I should've known it was going to be one of those days when I got up this morning. My alarm clock seemed to come calling way too early, and I was too disoriented to discern exactly what was happening. It was 5:15am and I flopped around like a fish out of water, trying to come to, in denial that my slumber had come to such an abrupt end. I finally sat up and prepared to get out of bed, having to brace myself on the wall to keep from falling over like someone deep in the throws of inebriation. When I'm like this, it's almost pointless to try to keep a time schedule. It was now 5:23am and I had planned to hit the gym before work. I had it all worked out.
Last night, I had parked my car in one of the spots nearest to the door in the garage so that I wouldn't have to toil with our supremely slow garage conveyor, car stacker, parking system (3 minutes to get your car out of its cage, and it seems like 10). I was going to get to the gym early enough to find a parking spot on the street in front of the gym. Nevermind the fact that I live a mere 2 blocks from the gym, I was on a mission of extreme time conservation today. The 6 minutes that I would save walking to the gym and the 6 minutes walking back would allow me to have that much more time to do all that I had to do before catching my train. Well, I was already 8 minutes behind, but like I said before, hustling is not an option. I did my best, and got to the gym by about 545am. I found a parking spot about a 1/2 block up from the gym, but at least I didn't waste alot of time looking.
My 6am basketball game was having as much trouble getting going as I was. In fact, it didn't get going until about 645am when we finally got the requisite 10th man to run. I wanted to go to the 7am yoga class as well, but that wasn't happening now. We finished playing at about 730am and I then proceeded to lift weights and do the world's fastest ab workout. Forget 8 minute abs, I cut it down to 2 or 3 minute abs. (See the post from 2 days ago: Slacker). I finished up and was out of the shower by 810am. I've had the biggest crick in my neck for the last couple of days, so I was looking to get a 10 minute chair massage at the gym before I left. The masseuse had stepped away for coffee as time ticked away, but re-appeared just as I was about to take my whip-lash-lookin' a-- (shut yo' mouth!) out the door.
My neck felt a little better afterward, but this may require some further attention (and maybe some ice) later. I walked out of the gym and walked almost a block toward my house when it occurred to me that I had forgotten something: MY CAR! What's worse, it was almost 830am now and I might even have a parking ticket waiting for me. I all but sprinted in the other direction, across the courtyard of the Federal Building toward my ride. It was still there, and I had managed to get there before the meter maids. I rode on back to the house and now was critically behind schedule. I had hoped to have a bowl of oatmeal before leaving, but that wasn't happening now. I had to catch that 859am train if I hoped to connect to the bus in time. If I miss that bus, the next one doesn't come until 1115am. I had already heard the horrid traffic report, so driving to work was all but out of the question on this cool and drizzly morning. I changed out of my sweats and put on some suitable work clothes, grabbed my laptop and hit the door once again.
I was steppin'! As I got close, walking across Frank Ogawa Plaza, I peeked at my watch to see how I was doing on time. It was looking good as I came down the steps into the station. I made a bee-line for the turnstiles and...
SHAZAAAAAAAAAAAM! My life flashed before my eyes. A guy driving what I would have to say was unequivocally the fastest motorized wheelchair ever driven on this continent (in fact, it's not even street-legal in 31 countries) almost ran me down. He was headed straight at me, coming way too tightly around the corner for a guy going that speed. I made like Neo and matrix'd my way outta the way as he scarcely acknowledged the near fatal collision. I said "Excuse me," while he almost inaudibly grumbled something that I'm quite sure neither resembled "sorry," nor "my bad". That might've been it for me. I got a good seat on the train (one facing in the forward direction, no one sitting too close, and no coughers or sneezers) and relaxed for a minute, not yet acutely aware of the extreme hunger that would well up from deep in my stomach. The sista in the seat behind me had her iPod on WAY too loud, pumpin' something that sounded like she had bought it from homey on the corner ("Hey folks...i got dem CDs fo' $5..get at me tho'"). She seemed to be in a trance, eyes glossed over, and mouth slightly open. I did a double take to see if indeed she was awake and not a member of the walking dead. She blinked and I was satisfied. Amused as I always am by the people that walk from empty car to empty car as if the climate or the smell is any better from one car to the next, I found myself not once but twice having to coil my legs up to avoid being railroaded by someone rolling a bike almost twice their size.
I got to the my stop with about 15 minutes to spare before the bus was scheduled to depart. By now, my stomach was raging on like Chewbacca in a sheep shearing factory, so loud in fact, that I just knew the people around me could hear it. I wasted no time. I walked across the street in search of something remotely resembling breakfast. I walked right past McDonald's (those scars run too deep...perhaps a story for another day) and scanned the strip mall quickly for something. Anything! There was a Starbucks in the distance that might have something, if even a blueberry muffin or something. I was that desperate at this point, and didn't have a whole lot of time to be picky. They actually had some hot breakfast sandwiches. I couldn't believe it. Gold Star for Starbuck's. I took it to-go and darted back out the door as my bus departure time was drawing near. I desperately wanted to stop and eat this sausage, egg, and cheese delight, but had to wait until I arrived at work. No eating on the bus.
I sat between two blaring iPods this time. The brotha in front of me was rapping his lyrics for all to enjoy, and ol' girl behind me looked like the glossy-eyed train girl's twin. (I waited until she blinked too). Of course there was Bonnie Business Lady on her Blackberry, yammering away to somebody about something trivial but so so so necessary to be communicated right now. I wonder what we did before cell phones. How did we ever manage? We must've been ready to explode with all the things we had to keep in our heads until we could reach a land line to make a call. Several people shot looks in her direction as she laughed loudly and gestured as if she were in her living room by herself.
THE WORKDAY
I refuse to waste any good print on the lackluster work day. Suffice it to say it was waaaaaaaay too long and I didn't finish what I wanted to finish, so I'll be doing what I absoluttely swore I would not be doing tomorrow: Going to work again.
BUS-STOP: The Reprise
It's 814pm and I'm at the bus stop in front of my job. I was at work so late that the cleaning crew came and left before I did. I even had to set the alarm and turn off the lights. Much to my chagrin, it was raining when I got out there, so in the rain I waited for the bus. And waited. And waited. And waited some more. I checked the time on my phone and it read 828pm. The bus was scheduled to be here around 813pm (well, for the stop about 2 miles down the road, so 820 would've probably been more like it). I checked again at 831pm and then watched as my phone went dead. The battery on these Motorola Q phones is just ridiculous. This was starting to feel like a sit-com, where I was the tragic punchline. I felt like Dan Aykroyd's Santa-suited Louis Winthorp in Trading Places as the pouring rain starts to fall on him. I laughed aloud.
Convinced that the bus would still come, I braved the elements all the way until 840pm before doing an about face and heading back into my building. At least there was a phone in there at my desk, and I could get out of the rain. I sat down and began to think about how I was going to get home. I made a couple calls, taking great care to find somebody that was not going to make me feel like a total idiot for having missed the last bus of the day and never let me live it down. They were in the middle of something but finally came to get me and drove me to the nearest BART station where I just barely caught the train at 1121pm. Still a little cold and wet, I was just happy to have a place to sit down and a moving vehicle to take me home. It took all I had to keep from falling asleep before the train reached my stop. I had to put my "urban" on (no, not turban...urban) as i walked home from the station.
Now here I am just after midnight, putting the finishing touches on this entry. What a day. All eating rules are going out the window as I'm about to eat a bowl of that chicken soup that I made yesterday. A big hearty bowl. It's never a dull day when you have public transportation to provide the entertainment.
Thursday, January 31, 2008
Wednesday, January 30, 2008
Infirmary
Flu season is in full swing and there's seemingly nowhere I can go to escape it. I go to work, and people are coughing and sneezing. I get on a flight, and folks are hacking into the oft circulated air, throwing their heads back and letting the phlegm fly or if they do cover their mouths, quickly touch the seats/magazines/armrests to subsequently spread the sickness all over the place. I go to the gym and, inevitably, somebody wipes their nose and then picks up a barbell or uses one of the machines. I can't get away.
I could make like the Rabbi or the Boss (Ben Kingsley and Morgan Freeman, respectively) in the Paul McGuigan film Lucky Number Slevin and never leave my house again. Sure. I could keep up with the outside world by looking out my window, but I wouldn't get too close to it, in case somebody wanted to pick me off. Unfortunately, I neglected to stock the cupboards like a fallout shelter, so I'd have to come out to get some food at some point. Yeah, I know...I could order some groceries online and have them delivered, but what if the delivery guy has a cold? What if he doesn't wash his hands? He could very well delivery the common cold right along with my cold cuts. I guess I'll just have to man-up and keep washing my hands every four and a half minutes.
Both of my children are sick this week. Neither of them have been to school yet this week. I had visited them at their house the last few days, feeling like I could see the germs swirling around in the air and surrounding me like a swarm of killer bees readying for the attack. Today, they had to come to my house for a few hours so that Mom could go to a meeting. They got out of the car coughing. They coughed in the elevator. They coughed in the hallway, and they coughed once inside my door. I tried the divide and conquer theory, not so much to keep the concentration of germs down in one room (because conventional wisdom would suggest that I want to leave at least one "safe harbor" like my bedroom to retire to and be safe from all the contamination), but rather to avoid them fighting over the couch and the TV. I set my son up on my couch with Animal Planet's "10 most Extreme Killing Machines" (the female mosquito took the title) and I put my daughter on my bed in the other room, watching Hannah Montana. I set them up with their own pillows, so as to keep mine from getting touched. I gave them their own blankets to hack all over and then retreated to the kitchen to make them some dinner. This pair ALWAYS comes calling for a meal before too long.
I made some Cuban Chicken Soup, and it was pretty good if I do say so myself. I've made it before, but not in awhile. With the health of this crew, it was just what the doctor ordered. I slaved over the stove for more than 90 minutes, chopping onions, de-boning chicken, cutting malanga root into the requisite small cubes, and seasoning everything while troubleshooting with one of my Australian customers that noticed I was still online as my day wound down (and his just began). He finally let me go at about 830pm even though I still hadn't fixed his issue. My kids took the majority of their soup home in a tupperware container since neither of them really had much of an appetite.
When their mother picked them up, I proceeded to wash the aforementioned pillow cases and blankets, and opened the windows (despite the 45 degree temperature) to let some fresh air get circulated in here. Hopefully my precautions will not be in vain. Yes, i'm aware that I've got some issues.
I could make like the Rabbi or the Boss (Ben Kingsley and Morgan Freeman, respectively) in the Paul McGuigan film Lucky Number Slevin and never leave my house again. Sure. I could keep up with the outside world by looking out my window, but I wouldn't get too close to it, in case somebody wanted to pick me off. Unfortunately, I neglected to stock the cupboards like a fallout shelter, so I'd have to come out to get some food at some point. Yeah, I know...I could order some groceries online and have them delivered, but what if the delivery guy has a cold? What if he doesn't wash his hands? He could very well delivery the common cold right along with my cold cuts. I guess I'll just have to man-up and keep washing my hands every four and a half minutes.
Both of my children are sick this week. Neither of them have been to school yet this week. I had visited them at their house the last few days, feeling like I could see the germs swirling around in the air and surrounding me like a swarm of killer bees readying for the attack. Today, they had to come to my house for a few hours so that Mom could go to a meeting. They got out of the car coughing. They coughed in the elevator. They coughed in the hallway, and they coughed once inside my door. I tried the divide and conquer theory, not so much to keep the concentration of germs down in one room (because conventional wisdom would suggest that I want to leave at least one "safe harbor" like my bedroom to retire to and be safe from all the contamination), but rather to avoid them fighting over the couch and the TV. I set my son up on my couch with Animal Planet's "10 most Extreme Killing Machines" (the female mosquito took the title) and I put my daughter on my bed in the other room, watching Hannah Montana. I set them up with their own pillows, so as to keep mine from getting touched. I gave them their own blankets to hack all over and then retreated to the kitchen to make them some dinner. This pair ALWAYS comes calling for a meal before too long.
I made some Cuban Chicken Soup, and it was pretty good if I do say so myself. I've made it before, but not in awhile. With the health of this crew, it was just what the doctor ordered. I slaved over the stove for more than 90 minutes, chopping onions, de-boning chicken, cutting malanga root into the requisite small cubes, and seasoning everything while troubleshooting with one of my Australian customers that noticed I was still online as my day wound down (and his just began). He finally let me go at about 830pm even though I still hadn't fixed his issue. My kids took the majority of their soup home in a tupperware container since neither of them really had much of an appetite.
When their mother picked them up, I proceeded to wash the aforementioned pillow cases and blankets, and opened the windows (despite the 45 degree temperature) to let some fresh air get circulated in here. Hopefully my precautions will not be in vain. Yes, i'm aware that I've got some issues.
Tuesday, January 29, 2008
Slacker
I'm sitting here today all out of sorts, being anything but productive. I have yet to do a single, solitary push-up today, nor have I been to the gym. I did eat though. I ate quite a bit too. Perhaps that was the problem. I've got no edge to me anymore. I'm fat and happy right now. A lion with a full stomach can't hunt. He just sits around in a shady spot, occasionally swatting at a fly with his tail, but mostly just sleeps.
I had a professor by the name of O'Flynn in college that subscribed to this theory as well. In a very pronounced Irish accent he would hark back to what sounded like a very miserable Catholic boarding school education and explain how the best way to ensure that your studying is productive is to sit near, but with your back to, the window so that the cold wind can make you shiver while you're sitting in an uncomfortable, splintering, wooden chair that has one leg shorter than the rest. Of course, all of us in this upper division Numerical Analysis thought that he was a raving lunatic, but a very entertaining nonetheless.
For the last 45 minutes, I've clicked on the send/receive button for my email inbox thinking that I will coax it into sending me some correspondence with somebody. Anybody. I've re-read old emails just to make sure that there were no action items for me hidden amongst the verbosity. I looked at the Open-Table.com website for new restaurants in San Francisco. I read reviews for random restaurants, exercising no particular preference for whether it was a French, Cuban, Mexican, Italian or otherwise. I adjusted the volume and ringtone settings on my cell phone. Twice.
I'm just sitting here looking around the room. I'm looking out the window.The rain is easing up finally and I see the sun peeking through the clouds. Maybe I should go to the gym. I've got something to return to Best Buy. There are dishes that I could be doing. There is laundry that I could fold. There's still that movie that I need to watch, although my conscience won't allow me to do it during work hours. Well, maybe. Nah...not today. I'm still plugged in at this job.
I went to the gym. I started out slowly, feeling a bit sluggish and un-inspired but somehow managed to get in a few sets of ab and chest work. Once done there I high-tailed it back down to the locker room so that I could change and hit the swimming pool. I upped the ante today and did an extra four laps.
At last...I have accomplished something. It was uncanny, but when I got back to my desk, I was energized. I responded to emails. I folded the clothes. Life seemed a little more organized all of a sudden. I might do something meaningful today after all.
I had a professor by the name of O'Flynn in college that subscribed to this theory as well. In a very pronounced Irish accent he would hark back to what sounded like a very miserable Catholic boarding school education and explain how the best way to ensure that your studying is productive is to sit near, but with your back to, the window so that the cold wind can make you shiver while you're sitting in an uncomfortable, splintering, wooden chair that has one leg shorter than the rest. Of course, all of us in this upper division Numerical Analysis thought that he was a raving lunatic, but a very entertaining nonetheless.
For the last 45 minutes, I've clicked on the send/receive button for my email inbox thinking that I will coax it into sending me some correspondence with somebody. Anybody. I've re-read old emails just to make sure that there were no action items for me hidden amongst the verbosity. I looked at the Open-Table.com website for new restaurants in San Francisco. I read reviews for random restaurants, exercising no particular preference for whether it was a French, Cuban, Mexican, Italian or otherwise. I adjusted the volume and ringtone settings on my cell phone. Twice.
I'm just sitting here looking around the room. I'm looking out the window.The rain is easing up finally and I see the sun peeking through the clouds. Maybe I should go to the gym. I've got something to return to Best Buy. There are dishes that I could be doing. There is laundry that I could fold. There's still that movie that I need to watch, although my conscience won't allow me to do it during work hours. Well, maybe. Nah...not today. I'm still plugged in at this job.
