order and I watched a rather motley crew of teenagers stroll in and set themselves up at a neighboring table. They were a pretty rowdy bunch and terribly amusing. They asked for a table of seven, suggesting to the hostess that a couple more were on the way. As more and more of them started to file in, it was apparent that somebody's count was a bit off as their group was fast approaching twice that number. Several of the girls were carrying blankets and wearing slippers and while some of their male counterparts wore pajama bottoms and fedora hats. One guy even had on a tweed sport coat. As if they couldn't look more peculiar, several of them were quite tall. They even started a conversation inquiring about who in their group was actually the tallest. They were hilarious. This was about the time that I stood up to go wash my hands in the bathroom in anticipation of my food arriving. "Look at him. He's taller than all you guys. Wow!" one of them remarked.
Upon my return, I noticed 3 more sets of pajamas walking in. My waiter came to ask if we'd like to move away from this spirited bunch, but I declined, since they were far too entertaining. Perhaps this was some grand Christmas Eve tradition of theirs. They must've been members of the theater department or school band or something. I guess secretly, I was holding out hope that they would start singing Christmas Carols, or something, right there in the restaurant.
I'm reminded of Starving Students because here I was playing mover today and starving like, well... a student at the end of the day's activities. Up and down the stairs, in and out of the garage, through the hallways we went, lugging this and toting that. It was freezing outside, but that wasn't necessarily a bad thing as the 40ish temps kept you from breaking a sweat, also kept you pretty alert. It never ceases to amaze me how much faster the truck gets unloaded at the destination, than it got loaded at the original location. There's something about having a light at the end of a tunnel that kicks your body into that extra gear that it saves for just such an occasion. I was almost jumping off the truck with the lighter items that were nearest the door of the truck. With a renewed spirit, I took some trips with both arms and hands full whereas I begrudgingly carried loads half that size on the way into the truck.
I was dying of thirst as the truck was slowly filling to its capacity at the first site. I did cartwheels off the ramp and galloped down the hall with youthful exuberance as the truck was quickly emptying out into the house. Ah man, homey, my mind was playing tricks on me.
How festive I must've looked stepping out of the uHaul truck, looking like a skinny, white sneakered Santa Clause in my red Nike sweatsuit. When we quit for the evening at about 10pm, we were faced with the reality that it was in fact Christmas Eve and our dining options would be limited. After a fairly exhaustive search of the local eateries, we landed at Denny's.Well, actually, it wasn't a really exhaustive search. I just felt like saying that word for one, and two, I kind of felt like some pancakes. Not like a short stack of course, but like a half-hearted, cornball attempt at being clever about the menu of the much maligned all night diner with the friendly yellow sign.
Rejoicing in the accomplishment of having completed a full day of moving, I sat down and casually thumbed through the very familiar menu, my posture suggesting how spent I was, while my saucer like eyes indicated that my waiter might be very busy as long as I'm in the building. I decided on a good, old-fashioned grand slam, but wisely substituted another pancake (or 3) for the additional pieces of toast. I don't know why the grand slam calls for me to get an additional 4 slices of toast to go along with my heavily carbed hashbrowns, and thick buttermilk pancakes.
I sipped some tea after the waiter took my order and I watched a rather motley crew of teenagers stroll in and set themselves up at a neighboring table. They were a pretty rowdy bunch and terribly amusing. They asked for a table of seven, suggesting to the hostess that a couple more were on the way. As more and more of them started to file in, it was apparent that somebody's count was a bit off as their group was fast approaching twice that number. Several of the girls were carrying blankets and wearing slippers and while some of their male counterparts wore pajama bottoms and fedora hats. One guy even had on a tweed sport coat. As if they couldn't look more peculiar, several of them were quite tall. They even started a conversation inquiring about who in their group was actually the tallest. They were hilarious. This was about the time that I stood up to go wash my hands in the bathroom in anticipation of my food arriving. "Look at him. He's taller than all you guys. Wow!" one of them remarked.
Upon my return, I noticed 3 more sets of pajamas walking in. My waiter came to ask if we'd like to move away from this spirited bunch, but I declined, since they were far too entertaining. Perhaps this was some grand Christmas Eve tradition of theirs. They must've been members of the theater department or school band or something. I guess secretly, I was holding out hope that they would start singing Christmas Carols, or something, right there in the restaurant.
Sunday, December 23, 2007
Last Minute
You're checking your list and checking it twice. You're pretty sure you've got a handle on who's been naughty or nice, or at least who's on your radar whatsoever, or , in my case, who you can afford to consider. Believe me...I love you all, but the ends are seeming like they're going to fail to meet this month. So, if your gift doesn't arrive, you can blame the post office if you want to, but you'd probably be more accurate in directing your ire at my Bank of America who takes all my money behind some racket called a mortgage.
My last minute shopping amounted to getting a Starbucks gift card in the grocery store checkout line. Is this great or WHAT!?? I didn't even have to go to Starbucks to knock this one out. I was already at the store and the gift cards were just right there. I got to park in the store's expansive parking lot instead of driving around the block several times hoping that some leg crossing, laptop lugging, latte sipping lothario will zip up his North Face vest, put one earth-toned Skecher in front of the other and head to his Prius, freeing up a spot for me. I'm DONE! There will be no running through the aisles at Kmart or Wal-Mart late on Christmas Eve in search of some nothing gift that will merely serve the purpose of appeasing the recipients score-keeping, as they offer up the obligatory thank you, you shouldn't have and toss it aside with the other random knick-knacks they've acquired.
No parking lots, no traffic, no hastily wrapped oddly shaped trinkets acquired at the eleventh hour. I love it. Too bad I get nauseous when I get anywhere near a mall. I probably could've come up with some incredibly entertaining material just by grabbing a seat and watching all of the shoppers zip around from store to store. Oh, the ear hustling I could've done.
My last minute shopping amounted to getting a Starbucks gift card in the grocery store checkout line. Is this great or WHAT!?? I didn't even have to go to Starbucks to knock this one out. I was already at the store and the gift cards were just right there. I got to park in the store's expansive parking lot instead of driving around the block several times hoping that some leg crossing, laptop lugging, latte sipping lothario will zip up his North Face vest, put one earth-toned Skecher in front of the other and head to his Prius, freeing up a spot for me. I'm DONE! There will be no running through the aisles at Kmart or Wal-Mart late on Christmas Eve in search of some nothing gift that will merely serve the purpose of appeasing the recipients score-keeping, as they offer up the obligatory thank you, you shouldn't have and toss it aside with the other random knick-knacks they've acquired.
No parking lots, no traffic, no hastily wrapped oddly shaped trinkets acquired at the eleventh hour. I love it. Too bad I get nauseous when I get anywhere near a mall. I probably could've come up with some incredibly entertaining material just by grabbing a seat and watching all of the shoppers zip around from store to store. Oh, the ear hustling I could've done.
Saturday, December 22, 2007
Almost perfect
Today I woke up 1 minute before my alarm clock and smiled as I stared at the ceiling, happy to have lived to see another day. I didn't have any significant aches or pains that made me want to stay in bed. I didn't even have the urge to hit the snooze button. I rolled over on my left shoulder and noticed my synthetic leather basketball just within reach on the floor below. I stretched to bring it toward me, flipping it up into shooting position as I lay there on my back. Checking to see that my elbow was properly tucked at my side, I shot the ball straight up, watching it roll off my fingertips spinning backward to its apex, just a hair's breadth away from scraping the ceiling. It returned to my hand as I smiled a satisfied smile. I shot it again and again, each time enjoying the muffled sound of the seams singing as they cut the air en route to another near encounter with the ceiling. Straight up. Straight down. Soft on the fingertips. A beautiful thing.
I got out of bed, flipped on VH-1 Soul videos and went to brush my teeth. I glanced through the blinds and saw the sun peeking around the buildings, making long, cool shadows that stretched all the way down my empty street. This is when my street has that just before the parade, on the other side of the barricades look. Unlike the weekdays when the state and federal buildings are bustling with people walking to and fro, and all the adjacent blocks are lined with cars, Saturdays and Sundays have a certain purity.
Almost excited about the day now, I threw on my sweats and laced up the sneaks, grabbed the beat-up, blue gym bag with my clothes in it and headed for the door. Club One was calling my name. I stepped out of the elevator and hit the double doors out of my building in full stride. Only slightly startled by the cool morning air, I couldn't wait to get to the gym. About 10 steps later, however, I wished I had worn my gloves as the tips of my fingers seemed to be freezing just that quickly. I picked up the pace. Once inside, I made a bee-line for the locker room. Still feeling the lingering effects of this cold, the steam room would be the first order of business. My fingers thawed. I got dressed and went upstairs to put my name on the list. In this fairly sterile setting, the "who's got next?" debate has been replaced by the list. The next five guys to play are the next five names on the list. What an infallible system. Of course not. That's another topic in itself. I had just enough time to lift weights while the 3 games in front of mine finished up. We got on the court and wrecked shop for a couple games. Content to call this my cardio workout for the day, I hit the showers, lest I overdo it and come up injured.
In my mind's eye, laying out the day's to-do list on an excel spreadsheet of sorts, everything fit neatly into little time-slots. I would return home, enjoy some oatmeal, go get my haircut, run my errand, have some lunch, clean up, and relax. The oatmeal was great. Two shakes of cinnamon, a handful of raisins, some soy milk, and a teaspoon of brown sugar. I paid some bills online and tracked some packages as well. Discovering that the last delivery was on the truck for delivery, I tried to be around to receive it. Michigan was playing UCLA on TV so I watched for awhile. The Bruins were having a bad day but would eventually pull away from the hapless Wolverines. I reminisced about a time when this would've actually been a great game, one that you might even change plans to watch. My how things change. Thanks C-Webb. Thanks J-Rose.
My spreadsheet was slipping off its grid. I had to get to the barbershop before the day got away from me. But this package. It still hadn't arrived. I had a great idea to write a note leaving strict instructions for the delivery guy to take the package to the sales office if I weren't around. Of course, this shouldn't be necessary since my voicemail expresses these exact sentiments, but somehow the majority of the couriers don't get it. I grabbed my keys and headed out once again, note in hand. I stepped out the elevator and who should be walking toward the door but the delivery guy. He looked surprised when I knew that the package was for me. It was almost perfect.
I got out of bed, flipped on VH-1 Soul videos and went to brush my teeth. I glanced through the blinds and saw the sun peeking around the buildings, making long, cool shadows that stretched all the way down my empty street. This is when my street has that just before the parade, on the other side of the barricades look. Unlike the weekdays when the state and federal buildings are bustling with people walking to and fro, and all the adjacent blocks are lined with cars, Saturdays and Sundays have a certain purity.
Almost excited about the day now, I threw on my sweats and laced up the sneaks, grabbed the beat-up, blue gym bag with my clothes in it and headed for the door. Club One was calling my name. I stepped out of the elevator and hit the double doors out of my building in full stride. Only slightly startled by the cool morning air, I couldn't wait to get to the gym. About 10 steps later, however, I wished I had worn my gloves as the tips of my fingers seemed to be freezing just that quickly. I picked up the pace. Once inside, I made a bee-line for the locker room. Still feeling the lingering effects of this cold, the steam room would be the first order of business. My fingers thawed. I got dressed and went upstairs to put my name on the list. In this fairly sterile setting, the "who's got next?" debate has been replaced by the list. The next five guys to play are the next five names on the list. What an infallible system. Of course not. That's another topic in itself. I had just enough time to lift weights while the 3 games in front of mine finished up. We got on the court and wrecked shop for a couple games. Content to call this my cardio workout for the day, I hit the showers, lest I overdo it and come up injured.
In my mind's eye, laying out the day's to-do list on an excel spreadsheet of sorts, everything fit neatly into little time-slots. I would return home, enjoy some oatmeal, go get my haircut, run my errand, have some lunch, clean up, and relax. The oatmeal was great. Two shakes of cinnamon, a handful of raisins, some soy milk, and a teaspoon of brown sugar. I paid some bills online and tracked some packages as well. Discovering that the last delivery was on the truck for delivery, I tried to be around to receive it. Michigan was playing UCLA on TV so I watched for awhile. The Bruins were having a bad day but would eventually pull away from the hapless Wolverines. I reminisced about a time when this would've actually been a great game, one that you might even change plans to watch. My how things change. Thanks C-Webb. Thanks J-Rose.
My spreadsheet was slipping off its grid. I had to get to the barbershop before the day got away from me. But this package. It still hadn't arrived. I had a great idea to write a note leaving strict instructions for the delivery guy to take the package to the sales office if I weren't around. Of course, this shouldn't be necessary since my voicemail expresses these exact sentiments, but somehow the majority of the couriers don't get it. I grabbed my keys and headed out once again, note in hand. I stepped out the elevator and who should be walking toward the door but the delivery guy. He looked surprised when I knew that the package was for me. It was almost perfect.
