It was one of those rather non-descript days in the life of Destah. I woke up, I went to work, I made it through the traffic and I came home. There was much more to it than that though. After a later than necessary night, I managed a very meager amount of sleep and yet resisted the urge to roll over another time to log a few more hours. I didn't even have to set an alarm and I still shunned the lethargy that had me firmly within its clutches as I supplanted myself from the satin sheets. (Okay, I don't really have the satin sheet set on my bed right now because I need to do laundry, but I couldn't pass up an opportunity at alliterating).
So, like I was saying, the devil was in the details today as it so often is. Sure, i went to work, and sure I drove in traffic on the way home. Lunch was the amusing part of the day, however. Since I sauntered in just before lunch and am not really rollin' in the dough these days, I decided against going to lunch with the guys. They probably think I don't like them anymore because it really does seem like I haven't "lunched" with them in about 2 months. In my defense, I have been out of town about 6 weeks during that span. As far as being broke, well, there's no excuse for that other than, perhaps, life. Anyways, after doing an expense report and catching up on the customer emails that I had missed while on PTO earlier this week, my stomach was tugging at me so I decided to walk across the street to see what kind of salad I could scare up. I've been on a salad kick for the last day and a half. I guess it's my own little detox after days of eating junk on the Las Vegas Strip.
Togo's seemed like a good place to start. I've previously enjoyed fairly tasty and sufficiently hearty salads from them. Today, however, this Togo's was different. In fact, it wasn't even Togo's anymore. The sign on the building said Togo's, but they had set a chalkboard sign near the door saying "Welcome to Sammy's". "Who's Sammy?" I thought. The same people were working inside and the menu looked the same, except that it too was now written in chalk without the usual photographs. Pedro, the usual sandwich artist that so often whips up something delicious for me quickly offered that "we are out of roast beef". I told him that was fine since I just wanted a salad. He couldn't do that either, since he didn't have any to-go containers. I told him that I would eat it in the store. He started to look for the ingredients and after looking confused for a moment, told me that he couldn't make a salad either. I stood there looking perplexed for a moment and then finally informed Pedro that I'd have to come back another day when they had things a little more together.
I strolled over to Little Jake's, still in search of some leafy green goodness. I ordered a salad with tuna and proceeded to stop and wait while watching the endless loop of ESPN highlights on their flat screens. This is when it happened. Wrapped up in the Day 30-something of the Brett Favre saga, I didn't pay attention to the guy that was walking over toward me after collecting his food from the counter. Arm extended to hand me a card as he introduced himself, he asked if I had ever been to his barber shop called Markstyle up the street. We talked for a moment until I finally grasped exactly where it was, but in so doing I realized what had just happened, and was hoping that it hadn't shown. It was like being introduced to a personal trainer and having them suggest that they could "help you out". Are you not following me? Okay, it was like a woman meeting an aesthetician and having them ask if "you want me to take care of that hair on your lip? Just come by my shop and it won't take 2 minutes...." I was very aware that I was badly in need of a fade or at least a line and a shape up, but I didn't expect to hear about it over here near the job. I had escaped comment at the gym this morning and was now in the safe haven of my Silicon Valley digs where, as I so often am, I'm the only brotha around. Homey was really smooth about it though, although I know he was shaking his head on the inside. Handing me that card essentially said, "Yo, Money...your do is jacked. Come by the shop so you can look respectable up in this piece." I wanted to crawl into a hole and tunnel my way back to the office. It's a good thing there was nobody else around to see. Well, not anybody that knew anyway. I had better take care of this situation soon.
Thursday, July 31, 2008
Monday, July 28, 2008
North Las Vegas
So far so good. I've reached the 36 hour mark of my stay in Las Vegas and miraculously, I'm not becoming critically ill yet. I have not yet started to wilt like a dying plant in this sandy wasteland. Here’s the catch though. I have not spent a total of one hour in the real Las Vegas yet. Well, wait a minute? Have I? I landed at the airport, walked to baggage claim and got my rental car. Well, that part is never that bad, so we’ll disregard that hour. At my daughter’s request, we drove to the Golden Nugget to eat at their breakfast buffet. This is a bona fide casino. We had to walk past slot machines and card games and a fairly spectacular swimming pool to get into the restaurant. We had to wait in a fairly short line to get into the restaurant, so that wasn’t really a big deal.
The key thing here is that the Golden Nugget is NOT on the Strip. Sure, it’s a casino, but it may as well be a card club in California because it does not have that suffocating feel that only Las Vegas Boulevard (The Strip!) mega casinos can produce. That, right there, has made all of the difference. My daughter and I checked into the Las Vegas Hilton shortly thereafter (still not on the Strip, but only a block away, so close enough) and managed to skirt around all of the commotion. Thank goodness for the Hilton Honors VIP line to get me past the 35 or 40 people waiting to check in.
“YOU’RE a VIP, Dad?” said my daughter with astonishment.
I winked, nodded, and strolled up to the counter where there was only 1 other person in line.
“Really, Dad?” she prodded.
“Yes. Of course.”
It’s funny, Las Vegas is probably the only place where having the ability to check in at a different, shorter line actually makes a difference. Usually, you just walk up and check in because unless it is 2am, there are usually 3 times as many people at the reception desk as are necessary. I was not at all disappointed about getting to look important in front of my daughter. After she guilted me into accepting the upsell that I surely would have replied to with a re-sounding NO in any other instance (the lady at the desk probably looked right at her when she said “flat screen, plasma TV”, thereby adding $25/day to my super-duper $49/day rate), we made our way to our 27th floor room with a view of the strip, set our stuff down and then went to the pool. What else are you supposed to do when it’s 108 degrees outside? We sat out there and baked for about an hour or so and then went back up to relax before she had to get ready for the game. They got their lunches handed to them by some pretty tall girls from Long Beach, but they played much better today against one of their local rivals and then a team that had come all the way from Honolulu.
Out lone brush with the Strip thus far was a failed attempt at dining in the ESPNZone restaurant that resides in the New York, New York hotel. After parking in what seemed like the next county, and walking through the casino and past all of the other novelty restaurants, we happened upon an ESPNZone that decided to close early for some reason. I promised her that I’d brave the Strip with her tomorrow to go by M&M World. If I can keep finding places to eat and hang out in North Las Vegas and away from the Strip, this trip won’t be half bad.
The key thing here is that the Golden Nugget is NOT on the Strip. Sure, it’s a casino, but it may as well be a card club in California because it does not have that suffocating feel that only Las Vegas Boulevard (The Strip!) mega casinos can produce. That, right there, has made all of the difference. My daughter and I checked into the Las Vegas Hilton shortly thereafter (still not on the Strip, but only a block away, so close enough) and managed to skirt around all of the commotion. Thank goodness for the Hilton Honors VIP line to get me past the 35 or 40 people waiting to check in.
“YOU’RE a VIP, Dad?” said my daughter with astonishment.
I winked, nodded, and strolled up to the counter where there was only 1 other person in line.
