I'm lying here on my couch trying to find the most comfortable position to relieve my aching back. I have one leg propped up on the back rest in hopes that I can rest my laptop on it and balance it enough so that I can type, all while not wrenching my neck too much. It sure would suck to create more problems for myself just for the sake of using this laptop. I've been on conference calls for the last 3 hours, so lying down has not been that much of a hardship. I have a headset that plugs into my laptop, so it was kind of nice to have my hands free while these phone calls took place over the internet.
It got me to thinking, however, about a voice activated way to type. Could I really be effective that way. It would almost seem a little too much Hal 9000/2010: A Space Odyssey. But hey...it's 2008 and we can voice activate so many other things at this point. We can bark at our cell phones to dial somebody by name. Several auto makers boast the voice activated stereo features that allow the driver to change the station or CD without removing their hands from the wheel. "Play artist, Michael Bolton." You've all seen that commercial.
One of my co-workers had a severe hand injury that required surgery and he had to wear a cast for 2 months and was forced to try a voice activated software so that he could type emails. It was either that or endure the painfully slow method of typing each letter one at a time with the index finger on his good hand. I sat in the adjacent cubicle to him so I got to hear him talking into his headset in the monotone, staccato voice that the software responded best to through his headset microphone. He...had...to...talk...really...slow...ly...in...order...for...it...to...com..pre..hend ..his...words...and...some...times...still...made...mis...takes. I'm sure it drove him crazy because it drove me crazy listening to him do it. If it made a mistake he had to tell it to backspace and then try to re-do it. I don't think this would work for me. I'm probably too visual at this point. I really benefit from the words appearing on the screen as fast as I can type them. As anyone that has been in a serious conversation with me can attest to, my mouth often gets in the way as my thoughts attempt to traverse the path between my brain and someone else's comprehension. I have this bad habit of trying to censor things that come out of my mouth that kills conversations some of the time. This is not a problem when I type. When I type, things just sort of flow. If I want to take it back, I backspace. If I want to let it hang there in the air like a cartoon dialogue bubble, I do that and just look at it until I decide that it sounds okay or that there's a better way to say that. The finish product is none the wiser. But saying these things out loud and then trying to take them back, just confuses everybody.
You're confused now, aren't you? Just be glad this isn't a verbal blog. You can just pretend that I speak as clearly (and you're laughing if you don't agree that I write clearly or coherently) as I write. Oh well, back to reality. That's enough randomness for a Monday morning.
Monday, March 31, 2008
Sunday, March 30, 2008
The Wave
I was at a fight today and a hockey game broke out. Now you KNOW that I wouldn't be caught dead at a hockey game. I'd actually be more likely caught sleeping. I don't understand hockey well enough, and the 2 halftimes are altogether too much for my A.D.D. to handle. And there are too many substitutions. Okay, I'm starting to sound like I understand and watch the sport. To be totally honest, I have only a tolerance for the very impressive highlights that they show on Sportscenter every night during the longest pro season of them all. It seems like its ALWAYS hockey season. No I'm just rambling, as usual.
I was actually at a basketball game today and a wave broke out. No, the perfect storm didn't hit and no I wasn't swept away by a tidal wave straight into an internet cafe where I'm recording this entry right now. No, that didn't happen either. It would make for a great story, but that's not how it went down. I'll explore fiction in the next stage of my development. For now I'll keep the training wheels on. The Golden State Warriors were keeping the Dirk-less Dallas Mavericks at bay when the folks in section 207 decided that they wanted to reach into the retro vault and resurrect the wave. Yes, the wave. Yes, THAT wave. Remember? Back in the '80s and maybe on through the early '90s you couldn't go to a stadium without being sucked into a wave that might last for 4 or 5 minutes at a time, completely distracting the serious fan from the action taking place between the lines.
I hadn't seen the wave in years. Well, at least not a good one. A couple times at an A's game in the last couple of years some folks tried to get it started but it quickly died. For some reason, once people sit down, they just don't feel much like prying their caboose's out of those tight stadium seats for anything less than the greatest play they've ever seen, a bathroom break or a beer run. Back in the day, a good wave might make its way around the stadium a dozen times or so, getting the fans into such a frenzy that they yelled and screamed to their hearts content. It's a wonder that the players didn't turn around to watch the spectacle in the stands.
Today's fan apparently isn't interested in all that. We want to see the action on the field and want to enjoy some top quality snacks and we want to pay top dollar. We do? Well, not me, but I guess that everyone else is alright with it because I sure don't see anyone boycotting the concession stand. I'm holdin' it down for Stadium hunger strikers all by myself. My own kids won't even join me in a show of solidarity.
Where have you gone Krazy George? Today's fickle fan needs your raspy voice and that drum more than ever. I laughed when they actually got that wave going after about 6 or 7 tries. The peer pressure was too much for the folks in section 201. All of the other sections boo'd then each time the wave died in their section. Finally, they got their act together and the section next to them followed suit and then the section after them and so on , and so on....
Before long, even the folks in the lower bowl were doing it. What a display of spirit and enthusiasm? Way to bring it back, Bay Area Fans! Next time, let's just try to do it during a time-out instead of in the final minutes of a close game.
I was actually at a basketball game today and a wave broke out. No, the perfect storm didn't hit and no I wasn't swept away by a tidal wave straight into an internet cafe where I'm recording this entry right now. No, that didn't happen either. It would make for a great story, but that's not how it went down. I'll explore fiction in the next stage of my development. For now I'll keep the training wheels on. The Golden State Warriors were keeping the Dirk-less Dallas Mavericks at bay when the folks in section 207 decided that they wanted to reach into the retro vault and resurrect the wave. Yes, the wave. Yes, THAT wave. Remember? Back in the '80s and maybe on through the early '90s you couldn't go to a stadium without being sucked into a wave that might last for 4 or 5 minutes at a time, completely distracting the serious fan from the action taking place between the lines.
I hadn't seen the wave in years. Well, at least not a good one. A couple times at an A's game in the last couple of years some folks tried to get it started but it quickly died. For some reason, once people sit down, they just don't feel much like prying their caboose's out of those tight stadium seats for anything less than the greatest play they've ever seen, a bathroom break or a beer run. Back in the day, a good wave might make its way around the stadium a dozen times or so, getting the fans into such a frenzy that they yelled and screamed to their hearts content. It's a wonder that the players didn't turn around to watch the spectacle in the stands.
Today's fan apparently isn't interested in all that. We want to see the action on the field and want to enjoy some top quality snacks and we want to pay top dollar. We do? Well, not me, but I guess that everyone else is alright with it because I sure don't see anyone boycotting the concession stand. I'm holdin' it down for Stadium hunger strikers all by myself. My own kids won't even join me in a show of solidarity.
Where have you gone Krazy George? Today's fickle fan needs your raspy voice and that drum more than ever. I laughed when they actually got that wave going after about 6 or 7 tries. The peer pressure was too much for the folks in section 201. All of the other sections boo'd then each time the wave died in their section. Finally, they got their act together and the section next to them followed suit and then the section after them and so on , and so on....
Before long, even the folks in the lower bowl were doing it. What a display of spirit and enthusiasm? Way to bring it back, Bay Area Fans! Next time, let's just try to do it during a time-out instead of in the final minutes of a close game.
Thursday, March 27, 2008
Malbecs and Tannins and Oakiness...oh my!
I started reading a wine book recently to try to boost my knowledge of the tasty libation that so often accompanies my nice dinners. For years, I've chosen to wing it in this area and employing a hit or miss approach with minimal research done and recommendations taken. This has worked fairly well for me. I usually pick a pretty good bottle of wine at dinner. I do some light reading of the emails that I get from Canal's Bottleshop or Wine Access telling me what the latest deals are on reds, whites, sparklings, ports and everything in between, as well as how they scored according to the wine experts. But this is only a recent development for me. Previously, I was really shooting from the hip...and still gettin' it done.
One of my most memorable moments of being a trial and success wanna-be-wine-connoisseur happened a few years back in New Orleans. I was eating with a group of about 15 of my co-workers at the Hotel Monteleone on Royal Street inthe French Quarter and somehow was elected by the group to choose the wine. The sommelier had a few ideas about what we might like and what we "should" try, but I had ideas of my own. I chose something from the extensive wine list but the sommelier still decided to try to talk me out of it, so I humored him. He proceeded to bring out the wine and put on his show with his fancy corkscrew and special cloth while telling me that this wine scored a 96 last year and that I'd surely enjoy it. He poured it as if the liquid were going into a Golden Chalice or Holy Grail. I picked it up like it was strawbery lemonade with a silly straw in it. To humor him, I paused as I brought it to my nose, as if I knew what I might be smelling for in a fine wine. After counting to 2, I swirled it in the glass a couple times (or maybe I did that before smelling it) and then finally I tasted it. I was unimpressed. It was iiiiight.
The average brotha would've smiled politely and said, something pleasant and allowed the sommelier to finish his job and poor some for everyone, since the customer agreeing is so often a formality that becomes synonymous with a foregone conclusion. I threw him a curve though. Removing the glass from my lips and making a face that spoke of utter indifference, I told him, "No...let's try something else." The look on his face was priceless. It was as if I had just told him that food in New Orleans sucks and the music does too, and that Bourbon Street is just downright a little too boring for me. Everyone at the table was shocked as well. One of my co-workers also tasted it and agreed with me that it was nothing to write home about. But I kept a straight face and again mentioned the wine that I had originally selected.
As fate would have it the one that I selected had scored a 97, as the Sr. Sommelier would share with us when she accompanied the previous guy back to the table for his second visit. It was much better. My co-worker concurred. The Jr. Sommelier left in shame, looking back at me with disgust as he left the dining room. It was great.
I must have a nose for this. But I have no idea why.
So now I'm trying to find out why and how and what is what. This book is great. It's one of those pocket versions that boasts of having 101 essential tips that will make you a wino...er..um...no...wine expert. (I'm pretty sure wino doesn't work here.)
I'm not all the way through it, but I've learned a couple things already about different wine regions and different varieties of grapes so far. I got really excited when I got to a section about the descriptions of the flavors of wines. Admittedly, that's the part about wines that has me so perplexed. I can kind of understand a description like full-bodied (I've seen plenty of shampoo and haircare product commercials, and the movie Real Women have Curves...) but oakiness just doesn't compute to me, since I don't have any squirrel in my lineage.
As it turns out, many of the asinine associations have some scientific basis as identical chemical compounds are found in some of the items to which they are compared. So it sounds like this is going to be a process of making associations. I can think of worse things to do than sip wine and try to figure out what it tastes like. I can be creative. I can probably be even more creative when tipsy. Stay tuned for future entries as I further my education.
One of my most memorable moments of being a trial and success wanna-be-wine-connoisseur happened a few years back in New Orleans. I was eating with a group of about 15 of my co-workers at the Hotel Monteleone on Royal Street inthe French Quarter and somehow was elected by the group to choose the wine. The sommelier had a few ideas about what we might like and what we "should" try, but I had ideas of my own. I chose something from the extensive wine list but the sommelier still decided to try to talk me out of it, so I humored him. He proceeded to bring out the wine and put on his show with his fancy corkscrew and special cloth while telling me that this wine scored a 96 last year and that I'd surely enjoy it. He poured it as if the liquid were going into a Golden Chalice or Holy Grail. I picked it up like it was strawbery lemonade with a silly straw in it. To humor him, I paused as I brought it to my nose, as if I knew what I might be smelling for in a fine wine. After counting to 2, I swirled it in the glass a couple times (or maybe I did that before smelling it) and then finally I tasted it. I was unimpressed. It was iiiiight.
The average brotha would've smiled politely and said, something pleasant and allowed the sommelier to finish his job and poor some for everyone, since the customer agreeing is so often a formality that becomes synonymous with a foregone conclusion. I threw him a curve though. Removing the glass from my lips and making a face that spoke of utter indifference, I told him, "No...let's try something else." The look on his face was priceless. It was as if I had just told him that food in New Orleans sucks and the music does too, and that Bourbon Street is just downright a little too boring for me. Everyone at the table was shocked as well. One of my co-workers also tasted it and agreed with me that it was nothing to write home about. But I kept a straight face and again mentioned the wine that I had originally selected.
As fate would have it the one that I selected had scored a 97, as the Sr. Sommelier would share with us when she accompanied the previous guy back to the table for his second visit. It was much better. My co-worker concurred. The Jr. Sommelier left in shame, looking back at me with disgust as he left the dining room. It was great.
I must have a nose for this. But I have no idea why.
So now I'm trying to find out why and how and what is what. This book is great. It's one of those pocket versions that boasts of having 101 essential tips that will make you a wino...er..um...no...wine expert. (I'm pretty sure wino doesn't work here.)
I'm not all the way through it, but I've learned a couple things already about different wine regions and different varieties of grapes so far. I got really excited when I got to a section about the descriptions of the flavors of wines. Admittedly, that's the part about wines that has me so perplexed. I can kind of understand a description like full-bodied (I've seen plenty of shampoo and haircare product commercials, and the movie Real Women have Curves...) but oakiness just doesn't compute to me, since I don't have any squirrel in my lineage.
As it turns out, many of the asinine associations have some scientific basis as identical chemical compounds are found in some of the items to which they are compared. So it sounds like this is going to be a process of making associations. I can think of worse things to do than sip wine and try to figure out what it tastes like. I can be creative. I can probably be even more creative when tipsy. Stay tuned for future entries as I further my education.
Wednesday, March 26, 2008
Itchin'
I've reached the 21 day mark since I last stepped off an airplane, strolled through the airport, gathered my luggage and sauntered off into the night. Sure, I was a weary traveler on that day having endured some 3889 miles, 3 time zones, and temperature fluctuations of -50 and +20 degrees all in the space of 12 hours, but I survived. It wasn't the end of the world. I'm not the type of traveler that returns from a business trip and complains all the next day in the office about what a grind it is to travel. Well, of course, that would require that I went to the office the next day. But that's not the point. I'd never utter such a thing anyway. Travel for me is not about the act of being transported and how comfortable or how long or how late. No, for me its about motion. I love to be going. Staying is no good. I've got to go. Where? Anywhere.
It's not that I don't like it here, because I do. There's no other place like it. I need that rush of adrenaline that only comes from motion every once in awhile. Remember in Raiders of the Lost Ark when Harrison Ford is running from that huge rolling boulder and the whole world is falling apart around him and he's running and it seems like it's the end for him but he's totally in his element and the world seems to move in slow motion around him even though he's going through tremendous peril? Then in the very next scene he's got on the John Lennon/George Burns round eyeglasses and he's wearing a very modest (albeit stiff) grey, three piece suit with a chain watch hanging out of his pocket and he's trying to give his lesson to some depression era, Indiana University anthropology students who look like they'd be equally at home on the set of Smallville (one of which is flirting with Dr. Jones with suggestive messages written on her eyelids in, of all things, eyeliner), and he's lecturing with all the intensity and fervor of the love child of Snufalufugus and Droopy the Dog. He just seems out of place. He's like what would have happened if there had been a Top Gun 2 and Tom Cruise's Maverick had actually become an instructor and he himself put on some round glasses and tried to impress upon Goose's son (who goes at it with Wolfman's nephew during this one since Iceman's kid was kicked out of the Navy when his meth lab exploded in the hangar) the importance of not going below the hard deck.