Friday, December 21, 2007
In my solitude
As I often do when I'm not traipsing around the world's airport, I worked from home today. I know what you're thinking. Work and home seem to be diametrically opposed to one another, but that, my friends is the discipline. It takes a special type of person to roll out of bed, log on and make a whole-hearted attempt at slaying a to-do list. It's not for everyone. Some people need the social aspect of being at work. They need to go and print stuff out, and be seen at the fax machine. They have a need to check in with people face-to-face or catch up on the lives of one another outside the workplace. Some like getting together and going out for long lunches and then trying to settle back in to get some work done as the carbohydrate overload serves as a counterproductive force, introducing fatigue into the equation as the day grows long. So numerous are the distractions at work that I find it much easier to get things done at home. At home I never get caught in the doorway of someone's office, trying to inch my way out, searching for segues to end the exchange, hoping my phone will ring so I can escape back to my desk.
I was quite productive today, getting on the phone shortly after I finished my oatmeal. Unfortunately, that phone call spanned more than 4 hours and countless keystrokes, successful and otherwise with me dialed in to my client's network. Fighting a cold the last few days, I cranked the heat up to knock the chill off my living room and closed the blinds to keep the glare from the sun off my computer screen. When it was all done, I had no idea that I had missed an absolutely glorious day. Sure, it was in the 50s today, but that would've been nothing compared to the frigid Midwestern temperatures I had endured earlier in the week.
When I did finally gaze down from my window at the street below, I found myself wondering. The usual suspects were carrying on down below, their voices somehow clearer to me on the 6th floor than they would be at street level. I had hoped to get to the gym before starting my work this morning, but the time difference between my client and I killed that idea. I was starving when I finally finished that epic phone call so I had to eat. This set back any notions of working out even further and daylight was getting scarce. For some reason I have become less comfortable of late going to and from the gym after dark. Sure, I have to have to keep my eyes open and hands free even earlier now that the days are short, and the shadows more numerous and primed for lurking. I don't know what it was today, but I really found myself more uneasy than usual. Hearing news of a homicide that occurred while I was out of town, on a corner that I can see from my window surely contributed to this feeling. Being in Mayberry for most of this week didn't help either. I felt like I was losing my edge. I hadn't been outside all day and wondered how long I could stay holed up in here. Would the world really go on without me, outside my window? If I had enough food and drink to last me, would I ever leave again?
I started to think about Sean Connery's character in Finding Forrester, afraid to leave his home in a Bronx neighborhood for decades, the world passing him by as he buried himself in a superfluity of books that would shame most public libraries. Paralyzed by his fear of the public, he could no earthly reason to come out each day. The human need for safety eclipsed his desire for discovery and the newness of each day. He yearned for the predictible, the known quantities of his apartment. Would I succumb to this? Would my need for safety and security make me a prisoner of my own home? Would it dominate my daily behavior?
And then I snapped out of it. I grabbed my gym bag and headed out the door. When the cool, early evening air hit me, I realized how alive I was, being awakened from my sleepwalking of the last few days. Hyper-aware I quickened my gait and kept my head on a swivel.
I got the same rush walking back from the gym. The fear was gone this time. I made it back to my fortress unscathed, looking over my shoulder at every turn. I refuse to be a prisoner, a victim, a spectator. Mine is a participatory experience. Life is to be lived.
I was quite productive today, getting on the phone shortly after I finished my oatmeal. Unfortunately, that phone call spanned more than 4 hours and countless keystrokes, successful and otherwise with me dialed in to my client's network. Fighting a cold the last few days, I cranked the heat up to knock the chill off my living room and closed the blinds to keep the glare from the sun off my computer screen. When it was all done, I had no idea that I had missed an absolutely glorious day. Sure, it was in the 50s today, but that would've been nothing compared to the frigid Midwestern temperatures I had endured earlier in the week.
When I did finally gaze down from my window at the street below, I found myself wondering. The usual suspects were carrying on down below, their voices somehow clearer to me on the 6th floor than they would be at street level. I had hoped to get to the gym before starting my work this morning, but the time difference between my client and I killed that idea. I was starving when I finally finished that epic phone call so I had to eat. This set back any notions of working out even further and daylight was getting scarce. For some reason I have become less comfortable of late going to and from the gym after dark. Sure, I have to have to keep my eyes open and hands free even earlier now that the days are short, and the shadows more numerous and primed for lurking. I don't know what it was today, but I really found myself more uneasy than usual. Hearing news of a homicide that occurred while I was out of town, on a corner that I can see from my window surely contributed to this feeling. Being in Mayberry for most of this week didn't help either. I felt like I was losing my edge. I hadn't been outside all day and wondered how long I could stay holed up in here. Would the world really go on without me, outside my window? If I had enough food and drink to last me, would I ever leave again?
I started to think about Sean Connery's character in Finding Forrester, afraid to leave his home in a Bronx neighborhood for decades, the world passing him by as he buried himself in a superfluity of books that would shame most public libraries. Paralyzed by his fear of the public, he could no earthly reason to come out each day. The human need for safety eclipsed his desire for discovery and the newness of each day. He yearned for the predictible, the known quantities of his apartment. Would I succumb to this? Would my need for safety and security make me a prisoner of my own home? Would it dominate my daily behavior?
And then I snapped out of it. I grabbed my gym bag and headed out the door. When the cool, early evening air hit me, I realized how alive I was, being awakened from my sleepwalking of the last few days. Hyper-aware I quickened my gait and kept my head on a swivel.
I could feel the city breathing, chest heaving against the flesh of the evening(Black Star). Reminded of how heightened my senses were, I became one with the city. I missed the city. I needed the city. I love getting away, but I can't imagine not getting a fix of this any less than on a weekly basis.
I got the same rush walking back from the gym. The fear was gone this time. I made it back to my fortress unscathed, looking over my shoulder at every turn. I refuse to be a prisoner, a victim, a spectator. Mine is a participatory experience. Life is to be lived.
Thursday, December 20, 2007
The Revolution...TELEVISED!
I sat in coach last night on my return from Chicago to Oakland. Due to the Holidays it was a very crowded flight, and even arriving as early as I did, I was unable to secure an exit row seat. But I did get the bulkhead, bulkhead window to be exact. I used to go along with the recommendation of the gate agents when they would explain how, in their view, the aisle was a good seat
for those seeking more leg room. I totally disagree now. First of all, its not like you can just throw your feet out into the aisle. To do so with my size
15s would be to effectively cut off a main thoroughfare (think Peachtree in Atlanta or Wilshire in L.A. with an 18 wheeler jack-knifed at rush hour).
So, instead of being able to stretch out, you become the human accordion each time someone's bladder comes calling or the flight attendants come through. Second, you can't really relax in the aisle seat because you have to be constantly on the look-out for the panser battle tank doubling as the refreshment cart. I've seen passengers nearly get their shoulders dislocated when they weren't aware and got clipped as someone with a smile possessing every bit the intensity of Jack Nicholson's "Joker" from the Batman movies, screams "CHICKEN or
PASTA?" at them.
The window seat is clearly the best in the exit row. Three reasons why. First, you might luck up and get the 737 or 757 models that have no seat in front of you
in certain exit windows. This is clearly the best seat in the plane beyond the hallowed ground that lies beyond the blue curtain. You've got one whole armrest
to yourself and a wall to rest your head upon. In the middle, you can be landlocked and frustrated like a middle-eastern country, forced to wage war on two
fronts as you risk losing valuable real estate in the form of the armrest. Finally, you've got control. No one looks out the window unless you SAY that they look
out the window. This can be very key if you are trying to take a nap and the sunlight on your side of the plane is blinding. After all, its all about control anyway, isn't it. But, I digress. I wasn't in the exit row.
So, there I was. Bulkhead Window on a A319. Three on the left, 3 on the right. I had no illusions that I might luck up and have an empty seat next to me. I had already eaten my high quality, food-court, to-go meal before boarding and placed my book and headphones on the seat, optimistically (or naively, you choose) anticipating my solitude. In comes broad-shouldered Benny, a squatty little man shaped like a mini-fridge. He found his way over to my row and seemed to double and triple check that this was actually where his seat was. It was almost as if he was saying,"No...it can't be...No...say it ain't so...NOOOO!" I guess he got over that and proceeded to back it on up like a u-haul truck and would have crushed my Bose Quiet Comfort 3 noise-cancelling headphones if I had not made an 11th hour save.
It bears mentioning that while the exit rows provide a significant leg-room increase, they do not accomodate the horizontally enhanced, and the bulkhead, in what United calls Economy Plus, do not either.(Do I seem a little obsessed with the exit row?) Mr. Mini-Fridge was spilling over onto my arm like women and children on
the Titanic's lifeboats and immediately began to jockey for elbow room. Since I could retreat to the wall, and had already secured a pillow, I conceded. He didn't stop there though. He kept throwing his fat little shoulders around, trying to find that sweet-spot of comfort like a fat cat at naptime. He still had not said a word to me, or even looked my way. It never ceases to amaze me how 2 people can sit closer than do most married couples out on a date and never say one word to each other. No worries though, I wasn't much in the mood for conversation anyway, with my sinus headache throbbing as it was. Seat backs upright, and tray tables stowed, seatbelts
fastened. Flight attendant mime safety show, wheels
up, we're outta here....
I should mention that the flight attendant's performance is a make or break proposition, predicated completely on the execution of the mock seatbelt
unfastening. If they release the buckle and the other end of the belt falls toward the floor like a bungee jumper, its a thumbs up...and, well..you can figure out the rest. It was a thumbs down today since United has gone to this lame video presentation put on, apparently, by some of their flight attendants at last years annual meeting.)
As soon as we were able to take out our approved electronic devices, my laptop emerged from my bag. During taxi and take-off, I had been reading a biography about the great Duke Ellington, but thought I'd take this opportunity to get a look at a dvd that I had not been able to find the time watch for weeks. So, I put my headphones on and started the movie. I think Mini-Fridge must've frozen like a deer in head lights when he caught a glimpse of my computer screen.
"THE SPOOK WHO SAT BY THE DOOR", it read, with a raised fist in the blackground. Clever little fellow that he was, he leaned over to the other arm rest so that he could get a better angle on the screen without me noticing that he was looking.
This movie was truly a cinematic gem of the 1970s, although I doubt that many have had the chance to experience it. The narrator in the Intro explained how
all known copies of the film had mysteriously disappeared from the studio and remained lost until the original film negatives turned up 30 years later
on the underground market. Why did it disappear? Could it have anything to do with the subject matter? Hmmmm?
In the opening scene a room full of black men in boxers are running, jumping, climbing, and doing all sorts of other physical agility and dexterity tests
while a couple of white men in lab coats, holding clipboards note the results. We come to discover that these men are training for a spot as the first "negro"
in the CIA. After enduring the psychological tests, the infighting with the other brothas, and being flamed by a few taunts of "uncle tom", our man Dan Freeman (ah, the overt symbolism) emerges from the ashes and becomes the first in the CIA's elitist espionage unit.
Freeman quickly tires of making copies and getting coffee and after five years of training, he tenders his resignation and returns to his home on the Southside of Chicago. Little did they know that Dan had a plan! He would begin to use his training to transform gangbangers and street thugs into Freedom Fighters. All they needed was a trigger, and the Revolution was ON!
Mini-Fridge must've been ready to ring his flight attendant call button by now. The brothas were taking back the neighborhood from the corrupt police, bombing the national guard with molotov cocktails, and throwing black fists to the sky. I only wish he could've heard the soundtrack. If I had pulled a daishiki out of my carry-on and asked for some black coffee, he might have tried to alert the air marshalls that we had an incident on our hands.
Well, I don't want to belabor the point any further, but one last thing. As soon as the captain turned off the fasten seat belts sign at the gate in Oakland, he was outta there.
Tuesday, December 18, 2007
Middle America
I've just arrived at the spot where I'll rest my head tonight, also known as the Springhill Suites by Marriott in West Des Moines, Iowa. Save for a room that's set up in a slightly different configuration than the one last night, I'm feeling an incredible sense of de ja vu. Everything here looks very familiar. The portly, college-aged girl at the front desk, blonde hair in a pony-tail, looks very much like her counterpart at the Omaha Springhill last night as she checks me in to the hotel, smiling until it hurts as she directs me to the elevator. The usual collection of Middle America fine dining is within a stone's throw. I saw Olive Garden and Perkin's family restaurant near the freeway exit. Visible from my room's window was Culver's Frozen Custard Butter Burgers. If that doesn't say Midwest (or heart attack), I don't know what does.