“Really, Dad?” she prodded.
“Yes. Of course.”
It’s funny, Las Vegas is probably the only place where having the ability to check in at a different, shorter line actually makes a difference. Usually, you just walk up and check in because unless it is 2am, there are usually 3 times as many people at the reception desk as are necessary. I was not at all disappointed about getting to look important in front of my daughter. After she guilted me into accepting the upsell that I surely would have replied to with a re-sounding NO in any other instance (the lady at the desk probably looked right at her when she said “flat screen, plasma TV”, thereby adding $25/day to my super-duper $49/day rate), we made our way to our 27th floor room with a view of the strip, set our stuff down and then went to the pool. What else are you supposed to do when it’s 108 degrees outside? We sat out there and baked for about an hour or so and then went back up to relax before she had to get ready for the game. They got their lunches handed to them by some pretty tall girls from Long Beach, but they played much better today against one of their local rivals and then a team that had come all the way from Honolulu.
Out lone brush with the Strip thus far was a failed attempt at dining in the ESPNZone restaurant that resides in the New York, New York hotel. After parking in what seemed like the next county, and walking through the casino and past all of the other novelty restaurants, we happened upon an ESPNZone that decided to close early for some reason. I promised her that I’d brave the Strip with her tomorrow to go by M&M World. If I can keep finding places to eat and hang out in North Las Vegas and away from the Strip, this trip won’t be half bad.
Saturday, July 26, 2008
On the comeback
I don't remember the last time that I was this tired. I've been on 7 flights covering some 12,700 miles and 30 hours. Two out of the last 3 nights I've spent sleeping on an airplane and the night in between saw me in my hotel room for all of 4 hours. Sleeping is a bit misleading though because it's not like I was sailing across the night sky on a pillow top mattress under a down comforter, and snuggled up in 800 thread count sheets. On the contrary, I was sleeping in the equivalent of a large dresser drawer with my arms on two cold metal armrests as I lie under a gray, airline issued comforter that more closely resembled a moving pad than a blanket. On last night's flight I had to spend an inordinate amount of time on my left side, facing the window, since the guy next to me was a little too close for comfort and I wasn't quite up to taking in any more of his morning breath than I had to.
I was so tired that at one point, I noticed that I had not even managed to get through a single paragraph of the book that I was reading (Three Cups of Tea), and that was before I had even reclined the seat. When I woke up to find myself still holding open the same page, 45 minutes had passed and I was so disoriented that it took me a minute to realize that I was on a plane hurtling through the sky over South America at 530 mph next to a man that I to whom I would not utter a single word for the next 8 hours. With such an auspicious start to that flight, I just knew that I was a shoe in for being the creator of a joyful noise as I would surely be snoring in Z Flat all night long as the drool dripped from my lips, slid on down my cheek, ran down to the tip of my ear and on to that thing they're passing off as a pillow. But it was not to be. On these flights I learned that it's a good thing that I'll be dead before taking my place in a casket because it is way too cramped for me to loosen up and go to sleep, just like the fully reclining business class seat on this Boeing 767 was.
When I finally did make it home I still wasn't quite hittin' on all cylinders. Trying to get ahead of the perennially slow baggage claim process at the Oakland International Airport, I walked right past the baggage carousel and out to the Park n' Fly shuttle. I figured that I could go get my car, drive it back, park in short term parking, and then walk back into the airport just in time to see my bag coming around. That would've been fine except for one minor detail. I forgot that I had left my car keys in my luggage. It's not totally my fault. I had been carrying on luggage until that 7th flight. When I bought some wine from the Duty Free Shop in Santiago, I carried it on to the flight on the way to Dallas. What I discovered, however, was that I could either surrender it or check the bag for the flight home from Dallas to Oakland. I was just too sleepy to take a mental inventory of what else might've been in there. So I ended up taking 2 additional shuttle rides. On the bright side though, my luggage was right there just like I predicted when I returned.
I squeezed in a little power nap before having to dash off once again to celebrate my dad's 64th birthday at a Thai restaurant in San Jose. When my alarm woke me after about 90 minutes, I was once again totally disoriented. Although I never fess up to suffering from such things, I guess I'll give jet-lag some respect here because I am one tired hombre.
I was so tired that at one point, I noticed that I had not even managed to get through a single paragraph of the book that I was reading (Three Cups of Tea), and that was before I had even reclined the seat. When I woke up to find myself still holding open the same page, 45 minutes had passed and I was so disoriented that it took me a minute to realize that I was on a plane hurtling through the sky over South America at 530 mph next to a man that I to whom I would not utter a single word for the next 8 hours. With such an auspicious start to that flight, I just knew that I was a shoe in for being the creator of a joyful noise as I would surely be snoring in Z Flat all night long as the drool dripped from my lips, slid on down my cheek, ran down to the tip of my ear and on to that thing they're passing off as a pillow. But it was not to be. On these flights I learned that it's a good thing that I'll be dead before taking my place in a casket because it is way too cramped for me to loosen up and go to sleep, just like the fully reclining business class seat on this Boeing 767 was.
When I finally did make it home I still wasn't quite hittin' on all cylinders. Trying to get ahead of the perennially slow baggage claim process at the Oakland International Airport, I walked right past the baggage carousel and out to the Park n' Fly shuttle. I figured that I could go get my car, drive it back, park in short term parking, and then walk back into the airport just in time to see my bag coming around. That would've been fine except for one minor detail. I forgot that I had left my car keys in my luggage. It's not totally my fault. I had been carrying on luggage until that 7th flight. When I bought some wine from the Duty Free Shop in Santiago, I carried it on to the flight on the way to Dallas. What I discovered, however, was that I could either surrender it or check the bag for the flight home from Dallas to Oakland. I was just too sleepy to take a mental inventory of what else might've been in there. So I ended up taking 2 additional shuttle rides. On the bright side though, my luggage was right there just like I predicted when I returned.
I squeezed in a little power nap before having to dash off once again to celebrate my dad's 64th birthday at a Thai restaurant in San Jose. When my alarm woke me after about 90 minutes, I was once again totally disoriented. Although I never fess up to suffering from such things, I guess I'll give jet-lag some respect here because I am one tired hombre.
Thursday, July 24, 2008
south
I'm sitting at the Starbucks next to Puerta 26 where all of the domestic LAN flights take off at the Aeropuerto en Santiago de Chile. What a crazy day this has been already. Well, not just today. We'll have to take it back to yesterday because although I've already been traveling for about 16 hours, I'm still not at my destination of Valdivia, Chile. I'll take off from here in about 2 hours and then fly about an hour and a half south to get there.