I went to the gym. I started out slowly, feeling a bit sluggish and un-inspired but somehow managed to get in a few sets of ab and chest work. Once done there I high-tailed it back down to the locker room so that I could change and hit the swimming pool. I upped the ante today and did an extra four laps.
At last...I have accomplished something. It was uncanny, but when I got back to my desk, I was energized. I responded to emails. I folded the clothes. Life seemed a little more organized all of a sudden. I might do something meaningful today after all.
Sunday, January 27, 2008
Someday I'll watch this movie...
I get movies sent to me from Netflix and while I love the service, there's one problem that I seem to encounter over and over again. I hardly ever get a chance to actually sit and watch them. I always seem to be have some errands to run or some sleep to catch up on, or somebody to take to practice, or pick up from somewhere, or some food to cook and/or eat.
One of these days, i'll actually watch Shooter. I've had this movie sitting on top of my TV for the better part of the last 2 months. I've even taken it along with me for viewing on my laptop on long flights. It just hasn't happened yet. I hope it's a good movie after all this. I was thinking about watching some of it right now, but then I looked at the time, and then looked at the cover of the movie and noticed that it is 2 hours and 4 minutes long. As you guessed, I'm not going to watch it tonight. Stay tuned.
One of these days, i'll actually watch Shooter. I've had this movie sitting on top of my TV for the better part of the last 2 months. I've even taken it along with me for viewing on my laptop on long flights. It just hasn't happened yet. I hope it's a good movie after all this. I was thinking about watching some of it right now, but then I looked at the time, and then looked at the cover of the movie and noticed that it is 2 hours and 4 minutes long. As you guessed, I'm not going to watch it tonight. Stay tuned.
Saturday, January 26, 2008
Frankie Pentangeli
I don't know why, but today I was thinking about one of my favorite scenes from The Godfather. Well, Godfather II to be exact. It's that scene when there is some sort of grand jury or senate commission or something like that convened to bring down the hammer on La Cosa Nostra, and the Corleone family to be exact. Frankie Pentangeli had apparently been "flipped" and was all set to testify that Michael was the ring leader of the Corleone crime family and that he had given orders for misdeeds over many years.
Just like any other big fish, Michael is not just going to roll up into a ball and let this happen. He's far too smooth for that. He's also far too civilized to do something rash like having Pentangeli knocked off. No, instead, he went for the subtle...the understated. Anyway, Michael appears in court with some little guy that's clearly from the "old country (Sicily)" and merely sits with him in the courtroom as Frankie is called upon for questions. At some point, Frankie makes eye contact with this guy and immediately changes his story to be completely contrary to what he had testified to in his sworn affidavit.
It turns out that the guy is Frankie's brother, who not only flew all the way from Sicily and stepped straight off the plane and into the court room, but spoke no English and would board a plane to return to Sicily immediately following the proceedings. Here's the rub. Michael knew that blood runs very deep and that Frankie would never be able to be a rat and bring shame to his family. No words were spoken. None were needed.
Maybe I like understatement. Yeah, that's probably it. I love subtlety. I delight in it. I look forward to it.I love it that Alex English would get a boring 30 points per game with supreme footwork and a buttery smooth jump shot. I didn't always, but then it clicked for me one day. Tim Duncan's game is equally not suited for the highlight reel. But I love it. I've come to appreciate going to upscale restaurants where the food is so pretty that and they spread it out all the way to the furthest reaches of the plate, and then sprinkle some paprika to add some color. I love it that Miles Davis played with his back to the crowd and toward the end of his career, played the muted trumpet almost exclusively, only chiming in with a note here and there while the rest of his band played furiously, and yet you lived for that here and there note.
Despite my love for the music of Miles, I'd be lying if I didn't give top billing to my favorite musical understatement of all time courtesy of the Archbishop Riordan High School Crusader Band. Back in high school I lived to play against these guys. Not only were they the class of the West Catholic Athletic League in basketball, they also had a band that was the essence of cool. Before I was in high school, going to watch these guys play was almost like going to a college or pro game. These guys had such a swagger and uniforms like the Showtime Lakers. When I finally made it to High School, this was the team that I most looked forward to playing against, since you have to beat the best to be the best.(I think we were 0-10, including a few nail-biters and overtime battles, but we never emerged victorious).
But even as entertaining as they were on the court, the Band was the icing on the cake. If you didn't see the band, you almost felt cheated. Perhaps it's commonplace in the South or on the East Coast for the Band to be almost as highly regarded as a competitive sport, but not so in California. "Band and Geek" are more likely heard in the same sentence around here than "Band and Scholarship". But that's what made their band all the more remarkable. If there was a hit song that everybody loved from the radio, they played it to perfection, and they played classics like Louie Louie ( here's the most famous version by The Kingsmen, with some clever video added by some YouTuber with too much time on his hands http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7h6U5fZ1c7Q&feature=related ). This was probably their best number. It wasn't just that they played it well, it's how they eased into it. Where the Kingsmen lead in with a piano or organ chord, the Crusader Band used Tubas. At first it was just a couple of them, and then Several of them, and it was very loud. Then the trumpets and trombones jumped in and the bass drummers did their thing too. You know that Vitamin Water commercial where Curtis "50-Cent" Jackson is conducting for an orchestra? It was like that, except that this orchestra all were wearing purple letterman's jackets with a yellow R on the left breast. Louie Louie was the signature song for this crew, but they were at their best in show on another number. They'd usually save this one for a late game time-out when the game was at its peak. I can't remember what the song was called, but it was something upbeat like a Duke Ellington or Count Basie Orchestra might play and had several movements. During the middle of the song, one of the band members walks out to half-court and with the insouciance of a zamboni driver at a hockey game, proceeds to set up a xylophone and then an easel with some sheet music. With his little hammer (or whatever the thing is called with which you play a xylophone) in hand, he feigned deep concentration as he studied the sheet music as if trying to find the place in the song where the rest of the band was, so as to not miss his part. The band is absolutely jammin' and the suspense is killing you as you wait for this guy to play what is surely going to be an outstanding solo. When the buzzer sounds, signaling the players to come out of their time-outs and return to the court, you begin to think that maybe he's not going to get his chance, until suddenly the band gets to its dramatic finish, and then goes completely silent. Right on queue, the guy at mid-court plays 3 notes and then the band plays one last note and the crowd goes absolutely bonkers.
Again, I don't know why subtlety and understatement were on my mind today, but it was fun to reminisce.
Friday, January 25, 2008
Great Day in the Morning!
You've just got to love a day that starts well before the crack of dawn. While earlier this week I was rolling back over to my left shoulder and pulling the covers up closer to my chin at such an hour, digging in for the home stretch of my slumber, today I was in the gym. I was Isaac the bartender, concocting my own good health, good mood cocktail. It was 1 part abs, 2 parts cardio, and a heavy dose of weightlifting and a splash of stretching. I chased it down with a 1/4 mile in the pool.
When I got home, Good Morning America still had an hour to go and I had already sucked down an Acai Charger with protein from Jamba Juice. Once in the door, I continued the assault on my voracious appetite with a very big bowl of oatmeal. Okay, I have a confession to make. I hadn't intended to make or eat so much oatmeal. Truth is, I was too lazy and too hungry to wash my usual oatmeal pot (still in the sink from yesterday) so I had to use the next size up (aka, my spaghetti pot).
I picked a great day to work from home. The weather has been downright nasty all day. As the streetlights illuminate the sheets of rain that are slamming down on the pavement beneath my window, I am extra thankful that I'm not creeping my way through rush-hour traffic right now. I actually got some things done too. Yesterday was a particularly frustrating day at the office, in which vast amounts of (yeah, you guessed it) time were wasted. Surely that's what provoked yesterday's nonsense. What can I say? My left brain was dying to be heard after all the right brain frustration of the work day.
What does the evening have in store? Who knows? I know that my stomach is talking to me again. It's probably got something to do with all the push-ups I've done today to break up the monotony. I do 25 about ever 30-45 minutes, to make sure I rest my brain and allow my eyes to leave this computer screen with some regularity. Some people surf the internet, I do push-ups. I've still got some of the leftover tortilla soup that I made the other night, so that'll probably be the main course once again.
I might even get to the Netflix selection (Shooter) that I've been holding onto for the past 45 days. It's a rainy Friday in the Bay Area and I'm sitting at home. There are certainly worse things that I could be doing. I won't complain. That's all for me, sports fans. Thank you for coming out...goodnight.
When I got home, Good Morning America still had an hour to go and I had already sucked down an Acai Charger with protein from Jamba Juice. Once in the door, I continued the assault on my voracious appetite with a very big bowl of oatmeal. Okay, I have a confession to make. I hadn't intended to make or eat so much oatmeal. Truth is, I was too lazy and too hungry to wash my usual oatmeal pot (still in the sink from yesterday) so I had to use the next size up (aka, my spaghetti pot).
I picked a great day to work from home. The weather has been downright nasty all day. As the streetlights illuminate the sheets of rain that are slamming down on the pavement beneath my window, I am extra thankful that I'm not creeping my way through rush-hour traffic right now. I actually got some things done too. Yesterday was a particularly frustrating day at the office, in which vast amounts of (yeah, you guessed it) time were wasted. Surely that's what provoked yesterday's nonsense. What can I say? My left brain was dying to be heard after all the right brain frustration of the work day.
What does the evening have in store? Who knows? I know that my stomach is talking to me again. It's probably got something to do with all the push-ups I've done today to break up the monotony. I do 25 about ever 30-45 minutes, to make sure I rest my brain and allow my eyes to leave this computer screen with some regularity. Some people surf the internet, I do push-ups. I've still got some of the leftover tortilla soup that I made the other night, so that'll probably be the main course once again.
I might even get to the Netflix selection (Shooter) that I've been holding onto for the past 45 days. It's a rainy Friday in the Bay Area and I'm sitting at home. There are certainly worse things that I could be doing. I won't complain. That's all for me, sports fans. Thank you for coming out...goodnight.
Thursday, January 24, 2008
Time
"...in time, it could've been so much more
The time, is precious I know...
In time, it could've been so much more
The time has nothing to show because..."
Time won't give me time. None at all. Lately, I've been busier than a one-legged man in an...um..or busier than a one-eyed cat watchin' two mouse holes...or a termite in a saw -mill..than a moth in a mitten....That is to say, I've had no shortage of activities to occupy my most precious commodity of late. Who knew?
I don't think I've been so completely dominated by work so much since I were trying to get my Electrical Engineering degree. I was always running here to a study group. Running there to basketball practice. Running over so and so's to pick up the notes. Unexpectedly dropping in at whatshername-an'em, conveniently at mealtime. In my adult life, I've been pretty good about carving out a little bit of time in my routine to do things that I want to do like workout or put my feet up if I want to. The key word there, however, was routine. When my routine gets shot, as it so often does lately, items on my to-do list make like looters at Federated on La Brea and Slauson and start grabbing whatever time they can get their hands on. It's a total free for all. I sit back like the LAPD and just watch it happen, almost powerless to do anything about it. The have-to's start throwin' hay-makers at the want-to's and the whole thing is just a big mess. At the end of it, meal-time or bed-time come in like the National Guard and put an end to it, making the natives a little lest restless as the fires burn themselves out. Until tomorrow.
But then the caste system of time rears its ugly head, and possession becomes all the rage. My time fights for equal billing with your time, and his time alleges to be more valuable than all of ours. Who decided this? Was their an election while I slept? Did I miss the campaigning? What? My time didn't fare so well in the red states? What happened? Was there an insurrection? Did I miss a rebellion? Is there a new Sultan of the Sun-Dial? I demand a re-count. What time is it anyway?
Did we collectively run out of time? Although it wants to roll, none of us are willing to take time. Time will have to get its own ride. You run out? Too bad, you came to the wrong place if you're looking for some spare time.
But wait. Let's take time out. Out? Out where? Dinner and a movie? Out? Rub 'em out? Wack 'em? Is time really the problem? Is this narrative even worth it? The Time, that is. Maybe time is trying to come up with new strategeries while Money is the real root of all evil. Money drops time into a suit and lets him stumble all over his tongue while Haliburton, um, I mean Money ('round the way, the homiez call 'em Burt...Mama call him Hal) gets Busy in the background, and here we are thinking that Time ain't on our side when it's ain't Time that matters. Busy is just Money's cointelpro, and Time his puppet regime. Watch out for Money.
Things were all good until Money came on the scene. Time was like an ally. No, time was like air. It was just there. Wherever you went, there it was, but it didn't matter. You just did what you were going to do, until you didn't anymore. Time didn't make you stop. Time just stood idly by. When you were hungry, you ate, and when you were tired, you slept and then along came Money.
Its wickedness spread like wildfire. Destroying families and neighborhoods. It took prisoners. It developed a following. No. It seduced and put a spell on its subjects. It got them all strung out. It made them think that it was the Way. They were made to do anything for Money. They robbed and stole for Money. They even killed for Money, and still Money was never satisfied. Money never is. Money is greedy. Money consumes and consumes and preaches that there is nothing like more Money, and that Money cures all ills and solves all problems. Money is tricky too. He had to be to survive this long, adapting, evolving, often taking his operation underground, and taking on many different names like scratch, clams, bacon, or in more distinguished company, Bill or Benjamin. His message is twisted, suggesting that man CAN live on Bread alone.
But it's about Time. It always has been actually. Even when it wasn't. The Native American knew it. Mother Earth knows it and remembers the Land before Time, when if you didn't finish today, you came back and got back at it tomorrow. There was always totmorrow. But tomorrow may never come, for all we know.
And now it's Time to say goodbye to all my little friends. If you're wondering what just happened the last few moments of your life and are lamenting about never getting them back, I'd like to extend my apologies. Come back if you find some time that needs to be laid to rest; with the fishes that is. You can't really kill time though. Time has always been here, and always will be. When you break free from the bondage of your Almighty Dollar, Time will still be right there, solid, a tree as its guise, rooted in the pain of its past and will rise.
Remember the Time. Enjoy the Time. Unlike Money, there's plenty for everybody. For both of our sake, I hope that sleepy-time rises to prominence in '08. It'll probably run a grass-roots campaign, but its an idea that's long over due. I'll even go so far as to have the audacity to hope that the deficit spending in this area is curbed significantly so as to lessen the amount of incoherent non-sense that gets printed here. Okay. It's dinner time.
The time, is precious I know...
In time, it could've been so much more
The time has nothing to show because..."
Time won't give me time. None at all. Lately, I've been busier than a one-legged man in an...um..or busier than a one-eyed cat watchin' two mouse holes...or a termite in a saw -mill..than a moth in a mitten....That is to say, I've had no shortage of activities to occupy my most precious commodity of late. Who knew?
I don't think I've been so completely dominated by work so much since I were trying to get my Electrical Engineering degree. I was always running here to a study group. Running there to basketball practice. Running over so and so's to pick up the notes. Unexpectedly dropping in at whatshername-an'em, conveniently at mealtime. In my adult life, I've been pretty good about carving out a little bit of time in my routine to do things that I want to do like workout or put my feet up if I want to. The key word there, however, was routine. When my routine gets shot, as it so often does lately, items on my to-do list make like looters at Federated on La Brea and Slauson and start grabbing whatever time they can get their hands on. It's a total free for all. I sit back like the LAPD and just watch it happen, almost powerless to do anything about it. The have-to's start throwin' hay-makers at the want-to's and the whole thing is just a big mess. At the end of it, meal-time or bed-time come in like the National Guard and put an end to it, making the natives a little lest restless as the fires burn themselves out. Until tomorrow.
But then the caste system of time rears its ugly head, and possession becomes all the rage. My time fights for equal billing with your time, and his time alleges to be more valuable than all of ours. Who decided this? Was their an election while I slept? Did I miss the campaigning? What? My time didn't fare so well in the red states? What happened? Was there an insurrection? Did I miss a rebellion? Is there a new Sultan of the Sun-Dial? I demand a re-count. What time is it anyway?
Did we collectively run out of time? Although it wants to roll, none of us are willing to take time. Time will have to get its own ride. You run out? Too bad, you came to the wrong place if you're looking for some spare time.