The drive here reminded me of that scene in the Blair Witch Project when the subjects/hapless victims realized they had been walking in circles and kept passing the same spot over and over again. Between Omaha and Des Moines on I-80, there was no variety whatsoever. About every 10-15 miles there was a Pilot or some other truck stop, along with a collection of obscure fast food establishments, the most humorous (and poorly named) of which, Kum and Go, seemed to appear far too frequently. I must concede that there was one interesting twist from my last time through these parts. Like clockwork, you could recognize each new town a few miles in advance when their massive water tower (shaped like an inverted beer bong) came into view. On this trip, it seemed that these had been replaced by giant windmills. No, not your scenic, Vincent Van Gogh wheatfield, oil painting landscape scenery type windmill, but the ugly, white, futuristic turbine style numbers that dominate the horizon when you enter a place where no human was supposed to live so they try to harness some means of power and sustenance with the help of the high winds, like Palm Springs.
Making things even more vanilla today was the fact that everything was covered in snow. This snow doesn't look like it's going anywhere anytime soon either as the temperature never once went above 32 today. The highlight of the drive was a lone overpass that crossed I-80 just before Des Moines, where, as fate would have it I had another de ja vu. Well, is it really a de ja vu or just a recollection if something actually did happen, and you're sure it happened, and you don't just feel like you've been there, but you actually have? Hmmmmm? You chew on that for a minute.
My vote is for recollection, and in this particular recollection my best friend and I were pulled over on this very stretch of highway back in about '95 by the most terrified state trooper I've ever seen. This guy made Courage the Cowardly Dog (for those of you under 25) and the Cowardly Lion from The Wizard of Oz (for those of you that can make statements like, "I was in school 25 years ago" or "i've worked at _____ for 25 years" or "I remember exactly where I was when I heard that Kennedy was shot...") look like Dirty Harry. In stark contrast to the good ol' boy trooper that pulled us over the previous day in Rock Springs, Wyoming and allowed me to get out of the car and rummage through a bunch of duffle bags in the backseat in search of my driver's license while he looked on as relaxed as George W. Bush during the Florida re-counts , this guy practically yelled his instructions from the back of our vehicle.
"Please place your license and registration out the window where I can see them," he said, voice quivering as he reluctantly approached with his hand on his gun. Practically snatching the aforementioned documents from my friend that was driving, he quickly retreated to his car as if he needed to hurry and call for back-up, having indeed captured the fugitives that had been at-large, and surely armed and dangerous, guilty until proven innocent of...um...being black in Iowa. Oh yeah, and driving 96 mph.
I guess that's part of the charm of life here in The Middle. Things are pretty much what you expect. There's no radical rights, or liberal lefts...just middle. Sure, you might see the occasional mullet (you know, business in the front, party in the back) to shake things up, but you won't see too many that look like me. No, I'm not talking about the tall and good-looking part either. In fact, until I saw a brotha bussin' tables at Biaggi's Italian restaurant a little while ago, I felt like a modern day Atlas, carrying the weight of the world on my shoulders for all of us. Representin' for the under-represented.
I was about to stand on the balcony outside my 4th floor hotel room and steal a page from Will Smith as I proclaimed that "I am Legend". It's a good thing Barack will be here in a couple weeks.
The drive here reminded me of that scene in the Blair Witch Project when the subjects/hapless victims realized they had been walking in circles and kept passing the same spot over and over again. Between Omaha and Des Moines on I-80, there was no variety whatsoever. About every 10-15 miles there was a Pilot or some other truck stop, along with a collection of obscure fast food establishments, the most humorous (and poorly named) of which, Kum and Go, seemed to appear far too frequently. I must concede that there was one interesting twist from my last time through these parts. Like clockwork, you could recognize each new town a few miles in advance when their massive water tower (shaped like an inverted beer bong) came into view. On this trip, it seemed that these had been replaced by giant windmills. No, not your scenic, Vincent Van Gogh wheatfield, oil painting landscape scenery type windmill, but the ugly, white, futuristic turbine style numbers that dominate the horizon when you enter a place where no human was supposed to live so they try to harness some means of power and sustenance with the help of the high winds, like Palm Springs.
Making things even more vanilla today was the fact that everything was covered in snow. This snow doesn't look like it's going anywhere anytime soon either as the temperature never once went above 32 today. The highlight of the drive was a lone overpass that crossed I-80 just before Des Moines, where, as fate would have it I had another de ja vu. Well, is it really a de ja vu or just a recollection if something actually did happen, and you're sure it happened, and you don't just feel like you've been there, but you actually have? Hmmmmm? You chew on that for a minute.
My vote is for recollection, and in this particular recollection my best friend and I were pulled over on this very stretch of highway back in about '95 by the most terrified state trooper I've ever seen. This guy made Courage the Cowardly Dog (for those of you under 25) and the Cowardly Lion from The Wizard of Oz (for those of you that can make statements like, "I was in school 25 years ago" or "i've worked at _____ for 25 years" or "I remember exactly where I was when I heard that Kennedy was shot...") look like Dirty Harry. In stark contrast to the good ol' boy trooper that pulled us over the previous day in Rock Springs, Wyoming and allowed me to get out of the car and rummage through a bunch of duffle bags in the backseat in search of my driver's license while he looked on as relaxed as George W. Bush during the Florida re-counts , this guy practically yelled his instructions from the back of our vehicle.
"Please place your license and registration out the window where I can see them," he said, voice quivering as he reluctantly approached with his hand on his gun. Practically snatching the aforementioned documents from my friend that was driving, he quickly retreated to his car as if he needed to hurry and call for back-up, having indeed captured the fugitives that had been at-large, and surely armed and dangerous, guilty until proven innocent of...um...being black in Iowa. Oh yeah, and driving 96 mph.
I guess that's part of the charm of life here in The Middle. Things are pretty much what you expect. There's no radical rights, or liberal lefts...just middle. Sure, you might see the occasional mullet (you know, business in the front, party in the back) to shake things up, but you won't see too many that look like me. No, I'm not talking about the tall and good-looking part either. In fact, until I saw a brotha bussin' tables at Biaggi's Italian restaurant a little while ago, I felt like a modern day Atlas, carrying the weight of the world on my shoulders for all of us. Representin' for the under-represented.
I was about to stand on the balcony outside my 4th floor hotel room and steal a page from Will Smith as I proclaimed that "I am Legend". It's a good thing Barack will be here in a couple weeks.
Monday, December 17, 2007
The overhead bin
Today started out like many of my other travel days. I managed to sneak in a quick workout before rushing home to straighten up and head to the airport. I hate being hungry on flights when no airlines serve food anymore, and I hate coming home to a dirty place. To these ends, I made myself a bowl of oatmeal and subsequently loaded and ran the dishwasher before I left the door.
My first flight went off with little fanfare. I was able to get myself a decent seat, but not without shelling out an extra $43 for Economy Plus (gotta love United...NOT!) After thumbing through the Hemispheres magazine for a little while, I dozed off and slept for the remainder of the flight to Denver. I inhaled a soup, salad and sandwich at the Mile High Sports Bar and Grill in terminal B and then made my way to gate 47 for my connecting flight to Omaha.
Unfortunately, I drew the short straw and ended up with a middle seat and by the time my boarding group came up, just about all of overhead bin space was gone. Not at all flustered by this, I reached over the gentleman in the aisle seat to place my computer bag and jacket while I pondered the compartment conundrum overhead. Looking a little irritated, he didn't take his eyes off me for the next few moments as I proceeded adjust the contents of the bin to make my "rolly" fit. Luckily, I find humor in such things as people putting handbags and jackets in the overhead on a completely sold out flight. I moved somebody's jacket and placed it on top of another suitcase. I stood a computer bag upright that had been laid on its side. Mr. Seat 6C was getting impatient and continued to be visibly shaken. Perhaps it was his stuff that I was re-arranging. Finally, i had made nearly enough room for my bag, but I realized that the bin wouldn't close if things stayed the way they were.
By this time, I was certain that 6C would offer a hand and that maybe he or whoever else owned the offending laptop bag and leather jacket would claim them and place at their feet or something to alleviate the situation. No such luck. I searched around for a pillow, having acquired the "lift the front of the bag" trick from a flight attendant ahwile back. I couldn't find a pillow, so I sat down. That's when 6C put his Hater Hat on.
"There's no way that's going to close," he said in a condescending, nosey neighbor sort of way.
I gazed in his direction and paused for dramatic effect like the pawn shop owner that, much to the chagrin of Dan Akroyd's Louis Winthorpe in Trading Places repeats himself in his proclamation that "In Philadelphia, you'll get 50 bucks..." for the Rolex watch that Winthorpe was trying to unload. I then stepped over him to get to my middle seat (choosing Brad Pitt's option B for plane seating etiquette, for those of you up on Fight Club).
He was very uneasy for the last few moments before takeoff as the flight attendants tried to get everyone seated and out of the row so that the plane could push back. When the flight attendant finally came over and unsuccessfully tried to close the bin, she started asking which articles belonged to whom.
I'm tired, so I'll make a long story short (no, really this time). After she exhausted the same methods that I had tried (including the pillow) she got Mr. 6C to put his computer bag under the seat in front of him. At 5'10", the Louis Carnesecca/Technicolor Dreamcoat lookin' sweater wearing Mr. 6C had plenty of legroom to spare.
My first flight went off with little fanfare. I was able to get myself a decent seat, but not without shelling out an extra $43 for Economy Plus (gotta love United...NOT!) After thumbing through the Hemispheres magazine for a little while, I dozed off and slept for the remainder of the flight to Denver. I inhaled a soup, salad and sandwich at the Mile High Sports Bar and Grill in terminal B and then made my way to gate 47 for my connecting flight to Omaha.
Unfortunately, I drew the short straw and ended up with a middle seat and by the time my boarding group came up, just about all of overhead bin space was gone. Not at all flustered by this, I reached over the gentleman in the aisle seat to place my computer bag and jacket while I pondered the compartment conundrum overhead. Looking a little irritated, he didn't take his eyes off me for the next few moments as I proceeded adjust the contents of the bin to make my "rolly" fit. Luckily, I find humor in such things as people putting handbags and jackets in the overhead on a completely sold out flight. I moved somebody's jacket and placed it on top of another suitcase. I stood a computer bag upright that had been laid on its side. Mr. Seat 6C was getting impatient and continued to be visibly shaken. Perhaps it was his stuff that I was re-arranging. Finally, i had made nearly enough room for my bag, but I realized that the bin wouldn't close if things stayed the way they were.
By this time, I was certain that 6C would offer a hand and that maybe he or whoever else owned the offending laptop bag and leather jacket would claim them and place at their feet or something to alleviate the situation. No such luck. I searched around for a pillow, having acquired the "lift the front of the bag" trick from a flight attendant ahwile back. I couldn't find a pillow, so I sat down. That's when 6C put his Hater Hat on.
"There's no way that's going to close," he said in a condescending, nosey neighbor sort of way.
I gazed in his direction and paused for dramatic effect like the pawn shop owner that, much to the chagrin of Dan Akroyd's Louis Winthorpe in Trading Places repeats himself in his proclamation that "In Philadelphia, you'll get 50 bucks..." for the Rolex watch that Winthorpe was trying to unload. I then stepped over him to get to my middle seat (choosing Brad Pitt's option B for plane seating etiquette, for those of you up on Fight Club).
He was very uneasy for the last few moments before takeoff as the flight attendants tried to get everyone seated and out of the row so that the plane could push back. When the flight attendant finally came over and unsuccessfully tried to close the bin, she started asking which articles belonged to whom.
I'm tired, so I'll make a long story short (no, really this time). After she exhausted the same methods that I had tried (including the pillow) she got Mr. 6C to put his computer bag under the seat in front of him. At 5'10", the Louis Carnesecca/Technicolor Dreamcoat lookin' sweater wearing Mr. 6C had plenty of legroom to spare.
Sunday, December 16, 2007
I can feel it comin' in the air tonight...
Is this it? Is this how I’m finally going to go out? Is there no fight left in this dog? Have I been reduced to a sitting duck of sorts, nowhere to run, nowhere to hide? Am I going to take this lying down, or go out like a man, standing on my own two feet? How did I get here? I was winning. No, I was dominating. I was downright invincible. I had looked the devil in the eye and feared not. I dared to emerge from the dark forest and its dark canopy preventing any light, any good to circulate, its hidden dangers lurking in the shadows being allowed to flourish and overpower unsuspecting victims. But not me. I’m far too aware to get caught out there, and I was armed. But how did I get here?