Running some errands yesterday before my last minute flight, I somehow lost track of time and felt incredibly rushed. I was actually even a little worried as I negotiated my way through traffic on the freeway en route to the airport. Luckily, the Park n' Fly shuttle driver was right there to pick me up when I parked and we didn't dilly-dally around picking up 6 other folks, heading straight to the terminal instead. My first flight kind of sucked as I didn't have the exit row, but I managed. Making it easier was the knowledge that I had already been upgraded for the 9 hour flight from DFW to Santiago. I watched a couple movies (watched Penelope the pig nosed girl AGAIN!) and listened to some music and read Three Cups of Tea. Even though the seat fully reclined to the point where I was lying completely flat, I still couldn't sleep and felt like I got a first hand look at how my remains will spend eternity. As usual, my feet were against the wall of the seat in front of me, even in the spacious business class cabin, but I had never really noticed before how narrow your shoulders have to be in order to have any wiggle room at all. I had none. Perhaps a nine year old girl might be comfy here, but I wasn't.
I think I finally was able to notch a couple hours of sleep so I won't be totally brain-dead when I get to my destination. I'm already in Spanish mode again as I've had to speak to several people already. Here's to hoping all goes well and I get to see something other than the inside of an office in Valdivia.
Running some errands yesterday before my last minute flight, I somehow lost track of time and felt incredibly rushed. I was actually even a little worried as I negotiated my way through traffic on the freeway en route to the airport. Luckily, the Park n' Fly shuttle driver was right there to pick me up when I parked and we didn't dilly-dally around picking up 6 other folks, heading straight to the terminal instead. My first flight kind of sucked as I didn't have the exit row, but I managed. Making it easier was the knowledge that I had already been upgraded for the 9 hour flight from DFW to Santiago. I watched a couple movies (watched Penelope the pig nosed girl AGAIN!) and listened to some music and read Three Cups of Tea. Even though the seat fully reclined to the point where I was lying completely flat, I still couldn't sleep and felt like I got a first hand look at how my remains will spend eternity. As usual, my feet were against the wall of the seat in front of me, even in the spacious business class cabin, but I had never really noticed before how narrow your shoulders have to be in order to have any wiggle room at all. I had none. Perhaps a nine year old girl might be comfy here, but I wasn't.
I think I finally was able to notch a couple hours of sleep so I won't be totally brain-dead when I get to my destination. I'm already in Spanish mode again as I've had to speak to several people already. Here's to hoping all goes well and I get to see something other than the inside of an office in Valdivia.
Wednesday, July 23, 2008
what a difference a day makes...
My last entry was interesting, to say the least. I started out with the intention of writing about some trivial nonsense that entertains me immensely and it turned into this introspective, metaphorical, saunter down memory lane that had my mind racing on to other things entirely. All of this because I wanted to talk about a silly commercial that I enjoy.
New Balance has this great series of commercials right now about running. Well, they’re not just about running. Okay, maybe they are. You really have to tip your cap to the ad folks on this project as they have entered into the sovereign territory where only beer commercials usually dare tread. Perhaps I’m painting too broad a brush stroke here, sweeping my generalization across this cyber canvas. Allow me to amend. It has been my experience that beer commercials are more often cleverly crafted than commercials for other products. Not having a background in this area, neither as a field of study nor vocation, my observation is purely that of a layman; Joe Six Pack, if you will. Honestly, that pun was truly not intended. Perhaps it’s a budget issue. Maybe the really clever ads are created by these really slick, really expensive, blue chip, Bloomingdale’s of advertising agencies, and the others of the Paula Pine-Sol variety are done by the Wal-Mart/Super K-Mart type agencies. Who knows. But if I’m right, I guess you get what you pay for. As I’m writing, my mind is having the urge to explore this whole phenomenon of commercials and whom and how they target and when. I’m even thinking that I might want to get really deep into this topic and actually do some research. We’ll see if that’s what I decide, or if I just go off the cuff with more of an opinion piece. Which do you prefer? Which do you think I’ll do? And do you think I’ll do it tomorrow or the next time I’m at a loss for a significant event to record in my Daily? Only time will tell. You’ll just have to stay tuned. But, as usual, I have digressed.
You probably had no idea that I had actually devoted this much space in my brain to commercials, had you? In your wildest imagination, in all of the thinks that you have thunk, had you ever hypothesized that so much deep thought could go into a 30 second advertisement? If you hadn’t realized yet, I can be ridiculously random. The most insignificant things amuse me. Does that make me interesting? Who knows? Does that make me quirky? Perhaps it does. Let’s try deep on for size. Yes, I like that one. I’m dangerously close to digression again as a tangent is fighting to come out from inside me like an alien from Sigourney Weaver. New Balance has a running commercial. Focus, dude. FOCUS! It is a narrated commercial, spoken from the perspective of one's conscience in a bold attempt to give that Freudian concept an animate quality. Since I’ve invoked Freud, you know that a certain three letter word ending in “x” is soon to follow. Heavily laden with innuendo, this series puts a comedic , yet somehow inspiring spin on the fragile psyche of the runner. Running after all is a labor of love, and when love is in the building, it’s evil step-sister hate is not far away.(That’s mine, not from the commercial. Or maybe it is?) As these commercials would have us believe, our subjects (who ultimately represent the potential consumer), have a relationship with running that is tenuous at best. You might even go so far as to call it a love/hate relationship. Yeah, I know, I said it. So shoot me. You know I was going there, but it was inevitable. On a side note, I’m amused by this trend of making a transitive verb into a noun (i.e. Running being a thing that can love or hate and can also BE loved or hated, in much the same way that an actual mate could). JetBlue has attempted this with their new series of print ads about Jetting. However, these must be flying well over my head at this point because I have yet to be terribly amused by any of them.
So the New Balance series goes something like this. (See all of them here: http://www.newbalance.com/#/video ) A distraught looking guy, whom you might even call depressed, struggles to get out of bed as his conscience narrates the first thoughts of his day as he puts his feet on the floor and sits at the edge of his bed.
“Since you gave up Running last week, you see Running everywhere and looking really good”
Clearly playing on the notion that an ex-flame somehow seems to look better when the wounds are still fresh and you’re not quite over them, still vulnerable, and susceptible to their charms. In another commercial there’s another weary looking guy desperately in need of some motivation as his relationship with Running is clearly quite a load to bear, raising doubts in his mind about whether or not this is a good union or not. Maybe this is not a match made in heaven. Maybe he and Running are just not compatible. ‘Why do I even continue to be involved with running?’ he seems to be asking. Right on queue, his conscience puts this into the perspective, reminding him of exactly why the proverbial juice here may indeed be worth the squeeze, intimating
“..because Running has a really hot friend named Victory, and…maybe…just maybe…well…,”
This is classic stuff here. As I scan through the commercial database in which I keep volumes of information catalogued in my mind, I think that the geniuses behind this series of ads also recently did a series of Hertz commercials that suggested your own car was feeling two-timed, left out in the cold, lacking self-esteem, and jilted, left to lurk in the shadows spying on your good time, as you bop around with the shiny hot new rental model (Google or YouTube this, I didn't immediately find it on the Hertz page). That might be worth researching. (I can hear you now: “For whom? Why does any of this matter?!!” Relax. I’m just saying. Geeez…).