I'm like Darryl Hannah in Splash and if I don't get back on a plane soon, I'm going to start singing the high pitched songs that let you know that I'm live and not Memorex and I'm going to turn back into a fish and its not going to be a pretty sight. Oh yes, I've got to go. The novelty of the office has long since worn off. It was nice to come back in and be the envy of all the co-workers as they ask you "how was it?" and to give them the nonchalant "it was iiight" as I share some mundane details trying to give them a little nugget of something remotely interesting that they might want to hear so that they can remain envious, all the while dreading the predictable segue out of that small talk session with something original like, "I don't know how you can take all that traveling" or "better you than me" or "back to the grind". How I take it? As if coming in here is any fabulous treat. Better me than you? Of course. I get off on the minutiae. I live for things like the guy having a meltdown in row 19 because his Volkswagen Jetta sized carry-on won't fit in the overhead and they're forcing him to check his luggage. I secretly enjoy the brakes being locked while the engine is revved up to full throttle before we go hurtling down the runway at Orange County's John Wayne Airport only to cut the engines at 10,000 feet and float (and yet I'm deathly afraid of Ferris Wheels).
The second week back is fairly relaxing. The whole first week, you try to play catch-up on all of the issues you missed while you were off with the client that you flew to see and now during the second week, you're finally back at ground zero with a fresh set of issues that you get to run with for the foreseeable future. About midway through this second week, I start to keep an ear to the ground for where I might be headed next. Everybody that has a hallway conversation within earshot of my cubicle starts to sound like the ever informative barking of Lassie the Dog. "What's that, Lassie? Little Timmy's network is down and all of his subscribers are screaming bloody murder?" I start to drop little not-so-subtle hints to my boss about hitting the road again.
"Should I book my travel or are we going to let Brilliant Networks plug in that power supply on their own. You never can be too careful about those, you know...."
By the third week, I'm starting to get the shakes.
"The airport be callin' me, Nino...it be callin' me!"
I stare off into space alot. My co-workers are having conversations on issues with which I am involved, and I can't concentrate on what they are saying because I'm too busy listening for words like "on-site" and "swap out" and "support". One of my co-workers sat down across the desk from me today to brainstorm on an issue that we just haven't been able to figure out and suddenly I was Dr. Melfi talking to Tony Soprano.
"So, perhaps the system is feeling a sense of anxiety due to its lack of acceptance within the antiquated eco-system of the customer's legacy network...."
He just stared back at me blankly. I've got issues. I love the airport. I remember being awed by the planes whizzing down the runway as I peered through the big windows at the airport as a kid. Remember? That was when you could take somebody to the airport and go all the way to the gate with them and stay there as long as you liked even if you weren't flying that day? I still enjoy that. There's something comforting about 17 planes lined up on the runway at LAX, waiting to take off. I love it.
Besides that, this being at home stuff is breaking me. It's too expensive to keep gas in the car and food in the refrigerator all the time. When I'm not on the road I feel like that episode of Charlie Brown where Linus lost his special blanket, only mine is the company credit card. It comforts me. I take solace in it. I sleep easy at the hotels knowing that the City Tax, State Tax, County Tax and Room Service charges will be covered by the card. There's nothing quite as warm as a nice Corporate American Express to keep you warm in a lonely city.
It's not that I don't like it here, because I do. There's no other place like it. I need that rush of adrenaline that only comes from motion every once in awhile. Remember in Raiders of the Lost Ark when Harrison Ford is running from that huge rolling boulder and the whole world is falling apart around him and he's running and it seems like it's the end for him but he's totally in his element and the world seems to move in slow motion around him even though he's going through tremendous peril? Then in the very next scene he's got on the John Lennon/George Burns round eyeglasses and he's wearing a very modest (albeit stiff) grey, three piece suit with a chain watch hanging out of his pocket and he's trying to give his lesson to some depression era, Indiana University anthropology students who look like they'd be equally at home on the set of Smallville (one of which is flirting with Dr. Jones with suggestive messages written on her eyelids in, of all things, eyeliner), and he's lecturing with all the intensity and fervor of the love child of Snufalufugus and Droopy the Dog. He just seems out of place. He's like what would have happened if there had been a Top Gun 2 and Tom Cruise's Maverick had actually become an instructor and he himself put on some round glasses and tried to impress upon Goose's son (who goes at it with Wolfman's nephew during this one since Iceman's kid was kicked out of the Navy when his meth lab exploded in the hangar) the importance of not going below the hard deck.
I'm like Darryl Hannah in Splash and if I don't get back on a plane soon, I'm going to start singing the high pitched songs that let you know that I'm live and not Memorex and I'm going to turn back into a fish and its not going to be a pretty sight. Oh yes, I've got to go. The novelty of the office has long since worn off. It was nice to come back in and be the envy of all the co-workers as they ask you "how was it?" and to give them the nonchalant "it was iiight" as I share some mundane details trying to give them a little nugget of something remotely interesting that they might want to hear so that they can remain envious, all the while dreading the predictable segue out of that small talk session with something original like, "I don't know how you can take all that traveling" or "better you than me" or "back to the grind". How I take it? As if coming in here is any fabulous treat. Better me than you? Of course. I get off on the minutiae. I live for things like the guy having a meltdown in row 19 because his Volkswagen Jetta sized carry-on won't fit in the overhead and they're forcing him to check his luggage. I secretly enjoy the brakes being locked while the engine is revved up to full throttle before we go hurtling down the runway at Orange County's John Wayne Airport only to cut the engines at 10,000 feet and float (and yet I'm deathly afraid of Ferris Wheels).
The second week back is fairly relaxing. The whole first week, you try to play catch-up on all of the issues you missed while you were off with the client that you flew to see and now during the second week, you're finally back at ground zero with a fresh set of issues that you get to run with for the foreseeable future. About midway through this second week, I start to keep an ear to the ground for where I might be headed next. Everybody that has a hallway conversation within earshot of my cubicle starts to sound like the ever informative barking of Lassie the Dog. "What's that, Lassie? Little Timmy's network is down and all of his subscribers are screaming bloody murder?" I start to drop little not-so-subtle hints to my boss about hitting the road again.
"Should I book my travel or are we going to let Brilliant Networks plug in that power supply on their own. You never can be too careful about those, you know...."
By the third week, I'm starting to get the shakes.
"The airport be callin' me, Nino...it be callin' me!"
I stare off into space alot. My co-workers are having conversations on issues with which I am involved, and I can't concentrate on what they are saying because I'm too busy listening for words like "on-site" and "swap out" and "support". One of my co-workers sat down across the desk from me today to brainstorm on an issue that we just haven't been able to figure out and suddenly I was Dr. Melfi talking to Tony Soprano.
"So, perhaps the system is feeling a sense of anxiety due to its lack of acceptance within the antiquated eco-system of the customer's legacy network...."
He just stared back at me blankly. I've got issues. I love the airport. I remember being awed by the planes whizzing down the runway as I peered through the big windows at the airport as a kid. Remember? That was when you could take somebody to the airport and go all the way to the gate with them and stay there as long as you liked even if you weren't flying that day? I still enjoy that. There's something comforting about 17 planes lined up on the runway at LAX, waiting to take off. I love it.
Besides that, this being at home stuff is breaking me. It's too expensive to keep gas in the car and food in the refrigerator all the time. When I'm not on the road I feel like that episode of Charlie Brown where Linus lost his special blanket, only mine is the company credit card. It comforts me. I take solace in it. I sleep easy at the hotels knowing that the City Tax, State Tax, County Tax and Room Service charges will be covered by the card. There's nothing quite as warm as a nice Corporate American Express to keep you warm in a lonely city.
Tuesday, March 25, 2008
writer's block?
What's there to write about today? I don't know. I was in the office for the second day in a row and I spent more money on lunch that I don't have. I'm tired because I didn't get enough sleep last night and yet still saw it necessary to rise at 519am this morning to go to the gym. That was the highlight of the day though. My jump shot was kind of smooth like silk and my body didn't ache like that of a 73-year-old ex-wrestler.
I did see a movie, but not an adult one though. Wait, not that I watch adult movies. I mean, not THOSE kind of adult movies. How about this...non-animated features in which there are no talking animals or large headed kids that build incredible robotic gadgets or turn into Sharkboys and Lava Girls? THAT kind of adult movie. A non-kid movie..how's that?
So you saw a non-kid movie tonight?
No. I saw Horton Hears a Who, the Dr. Seuss classic. It's not that I wasn't looking forward to this one, but I'm just saying. The distinction needed to be made. No Country for Old Men, There will Be Blood, Juno and (sigh) the Great Debaters have not been seen by this Dad yet. But Horton was pretty good as far as kid movies go. My kids absolutely loved it. But then again, they like everything. It's hard to mess up a Dr. Seuss movie though. It's not quite as fun without all the silly rhyming that the books have, but it's still enjoyable.
I'll see a real movie soon. Really I will. I'm just glad that a good kid movie came along on my watch. It sucks when their mother gets the good movie and I'm stuck seeing The Santa Clause 3 or something absolutely horrible like that. At least I can doze off if it gets real bad. When my kids were really young, I had to stay awake because with my son's attention span he was likely to start wandering off down the row and getting into trouble.
Okay, that's enough for this entry. You can see that I have nothing to say today. Nothing terribly compelling anyway. I came up with the title while staring at the screen and reminding myself that it was time to write, and twenty minutes later I was still staring at the screen well aware that it was time to write but that nothing had yet been written. Oh well. Perhaps tomorrow will bring on a flood of creativity.
I did see a movie, but not an adult one though. Wait, not that I watch adult movies. I mean, not THOSE kind of adult movies. How about this...non-animated features in which there are no talking animals or large headed kids that build incredible robotic gadgets or turn into Sharkboys and Lava Girls? THAT kind of adult movie. A non-kid movie..how's that?
So you saw a non-kid movie tonight?
No. I saw Horton Hears a Who, the Dr. Seuss classic. It's not that I wasn't looking forward to this one, but I'm just saying. The distinction needed to be made. No Country for Old Men, There will Be Blood, Juno and (sigh) the Great Debaters have not been seen by this Dad yet. But Horton was pretty good as far as kid movies go. My kids absolutely loved it. But then again, they like everything. It's hard to mess up a Dr. Seuss movie though. It's not quite as fun without all the silly rhyming that the books have, but it's still enjoyable.
I'll see a real movie soon. Really I will. I'm just glad that a good kid movie came along on my watch. It sucks when their mother gets the good movie and I'm stuck seeing The Santa Clause 3 or something absolutely horrible like that. At least I can doze off if it gets real bad. When my kids were really young, I had to stay awake because with my son's attention span he was likely to start wandering off down the row and getting into trouble.
Okay, that's enough for this entry. You can see that I have nothing to say today. Nothing terribly compelling anyway. I came up with the title while staring at the screen and reminding myself that it was time to write, and twenty minutes later I was still staring at the screen well aware that it was time to write but that nothing had yet been written. Oh well. Perhaps tomorrow will bring on a flood of creativity.
Monday, March 24, 2008
Do you ever...?
Do you ever find yourself doing something purely for your own amusement even at somebody else's expense? Too vague? Sorry, I often have a problem with that.(I'm doing it right now. I know what I'm talking about but you don't and you're getting frustrated. I am trying to maintain my composure as I watch you scrunch up your forehead and squint, in hopes that these facial contortions will help you to gain better insight into what the heck I trying to convey, even though I want to burst into laughter. You with me? You ain't with me.
It's not like what you're thinking. I wasn't doing anything harmful to anybody. I wasn't taking advantage or anything like that. Do you ever come up with a theory about something and then have the need to test that theory and then the opportunity to prove that very theory presents itself and its just too good to pass up so you just go ahead and put your theory to the test right then and there?
Are you starting to gather what I'm getting at? Now if I'm losing you, just tell me and I'll double back. -- A life in the Day of Andre Benjamin from Outkast's The Love Below
I was talking to somebody at work during lunch and they started to tell me a random story. About two sentences into this story I started to zone out like Denzel Washington's Bleek Gilliam when he starts to get lectured by Ms. Clarke Betancourt and subsequently reaches for his horn. The brilliance of Spike Lee's film-making allows us into this zone by slowly muting the voice of Cynda Williams who was playing Clarke, while turning up the volume on Washington's character's actions. You could hear him breathing. You could hear his heart beating, and you could hear him assembling the different components of his trumpet. Meanwhile, Spike pans the camera back over to Williams, now very excitedly delivering an angry diatribe in total silence. This was like my zone. She was talking as I felt myself struggle to maintain an interested-looking, affirmation of attention being paid eye contact while I reached for my sandwich and took another bite. I counted the number of times that I chewed each bite, tried to predict the flight pattern of the gnat that I noticed flying around near the spot on the counter where somebody had placed some bananas, before switching my gaze methodically over to the clock where the second hand seemed to move like the shadow on a sun-dial, settling in for what was destined to be a very lengthy story about something that had happened to her or her husband or one of her kids or her in-laws. I don't know. She was speaking in silence now.
It was then that I got the idea to test the theory that I had half-heartedly come up with the last time I was caught in the midst of one of her soliloquys. You see, this is why some of us were better suited for working from home. Some people look forward to such human interaction and would probably argue that this is the very thing that makes going to work worthwhile for them. I'm not one of those people. Work, in the office, for me, is equated to being in that class back in junior high or high school that you absolutely did not want to be in and could not wait until the bell rang so that you could leap from your seat and sprint out of there. I have no desire to just hang out at work. If I can get something done from home, I usually will. This is why being busy at work is so crucial for me. If I'm busy, I don't notice such things as much. Well, maybe I do notice them, but they don't annoy me and I'm not restless because I'm very engaged in whatever I'm doing. So here I was feeling like a character having a seminal moment in one of those Guy Ritchie (Snatch) or Steven Soderbergh (Ocean's 11 series)films and Steven or Guy has called for a freeze frame while some cool clothing store/club music plays and a narrator explains what is going through my head. Not familiar with these movies or with such scenes? How about in the old Batman show with Adam West and Burt, um...what was Burt's name (the guy that played Robin)...um...? Oh well, not important. But you remember when they would do an action scene and when Batman punched somebody the scene was freeze and the word KABLAAAM! would appear or the Riddler would get hit by a barrel that had been hurled by Robin and SPLAKATT! would appear in the freeze frame. Mine was a little less dramatic as a subtle grin, a light bulb overhead and a slight cock of my head to the left side took shape.
Returning to real time, I executed the plan. Keying in on some remote detail of her story that was probably not in the least bit germane to its point, I interjected a question that she immediately attempted to answer and proceeded to drift woefully away from the main topic, never to return. This was too easy. It couldn't be working this well. About 2 more minutes in, I interrupted again, this question even more absurd than the previous one. She again took the bait, starting in on the new topic as if we were on a game show and I was the host and she the contestant having to make up a story about whatever I read off the flash cards that I retrieved one by one from the golden box on the stage during the lightning round. About 3 more interrupting questions and 10 minutes later, she was so far off the subject that she had no hope of ever returning to whatever story she was so intent on telling when this conversation started. Sufficiently amused and at the same time bored with the situation, I finished eating my sandwich and let her continue. Somehow, she finally wrapped it up (whatever IT was at this point), or someone else came in and started another conversation and then they both eventually left me sitting there alone to eat in peace. I'm not a bad person. Really.