It started out as a gentle mist, only very acutely obscuring visibility. I passed through its very small pockets, not terribly concerned. I even had the wherewithal to avoid it altogether, swerving to miss the most minor of disturbances as a skier might do on a slalom course. But then the pockets became more frequent, and the disturbances not so minor anymore, multiplying, and banding together to advance upon my increasingly tenuous position. Avoidance of them often meant an all out detour or cancellation of progress altogether. Finally, I was like Michael Jackson in Thriller(let the record show that I was really reaching here, reluctantly choosing to let myself be represented by the King of Pop), back to back with Ola Ray(well, on second thought, maybe this is not so bad after all) surrounded on all sides by the deadly predators, relentlessly closing in to seal my doom.
It was December 3, 2007. No, wait a minute. It was much earlier than that. October 29, 2007 to be exact. I was being interviewed by a soon to be co-worker that had been overcome by it. It seemed harmless enough. She warned me to steer clear and I took heed. A give it little thought at the time, and had no idea that her condition would worsen in the weeks that followed. Why should I have expected that it would gain strength, completely consuming her and recruiting others to carry out its dirty deeds? I was perplexed. Call it optimism. Call it ignorance. Call it naivete. Fast-forwarding to December 3,2007 I found myself in an enclosed room with this co-worker AND the new recruits. For 5 consecutive days I endeavored to withstand their gradual and sometimes not so subtle attempts at corrupting me as well. At no fixed interval, the contaminant was expelled involuntarily into this poorly ventilated room. I could feel it inching its way through the ether in my direction. I tried to avoid contact as much as possible, but engaged in the obligatory salutations lest I be perceived as discourteous or insolent. Each time, however, I quickly excused myself and rushed to neutralize the encounter. Each day, I armed myself against the airborne assailant with…well, Airborne. Foiled yet again, Common Cold, my arch enemy retreated and regrouped.
I emerged victorious once again last week, against even more insurmountable odds as I failed to concede when the passengers to my left and in the row behind me on my flight hacked and hacked as if they were providing a fertilization that this year’s harvest depended upon. Back in the office, I came to the realization that my sickly co-worker seems to have been under the influence of illness for the entire time that I have been employed there. The chips were clearly stacked against me. Yet, STILL I RISE!
Ever the cunning contaminator, Common Cold came up with the greatest ploy of all , infiltrating my inner circle over the weekend. On Saturday, I noticed that my daughter was slowed significantly and not demanding that I come up with an afternoon activity. Content to just lie on the couch and watch TV, I found it peculiar that neither she nor her partner in crime, the notorious Baby Brother wanted to go anywhere. Using them as its vessel, Common Cold spread its wares throughout my humble abode. Had I a black light, I perhaps would have seen a fluorescent cloud of contamination permeating the room and coating my walls, couch cushions, and remote control with its sinister solution of sickness. I doubled and even tripled my efforts, incessantly consuming vitamin C tablets and drinking herbal tea. I continued with the Airborne knowing that to board my Monday morning flight as a carrier is to all but admit total defeat, not to mention proliferate this plague to my fellow business travelers.
By mid-afternoon, my daughter was a shell of her usually energetic self. My son failed to ask any random questions or do anything detrimental to any of my furniture. He too was couch-ridden. I could feel Common Cold closing in on me, mocking me, tickling my throat and attempting to stuff my sinuses. I decided in favor of mind over matter. I wouldn’t succumb to this. I would WILL my way to victory, and if that didn’t work, I’d whip up a Nyquil cocktail to destroy all possible remnants of Common Cold and his henchmen. I’m trying to maintain my resolve but Common Cold is beginning to grin. When I close my eyes tonight, I fear that he’ll launch into a sinister soliloquy in his best Vincent Price impersonation:
As germs they pass from hand to hand, and darkness falls across the land,
Microscopic creatures crawl in search of heads,
To congest and make feverish and remain in beds,
And whosoever shall be found,
Complete with resistance significantly down,
Shall stand and face the Common Cold,
And be under its clutches until they must fold
Into a fetal position and start to shiver
As their immune system has sold them up the river.
(Maniacal Laughing…)
It started out as a gentle mist, only very acutely obscuring visibility. I passed through its very small pockets, not terribly concerned. I even had the wherewithal to avoid it altogether, swerving to miss the most minor of disturbances as a skier might do on a slalom course. But then the pockets became more frequent, and the disturbances not so minor anymore, multiplying, and banding together to advance upon my increasingly tenuous position. Avoidance of them often meant an all out detour or cancellation of progress altogether. Finally, I was like Michael Jackson in Thriller(let the record show that I was really reaching here, reluctantly choosing to let myself be represented by the King of Pop), back to back with Ola Ray(well, on second thought, maybe this is not so bad after all) surrounded on all sides by the deadly predators, relentlessly closing in to seal my doom.
It was December 3, 2007. No, wait a minute. It was much earlier than that. October 29, 2007 to be exact. I was being interviewed by a soon to be co-worker that had been overcome by it. It seemed harmless enough. She warned me to steer clear and I took heed. A give it little thought at the time, and had no idea that her condition would worsen in the weeks that followed. Why should I have expected that it would gain strength, completely consuming her and recruiting others to carry out its dirty deeds? I was perplexed. Call it optimism. Call it ignorance. Call it naivete. Fast-forwarding to December 3,2007 I found myself in an enclosed room with this co-worker AND the new recruits. For 5 consecutive days I endeavored to withstand their gradual and sometimes not so subtle attempts at corrupting me as well. At no fixed interval, the contaminant was expelled involuntarily into this poorly ventilated room. I could feel it inching its way through the ether in my direction. I tried to avoid contact as much as possible, but engaged in the obligatory salutations lest I be perceived as discourteous or insolent. Each time, however, I quickly excused myself and rushed to neutralize the encounter. Each day, I armed myself against the airborne assailant with…well, Airborne. Foiled yet again, Common Cold, my arch enemy retreated and regrouped.
I emerged victorious once again last week, against even more insurmountable odds as I failed to concede when the passengers to my left and in the row behind me on my flight hacked and hacked as if they were providing a fertilization that this year’s harvest depended upon. Back in the office, I came to the realization that my sickly co-worker seems to have been under the influence of illness for the entire time that I have been employed there. The chips were clearly stacked against me. Yet, STILL I RISE!
Ever the cunning contaminator, Common Cold came up with the greatest ploy of all , infiltrating my inner circle over the weekend. On Saturday, I noticed that my daughter was slowed significantly and not demanding that I come up with an afternoon activity. Content to just lie on the couch and watch TV, I found it peculiar that neither she nor her partner in crime, the notorious Baby Brother wanted to go anywhere. Using them as its vessel, Common Cold spread its wares throughout my humble abode. Had I a black light, I perhaps would have seen a fluorescent cloud of contamination permeating the room and coating my walls, couch cushions, and remote control with its sinister solution of sickness. I doubled and even tripled my efforts, incessantly consuming vitamin C tablets and drinking herbal tea. I continued with the Airborne knowing that to board my Monday morning flight as a carrier is to all but admit total defeat, not to mention proliferate this plague to my fellow business travelers.
By mid-afternoon, my daughter was a shell of her usually energetic self. My son failed to ask any random questions or do anything detrimental to any of my furniture. He too was couch-ridden. I could feel Common Cold closing in on me, mocking me, tickling my throat and attempting to stuff my sinuses. I decided in favor of mind over matter. I wouldn’t succumb to this. I would WILL my way to victory, and if that didn’t work, I’d whip up a Nyquil cocktail to destroy all possible remnants of Common Cold and his henchmen. I’m trying to maintain my resolve but Common Cold is beginning to grin. When I close my eyes tonight, I fear that he’ll launch into a sinister soliloquy in his best Vincent Price impersonation:
As germs they pass from hand to hand, and darkness falls across the land,
Microscopic creatures crawl in search of heads,
To congest and make feverish and remain in beds,
And whosoever shall be found,
Complete with resistance significantly down,
Shall stand and face the Common Cold,
And be under its clutches until they must fold
Into a fetal position and start to shiver
As their immune system has sold them up the river.
(Maniacal Laughing…)
The Nebulous Call
Saturday December 15, 2007
"Bad news does not get better with time."
My former boss would seemingly utter the above statement every Monday during our weekly executive staff meetings at my former company. This usually happened after one of his direct reports waffled about when something was going to get done or how angry the customer really was about a particular issue. I was by no means ever really hanging on this man's every word, but I retained this statement. Despite his weekly pleas, there were always a few of his direct reports that failed to take heed. I've found this to be true in society at large as well.
A friend of mine was telling me about being jerked around by loan and title officers and a real estate agent today. As if they had rehearsed together, all followed the script of exchanging pleasantries, clouding the issue with some apparent good news, and then finally backing into the set-back as if it's just something to be shrugged off. Quite disenchanted at the news from these Three Stooges, my friend would have been less upset had she been leveled with at the outset.
I got a similar call today. Figuring that I should try not to prolong my flakiness any longer, I returned a call from a voicemail that I received earlier in the week. I was a little curious as to the nature of the message since it did not come from the physical therapist that I usually deal with , but their supervisor at the athletic club . Somehow, I sensed that something was wrong.
After playing 3 rounds of phone tag, she finally caught me as I headed down the freeway on one of my many errands today. She thanked me for calling back, and then she suggested that I reschedule some of my appointments with another trainer or therapist. At first, I just listened. Perhaps he had been fired or something. He did seem like a maverick of sorts, but that was actually part of his charm. However, not everyone always has as optimistic an outlook as I do most of the time. I'm amused by such things, while others might right the guy off as difficult. She continued, again suggesting that I reschedule with somebody else. So finally I asked.
She said he had a health issue. I recalled that during one of our previous sessions he had mentioned having a stroke earlier this year. Furthermore, he had explained (not complained) that he was having some difficulty with his hands sometimes, but he laughed it off as just "one of those things". He did this with so many of life's injustices, and always made me laugh. I've been to many other chiropractors or physical therapists during my storied, injury-riddled athletic career, but very few if any had a sense of humor like Dr. Andrew Cuccia.
During our first session, we somehow got into a discussion of race and politics. He laughed, almost apologetically about being Sicilian, and proceeded to give some clever insights and expressed support for stereotypes proliferated by the Godfather trilogy and the Sopranos. I don't think I've ever laughed so hard while somebody was cracking my back. He had me in stitches.
Another time, he was going on and on about his distaste for his son's choice of women. He talked about his childhood in Southern California, and about his immigrant mother and the clever things that she would say to him. During our last session, he talked about his Thanksgiving visit to see his son in New Mexico. As always, he did so with a George Carlin cynicism that entertained me thoroughly. He's the kind of guy that you almost had to look in the eye all the time because you couldn't tell if he was serious about something or not. But he was always hilarious.
Something still did not compute about what the lady on the phone was trying to say.
"Wait...is everything okay?" I asked.
"Well...he had that health issue...and well...," she continued. "He passed away."
"WOW! Did he...um...WOW!" is all I could say.
She offered up no further information. Why hadn't she led off with this?
"I had pre-paid for 2 or 3 additional sessoins...um...will we..um...what do we do for those...um...I...WOW! Are you kidding?"
I felt like an idiot for letting these things come out of my mouth. I wish I had something more appropriate to say. She hadn't exactly set me up for such news, positioning it as a personnel issue and not the terminal situation that it was. It seemed very impersonal. I don't know. Perhaps I'm overreacting. I didn't say as much to her, but I was uncomfortable for the remainder of the call.
Dr. Cuccia was truly a laid back cat. My first impression of him was so much the opposite though. He all but lectured me about keeping my appointment and stressed how good a deal he was giving me and how people often flake on him and miss appointments. I assured him that not only did I intend to respect his time, but my backpain would surely get me there when I was supposed to be. The mood was definitely lighter once I reported for our first session. He was hilarious.
When I got off the phone, I thought about our last conversations. During our last session, he spoke with much pride about his son who seemed to be getting his life back on track after being a late bloomer of sorts that had a few early-20s type transgressions in his past. It sounded like he had a really nice time visiting with him. Our last conversation was actually on the phone. We were to have a 730am appointment, and realizing that I would have to cancel in order to make it to work early for a meeting, I tried to contact him. I felt terrible when I discovered that he was already in his car and on his way to the gym for our appointment. I explained and apologized profusely, remembering his strong feelings on people that failed to show for their treatments. His reply was classic Andy though, and I had to laugh aloud when he delivered it.
"Hey...no big deal, we'll reschedule."