The king of all commercials right now though are the Dos Equis beer ads featuring the Most Interesting Man in the World. That is sure to end up with its own blog entry, as I think I want to be that guy, with his part Hemingway, part Indiana Jones, part Ricardo Montalban savoir faire. I could probably go on all day about this topic, but I’ve got many more things to get done yet. So I’ll leave you with a top 5 (in no particular order, not including the aforementioned of course). Enjoy.
1. “Here’s to you Wingman”- beer ad, I think it was Bud Light, or Miller Light, one of those
2. “Dude!”- Bud Light series where the only dialogue in the whole commercial is a guy using “Dude” in all of its many forms.
3. “Boss is coming”-Buffalo Wild Wings. Everyone is having a great time, wasting the day away in the sports bar until the boss is about to walk in and after the alarms sound and the big screens display a message saying “BOSS!”, everyone escapes through trap doors and such.
4. It’s about the Beer: Heineken. Main characters have a moment of clarity as the Heineken comes into view in a series set in several different scenarios
5. Wanna get away? The Southwest Airlines commercials that show somebody doing something regrettable and wishing they could just disappear in that moment.
New Balance has this great series of commercials right now about running. Well, they’re not just about running. Okay, maybe they are. You really have to tip your cap to the ad folks on this project as they have entered into the sovereign territory where only beer commercials usually dare tread. Perhaps I’m painting too broad a brush stroke here, sweeping my generalization across this cyber canvas. Allow me to amend. It has been my experience that beer commercials are more often cleverly crafted than commercials for other products. Not having a background in this area, neither as a field of study nor vocation, my observation is purely that of a layman; Joe Six Pack, if you will. Honestly, that pun was truly not intended. Perhaps it’s a budget issue. Maybe the really clever ads are created by these really slick, really expensive, blue chip, Bloomingdale’s of advertising agencies, and the others of the Paula Pine-Sol variety are done by the Wal-Mart/Super K-Mart type agencies. Who knows. But if I’m right, I guess you get what you pay for. As I’m writing, my mind is having the urge to explore this whole phenomenon of commercials and whom and how they target and when. I’m even thinking that I might want to get really deep into this topic and actually do some research. We’ll see if that’s what I decide, or if I just go off the cuff with more of an opinion piece. Which do you prefer? Which do you think I’ll do? And do you think I’ll do it tomorrow or the next time I’m at a loss for a significant event to record in my Daily? Only time will tell. You’ll just have to stay tuned. But, as usual, I have digressed.
You probably had no idea that I had actually devoted this much space in my brain to commercials, had you? In your wildest imagination, in all of the thinks that you have thunk, had you ever hypothesized that so much deep thought could go into a 30 second advertisement? If you hadn’t realized yet, I can be ridiculously random. The most insignificant things amuse me. Does that make me interesting? Who knows? Does that make me quirky? Perhaps it does. Let’s try deep on for size. Yes, I like that one. I’m dangerously close to digression again as a tangent is fighting to come out from inside me like an alien from Sigourney Weaver. New Balance has a running commercial. Focus, dude. FOCUS! It is a narrated commercial, spoken from the perspective of one's conscience in a bold attempt to give that Freudian concept an animate quality. Since I’ve invoked Freud, you know that a certain three letter word ending in “x” is soon to follow. Heavily laden with innuendo, this series puts a comedic , yet somehow inspiring spin on the fragile psyche of the runner. Running after all is a labor of love, and when love is in the building, it’s evil step-sister hate is not far away.(That’s mine, not from the commercial. Or maybe it is?) As these commercials would have us believe, our subjects (who ultimately represent the potential consumer), have a relationship with running that is tenuous at best. You might even go so far as to call it a love/hate relationship. Yeah, I know, I said it. So shoot me. You know I was going there, but it was inevitable. On a side note, I’m amused by this trend of making a transitive verb into a noun (i.e. Running being a thing that can love or hate and can also BE loved or hated, in much the same way that an actual mate could). JetBlue has attempted this with their new series of print ads about Jetting. However, these must be flying well over my head at this point because I have yet to be terribly amused by any of them.
So the New Balance series goes something like this. (See all of them here: http://www.newbalance.com/#/video ) A distraught looking guy, whom you might even call depressed, struggles to get out of bed as his conscience narrates the first thoughts of his day as he puts his feet on the floor and sits at the edge of his bed.
“Since you gave up Running last week, you see Running everywhere and looking really good”
Clearly playing on the notion that an ex-flame somehow seems to look better when the wounds are still fresh and you’re not quite over them, still vulnerable, and susceptible to their charms. In another commercial there’s another weary looking guy desperately in need of some motivation as his relationship with Running is clearly quite a load to bear, raising doubts in his mind about whether or not this is a good union or not. Maybe this is not a match made in heaven. Maybe he and Running are just not compatible. ‘Why do I even continue to be involved with running?’ he seems to be asking. Right on queue, his conscience puts this into the perspective, reminding him of exactly why the proverbial juice here may indeed be worth the squeeze, intimating
“..because Running has a really hot friend named Victory, and…maybe…just maybe…well…,”
This is classic stuff here. As I scan through the commercial database in which I keep volumes of information catalogued in my mind, I think that the geniuses behind this series of ads also recently did a series of Hertz commercials that suggested your own car was feeling two-timed, left out in the cold, lacking self-esteem, and jilted, left to lurk in the shadows spying on your good time, as you bop around with the shiny hot new rental model (Google or YouTube this, I didn't immediately find it on the Hertz page). That might be worth researching. (I can hear you now: “For whom? Why does any of this matter?!!” Relax. I’m just saying. Geeez…).
The king of all commercials right now though are the Dos Equis beer ads featuring the Most Interesting Man in the World. That is sure to end up with its own blog entry, as I think I want to be that guy, with his part Hemingway, part Indiana Jones, part Ricardo Montalban savoir faire. I could probably go on all day about this topic, but I’ve got many more things to get done yet. So I’ll leave you with a top 5 (in no particular order, not including the aforementioned of course). Enjoy.
1. “Here’s to you Wingman”- beer ad, I think it was Bud Light, or Miller Light, one of those
2. “Dude!”- Bud Light series where the only dialogue in the whole commercial is a guy using “Dude” in all of its many forms.
3. “Boss is coming”-Buffalo Wild Wings. Everyone is having a great time, wasting the day away in the sports bar until the boss is about to walk in and after the alarms sound and the big screens display a message saying “BOSS!”, everyone escapes through trap doors and such.
4. It’s about the Beer: Heineken. Main characters have a moment of clarity as the Heineken comes into view in a series set in several different scenarios
5. Wanna get away? The Southwest Airlines commercials that show somebody doing something regrettable and wishing they could just disappear in that moment.
Monday, July 21, 2008
Beautiful Butterfly Freedom
The summer months were much more highly anticipated when I was a kid than they are now. Back then, I could hardly contain myself thinking about having 3 months without school. And the last day of school? It was great. Summer was here and I could play all day. We would ride our bicycles all over town and the weather was always good. It seemed that somebody was always having a barbecue and there was always a swimming pool at which I had an open invitation to swim.