It's not like what you're thinking. I wasn't doing anything harmful to anybody. I wasn't taking advantage or anything like that. Do you ever come up with a theory about something and then have the need to test that theory and then the opportunity to prove that very theory presents itself and its just too good to pass up so you just go ahead and put your theory to the test right then and there?
Are you starting to gather what I'm getting at? Now if I'm losing you, just tell me and I'll double back. -- A life in the Day of Andre Benjamin from Outkast's The Love Below
I was talking to somebody at work during lunch and they started to tell me a random story. About two sentences into this story I started to zone out like Denzel Washington's Bleek Gilliam when he starts to get lectured by Ms. Clarke Betancourt and subsequently reaches for his horn. The brilliance of Spike Lee's film-making allows us into this zone by slowly muting the voice of Cynda Williams who was playing Clarke, while turning up the volume on Washington's character's actions. You could hear him breathing. You could hear his heart beating, and you could hear him assembling the different components of his trumpet. Meanwhile, Spike pans the camera back over to Williams, now very excitedly delivering an angry diatribe in total silence. This was like my zone. She was talking as I felt myself struggle to maintain an interested-looking, affirmation of attention being paid eye contact while I reached for my sandwich and took another bite. I counted the number of times that I chewed each bite, tried to predict the flight pattern of the gnat that I noticed flying around near the spot on the counter where somebody had placed some bananas, before switching my gaze methodically over to the clock where the second hand seemed to move like the shadow on a sun-dial, settling in for what was destined to be a very lengthy story about something that had happened to her or her husband or one of her kids or her in-laws. I don't know. She was speaking in silence now.
It was then that I got the idea to test the theory that I had half-heartedly come up with the last time I was caught in the midst of one of her soliloquys. You see, this is why some of us were better suited for working from home. Some people look forward to such human interaction and would probably argue that this is the very thing that makes going to work worthwhile for them. I'm not one of those people. Work, in the office, for me, is equated to being in that class back in junior high or high school that you absolutely did not want to be in and could not wait until the bell rang so that you could leap from your seat and sprint out of there. I have no desire to just hang out at work. If I can get something done from home, I usually will. This is why being busy at work is so crucial for me. If I'm busy, I don't notice such things as much. Well, maybe I do notice them, but they don't annoy me and I'm not restless because I'm very engaged in whatever I'm doing. So here I was feeling like a character having a seminal moment in one of those Guy Ritchie (Snatch) or Steven Soderbergh (Ocean's 11 series)films and Steven or Guy has called for a freeze frame while some cool clothing store/club music plays and a narrator explains what is going through my head. Not familiar with these movies or with such scenes? How about in the old Batman show with Adam West and Burt, um...what was Burt's name (the guy that played Robin)...um...? Oh well, not important. But you remember when they would do an action scene and when Batman punched somebody the scene was freeze and the word KABLAAAM! would appear or the Riddler would get hit by a barrel that had been hurled by Robin and SPLAKATT! would appear in the freeze frame. Mine was a little less dramatic as a subtle grin, a light bulb overhead and a slight cock of my head to the left side took shape.
Returning to real time, I executed the plan. Keying in on some remote detail of her story that was probably not in the least bit germane to its point, I interjected a question that she immediately attempted to answer and proceeded to drift woefully away from the main topic, never to return. This was too easy. It couldn't be working this well. About 2 more minutes in, I interrupted again, this question even more absurd than the previous one. She again took the bait, starting in on the new topic as if we were on a game show and I was the host and she the contestant having to make up a story about whatever I read off the flash cards that I retrieved one by one from the golden box on the stage during the lightning round. About 3 more interrupting questions and 10 minutes later, she was so far off the subject that she had no hope of ever returning to whatever story she was so intent on telling when this conversation started. Sufficiently amused and at the same time bored with the situation, I finished eating my sandwich and let her continue. Somehow, she finally wrapped it up (whatever IT was at this point), or someone else came in and started another conversation and then they both eventually left me sitting there alone to eat in peace. I'm not a bad person. Really.
Friday, March 21, 2008
I Love the "O", More than you know...
Dear Mom,
I hope all is well. I'm just getting through another workday and wanted thought I'd drop you a note to see how your day was going. You're no doubt trying to cross off another item off the daily to-do list of 10 Million things that seem to plague you everyday. I was just thinking about something you said the other day so I decided to expand upon my position on the subject a little further, if you don't mind.
You asked me "Why do you like Oakland so much?" While at first irritated by the question, I probably gave you one of my patented, all-encompassing one-word answers like "Cuz!" and maybe shook my head or sucked my teeth. I probably then went on to talk (albeit with a chip on my shoulder)about how there's lots to do and that all of the bad stuff that you hear about on the news is really only an issue if you're up to no good anyway. But allow me to delve into this a little deeper.
San Francisco is famous for being a world-class with breathtaking views and diversity that allows the best parts of the Pacific Rim to meld together with cultures from all the rest of the world. Everything in San Francisco is first rate, as far as big cities go. Unfortunately, one often has to pay first rate prices in San Francisco as well. Oakland is like that neighbor that gets invited over to go swimming when thier more well to do neighbor gets a new expensive swimming pool. Only, Oakland didn't have to pay for that pool and doesn't have to pay to keep it heated or cleaned. Oakland is like Scottie Pippen to San Francisco's Michael Jordan. It's not the headliner, but it reaps the benefits.
Not one resident of San Francisco gets to view the beauty of their whole City all at once, but I do. Not many of them can take a short BART ride to the financial district or Union Square and be back home after just 10 minutes of stress free public transportation. From my window, I can see both the Golden Gate and Bay bridges as well as Sutro Tower and the skyline. I also get to look at the metal monstrosities that are the cranes at the Port of Oakland, standing majestically like steel Trojan Horses, bearing gifts from lands near and far. Looking back toward the East, I have a wonderful view of the lush Oakland Hills.
Oakland is a very visually stimulating city. Not many other places can boast an urban landscape juxtaposed with so much greenery. There are hillside row houses near lush parks with lakes and trails. We even have a city within a city, called Piedmont. I like to refer to it as the lost city of Piedmont. It's kind of like Atlantis, in a way. Out of relative obscurity jut extraordinary structures on expansive plots of land so well manicured that it rivals the Bel Air's and Saratoga Hills of the world.
Even the less desirable neighborhoods have more character than you can imagine. West Oakland is filled with blocks and blocks of classic Victorian houses that are just itching to be restored to their original glory. Some already have been. The news media focuses only on the ugly things that happen so they'd never allow a positive light to be shed on this place. Nice stories don't make for captivated viewers. But there's so much more, so let me continue.
Where else but Oakland can I have access to so many of what you in the suburbs might call boutique neighborhoods all in one place? Going 10 minutes or less in any direction I can get to several charming little nooks of town. If you'd like some coffee or pastries at an outdoor cafe or to shop at some small stores, Montclair Village is one such place. So to are the Lake Merritt area, Rockridge, and College Avenue. If you'd like to really explore the rich ethnic culture that is all around, ride on over to China Town or The Fruitvale District which boast very impressive festivals during Chinese New Year and Cinco de Mayo respectively.
You like restaurants? We've got restaurants. We've got them all over town. I could devote pages and pages to explaining to you all of the different cuisines that one could enjoy in all of the different parts of town in all sorts of different price ranges, but as I mentioned, that would take pages and pages, so instead I'll just mention one street. We can start on Piedmont Avenue where it intersects with the Broadway Auto Row. Right at that corner is a fairly reputable Japanese restaurant and Sushi Bar called the Drunken Fish with quite an expansive assortment of rolls and some nice sakes available as well. Driving the less than 1 mile up to where it ends at Pleasant Valley Road you have a wealth of different things to indulge in here from tea bars and African Art stores to Antique shops and comic book stores, to gelato and Artsy movies, to country french cooking at Jojo, italian deli's, tapas at Cesar , wine shopping at Vino or enjoying a cold one from the long list of local microbrews at Cato's Ale House. If that's not your bag, then maybe Thai food at Ninna or coffee at Peet's or burgers at Barneys will do. Of course, this street has saved the best for last as Fenton's Old Fashioned Ice Creamery resides near its end. So many choices and remember that's just one street. We've got many more like it and so much culture to explore down each of them.
Perhaps we'll explore some more the next time you pay a visit.
Love,
Your Son
I hope all is well. I'm just getting through another workday and wanted thought I'd drop you a note to see how your day was going. You're no doubt trying to cross off another item off the daily to-do list of 10 Million things that seem to plague you everyday. I was just thinking about something you said the other day so I decided to expand upon my position on the subject a little further, if you don't mind.
You asked me "Why do you like Oakland so much?" While at first irritated by the question, I probably gave you one of my patented, all-encompassing one-word answers like "Cuz!" and maybe shook my head or sucked my teeth. I probably then went on to talk (albeit with a chip on my shoulder)about how there's lots to do and that all of the bad stuff that you hear about on the news is really only an issue if you're up to no good anyway. But allow me to delve into this a little deeper.
San Francisco is famous for being a world-class with breathtaking views and diversity that allows the best parts of the Pacific Rim to meld together with cultures from all the rest of the world. Everything in San Francisco is first rate, as far as big cities go. Unfortunately, one often has to pay first rate prices in San Francisco as well. Oakland is like that neighbor that gets invited over to go swimming when thier more well to do neighbor gets a new expensive swimming pool. Only, Oakland didn't have to pay for that pool and doesn't have to pay to keep it heated or cleaned. Oakland is like Scottie Pippen to San Francisco's Michael Jordan. It's not the headliner, but it reaps the benefits.
Not one resident of San Francisco gets to view the beauty of their whole City all at once, but I do. Not many of them can take a short BART ride to the financial district or Union Square and be back home after just 10 minutes of stress free public transportation. From my window, I can see both the Golden Gate and Bay bridges as well as Sutro Tower and the skyline. I also get to look at the metal monstrosities that are the cranes at the Port of Oakland, standing majestically like steel Trojan Horses, bearing gifts from lands near and far. Looking back toward the East, I have a wonderful view of the lush Oakland Hills.
Oakland is a very visually stimulating city. Not many other places can boast an urban landscape juxtaposed with so much greenery. There are hillside row houses near lush parks with lakes and trails. We even have a city within a city, called Piedmont. I like to refer to it as the lost city of Piedmont. It's kind of like Atlantis, in a way. Out of relative obscurity jut extraordinary structures on expansive plots of land so well manicured that it rivals the Bel Air's and Saratoga Hills of the world.
Even the less desirable neighborhoods have more character than you can imagine. West Oakland is filled with blocks and blocks of classic Victorian houses that are just itching to be restored to their original glory. Some already have been. The news media focuses only on the ugly things that happen so they'd never allow a positive light to be shed on this place. Nice stories don't make for captivated viewers. But there's so much more, so let me continue.
Where else but Oakland can I have access to so many of what you in the suburbs might call boutique neighborhoods all in one place? Going 10 minutes or less in any direction I can get to several charming little nooks of town. If you'd like some coffee or pastries at an outdoor cafe or to shop at some small stores, Montclair Village is one such place. So to are the Lake Merritt area, Rockridge, and College Avenue. If you'd like to really explore the rich ethnic culture that is all around, ride on over to China Town or The Fruitvale District which boast very impressive festivals during Chinese New Year and Cinco de Mayo respectively.
You like restaurants? We've got restaurants. We've got them all over town. I could devote pages and pages to explaining to you all of the different cuisines that one could enjoy in all of the different parts of town in all sorts of different price ranges, but as I mentioned, that would take pages and pages, so instead I'll just mention one street. We can start on Piedmont Avenue where it intersects with the Broadway Auto Row. Right at that corner is a fairly reputable Japanese restaurant and Sushi Bar called the Drunken Fish with quite an expansive assortment of rolls and some nice sakes available as well. Driving the less than 1 mile up to where it ends at Pleasant Valley Road you have a wealth of different things to indulge in here from tea bars and African Art stores to Antique shops and comic book stores, to gelato and Artsy movies, to country french cooking at Jojo, italian deli's, tapas at Cesar , wine shopping at Vino or enjoying a cold one from the long list of local microbrews at Cato's Ale House. If that's not your bag, then maybe Thai food at Ninna or coffee at Peet's or burgers at Barneys will do. Of course, this street has saved the best for last as Fenton's Old Fashioned Ice Creamery resides near its end. So many choices and remember that's just one street. We've got many more like it and so much culture to explore down each of them.
Perhaps we'll explore some more the next time you pay a visit.
Love,
Your Son
Thursday, March 20, 2008
March Madness: The Couch Chronicles
8:47am
I'm watching the Early show. I'm a pretty die-hard fan of Good Morning America and watch that almost exclusively. What can I say? I have a soft spot for Robin Roberts and Diane Sawyer is pleasant as well. The little Big Brother lady on CBS' the Early Show just doesn't do it for me. I was a little antsy this morning, so I had to let Robin and Diane go a little early this morning. Fearing that I'd get distracted by a phone call or some emails or something and risk missing the tip-off, I turned to the Early Show as soon as I started cooking my morning bowl of oatmeal. I decided to take the stay-up-all-night approach in lieu of the wake-up-call approach to changing the channel at the right time.
8:59am
I can hardly contain my excitement. The email inbox is pretty light, and no one has called me yet. This is a huge bowl of oatmeal. I wish I could afford raisins. At least the cinnamon and brown sugar give it some taste. It's way too hot though, so I put a swig of Silk soy milk in it and stir. The music starts. Seth Davis and Clark Kellogg are sitting there on the set of CBS' "The Road to the Final Four" as the music starts to play: "duh nuh nuh NUH nuh NUHHH nuh nuh...." I dropped to the floor to knock out my second set of 36 pushups. I did the first set when I first rolled out of bed this morning.
9:07am
Clark and Seth are way to certain on all of their analyses. Clark likes Michael Beasley over O.J. Mayo. I wish I had some applesauce to put in this oatmeal to give it a bit more flare. Collectively, the two of them have all the answers and hardly need that 3rd guy to narrate for them. Why are the games starting at 9:20am now? This is agony. Maybe I'll switch back to Regis and Kelly for a few minutes as Clark and Seth continue to yap. Start the games already.
9:22am
Let the madness begin. I should've slept more. As I get to the bottom of this gargantuan bowl of oatmeal, all I can think about is going back to bed. It's on! Xavier vs. Georgia. This is an intriguing matchup. On one bracket I picked Xavier and on the other one, I picked Georgia. Georgia's hot. They won 4 games in 3 days last week at the SEC tournament. THey even withstood a venue change after the tornadoes in the area ripped a whole in the Georgia Dome. It's going to be a good day.
9:31am
My start of my dream day was already being interrupted. My daughter had a 9:45 doctor appointment so I had to leave the couch, and the house! Kansas is already smashing Portland State. This Georgia game is getting good. Oh well. I'll catch the end of it. It sure is a nice day outside.
10:42am
Dave Bliss from Georgia is about to have a melt down. He's like a big ol' toddler that looks like he wants to throw his toys and stomp out of the room. Grow up. My email inbox is still nice and light. My knee hurts. Perhaps I should ice it. Nah...I'll just recline here on the couch. This is shaping up to be a great day.