But wait. Let's take time out. Out? Out where? Dinner and a movie? Out? Rub 'em out? Wack 'em? Is time really the problem? Is this narrative even worth it? The Time, that is. Maybe time is trying to come up with new strategeries while Money is the real root of all evil. Money drops time into a suit and lets him stumble all over his tongue while Haliburton, um, I mean Money ('round the way, the homiez call 'em Burt...Mama call him Hal) gets Busy in the background, and here we are thinking that Time ain't on our side when it's ain't Time that matters. Busy is just Money's cointelpro, and Time his puppet regime. Watch out for Money.
Things were all good until Money came on the scene. Time was like an ally. No, time was like air. It was just there. Wherever you went, there it was, but it didn't matter. You just did what you were going to do, until you didn't anymore. Time didn't make you stop. Time just stood idly by. When you were hungry, you ate, and when you were tired, you slept and then along came Money.
Its wickedness spread like wildfire. Destroying families and neighborhoods. It took prisoners. It developed a following. No. It seduced and put a spell on its subjects. It got them all strung out. It made them think that it was the Way. They were made to do anything for Money. They robbed and stole for Money. They even killed for Money, and still Money was never satisfied. Money never is. Money is greedy. Money consumes and consumes and preaches that there is nothing like more Money, and that Money cures all ills and solves all problems. Money is tricky too. He had to be to survive this long, adapting, evolving, often taking his operation underground, and taking on many different names like scratch, clams, bacon, or in more distinguished company, Bill or Benjamin. His message is twisted, suggesting that man CAN live on Bread alone.
But it's about Time. It always has been actually. Even when it wasn't. The Native American knew it. Mother Earth knows it and remembers the Land before Time, when if you didn't finish today, you came back and got back at it tomorrow. There was always totmorrow. But tomorrow may never come, for all we know.
And now it's Time to say goodbye to all my little friends. If you're wondering what just happened the last few moments of your life and are lamenting about never getting them back, I'd like to extend my apologies. Come back if you find some time that needs to be laid to rest; with the fishes that is. You can't really kill time though. Time has always been here, and always will be. When you break free from the bondage of your Almighty Dollar, Time will still be right there, solid, a tree as its guise, rooted in the pain of its past and will rise.
Remember the Time. Enjoy the Time. Unlike Money, there's plenty for everybody. For both of our sake, I hope that sleepy-time rises to prominence in '08. It'll probably run a grass-roots campaign, but its an idea that's long over due. I'll even go so far as to have the audacity to hope that the deficit spending in this area is curbed significantly so as to lessen the amount of incoherent non-sense that gets printed here. Okay. It's dinner time.
Tuesday, January 22, 2008
Tres Leches, por favor...
I'm totally spent today. I worked way too late last night and ended up eating at the only place that I could find that was open near my hotel: Chili's. Their baby back ribs are not nearly as delicious as the commercial would have you believe.
I'm not going to write a whole lot today, but I did feel the need to report on the much improved dining experience I had tonight. Fearing a repeat of last night's subpar eats, I opted out of the dinner at El Torito with all of the attendees in the training class that I am teaching. I guess I could've eaten there, but I could not take the chance of having to discuss work related stuff after hours. I need some time to unwind. These guys have a knack for coming up with an obscure question that I can't answer and that just might ruin my meal. They've had all day to do that. Actually, it wouldn't be THAT hard to stump me at this point. I'm no expert on this stuff. Check back with me in a few months.
Tonight, I drove about 20 miles to La Mesa so that I could dine at Habana, a restaurant rated best Cuban Restaurant by San Diego Newspapers. This is not really as exciting a feat as it sounds, since there probably aren't 3 such places in this town. This place wasn't bad though. I started out with a mojito, and then moved on to a cucumber salad and some alitas fritas (non battered fried chicken wings). My main course was a cuban take on shrimp creole over white rice or camarones salteados (sauteed shrimp). The pecan crusted yams (papa dulce roja) was a nice complement and got me warmed up for the biggest piece of tres leches cake you've ever seen. I'm a happy camper this evening.
I'm not going to write a whole lot today, but I did feel the need to report on the much improved dining experience I had tonight. Fearing a repeat of last night's subpar eats, I opted out of the dinner at El Torito with all of the attendees in the training class that I am teaching. I guess I could've eaten there, but I could not take the chance of having to discuss work related stuff after hours. I need some time to unwind. These guys have a knack for coming up with an obscure question that I can't answer and that just might ruin my meal. They've had all day to do that. Actually, it wouldn't be THAT hard to stump me at this point. I'm no expert on this stuff. Check back with me in a few months.
Tonight, I drove about 20 miles to La Mesa so that I could dine at Habana, a restaurant rated best Cuban Restaurant by San Diego Newspapers. This is not really as exciting a feat as it sounds, since there probably aren't 3 such places in this town. This place wasn't bad though. I started out with a mojito, and then moved on to a cucumber salad and some alitas fritas (non battered fried chicken wings). My main course was a cuban take on shrimp creole over white rice or camarones salteados (sauteed shrimp). The pecan crusted yams (papa dulce roja) was a nice complement and got me warmed up for the biggest piece of tres leches cake you've ever seen. I'm a happy camper this evening.
Monday, January 21, 2008
Mass Destruction
I've a confession to make. It's not that I made the connection right away, nor did I make any moves to confirm my suspicion. It was like one of those sequences from Lucky Number Slevin when you're in the present but you keep flashing back to about an hour ago to see how the present situation developed based on the events in the previous moment. There's a freeze frame. There's a moment of clarity. Time stops and sound gets drowned out by the silence of the standstill. The music changes as suddenly as the time halts.
Here's how it went down. I was at Gate 30 at Oakland International Airport yesterday. The folks on the plane that would be my ride to San Diego were beginning to de-plane. De-plane is always one of my favorite things to say, images of Herve Villechez, a Chicago suburb, and to peeling the silver skin off a plane and seeing the rib cage made of rows and rows of tightly packed seats swirling in my head. A mountain of a man came lumbering up the jetway, carry-on bags in tow. He proceeded to turn left and walk past all of us waiting to board.
"It must be horrible for him on the plane," I thought to myself. It's bad enough for me, and I'm only really hurting if there's no legroom, or if the ceiling in one of the little planes was particularly low. This was no little plane though. It was a Southwest Airlines737-700 series, the RTD of the sky. Plenty of room for everybody. Well...that is...everybody but us folks of exceptional size.
I lined up with all the other people in the A group waiting to board. I was a part of Southwest's new Business Select group. Not only was I in group A, but I was in position 5. My favorite seat was definitely within reach. It was exit row heaven for me. The gate agent took my boarding pass and I floated down the aisle to my 75 minutes of airliner luxury. Well, not really. But it was going to be infinitely better than that S.S. Amistad tight-pack that I rode back from DFW last week. The Andrea Bocelli music was playing loudly (in my head, that is...or on the soundtrack of Destah the Movie) and he was hitting that part of that little opera song that they always play as background for of scenes of Italy or 2 young lovers running through a field of poppies just before a long embrace and then...
Scratch! The music stopped and my eyes widened as I saw one of the flight attendants standing in one of the first few rows trying to prevent boarding passengers like myself from sitting in a particular seat that she was partially obscuring. But I saw it anyway. I couldn't help but notice it. It was like a trainwreck. You want to look away but you just can't. For the record I am very much NOT pro-rubbernecker. I try really hard not to look at an accident when I pass one on the freeway on the way to work. I'm usually so annoyed by the time I reach the front of the traffic jam that I want no part of it. But this one was unbelievable. This seat looked like it had been hit by...well...an airplane. It was in pieces. What happened? Who could have done such a thing?
Freeze. I was sitting down in my exit window. I was like Brick Top in Snatch, having that epiphany far too late after the fact, realizing what has probably taken place. The mountain man...er..uh..mountain of a man appeared in my mind. Perhaps he...? Naw...well...? It's possible. I felt bad for even having the thought. But how did he do it? Stop! That is so wrong. He must've been pretty mad at something? For the last time, he didn't do it. He couldn't have.
Well, my little voice and I finally stopped arguing. I won.
They delayed the flight for about 45 minutes to fix the seat, citing something like all of the flights for the rest of the day would be sold out, so they'd need this seat. Of course, they let us in on this piece of information AFTER that got us all boarded on the plane.
Here's how it went down. I was at Gate 30 at Oakland International Airport yesterday. The folks on the plane that would be my ride to San Diego were beginning to de-plane. De-plane is always one of my favorite things to say, images of Herve Villechez, a Chicago suburb, and to peeling the silver skin off a plane and seeing the rib cage made of rows and rows of tightly packed seats swirling in my head. A mountain of a man came lumbering up the jetway, carry-on bags in tow. He proceeded to turn left and walk past all of us waiting to board.
"It must be horrible for him on the plane," I thought to myself. It's bad enough for me, and I'm only really hurting if there's no legroom, or if the ceiling in one of the little planes was particularly low. This was no little plane though. It was a Southwest Airlines737-700 series, the RTD of the sky. Plenty of room for everybody. Well...that is...everybody but us folks of exceptional size.
I lined up with all the other people in the A group waiting to board. I was a part of Southwest's new Business Select group. Not only was I in group A, but I was in position 5. My favorite seat was definitely within reach. It was exit row heaven for me. The gate agent took my boarding pass and I floated down the aisle to my 75 minutes of airliner luxury. Well, not really. But it was going to be infinitely better than that S.S. Amistad tight-pack that I rode back from DFW last week. The Andrea Bocelli music was playing loudly (in my head, that is...or on the soundtrack of Destah the Movie) and he was hitting that part of that little opera song that they always play as background for of scenes of Italy or 2 young lovers running through a field of poppies just before a long embrace and then...
Scratch! The music stopped and my eyes widened as I saw one of the flight attendants standing in one of the first few rows trying to prevent boarding passengers like myself from sitting in a particular seat that she was partially obscuring. But I saw it anyway. I couldn't help but notice it. It was like a trainwreck. You want to look away but you just can't. For the record I am very much NOT pro-rubbernecker. I try really hard not to look at an accident when I pass one on the freeway on the way to work. I'm usually so annoyed by the time I reach the front of the traffic jam that I want no part of it. But this one was unbelievable. This seat looked like it had been hit by...well...an airplane. It was in pieces. What happened? Who could have done such a thing?
Freeze. I was sitting down in my exit window. I was like Brick Top in Snatch, having that epiphany far too late after the fact, realizing what has probably taken place. The mountain man...er..uh..mountain of a man appeared in my mind. Perhaps he...? Naw...well...? It's possible. I felt bad for even having the thought. But how did he do it? Stop! That is so wrong. He must've been pretty mad at something? For the last time, he didn't do it. He couldn't have.
Well, my little voice and I finally stopped arguing. I won.
They delayed the flight for about 45 minutes to fix the seat, citing something like all of the flights for the rest of the day would be sold out, so they'd need this seat. Of course, they let us in on this piece of information AFTER that got us all boarded on the plane.
Sunday, January 20, 2008
Spoiled? Blessed!
Standing at the back of the church, clapping my hands and stomping my feet, it occurred to me how spoiled rotten we are at my church each Sunday. The young adult choir was belting out one of the songs that they do really well (and I mean REALLY well!) and I was feeling it. Not usually terribly demonstrative, I couldn’t help but outwardly enjoy as their angelic voices rang out in verse,
Can’t stop, praisin’ His name,
I just, can’t stop, praisin’ His name,
Can’t stop praisin’ His name,
Call it out!
They were doin’ it, this morning. Our music department was jammin’ right along with them too. Vernon Hall strummed the bass, Michael Hill tickled the ivories and our sax man Kevin Jones was divinely inspired. You might remember Kevin from my “First Thursday” post a couple weeks ago (assuming that somebody reads this stuff. I don’t just do this for my health, you know. Oh, wait…actually I do), when Pastor Smith sent him back out of the church to fetch his saxophone so that we could all be blessed by his musical gift. Blessed! Now there’s the word. We are truly blessed to be treated to such outstanding music every Sunday.
“They oughta record this one,” I leaned over and said to the person next to me.
It is such a blessing indeed and I’m thankful each time I hear them, although it would be easy to take their gift for granted. Having visited a few other churches lately has driven home this point even more. I don’t want to get off on a rant and talk bad about the singing abilities at some of the other churches because that’s not what I’m here to do and besides, that wouldn’t be very nice. The Lord has called each and every person to glorify Him, and praise His name. Perhaps my mortal ears just can't hear the sweet music that comes from everyone's mouth the way the Lord can.
Can’t stop, praisin’ His name,
I just, can’t stop, praisin’ His name,
Can’t stop praisin’ His name,
Call it out!
They were doin’ it, this morning. Our music department was jammin’ right along with them too. Vernon Hall strummed the bass, Michael Hill tickled the ivories and our sax man Kevin Jones was divinely inspired. You might remember Kevin from my “First Thursday” post a couple weeks ago (assuming that somebody reads this stuff. I don’t just do this for my health, you know. Oh, wait…actually I do), when Pastor Smith sent him back out of the church to fetch his saxophone so that we could all be blessed by his musical gift. Blessed! Now there’s the word. We are truly blessed to be treated to such outstanding music every Sunday.
“They oughta record this one,” I leaned over and said to the person next to me.
It is such a blessing indeed and I’m thankful each time I hear them, although it would be easy to take their gift for granted. Having visited a few other churches lately has driven home this point even more. I don’t want to get off on a rant and talk bad about the singing abilities at some of the other churches because that’s not what I’m here to do and besides, that wouldn’t be very nice. The Lord has called each and every person to glorify Him, and praise His name. Perhaps my mortal ears just can't hear the sweet music that comes from everyone's mouth the way the Lord can.
Saturday, January 19, 2008
Are you Green?
I was listening to the John Tesh radio show the other day and…okay…I know. Yeah, I can’t believe I said that out loud either. Let me begin again. I tuned to the local adult contemporary station in Cedar Rapids, IA the other day and heard something pretty significant. Well, let me start off by saying that it wasn’t my idea. I was on the phone with a friend of mine, laughing about how I was in Cedar Rapids and in trying to get me to look on the bright side, they wikipedia’d (yeah, we’ll make that a verb, just like Googled) Cedar Rapids and found some radio stations. I had made the comment that I was content to leave the radio of my Ford Explorer rental on the rock station that it was already set to when I got in. That was probably also due in no small part to the fact that it was -6 degrees and I neither wanted to take off my gloves nor move make any unnecessary movements other than to crank the heat up. Actually, the heat was already up, but it was blowing cold air. “I’m not even going to waste my time looking for a jazz station,” I quipped after arriving at my hotel and thinking about the impending ride to a dinner restaurant for that evening. This looked like a southern rock, country music kind of town, and that was fine. I needed some time to get back in touch with my inner Lynyrd Skynyrd anyway, lest I get too comfortable and not have my wits about me (as if “comfortable” were a possibility in subzero temperatures. The jazz station turned out to be really good when I finally tuned into it. That’s the good thing about jazz; you can always count on a local college or NPR station to carry some, even in Nowheresville. But I was saying that I was listening to the Adult Contemporary station, remember?
So, after the initial chuckle and “are you serious?” moment I had at the mention of John Tesh’s name and hearing his ol’ Entertainment Tonight self serving as disc jockey during this time slot, and starting to reach for the tuner, John caught my attention. No, he didn’t start singing because that wouldn’t have done it. I might’ve had to look around to make sure that nobody was going to catch me listening to a John Tesh song on the radio. That would be right up there with bumpin’ David Hasselhof in the Jeep. Not that there’s anything wrong with that, Dirk. ..just not how I roll. So anyways, John was having a Cliff Clavin moment, and delivering a little known factoid for the day. Not being a regular listener to this clearly syndicated show (well, maybe not...who knows…maybe J.T. does live in Cedar Rapids) I didn’t know if this was a regular feature or just something he felt like doing. Either way, I’m glad he did. He gave a “did you know” type fact about dry cleaning and the deadly chemicals used in restoring your clothes to glory.
Apparently, there’s this chemical called perchlorate (perc for short) that is used in the majority of cleaners around the globe that contains carcinogens (causes cancer). While it was a bit alarming, it was not at all surprising, instantly sending my mind on a journey aboard the “I wonder why so many of us die young when our grandparents generation lived much harder lives ” train. He went on to say that most cleaners knowingly use this stuff because many of these mom n’ pop establishments are too cash strapped to upgrade to more expensive, yet healthier and more modern machinery.