I continued my apology, expressing my regret that he had already began to make the drive, but he cut me off.
"No worries, brotha...I'll just go get myself some breakfast."
All day, I've been thinking about many of the humorous opinions he had about life and about how fortunate I was to get to hear them. In retrospect, I get the impression that he was really at peace, and that he almost knew his days were numbered. He didn't get worked up about a whole lot, at least not in a way that prevented him from enjoying each day. In fact, he'd probably laugh about my complaining about the fashion in which bad news should be delivered. He'd finish it off with that half-way deadpan, and subsequent grin and I'd have to laugh at myself too.
Andy, I'm glad I met you. Rest in peace.
"Bad news does not get better with time."
My former boss would seemingly utter the above statement every Monday during our weekly executive staff meetings at my former company. This usually happened after one of his direct reports waffled about when something was going to get done or how angry the customer really was about a particular issue. I was by no means ever really hanging on this man's every word, but I retained this statement. Despite his weekly pleas, there were always a few of his direct reports that failed to take heed. I've found this to be true in society at large as well.
A friend of mine was telling me about being jerked around by loan and title officers and a real estate agent today. As if they had rehearsed together, all followed the script of exchanging pleasantries, clouding the issue with some apparent good news, and then finally backing into the set-back as if it's just something to be shrugged off. Quite disenchanted at the news from these Three Stooges, my friend would have been less upset had she been leveled with at the outset.
I got a similar call today. Figuring that I should try not to prolong my flakiness any longer, I returned a call from a voicemail that I received earlier in the week. I was a little curious as to the nature of the message since it did not come from the physical therapist that I usually deal with , but their supervisor at the athletic club . Somehow, I sensed that something was wrong.
After playing 3 rounds of phone tag, she finally caught me as I headed down the freeway on one of my many errands today. She thanked me for calling back, and then she suggested that I reschedule some of my appointments with another trainer or therapist. At first, I just listened. Perhaps he had been fired or something. He did seem like a maverick of sorts, but that was actually part of his charm. However, not everyone always has as optimistic an outlook as I do most of the time. I'm amused by such things, while others might right the guy off as difficult. She continued, again suggesting that I reschedule with somebody else. So finally I asked.
She said he had a health issue. I recalled that during one of our previous sessions he had mentioned having a stroke earlier this year. Furthermore, he had explained (not complained) that he was having some difficulty with his hands sometimes, but he laughed it off as just "one of those things". He did this with so many of life's injustices, and always made me laugh. I've been to many other chiropractors or physical therapists during my storied, injury-riddled athletic career, but very few if any had a sense of humor like Dr. Andrew Cuccia.
During our first session, we somehow got into a discussion of race and politics. He laughed, almost apologetically about being Sicilian, and proceeded to give some clever insights and expressed support for stereotypes proliferated by the Godfather trilogy and the Sopranos. I don't think I've ever laughed so hard while somebody was cracking my back. He had me in stitches.
Another time, he was going on and on about his distaste for his son's choice of women. He talked about his childhood in Southern California, and about his immigrant mother and the clever things that she would say to him. During our last session, he talked about his Thanksgiving visit to see his son in New Mexico. As always, he did so with a George Carlin cynicism that entertained me thoroughly. He's the kind of guy that you almost had to look in the eye all the time because you couldn't tell if he was serious about something or not. But he was always hilarious.
Something still did not compute about what the lady on the phone was trying to say.
"Wait...is everything okay?" I asked.
"Well...he had that health issue...and well...," she continued. "He passed away."
"WOW! Did he...um...WOW!" is all I could say.
She offered up no further information. Why hadn't she led off with this?
"I had pre-paid for 2 or 3 additional sessoins...um...will we..um...what do we do for those...um...I...WOW! Are you kidding?"
I felt like an idiot for letting these things come out of my mouth. I wish I had something more appropriate to say. She hadn't exactly set me up for such news, positioning it as a personnel issue and not the terminal situation that it was. It seemed very impersonal. I don't know. Perhaps I'm overreacting. I didn't say as much to her, but I was uncomfortable for the remainder of the call.
Dr. Cuccia was truly a laid back cat. My first impression of him was so much the opposite though. He all but lectured me about keeping my appointment and stressed how good a deal he was giving me and how people often flake on him and miss appointments. I assured him that not only did I intend to respect his time, but my backpain would surely get me there when I was supposed to be. The mood was definitely lighter once I reported for our first session. He was hilarious.
When I got off the phone, I thought about our last conversations. During our last session, he spoke with much pride about his son who seemed to be getting his life back on track after being a late bloomer of sorts that had a few early-20s type transgressions in his past. It sounded like he had a really nice time visiting with him. Our last conversation was actually on the phone. We were to have a 730am appointment, and realizing that I would have to cancel in order to make it to work early for a meeting, I tried to contact him. I felt terrible when I discovered that he was already in his car and on his way to the gym for our appointment. I explained and apologized profusely, remembering his strong feelings on people that failed to show for their treatments. His reply was classic Andy though, and I had to laugh aloud when he delivered it.
"Hey...no big deal, we'll reschedule."
I continued my apology, expressing my regret that he had already began to make the drive, but he cut me off.
"No worries, brotha...I'll just go get myself some breakfast."
All day, I've been thinking about many of the humorous opinions he had about life and about how fortunate I was to get to hear them. In retrospect, I get the impression that he was really at peace, and that he almost knew his days were numbered. He didn't get worked up about a whole lot, at least not in a way that prevented him from enjoying each day. In fact, he'd probably laugh about my complaining about the fashion in which bad news should be delivered. He'd finish it off with that half-way deadpan, and subsequent grin and I'd have to laugh at myself too.
Andy, I'm glad I met you. Rest in peace.
Friday, December 14, 2007
Company Party
Finally, I work at a company that gets it! Well, at least where holiday parties are concerned. We had a quaint little luncheon today that was very tastefully done and probably didn't break the bank. We moved some chairs, pulled some tables together and busted out the red table cloth. We didn't rent out some expensive venue. We didn't hire somebody to bring in some poker tables and roulette wheels, nor did we have a harpist playing Deck the Halls. We didn't spend the payroll on a frivolous party.It was at noon, so only a couple of "significant others" were on hand, but it was still nice. It felt like a family meal.
The food wasn't bad either. The caterer had carved a ham and a turkey and produced the obligatory dinner rolls. These were no ordinary rolls though. They looked like a cross between a flaky, layered croissant and cornbread muffin. For the vegetarians, there was a tray of squash and a meatless rigatoni dish. There was also some stuffing. I refrained from launching into a diatribe about how we call it dressing or how that speaks to more than the distinction between whether its prepared in the bird or not. It wasn't half bad though. The fruit tray was more impressive than the one at my Caribbean hotel earlier this week, complete with a few of my favorites in papaya, mango and pineapple.
Even the conversation was stimulating. We ranged from funny stories about kids, to assault rifles, to vacuum cleaners and their inability to corral pet hair, to,um...roadkill. Yes, this was indeed at the table over a meal. There was hardly any discussion about work. It was great. I felt like I had just come home from college and connected with family and friends.
When it was over, we went back to work and finished the day. Morale was high and spirits were good. Oh, by the way, I even made a plate to take home.
The food wasn't bad either. The caterer had carved a ham and a turkey and produced the obligatory dinner rolls. These were no ordinary rolls though. They looked like a cross between a flaky, layered croissant and cornbread muffin. For the vegetarians, there was a tray of squash and a meatless rigatoni dish. There was also some stuffing. I refrained from launching into a diatribe about how we call it dressing or how that speaks to more than the distinction between whether its prepared in the bird or not. It wasn't half bad though. The fruit tray was more impressive than the one at my Caribbean hotel earlier this week, complete with a few of my favorites in papaya, mango and pineapple.
Even the conversation was stimulating. We ranged from funny stories about kids, to assault rifles, to vacuum cleaners and their inability to corral pet hair, to,um...roadkill. Yes, this was indeed at the table over a meal. There was hardly any discussion about work. It was great. I felt like I had just come home from college and connected with family and friends.
When it was over, we went back to work and finished the day. Morale was high and spirits were good. Oh, by the way, I even made a plate to take home.
Thursday, December 13, 2007
Every-ting is Every-TING!
Saturday December 8, 2007, 9:35pm
I just arrived at SFO to take a red-eye flight bound for Newark on Continental. Many times before, I've gone all the way to gate 32 for this flight only to discover that all food stands were closed. Feeling proactive, I opt for TGIFriday's just before going through security. It's nearly empty and I only want a grilled chicken caesar salad. This should be quick. My waiter, Enrico, bumbles around doing who knows what, making this whole process a take much longer than necessary. Irritated, I get through security and discover that they've added some new restaurants to this wing and that they're actually open. Go figure. Waiting to board, I spot a couple of my old nemeses. First, there's the chatty cell phone guy. He's talking so loud that folks in southern San Mateo County can hear him. He's talking like ol' folks, you know how your parents or grandparents yell into the phone when it's a long distance call? That's him. When we finally board, he'll undoubtedly be the guy that doesn't have a bluetooth, yet opts to continue, his cell phone wedged between shoulder and ear, stopping in the aisle, morphing into the proverbial fatty cholesterol blockage that halts progress down the plane's main artery, arresting the patience of all the tired passengers behind him.
Nemesis #2 is the one that all business travelers fear most. The crying baby. Being confronted with one of these is like encountering a grizzly bear at a campsite. You just want to be really still or play dead so they don't notice you. With the crying baby, you just pray that the seating gods don't put it within 15 rows of you. No such luck. To the complete the hat trick, there were no exit row seats available. So much for sleep.
Day 2: 12/9/07
Thank goodness my President's Club membership is still active. After inhaling some roast beef hash at Gallagher's Steakhouse in the Continental Terminal (mmm, mmm, Good!) I kicked it in the TV room in the President's Club. Always one of my favorite chill spots, I grabbed a couple pieces of fruit, some hot tea, the New York Times and sat in front of the big screen in one of the auditorium style easy chairs. Unfortunately, a couple kids(about 4 and 8) were fighting over the remote while their parents attended to other things. They just couldn't seem to come to a consensus. Can you blame them? Choosing between Spongebob and The Grim Adventures of Billy and Mandy is a tall order! These two little rascals were screaming and throwing stuff while some weary travelers tried in vain to catch quick naps in some of the chairs.
The Continental magazine had a feature on Zihuatanejo, some restaurants in Miami, and the nuances of Single Malt and blended Scotch. Did you know that for a whisky (it's whisky for them, not whiskey) to be labeled scotch it must be produced solely in Scotland? Now you do! Note to self: conduct some research on this single malt vs. blended business and see if my taste buds can make the distinction....
Finally in Nassau, I got into it briefly with a cab driver that seemed to be charging me more than the published fare from the airport, AND making me pay the toll to get across the bridge, but I decided to be easy, relax, and fall into an island groove. No worries…
I checked into the Atlantis and took a quick stroll around the grounds. This place is SPECTACULAR! I found my way to the aqua blue water and fine white sand and decided that I could officially die now...or go back home. That’s all I needed to make the trip worthwhile (well, that and some conch fritters). Everything else is just gravy now.
I got in touch with some family friends that lived at the One and Only Ocean Club, also on Paradise Island, and was invited to a football party. I know what you’re thinking. Well, I have a few ideas of what you’re thinking. None of them are true. There were not a bunch of couch potatoes sitting around eating Doritos, and drinking MGD, and keeping a close watch on what each member of their respective fantasy rosters was doing that day. On the flip side of that, there were not a bunch of American Football illiterate islanders rooting for very random teams and just being happy and excited. This was by no means an ordinary football party.
First of all, for those not in the know, the Ocean Club contains a collection of estates where Michael Jordan, Bill Gates, Rick Fox (a native Bahamian) and others of note keep residences. To say that it is breathtaking is an understatement. Remember the Vintage Club in Palm Springs that I underscored in my 10/8/07 post on ‘Destinations’ <http://destinationswithdestah.blogspot.com/2007/10/searching-for-subway.html> ? Well, imagine that on an island! The house was so spectacular that I think I might have been excited about having polite conversation, eating crumpets and drinking tea there. But football too!?? Are you serious? This house was very Hollywood Hills-ish…very poppin’ bottles with models, eatin’ clams and mussels, yachting around Biscayne Bay-ish. Funny story: I found out that what I enjoyed most as a unique feature (stairs with no rails) was actually due to not being able to find somebody locally that knew how to install the rails that had been ordered. Whatever the case, I thought it was cool. I guess I’ve just cemented my fate. I’ll never work on HGTV. But, I digress. The party. There was plenty of food and easily 30 people in attendance for a random Sunday. Week 14…not Superbowl Sunday. The Jets were playing the Browns, for cryin’ out loud! The feature game was Patriots vs. Steelers and ironically was played on the 32” flat screen while the Jets were on the 60”. There were folks wearing Colts jerseys, Browns jerseys, and Raiders gear as well. There was even some representation for the 0-13 Miami Dolphins. By the way, did I mention that besides myself there were maybe a total of 4 or 5 other men? Yes, this was a group of some 20+ football crazed women ranging in age from 25 to 65 that place a weekly wager and get together at somebody’s house for food, drinks, and football. A great first day in the Bahamas, indeed.