11:28am
Xavier outlasted Georgia and Kansas was a no-brainer and now Joe Crawford is giving it to the Marquette Golden Eagles. Didn't they used to be called the Warriors?
My knee is swollen. What am I going to make for lunch. I really should move to my desk, but this couch sure is a nice place to be.
12:14pm
Let the trash talk begin. "What were you thinking Those guys never had a chance?" Without a pillow to lean on, my posture is horrible. It's a good thing i didn't have any finger foods or snacks to bring over here to the couch because I might not move again. In the Leland Stanford Senior Bowl, Cornell is hanging with Stanford. The point guards are out there comparing philosophies and debating world policies. These guys may be doing battle in a boardroom, instead of under the boards, the next time you see them. I'm getting hungry.
1:48pm
Little Cornell got tired. It's a case of my two 7-footers are better than your one 7-footer, my quick is quicker than your quick, my better is better than your better...and it smells like French Toast. French Toast? Yes, French Toast. It's a bonafide blowout now. Looking at the clock, I see that I was supposed to do some more push-ups 10 minutes ago. I'll do them later. The rigor mortis is setting in. I had no business playing ball from 6am-730am this morning. But I was hot, and we didn't lose any games. They couldn't knock us off. You've gotta respect the streak. Next time, we might be one and done. Sitting on the couch is not helping. I switch over to the middle couch cushion in hopes that my body will respond positively. I walk like the Tin Man over to the refrigerator to get a drink. I feel like I'm 85 years old.
3:02pm
I bracket suffers its first major casualty. Sure, I had Georgia on one of my brackets, but I had Xavier in the other one. I was giving the Bulldogs the benefit of the doubt since they had that wild run last week. I'm repeating myself. This is alot of television. But now Kent State lost. I had them winning in both the brackets that I turned in. I'll have to hear it from my bracket busting expert friends about this one. I still haven't done any push-ups in hours. At least I've been responding to emails and getting some work done. What a great day to work from home.
4:47pm
Now we're on to something. The day's first really competitive day that I get to see in its entirety. The battle of the super freshman: Michael Beasley of Kansas State vs. O.J. Mayo of USC. I've got the big fella. Mayo seems like alot of hype so far. It's a good thing I showered at the gym this morning, because I might still be wearing the same clothes from last night. I can do this though. It's the home stretch. I can't feel my left foot, but I'm going to gut it out.
6:05pm
K-State is pulling away just like I thought they would so now they've switched over to the Duke game. Coach K is growing nervous over there as the Belmont Bruins (who?)are pushing his Blue Devils to the limit. My gluteus maximus is growing numb from sitting here for so long. If I didn't need to have this laptop on my lap, I'd turn over and lay on my stomach. I wish I could reach that other pillow at the other end of the couch because I'd like to prop my head up and get more comfortable. This is such a hardship. I'm rethinking the decision not to buy that easy chair and that chais lounge. I'm hungry and I haven't taken any food out to cook, not that there's anything in there to cook. Now they're cheating for Duke. These poor guys from Belmont are playing their butts off and now the ref is making calls like that. This is an outrage, but in my horizontal state I'm not motivated to do anything about it. I'm not even going to call anybody and vent. I can't feel my arm anyway since I've been propping my head up with it as I lie on my side.
6:28pm
Duke won. Gerald Henderson's kid made a great play at the end, but its still tainted for me. I have to get up and go to a church service now. I'm really thinking about not shaving and just dropping myself into a suit and going. I'm not happy about missing the real Bruins from UCLA who are set to tip off in about 30 minutes, but I gotta go. They're only playing a 16-seed in Mississippi Valley State and Jerry Rice is not walking through that door so I think they'll be okay. I don't know if I can do this all over again tomorrow. I better rest up. This is hard work.
I'm watching the Early show. I'm a pretty die-hard fan of Good Morning America and watch that almost exclusively. What can I say? I have a soft spot for Robin Roberts and Diane Sawyer is pleasant as well. The little Big Brother lady on CBS' the Early Show just doesn't do it for me. I was a little antsy this morning, so I had to let Robin and Diane go a little early this morning. Fearing that I'd get distracted by a phone call or some emails or something and risk missing the tip-off, I turned to the Early Show as soon as I started cooking my morning bowl of oatmeal. I decided to take the stay-up-all-night approach in lieu of the wake-up-call approach to changing the channel at the right time.
8:59am
I can hardly contain my excitement. The email inbox is pretty light, and no one has called me yet. This is a huge bowl of oatmeal. I wish I could afford raisins. At least the cinnamon and brown sugar give it some taste. It's way too hot though, so I put a swig of Silk soy milk in it and stir. The music starts. Seth Davis and Clark Kellogg are sitting there on the set of CBS' "The Road to the Final Four" as the music starts to play: "duh nuh nuh NUH nuh NUHHH nuh nuh...." I dropped to the floor to knock out my second set of 36 pushups. I did the first set when I first rolled out of bed this morning.
9:07am
Clark and Seth are way to certain on all of their analyses. Clark likes Michael Beasley over O.J. Mayo. I wish I had some applesauce to put in this oatmeal to give it a bit more flare. Collectively, the two of them have all the answers and hardly need that 3rd guy to narrate for them. Why are the games starting at 9:20am now? This is agony. Maybe I'll switch back to Regis and Kelly for a few minutes as Clark and Seth continue to yap. Start the games already.
9:22am
Let the madness begin. I should've slept more. As I get to the bottom of this gargantuan bowl of oatmeal, all I can think about is going back to bed. It's on! Xavier vs. Georgia. This is an intriguing matchup. On one bracket I picked Xavier and on the other one, I picked Georgia. Georgia's hot. They won 4 games in 3 days last week at the SEC tournament. THey even withstood a venue change after the tornadoes in the area ripped a whole in the Georgia Dome. It's going to be a good day.
9:31am
My start of my dream day was already being interrupted. My daughter had a 9:45 doctor appointment so I had to leave the couch, and the house! Kansas is already smashing Portland State. This Georgia game is getting good. Oh well. I'll catch the end of it. It sure is a nice day outside.
10:42am
Dave Bliss from Georgia is about to have a melt down. He's like a big ol' toddler that looks like he wants to throw his toys and stomp out of the room. Grow up. My email inbox is still nice and light. My knee hurts. Perhaps I should ice it. Nah...I'll just recline here on the couch. This is shaping up to be a great day.
11:28am
Xavier outlasted Georgia and Kansas was a no-brainer and now Joe Crawford is giving it to the Marquette Golden Eagles. Didn't they used to be called the Warriors?
My knee is swollen. What am I going to make for lunch. I really should move to my desk, but this couch sure is a nice place to be.
12:14pm
Let the trash talk begin. "What were you thinking Those guys never had a chance?" Without a pillow to lean on, my posture is horrible. It's a good thing i didn't have any finger foods or snacks to bring over here to the couch because I might not move again. In the Leland Stanford Senior Bowl, Cornell is hanging with Stanford. The point guards are out there comparing philosophies and debating world policies. These guys may be doing battle in a boardroom, instead of under the boards, the next time you see them. I'm getting hungry.
1:48pm
Little Cornell got tired. It's a case of my two 7-footers are better than your one 7-footer, my quick is quicker than your quick, my better is better than your better...and it smells like French Toast. French Toast? Yes, French Toast. It's a bonafide blowout now. Looking at the clock, I see that I was supposed to do some more push-ups 10 minutes ago. I'll do them later. The rigor mortis is setting in. I had no business playing ball from 6am-730am this morning. But I was hot, and we didn't lose any games. They couldn't knock us off. You've gotta respect the streak. Next time, we might be one and done. Sitting on the couch is not helping. I switch over to the middle couch cushion in hopes that my body will respond positively. I walk like the Tin Man over to the refrigerator to get a drink. I feel like I'm 85 years old.
3:02pm
I bracket suffers its first major casualty. Sure, I had Georgia on one of my brackets, but I had Xavier in the other one. I was giving the Bulldogs the benefit of the doubt since they had that wild run last week. I'm repeating myself. This is alot of television. But now Kent State lost. I had them winning in both the brackets that I turned in. I'll have to hear it from my bracket busting expert friends about this one. I still haven't done any push-ups in hours. At least I've been responding to emails and getting some work done. What a great day to work from home.
4:47pm
Now we're on to something. The day's first really competitive day that I get to see in its entirety. The battle of the super freshman: Michael Beasley of Kansas State vs. O.J. Mayo of USC. I've got the big fella. Mayo seems like alot of hype so far. It's a good thing I showered at the gym this morning, because I might still be wearing the same clothes from last night. I can do this though. It's the home stretch. I can't feel my left foot, but I'm going to gut it out.
6:05pm
K-State is pulling away just like I thought they would so now they've switched over to the Duke game. Coach K is growing nervous over there as the Belmont Bruins (who?)are pushing his Blue Devils to the limit. My gluteus maximus is growing numb from sitting here for so long. If I didn't need to have this laptop on my lap, I'd turn over and lay on my stomach. I wish I could reach that other pillow at the other end of the couch because I'd like to prop my head up and get more comfortable. This is such a hardship. I'm rethinking the decision not to buy that easy chair and that chais lounge. I'm hungry and I haven't taken any food out to cook, not that there's anything in there to cook. Now they're cheating for Duke. These poor guys from Belmont are playing their butts off and now the ref is making calls like that. This is an outrage, but in my horizontal state I'm not motivated to do anything about it. I'm not even going to call anybody and vent. I can't feel my arm anyway since I've been propping my head up with it as I lie on my side.
6:28pm
Duke won. Gerald Henderson's kid made a great play at the end, but its still tainted for me. I have to get up and go to a church service now. I'm really thinking about not shaving and just dropping myself into a suit and going. I'm not happy about missing the real Bruins from UCLA who are set to tip off in about 30 minutes, but I gotta go. They're only playing a 16-seed in Mississippi Valley State and Jerry Rice is not walking through that door so I think they'll be okay. I don't know if I can do this all over again tomorrow. I better rest up. This is hard work.
Wednesday, March 19, 2008
Cold Reality
Everyone should take public transportation every now and then if for no other reason than to just be out amongst people. Oh sure, anybody that has to go to leave their house to go anywhere can make a claim that they are getting out and about, but it’s never quite as intimate an exposure as , say, riding a crowded bus. All of us in our own private pollution machines (even the hybrids will pollute eventually, when they finally hit the scrap yard) ride around in a sterile environment, traveling in the quarantined bubble of our vehicles. We drive around listening to music our talk radio, totally self absorbed; not even corresponding with a passenger if one is sitting with us. The windshield, the dotted lines on the road, and the brake lights in front of us are all that we see. We don’t really even see those. We’re on auto-pilot thinking about what our day has in store, what a waste our day might have been or anywhere in between.
Riding the bus is great because all at once the seats are grand equalizers. Unlike air travel, there is no first class. The bus doesn’t wait for anybody. If you’re not there, it takes off and you have to wait for the next one. There is no preferential seating. If the guy in front of you wants the window open, you better hope you brought your jacket. There are no SUV superiority complexes, enforcing their will on you as they switch lanes. There are no convertible sports car drivers smugly grinning at you through their rose colored glasses, begging for you to notice them. There’s just the bus. Pay your fare and move down the aisle to a seat. Any seat. Anyone and everyone could be on your bus. From the rich guy that enjoys the convenience and low stress that the bus ride offers as an alternative to driving, to the minimum wage worker with no other means of transportation. Everyone is equal on this coach.
I’ve taken the bus for years and, being the keen observer that I am have always wondered what each individual’s story was as I rode. Is the guy up there in the first seat holding a conversation with the driver just an all around friendly guy or is this the only human contact he gets all day? Is the kid sleeping in the back seat, with the beanie and the big coat cutting school or on his way home from his graveyard shift that helps him to help his grandmother to pay her bills. I wonder if they’re looking at me? What do other people think about me as I stare blankly at an odd piece of architecture as if trying to see through its stucco walls with my x-ray vision. Do they think I look sad or lonely? Do they notice me at all?
This morning I was drifting in and out of observation mode and partially into my own thoughts when I was struck by a thunderbolt that put things back into perspective for me. It was a cold morning by San Fransisco Bay Area standards, and I had plenty of layers on to combat the cold. The very moist morning air made the cool weather seep deep into my bones. At this point, I was cursing myself for deciding against bringing a hat today. I kept telling myself that 52 degrees is no big deal. A month ago I was in the snow in Ohio so I should be able to handle this. Maybe that week in the Caribbean erased all of my “cold-weather-cred”. Yeah, that must be it. No, that’s definitely it.
My hands hurt. I had gloves with me, but it was 52 degrees and the sun was out. Sometimes I act as though somebody watching me and I’ll be criticized for moves that I make. I’m no weekly television series. People aren’t tuning in to see what I’m going to do. No one is going to be sitting around the water cooler tomorrow saying, “Did you see that fool last night? Puttin’ gloves on in 52 degree weather....Wimp!” Nonetheless, I was refusing to put the gloves on. I rationalized that I would put them on for the evening ride home when it would probably be cooler. But my hands were really cold, and growing steadily uncomfortable.
Then the aforementioned thunderbolt hit me. When I was walking to the bus I saw a man that had no hands. He was sitting on a curb, also waiting for the bus and trying to smoke a cigarette. He held the cigarette between his two wrists and took a drag. I hadn’t seen how he had managed to light it, but he was smoking a cigarette, with all of the dignity and grace of a tribal leader hoisting a smoldering pipe toward his face. I thought about Rwanda and machetes and ruthless warlords trying to break the spirit of a people. I can’t even fathom the atrocities that this guy must’ve seen and experienced. Here I was complaining about my hands being cold. I have hands. I could put them in my pockets. It was inspiring to watch this guy methodically retrieve the bus pass from his jacket and subsequently hand it to the driver. I take for granted the use of my hands each day. This man had none. He wasn’t at home crying about it. He was out taking the bus somewhere. He was living.
I left the gloves in my bag. It wasn’t that cold.
Riding the bus is great because all at once the seats are grand equalizers. Unlike air travel, there is no first class. The bus doesn’t wait for anybody. If you’re not there, it takes off and you have to wait for the next one. There is no preferential seating. If the guy in front of you wants the window open, you better hope you brought your jacket. There are no SUV superiority complexes, enforcing their will on you as they switch lanes. There are no convertible sports car drivers smugly grinning at you through their rose colored glasses, begging for you to notice them. There’s just the bus. Pay your fare and move down the aisle to a seat. Any seat. Anyone and everyone could be on your bus. From the rich guy that enjoys the convenience and low stress that the bus ride offers as an alternative to driving, to the minimum wage worker with no other means of transportation. Everyone is equal on this coach.
I’ve taken the bus for years and, being the keen observer that I am have always wondered what each individual’s story was as I rode. Is the guy up there in the first seat holding a conversation with the driver just an all around friendly guy or is this the only human contact he gets all day? Is the kid sleeping in the back seat, with the beanie and the big coat cutting school or on his way home from his graveyard shift that helps him to help his grandmother to pay her bills. I wonder if they’re looking at me? What do other people think about me as I stare blankly at an odd piece of architecture as if trying to see through its stucco walls with my x-ray vision. Do they think I look sad or lonely? Do they notice me at all?