So how do we protect ourselves? Well, first, he urged us to make it a habit to immediately take the clothes out of the plastic once you get them home so that they can air out. He stressed that airing them out in your closet is not sufficient. This is when the alarms started to go off in my head. I thought about my closet and the half dozen plastic bags full of shirts and suits (and some empty) that I had in there and how this could be polluting the air in my condo. I could be wilting away one breath at a time, even in the comforts of my own home. How terrible is that? I exercise daily, try not to each too much junk (save for an occasional Garbage Burger in an airport ) and more often than not shop in the organic aisle and I could be overlooking a deadly killer right in my own home. Frightening, to say the least. The second thing that John suggested was to locate a “Green” dry cleaner. He said that it’s not usually too difficult to find one in your area and that these places usually even advertise their environmentally conscious cleaning practices.
I had hardly spent a solid waking hour in my place since I returned home Thursday night, so I hadn’t had a chance to think about my household errands yet. But today was that day. I got online and started my search for a Green dry cleaner. I must confess that I thought there would be so many more options available to me, being so close to the tree-hugging capital of the world. I did find one that was about 2 miles away though, so my searched ended there. It was already 430pm so I immediately called to see where they were located and when they closed. They closed at 5pm, so I had to hustle. I grabbed the bag of clothes that I had and headed for the door.
This place was like no other dry cleaner that I had ever been to before. There was a seating area with comfortable chairs, and contemporary magazines (Vibe, GQ, et al), nice carpet and some music playing. It felt more like a cool clothing store or a hair shop than a dry cleaner. The little guy , Quan, that emerged from the back after my walking through the door was clearly the keeper of this vibe, dressed smartly in what I’ll term old skool chic, looking like a hip-hop newsboy, with his grey kangol tilted to the side. Every other cleaner I had ever been to wreaked of some foul combination of smells, from the machines and the poor ventilation or maybe some pigeons that had set up shot in the awning above the front door of one place. So this place was quite refreshing.
When I got back home, I proceeded to get rid of all that plastic in my closet and rushed it down to the trash chute down the hall. I aired the clothes out for hours before returning them to the closet. Hopefully, I’ve averted the onset of any life threatening illnesses in the process. If you’re one that makes frequent trips to the dry cleaner, I urge you too to look for a Green alternative. But why stop there? Perhaps an investigation of other ways to patronize Green businesses might be something good to check out in 2008.
So, after the initial chuckle and “are you serious?” moment I had at the mention of John Tesh’s name and hearing his ol’ Entertainment Tonight self serving as disc jockey during this time slot, and starting to reach for the tuner, John caught my attention. No, he didn’t start singing because that wouldn’t have done it. I might’ve had to look around to make sure that nobody was going to catch me listening to a John Tesh song on the radio. That would be right up there with bumpin’ David Hasselhof in the Jeep. Not that there’s anything wrong with that, Dirk. ..just not how I roll. So anyways, John was having a Cliff Clavin moment, and delivering a little known factoid for the day. Not being a regular listener to this clearly syndicated show (well, maybe not...who knows…maybe J.T. does live in Cedar Rapids) I didn’t know if this was a regular feature or just something he felt like doing. Either way, I’m glad he did. He gave a “did you know” type fact about dry cleaning and the deadly chemicals used in restoring your clothes to glory.
Apparently, there’s this chemical called perchlorate (perc for short) that is used in the majority of cleaners around the globe that contains carcinogens (causes cancer). While it was a bit alarming, it was not at all surprising, instantly sending my mind on a journey aboard the “I wonder why so many of us die young when our grandparents generation lived much harder lives ” train. He went on to say that most cleaners knowingly use this stuff because many of these mom n’ pop establishments are too cash strapped to upgrade to more expensive, yet healthier and more modern machinery.
So how do we protect ourselves? Well, first, he urged us to make it a habit to immediately take the clothes out of the plastic once you get them home so that they can air out. He stressed that airing them out in your closet is not sufficient. This is when the alarms started to go off in my head. I thought about my closet and the half dozen plastic bags full of shirts and suits (and some empty) that I had in there and how this could be polluting the air in my condo. I could be wilting away one breath at a time, even in the comforts of my own home. How terrible is that? I exercise daily, try not to each too much junk (save for an occasional Garbage Burger in an airport ) and more often than not shop in the organic aisle and I could be overlooking a deadly killer right in my own home. Frightening, to say the least. The second thing that John suggested was to locate a “Green” dry cleaner. He said that it’s not usually too difficult to find one in your area and that these places usually even advertise their environmentally conscious cleaning practices.
I had hardly spent a solid waking hour in my place since I returned home Thursday night, so I hadn’t had a chance to think about my household errands yet. But today was that day. I got online and started my search for a Green dry cleaner. I must confess that I thought there would be so many more options available to me, being so close to the tree-hugging capital of the world. I did find one that was about 2 miles away though, so my searched ended there. It was already 430pm so I immediately called to see where they were located and when they closed. They closed at 5pm, so I had to hustle. I grabbed the bag of clothes that I had and headed for the door.
This place was like no other dry cleaner that I had ever been to before. There was a seating area with comfortable chairs, and contemporary magazines (Vibe, GQ, et al), nice carpet and some music playing. It felt more like a cool clothing store or a hair shop than a dry cleaner. The little guy , Quan, that emerged from the back after my walking through the door was clearly the keeper of this vibe, dressed smartly in what I’ll term old skool chic, looking like a hip-hop newsboy, with his grey kangol tilted to the side. Every other cleaner I had ever been to wreaked of some foul combination of smells, from the machines and the poor ventilation or maybe some pigeons that had set up shot in the awning above the front door of one place. So this place was quite refreshing.
When I got back home, I proceeded to get rid of all that plastic in my closet and rushed it down to the trash chute down the hall. I aired the clothes out for hours before returning them to the closet. Hopefully, I’ve averted the onset of any life threatening illnesses in the process. If you’re one that makes frequent trips to the dry cleaner, I urge you too to look for a Green alternative. But why stop there? Perhaps an investigation of other ways to patronize Green businesses might be something good to check out in 2008.
Thursday, January 17, 2008
Back on the home front...
It sure is great to be home. Yesterday was one of those harrowing experiences that field engineers everywhere can relate to: when you are in front of the customer and your product fails to work. Inevitably, this occurs when you think you're on the way to do something "routine" and then the whole thing turns out to be anything but routine. Yesterday was one of those days.
I have to be honest. In my 10+ years of doing this type of work, yesterday's experience wouldn't rate in the top 3, but it was agonizing nonetheless. I've been in far worse situations. Sometimes the customer is incredibly impatient and putting pressure on you to get the thing working. Even worse, when you've got a sales guy with you, looking over your shoulder and putting his 2 cents in as if that's helping the war effort at all. I spent 12 hours at this customer site, but it wasn't the worst 12 hours I've ever spent with a customer. This customer was actually in a pretty good mood. Either that or we ought to give him the Academy Award right now. He usually knocks off at 430pm, and we were nowhere near finished at that time. His wife was calling him at 630 to see if she could keep his dinner warm, and he still hung in there. What a trooper! When 10pm rolled around, he still had a smile on his face like a grandparent that came to your game and watched you strike out 4 times and make 3 errors in the field, saying , " that's okay, Sport. You looked good out there."
Today I had to meet with another client that naturally wanted to know how it went with the previous client since their adopting of our system is contingent upon that one. I guess that's the way it is in these little towns in Northwestern Ohio. If I didn't know better, I would've thought I was in rural Indiana on homecoming night with all of the signs hanging from the streetlights lauding the local high school ball team. I was waiting to see Jimmy Chitwood shooting baskets in his backyard as we turned the corner past a little group of houses. I peeked into a barbershop as we passed by, half expecting Gene Hackman to be gettin' the business from the local boosters about wanting their team to win more, or there boy's playing time to increase.
It was snowing and I was still smarting from yesterday so I was quite eager for this meeting to finish up so that I could hit the home trail. Once at the Dayton International Airport, I checked in and then high-tailed it into a place called Max & Erma's where I sucked down a vanilla shake and ended up taking something called a Garbage Burger (hey...it had guacamole, pickles, lettuce, tomatoes, monterey jack cheese, bacon, mayo and ketchup...AND was listed under signature items...how could I pass it up?) in a to-go box to gate B-16 where I was the last person to get on the plane. Finally, I got the exit row seat. As I bit into this monstrosity of a burger, I thought about all of the crap I'd consumed in the last couple of days in some less than stellar eating establishments. I shrugged and kept right on devouring this comfort food figuring that there's no use in stopping now. I'll get back on the right track when I get home.
The second flight was almost as miserable as Monday's being in a cramped aisle seat for about 4 hours, but at least they showed a decent movie this time. It was called Stardust and was kind of fantasy type love story, on par with the Princess Bride. Once home, I negotiated my way through the last half of rush-hour traffic on the Bay Bridge and then went over to hang out with my kids for a little while before they went to sleep. As usual, they were full of funny stories, and I left there in a pretty good mood, but starvin' like Marvin' as I had not eaten in more than 8 hours. I picked up a grilled chicken salad with mixed greens, apples, caramelized walnuts and gorgonzola cheese topped with a balsamic vinaigrette and headed home. I watched the end of the Suns whoopin' the Lakers and then laughed at/with Ernie, Kenny, and Charles on TNT's NBA postgame show.
My couch. My TV. Ah, there's no place like home.
I have to be honest. In my 10+ years of doing this type of work, yesterday's experience wouldn't rate in the top 3, but it was agonizing nonetheless. I've been in far worse situations. Sometimes the customer is incredibly impatient and putting pressure on you to get the thing working. Even worse, when you've got a sales guy with you, looking over your shoulder and putting his 2 cents in as if that's helping the war effort at all. I spent 12 hours at this customer site, but it wasn't the worst 12 hours I've ever spent with a customer. This customer was actually in a pretty good mood. Either that or we ought to give him the Academy Award right now. He usually knocks off at 430pm, and we were nowhere near finished at that time. His wife was calling him at 630 to see if she could keep his dinner warm, and he still hung in there. What a trooper! When 10pm rolled around, he still had a smile on his face like a grandparent that came to your game and watched you strike out 4 times and make 3 errors in the field, saying , " that's okay, Sport. You looked good out there."
Today I had to meet with another client that naturally wanted to know how it went with the previous client since their adopting of our system is contingent upon that one. I guess that's the way it is in these little towns in Northwestern Ohio. If I didn't know better, I would've thought I was in rural Indiana on homecoming night with all of the signs hanging from the streetlights lauding the local high school ball team. I was waiting to see Jimmy Chitwood shooting baskets in his backyard as we turned the corner past a little group of houses. I peeked into a barbershop as we passed by, half expecting Gene Hackman to be gettin' the business from the local boosters about wanting their team to win more, or there boy's playing time to increase.
It was snowing and I was still smarting from yesterday so I was quite eager for this meeting to finish up so that I could hit the home trail. Once at the Dayton International Airport, I checked in and then high-tailed it into a place called Max & Erma's where I sucked down a vanilla shake and ended up taking something called a Garbage Burger (hey...it had guacamole, pickles, lettuce, tomatoes, monterey jack cheese, bacon, mayo and ketchup...AND was listed under signature items...how could I pass it up?) in a to-go box to gate B-16 where I was the last person to get on the plane. Finally, I got the exit row seat. As I bit into this monstrosity of a burger, I thought about all of the crap I'd consumed in the last couple of days in some less than stellar eating establishments. I shrugged and kept right on devouring this comfort food figuring that there's no use in stopping now. I'll get back on the right track when I get home.
The second flight was almost as miserable as Monday's being in a cramped aisle seat for about 4 hours, but at least they showed a decent movie this time. It was called Stardust and was kind of fantasy type love story, on par with the Princess Bride. Once home, I negotiated my way through the last half of rush-hour traffic on the Bay Bridge and then went over to hang out with my kids for a little while before they went to sleep. As usual, they were full of funny stories, and I left there in a pretty good mood, but starvin' like Marvin' as I had not eaten in more than 8 hours. I picked up a grilled chicken salad with mixed greens, apples, caramelized walnuts and gorgonzola cheese topped with a balsamic vinaigrette and headed home. I watched the end of the Suns whoopin' the Lakers and then laughed at/with Ernie, Kenny, and Charles on TNT's NBA postgame show.
My couch. My TV. Ah, there's no place like home.
Tuesday, January 15, 2008
Mousetrap
Do you remember that game Mousetrap that you played as a kid? There was that little ball and the stair steps, and the spiral and the see-saw and the basket and all of those other contraptions to make your mousetrap work. I don't think I ever owned it but one of my friends did and it provided hours and hours of entertainment. Okay, maybe not hours. I think we probably re-configured it 2 or 3 times and then went back to playing Legos or Star Wars or Atari or whatever else we did. I was playing again today.
Actually, today's perfect plan was made more remarkable by the fact that I had a passenger along for the ride. Usually, I am all about the solo missions. I might have an accomplice or somebody that plays an integral role in the plan, but I never have anybody that's just with me, essentially dead weight, like Indiana Jones and that girl in Raiders of the Lost Ark. This would surely complicate my plan, perhaps even throwing off its precision enough to make the whole thing fall apart.
I half thought of calling it off. After all, there were alot of variables out of my control, and not much margin for error. I'm not that easily dissuaded though. Especially considering what was at stake. I was up to the challenge. But was he up to it? My missions are not for the faint of heart and are highly dependent upon the planets lining up and the moon being full and maybe even predicated on being the owner of a lucky rabbit's foot. If anything goes wrong, the whole mission could be put at risk.
Anytime Chicago O'Hare International Airport is in your flight plans, risk is a given. Furthermore, with the weather as it was today I was going to be surprised if there were no delays. My co-worker Ted's flight from Philly through O'Hare was delayed about an hour this morning, so there was reason to be a little worried.
Start the ball rolling. Our flight took off a little late, but we landed about 8 minutes early...5:37pm CST to be exact. We were at Gate G11, which was pretty far down the row of G gates, and not terribly close to the airport exit, so we had to high-tail it down the long hallway, rollies in tow. Stealing a glance at the monitors as we walked, we took note that our gate for our connecting flight would be G1A. This was beautiful. First the flight is early, now our connection is flying out of the first gate.
As we got to the front of the airport, Ted had a moment of uncertainty. I gave him a moment and offered him a chance to back out. His manhood would not be questioned. I would not harbor any resentment. I wouldn't tell anybody. It would never be mentioned again. He decided to roll. We walked out through the secure part of the American Airlines terminal, out into the frigid Chicago night,and made a bee-line for the taxi stand on the curb. Naturally, we got a cab driver whose English was not terribly clear. Hey, we were bound to hit at least a small snag. This plan couldn't go completely flawlessly. I told him that we needed to go to Higgins Road and River Road in Rosemont. He looked puzzled, and then said he knew where he was going. I was skeptical. It was like Deja vu all over again. Remember my taxi ride through the dark streets of Saigon? Same thing here, although I never feared for my life this time. Worst case, he gets me lost, foils my plan and maybe I miss my connecting flight and have to endure Ted's complaining about why he ever listened to me in the first place.
Well, I'm happy to report that he did actually know where he was going. Even if he didn't, I knew where I was going, so I made sure to pay close attention, making sure that he did take the River Road exit off I-190 from the airport. We arrived. I could hardly contain my excitement as we walked through the doors of this hallowed place. It had been too long. I had missed it, like the desert misses rain. Giordano's Pizza.
Yes, it IS that serious. If you don't believe me, you've never eaten at Giordano's or any of the other 3 or 4 pizza establishments on my approved list in the Chicagoland area (Uno's, Due's, Gino's and some place on the Westside that my relatives took me to awhile back). "But deep-dish, Chicago-style pizza takes a long time to cook, what time was your connection?" you ask. My connecting flight to Toledo (home of the Mudhens minor league baseball team) was scheduled to leave at 815pm. Your flight got in at 537, you walked all the way out of the airport..you caught a cab...you probably drove...what? Ten minutes? It had to be almost 615pm by now. You'll never make it. You still have to order, eat, catch another cab back to the airport, get through security, and get to the gate by 745pm.