DAY 3: Monday December 10, 2007
Making up for the very short slumber (and even shorter on quality!) I slept for almost 13 hours before getting up to hit the Marketplace Restaurant in Atlantis’ Royal Towers for the breakfast buffet. Overall, the food was pretty good, but the fruit spread was rather disappointing, especially for the $27/head price tag.
Later, I paid $3 and boarded the ferry that went from Paradise Island to Nassau for a trip that would span about 20 minutes. It runs every 30 minutes and is much more reasonable than the $10-$15 taxi rides to the downtown shopping district. In addition, this ride was quite educational as tour guide Clarence Leon Williamson was holding court. (No, I do not use the man’s middle name to suggest a certain notoriety like they would for every crackpot that takes his assault rifle into the Piggly Wiggly or shopping mall, but for 2 reasons. One, that’s how he introduced himself, and the second will become apparent by his manner of speech that I will explain shortly). A baritone voiced older gentleman, Mr. Williamson could perhaps be a not-so-distant relative to Isaac Hayes with his bald head and deep dark brown skin adorned in a natty white linen short set. With the cadence of the New York Yankees Public Address announcer (“Batting first, batting first…number 2, number 2, …Derek Jeter, Derek Jeter) and pronunciation that was 1 part Luca Brazzi and 2 parts Buju Banton, Clarence pointed out Oprah’s house, Eddie Murphy’s private island, and Anna Nicole’s hospital and shared other interesting facts. For instance, the Atlantis has a suite for the King of Pop himself, that can be reserved for $25,000 per night for a minimum of 4 nights.
After some browsing through the Straw Market I made it over to the Fish Fry where the locals kick it after work to delight in some conch fritters and steamed grouper. For entertainment that evening, I lucked out and was able to catch free screenings of a couple movies as part of the 4th Annual Bahamas International Film Festival. The first was called South of Pico about tensions running high in Los Angeles when the stresses of 4 people’s individual lives converge in a single moment. The second was a foreign film with subtitles called Mars and Venus, like the book about men and women.
DAY 4: Tuesday December 11, 2007
I’m over the almost complete lack of cell service and internet access around here. I figured out a way to save a buck on a reasonable breakfast at a place called Anthony’s Grille, just off the grounds of Atlantis before heading back into town. I must have a knack for finding the good local eat spots because I found another one on this day in Brother Eddie’s Kitchen on the corner of Elizabeth and Bay Streets. Walking down Bay Street, I noticed many of the non-tourists heading into this establishment from a few blocks away, so I proceeded to have my own look. Brother Eddie did not disappoint as the Curry Chicken, Rice and Peas, and Plantains were excellent. I washed it down with some ginger beer. Before catching the ferry back to Paradise Island I stopped to get some of the souvenirs that I didn’t feel like carrying yesterday.
I got back late in the afternoon and practically RAN to the beach. The clear blue water beckoned and I couldn’t get there fast enough. Just as my toes hit the water I was stopped in my tracks quite literally, however. It wasn’t too cold. It was actually almost warm like a bathtub. I stopped because just at that moment two stingrays swam directly in front of me in no more than 2 feet of water. It was quite the surreal experience, as these beautiful black creatures with their glorious 4 feet wingspans glided gracefully through the water with the insouciance of young love birds out for a stroll through a meadow, seemingly immune to the rough surf and crashing waves that would proceed to knock me down a few times after they were gone. I didn’t want to go out like the Crocodile Hunter, so I hung back and admired them from a safe distance at the water’s edge, following them down the beach until they went into deeper water. How lucky is that though?
The evening was capped off with a fine dining experience at Chez Willie’s back in town. I had planned to check out the Bahamian Club at Atlantis, but it, like various establishments on the grounds was not open every day during the low season.
DAY 5: December 12, 2007
Get up and go home! I woke up in a bit of a panic as I noticed the clock radio flashing like there had been a power outage. Fearing that I had overslept, I tried to call the operator, but the phones were malfunctioning as well. After toggling the receiver a few times, I finally got a dial-tone and was able to reach the operator. I got dressed, hit Anthony’s again, and headed to the airport. I got the same cab driver as the night before on the way to Chez Willie’s, and we chatted about dinner.
Now I’m almost mid-way through the 2nd leg of my flight home (Newark to SFO), and then it’s back to the grind…and the COLD! It’s a good thing that I put my sweats back on when I boarded the flight.
I just arrived at SFO to take a red-eye flight bound for Newark on Continental. Many times before, I've gone all the way to gate 32 for this flight only to discover that all food stands were closed. Feeling proactive, I opt for TGIFriday's just before going through security. It's nearly empty and I only want a grilled chicken caesar salad. This should be quick. My waiter, Enrico, bumbles around doing who knows what, making this whole process a take much longer than necessary. Irritated, I get through security and discover that they've added some new restaurants to this wing and that they're actually open. Go figure. Waiting to board, I spot a couple of my old nemeses. First, there's the chatty cell phone guy. He's talking so loud that folks in southern San Mateo County can hear him. He's talking like ol' folks, you know how your parents or grandparents yell into the phone when it's a long distance call? That's him. When we finally board, he'll undoubtedly be the guy that doesn't have a bluetooth, yet opts to continue, his cell phone wedged between shoulder and ear, stopping in the aisle, morphing into the proverbial fatty cholesterol blockage that halts progress down the plane's main artery, arresting the patience of all the tired passengers behind him.
Nemesis #2 is the one that all business travelers fear most. The crying baby. Being confronted with one of these is like encountering a grizzly bear at a campsite. You just want to be really still or play dead so they don't notice you. With the crying baby, you just pray that the seating gods don't put it within 15 rows of you. No such luck. To the complete the hat trick, there were no exit row seats available. So much for sleep.
Day 2: 12/9/07
Thank goodness my President's Club membership is still active. After inhaling some roast beef hash at Gallagher's Steakhouse in the Continental Terminal (mmm, mmm, Good!) I kicked it in the TV room in the President's Club. Always one of my favorite chill spots, I grabbed a couple pieces of fruit, some hot tea, the New York Times and sat in front of the big screen in one of the auditorium style easy chairs. Unfortunately, a couple kids(about 4 and 8) were fighting over the remote while their parents attended to other things. They just couldn't seem to come to a consensus. Can you blame them? Choosing between Spongebob and The Grim Adventures of Billy and Mandy is a tall order! These two little rascals were screaming and throwing stuff while some weary travelers tried in vain to catch quick naps in some of the chairs.
The Continental magazine had a feature on Zihuatanejo, some restaurants in Miami, and the nuances of Single Malt and blended Scotch. Did you know that for a whisky (it's whisky for them, not whiskey) to be labeled scotch it must be produced solely in Scotland? Now you do! Note to self: conduct some research on this single malt vs. blended business and see if my taste buds can make the distinction....
Finally in Nassau, I got into it briefly with a cab driver that seemed to be charging me more than the published fare from the airport, AND making me pay the toll to get across the bridge, but I decided to be easy, relax, and fall into an island groove. No worries…
I checked into the Atlantis and took a quick stroll around the grounds. This place is SPECTACULAR! I found my way to the aqua blue water and fine white sand and decided that I could officially die now...or go back home. That’s all I needed to make the trip worthwhile (well, that and some conch fritters). Everything else is just gravy now.
I got in touch with some family friends that lived at the One and Only Ocean Club, also on Paradise Island, and was invited to a football party. I know what you’re thinking. Well, I have a few ideas of what you’re thinking. None of them are true. There were not a bunch of couch potatoes sitting around eating Doritos, and drinking MGD, and keeping a close watch on what each member of their respective fantasy rosters was doing that day. On the flip side of that, there were not a bunch of American Football illiterate islanders rooting for very random teams and just being happy and excited. This was by no means an ordinary football party.
First of all, for those not in the know, the Ocean Club contains a collection of estates where Michael Jordan, Bill Gates, Rick Fox (a native Bahamian) and others of note keep residences. To say that it is breathtaking is an understatement. Remember the Vintage Club in Palm Springs that I underscored in my 10/8/07 post on ‘Destinations’ <http://destinationswithdestah.blogspot.com/2007/10/searching-for-subway.html> ? Well, imagine that on an island! The house was so spectacular that I think I might have been excited about having polite conversation, eating crumpets and drinking tea there. But football too!?? Are you serious? This house was very Hollywood Hills-ish…very poppin’ bottles with models, eatin’ clams and mussels, yachting around Biscayne Bay-ish. Funny story: I found out that what I enjoyed most as a unique feature (stairs with no rails) was actually due to not being able to find somebody locally that knew how to install the rails that had been ordered. Whatever the case, I thought it was cool. I guess I’ve just cemented my fate. I’ll never work on HGTV. But, I digress. The party. There was plenty of food and easily 30 people in attendance for a random Sunday. Week 14…not Superbowl Sunday. The Jets were playing the Browns, for cryin’ out loud! The feature game was Patriots vs. Steelers and ironically was played on the 32” flat screen while the Jets were on the 60”. There were folks wearing Colts jerseys, Browns jerseys, and Raiders gear as well. There was even some representation for the 0-13 Miami Dolphins. By the way, did I mention that besides myself there were maybe a total of 4 or 5 other men? Yes, this was a group of some 20+ football crazed women ranging in age from 25 to 65 that place a weekly wager and get together at somebody’s house for food, drinks, and football. A great first day in the Bahamas, indeed.
DAY 3: Monday December 10, 2007
Making up for the very short slumber (and even shorter on quality!) I slept for almost 13 hours before getting up to hit the Marketplace Restaurant in Atlantis’ Royal Towers for the breakfast buffet. Overall, the food was pretty good, but the fruit spread was rather disappointing, especially for the $27/head price tag.
Later, I paid $3 and boarded the ferry that went from Paradise Island to Nassau for a trip that would span about 20 minutes. It runs every 30 minutes and is much more reasonable than the $10-$15 taxi rides to the downtown shopping district. In addition, this ride was quite educational as tour guide Clarence Leon Williamson was holding court. (No, I do not use the man’s middle name to suggest a certain notoriety like they would for every crackpot that takes his assault rifle into the Piggly Wiggly or shopping mall, but for 2 reasons. One, that’s how he introduced himself, and the second will become apparent by his manner of speech that I will explain shortly). A baritone voiced older gentleman, Mr. Williamson could perhaps be a not-so-distant relative to Isaac Hayes with his bald head and deep dark brown skin adorned in a natty white linen short set. With the cadence of the New York Yankees Public Address announcer (“Batting first, batting first…number 2, number 2, …Derek Jeter, Derek Jeter) and pronunciation that was 1 part Luca Brazzi and 2 parts Buju Banton, Clarence pointed out Oprah’s house, Eddie Murphy’s private island, and Anna Nicole’s hospital and shared other interesting facts. For instance, the Atlantis has a suite for the King of Pop himself, that can be reserved for $25,000 per night for a minimum of 4 nights.
After some browsing through the Straw Market I made it over to the Fish Fry where the locals kick it after work to delight in some conch fritters and steamed grouper. For entertainment that evening, I lucked out and was able to catch free screenings of a couple movies as part of the 4th Annual Bahamas International Film Festival. The first was called South of Pico about tensions running high in Los Angeles when the stresses of 4 people’s individual lives converge in a single moment. The second was a foreign film with subtitles called Mars and Venus, like the book about men and women.
DAY 4: Tuesday December 11, 2007
I’m over the almost complete lack of cell service and internet access around here. I figured out a way to save a buck on a reasonable breakfast at a place called Anthony’s Grille, just off the grounds of Atlantis before heading back into town. I must have a knack for finding the good local eat spots because I found another one on this day in Brother Eddie’s Kitchen on the corner of Elizabeth and Bay Streets. Walking down Bay Street, I noticed many of the non-tourists heading into this establishment from a few blocks away, so I proceeded to have my own look. Brother Eddie did not disappoint as the Curry Chicken, Rice and Peas, and Plantains were excellent. I washed it down with some ginger beer. Before catching the ferry back to Paradise Island I stopped to get some of the souvenirs that I didn’t feel like carrying yesterday.