This morning I was drifting in and out of observation mode and partially into my own thoughts when I was struck by a thunderbolt that put things back into perspective for me. It was a cold morning by San Fransisco Bay Area standards, and I had plenty of layers on to combat the cold. The very moist morning air made the cool weather seep deep into my bones. At this point, I was cursing myself for deciding against bringing a hat today. I kept telling myself that 52 degrees is no big deal. A month ago I was in the snow in Ohio so I should be able to handle this. Maybe that week in the Caribbean erased all of my “cold-weather-cred”. Yeah, that must be it. No, that’s definitely it.
My hands hurt. I had gloves with me, but it was 52 degrees and the sun was out. Sometimes I act as though somebody watching me and I’ll be criticized for moves that I make. I’m no weekly television series. People aren’t tuning in to see what I’m going to do. No one is going to be sitting around the water cooler tomorrow saying, “Did you see that fool last night? Puttin’ gloves on in 52 degree weather....Wimp!” Nonetheless, I was refusing to put the gloves on. I rationalized that I would put them on for the evening ride home when it would probably be cooler. But my hands were really cold, and growing steadily uncomfortable.
Then the aforementioned thunderbolt hit me. When I was walking to the bus I saw a man that had no hands. He was sitting on a curb, also waiting for the bus and trying to smoke a cigarette. He held the cigarette between his two wrists and took a drag. I hadn’t seen how he had managed to light it, but he was smoking a cigarette, with all of the dignity and grace of a tribal leader hoisting a smoldering pipe toward his face. I thought about Rwanda and machetes and ruthless warlords trying to break the spirit of a people. I can’t even fathom the atrocities that this guy must’ve seen and experienced. Here I was complaining about my hands being cold. I have hands. I could put them in my pockets. It was inspiring to watch this guy methodically retrieve the bus pass from his jacket and subsequently hand it to the driver. I take for granted the use of my hands each day. This man had none. He wasn’t at home crying about it. He was out taking the bus somewhere. He was living.
I left the gloves in my bag. It wasn’t that cold.
Thursday, March 13, 2008
Lazy on the Links
I'm always so impressed by folks that get out there and network like there's no tomorrow. I don't dislike networking and I am never short of opportunities to network. I just lack the motivation sometimes. Correction: I lack the motivation a lot of times. I have the skills and the personality to effectively network, but its such a chore for me. I don't know why, but I've grown even more moody in my old age.
When I was in college, I was always out there. If there was a luncheon where I might be sitting next to some Silicon Valley exec, I was there eagerly eating my asparagus, rice pilaf and chicken breast. Professional conferences? I was there wearing my suit and tie and mixing it up with peers as well as potential employers. From my mid to late 20s I had a whole list of bright young people that were into so many different things whom I could call upon at a moment's notice to discuss new opportunities or to get some advice on things. At its height, network included VP's at Fortune 500 companies, doctors, lawyers (even partners in major firms), professional athletes, coaches, and even the cat (Randall Pinkett) that won Donald Trump's Apprentice. Yes, these numbers were in my phone or at the very least I could email.
But then I got lazy. I got apathetic. The bubble burst. Not only did I get laid off, but most folks in my network got laid off. Couple that with life's other issues and just my usual laid back personality in general and you've got me sitting comfortably in the rocking chair of lazy (no, I'm not going to say religion) lifestyle choices. On a daily basis, I'm most interested in what my next meal will be (if it will be), if I have enough gas to get home, and how will I pay that bill that continues to loom. Another factor has definitely been the changing face of networking. In the tradition of Michael J. Fox and Christopher Lloyd, networking has gone Back to the Future.
What do I mean by that? Well, hold on a second and I'll tell you. Sit down.
I'm sittin'!
Allow me to break it down.
Let it be broke.
You see, it may be 2008, but 1958 is still here. Why 1958 you ask?
Yeah, brotha, why 1958?
Well, I'll tell you. Here we were thinking that life was good and we were all becoming the capitalists capitalist riding our stock options and negative amortization mortgages off into the sunset, sippin' cosmos and appletinis, and keeping some Cuban cigars deftly balancing on our bottom lips like a bunch of Big Willies when it all went south. Many of us tried to pull ourselves up, brush off the dirt and get back on the horse. Some, however, decided against that course of action. Some said they would never work for somebody else again. That's great. All you need is an idea. This country was built on great ideas. But that idea can be tough to come by, and when you're sittin' on that big mortgage payment each month, you don't have lots of time to sit around and come up with it. Luckily, there is always the business-in-a-box model where somebody else has already come up with an idea and you just have to execute and voila! You're your own boss. Some of these boast an actual service and allow you to be an actual brick and mortar company with real employees, real products and real services. This is kind of how the franchise opportunity model works. You're not Papa John, but Papa John has devised a formula for you to follow so that you too can make Papa John Pizzas. Subway has done this and we all know the Golden Arches were built upon this as well. This is good honest work, but its not for everybody. It can be a lot more roll-up-the-sleeves than some people want to deal with.
There are whole groups of folks that would much rather employ their soft skills and exploit the relationships that they have in order to make a living. (Exploit can be such a dirty word. Perhaps you can assume that I'm using it in the best possible light. Or can you?) On the surface, this model still relies on customers to buy products. You gotta imagine that this is what Jay van Andel and Rich De Vos had in mind when they started Amway. They had the products, and all you needed to do was distribute the inventory. You could go at your own pace, but there were definitely incentives for being a top distributor or top performer in this scenario. Technically, you were working for yourself, since you controlled the flow of inventory and you alone drove the sales of said inventory. But why buy from your buddy Joe across the street when you can get the same product from the supermarket? Joe's an alright cat and all, but he might not be home when you need whatever you need. Meanwhile, Safeway is open. You can get what you need and probably at or near the same price. When called on this, Joe and any of his peers would finally fess up that it's not really about the products, but the network. Joe would eventually try to sign you up and even allow you to sell product to yourself. What a guy, that Joe. Now you're in Joe's network and Joe not only gets paid for selling product, but he also gets paid because you're selling product. Not to be outdone, you recruit a friend of yours so that you can out-Joe Joe. Suddenly everybody wants to cut out the middle man. Pretty soon, you are tapping into every network that you ever had. First there were just some random people that you knew from the gym and you had half-heartedly discussed some real estate and stock tips while waiting your turn for the squash game. Next you hit the soccer moms and then the PTA and a couple of co-workers at your real job. After all of that was exhausted you started to hit your friends. No, your real friends. Family even. It got to the point where nobody really wanted to talk to you or take your calls because they knew that the conversation wouldn't get far before you were trying to sell them something.
Too many good soldiers fell off into this cycle and couldn't figure a way out. They jumped from Earth Shattering opportunity to Amazing opportunity and played themselves right out of employability, let alone any social life to speak of, as said opportunities took up all of their time. Funny thing about good soldiers is that they both exhibit and deserve loyalty, so you do them the courtesy of hearing them out a time or two. Unfortunately, in so doing, you now distrust anything that is presented as an opportunity and shy away from anyone that somebody would "like you to meet" for whatever reason. You retreat back into your own comfort zone and avoid nebulous networking activities like the plague. Or maybe that's just me.
But networkers are tricky. They are resilient. They adapt to the environment and find new ways to survive and thrive. Kind of like a virus. Instead of enticing you with a continental breakfast or a lunch, they appeal to your professional need to be on the cutting edge. They send you email invitations to exchange information for the purpose of networking. Pretty soon, you're being asked to share pictures on Ringo. You're being asked for your resume on Linked In. You're invited to do your thing on Doostang. They want you to do the same on Naymz...and also to give somebody a reputation assessment.
Some want you to join MySpace or Facebook. I just can bring myself to do these. At least the others entice you under the guise of exchanging professional information, job contacts, resumes and such, but these seem to be predicated on making another type of more personal connection. I don't dig the whole online hook-up scene, so I can't just sit by and act like I'd be comfortable having strange people request me as their friend. To date I have not joined any of these sites except for Linked In, but don't really see the value in that so far yet. Well, in all honesty, I'm sure that I have not nearly explored all of the features that this tool has to offer. Perhaps I will find some incredible advantages to using Linked In when I finally use it to its fullest, but don't hold your breath. Furthermore, definitely do not hold your breath for me to exchange pictures and friends lists on MySpace or anything of that genre. I can barely carve out enough time get a blog entry in here with some regularity, so I don't have alot of confidence that I would be uploading photos of the Boys Night Out as soon as I got back to my computer.
One of my friends did make a fairly compelling case for Facebook recently though, so I have it on my to-do list to investigate that one. It's right there behind do my taxes, organize my closet space, and go furniture shopping. Apathy's ugly head stays visible 'round these parts.
When I was in college, I was always out there. If there was a luncheon where I might be sitting next to some Silicon Valley exec, I was there eagerly eating my asparagus, rice pilaf and chicken breast. Professional conferences? I was there wearing my suit and tie and mixing it up with peers as well as potential employers. From my mid to late 20s I had a whole list of bright young people that were into so many different things whom I could call upon at a moment's notice to discuss new opportunities or to get some advice on things. At its height, network included VP's at Fortune 500 companies, doctors, lawyers (even partners in major firms), professional athletes, coaches, and even the cat (Randall Pinkett) that won Donald Trump's Apprentice. Yes, these numbers were in my phone or at the very least I could email.
But then I got lazy. I got apathetic. The bubble burst. Not only did I get laid off, but most folks in my network got laid off. Couple that with life's other issues and just my usual laid back personality in general and you've got me sitting comfortably in the rocking chair of lazy (no, I'm not going to say religion) lifestyle choices. On a daily basis, I'm most interested in what my next meal will be (if it will be), if I have enough gas to get home, and how will I pay that bill that continues to loom. Another factor has definitely been the changing face of networking. In the tradition of Michael J. Fox and Christopher Lloyd, networking has gone Back to the Future.
What do I mean by that? Well, hold on a second and I'll tell you. Sit down.
I'm sittin'!
Allow me to break it down.
Let it be broke.
You see, it may be 2008, but 1958 is still here. Why 1958 you ask?
Yeah, brotha, why 1958?
Well, I'll tell you. Here we were thinking that life was good and we were all becoming the capitalists capitalist riding our stock options and negative amortization mortgages off into the sunset, sippin' cosmos and appletinis, and keeping some Cuban cigars deftly balancing on our bottom lips like a bunch of Big Willies when it all went south. Many of us tried to pull ourselves up, brush off the dirt and get back on the horse. Some, however, decided against that course of action. Some said they would never work for somebody else again. That's great. All you need is an idea. This country was built on great ideas. But that idea can be tough to come by, and when you're sittin' on that big mortgage payment each month, you don't have lots of time to sit around and come up with it. Luckily, there is always the business-in-a-box model where somebody else has already come up with an idea and you just have to execute and voila! You're your own boss. Some of these boast an actual service and allow you to be an actual brick and mortar company with real employees, real products and real services. This is kind of how the franchise opportunity model works. You're not Papa John, but Papa John has devised a formula for you to follow so that you too can make Papa John Pizzas. Subway has done this and we all know the Golden Arches were built upon this as well. This is good honest work, but its not for everybody. It can be a lot more roll-up-the-sleeves than some people want to deal with.
There are whole groups of folks that would much rather employ their soft skills and exploit the relationships that they have in order to make a living. (Exploit can be such a dirty word. Perhaps you can assume that I'm using it in the best possible light. Or can you?) On the surface, this model still relies on customers to buy products. You gotta imagine that this is what Jay van Andel and Rich De Vos had in mind when they started Amway. They had the products, and all you needed to do was distribute the inventory. You could go at your own pace, but there were definitely incentives for being a top distributor or top performer in this scenario. Technically, you were working for yourself, since you controlled the flow of inventory and you alone drove the sales of said inventory. But why buy from your buddy Joe across the street when you can get the same product from the supermarket? Joe's an alright cat and all, but he might not be home when you need whatever you need. Meanwhile, Safeway is open. You can get what you need and probably at or near the same price. When called on this, Joe and any of his peers would finally fess up that it's not really about the products, but the network. Joe would eventually try to sign you up and even allow you to sell product to yourself. What a guy, that Joe. Now you're in Joe's network and Joe not only gets paid for selling product, but he also gets paid because you're selling product. Not to be outdone, you recruit a friend of yours so that you can out-Joe Joe. Suddenly everybody wants to cut out the middle man. Pretty soon, you are tapping into every network that you ever had. First there were just some random people that you knew from the gym and you had half-heartedly discussed some real estate and stock tips while waiting your turn for the squash game. Next you hit the soccer moms and then the PTA and a couple of co-workers at your real job. After all of that was exhausted you started to hit your friends. No, your real friends. Family even. It got to the point where nobody really wanted to talk to you or take your calls because they knew that the conversation wouldn't get far before you were trying to sell them something.
Too many good soldiers fell off into this cycle and couldn't figure a way out. They jumped from Earth Shattering opportunity to Amazing opportunity and played themselves right out of employability, let alone any social life to speak of, as said opportunities took up all of their time. Funny thing about good soldiers is that they both exhibit and deserve loyalty, so you do them the courtesy of hearing them out a time or two. Unfortunately, in so doing, you now distrust anything that is presented as an opportunity and shy away from anyone that somebody would "like you to meet" for whatever reason. You retreat back into your own comfort zone and avoid nebulous networking activities like the plague. Or maybe that's just me.
But networkers are tricky. They are resilient. They adapt to the environment and find new ways to survive and thrive. Kind of like a virus. Instead of enticing you with a continental breakfast or a lunch, they appeal to your professional need to be on the cutting edge. They send you email invitations to exchange information for the purpose of networking. Pretty soon, you're being asked to share pictures on Ringo. You're being asked for your resume on Linked In. You're invited to do your thing on Doostang. They want you to do the same on Naymz...and also to give somebody a reputation assessment.
Some want you to join MySpace or Facebook. I just can bring myself to do these. At least the others entice you under the guise of exchanging professional information, job contacts, resumes and such, but these seem to be predicated on making another type of more personal connection. I don't dig the whole online hook-up scene, so I can't just sit by and act like I'd be comfortable having strange people request me as their friend. To date I have not joined any of these sites except for Linked In, but don't really see the value in that so far yet. Well, in all honesty, I'm sure that I have not nearly explored all of the features that this tool has to offer. Perhaps I will find some incredible advantages to using Linked In when I finally use it to its fullest, but don't hold your breath. Furthermore, definitely do not hold your breath for me to exchange pictures and friends lists on MySpace or anything of that genre. I can barely carve out enough time get a blog entry in here with some regularity, so I don't have alot of confidence that I would be uploading photos of the Boys Night Out as soon as I got back to my computer.
One of my friends did make a fairly compelling case for Facebook recently though, so I have it on my to-do list to investigate that one. It's right there behind do my taxes, organize my closet space, and go furniture shopping. Apathy's ugly head stays visible 'round these parts.
Monday, March 10, 2008
Champagne taste, bologna sandwich budget
I was just watching the Thomas Crown Affair on Spike TV. This is another of the handful of movies that I watch just about every time they come on. (Fight Club, Top Gun, Mo'Betta Blues, etc.) This is the Pierce Brosnan iteration, not the 1968 film featuring Steve McQueen and Faye Dunaway. Pierce seems to have really hit his stride in this one, and Rene Russo never looked this good. I never really bought into Pierce as 007, and he was iiiiight in Remington Steele. But he's solid in this one, very well spoken and understated and smoooooooth. I think that's what I like about this movie. No, well..ok..that and the whole being Thomas Crown thing.