Silly mortal, you. Did you forget who's Daily this is? Read the marquis. It says D's. Capital D. Apostrophe S. (This is where you show one of those Ocean's 11 type past sequences of me walking off the jetway at Gate G11, and the camera zooms in on my left hand reaching into my left jacket pocket for my cell phone and dialing Giordano's number to place my order). Of course, I used Ted's name for the order (you remember, 3 letter name, mono-syllabic....) Our pie was ready shortly after we were seated, and just as exquisite as I had remembered.
When we finished, we had the waitress call us another taxi and we made it back to the airport where, strangely, the fare was $2 more on the inbound than it had been on the outbound. Our pizza euphoria was so overwhelming that it didn't matter. We paid the man and calmly walked back into the terminal. The planets were still firmly aligned. There was NOBODY in the security line. We were seated at Gate G1A by 735pm. Operation mousetrap was a resounding success.
Actually, today's perfect plan was made more remarkable by the fact that I had a passenger along for the ride. Usually, I am all about the solo missions. I might have an accomplice or somebody that plays an integral role in the plan, but I never have anybody that's just with me, essentially dead weight, like Indiana Jones and that girl in Raiders of the Lost Ark. This would surely complicate my plan, perhaps even throwing off its precision enough to make the whole thing fall apart.
I half thought of calling it off. After all, there were alot of variables out of my control, and not much margin for error. I'm not that easily dissuaded though. Especially considering what was at stake. I was up to the challenge. But was he up to it? My missions are not for the faint of heart and are highly dependent upon the planets lining up and the moon being full and maybe even predicated on being the owner of a lucky rabbit's foot. If anything goes wrong, the whole mission could be put at risk.
Anytime Chicago O'Hare International Airport is in your flight plans, risk is a given. Furthermore, with the weather as it was today I was going to be surprised if there were no delays. My co-worker Ted's flight from Philly through O'Hare was delayed about an hour this morning, so there was reason to be a little worried.
Start the ball rolling. Our flight took off a little late, but we landed about 8 minutes early...5:37pm CST to be exact. We were at Gate G11, which was pretty far down the row of G gates, and not terribly close to the airport exit, so we had to high-tail it down the long hallway, rollies in tow. Stealing a glance at the monitors as we walked, we took note that our gate for our connecting flight would be G1A. This was beautiful. First the flight is early, now our connection is flying out of the first gate.
As we got to the front of the airport, Ted had a moment of uncertainty. I gave him a moment and offered him a chance to back out. His manhood would not be questioned. I would not harbor any resentment. I wouldn't tell anybody. It would never be mentioned again. He decided to roll. We walked out through the secure part of the American Airlines terminal, out into the frigid Chicago night,and made a bee-line for the taxi stand on the curb. Naturally, we got a cab driver whose English was not terribly clear. Hey, we were bound to hit at least a small snag. This plan couldn't go completely flawlessly. I told him that we needed to go to Higgins Road and River Road in Rosemont. He looked puzzled, and then said he knew where he was going. I was skeptical. It was like Deja vu all over again. Remember my taxi ride through the dark streets of Saigon? Same thing here, although I never feared for my life this time. Worst case, he gets me lost, foils my plan and maybe I miss my connecting flight and have to endure Ted's complaining about why he ever listened to me in the first place.
Well, I'm happy to report that he did actually know where he was going. Even if he didn't, I knew where I was going, so I made sure to pay close attention, making sure that he did take the River Road exit off I-190 from the airport. We arrived. I could hardly contain my excitement as we walked through the doors of this hallowed place. It had been too long. I had missed it, like the desert misses rain. Giordano's Pizza.
Yes, it IS that serious. If you don't believe me, you've never eaten at Giordano's or any of the other 3 or 4 pizza establishments on my approved list in the Chicagoland area (Uno's, Due's, Gino's and some place on the Westside that my relatives took me to awhile back). "But deep-dish, Chicago-style pizza takes a long time to cook, what time was your connection?" you ask. My connecting flight to Toledo (home of the Mudhens minor league baseball team) was scheduled to leave at 815pm. Your flight got in at 537, you walked all the way out of the airport..you caught a cab...you probably drove...what? Ten minutes? It had to be almost 615pm by now. You'll never make it. You still have to order, eat, catch another cab back to the airport, get through security, and get to the gate by 745pm.
Silly mortal, you. Did you forget who's Daily this is? Read the marquis. It says D's. Capital D. Apostrophe S. (This is where you show one of those Ocean's 11 type past sequences of me walking off the jetway at Gate G11, and the camera zooms in on my left hand reaching into my left jacket pocket for my cell phone and dialing Giordano's number to place my order). Of course, I used Ted's name for the order (you remember, 3 letter name, mono-syllabic....) Our pie was ready shortly after we were seated, and just as exquisite as I had remembered.
When we finished, we had the waitress call us another taxi and we made it back to the airport where, strangely, the fare was $2 more on the inbound than it had been on the outbound. Our pizza euphoria was so overwhelming that it didn't matter. We paid the man and calmly walked back into the terminal. The planets were still firmly aligned. There was NOBODY in the security line. We were seated at Gate G1A by 735pm. Operation mousetrap was a resounding success.
Monday, January 14, 2008
Ice Cold!
Well, hello again. I've just returned from dinner here in Cedar Rapids, Iowa and boy am I glad to have done so. Before I sat down at ye olde trusty laptop, I had to peel off the many layers that I was wearing to brave the elements here. Not only did I have on a sweater, gloves and a leather jacket, but also a toque (beanie for us downhome folk, but this head garment is perhaps too immense to remain in the beanie category) that is more befitting of some cat named Vladimir, than a brotha like me. In addition, I had the Under Armour long-sleeved lycra shirt under that sweater. Hey, it's 6 degrees right now (-6 with the windchill).
I ate at a quazi chain restaurant called Biaggi's. I had an outstanding waiter named Bartholomew that managed to talk me out of what I had decided upon and got me to order something far more spectacular in a broiled lamb over spinach and served with red potato wedges and sun-dried cherries. I also learned something cool that I might have to try at some of these type restaurants in the future. Apparently, you can get print outs of certain recipes. I asked about the red wine that he recommended for me and he came back with a printout that described my glass of Masi Valpolicella as a, "..wine aged for 8 months in Slavonian Oak barrels followed by 2 months in the bottle..creating a wine with a lively bouquet of cherry or berry fruits, medium bodied with a clean finish. Perfect for soups, risotto and red meats."
At any rate, a good meal was just what I needed. I had arguably my worst flight in years today from SFO to DFW. Even though I like the big planes, my ride on the Embraer Regional Jet from DFW to Cedar Rapids was much better than my 767 sardine simulation to Dallas. There were no exit seats available, I didn't get upgraded, and it was totally sold out. The only good thing that my Platinum status afforded me today was boarding early so that I got first dibs at the overhead space. This was one of those older 767 that didn't have the head rest that expanded up to help support the necks of people over 5'5". I felt like a giraffe trying to sleep upright during the longest 3.5 hours of my life. I'm glad that it wasn't a flight to Boston. I hadn't even intended to sleep on the flight. I had it all planned. I was going to actually open up my laptop and do some work on the big plane, and read a book and maybe fall asleep on the small plane. I was so cramped in seat 35B that I couldn't even really use my laptop because the screen was too close to see. Obviously, I couldn't sleep either.
But enough of that. I'm in the great state of Iowa and I'm safely nestled in my 3rd floor, "indoor" room at the Marriott Fairfield Inn. Why is that significant? Well, the first 2 floors have doors that face outside. No hallway. Just outside. If I wanted to feel like I was staying at Motel 6, I would've stayed at Motel 6. But this is Cedar Rapids. I guess they wanted to give you a little variety. I've got the blinds closed and the heat cranking, so it's practically like Downtown Oakland up in here.
Here are some fun facts about Cedar Rapids. Did you know that Cedar Rapids is 91.86% white, and 3.71% African American? It's like the Anti-Newark,NJ. Big shots out to my college teammate, Derrick Johnson and my boy Darryn Clanton, both from Newark. They even have an African-American museum here! Imagine that. My hometown, San Jose, CA, a city of almost 1 Million people has no African-American museum. I'm impressed. I just saw a sign for it as I was driving back from dinner. It's at the same exit as the Slovak and Czech museum, which makes more sense to be here as there is a neighborhood called Czech Village in the Southwest part of town. What else? Oh...Ashton Kutcher is from here.
What else is on my mind? Oh...speaking of black folks. Bob Johnson. Yeah, Bob of the Charlotte Bobcats and founder and former owner of B.E.T. This would require an entirely different post for me to get on ol' Bob, but I wasn't happy to see his face first when I flipped on my hotel TV. You know how CNN or some channel like that is inevitably one of the first in the line-up on these hotel tv systems. Race has now become an issue, or at least some people are hell-bent on making it one in the presidential campaign. I saw a clip of Bob, speaking at a Hillary Clinton rally, bad-mouthing Barack Obama. (Apparently, it all got started after Hillary said something about Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. that could be misconstrued although her intent was probably not malicious.) Did we really have to go there, Bob? Let's not talk about all the positive (yes, sarcasm) images that B.E.T. has brought to the black community and the trash that continues to emanate from that network each day on shows like 106th and Park. Like I said, I won't go there right now. I'm tired. I'm on Central time now, so it's bed time.
I ate at a quazi chain restaurant called Biaggi's. I had an outstanding waiter named Bartholomew that managed to talk me out of what I had decided upon and got me to order something far more spectacular in a broiled lamb over spinach and served with red potato wedges and sun-dried cherries. I also learned something cool that I might have to try at some of these type restaurants in the future. Apparently, you can get print outs of certain recipes. I asked about the red wine that he recommended for me and he came back with a printout that described my glass of Masi Valpolicella as a, "..wine aged for 8 months in Slavonian Oak barrels followed by 2 months in the bottle..creating a wine with a lively bouquet of cherry or berry fruits, medium bodied with a clean finish. Perfect for soups, risotto and red meats."
At any rate, a good meal was just what I needed. I had arguably my worst flight in years today from SFO to DFW. Even though I like the big planes, my ride on the Embraer Regional Jet from DFW to Cedar Rapids was much better than my 767 sardine simulation to Dallas. There were no exit seats available, I didn't get upgraded, and it was totally sold out. The only good thing that my Platinum status afforded me today was boarding early so that I got first dibs at the overhead space. This was one of those older 767 that didn't have the head rest that expanded up to help support the necks of people over 5'5". I felt like a giraffe trying to sleep upright during the longest 3.5 hours of my life. I'm glad that it wasn't a flight to Boston. I hadn't even intended to sleep on the flight. I had it all planned. I was going to actually open up my laptop and do some work on the big plane, and read a book and maybe fall asleep on the small plane. I was so cramped in seat 35B that I couldn't even really use my laptop because the screen was too close to see. Obviously, I couldn't sleep either.
But enough of that. I'm in the great state of Iowa and I'm safely nestled in my 3rd floor, "indoor" room at the Marriott Fairfield Inn. Why is that significant? Well, the first 2 floors have doors that face outside. No hallway. Just outside. If I wanted to feel like I was staying at Motel 6, I would've stayed at Motel 6. But this is Cedar Rapids. I guess they wanted to give you a little variety. I've got the blinds closed and the heat cranking, so it's practically like Downtown Oakland up in here.
Here are some fun facts about Cedar Rapids. Did you know that Cedar Rapids is 91.86% white, and 3.71% African American? It's like the Anti-Newark,NJ. Big shots out to my college teammate, Derrick Johnson and my boy Darryn Clanton, both from Newark. They even have an African-American museum here! Imagine that. My hometown, San Jose, CA, a city of almost 1 Million people has no African-American museum. I'm impressed. I just saw a sign for it as I was driving back from dinner. It's at the same exit as the Slovak and Czech museum, which makes more sense to be here as there is a neighborhood called Czech Village in the Southwest part of town. What else? Oh...Ashton Kutcher is from here.
What else is on my mind? Oh...speaking of black folks. Bob Johnson. Yeah, Bob of the Charlotte Bobcats and founder and former owner of B.E.T. This would require an entirely different post for me to get on ol' Bob, but I wasn't happy to see his face first when I flipped on my hotel TV. You know how CNN or some channel like that is inevitably one of the first in the line-up on these hotel tv systems. Race has now become an issue, or at least some people are hell-bent on making it one in the presidential campaign. I saw a clip of Bob, speaking at a Hillary Clinton rally, bad-mouthing Barack Obama. (Apparently, it all got started after Hillary said something about Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. that could be misconstrued although her intent was probably not malicious.) Did we really have to go there, Bob? Let's not talk about all the positive (yes, sarcasm) images that B.E.T. has brought to the black community and the trash that continues to emanate from that network each day on shows like 106th and Park. Like I said, I won't go there right now. I'm tired. I'm on Central time now, so it's bed time.
Saturday, January 12, 2008
A leu cha
Have you ever heard the Miles Davis song A leu cha? It's on the 'Round Midnight album on Columbia. It's one that I've owned for some time but my reaction to it is always the same each time I hear it. It's pure energy. There is no intro...no build-up...no singing, no percussion lead-in. It's like the 100 meter final in the Olympic Games. There's deafening silence, then the gun explodes through like a spotlight through darkness and all of the sprinters burst out of the blocks like crouching tigers pouncing on dinner. That's the way the song goes. Miles and Coltrane start fast and furious on the first note and scarcely slow down for the entire five minutes and fifty-three seconds. It's like when you press fast-forward on a CD and can still hear the sound. I'm exhausted when it ends. I feel like I was running, or that it was my lungs that powered that trumpet and that sax through that exercise.
That's what my day was like today. My daughter peeked in my room and woke me up, and from that point, I was ON. I rolled onto the floor and did 25 quick push-ups, and then proceeded straight to the bathroom to brush my teeth. I threw on some sweats and stepped into my slippers and headed to the kitchen where I would whip up some absolutely exquisite french toast from the round loaf of sweet french sourdough that I had on my counter. My kids loved it. I took some clothes out of the dryer and put some others in there to replace those, and then subsequently put another load in the washing machine. I folded the clothes, then sorted through some mail that had stacked up the last couple of days. I had the football play-offs on and caught some of the UCLA-Wazzu game, but it was like that guy standing on the subway reading the newspaper, folded just so into thirds, trying to ingest that last bit of information before arriving at his stop, or the guy stuffing the sabretto half-smoke frank down his throat as he rushes back to the office. There was not a moment to rest. My kids like to be entertained, so all the while I was thinking of an activity to consume the rest of their afternoon.
We ended up shooting some baskets at the park as it was a nice sunny day, even if it was a bit cool. I drilled then through some footwork and bank shot reps and then we headed home so that I could get dinner together. My mother and my niece came over so that I could help my niece study for a math final that she has this week, so I did that while cooking. For the rest of the night, it seemed that I was cooking or doing dishes, serving folks, clearing plates, cleaning the counter, making up beds. It was intense. Even my meal felt a bit rushed, as I knew that I still had to do the dishes, get more laundry done, and iron my clothes for church in the morning. Que dia larga!
As I wind this up, I'm hoping that Yahoo radio will bless me with Wynton Marsalis' rendition of When it's Sleepy Time Down South to take me down a few notches and prepare me for some restful sleep. Glad to be finally sitting down at this computer, that bed over there looks even better. I must bid you farewell now, but fret not, a well rested version of D's Daily is surely on the horizon. At least I hope it will be. Goodnight.
That's what my day was like today. My daughter peeked in my room and woke me up, and from that point, I was ON. I rolled onto the floor and did 25 quick push-ups, and then proceeded straight to the bathroom to brush my teeth. I threw on some sweats and stepped into my slippers and headed to the kitchen where I would whip up some absolutely exquisite french toast from the round loaf of sweet french sourdough that I had on my counter. My kids loved it. I took some clothes out of the dryer and put some others in there to replace those, and then subsequently put another load in the washing machine. I folded the clothes, then sorted through some mail that had stacked up the last couple of days. I had the football play-offs on and caught some of the UCLA-Wazzu game, but it was like that guy standing on the subway reading the newspaper, folded just so into thirds, trying to ingest that last bit of information before arriving at his stop, or the guy stuffing the sabretto half-smoke frank down his throat as he rushes back to the office. There was not a moment to rest. My kids like to be entertained, so all the while I was thinking of an activity to consume the rest of their afternoon.