I got back late in the afternoon and practically RAN to the beach. The clear blue water beckoned and I couldn’t get there fast enough. Just as my toes hit the water I was stopped in my tracks quite literally, however. It wasn’t too cold. It was actually almost warm like a bathtub. I stopped because just at that moment two stingrays swam directly in front of me in no more than 2 feet of water. It was quite the surreal experience, as these beautiful black creatures with their glorious 4 feet wingspans glided gracefully through the water with the insouciance of young love birds out for a stroll through a meadow, seemingly immune to the rough surf and crashing waves that would proceed to knock me down a few times after they were gone. I didn’t want to go out like the Crocodile Hunter, so I hung back and admired them from a safe distance at the water’s edge, following them down the beach until they went into deeper water. How lucky is that though?
The evening was capped off with a fine dining experience at Chez Willie’s back in town. I had planned to check out the Bahamian Club at Atlantis, but it, like various establishments on the grounds was not open every day during the low season.
DAY 5: December 12, 2007
Get up and go home! I woke up in a bit of a panic as I noticed the clock radio flashing like there had been a power outage. Fearing that I had overslept, I tried to call the operator, but the phones were malfunctioning as well. After toggling the receiver a few times, I finally got a dial-tone and was able to reach the operator. I got dressed, hit Anthony’s again, and headed to the airport. I got the same cab driver as the night before on the way to Chez Willie’s, and we chatted about dinner.
Now I’m almost mid-way through the 2nd leg of my flight home (Newark to SFO), and then it’s back to the grind…and the COLD! It’s a good thing that I put my sweats back on when I boarded the flight.
Friday, December 7, 2007
Lunchtime
I was soooo glad to see that training class go away today. I don't do well with listening to someone talk all day. It reminds me way too much of the lectures in college that used to be my personal cure for insomnia on many an afternoon. The client wanted to take a picture with us to show the folks back home that they had indeed traveled the requisite 7,000 miles from Seoul to learn how to use our product. All of the class' attendees and I had dined together 5 times (4 lunches and a dinner)in all this week, but they would be heading out early this time.
This meant that I would have the option of going with the rest of the guys today. My new co-workers are a fairly tightly-knit bunch that seem to take pleasure in each other's company each day for a mid-day meal. This is taking some getting used to for me as my recent pattern has been to grab a quick meal to eat at my desk when I'm actually in the office and not working from home. I think the working from home deal has made me more cognizant of how much faster I can get the work done without long "distractions or breaks. I've always been of the mindset that I need not work 8 hours in a day if I can actually finish that work in 5 or 6. But keep that on the hush. I'm still doing research on this little theory.
Much like my crew from last night, these guys are diverse in their own right. Two Canadians (one French, one regular), an Englishman, an Asian man, a Colombian and I headed over to eat some pizza at a popular spot near the job. Predictably, all of these engineers talked "tech" during the ride over and for a moment after we sat down in the pizza parlor until the conversation was hijacked as suddenly as daybreak inside a railway tunnel.
"That Korean girl was cute, eh?"
Leave it to a group of men in a profession without an abundance of women to take it there not 15 minutes after our Korean contingent had driven away from our building. This was met to very mixed reviews at the table. I played fly on the wall with this group, being the new guy and all, offering only minimal input, choosing instead to make sure that I made the right facial expressions and added the occasional interested and concurring nod right on cue.
Of course the conversation went into the gutter from here, so I'll spare you the gruesome details. Suffice it to say that there will be nary a dull moment lunching with these guys from here on out.
This meant that I would have the option of going with the rest of the guys today. My new co-workers are a fairly tightly-knit bunch that seem to take pleasure in each other's company each day for a mid-day meal. This is taking some getting used to for me as my recent pattern has been to grab a quick meal to eat at my desk when I'm actually in the office and not working from home. I think the working from home deal has made me more cognizant of how much faster I can get the work done without long "distractions or breaks. I've always been of the mindset that I need not work 8 hours in a day if I can actually finish that work in 5 or 6. But keep that on the hush. I'm still doing research on this little theory.
Much like my crew from last night, these guys are diverse in their own right. Two Canadians (one French, one regular), an Englishman, an Asian man, a Colombian and I headed over to eat some pizza at a popular spot near the job. Predictably, all of these engineers talked "tech" during the ride over and for a moment after we sat down in the pizza parlor until the conversation was hijacked as suddenly as daybreak inside a railway tunnel.
"That Korean girl was cute, eh?"
Leave it to a group of men in a profession without an abundance of women to take it there not 15 minutes after our Korean contingent had driven away from our building. This was met to very mixed reviews at the table. I played fly on the wall with this group, being the new guy and all, offering only minimal input, choosing instead to make sure that I made the right facial expressions and added the occasional interested and concurring nod right on cue.
Of course the conversation went into the gutter from here, so I'll spare you the gruesome details. Suffice it to say that there will be nary a dull moment lunching with these guys from here on out.
Thursday, December 6, 2007
Hangin' with the Homeboys
It's another glorious Thursday night in the San Francisco Bay Area and me and the crew, or rather, the Crew and I set out to do some celebrating. It's almost Friday and by all accounts, it has been a rough week. That's reason enough to celebrate. But we had actually convened for a birthday. Of course, with our crew, getting everyone together is never a small feat and today would be no different. I'm just glad that I wasn't the one with the difficult set of circumstances for once, and no one had to accomodate me. Somebody else drew that card today.
As usual, we tried to make sure that whatever our festivities turned out to be, run of the mill would not be a phrase used to describe them. Part of this is due to our mantra to live life to the fullest AND against the grain, taking the road less traveled. Most of the time that rules out things like chicken and beer at a sports bar. If we do resort to something like that, however, we'll throw a wrinkle in it by taking care that the scenery is way out of the norm( our norm, anyway), being perhaps a rarely visited part of town, or being a bar where that chicken is tandoori chicken or something like that, and the sport on those bar tv's is of the cricket or polo variety. This is never a tough sell with this very international group though. With two Jamaicans, a Persian, and myself we've got a wide range of experiences and tastes to draw upon. Recently we got together at the last minute on a Tuesday and ended up eating at a food court. Yes, a food court. But you've never seen a group of guys push a food court to its full potential like we did. No one got the cheesesteak and cup full of fries, or the stuffed, cheesy crust Sbarro pizza, or even a Big Mac. When we all met back at a table in the middle of the seating area, it looked like lunchtime in the United Nations cafeteria. Afghan, Indian, Jamaican and Japanese food covered our little formica table.
Tonight it would be Moroccan food at a restaurant called Aziza and live Cuban/Reggaeton/Hip Hop music at a bar called Mojito's in North Beach. The food was great and the service spectacular at this sophisticated, yet unpretentious and downright laid back Western Addition neighborhood restaurant. We entertained ourselves not only by marveling about the tasty treats being brought to us by our waitress, but also trying to figure out where she was from. This type of undertaking always busts me up. We always have this urge to make someone out to be much more exotic and mysterious than they really are. "She amazing!" remarked the birthday boy, adding, "...you see...that's what I'm talking about..she's very sophisticated."
"I know," added another, "she's very refined," he continued, having based his assessment solely on the way she placed the silverware on the table and the quiet confidence she exuded as she recited the evenings specials, as if these things speak to magna cum laude at Harvard and a masters in etiquette in a South Wales finishing school. "I think she's from South Africa...that accent..it's exquisite," the coconut rum libation that she had recommended clearly taking control of his faculties at this point.
I hadn't yet detected any accent, but I went along with the conversation anyway. She did have a very nice command of the menu and seemed very easy in her explanations of individual ingredients and how they complement one another for your tasting pleasure. Of course, any woman talking about food as if it's a science, or religion even, makes me smile and take notice. I liken it to the way that I might recollect that someone I met in a dark club "could've been Halle Berry's twin sister," judgement clouded by her rather impressive analysis of the nuances of Stockton and Malone's pick and roll, Jim Leyland's ability to manufacture runs, and why the West Coast offense is dying a slow death in some major collegiate programs. But, like I said, I played along.
Finally, as she was placing the dessert menus on the table I asked where she was from to end the debate once and for all. The wide speculation had all but dominated our conversation so I decided to throw down the gauntlet. South Africa got a vote, as did New Zealand. Feeling like I was the only one that had failed to see the emperor's new clothes, I cast my vote for the Midwest (you know, Kansas, Illinois, Ohio,...).
"Texas," she said,"but I then lived in New York for many years."
They were visibly disappointed. Somehow, in our circles, accents, far off homelands, and the assumption of diverse hobbies and, um...the ability to..uh..read earn very high marks on the first impressions scale. "She's still bad!" one of them finally blurted out after a very long, very palpable silence. Dessert was good and we spent only a short time at Cuban spot. The bad weather had apparently kept most people home tonight.
Yet another construction detoured, semi-closure of the bridge would provide the final and most lasting memory of the night, though. The driver of our chariot got his signals crossed with the officer attempting to direct the long line of traffic to an alternate route, in a manner similar to the miscues that cause a quarterback to throw a touchdown pass to the opposing team. The receiver read "out route" while the quarterback threw the "in", and hit the strong safety right in the numbers leaving the fans calling for said quarterback's head and John Madden and Al Michaels to wax poetic about exactly what caused the quarterback to make that read ("The defensive back appears to have been following the Manning's eyes the whole time,") when in actuality it could have been that Football's Finest Females distracted that Tight End and he was mesmerized by the silver and black pom poms to the point that he never considered turning to the middle. Our driver had this same problem. While ol' Supercop was doing his best fly swatting impression from the middle of Howard Street , all of us in the car turned our heads in unison and commented on how peculiar we thought it for such an attractive Borinquen cop to be on duty as well, assisting with the directing duties for the adjacent street(A woman that fine couldn't possible be a cop, and especially not in this nasty weather, would probably have been deemed a rational argument at this point in time and with this group). Surely that caused our wheelman to lose focus and subsequently miss the bulk of what Barnie Fife was instructing him to do. He was immediately reprimanded.
"YOU! Pull right over there....NOW!"
He proceeded to lay into our man about how he had disobeyed a direct order and that he was trying to undermine his authority. "I'm sorry, Sir...I didn't mean to..I'm sorry, I was confused,...."
"DAMN RIGHT YOU WERE CONFUSED...YOU,.. DAMMIT...JUST DRIVE...GO STRAIGHT, DAMMIT, GO STRAIGHT!"
Unfortunately, we needed to turn left like everyone else to get on the bridge. I guess this was our punishment, going straight and having to go around the block again before we could get on the bridge. In fairness though, T.J. Hooker seemed to be saying go with one hand and stop with the other. It's a good thing he's not the guy guiding the 747's in for that last 50 feet on the tarmac after they've come from 10,000 miles away because that Boeing might have ended up crashing right through Terminal B. We laughed all the way home about this one, secretly relieved that we hadn't ended up face down on the curb in the rain.
As usual, we tried to make sure that whatever our festivities turned out to be, run of the mill would not be a phrase used to describe them. Part of this is due to our mantra to live life to the fullest AND against the grain, taking the road less traveled. Most of the time that rules out things like chicken and beer at a sports bar. If we do resort to something like that, however, we'll throw a wrinkle in it by taking care that the scenery is way out of the norm( our norm, anyway), being perhaps a rarely visited part of town, or being a bar where that chicken is tandoori chicken or something like that, and the sport on those bar tv's is of the cricket or polo variety. This is never a tough sell with this very international group though. With two Jamaicans, a Persian, and myself we've got a wide range of experiences and tastes to draw upon. Recently we got together at the last minute on a Tuesday and ended up eating at a food court. Yes, a food court. But you've never seen a group of guys push a food court to its full potential like we did. No one got the cheesesteak and cup full of fries, or the stuffed, cheesy crust Sbarro pizza, or even a Big Mac. When we all met back at a table in the middle of the seating area, it looked like lunchtime in the United Nations cafeteria. Afghan, Indian, Jamaican and Japanese food covered our little formica table.
Tonight it would be Moroccan food at a restaurant called Aziza and live Cuban/Reggaeton/Hip Hop music at a bar called Mojito's in North Beach. The food was great and the service spectacular at this sophisticated, yet unpretentious and downright laid back Western Addition neighborhood restaurant. We entertained ourselves not only by marveling about the tasty treats being brought to us by our waitress, but also trying to figure out where she was from. This type of undertaking always busts me up. We always have this urge to make someone out to be much more exotic and mysterious than they really are. "She amazing!" remarked the birthday boy, adding, "...you see...that's what I'm talking about..she's very sophisticated."