He's getting chauffered around in a Maserati limo, flying a glider down to some remote Caribbean island, chillin' in museums,...he's the Man! Wouldn't everyone like his life. The super sleuth that is hot on his trail (Russo) is..well, HOT! He's a gourmet chef and wines and dines at all of the fancy restaurants and even without reservations. He's got a mean collection of original art in his house and can even loan some to the museum if they need something. Life is good. I think I want to be Thomas Crown when I grow up. Actually, I'm already on my way there. If Jay-Z can be the Black Brad Pitt, why can't I be the Black Thomas Crown? Wait a minute, why do "we" always have to be the Black version of something. Maybe Brad Pitt really wants to be Denzel Washington. Maybe at the country club, Brad is calling himself the White Will Smith. Maybe up on Harvard Yard, they refer to themselves as the Morehouse of the North. But, I digress. I was in the middle of explaining why it's so hard to tell the difference between me and Thomas Crown.
I'm smooth. I've got the gift of eloquence. I always know just what to say. Like when I was getting off the plane a few weeks ago, wearing khaki pants, and an off-white button down shirt under my navy blue pea coat and rimless, brown tinted, Ralph Lauren glasses and one of the flight attendants made her way over to me to ask me if I was a model.
"Uh..me? No." I said, looking around to make sure that she was indeed talking to me.
Of course, there 5 of 10 better responses came to mind the moment I stepped out of the plan and started to walk up into the terminal.
5. Me? Yes. I just finished a shoot late last evening and I'm just spent (gesturing about the glasses).
4. Shhhh. (putting my index finger to my lips) I was doing so well hiding here in the back row. Please don't alert the others.
3. No...but I get that all the time. It's not easy being this dashing.
2. Oh BEHAVE! To whom shall I autograph this magazine cover?
1. Flattery will get you nowhere. No run out there and make sure the papparazzi are gone.
I've got the cool art collection. There aren't exactly any Renoirs or Monets in my crib, but I've got some cool prints. It looks like you're going through the jazz section of the Smithsonian, if I do say so myself. I've been to the museum twice in the last couple of months. No, it wasn't the Metropolitan Museum, but the Oakland Museum of California and it's free on 2nd Sundays. I took my kids.
Most days, I don't drive to the office. Like Mr. Crown, I don't go everyday. I stroll into a meeting sometimes and I rarely drive myself there. The driver of a Fremont bound train opens the door for me when it's time for me to get out and he doesn't even have to walk around the car to do so. It opens automatically.
He's got a bowler hat and I've got baseball hats. I'd have Nina Simone playing in the action scene of a movie about me too. You didn't realize just how much alike we really were, huh?
Steal a painting? Advantage, Crown. I can't even steal cable. I don't even think I've ever successfully snuck into the movies. Well, maybe when I was about 12 or 13, but not since I've been this size. Speaking of size, and cable. Suddenly, my 42" flat screen doesn't seem so big anymore. I saw a story on Good Morning America about a 108" unit and now this seems woefully inadequate. Oh well. Maybe when I grow up and become Thomas Crown, my house will be the permanent Superbowl party location.
Sunday, March 9, 2008
Distracted
I'm certain that if more had been known about A.D.D. when I was a kid that I would have been so labeled. Okay, maybe not. Perhaps it's something that I've developed in adulthood, but I'm clearly afflicted. Sometimes my mind is all over the place and there's no sense in trying to do anything about it. I'm like that right now. I have 37 things to write about right now, but then again, my mind is blank. I have nothing to say, and yet I have so much to say. I want to write right now and I want to do something else first, and then come back to writing in an hour or so.
Perhaps I'm overwhelmed. I've got so much going on right now. There are 15 applications open on my screen right now. There are 8 tabs open on the web browser that I've got open. My phone is ringing. I've got the TV on and am half looking at a West Coast Conference semifinal game between St. Mary's and University of San Diego. Now my mom is talking my ear off and I'm realizing that writing is a lost cause tonight. I've got a load of laundry on my bed that needs to be folded and some dishes that need to be done in my kitchen. But this couch is so comfortable. Should I really feel bad about this lack of productivity or just accept it and move on. Van Gogh didn't create a masterpiece each time he picked up a brush. Or did he?
My eyes hurt. I'm not going to beat myself up about this for much longer. I just don't have it tonight. Play defense. Get a rebound. Take a charge. Make a pass. Do anything but pack it in. There's got to be some redeeming quality about this short passage. I can't see it, but maybe somebody will glean something from it. Maybe I should submit it for psychoanalysis so that they can tell me that I've got mad issues. Call Nurse Ratchet. Make sure there' s a bed available for me. I'm done.
Perhaps I'm overwhelmed. I've got so much going on right now. There are 15 applications open on my screen right now. There are 8 tabs open on the web browser that I've got open. My phone is ringing. I've got the TV on and am half looking at a West Coast Conference semifinal game between St. Mary's and University of San Diego. Now my mom is talking my ear off and I'm realizing that writing is a lost cause tonight. I've got a load of laundry on my bed that needs to be folded and some dishes that need to be done in my kitchen. But this couch is so comfortable. Should I really feel bad about this lack of productivity or just accept it and move on. Van Gogh didn't create a masterpiece each time he picked up a brush. Or did he?
My eyes hurt. I'm not going to beat myself up about this for much longer. I just don't have it tonight. Play defense. Get a rebound. Take a charge. Make a pass. Do anything but pack it in. There's got to be some redeeming quality about this short passage. I can't see it, but maybe somebody will glean something from it. Maybe I should submit it for psychoanalysis so that they can tell me that I've got mad issues. Call Nurse Ratchet. Make sure there' s a bed available for me. I'm done.
Saturday, March 8, 2008
For the love of the game(s)...
My Saturdays quite often consist of no less than 3 sporting events and usually consume all of the daylight hours. That might sound like a lot to some people, but it's alright with me. I love this stuff. I must admit that watching is a little more difficult than playing but I'm pretty easily amused so I manage.
This morning it was the rematch of Redwood Heights Recreation Center vs. Burckhalter Recreation Center. Redwood definitely had a score to settle after getting crushed in the previous contest 3 weeks ago. The little fellas from Burckhalter play the game like they mean it, exhibiting a much higher basketball IQ than the deer-in-the-headlights Redwood Raptors. My 8-year-old son would have to step his game up a little bit since his 10-year-old sister would miss her third consecutive game due to an ankle injury.
"It's going to be a long game," I leaned over and said to her as it was getting under way. Burckhalter's team has several little players that re pretty decent ballplayers , but one is particularly exceptional. Actually, exceptional might be putting it a tad lightly. He might be the second coming of Jason Kidd. I can't recall seeing too many kids with not only the court vision and awareness of all of the other 9 guys on the court, but also the skill and physical ability to make his body do what he wants it to do. His ball handling is always quite impressive, going between his legs quickly and precisely as he changes directions. All of his movements are with a purpose. He passes in a way that suggests he's one of those Kidd or Nash or Stockton types that see the potential opening before it actually opens up and hits his man right in stride. He anticipates so well on defense that a quadruple double is surely in his future.
Behind his personal blitzkrieg, the boys from Burckhalter jumped out to an 8 point lead in the first minute and a half and it was never close after that. I don't know his name, but I'm sure I'll see him again and that he'll really be something to see by the time he hits high school.
From there it was on to softball as the mighty Bandits started the 2008 campaign as the defending champs, not having lost a game since May of 2006. Wearing the boot to protect her ankle, my daughter couldn't play today, but she was more than capable of cheering for her teammates. Learning the value of good sportsmanship can never start too early . It's still fun rooting for the other kids on her team that I have come to know pretty well over the years. In addition, I never fail to be amused by her energizer bunny of a coach. With all of the enthusiasm and animation of Yosemite Sam, The Tasmanian Devil, and the Roadrunner all rolled into one there is never a dull moment with him around. The kids love him. He's very excitable, but very positive as well. We had to dip outta there after just 2 innings because my son had his second basketball game of the day to go to.
When I was out of town last week, I was told over the phone about how he had put on a heck of a show at Jr. Warriors and that the coaches told him to "stop scoring so much" and let somebody else score. You could tell that he was looking forward to going again this week with his new found confidence. Actually, though, he was bordering on cockiness. In fact, he was almost like a little 8-year-old Terrell Owens practically telling us to "get our popcorn" and "enjoy the show". Unfortunately, his little rant must've made it on to the other team's bulletin board as they really stuck it to him today. He had lots of rebounds, hustled up and down the court, and even blocked some shots, but he just couldn't find the range offensively. He was getting very frustrated and it was showing. In fact, late in the game, one particularly annoying kid on the other team started to taunt him loudly after he and another boy trapped my son near the baseline. In a move that would've made Zidane proud, my son pulled the ball close to his chin and gave this kid a shoulder to the chest that sent him flying. All at once I was surprised and trying to conceal my laughter. The little fella's got a mean streak. I couldn't even be mad at him for that one.
After the game, I gave him a high five and complimented him on all of his rebounds and the hustle he showed. I didn't mention his little frustration foul. The rest of the day I've tried to conceal my prideful grin every time I think about his antics.
This morning it was the rematch of Redwood Heights Recreation Center vs. Burckhalter Recreation Center. Redwood definitely had a score to settle after getting crushed in the previous contest 3 weeks ago. The little fellas from Burckhalter play the game like they mean it, exhibiting a much higher basketball IQ than the deer-in-the-headlights Redwood Raptors. My 8-year-old son would have to step his game up a little bit since his 10-year-old sister would miss her third consecutive game due to an ankle injury.
"It's going to be a long game," I leaned over and said to her as it was getting under way. Burckhalter's team has several little players that re pretty decent ballplayers , but one is particularly exceptional. Actually, exceptional might be putting it a tad lightly. He might be the second coming of Jason Kidd. I can't recall seeing too many kids with not only the court vision and awareness of all of the other 9 guys on the court, but also the skill and physical ability to make his body do what he wants it to do. His ball handling is always quite impressive, going between his legs quickly and precisely as he changes directions. All of his movements are with a purpose. He passes in a way that suggests he's one of those Kidd or Nash or Stockton types that see the potential opening before it actually opens up and hits his man right in stride. He anticipates so well on defense that a quadruple double is surely in his future.
Behind his personal blitzkrieg, the boys from Burckhalter jumped out to an 8 point lead in the first minute and a half and it was never close after that. I don't know his name, but I'm sure I'll see him again and that he'll really be something to see by the time he hits high school.
From there it was on to softball as the mighty Bandits started the 2008 campaign as the defending champs, not having lost a game since May of 2006. Wearing the boot to protect her ankle, my daughter couldn't play today, but she was more than capable of cheering for her teammates. Learning the value of good sportsmanship can never start too early . It's still fun rooting for the other kids on her team that I have come to know pretty well over the years. In addition, I never fail to be amused by her energizer bunny of a coach. With all of the enthusiasm and animation of Yosemite Sam, The Tasmanian Devil, and the Roadrunner all rolled into one there is never a dull moment with him around. The kids love him. He's very excitable, but very positive as well. We had to dip outta there after just 2 innings because my son had his second basketball game of the day to go to.
When I was out of town last week, I was told over the phone about how he had put on a heck of a show at Jr. Warriors and that the coaches told him to "stop scoring so much" and let somebody else score. You could tell that he was looking forward to going again this week with his new found confidence. Actually, though, he was bordering on cockiness. In fact, he was almost like a little 8-year-old Terrell Owens practically telling us to "get our popcorn" and "enjoy the show". Unfortunately, his little rant must've made it on to the other team's bulletin board as they really stuck it to him today. He had lots of rebounds, hustled up and down the court, and even blocked some shots, but he just couldn't find the range offensively. He was getting very frustrated and it was showing. In fact, late in the game, one particularly annoying kid on the other team started to taunt him loudly after he and another boy trapped my son near the baseline. In a move that would've made Zidane proud, my son pulled the ball close to his chin and gave this kid a shoulder to the chest that sent him flying. All at once I was surprised and trying to conceal my laughter. The little fella's got a mean streak. I couldn't even be mad at him for that one.
After the game, I gave him a high five and complimented him on all of his rebounds and the hustle he showed. I didn't mention his little frustration foul. The rest of the day I've tried to conceal my prideful grin every time I think about his antics.
Friday, March 7, 2008
Evil Empire
In the mountain of mail that had accumulated while I was away was a bill from my cable provider, Comcast. I thought it peculiar that I had mail from them because I ordinarily get statements online. I figured it were probably some sort of advertisement for some new "deal" of theirs. They waste lots of paper sending me stuff that always has a big asterisk on it.
I really dislike Comcast. I will do almost anything to not use these guys for television, short of not having television. At my last place, I talked my landlord into allowing Dish Network to install a dish on the roof of the building, just so I could avoid paying a single red cent to Comcast. Everyone else in my building had Comcast, but still I looked for an alternative.The Dish Network service worked alot better and I got just about all of the channels that Comcast was offering, for about half the price. I even had a DVR. Life was good. I even had the NFL and NBA networks.
Folks in my inner circle know that my dislike of Comcast runs much deeper though. They've even tormented me in my professional life. I've worked in the data over cable (high speed broadband) industry for the better part of the last 10 years and as a result have had to deal with these guys. Let me tell you. They might even be worse do deal with in that capacity than as a consumer. As a consumer, you at least have the option to seek some other alternative like Dish, Direct TV, or some good ol' fashioned rabbit ears. On the broadband side, you can get DSL, high speed over satellite, or even dial-up if downloading files for 3 days doesn't bother you. But if you are the manufacturer of a cable modem or related products, you pretty much have to sell to these guys in order to, well, matter!
Comcast is the largest cable operator in the United States by a longshot. They probably have about 95% of the market in this country while the number 2 and 3 and 4 players, significant companies like Time Warner and Cox and Cablevision, take their shot at what's left. Those other companies must feel as ridiculous as those other random nameless golfer's that get interviewed on the days leading up to the major golf tournaments and asked dumb questions like "How do you like your chances of winning this?" It takes all that they have not to say something like, "Well, if, heaven forbid, Tiger Woods should happen upon a series of unfortunate events, heaven forbid, or come up missing, I think I can take win."
As a result of this market position, Comcast is a bear (hey, my daughter might read this) to sell to when you've got no other choice. They put you through the ringer, make you test your equipment in their labs for exorbitant amounts of time and allow you to wine and dine them even when they know they have no intention of using your product in the volumes that you have discussed. The only good thing that I can recall about having Comcast as an account was that their headquarters at 15th and Market in Philadelphia (in the shadows of the William Penn statue on top of city hall). Why is that good? Well, it gave me an excuse to stay at the Ritz Carlton across the street which, in my opinion is one of their best properties for so many reasons that I won't get into here.
So anyways, upon opening up the aforementioned piece of mail I was at the well past the point of pisstivity (big ups to Richard Pryor) when I noticed that my bill had gone from a monthly rate of $62.14 to $108.56! Despite my complaints to the account manager that covered my building when I moved in about how much I hate Comcast and how much I would love to not have to patronize them, she assured me that my rate would not change. Well, it has. The Evil empire is trying to stick it to me once again. I had to call for reinforcements.