We ended up shooting some baskets at the park as it was a nice sunny day, even if it was a bit cool. I drilled then through some footwork and bank shot reps and then we headed home so that I could get dinner together. My mother and my niece came over so that I could help my niece study for a math final that she has this week, so I did that while cooking. For the rest of the night, it seemed that I was cooking or doing dishes, serving folks, clearing plates, cleaning the counter, making up beds. It was intense. Even my meal felt a bit rushed, as I knew that I still had to do the dishes, get more laundry done, and iron my clothes for church in the morning. Que dia larga!
As I wind this up, I'm hoping that Yahoo radio will bless me with Wynton Marsalis' rendition of When it's Sleepy Time Down South to take me down a few notches and prepare me for some restful sleep. Glad to be finally sitting down at this computer, that bed over there looks even better. I must bid you farewell now, but fret not, a well rested version of D's Daily is surely on the horizon. At least I hope it will be. Goodnight.
Friday, January 11, 2008
Just think...
Just think...what if you could just...just blink yourself away...
Just think...what if you could just...just blink yourself away...
Black Thought, The Roots from Proceed
Just think...what if you woke up tomorrow and things weren't quite the same. You weren't quite sure how things were different, but you couldn't put your finger on it. Literally. You reached for your alarm clock, but your index finger would not do just what you wanted it to or expected it to do. In frustration, you smack the alarm clock with the heel of your hand, knocking it to the floor where it still makes that high pitched shriek that has awakened you from the dead. Now you have to get up. A bit perplexed by the malfunctioning of your main digit, you get to the floor to collect the clamoring clock and proceed to turn it off...with the other hand. You chalk it up to sleeping wrong on that arm.
Days or perhaps even weeks go by, and you've all but forgotten this incident as if it were an aberration, a figment of the imagination, the incoherence, the hazy, sleepy stupor that has you in its grasp each morning just before the sun rises, until it happens again. This time its your other hand, but its not just the index finger, but the whole hand. You can't close your hand around the TV remote control. You try to hide it for awhile and don't alert any friends. You're still in denial, and cannot yet bring yourself to seek medical attention. When this strange behavior continues and is no longer confined to your waking moments, rearing its ugly head while out to lunch with co-workers, you decide that enough is enough.
Unfortunately, the doctors have no idea what it is. They are, after all, just practicing. Hindering their practice from becoming mastery, often times, is a healthcare system that encourages them to put the proverbial band-aid on many ailments by treating the symptoms and not the root cause. Over a period of a few months, you visit them several times, each time with a new and more severe impairment, but still no answers. But you continue to press on, as best you can, because that's just what you do.
Just think of how frustrating this would be. Just think of how humbling this might be, snatching that notion of invincibility from your thirty-something psyche and crushing it into tiny little pieces. This is a reality for one of my co-workers.
At the tender age of 32, he suddenly has found himself in an Acute Rehabilitation Hospital, needing assistance to get out of bed and having to learn how to move his left leg again. I went to visit him today and was struck by how quickly life can change for any of us. He was finally given an official diagnosis of Multiple Sclerosis, an irreversible condition that he can only hope to contain and with which he must learn to cope. We always say things like "tomorrow is not promised", but how many of us ever think about exactly what that means. Even if tomorrow does come, it may not come with all of the constants that today and most of the days prior today it contained, the things we all take for granted...the stuff we can control. Or so we think. Before the Christmas holiday, a group of us were out to lunch with this guy and it was one of his good days. His manual dexterity was cooperating and he was able to, fairly seamlessly, cut the food that he had on the plate in front of him. Back in the office, I watched him negotiate his way through multiple windows in a blur, his hands as nimble as Joe Sample on the keyboard, issuing Linux programming strings with the command and authority of a nuclear submarine captain. Now here he is in a hospital bed struggling to dial the numbers on his iPhone.
He now faces the prospect of trying to carve out some sort of independence while adjusting to, in all likelihood, life in a wheelchair. Well, that's not so bad, right? He's a young guy with a good job and a place to live, he'll bounce back in no time. As we talked, I began to realize just what a challenge things had become for him almost overnight. First of all, let's consider the basics. When he gets discharged from this facility next week (oh yes, the insurance company is checking progress daily, and will boot him outta there just as soon as they can) he faces some immediate obstacles as soon as he gets home. Well, that is, providing that he can get into his home. At present, he lives in a second floor apartment, with stairs. Repeated calls to his landlord have revealed that the four wheelchair accessible units in the complex are all occupied. Some people in the office have taken to trying to locate such a suitable apartment for him, but with little success to this point. Finding a groundfloor apartment is one thing, but one specifically designed for use of a wheelchair within is a different story entirely. One of our other co-workers went by to measure the doorways at his place this week and discovered that the 30" openings would not accomodate the width of any wheelchair, leaving him to crawl the last few feet wherever the chair could not go. Out of curiousity, I also did some searching and found that many of the wheelchair accessible units were in complexes that were prohibitively expensive.
Complicating matters further is location. Driving himself around not really being an option any longer, he must find a place that has reasonable access to some public transportation so that he can still get to work and attempt to support himself. This is, of course, providing that he can maintain adequate motor skills to continue his job as a very gifted software developer.
I see people in wheelchairs or other impairments all the time when I'm out and about and always admire their independence and the energy that it must take each day to do the things that able bodied folks like myself take for granted each day. Never mind the intestinal fortitude to forge on each day, putting twice the effort to perform tasks that are largely involuntary for most others. But this view from afar really does not begin to scratch the surface of what must happen for them to even be in the position to carry on. I started think about other challenges that are just assumed parts of my own life. Just think what it would be like if dialing your telephone were a terribly time consuming and mentally exhausting task, as you concentrate in hopes that neurons in your brain will fire up the nerve endings in your extremities to do precisely what you desire for them to do. Just think of how much earlier you'd have to get up in the morning if fastening buttons, tying shoes, putting on socks of zipping a jacket were as difficult for your rebellious hands to accomplish as it would be for a swiss watch maker to construct a fine time piece with some pliers instead of fine tweezers or to eyeball it instead of using a magnifying glass. Life is indeed full of surprises. Just think of all the wonderful blessings you've had since the Good Lord lifted the veil of slumber off your eyes this morning, breathing life into your body for another day. Be thankful. Just think...
I shall proceed and continue...
Just think...what if you could just...just blink yourself away...
Black Thought, The Roots from Proceed
Just think...what if you woke up tomorrow and things weren't quite the same. You weren't quite sure how things were different, but you couldn't put your finger on it. Literally. You reached for your alarm clock, but your index finger would not do just what you wanted it to or expected it to do. In frustration, you smack the alarm clock with the heel of your hand, knocking it to the floor where it still makes that high pitched shriek that has awakened you from the dead. Now you have to get up. A bit perplexed by the malfunctioning of your main digit, you get to the floor to collect the clamoring clock and proceed to turn it off...with the other hand. You chalk it up to sleeping wrong on that arm.
Days or perhaps even weeks go by, and you've all but forgotten this incident as if it were an aberration, a figment of the imagination, the incoherence, the hazy, sleepy stupor that has you in its grasp each morning just before the sun rises, until it happens again. This time its your other hand, but its not just the index finger, but the whole hand. You can't close your hand around the TV remote control. You try to hide it for awhile and don't alert any friends. You're still in denial, and cannot yet bring yourself to seek medical attention. When this strange behavior continues and is no longer confined to your waking moments, rearing its ugly head while out to lunch with co-workers, you decide that enough is enough.
Unfortunately, the doctors have no idea what it is. They are, after all, just practicing. Hindering their practice from becoming mastery, often times, is a healthcare system that encourages them to put the proverbial band-aid on many ailments by treating the symptoms and not the root cause. Over a period of a few months, you visit them several times, each time with a new and more severe impairment, but still no answers. But you continue to press on, as best you can, because that's just what you do.
Just think of how frustrating this would be. Just think of how humbling this might be, snatching that notion of invincibility from your thirty-something psyche and crushing it into tiny little pieces. This is a reality for one of my co-workers.
At the tender age of 32, he suddenly has found himself in an Acute Rehabilitation Hospital, needing assistance to get out of bed and having to learn how to move his left leg again. I went to visit him today and was struck by how quickly life can change for any of us. He was finally given an official diagnosis of Multiple Sclerosis, an irreversible condition that he can only hope to contain and with which he must learn to cope. We always say things like "tomorrow is not promised", but how many of us ever think about exactly what that means. Even if tomorrow does come, it may not come with all of the constants that today and most of the days prior today it contained, the things we all take for granted...the stuff we can control. Or so we think. Before the Christmas holiday, a group of us were out to lunch with this guy and it was one of his good days. His manual dexterity was cooperating and he was able to, fairly seamlessly, cut the food that he had on the plate in front of him. Back in the office, I watched him negotiate his way through multiple windows in a blur, his hands as nimble as Joe Sample on the keyboard, issuing Linux programming strings with the command and authority of a nuclear submarine captain. Now here he is in a hospital bed struggling to dial the numbers on his iPhone.
He now faces the prospect of trying to carve out some sort of independence while adjusting to, in all likelihood, life in a wheelchair. Well, that's not so bad, right? He's a young guy with a good job and a place to live, he'll bounce back in no time. As we talked, I began to realize just what a challenge things had become for him almost overnight. First of all, let's consider the basics. When he gets discharged from this facility next week (oh yes, the insurance company is checking progress daily, and will boot him outta there just as soon as they can) he faces some immediate obstacles as soon as he gets home. Well, that is, providing that he can get into his home. At present, he lives in a second floor apartment, with stairs. Repeated calls to his landlord have revealed that the four wheelchair accessible units in the complex are all occupied. Some people in the office have taken to trying to locate such a suitable apartment for him, but with little success to this point. Finding a groundfloor apartment is one thing, but one specifically designed for use of a wheelchair within is a different story entirely. One of our other co-workers went by to measure the doorways at his place this week and discovered that the 30" openings would not accomodate the width of any wheelchair, leaving him to crawl the last few feet wherever the chair could not go. Out of curiousity, I also did some searching and found that many of the wheelchair accessible units were in complexes that were prohibitively expensive.
Complicating matters further is location. Driving himself around not really being an option any longer, he must find a place that has reasonable access to some public transportation so that he can still get to work and attempt to support himself. This is, of course, providing that he can maintain adequate motor skills to continue his job as a very gifted software developer.
I see people in wheelchairs or other impairments all the time when I'm out and about and always admire their independence and the energy that it must take each day to do the things that able bodied folks like myself take for granted each day. Never mind the intestinal fortitude to forge on each day, putting twice the effort to perform tasks that are largely involuntary for most others. But this view from afar really does not begin to scratch the surface of what must happen for them to even be in the position to carry on. I started think about other challenges that are just assumed parts of my own life. Just think what it would be like if dialing your telephone were a terribly time consuming and mentally exhausting task, as you concentrate in hopes that neurons in your brain will fire up the nerve endings in your extremities to do precisely what you desire for them to do. Just think of how much earlier you'd have to get up in the morning if fastening buttons, tying shoes, putting on socks of zipping a jacket were as difficult for your rebellious hands to accomplish as it would be for a swiss watch maker to construct a fine time piece with some pliers instead of fine tweezers or to eyeball it instead of using a magnifying glass. Life is indeed full of surprises. Just think of all the wonderful blessings you've had since the Good Lord lifted the veil of slumber off your eyes this morning, breathing life into your body for another day. Be thankful. Just think...
I shall proceed and continue...
Thursday, January 10, 2008
Coltrane Speaks
How did he do it? And so consistently? He speaks to me
through the soprano saxophone with such emotion...with
such passion. Gone for almost 40 years and its as if I
can feel the pain, the struggle, hear the voice and
its just as poignant now as then. The world was truly
blessed when John Coltrane's lips touched the reed and
began to play.
Many times music is just background noise. Some of it,
by virtue of its soft tones and melodies is soothing.
Some, lyrically potent, is even thought provoking. But
the truly exceptional, the extraordinary, can touch
your soul all the way through the transceiver, across
the airwaves, from the instrument of the artist,
no...ar-TISTE! From their soul to yours. No words
necessary. The notes say it all...and then some.
I was sitting here toiling through the monotony when
Coltrane's Wise One came on. It demanded my attention.
It spoke of hardship and pain, perseverance and
struggle. It cried out for respect. It stopped me in
my tracks. It was as if I had been confronted by an
old wise one and had to pause, to tip my cap and
acknowledge his presence. Then, just as suddenly as he
came, he was gone. But I remembered.
Sports fans will recall that Isiah Thomas "made the
ball talk". Hip-hoppers know that Terminator X only
"speaks with his hands". The old "wise ones" know
that John Coltrane made that alto, tenor, or soprano
saxophone cry out. Sometimes his notes rang out with
all of the Rage in Harlem. Sometimes in a silent way.
Sometimes softly, as in a morning sunrise. But always
profound. Always provocative. Always passionate.
Wednesday, January 9, 2008
You can run but you can't hide from the West Side Night Stalker...
What's your position on the Stalker? Yes, I dared to invoke the stalkers. Does the stalker get a bad rap or is he/she just a little more passionate than the rest of us. Let me make my disclaimer right now. I mean no disrespect, nor is it my aim to make light of anyone's bad experience with the unwanted attention of the stalker. That said, I wanted to touch on a few variations of this notorious character. We all know the text book stalker. This is the one that we hear about on the news that gives much unwanted attention, whether overtly or covertly, sometimes harming their subject. If we’re lucky, most of us will never have to go through an experience where we are in harms way or at the very least made to feel uncomfortable. But there are many degrees of stalkers. Hang on for just a moment as I put on my Jeff Foxworthy hat. No, we’re not going to talk about 5th Graders. We’re going to clear some things up, or try anyway.
You might be a stalker if…
You comb over somebody’s MySpace page, reading all the notes that are not to you and taking everything there as a personal affront to you. Is this you? Do you look at other people’s personal friend sites and proceed to click on the pages of all of the cyberfriends’ pages, memorizing their photos and allowing each and every bit of written text to be etched onto your brain, even if its not related to your original friend? Do you try to convince the object of your obsession that he/she needs you in order to “get right” and that he/she is woefully inadequate and a person of questionable morals? Well, you might be a stalker.
You might be a stalker if…
You call a brotha 73 times in 15 minutes because he fails to pick up the first time and you think he’s up to no good. Or maybe this makes you more passionate than the rest of us? You really think that calling this many times shows your commitment and persistence. You will not be denied. You are telling this person that you and only you love them enough to call them 73 times in 15 minutes.
You might be a stalker if...
You alter your workout schedule and routine just to be in the vicinity of another gym patron that you find particularly attractive. You linger on machines long after you have completed your set. You wait by the water fountain for that object of your obsession to come by and quench their thirst. You ride a broken exercise bike (when functional bikes are available) just because it gives you the best view of your subject across the room on the machine weights.
So, if anybody’s reading, share a stalker story here. The worldwide readership of D’s Daily is eagerly awaiting your feedback. Yes, all 3 of us. (And hurry up because I’ll only have those other 2 on the payroll until the end of next week).
You might be a stalker if…
You comb over somebody’s MySpace page, reading all the notes that are not to you and taking everything there as a personal affront to you. Is this you? Do you look at other people’s personal friend sites and proceed to click on the pages of all of the cyberfriends’ pages, memorizing their photos and allowing each and every bit of written text to be etched onto your brain, even if its not related to your original friend? Do you try to convince the object of your obsession that he/she needs you in order to “get right” and that he/she is woefully inadequate and a person of questionable morals? Well, you might be a stalker.
You might be a stalker if…
You call a brotha 73 times in 15 minutes because he fails to pick up the first time and you think he’s up to no good. Or maybe this makes you more passionate than the rest of us? You really think that calling this many times shows your commitment and persistence. You will not be denied. You are telling this person that you and only you love them enough to call them 73 times in 15 minutes.
You might be a stalker if...
You alter your workout schedule and routine just to be in the vicinity of another gym patron that you find particularly attractive. You linger on machines long after you have completed your set. You wait by the water fountain for that object of your obsession to come by and quench their thirst. You ride a broken exercise bike (when functional bikes are available) just because it gives you the best view of your subject across the room on the machine weights.