"I know," added another, "she's very refined," he continued, having based his assessment solely on the way she placed the silverware on the table and the quiet confidence she exuded as she recited the evenings specials, as if these things speak to magna cum laude at Harvard and a masters in etiquette in a South Wales finishing school. "I think she's from South Africa...that accent..it's exquisite," the coconut rum libation that she had recommended clearly taking control of his faculties at this point.
I hadn't yet detected any accent, but I went along with the conversation anyway. She did have a very nice command of the menu and seemed very easy in her explanations of individual ingredients and how they complement one another for your tasting pleasure. Of course, any woman talking about food as if it's a science, or religion even, makes me smile and take notice. I liken it to the way that I might recollect that someone I met in a dark club "could've been Halle Berry's twin sister," judgement clouded by her rather impressive analysis of the nuances of Stockton and Malone's pick and roll, Jim Leyland's ability to manufacture runs, and why the West Coast offense is dying a slow death in some major collegiate programs. But, like I said, I played along.
Finally, as she was placing the dessert menus on the table I asked where she was from to end the debate once and for all. The wide speculation had all but dominated our conversation so I decided to throw down the gauntlet. South Africa got a vote, as did New Zealand. Feeling like I was the only one that had failed to see the emperor's new clothes, I cast my vote for the Midwest (you know, Kansas, Illinois, Ohio,...).
"Texas," she said,"but I then lived in New York for many years."
They were visibly disappointed. Somehow, in our circles, accents, far off homelands, and the assumption of diverse hobbies and, um...the ability to..uh..read earn very high marks on the first impressions scale. "She's still bad!" one of them finally blurted out after a very long, very palpable silence. Dessert was good and we spent only a short time at Cuban spot. The bad weather had apparently kept most people home tonight.
Yet another construction detoured, semi-closure of the bridge would provide the final and most lasting memory of the night, though. The driver of our chariot got his signals crossed with the officer attempting to direct the long line of traffic to an alternate route, in a manner similar to the miscues that cause a quarterback to throw a touchdown pass to the opposing team. The receiver read "out route" while the quarterback threw the "in", and hit the strong safety right in the numbers leaving the fans calling for said quarterback's head and John Madden and Al Michaels to wax poetic about exactly what caused the quarterback to make that read ("The defensive back appears to have been following the Manning's eyes the whole time,") when in actuality it could have been that Football's Finest Females distracted that Tight End and he was mesmerized by the silver and black pom poms to the point that he never considered turning to the middle. Our driver had this same problem. While ol' Supercop was doing his best fly swatting impression from the middle of Howard Street , all of us in the car turned our heads in unison and commented on how peculiar we thought it for such an attractive Borinquen cop to be on duty as well, assisting with the directing duties for the adjacent street(A woman that fine couldn't possible be a cop, and especially not in this nasty weather, would probably have been deemed a rational argument at this point in time and with this group). Surely that caused our wheelman to lose focus and subsequently miss the bulk of what Barnie Fife was instructing him to do. He was immediately reprimanded.
"YOU! Pull right over there....NOW!"
He proceeded to lay into our man about how he had disobeyed a direct order and that he was trying to undermine his authority. "I'm sorry, Sir...I didn't mean to..I'm sorry, I was confused,...."
"DAMN RIGHT YOU WERE CONFUSED...YOU,.. DAMMIT...JUST DRIVE...GO STRAIGHT, DAMMIT, GO STRAIGHT!"
Unfortunately, we needed to turn left like everyone else to get on the bridge. I guess this was our punishment, going straight and having to go around the block again before we could get on the bridge. In fairness though, T.J. Hooker seemed to be saying go with one hand and stop with the other. It's a good thing he's not the guy guiding the 747's in for that last 50 feet on the tarmac after they've come from 10,000 miles away because that Boeing might have ended up crashing right through Terminal B. We laughed all the way home about this one, secretly relieved that we hadn't ended up face down on the curb in the rain.
Wednesday, December 5, 2007
Target Practice
I was standing at the urinal in the bathroom at the San Francisco Soup Company, taking time out for a bio-break before I rushed to catch the train when I had the following thought:
Who was the genius that came up with the idea to not only put an icy mint in the this wall-mounted vertical toilet, but that it would be a big hit if there were a mock filter placed over said mint and water that looked like a dart board?
Complete with bullseye and numbers around the circle and lines in all of the appropriate places, this was a bona fide dart board. No, this wasn't the first time I had ever seen one of these, but it did make me laugh out loud. Ladies, you probably don't know what I'm talking about, or that there was such a thing. The fellas are probably going to see to it that there are some consequences and repercussions for me speaking on these un-speakables. I told you. I observe. I am easily amused, and I can write a little bit. Some crazy things are bound to be said, and you know that I'm the Master of Minutae, the Tsunami of Soliloquys, and the Premier of Procrastination. You may call me His Royal Randomness.
Does this prove once and for all that we, as men, are very simple creatures? Are we this easily amused? (Well, we know I am, but...). Is everything a game for us? I can just imagine that there is some cat that came out of the men's room, arms over his head proclaiming his piss darts supremacy, telling all others to step off. "You betta axe somebody!" Or even worse, two cats in adjacent stalls competing. Okay, this is getting carried away. Sleep deprivation and hunger pains are not a good combination. So, again, I ask you: who was that genius?
He's probably a rich man now, just like the guy that came up with the java jacket (you know, the stupid piece of corrugated cardboard that makes sure you don't burn your hand as you drink your soy latte at Starbucks). He's probably cruising around in a 35-foot Bertram in Maui, fishing for Marlin's, and topping his day off by sipping some 18-year old, McCallan single-malt scotch. Brilliant.
Okay, I'm done. Another day above ground is a good day that I've lived to tell about. Life is good. Can you dig it?
Who was the genius that came up with the idea to not only put an icy mint in the this wall-mounted vertical toilet, but that it would be a big hit if there were a mock filter placed over said mint and water that looked like a dart board?
Complete with bullseye and numbers around the circle and lines in all of the appropriate places, this was a bona fide dart board. No, this wasn't the first time I had ever seen one of these, but it did make me laugh out loud. Ladies, you probably don't know what I'm talking about, or that there was such a thing. The fellas are probably going to see to it that there are some consequences and repercussions for me speaking on these un-speakables. I told you. I observe. I am easily amused, and I can write a little bit. Some crazy things are bound to be said, and you know that I'm the Master of Minutae, the Tsunami of Soliloquys, and the Premier of Procrastination. You may call me His Royal Randomness.
Does this prove once and for all that we, as men, are very simple creatures? Are we this easily amused? (Well, we know I am, but...). Is everything a game for us? I can just imagine that there is some cat that came out of the men's room, arms over his head proclaiming his piss darts supremacy, telling all others to step off. "You betta axe somebody!" Or even worse, two cats in adjacent stalls competing. Okay, this is getting carried away. Sleep deprivation and hunger pains are not a good combination. So, again, I ask you: who was that genius?
He's probably a rich man now, just like the guy that came up with the java jacket (you know, the stupid piece of corrugated cardboard that makes sure you don't burn your hand as you drink your soy latte at Starbucks). He's probably cruising around in a 35-foot Bertram in Maui, fishing for Marlin's, and topping his day off by sipping some 18-year old, McCallan single-malt scotch. Brilliant.
Okay, I'm done. Another day above ground is a good day that I've lived to tell about. Life is good. Can you dig it?
Tuesday, December 4, 2007
A Blog About Nothing
I woke up this morning simultaneously startled and wanting to throw the cell phone doubling as my alarm clock across the room. Wake up time, as it so often does , came much too soon for my liking. I shaved, showered, drove to work, drove home and went to sleep , with the expectation of doing it all again tomorrow. This is not very exciting stuff, is it? It worked so much better for Jerry Seinfeld and George Costanza in making their show about nothing. I guess it doesn't play nearly as well in in cyberspace on my blog page as it does each night in syndication. I've seen those shows dozens of times and still laugh at the same things, well, with the exception of the times when the scowl and shaking of the head that is inevitable each time Kramer appears on the screen.
Allow me to attempt to liven things up a bit. I woke up, went to work, had lunch, struggled to stay awake for the remainder of the day, drove home through lighter than usual traffic, took my daughter to basketball practice, ate and went to sleep. Yawn. Yeah, it's boring me too. Sorry, I'll try one more time. Since you and I both know that work provides nothing noteworthy the majority of the time (except for when I'm lucky enough to deal with special people-- see my Dilbert Files ) so we'll just fast-forward to lunch. Chinese food. "Chinese food?" you say. "You hate Chinese food!" True indeed, but let us put a caveat to that statement. The greasy stuff crammed into funny shaped white boxes that, after only a short time, leave you wondering if you had anything to eat at all, is that for which I have a strong dislike. However, having worked for a Taiwanese company and traveled to Asia to eat some real authentic food, which hardly resembles the crap we call Chinese food at all. I've managed to survive and sometimes almost enjoy the experience. I still won't ever request it and would rather go to a steakhouse if given the choice, but I can stand it.
The problem is that since I hardly ever seek out this cuisine voluntarily, I never know what to order. Nothing sounds particularly good and in my experience, the stuff that does rarely comes out like I expected. Luckily, my phone rang while I was struggling through the menu choices. I usually don't like for my cell phone to ring during meals, especially at fairly nice restaurants, but I do sometimes glance at the caller ID to make sure that its not an emergency or something.
As it turned out, it was my friend Mimi. It's like when you're using Microsoft Office and that stupid paper clip or that brown and white puppy dog or whatever character you had in the settings, popped up to foster a guess as to what you were trying to do and then started offering up ways to help you. Do you want to merge some documents? Do you want to archive your mail right now? It looks like you're writing a letter? May I help you? Well, unlike the paper clip, Mimi's timing was spot on because at that precise moment I was beginning to panic as I could see the waiter making it back to our table to take our order, and I still hadn't made any sense of this Chinese cuisine.
Let me tell you something about Mimi. About 4 or 5 Christmas' ago I was doing my usual December 23rd all-in-one-day shopping excursion to Union Square and at the 11th hour was having trouble finding a particular item. Not only did she help to decipher what I was trying to describe , but she was able to tell me precisely where to find it. No...I don't think you understand. I wish I could make it plain. I was standing on the corner of Geary and Stockton in front of the parking garage when I called her. With the presence of John Elway in the huddle on "The Drive" (you know, back in the 1987 AFC Championship game against the Browns?)she paused, took a deep breath and probably rolled up her sleeves, and licked her finger tips as if she needed to improve her grip on the ball before getting under center. The ball was snapped.
She told me to walk across the street where I would see a life sized picture of J-Lo in the window of the Louis Vuitton store. "Turn right," she said, " and walk down to the second set of double doors...that will be Macy's. Walk in and down the 3 stairs where you'll see a security guard sitting in front of a bank of elevators on the right." She was in rare form, marching down the field like a 4-star general. "Those elevators will take you to the Cheesecake Factory, but keep going straight about 10 more steps until you get to the counter where they keep the Movado watches, turn right and follow this counter around to the left where it well end as you reach the mannequin wearing the red Nautica jacket with the blue fleece lining," She was in the red-zone now. I felt like Indiana Jones following the very detailed instructions that had involved years of research, deciphering hieroglyphics, learning the secrets to get past the poisoned darts that flew out of the wall and ducking just in time to avoid decaptiation as the blade swung just above my head.
"Make a quarter turn to the right and then button hook over your left shoulder behind the white ivory display case," she said, back pedaling, scanning the field, looking for the open receiver. "And it is there that you will find the Coach key chains." Touchdown Broncos! At that point, I took the phone from my ear and looked all around that store to see if she was watching me or something. There have been no less than 5 incidents like this where Mimi has led me to within inches of whatever I was seeking in various shopping establishments across Northern California. If she were one of the X-men, her special power would be some sort of x-ray vision that would superimpose schematics and blueprints of all of the world's shopping centers about 6 inches in front of her face in green laser light. She's like what would happen if you crossed a librarian with Alicia Silverstone's Cher in Clueless.
Once again it appears that I have taken infinitely more time giving you background on a subject than the actual incident itself. But that's part of my charm right? You love my verbosity, don't you? Of course you do. That's why you tuned in to read my blog about nothing. Okay, let me wrap it up.
So, I'm back at Ming's, and the menu is making me nervous. I panic. Mimi calls. I told her of my very urgent situation and told her that I was at Ming's. Without hesitation, she said, "Get the Honey Walnut Prawns." This time, she sounded like Phil Jackson calling the play as the Bulls left the timeout. You know the rest.
Jordan takes the inbounds pass, drives to the middle with Ehlo draped all over him, stops, shoots...Bulls win!
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