In Pulp Fiction, Vincent and Jules got in a jam and asked Marcellus to help them out, so he sent them the Wolf. Harvey Keitel, as the Wolf, also played a much more sinister version of this character, sans the sense of humor, charm and dapper duds as Point of No Return's The Cleaner. Much, much easier on the eye but no less effective, I called on the Princess. The Princess is routinely getting out of paying rate hikes for cell phones, cable bills, credit card late fees...you name it. Using a variety of tacts, she usually wears down the hapless customer service agent that happened to pick up her call, and their supervisors as well. Instead of pointing out the sheer lunacy in the condescending way that I might have chosen, being too emotionally attached to the situation, she went the calm and collected route. She was like a highly skilled surgeon, dissecting the lame offers that the guy in billing was throwing her way and methodically going through them item by item.
Comcast Customer "Service": Well, maybe I should pass you on to cancellations since none of these options seem to suit you.
Princess: Yes, please do that...what was your name?
Comcast Customer "Service": John. My name is John.
Princess: Thank you, John. By the way John, what is your direct extension and whom is your supervisor?
Scalpel. Having been a veteran of many such operations, the Princess knew that this was where the real power players were anyway. She carved up the cancellations guy to the tune of me retaining my current package at a rate $5 lower than the current bill, for the next 6 months. Forceps. Now stitch 'em up.
I really dislike Comcast. I will do almost anything to not use these guys for television, short of not having television. At my last place, I talked my landlord into allowing Dish Network to install a dish on the roof of the building, just so I could avoid paying a single red cent to Comcast. Everyone else in my building had Comcast, but still I looked for an alternative.The Dish Network service worked alot better and I got just about all of the channels that Comcast was offering, for about half the price. I even had a DVR. Life was good. I even had the NFL and NBA networks.
Folks in my inner circle know that my dislike of Comcast runs much deeper though. They've even tormented me in my professional life. I've worked in the data over cable (high speed broadband) industry for the better part of the last 10 years and as a result have had to deal with these guys. Let me tell you. They might even be worse do deal with in that capacity than as a consumer. As a consumer, you at least have the option to seek some other alternative like Dish, Direct TV, or some good ol' fashioned rabbit ears. On the broadband side, you can get DSL, high speed over satellite, or even dial-up if downloading files for 3 days doesn't bother you. But if you are the manufacturer of a cable modem or related products, you pretty much have to sell to these guys in order to, well, matter!
Comcast is the largest cable operator in the United States by a longshot. They probably have about 95% of the market in this country while the number 2 and 3 and 4 players, significant companies like Time Warner and Cox and Cablevision, take their shot at what's left. Those other companies must feel as ridiculous as those other random nameless golfer's that get interviewed on the days leading up to the major golf tournaments and asked dumb questions like "How do you like your chances of winning this?" It takes all that they have not to say something like, "Well, if, heaven forbid, Tiger Woods should happen upon a series of unfortunate events, heaven forbid, or come up missing, I think I can take win."
As a result of this market position, Comcast is a bear (hey, my daughter might read this) to sell to when you've got no other choice. They put you through the ringer, make you test your equipment in their labs for exorbitant amounts of time and allow you to wine and dine them even when they know they have no intention of using your product in the volumes that you have discussed. The only good thing that I can recall about having Comcast as an account was that their headquarters at 15th and Market in Philadelphia (in the shadows of the William Penn statue on top of city hall). Why is that good? Well, it gave me an excuse to stay at the Ritz Carlton across the street which, in my opinion is one of their best properties for so many reasons that I won't get into here.
So anyways, upon opening up the aforementioned piece of mail I was at the well past the point of pisstivity (big ups to Richard Pryor) when I noticed that my bill had gone from a monthly rate of $62.14 to $108.56! Despite my complaints to the account manager that covered my building when I moved in about how much I hate Comcast and how much I would love to not have to patronize them, she assured me that my rate would not change. Well, it has. The Evil empire is trying to stick it to me once again. I had to call for reinforcements.
In Pulp Fiction, Vincent and Jules got in a jam and asked Marcellus to help them out, so he sent them the Wolf. Harvey Keitel, as the Wolf, also played a much more sinister version of this character, sans the sense of humor, charm and dapper duds as Point of No Return's The Cleaner. Much, much easier on the eye but no less effective, I called on the Princess. The Princess is routinely getting out of paying rate hikes for cell phones, cable bills, credit card late fees...you name it. Using a variety of tacts, she usually wears down the hapless customer service agent that happened to pick up her call, and their supervisors as well. Instead of pointing out the sheer lunacy in the condescending way that I might have chosen, being too emotionally attached to the situation, she went the calm and collected route. She was like a highly skilled surgeon, dissecting the lame offers that the guy in billing was throwing her way and methodically going through them item by item.
Comcast Customer "Service": Well, maybe I should pass you on to cancellations since none of these options seem to suit you.
Princess: Yes, please do that...what was your name?
Comcast Customer "Service": John. My name is John.
Princess: Thank you, John. By the way John, what is your direct extension and whom is your supervisor?
Scalpel. Having been a veteran of many such operations, the Princess knew that this was where the real power players were anyway. She carved up the cancellations guy to the tune of me retaining my current package at a rate $5 lower than the current bill, for the next 6 months. Forceps. Now stitch 'em up.
Thursday, March 6, 2008
On my way...
I’m sitting here in seat 5A on what will soon be flight 1080 from Providenciales (Provo, as the locals call it) and it has occurred to me that we are way late in our departure. The jetway (its one of those outdoor ones that they drive up on top of a truck, like they still use in the United Terminal at San Jose International Airport) is still connected to the plane and the door is still open. Out the window I notice the ground crew engaging in some horseplay down by the front wheel.
The captain just walked past me (yes, by the way, 5A is in First Class…I got the upgrade this time) and headed out the door of the plane and onto the jetway. “That’s peculiar,” I think to myself, checking my watch to see that we should’ve left 15 minutes ago. The client with whom I’ve been working for the past 7 days, Jeff, is also taking a flight today and his plane just backed out and is headed toward the runway. They were supposed to leave 15 minutes after us. Nice to see that somebody’s on schedule. I’m not worried. I don’t think that I have a particularly tight connection at JFK. Besides, we’ll have to go through immigration and do all that nonsense of claiming and re-checking our baggage so I’ll be there for awhile anyway. Wait, I have no idea how long my layover is. I’ve hardly glanced at my itinerary at all. I’ve hardly done much of any of my regular routine for the last week. I’ve been so exhausted and my eyes are so worn out at the end of the day that I haven’t wanted to really look at the screen of this laptop at all. I’m on my way back to my life now though. Real life, that is. “This isn’t real life…I hope you realize this,”Jeff’s mother has famously quipped during her visits down here to see he and his family.
Okay, now we’ve got an update. Apparently, there was some mechanical trouble on this plane as it made its way down to Provo from New York. Well that’s what you always want to hear as you are strapped in on a big metal tube with wings, weighing almost 200 tons that relies on speed (provided by the thrust of man made jet engines) and wind (that blows as , well, as the wind blows). Well, they did make it here. We’re waiting on a technician to come and bless the plane and tell us that everything is in ship shape. One of the guys from the ground crew took a break from the horseplay and came back up here to talk to the captain.
“Are you the technician?” asked the captain.
“No…(h)im soon come…(h)im almost here,” said the ground crew guy.
“Is he REALLY almost here? I’ve heard THAT before.”
“Soon come…(h)im almost (h)ere.”
Then they went down the jetway and went away to some room that looked like it might be the baggage office and stayed for awhile. I was watching all of this transpire from the window. Meanwhile, I started to thumb through the American Way magazine, starting from the rear to read the Jim Shahin piece in this issue. I had to do something to pass the time. I’m trying not to sleep through this First Class experience. Besides, I’d rather sleep on the long flight form JFK to SFO. I don’t know what it is about the guys that they give the last page of a magazine to, but I like it. I read Sports Illustrated the same way. Rick Reilly holds court in that publication with his “Life of Reilly” rant/commentary. I love it. I’ve read him for years. I even got my daughter to be a fan of Reilly after reading some of his best ones to her a couple years ago. I look forward to Shahin on every American Airlines flight that I take. In a way, these guys have replaced the images from my childhood of Dwight Gooden and Michael Jordan, as I study their “moves” and try to incorporate elements of them into my “game”. A more adult analysis might be that I’m appreciating another artist, the way that Bill Evans might have done at a Thelonius Monk show or Coltrane might have done at a Lester Young show. Well, maybe that’s putting a little bit too much on it. Maybe my first analogy was more appropriate because I am but a mere blogger at this point, daring to dream that I can have my own back page some day. Now that would be some kind of real life, wouldn’t it?
But I digress. We’ve taken off now and I got a little happy with the digital camera out the window. I wish it could really capture the incredible shade of blue water that surrounds this place, but you’d have to see it.
So we’re a little late. I can’t complain about today at all. I started the day with a nice jog down the beach, followed by my last plunge, marveling at how I was in the water up to my neck and yet could see my feet as if I were in the world’s largest swimming pool. I took note of how peculiar it was for the waves here to be so docile almost massaging you rather than trying to knock you over as they might at most other beaches. Lake Tahoe may have had bigger waves than this place. No...no complaints at all. I started the day that way, and I’ll end it in my own bed at home. It doesn’t get much better than that.
The captain just walked past me (yes, by the way, 5A is in First Class…I got the upgrade this time) and headed out the door of the plane and onto the jetway. “That’s peculiar,” I think to myself, checking my watch to see that we should’ve left 15 minutes ago. The client with whom I’ve been working for the past 7 days, Jeff, is also taking a flight today and his plane just backed out and is headed toward the runway. They were supposed to leave 15 minutes after us. Nice to see that somebody’s on schedule. I’m not worried. I don’t think that I have a particularly tight connection at JFK. Besides, we’ll have to go through immigration and do all that nonsense of claiming and re-checking our baggage so I’ll be there for awhile anyway. Wait, I have no idea how long my layover is. I’ve hardly glanced at my itinerary at all. I’ve hardly done much of any of my regular routine for the last week. I’ve been so exhausted and my eyes are so worn out at the end of the day that I haven’t wanted to really look at the screen of this laptop at all. I’m on my way back to my life now though. Real life, that is. “This isn’t real life…I hope you realize this,”Jeff’s mother has famously quipped during her visits down here to see he and his family.
Okay, now we’ve got an update. Apparently, there was some mechanical trouble on this plane as it made its way down to Provo from New York. Well that’s what you always want to hear as you are strapped in on a big metal tube with wings, weighing almost 200 tons that relies on speed (provided by the thrust of man made jet engines) and wind (that blows as , well, as the wind blows). Well, they did make it here. We’re waiting on a technician to come and bless the plane and tell us that everything is in ship shape. One of the guys from the ground crew took a break from the horseplay and came back up here to talk to the captain.
“Are you the technician?” asked the captain.
“No…(h)im soon come…(h)im almost here,” said the ground crew guy.
“Is he REALLY almost here? I’ve heard THAT before.”
“Soon come…(h)im almost (h)ere.”
Then they went down the jetway and went away to some room that looked like it might be the baggage office and stayed for awhile. I was watching all of this transpire from the window. Meanwhile, I started to thumb through the American Way magazine, starting from the rear to read the Jim Shahin piece in this issue. I had to do something to pass the time. I’m trying not to sleep through this First Class experience. Besides, I’d rather sleep on the long flight form JFK to SFO. I don’t know what it is about the guys that they give the last page of a magazine to, but I like it. I read Sports Illustrated the same way. Rick Reilly holds court in that publication with his “Life of Reilly” rant/commentary. I love it. I’ve read him for years. I even got my daughter to be a fan of Reilly after reading some of his best ones to her a couple years ago. I look forward to Shahin on every American Airlines flight that I take. In a way, these guys have replaced the images from my childhood of Dwight Gooden and Michael Jordan, as I study their “moves” and try to incorporate elements of them into my “game”. A more adult analysis might be that I’m appreciating another artist, the way that Bill Evans might have done at a Thelonius Monk show or Coltrane might have done at a Lester Young show. Well, maybe that’s putting a little bit too much on it. Maybe my first analogy was more appropriate because I am but a mere blogger at this point, daring to dream that I can have my own back page some day. Now that would be some kind of real life, wouldn’t it?
But I digress. We’ve taken off now and I got a little happy with the digital camera out the window. I wish it could really capture the incredible shade of blue water that surrounds this place, but you’d have to see it.
So we’re a little late. I can’t complain about today at all. I started the day with a nice jog down the beach, followed by my last plunge, marveling at how I was in the water up to my neck and yet could see my feet as if I were in the world’s largest swimming pool. I took note of how peculiar it was for the waves here to be so docile almost massaging you rather than trying to knock you over as they might at most other beaches. Lake Tahoe may have had bigger waves than this place. No...no complaints at all. I started the day that way, and I’ll end it in my own bed at home. It doesn’t get much better than that.
Monday, March 3, 2008
Who stole the Soul?
I've been here for 5 days now and I'm finding it very difficult to put finger on what exactly Turk Islander culture is? Can you help me? I've heard no signature music or eaten any really unique signature dish. I haven't even been able to detect a particular accent that is consistent amongst the locals. But who are the locals? There are only about 30,000 people in this country and many of them are expatriates.
Granted, I’ve been locked up inside a cable head-end (hub and/or central office equivalent for those of you familiar with telephone companies or those Bill and Joanne Slowsky adds that relish the comforts of slow DSL speeds that allow them to enjoy life at their pace) for most of my time here, I have managed to mingle and observe some semblance of local life during my meals. Well, that is of course on the days that we didn’t order in so that we can keep working. I know. You guys think I just play around on my business trips and that life is grand when you’re an International Jet-Setter like D, but I’m here to tell you: sometimes I do actually have to do some work. Sometimes. This week has been one of those times.
But that has never stopped me before. Although I don’t scoff at the notion of being hampered by sleep deprivation like I may have 10 years ago, I still try to extend myself a bit for the sake of the experience. I’m almost 4,000 miles away from home in this tropical place so I’ve absolutely got to put myself in a position to soak it all in. On Friday I’ll be looking out my 6th floor window at the concrete jungle that exists below. I see that all day, every day. Sacrificing an hour of sleep here and there won’t kill me, at least not this week. In fact, I’d argue that it will probably make me live longer. Well, not skipping sleep, but the experiences. They’ll offer me perspective and enrich my spirit and garner wisdom.
But you already knew that. Providenciales has been a pretty formidable opponent thus far. Usually, I can step outside the hotel and be right up in whatever the locals are into. Not so in this place. Everything is very tidy here where I’m staying. It’s all very well manicured. The grounds of my hotel are absolutely immaculate.