It's funny how the changing of seasons change as the seasons of your life change. What I've just described were my under 14 years. The high school season was still definitely highlighted by the 3 months off of school (except that summer after 11th grade when my mother made me take chemistry again), but had other more structured activities that, while still a good deal of fun, could never really measure up to the carefree bliss of the previous season. It was kind of like that Golden State Warriors playoff run in the 2006-2007 season. It was so wildly spectacular and unpredictable that you just knew somehow 2007-2008 would not quite be as good. Sure enough, it wasn't as the Warriors started to get a little finicky and began to question the taste of their own Kool-aid en route to a very tightly wound, just short of the goal season that saw them on the outside looking in. It was still a great time out, but, well...you know. Those were my high school summers. Instead of riding my bike all day, I played basketball. Instead of going to Great America, I went to basketball camp, and instead of barbecue's and swimming..well, um...let's see. Well, we did swim while we went to basketball tournament's in Las Vegas, and I'm sure we bought some barbecue. As I think back, the highlight of that season had to be that glorious hot summer day in August of 1988, when I finally came off that island. My boys were eagerly awaiting with high fives and a thirst for all of the sordid details of my adventure.
As the autumn leaves, the S.A.T. and graduation foretold the emergence of the next season, those carefree days of nothingness were starting to be but a distant memory. Vying for a significant portion of my bicycle, basketball, barbecue time from now on would be some sort of occupation. Sure, I'd get some spending money but having somewhere to be was a different feeling indeed. I was like the 2 little pigs that laughed all day, building their homes of sticks and straw and shunning hard work, much preferring to play. There were still barbecues, but the food no longer was the main draw. I should've been more swift on my toes but I was probably too intently focused on a pair of dimes, to notice that a paradigm was about to shift right under my nose. Somehow, almost overnight it seemed, getting back to school seemed almost cool. It's not like I was always going to be wearing a paper hat and being a spatula wielding fool. The jobs would get better and more high tech. Soon I'd even earn a wage and no longer be hourly.
We want to offer you stock options and a competitive starting salary.
No thanks. I'll be busy with basketball and my classes.
We'll let you work whenever you can.
Thanks, but no thanks. My free-time is controlled by this guy named Stan. (Morrison that is...was.... Men's basketball coach at San Jose State University)
And so this season dragged on a little longer than expected but that's the way it is around these parts. The seasons change so subtly until you can't recall when they changed at all. The bliss and freedom that used to glide by, the beautiful butterfly in the wind had all but met its end. Each day runs into the next and the last day is the last thing that you want it to be, unless foreclosure is something that you foresee.
Where are you now beautiful butterfly? Winter time is here and you are not around. The bitter winds rage on but you cannot be found. Where are you when I need you, like right now? Perhaps I am to blame. Truly it's a shame that we're apart for months on end. I know its been awhile since I checked back in.
It's cold out here but there's a glimmer of hope that we'll meet again. I'll keep an eye out for the bees and things and flowers because one of these mornings I'm going to rise up singing as I stretch my arms up toward the sky, so I can really be fly, right along with you living my life, my life, in the sunshine loving summertime.
It's funny how the changing of seasons change as the seasons of your life change. What I've just described were my under 14 years. The high school season was still definitely highlighted by the 3 months off of school (except that summer after 11th grade when my mother made me take chemistry again), but had other more structured activities that, while still a good deal of fun, could never really measure up to the carefree bliss of the previous season. It was kind of like that Golden State Warriors playoff run in the 2006-2007 season. It was so wildly spectacular and unpredictable that you just knew somehow 2007-2008 would not quite be as good. Sure enough, it wasn't as the Warriors started to get a little finicky and began to question the taste of their own Kool-aid en route to a very tightly wound, just short of the goal season that saw them on the outside looking in. It was still a great time out, but, well...you know. Those were my high school summers. Instead of riding my bike all day, I played basketball. Instead of going to Great America, I went to basketball camp, and instead of barbecue's and swimming..well, um...let's see. Well, we did swim while we went to basketball tournament's in Las Vegas, and I'm sure we bought some barbecue. As I think back, the highlight of that season had to be that glorious hot summer day in August of 1988, when I finally came off that island. My boys were eagerly awaiting with high fives and a thirst for all of the sordid details of my adventure.
As the autumn leaves, the S.A.T. and graduation foretold the emergence of the next season, those carefree days of nothingness were starting to be but a distant memory. Vying for a significant portion of my bicycle, basketball, barbecue time from now on would be some sort of occupation. Sure, I'd get some spending money but having somewhere to be was a different feeling indeed. I was like the 2 little pigs that laughed all day, building their homes of sticks and straw and shunning hard work, much preferring to play. There were still barbecues, but the food no longer was the main draw. I should've been more swift on my toes but I was probably too intently focused on a pair of dimes, to notice that a paradigm was about to shift right under my nose. Somehow, almost overnight it seemed, getting back to school seemed almost cool. It's not like I was always going to be wearing a paper hat and being a spatula wielding fool. The jobs would get better and more high tech. Soon I'd even earn a wage and no longer be hourly.
We want to offer you stock options and a competitive starting salary.
No thanks. I'll be busy with basketball and my classes.
We'll let you work whenever you can.
Thanks, but no thanks. My free-time is controlled by this guy named Stan. (Morrison that is...was.... Men's basketball coach at San Jose State University)
And so this season dragged on a little longer than expected but that's the way it is around these parts. The seasons change so subtly until you can't recall when they changed at all. The bliss and freedom that used to glide by, the beautiful butterfly in the wind had all but met its end. Each day runs into the next and the last day is the last thing that you want it to be, unless foreclosure is something that you foresee.
Where are you now beautiful butterfly? Winter time is here and you are not around. The bitter winds rage on but you cannot be found. Where are you when I need you, like right now? Perhaps I am to blame. Truly it's a shame that we're apart for months on end. I know its been awhile since I checked back in.
It's cold out here but there's a glimmer of hope that we'll meet again. I'll keep an eye out for the bees and things and flowers because one of these mornings I'm going to rise up singing as I stretch my arms up toward the sky, so I can really be fly, right along with you living my life, my life, in the sunshine loving summertime.
Sunday, July 20, 2008
A lil' green on the greens
I'm the kind of guy that likes to think that he can cook a lil' bit. Of course, I 'm being modest to some degree. I like eating too much to not be able to create something in the kitchen that I will enjoy. I'm not at the point where I can pick out ingredients and re-create something yet, but I can "do some things". Sure, I still follow recipes on some more difficult items, but 99% of the time, I nail it.
I think my strength as a cook lies in my willingness to take risks. My palate is always curious so the big challenge is getting my skills up to par. I am far more complex than your basic meat 'n potatoes type so I am forced to try my hand at producing some international fare. I've mastered an African style chicken dish in peanut sauce. My arroz con pollo and Cuban style chicken soup are pretty darn good. Those are all cookbook recipes though. However, the Cuban cookbook is pretty authentic(and half written in Spanish).