So, if anybody’s reading, share a stalker story here. The worldwide readership of D’s Daily is eagerly awaiting your feedback. Yes, all 3 of us. (And hurry up because I’ll only have those other 2 on the payroll until the end of next week).
Tuesday, January 8, 2008
The numbers never lie...
I love mathematics. I walk around all day doing math problems in my head. I calculate my miles to the gallon while driving. I run my bank balance in my head, and am cognizant of each purchase and can tell you what my new balance is, although that's not too tough when you're at zero. I look at structures or lines on the sidewalk and do geometry. I look at angles. I memorize numbers. I would've been a great numbers runner. I store all sorts of useless facts in my brain. I commit license plates to memory. If I dial a phone number, its pretty much locked in. I don't really have to write it down. My cell phone is determined to allow early-onset alzheimers set in, not letting my neurons fire away, making one-touch dialing by name possible. I look at hexagonal patterns in a tile floor and wonder how many of them it will take to cover an area of 40 square feet if each side of the hexagon is 4 inches long. And sometimes I count backward from numbers like 136,706 in hopes that I'll fall asleep before I get to zero.
Numbers never lie, except when they do. A guy can average 20 points and 10 rebounds per game but never touch the ball in the last 5 minutes of a game because he chokes under the pressure, when a 12 points per game scorer could be dying to take the last shot. Your 40 million dollar man can hit homeruns almost at will, but a glove in his hand is about as useful as a Louis Vuitton purse in the outfield while the guy on the 10-day free agent contract from Triple-A Tacoma is a born winner that will give up his body and run through the wall if it means he'll catch the ball and his team's victory is preserved. Which guy do you want on your team?
I love numbers anyway. Interpreters of these numbers often leave something to be desired, but we keep them around anyway. ESPN, my perpetual background noise, throws useless numbers around all day. Gallup polls tell us what's hot and what's not. How's this for a statistic? At least one of my entries per week will leave you wondering what the heck I'm talking about. Another still might make you think that not since somebody decided to make a math problem about the flight pattern of the common housefly, has anyone embraced randomness as thoroughly as have I.
Numbers never lie, except when they do. A guy can average 20 points and 10 rebounds per game but never touch the ball in the last 5 minutes of a game because he chokes under the pressure, when a 12 points per game scorer could be dying to take the last shot. Your 40 million dollar man can hit homeruns almost at will, but a glove in his hand is about as useful as a Louis Vuitton purse in the outfield while the guy on the 10-day free agent contract from Triple-A Tacoma is a born winner that will give up his body and run through the wall if it means he'll catch the ball and his team's victory is preserved. Which guy do you want on your team?
I love numbers anyway. Interpreters of these numbers often leave something to be desired, but we keep them around anyway. ESPN, my perpetual background noise, throws useless numbers around all day. Gallup polls tell us what's hot and what's not. How's this for a statistic? At least one of my entries per week will leave you wondering what the heck I'm talking about. Another still might make you think that not since somebody decided to make a math problem about the flight pattern of the common housefly, has anyone embraced randomness as thoroughly as have I.
Monday, January 7, 2008
Rollin' the Dice
Did you see Knocked Up? With Ben Stone? It was a silly little movie about a not so socially adept, 20-something year old guy that lucks up on a one-night stand with somebody way out of his league and the life changing consequences that ensue as a result. Seth, Stone’s character, was a guy that apparently couldn’t let go of the college style frat house living arrangement that provided so much comfort and security, even at the expense of his progressing to an adult style social existence. I’m not going to lie, I laughed a bit during this movie. This group of misfits exhibited traits that I observed from many of my acquaintances when I was in college or just out of college, so it was amusing to see them captured on screen.
This collection of characters had all sorts of misguided notions about the opposite sex, subscribed to urban legend more often than empirical fact, and just overall lived a club house sort of lifestyle chock full of intense video game battles, gratuitous drug abuse, and a healthy consumption of porn. In fact, they took their porn fondness to another level in their attempts to launch a website that chronicled all possible nude scenes from Hollywood movies, keeping a database of who was nude, which body part they showed, and at what point in the movie that it occurred. They deemed this incessant ingestion of R-rated DVD’s “research” and rarely left the house to undertake any real world activities. Again, it was a mildly entertaining movie, but it, like many others these days, was about 30-40 minutes too long. I don’t know about you, but I like my comedies to be about 90-100 minutes of side-splitting laughter and then I can get on to other things. I get mentally prepared to be engaged for 2 hours or more when watching a good drama like The Departed, The Good Shepherd, or a classic like the Godfather.
Furthermore, this brand of comedy is not exactly going to have mass appeal and I don’t think that it will reach “time-honored classic” status like National Lampoon’s Vacation, Caddyshack, or any number of Richard Pryor films. It seems to be made for a very specific group (deranged, Gen-X’ers and Gen Y'ers who try to navigate their way through life’s challenges, more often virtual than real life) by a very specific group (these same slightly off center social mis-fits with their clever idiosyncrasies ). So don’t look for any of these to, say, “go platinum” down the line like a Bob Marley record might as new generations of youth get exposed to his music.
I saw another such movie, SuperBad, over the weekend. The guy that directed Knocked Up (Judd Apatow) also had a hand in this one as a producer. The one thing I’ll give these movies is that they keep the same likeable mis-fits employed. The protagonist is always a peculiar looking underdog that probably isn’t at the top of any “senior mosts” lists in the yearbook, and for some reason his name is often Seth. In both these movies, Seth was a curly-haired chubby kid (
Stone in Knocked up, Jonah Hill 
in SuperBad) that despite his realization that he was not exactly the captain of the football team was charming, if not vulgar and obnoxious, in his own way. These Seth’s do usually have the trait of having the cojones to think they have a shot at the head cheerleader, or homecoming queen, or whomever else the captain of the football team is supposed to date, despite their obviously relative invisibility on the social scene. This is surely do in no small part to Apatow’s (and other director/producers of this genre) personal experiences as an adolescent. “I think that everything I do tends to root for the underdog. I always felt as a kid that I was under appreciated, invisible or weird,” Apatow says, continuing “but I've always secretly thought people would one day appreciate what is different about me. I'm always putting that message out there.Eventually, the nerds and the geeks will have their day.” This is oh so apparent in his projects, and a lot of times it plays well.
Unfortunately, the title, SuperBad was oddly indicative of the quality of the film. It did have a couple of funny scenes, but they were few and far between. Ben Stone is a talented guy, and even in the marginal role that he had, was fairly entertaining. You can always count on their being some really stupid exchange between characters about something which they are deadly serious and not meaning to be funny. It’s just way too vulgar. Putting myself back in the 16-year old’s mindset, I could see this being somewhat entertaining, but the thin-line between sexual humor and deviant sexual humor is too often blurred a little too much for my tastes. At least Richard Pryor and Eddie Murphy could pull this off in a light hearted manner that even my mother could almost laugh at..well..almost…um..well, ok…maybe not, but more likely than this stuff. Apatow’s retort:
“When R-rated comedies don't work, the studios are really embarrassed by them. But a PG-13 comedy is actually less offensive than an episode of "Friends" (1994). I think people want something a little more adult.”
Something more adult? sure. Funny? Definitely. But this wasn’t it. The guys that I knew that acted like this in high school are often the ones that seem to have their names in the “From:” line on mass emails that I get that say “Don’t open this at work” and casually talk about trips to the Asian Massage joints and make strange comments about little girls around the water cooler at work. No thanks. I’ll take Pryor any day of the week. I will agree with Apatow on the following though:
“My way of dealing with the world has always been to make fun of it and observe it but not take part in it. That's how I became a writer.” Me too, Judd, even if I’m not a real writer yet, not one collecting a check anyway. It’s definitely a lot more fun to step outside of something and derive some personal amusement that way. “ But when you have kids, suddenly you have to be part of things. It leads almost to a breakdown because your whole defense mechanism is now really destructive,” he says. Okay, I’ll agree partly on that point. I know what I was like as a teen-aged boy and as a result, as a general rule try to be mean and unfriendly to any of the little guys that my daughter knows at school (even if she’s only 10). Destructive? You don’t have to be. I think it’s possible to slip into an attitude of denouncing everything, and not trying to relate on the level of a youngster, but you can be positive and supportive. Adolescence is indeed awkward. Some people never recover. But it’s possible. There’s lots more information in my head than when I was 16, so I don’t feel like I’m totally stranded out on an island when confronted with coming of age issues like I might’ve back then.
This collection of characters had all sorts of misguided notions about the opposite sex, subscribed to urban legend more often than empirical fact, and just overall lived a club house sort of lifestyle chock full of intense video game battles, gratuitous drug abuse, and a healthy consumption of porn. In fact, they took their porn fondness to another level in their attempts to launch a website that chronicled all possible nude scenes from Hollywood movies, keeping a database of who was nude, which body part they showed, and at what point in the movie that it occurred. They deemed this incessant ingestion of R-rated DVD’s “research” and rarely left the house to undertake any real world activities. Again, it was a mildly entertaining movie, but it, like many others these days, was about 30-40 minutes too long. I don’t know about you, but I like my comedies to be about 90-100 minutes of side-splitting laughter and then I can get on to other things. I get mentally prepared to be engaged for 2 hours or more when watching a good drama like The Departed, The Good Shepherd, or a classic like the Godfather.
Furthermore, this brand of comedy is not exactly going to have mass appeal and I don’t think that it will reach “time-honored classic” status like National Lampoon’s Vacation, Caddyshack, or any number of Richard Pryor films. It seems to be made for a very specific group (deranged, Gen-X’ers and Gen Y'ers who try to navigate their way through life’s challenges, more often virtual than real life) by a very specific group (these same slightly off center social mis-fits with their clever idiosyncrasies ). So don’t look for any of these to, say, “go platinum” down the line like a Bob Marley record might as new generations of youth get exposed to his music.
I saw another such movie, SuperBad, over the weekend. The guy that directed Knocked Up (Judd Apatow) also had a hand in this one as a producer. The one thing I’ll give these movies is that they keep the same likeable mis-fits employed. The protagonist is always a peculiar looking underdog that probably isn’t at the top of any “senior mosts” lists in the yearbook, and for some reason his name is often Seth. In both these movies, Seth was a curly-haired chubby kid (
Stone in Knocked up, Jonah Hill 
in SuperBad) that despite his realization that he was not exactly the captain of the football team was charming, if not vulgar and obnoxious, in his own way. These Seth’s do usually have the trait of having the cojones to think they have a shot at the head cheerleader, or homecoming queen, or whomever else the captain of the football team is supposed to date, despite their obviously relative invisibility on the social scene. This is surely do in no small part to Apatow’s (and other director/producers of this genre) personal experiences as an adolescent. “I think that everything I do tends to root for the underdog. I always felt as a kid that I was under appreciated, invisible or weird,” Apatow says, continuing “but I've always secretly thought people would one day appreciate what is different about me. I'm always putting that message out there.Eventually, the nerds and the geeks will have their day.” This is oh so apparent in his projects, and a lot of times it plays well. Unfortunately, the title, SuperBad was oddly indicative of the quality of the film. It did have a couple of funny scenes, but they were few and far between. Ben Stone is a talented guy, and even in the marginal role that he had, was fairly entertaining. You can always count on their being some really stupid exchange between characters about something which they are deadly serious and not meaning to be funny. It’s just way too vulgar. Putting myself back in the 16-year old’s mindset, I could see this being somewhat entertaining, but the thin-line between sexual humor and deviant sexual humor is too often blurred a little too much for my tastes. At least Richard Pryor and Eddie Murphy could pull this off in a light hearted manner that even my mother could almost laugh at..well..almost…um..well, ok…maybe not, but more likely than this stuff. Apatow’s retort:
“When R-rated comedies don't work, the studios are really embarrassed by them. But a PG-13 comedy is actually less offensive than an episode of "Friends" (1994). I think people want something a little more adult.”
Something more adult? sure. Funny? Definitely. But this wasn’t it. The guys that I knew that acted like this in high school are often the ones that seem to have their names in the “From:” line on mass emails that I get that say “Don’t open this at work” and casually talk about trips to the Asian Massage joints and make strange comments about little girls around the water cooler at work. No thanks. I’ll take Pryor any day of the week. I will agree with Apatow on the following though:
“My way of dealing with the world has always been to make fun of it and observe it but not take part in it. That's how I became a writer.” Me too, Judd, even if I’m not a real writer yet, not one collecting a check anyway. It’s definitely a lot more fun to step outside of something and derive some personal amusement that way. “ But when you have kids, suddenly you have to be part of things. It leads almost to a breakdown because your whole defense mechanism is now really destructive,” he says. Okay, I’ll agree partly on that point. I know what I was like as a teen-aged boy and as a result, as a general rule try to be mean and unfriendly to any of the little guys that my daughter knows at school (even if she’s only 10). Destructive? You don’t have to be. I think it’s possible to slip into an attitude of denouncing everything, and not trying to relate on the level of a youngster, but you can be positive and supportive. Adolescence is indeed awkward. Some people never recover. But it’s possible. There’s lots more information in my head than when I was 16, so I don’t feel like I’m totally stranded out on an island when confronted with coming of age issues like I might’ve back then.
Saturday, January 5, 2008
Politically Correct
Going through my emails today I stumbled upon something rather interesting in what I would term "junk mail". Having been a customer of Overstock.com in the past year, I am on their email list for all new items and blowout sales that come up. On most days, I'd probably make this email one of the ones that I delete on sight (kind of like emails from that certain very verbose co-worker that copies everyone on everything---oops, I'll save that rant for the Dilbert Files http://dilbertfiles.blogspot.com/ ) but today I actually opened it first.
As a general rule, I try not to look at any special deal or sale item, no matter how compelling, when I'm broke. Since I am decidedly very cash poor right now, it was even more remarkable that I read on. There were nice leather dining room chairs, and Movado watches, 600 thread count sheets, and 32" flat-screen LCD monitors. I have no dining room table, I'm still not over the tragic loss of my first Movado watch (I'm forever in mourning), and I'm neither in the market for any new sheets nor a flat monitor so I was not the least bit tempted, but I scrolled down anyway. But then, I saw it. No, it wasn't a steal of a deal or anything that I absolutely must have. No, it was something that I never would have expected to see in this email advertisement. It was a letter from the CEO of Overstock, a Mr. Patrick M. Byrne, and he had titled it Ron Paul, Fox News, and Me. Perhaps it was my curiosity as a new blogger that made me read on. I thought, "Hmm...this CEO is blogging, let me see what he's talking about."
What I read was fairly interesting. In short, Fox News was planning to exclude Ron Paul (whose name always makes me giggle as I immediately think of the Jamaican recording artist singing "Just gimme da light" and/or Ron Jeremy the,..um...yeah...him...) from a forum in New Hampshire in preparation for the primary there later this month. Why is this significant? Well, for three reasons as far as I can tell. First, Mayor (for Life) Rudy "Go Yankees...start spreadin' the news" Giuliani is being allowed to participate even though Paul tallied more than 2.5 times the votes than did Rudy in Iowa. The second is that Mr. Byrne had a chance to meet with Ron Paul for an hour when he came to Utah and stopped by the Overstock offices (I didn't even know they were in Utah. I learn something new everyday.)Apparently Mr. Byrne was really taken by Paul (no, not taken like "he got took!", but really impressed with him) and proceeded to give him the largest donation allowable by law, stating that, among other things, it was "rare to meet a politician who understands the Constitution, and rarer still to meet one who thinks it binds the government meaningfully". Lastly, as CEO of a company, Mr. Byrne is beholden to people like his Board of Directors and maybe share holders if Overstock is a public company. While he received many letters from customers urging him to pull Overstock adds from Fox stations, he ultimately felt it irresponsible for him to make a decision that could effect the corporation's bottom line based on his personal politics. Fair enough. Here's the cool part though. He did voice his strong objection to Fox, contacting them to give a piece of his mind, as a major advertiser on their network. I know nothing about this cat, but I'll give him credit for having the chutzpah (look it up...lol) to even pen this little note and then put it out to all of his customers. Politically correct AND corporately responsible. You gotta love it.