There aren’t a lot of people around anywhere. I don’t think I’ve waited in line anywhere yet. Well, I didn’t, but I did see some folks waiting in a long line as I peered in through the glass door of the bank while using the ATM. But that’s a whole other issue. Perhaps we’ll revisit that later. In point of fact (I just like saying that…one of my Jamaican clients started a lot of sentences with that phrase and it always sounded really official and distinguished ), I have not had much contact with any natives. Sure, I’ve chit-chatted with some of the locals that work at the restaurants and hotels in my surrounding area, but nothing of any depth. In point of fact, no one has seemed too eager to talk about it. This seems almost absurd to me. In point of fact, nowhere but the United States of America do I ever hear less fervor when a citizen is talking about their birthplace. Sure, you might get a guy from French Lick, Indiana that may have some interesting facts to share about the town from which Larry Bird hailed, but very rarely will you talk to somebody that wells up with pride and plays up all of the finer points of the United States as a whole. Talk to a Jamaican or a Canadian about their respective countries and you won’t be able to get them to shut up. Don’t even bring a Nigerian into the conversation. In point of fact…oh, okay, I’ll cut it out. I’ve had my most interesting conversations with the expats that I am working with as they offer their often very educated analysis on why things are the way that they are here, and shared their experiences about not being made to feel that they belong here.
Belong. There’s an interesting word, and oddly enough, it’s an integral part of the name that the people here call themselves (although I’ve yet to hear any of them say so). Folks in these parts are reportedly called Belongers. I read-up some on this but couldn’t get a real feel for the origin of this name, at least none with a terribly in-depth social analysis on the topic. My client explained to me that he and other expats are often made to feel like they don’t belong there on the island. That sounds a little arrogant to me. It’s even up there with Americans (of the United States) calling themselves Americans even though folks down in Central and South American would seem to be able to make a similar claim. Belongers, huh? Okay. Well, will a real Belonger please stand up?
Almost overwhelmingly, the people that I have come across on this island are from somewhere else, and I’m not just talking about the white expats from Canada and the UK (this is a British Territory). I thought it would a be fair assumption that the majority of the black people on the island would be from Turks and Caicos. I’m not sure of any actual numbers, but I can tell you that I asked waiters and waitresses if they had lived here their whole life (I couldn’t fix my mouth to ask them what I considered to be a silly question: where are you from?) and most of the time they said something other than Turks and Caicos. In point of fact, they were most often Jamaican. Second on the list were Filipinos. Yes, from the Philippines, you know, since that’s so close to here. What’s up with that? One story I got was that the actual natives don’t have a track record for being the greatest employees on the planet. So much so, that the Margaritaville chain allegedly flies in the majority of its employees from Jamaica for the 3 days a week that the cruise ships dock in the islands, and then flies them home to Jamaica. Why would they do that? Word has it that it runs even deeper than work ethic. The big companies that put most of the money into the island (hotels, resorts, and big chains like Margaritaville) want to sell an image. Sadly, since most people’s image of the Caribbean is for people to wear dreadlocks and speak like Jamaicans, that’s what these companies want them to get. Since, as I mentioned above, the locals’ accent is not a universal thing (apparently there were 4 different dialects going back hundreds of years) they can’t package that up in a manner that they deem suitable for tourist consumption.
It seems crazy, until you really take a look at the resort side of town. It is ridiculously expensive. There are no chain restaurants nor fast food options to choose from. Everything is pretty much a five star establishment. Some are better than others, but all cater to the high end. It’s all very plastic. It’s as if the board of tourism has fashioned itself to be the Palm Springs of the Caribbean. Most of the time I looked around, I was the youngest person in a restaurant by 20 years, and usually the only non-white patron.
By day 3, I was dying to get to the other side of town to see what the real natives lived like. I was getting very tired of hearing the American top 40 music from the 70s that most of the hotels looped for their soundtrack in the bars. Today that finally happened as my clients took me to a place called Da Conch Shack.
Finally, something authentically local. It was a little house with a deck right on the beach and had, arguably, one of the most breathtaking beach views
that you’ll find anywhere, looking back toward the expanse of resorts on the other end of the island.
I was enjoying it immensely. While we were waiting for our order of Curry Conch (just like the neighboring Bahamas, everything here starts with Conch) I noticed a guy wading out into the water with a little mini boat and then submerging himself in the water. When he came back up, he was holding conch shells in each hand.
Wow! Hemingway probably sat in this same spot and gazed out upon this same process back in his “Old Man and the Sea” days.
My clients let me enjoy it for a minute and then brought out the proverbial needle to burst my proverbial bubble after I had snapped all of these pictures. It turns out that this old house had not been there for 50 or 60 years. It was made to look that way.
In actuality, it was only a couple of years old. I was amazed. They had really nailed it. The story has it that there was a guy called Boogaloo, who hobbled around with limp and had a larger than life personality. He was a pretty colorful character that would do everything from swim out back to get the conch and cut them right out of the shells, to cooking, and construction of the less than “up to code” structure that was Boogaloo’s Conch Shack. This sounds like exactly where I’m trying to hang out. I imagined Boogaloo being the type of character that would leave a lasting impression on me like the very colorful Franco Graceffa , owner of Dolce Vita in Boston’s North End and his accordion playing “cantante”, or like Mama at Roscoe’s Chicken and Waffles on Pico in Los Angeles snapping at you to “get yo’ elbows offa Mama’s table!” Life seemed to be all good for ol’ Boogaloo until some expat businessman tried to come in and take Boogaloo’s Conch Shack to the big time. Allegedly, there was a dispute, one thing led to another and Boogaloo got bamboozled and in the process this place has taken the place of his place. I hope he gets back on his feet.
The food at Da Conch Shack was pretty good (I had Curry Conch), so I would go again. But guess where the waitress/bartender was from? Jamaica. I did finally come across some Turks Islanders that had actually been born and raised here. They all keep saying that I need to check out a place called Smokey’s in the area called Blue Hills. For now, that is my mission: Get to Blue Hills and see some real Turks Islanders doing whatever it is that Turks Islanders do. Stay tuned.
Granted, I’ve been locked up inside a cable head-end (hub and/or central office equivalent for those of you familiar with telephone companies or those Bill and Joanne Slowsky adds that relish the comforts of slow DSL speeds that allow them to enjoy life at their pace) for most of my time here, I have managed to mingle and observe some semblance of local life during my meals. Well, that is of course on the days that we didn’t order in so that we can keep working. I know. You guys think I just play around on my business trips and that life is grand when you’re an International Jet-Setter like D, but I’m here to tell you: sometimes I do actually have to do some work. Sometimes. This week has been one of those times.
But that has never stopped me before. Although I don’t scoff at the notion of being hampered by sleep deprivation like I may have 10 years ago, I still try to extend myself a bit for the sake of the experience. I’m almost 4,000 miles away from home in this tropical place so I’ve absolutely got to put myself in a position to soak it all in. On Friday I’ll be looking out my 6th floor window at the concrete jungle that exists below. I see that all day, every day. Sacrificing an hour of sleep here and there won’t kill me, at least not this week. In fact, I’d argue that it will probably make me live longer. Well, not skipping sleep, but the experiences. They’ll offer me perspective and enrich my spirit and garner wisdom.
But you already knew that. Providenciales has been a pretty formidable opponent thus far. Usually, I can step outside the hotel and be right up in whatever the locals are into. Not so in this place. Everything is very tidy here where I’m staying. It’s all very well manicured. The grounds of my hotel are absolutely immaculate.
There aren’t a lot of people around anywhere. I don’t think I’ve waited in line anywhere yet. Well, I didn’t, but I did see some folks waiting in a long line as I peered in through the glass door of the bank while using the ATM. But that’s a whole other issue. Perhaps we’ll revisit that later. In point of fact (I just like saying that…one of my Jamaican clients started a lot of sentences with that phrase and it always sounded really official and distinguished ), I have not had much contact with any natives. Sure, I’ve chit-chatted with some of the locals that work at the restaurants and hotels in my surrounding area, but nothing of any depth. In point of fact, no one has seemed too eager to talk about it. This seems almost absurd to me. In point of fact, nowhere but the United States of America do I ever hear less fervor when a citizen is talking about their birthplace. Sure, you might get a guy from French Lick, Indiana that may have some interesting facts to share about the town from which Larry Bird hailed, but very rarely will you talk to somebody that wells up with pride and plays up all of the finer points of the United States as a whole. Talk to a Jamaican or a Canadian about their respective countries and you won’t be able to get them to shut up. Don’t even bring a Nigerian into the conversation. In point of fact…oh, okay, I’ll cut it out. I’ve had my most interesting conversations with the expats that I am working with as they offer their often very educated analysis on why things are the way that they are here, and shared their experiences about not being made to feel that they belong here. Belong. There’s an interesting word, and oddly enough, it’s an integral part of the name that the people here call themselves (although I’ve yet to hear any of them say so). Folks in these parts are reportedly called Belongers. I read-up some on this but couldn’t get a real feel for the origin of this name, at least none with a terribly in-depth social analysis on the topic. My client explained to me that he and other expats are often made to feel like they don’t belong there on the island. That sounds a little arrogant to me. It’s even up there with Americans (of the United States) calling themselves Americans even though folks down in Central and South American would seem to be able to make a similar claim. Belongers, huh? Okay. Well, will a real Belonger please stand up?
Almost overwhelmingly, the people that I have come across on this island are from somewhere else, and I’m not just talking about the white expats from Canada and the UK (this is a British Territory). I thought it would a be fair assumption that the majority of the black people on the island would be from Turks and Caicos. I’m not sure of any actual numbers, but I can tell you that I asked waiters and waitresses if they had lived here their whole life (I couldn’t fix my mouth to ask them what I considered to be a silly question: where are you from?) and most of the time they said something other than Turks and Caicos. In point of fact, they were most often Jamaican. Second on the list were Filipinos. Yes, from the Philippines, you know, since that’s so close to here. What’s up with that? One story I got was that the actual natives don’t have a track record for being the greatest employees on the planet. So much so, that the Margaritaville chain allegedly flies in the majority of its employees from Jamaica for the 3 days a week that the cruise ships dock in the islands, and then flies them home to Jamaica. Why would they do that? Word has it that it runs even deeper than work ethic. The big companies that put most of the money into the island (hotels, resorts, and big chains like Margaritaville) want to sell an image. Sadly, since most people’s image of the Caribbean is for people to wear dreadlocks and speak like Jamaicans, that’s what these companies want them to get. Since, as I mentioned above, the locals’ accent is not a universal thing (apparently there were 4 different dialects going back hundreds of years) they can’t package that up in a manner that they deem suitable for tourist consumption.
It seems crazy, until you really take a look at the resort side of town. It is ridiculously expensive. There are no chain restaurants nor fast food options to choose from. Everything is pretty much a five star establishment. Some are better than others, but all cater to the high end. It’s all very plastic. It’s as if the board of tourism has fashioned itself to be the Palm Springs of the Caribbean. Most of the time I looked around, I was the youngest person in a restaurant by 20 years, and usually the only non-white patron.
By day 3, I was dying to get to the other side of town to see what the real natives lived like. I was getting very tired of hearing the American top 40 music from the 70s that most of the hotels looped for their soundtrack in the bars. Today that finally happened as my clients took me to a place called Da Conch Shack.
Finally, something authentically local. It was a little house with a deck right on the beach and had, arguably, one of the most breathtaking beach views
that you’ll find anywhere, looking back toward the expanse of resorts on the other end of the island. 
I was enjoying it immensely. While we were waiting for our order of Curry Conch (just like the neighboring Bahamas, everything here starts with Conch) I noticed a guy wading out into the water with a little mini boat and then submerging himself in the water. When he came back up, he was holding conch shells in each hand.
Wow! Hemingway probably sat in this same spot and gazed out upon this same process back in his “Old Man and the Sea” days. My clients let me enjoy it for a minute and then brought out the proverbial needle to burst my proverbial bubble after I had snapped all of these pictures. It turns out that this old house had not been there for 50 or 60 years. It was made to look that way.
In actuality, it was only a couple of years old. I was amazed. They had really nailed it. The story has it that there was a guy called Boogaloo, who hobbled around with limp and had a larger than life personality. He was a pretty colorful character that would do everything from swim out back to get the conch and cut them right out of the shells, to cooking, and construction of the less than “up to code” structure that was Boogaloo’s Conch Shack. This sounds like exactly where I’m trying to hang out. I imagined Boogaloo being the type of character that would leave a lasting impression on me like the very colorful Franco Graceffa , owner of Dolce Vita in Boston’s North End and his accordion playing “cantante”, or like Mama at Roscoe’s Chicken and Waffles on Pico in Los Angeles snapping at you to “get yo’ elbows offa Mama’s table!” Life seemed to be all good for ol’ Boogaloo until some expat businessman tried to come in and take Boogaloo’s Conch Shack to the big time. Allegedly, there was a dispute, one thing led to another and Boogaloo got bamboozled and in the process this place has taken the place of his place. I hope he gets back on his feet. The food at Da Conch Shack was pretty good (I had Curry Conch), so I would go again. But guess where the waitress/bartender was from? Jamaica. I did finally come across some Turks Islanders that had actually been born and raised here. They all keep saying that I need to check out a place called Smokey’s in the area called Blue Hills. For now, that is my mission: Get to Blue Hills and see some real Turks Islanders doing whatever it is that Turks Islanders do. Stay tuned.
Sunday, March 2, 2008
Where u at?
Where u at? where YOU at? I'm sittin at 21.801 degrees N latitude and 72.174 degrees W longitude, otherwise known as The Ocean Club West in Providenciales, Turks and Caicos. You really can't beat this place for sheer wow factor. That turquoise water is unbelievable. It almost didn't look real when we flew in here on Thursday morning. But then again, that was something a little out of the ordinary for me, to actually make a point to look out the window on the approach. Usually, I'm quite content to either keep sleeping or doing whatever I'm doing. This water was so clear and clean that I thought I might see fish swimming as we flew overhead.
It actually kind of energized me. I was pretty tired on the flight, so I caught a nice little nap on the quick flight over from Miami. It was a good thing too because I've been working pretty hard ever since. I was picked up from the airport around noon on Thursday and ended up working that night until after 10pm. On Friday and Saturday, I was in that office until about 6pm each day, and today, I didn't get off until about 3pm. This has been my view of paradise.
But, you can't keep a good brotha down. After that 3pm knock off, I had just enough time to make like Rocky and Apollo and run down the beach barefooted. It was a spirited little jaunt through the pristine white sand. Running on the beach is always interesting because you feel like you're running with one leg shorter than the other. The good thing is that if you're running up-an-back, it all balances out. I made sure to apply some sun screen (yeah, i know...crazy, huh? I never got a sunburn until I was about 30, and so I use the stuff now)and get properly hydrated before I got caught out there in this bright sunshine and humidity. Although, as humidity is so apt to do sometimes, it started to rain shortly after I took off down toward Club Med, it was a warm and comforting rain. It wasn't that Keith Sweat, go outside and cry in the rain kinda rain, it was more like that Soul For Real, candy-coated, Carl Thomas video type raindrops that just made you wanna smile and be out there. When it stopped, the air was still fresh and clean.
I ran for about 45 minutes and then enjoyed a proper cool down, out in the elements style.
You can't really beat this kind of cool down, although the water is incredibly warm. It's almost bath tub warm! Your muscles cease to ache. Your mind ceases to ache, and you feel no pain. The ocean elixir that is the Caribbean Sea at Grace Bay soothes in a way that no man-made salve could ever hope to do. I actually ended up taking a nice little swim, drifting, dreaming, in the azure blue while gazing up at the sky, floating on my back. Life is good, even with the pitfalls of this project.
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