I do regional cuisine as well, but this is probably where I need the most work. So taken by the comfort food that I consumed in the Northern Kentucky/Ohio Valley area, that I came home from a trip and did my version of Skyline Chili. Skyline is like the McDonald's of Cincinnati style chili. (I think the other place is called Five Star or something). This chili is actually a spaghetti dish with all of the cholesterol, er..uh...I mean toppings that you heart (oops..i mean...well) desires. The five way is something like spaghetti, topped with the meaty marinara sauce (with special ingredient of cinnamon), grated cheddar cheese, sour cream, chives...wait..is that 5 yet? My version was pretty good, but obviously this is not in the regular rotation. Jambalaya and etoufee have not yet been attempted, unless you count the help I get from Zatarain's. I'd really like to be able to make some gumbo. I must admit that this seems like quite the daunting task though, after watching Bobby Flay fail miserably in one of his Throwdowns.
But since you must crawl before you can walk into a kitchen pump out some Southern cuisine like Emeril, Sylvia, or Leah Chase, I thought I'd try something on the more basic side. Today's challenge was mustard greens. You've gotta eat vegetables, right? Ham hocks were on sale a few weeks back, and have been staring at me from my freezer every time I open it up, so I decided I'd grab some frozen greens and give it a go. I know what you're thinking. Frozen mustard greens? Yeah, I know, that's weak. Well, I had to start somewhere. I was told that this would probably be a better move for a greenhorn like myself since I wouldn't have to wash them like I would if they were fresh.
I boiled the ham hock for over an hour before adding the greens and some seasonings. Had I been better prepared, I would've grabbed some peppers or onions to cut in to the mixture, but today the cupboard was kinda bare. I did have seasoned salt and cayenne pepper though. The cayenne proved to be just the thing to set these off. Well, not exactly set them off. These weren't yo mama's or grandmama's greens, but they weren't bad. They were edible. They soaked up some of the flavor of the ham hocks and didn't turn out too soggy. I suspect that they'll even be beter tomorrow as the soaking continues. Cornbread would've been great. You know what they say about hindsight....
Unfortunately, I accidentally bought chopped mustard greens so the end result was not exactly what I had hoped, but it was a pretty good first effort nonetheless. I'll be enjoying the leftovers tomorrow.
You're probably curious about that 1% of the time that didn't go so well for me. (Or maybe you weren't. Maybe you had forgotten all about it because my musings about mustard greens had you so captivated...or not). Let's just say that cook book or no cookbook, Jamaican food seems to be a bit advanced for me thus far. I failed miserably at some oxtails. That's okay though. I won't be held down forever. I'm like D-Wade. (No, I'm not kickin' it with Starr Jones). Get knocked down 7 times. Get up 8!
I think my strength as a cook lies in my willingness to take risks. My palate is always curious so the big challenge is getting my skills up to par. I am far more complex than your basic meat 'n potatoes type so I am forced to try my hand at producing some international fare. I've mastered an African style chicken dish in peanut sauce. My arroz con pollo and Cuban style chicken soup are pretty darn good. Those are all cookbook recipes though. However, the Cuban cookbook is pretty authentic(and half written in Spanish).
I do regional cuisine as well, but this is probably where I need the most work. So taken by the comfort food that I consumed in the Northern Kentucky/Ohio Valley area, that I came home from a trip and did my version of Skyline Chili. Skyline is like the McDonald's of Cincinnati style chili. (I think the other place is called Five Star or something). This chili is actually a spaghetti dish with all of the cholesterol, er..uh...I mean toppings that you heart (oops..i mean...well) desires. The five way is something like spaghetti, topped with the meaty marinara sauce (with special ingredient of cinnamon), grated cheddar cheese, sour cream, chives...wait..is that 5 yet? My version was pretty good, but obviously this is not in the regular rotation. Jambalaya and etoufee have not yet been attempted, unless you count the help I get from Zatarain's. I'd really like to be able to make some gumbo. I must admit that this seems like quite the daunting task though, after watching Bobby Flay fail miserably in one of his Throwdowns.
But since you must crawl before you can walk into a kitchen pump out some Southern cuisine like Emeril, Sylvia, or Leah Chase, I thought I'd try something on the more basic side. Today's challenge was mustard greens. You've gotta eat vegetables, right? Ham hocks were on sale a few weeks back, and have been staring at me from my freezer every time I open it up, so I decided I'd grab some frozen greens and give it a go. I know what you're thinking. Frozen mustard greens? Yeah, I know, that's weak. Well, I had to start somewhere. I was told that this would probably be a better move for a greenhorn like myself since I wouldn't have to wash them like I would if they were fresh.
I boiled the ham hock for over an hour before adding the greens and some seasonings. Had I been better prepared, I would've grabbed some peppers or onions to cut in to the mixture, but today the cupboard was kinda bare. I did have seasoned salt and cayenne pepper though. The cayenne proved to be just the thing to set these off. Well, not exactly set them off. These weren't yo mama's or grandmama's greens, but they weren't bad. They were edible. They soaked up some of the flavor of the ham hocks and didn't turn out too soggy. I suspect that they'll even be beter tomorrow as the soaking continues. Cornbread would've been great. You know what they say about hindsight....
Unfortunately, I accidentally bought chopped mustard greens so the end result was not exactly what I had hoped, but it was a pretty good first effort nonetheless. I'll be enjoying the leftovers tomorrow.
You're probably curious about that 1% of the time that didn't go so well for me. (Or maybe you weren't. Maybe you had forgotten all about it because my musings about mustard greens had you so captivated...or not). Let's just say that cook book or no cookbook, Jamaican food seems to be a bit advanced for me thus far. I failed miserably at some oxtails. That's okay though. I won't be held down forever. I'm like D-Wade. (No, I'm not kickin' it with Starr Jones). Get knocked down 7 times. Get up 8!
Tuesday, July 15, 2008
Humbling yourself
How seriously do you take yourself? Is it really all about you all of the time? Can anyone else really measure up in your eyes?
These questions are worth asking every now and again. We all are quick to be critical of how somebody else might be falling short of things that we think they should be doing, but how often do we hold ourselves to the same measuring stick? None of us are exempt from short comings. The last I checked, none of us walk on water nor turn said water into wine. We are neither king of kings nor lord of lords. Those of us that qualify as parents or guardians may sometimes think that we are the The Way, but we fall woefully short of Him and his greatness.
Sometimes we've got to take a step back and encourage instead of criticizing. We can be supportive as an alternative to sarcasm and negativity. Have the humility to recognize that your path has not been without potholes and that we are all works in progress. Encourage and inspire.
These questions are worth asking every now and again. We all are quick to be critical of how somebody else might be falling short of things that we think they should be doing, but how often do we hold ourselves to the same measuring stick? None of us are exempt from short comings. The last I checked, none of us walk on water nor turn said water into wine. We are neither king of kings nor lord of lords. Those of us that qualify as parents or guardians may sometimes think that we are the The Way, but we fall woefully short of Him and his greatness.