Don't you just love an election year? Everyone gets into the spirit, backing candidates that they've never heard of until recently and then entrusting them with the reigns of the most powerful country in the free world (well, as the saying goes anyway). I mean, really? Who is Ron Paul? He's a career politician and part time obstetrician (yeah, delivering babies) from Texas that, although a Republican for the past 30 years ran for president in the 1988 election after winning the Libertarian party nomination. Known as Dr. No, because as he tells it, he he will "never vote for legislation unless the proposed measure is expressly authorized by the Constitution", he currently serves on the House Foreign Affairs committee and goes left about as often as Charlotte Bobcats shooting guard Jason Richardson. I didn't know any of this until doing some research (gold star for wikipedia!), except that he was a senator from Texas. I love the sound bites that the news media always gets from the average joe's (who also don't know these cats from Adam) and then runs them all over television over and over again. The hype that created hype. I was listening to NPR today and they interviewed some lady at some obscure Wyoming Primary who was down like 4 flats for some cat named Duncan Hunter. Back to wikipedia I went. (Wow, maybe I oughta make a donation?) Okay, so Duncan Hunter is another career politician that currently serves as Republican Representive for the 52nd district in California (San Diego area) and seems to be down with anything on W's agenda related to defense and armed services (he's been the chairman of the Armed Services Committee since 2002). Again, I had not heard of this cat until today.
Without doing any of our own digging, we're all really victims forced to get to know whomever the media are talking about(translated: covertly, subliminally, shoving down your throat). I got to thinking about other elections and obscure candidates that came and went. They had their 15 minutes of fame and then either were forgotten or just crawled back into their hole (i.e. whatever political seat they held before they dared to dream, however misguided or cheated out of their big chance even after winning the popular vote...but I digress) never to be really heard from again. For some reason, the 1980 election came to mind. I was 8 years old and in the 3rd grade at the time.
Now, don't get me wrong. I was by no means Alex P. Keaton from Family Ties. I was a regular kid that liked to play 2-hand touch football between the lampposts in the street after school until it got dark and then would probably catch a glimpse of the news during dinner. This is back in the days when it was just Dan Rather and Peter Jennings or Walter Cronkite or Tom Brokaw. No CNN. No Fox News. No MSNBC. It was just news for about 30 minutes, and then another 30 or so with Ted Koppel if you stayed up late (I didn't). What I remember most about 1980 were the Olympics and the Iran hostage situation. In the winter Olympics, we had the "Miracle on Ice" with the U.S. Hockey team coming out of nowhere to win gold. Much to my dismay, the Summer Olympics (which were my absolute favorite before they started ruining the coverage in the '90s) were cancelled because they were in Moscow and we weren't going unless Russia got out of Afghanistan. The Ayatollah Khomeini was on the news every night as public enemy #1 as the hostage situation was in full swing. I'm rambling down memory lane now. I apologize. Where was I?
Oh yeah. Getting behind obscure candidates. For some reason, I had it in my head that John Anderson was the way to go. After giving a brief lesson on elections and government, my 3rd grade teacher decided to have us vote in class for President and I was trying to rally support for Anderson. How the heck did I arrive at that? I still don't know to this day. I do remember that there were alot of signs on peoples lawns in my neighborhood with his name on them. I remember seeing him on the news and maybe on a debate, but I have no clue as to why I would champion his cause in my 3rd grade mock election. I knew that Republican candidate Ronald Reagan was the enemy. On that much I was quite clear, and still am. I probably got that from my parents and the things they would yell at the TV (my mom) or laugh cynically (my dad) whenever he was in the news. By the time he had served his 2 terms, I was 18 and could vote and had plenty of time to realize for myself that he was an idiot. Jimmy Carter was the current president at the time and was made to seem kind of weak and out of touch, by the media and mainly by the Reagan camp (probably in cahoots with the media). As an adult, I'm pretty fond of Carter and hold him in much higher esteem than I do any of he Republican characters that have dominated 20 out of the last 28 years. Those 8 in between were great though :-). Long live Slick Willy. Go Bubba, it's your Birthday...it's your Birthday. Sorry.
But Anderson? John Anderson! What was I thinking? He was running as an independent after having served in Congress for 20 years as a Representative from Illinois. The guy looked like Orville Redenbacher for crying out loud.
I doubt that he could've said anything that would've struck a chord with my 8 year old sensibilities. ("As president, I will make it unconstitutional for older sisters to make you get out of their room and recess will now be 3 hours long...."). Orville probably would have had just as strong a campaign in my book. Consulting Wikipedia yet again, it sounds like the other candidates new he was a clown too, Carter refusing to participate in debates if Anderson was there and Reagan welcoming the chance to make a fool out of the easy mark and insisting that he be included.
Well, he lost just as miserably amongst the 3rd graders in room 9 as he did in the real election. But that's why they play the games. He obviously thought he could win (like any great white hope that has stepped up for a significant boxing crown during my lifetime, only to be crushed..Jerry Quarry, Gerry Cooney, Tex Cobb, Ricky Hatton, etc. etc.) or he wouldn't have spent the money. Some other people donated money to his cause. Who knows why people do what they do? The optimist in me says that people try to get behind a cause that they believe will make the United States and the World a better place. My inner cynic is fairly certain that people support whomever will line their pockets, under the table or otherwise, at the likely expense of the greater good. But hey...that's why they play the games. Maybe Hope will defeat special interests this time.
As a general rule, I try not to look at any special deal or sale item, no matter how compelling, when I'm broke. Since I am decidedly very cash poor right now, it was even more remarkable that I read on. There were nice leather dining room chairs, and Movado watches, 600 thread count sheets, and 32" flat-screen LCD monitors. I have no dining room table, I'm still not over the tragic loss of my first Movado watch (I'm forever in mourning), and I'm neither in the market for any new sheets nor a flat monitor so I was not the least bit tempted, but I scrolled down anyway. But then, I saw it. No, it wasn't a steal of a deal or anything that I absolutely must have. No, it was something that I never would have expected to see in this email advertisement. It was a letter from the CEO of Overstock, a Mr. Patrick M. Byrne, and he had titled it Ron Paul, Fox News, and Me. Perhaps it was my curiosity as a new blogger that made me read on. I thought, "Hmm...this CEO is blogging, let me see what he's talking about."
What I read was fairly interesting. In short, Fox News was planning to exclude Ron Paul (whose name always makes me giggle as I immediately think of the Jamaican recording artist singing "Just gimme da light" and/or Ron Jeremy the,..um...yeah...him...) from a forum in New Hampshire in preparation for the primary there later this month. Why is this significant? Well, for three reasons as far as I can tell. First, Mayor (for Life) Rudy "Go Yankees...start spreadin' the news" Giuliani is being allowed to participate even though Paul tallied more than 2.5 times the votes than did Rudy in Iowa. The second is that Mr. Byrne had a chance to meet with Ron Paul for an hour when he came to Utah and stopped by the Overstock offices (I didn't even know they were in Utah. I learn something new everyday.)Apparently Mr. Byrne was really taken by Paul (no, not taken like "he got took!", but really impressed with him) and proceeded to give him the largest donation allowable by law, stating that, among other things, it was "rare to meet a politician who understands the Constitution, and rarer still to meet one who thinks it binds the government meaningfully". Lastly, as CEO of a company, Mr. Byrne is beholden to people like his Board of Directors and maybe share holders if Overstock is a public company. While he received many letters from customers urging him to pull Overstock adds from Fox stations, he ultimately felt it irresponsible for him to make a decision that could effect the corporation's bottom line based on his personal politics. Fair enough. Here's the cool part though. He did voice his strong objection to Fox, contacting them to give a piece of his mind, as a major advertiser on their network. I know nothing about this cat, but I'll give him credit for having the chutzpah (look it up...lol) to even pen this little note and then put it out to all of his customers. Politically correct AND corporately responsible. You gotta love it.
Don't you just love an election year? Everyone gets into the spirit, backing candidates that they've never heard of until recently and then entrusting them with the reigns of the most powerful country in the free world (well, as the saying goes anyway). I mean, really? Who is Ron Paul? He's a career politician and part time obstetrician (yeah, delivering babies) from Texas that, although a Republican for the past 30 years ran for president in the 1988 election after winning the Libertarian party nomination. Known as Dr. No, because as he tells it, he he will "never vote for legislation unless the proposed measure is expressly authorized by the Constitution", he currently serves on the House Foreign Affairs committee and goes left about as often as Charlotte Bobcats shooting guard Jason Richardson. I didn't know any of this until doing some research (gold star for wikipedia!), except that he was a senator from Texas. I love the sound bites that the news media always gets from the average joe's (who also don't know these cats from Adam) and then runs them all over television over and over again. The hype that created hype. I was listening to NPR today and they interviewed some lady at some obscure Wyoming Primary who was down like 4 flats for some cat named Duncan Hunter. Back to wikipedia I went. (Wow, maybe I oughta make a donation?) Okay, so Duncan Hunter is another career politician that currently serves as Republican Representive for the 52nd district in California (San Diego area) and seems to be down with anything on W's agenda related to defense and armed services (he's been the chairman of the Armed Services Committee since 2002). Again, I had not heard of this cat until today.
Without doing any of our own digging, we're all really victims forced to get to know whomever the media are talking about(translated: covertly, subliminally, shoving down your throat). I got to thinking about other elections and obscure candidates that came and went. They had their 15 minutes of fame and then either were forgotten or just crawled back into their hole (i.e. whatever political seat they held before they dared to dream, however misguided or cheated out of their big chance even after winning the popular vote...but I digress) never to be really heard from again. For some reason, the 1980 election came to mind. I was 8 years old and in the 3rd grade at the time.
Now, don't get me wrong. I was by no means Alex P. Keaton from Family Ties. I was a regular kid that liked to play 2-hand touch football between the lampposts in the street after school until it got dark and then would probably catch a glimpse of the news during dinner. This is back in the days when it was just Dan Rather and Peter Jennings or Walter Cronkite or Tom Brokaw. No CNN. No Fox News. No MSNBC. It was just news for about 30 minutes, and then another 30 or so with Ted Koppel if you stayed up late (I didn't). What I remember most about 1980 were the Olympics and the Iran hostage situation. In the winter Olympics, we had the "Miracle on Ice" with the U.S. Hockey team coming out of nowhere to win gold. Much to my dismay, the Summer Olympics (which were my absolute favorite before they started ruining the coverage in the '90s) were cancelled because they were in Moscow and we weren't going unless Russia got out of Afghanistan. The Ayatollah Khomeini was on the news every night as public enemy #1 as the hostage situation was in full swing. I'm rambling down memory lane now. I apologize. Where was I?
Oh yeah. Getting behind obscure candidates. For some reason, I had it in my head that John Anderson was the way to go. After giving a brief lesson on elections and government, my 3rd grade teacher decided to have us vote in class for President and I was trying to rally support for Anderson. How the heck did I arrive at that? I still don't know to this day. I do remember that there were alot of signs on peoples lawns in my neighborhood with his name on them. I remember seeing him on the news and maybe on a debate, but I have no clue as to why I would champion his cause in my 3rd grade mock election. I knew that Republican candidate Ronald Reagan was the enemy. On that much I was quite clear, and still am. I probably got that from my parents and the things they would yell at the TV (my mom) or laugh cynically (my dad) whenever he was in the news. By the time he had served his 2 terms, I was 18 and could vote and had plenty of time to realize for myself that he was an idiot. Jimmy Carter was the current president at the time and was made to seem kind of weak and out of touch, by the media and mainly by the Reagan camp (probably in cahoots with the media). As an adult, I'm pretty fond of Carter and hold him in much higher esteem than I do any of he Republican characters that have dominated 20 out of the last 28 years. Those 8 in between were great though :-). Long live Slick Willy. Go Bubba, it's your Birthday...it's your Birthday. Sorry.
But Anderson? John Anderson! What was I thinking? He was running as an independent after having served in Congress for 20 years as a Representative from Illinois. The guy looked like Orville Redenbacher for crying out loud.
I doubt that he could've said anything that would've struck a chord with my 8 year old sensibilities. ("As president, I will make it unconstitutional for older sisters to make you get out of their room and recess will now be 3 hours long...."). Orville probably would have had just as strong a campaign in my book. Consulting Wikipedia yet again, it sounds like the other candidates new he was a clown too, Carter refusing to participate in debates if Anderson was there and Reagan welcoming the chance to make a fool out of the easy mark and insisting that he be included.
Well, he lost just as miserably amongst the 3rd graders in room 9 as he did in the real election. But that's why they play the games. He obviously thought he could win (like any great white hope that has stepped up for a significant boxing crown during my lifetime, only to be crushed..Jerry Quarry, Gerry Cooney, Tex Cobb, Ricky Hatton, etc. etc.) or he wouldn't have spent the money. Some other people donated money to his cause. Who knows why people do what they do? The optimist in me says that people try to get behind a cause that they believe will make the United States and the World a better place. My inner cynic is fairly certain that people support whomever will line their pockets, under the table or otherwise, at the likely expense of the greater good. But hey...that's why they play the games. Maybe Hope will defeat special interests this time.
Friday, January 4, 2008
No Free Rides
My disdain for traffic has been well chronicled in my blog, and I'm so fortunate to have a job that allows me to work from home much of the time. Call me spoiled. Call me white collar. Call me anything you like. I'm not bothered by any verbal suggestion that I'm not tough enough for commuting. I simply do not enjoy it. I'm a huge fan of public transportation, or any transportation for that matter, in which I am not at the wheel. I like to carpool, especially when it's my turn to be the passenger. When my writing career takes off and I am as famous as Tom Clancy and as rich as Bill Cosby, I plan to have a chauffeur that takes me wherever I need to go, whenever I need to go. This actually benefits everybody. I'm so much more of a joy to be around when I haven't just danced rounds and rounds of the bumper-to-bumper shuffle.
Today I took public transportation to work. I repeatedly patted myself on the back for having the presence of mind to make this call. My car is nearly done with the tank of gas that I bought some 9 days ago, and my checking account scoffed at the notion of me buying any more before absolutely necessary. Armed with a pre-paid BART (Bay Area Rapid Transit for those not familiar with the subway system in the Yay Area) ticket and a brand new TransLink card to use for the bus I headed for the station this morning with the anticipation of a smooth, stress-free trip to the office. The perfect storm that they forecasted hit late last night and hadn't yet let up by this morning, so it made my decision that much easier. For some reason, Californians lose all driving skills at the sight of the first raindrop. It's a good thing that it doesn't snow here, because life might just come to a screeching halt.
The ride was smooth and uneventful except for the operator change between the South Hayward and Union City stations. I wished that I had remembered a book to read, but there was a newspaper left behind by another passenger to keep me occupied, so I was good. Upon exiting the station at Union City, I headed to the "add fare" machine to make my $2.30 ticket into the requisite $3.50 for the route I had taken. The turn-stile barked at me and flashed a message saying that my ticket was invalid and that I'd need to see the station agent. Fearing that I'd miss my connecting bus, I hurried over to the agent but had to wait for the gentleman in front of me to finish his repeated questioning about how to get to Daly City on the system. Although the agent explained clearly several times, he kept asking, as if he knew that continuing this routine for precisely the next 3 minutes and 45 seconds would make me miss my bus. Yes, it was a conspiracy, and yes, it was all about me.
Well, I think Eddie the Echo wore the him out with the barrage of questions (correction, barrage of the SAME question), or perhaps it was just time for this particular agent to go on his break, because instead of making me pay the $1.20 and being forced to fill out all of the associated paperwork, he waved me through, and told me to have a nice day.
And I did! Work was somewhat productive even though one of my co-workers was trying to explain something to me while doing their best auctioneer's impression and typing like a caffeine powered court stenographer as I looked over his shoulder at his computer screen. The return bus was a little late and I was wishing that I had been wearing a bright, school bus yellow rain suit (like the Gorton's fisherman), but it finally came.
Before leaving the station this morning, I had purchased a new $20 ticket so that I wouldn't have to do it on the way home. However, it must've been zapped by the magnetic money clip in my pocket because I once again found myself face to face with a station agent discussing an invalid ticket situation. Who says lightning can't strike twice in the same spot? It was a different agent helping me out this time, but it was essentially the same result as he not only gave me a voucher for the value of my one-way ride home, but also wrote me a refund slip so that I could go to one of the main stations and get a new $20 ticket. Maybe there is such thing as a free ride.
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