Sometimes we've got to take a step back and encourage instead of criticizing. We can be supportive as an alternative to sarcasm and negativity. Have the humility to recognize that your path has not been without potholes and that we are all works in progress. Encourage and inspire.
Saturday, July 12, 2008
Is 30 hours even enough?
Yes, we're back on this again. I'm pretty sure that I wrote about this before and I'm pretty sure that it won't be the last time. There just aren't enough hours in a day. Not only do I have my own agenda, but my kids have a list of things that they'd like to do as well. Well, okay, I thought I'd try to sneak that one past you. I don't really have an agenda. Me making plans is like a black restaurant not being out of something like chicken when you order it. Okay, let me try that again. I have an "idea" of some things that I'd like to do on a given day. Usually included in that very nebulous list are exercising and writing at some point. My children rarely have that many free activities (if any) on their list.
"Dad, can we go see a movie?"
"Dad, can we go to the batting cage?"
"Dad, can we go to San Jose to see Sammy and Tyler?"
"Dad, can we get a pizza from Zachary's?
"Dad, can...,"
Most sentences that start with "Dad, can...," or even just "Dad,...," are usually going to have me looking at my checking account balance. Well, not really. I'm pretty aware of the deficit condition that the United State of Destah operates under the majority of the time.
I solved the exercise question by including them in it. We not only walked to and partially around Lake Merritt and the Farmer's Market before walking back to my place, but we also walked to the park and played basketball later on. We shopped for groceries and I let them give some input so that it would seem like more of a fun activity, even if I vetoed about 99.7% of what they proposed. When we got home it was time to cook.
So here I am again at the end of the day wondering where all the time went. I'm at the crossroads right now trying to decide whether I'm going to really spend alot of time folding that laundry that is sitting in the basket, doing those dishes, ironing my church clothes, writing or sleeping. The writing looks like it's going to be kept to a minimum since I can't stand to wake up to a dirty kitchen and if I don't get some sleep I will be one miserable lad in the morning.
"Dad, can we go see a movie?"
"Dad, can we go to the batting cage?"
"Dad, can we go to San Jose to see Sammy and Tyler?"
"Dad, can we get a pizza from Zachary's?
"Dad, can...,"
Most sentences that start with "Dad, can...," or even just "Dad,...," are usually going to have me looking at my checking account balance. Well, not really. I'm pretty aware of the deficit condition that the United State of Destah operates under the majority of the time.
I solved the exercise question by including them in it. We not only walked to and partially around Lake Merritt and the Farmer's Market before walking back to my place, but we also walked to the park and played basketball later on. We shopped for groceries and I let them give some input so that it would seem like more of a fun activity, even if I vetoed about 99.7% of what they proposed. When we got home it was time to cook.
So here I am again at the end of the day wondering where all the time went. I'm at the crossroads right now trying to decide whether I'm going to really spend alot of time folding that laundry that is sitting in the basket, doing those dishes, ironing my church clothes, writing or sleeping. The writing looks like it's going to be kept to a minimum since I can't stand to wake up to a dirty kitchen and if I don't get some sleep I will be one miserable lad in the morning.
Friday, July 11, 2008
If you act like it's not there...
I've had a stack of mail accumulating over the past 4 or 5 weeks that is beginning to take over my kitchen counter space, and threatening to move over to my coffee table. I've been gone so often lately that opening mail has not been a priority whatsoever. I have this attitude that I know all of bills that I have due and roughly when they are due and since I pay them online its not important to deal with actual paper mail.
My real priority has been laundry. Each time I was home for a couple days and back on a plane the following week, my main concern was making sure I had some clean boxers to pack up and take to my next destination. The mail just stood there. At first it was politely leaned up against the wall where the counter gave way to the bar. Then it stacked up and eventually spread out like sand being poured into a pile. Pretty soon I found myself sliding it out of the way each time I pulled up a bar stool and sat down to eat. I just kept trying to act like it wasn't there. Opening it would have been far too easy and would perhaps be, in some weird way, admitting weakness. I didn't need to know what was in that mail. If I didn't open it, I couldn't be held accountable for what was in it, right? If I just looked past it, it didn't exist.
It just sat and sat and stacked and stacked. People would come over and comment, while others just rolled their eyes. I felt like one of those nasty couples on Clean House being given a look by Necy Nash down the end of her nose, while curling those juicy fire-engine red lipsticked labios to the side in a skeptical smirk. I was acting like my stack of mail was invisible so why can't you too. It's not like it's a pile of half eaten food or something. There wasn't an accumulation of old chicken bones in the corner or anything like that. Nor were there any critters hiding behind the paper hills.
To me it was just a daily reminder of money that I don't have. The bills stack up and I don't have any additional funds to apply to them, so there's no use in checking on the damage. To open that mail would be an acknowledgment that the walls are caving in on me. The output is becoming much great than the input. But maybe that's all in my mind. Yeah, that's it. The bills in my box aren't really in the box, but in my mind, like the recession.
My real priority has been laundry. Each time I was home for a couple days and back on a plane the following week, my main concern was making sure I had some clean boxers to pack up and take to my next destination. The mail just stood there. At first it was politely leaned up against the wall where the counter gave way to the bar. Then it stacked up and eventually spread out like sand being poured into a pile. Pretty soon I found myself sliding it out of the way each time I pulled up a bar stool and sat down to eat. I just kept trying to act like it wasn't there. Opening it would have been far too easy and would perhaps be, in some weird way, admitting weakness. I didn't need to know what was in that mail. If I didn't open it, I couldn't be held accountable for what was in it, right? If I just looked past it, it didn't exist.
It just sat and sat and stacked and stacked. People would come over and comment, while others just rolled their eyes. I felt like one of those nasty couples on Clean House being given a look by Necy Nash down the end of her nose, while curling those juicy fire-engine red lipsticked labios to the side in a skeptical smirk. I was acting like my stack of mail was invisible so why can't you too. It's not like it's a pile of half eaten food or something. There wasn't an accumulation of old chicken bones in the corner or anything like that. Nor were there any critters hiding behind the paper hills.
To me it was just a daily reminder of money that I don't have. The bills stack up and I don't have any additional funds to apply to them, so there's no use in checking on the damage. To open that mail would be an acknowledgment that the walls are caving in on me. The output is becoming much great than the input. But maybe that's all in my mind. Yeah, that's it. The bills in my box aren't really in the box, but in my mind, like the recession.
Thursday, July 10, 2008
What's burnin' me up today...
As I sit and gaze out my window at the twilight falling over Downtown Oakland, it's not the scorching heat that has got me all hot and bothered. The great thing about the built in air conditioning (aka the breeze comin' off da Bay)that we have here in The 'Town is that whenever it is absolutely miserable everywhere else, we can be assured of enjoying temperatures at least 10-15 degrees cooler. Today there was even a nice breeze so the reported 87 degrees didn't really feel like it. Of course I didn't really get to enjoy much of it as I've been inside all day working. I did enjoy the sunshine briefly on my walk back from the gym earlier.
So here's what's got me going today. Well, actually its two things. I'll start with the positive, being the positive person that I am. Actually, it's not really positive, but it just depends on your perspective. Here's issue #1. There's a guy that plays for the Texas Rangers named Josh Hamilton and he's having quite the amazing statistical season thus far. Nothing out of the ordinary there. The remarkable thing about Josh is that he was a crack addict a few years ago and almost didn't make it to the big leagues after being a first round pick the blew through a huge signing bonus, like Dave Chappelle's Tyrone Jenkins, on a $450,000 crack party. Well, good for him, hopefully he'll stay clean. He's pretty much making minimum wage ($396,000) for a big leaguer these days after many teams passed on him and his comeback attempt, thinking that he was too big of a risk. Not surprisingly, somebody did and now he's kickin' a$$ and takin' names as a member of the Texas Rangers and being talked about as the favorite for the MVP candidate as we head into the all-star break. That's all positive, right?
What's burning me up is how he is being received in the media. They love this guy. After hearing his name since the start of the baseball season on Sportscenter highlights, I finally got a chance to hear his story about a month ago when I read about him in Sports Illustrated. I thought it was a nice story, but it immediately got me to thinking about what a pleasant light they had put on this kid. I couldn't help but think about how he might be perceived if he were not Caucasian. I remember my boyhood heroes Dwight Gooden and Darryl Strawberry (both African-American) having had their bouts with cocaine and neither of them was ever given a pass on that issue EVER again.
It seems quite apparent that the media always looks at blacks in the spotlight with a different set of glasses than they look at whites in the spotlight. Don't believe me? Consider a few recent examples other than the one that I mention above. Remember the girls from Gloucester High? About a month ago the story broke about there being 17 teen aged pregnant girls at one high school compared to only 4 the previous year. I recall hearing news reports that these poor girls were "socially isolated" or "lacking the support of their families". The compassion was so thick you could cut it with a knife, in sharp contrast to the promiscuity and lack of good sense that are usually pointed to when young black girls get pregnant. Sadly, the black community has written the book on broeken families and lack of support. Where is our compassion?Even young black women that are furthering their education at institutions of higher learning AND competing in the NCAA basketball championship game get called "hoes" unapolegetically by the media. (C'mon...Imus only apologized because his job was on the line.)
Back on Mr. Hamilton now, the media truly loves him. Meanwhile, Milton Bradley of the same Texas Rangers is getting next to no publicity although his batting average and slugging percentage eclipse those of Hamilton, and he trails him only by 4 in home runs. Unfortunately, Milton has been as famous for his explosive temper as his explosive bat in a tumultuous 8 year career. This year, he has not had any dust-ups that have captured the headlines, and it almost seems like the media is disappointed by that. Adam "Don't call me Pac-Man" Jones is now a Dallas Cowboy and after being suspended for the past year he seems to want to just play some football. But I'm willing to bet that even if he has an All-Pro season, every single one of his interviews this year will lead off with questions about his checkered when they should be more concerned with his ability to pick off a pass to save the game.
Finally, I've had it up to here (I've momentarily stopped typing, stood up, placed my right hand over the top of my head with the palm down, shaking it for emphasis) with the expectation that Barack or anybody in his camp should help to reconcile Hillary Clinton's debt. Is it just me or is this completely preposterous? Surely there have been expensive campaigns before and it's conceivable that both the winning and losing campaigns alike went into the hole. But never have I seen it become headline news that there is some issue over paying off Hillary's debt. I ask you to take special note of the apostrophe "s" after the word Hillary which clearly implies that the ownership of said debt is solely her own. I know the English language can be a bit obscure and confusing with all of its funky rules and such, so let's try it in Spanish. If you caught this story on CNN en Espanol you might hear that lovely Patricia Janiot call it "la deuda de Hillary", or debt of Hillary.
Why do Fox News and all of its little imps, as well as CNN, MSNBC and all of the other news outlets seem to be helping fan the flames of the guilt trip that is being slapped on to Brother Obama? Is it another case of the unique treatment by the media that I've touched on above? It almost seems like, "Look here, Barack, we've let you come around from the back door and actually come in the front door of the restaurant and eat in the dining room, so be grateful and help Hillary out." Does anyone else feel this or is it just me? I don't see anybody making a big deal about Ron Paul's, or Rudy Giuliani's failed campaigns and rushing to their aid and Rudy's camp seems to be in some trouble.
Hillary lost. It has pretty much been a wrap since February or March, but she kept the whole ugly affair going. Surely it cost millions to turn up the negative advertising heat and to fly her people around the country in total panic mode for an additional 4 months. Like Rudy, I'm sure she wasn't chillin' at the Super 8 and buckling down so that she would have enough to ride it out for the long haul. I'm quite sure she was all about ocean views, Four Season's suites, and serious spreads of cold cuts and croquettes on the campaign trail. I don't feel sorry for her or her camp one bit. These are grown people we're talking about. Very very educated grown people. With my little bachelor's degree, I can wrap my head around the concept that if I sink some capital into gaining an advantage over an opponent, no one is going to bail me out. If I'm an Olympic athlete and I don't end up winning the gold medal, I'm not going to go to the actual gold medalist and have him help me pay the coaches and trainers that worked with me all this time in preparation for my 5th place finish in the 400 meter dash. We all hoped that a gold medal would translate into lucrative endorsements, but a 5th place certainly will not.
That's enough burning up for this day. I'd sure like to see this issue go away. Indeed I would. What I'd really like to see though, is for some media personnel to take an objective look at themselves and acknowledge the blatant differences in the way that they report the news along color lines.
So here's what's got me going today. Well, actually its two things. I'll start with the positive, being the positive person that I am. Actually, it's not really positive, but it just depends on your perspective. Here's issue #1. There's a guy that plays for the Texas Rangers named Josh Hamilton and he's having quite the amazing statistical season thus far. Nothing out of the ordinary there. The remarkable thing about Josh is that he was a crack addict a few years ago and almost didn't make it to the big leagues after being a first round pick the blew through a huge signing bonus, like Dave Chappelle's Tyrone Jenkins, on a $450,000 crack party. Well, good for him, hopefully he'll stay clean. He's pretty much making minimum wage ($396,000) for a big leaguer these days after many teams passed on him and his comeback attempt, thinking that he was too big of a risk. Not surprisingly, somebody did and now he's kickin' a$$ and takin' names as a member of the Texas Rangers and being talked about as the favorite for the MVP candidate as we head into the all-star break. That's all positive, right?
What's burning me up is how he is being received in the media. They love this guy. After hearing his name since the start of the baseball season on Sportscenter highlights, I finally got a chance to hear his story about a month ago when I read about him in Sports Illustrated. I thought it was a nice story, but it immediately got me to thinking about what a pleasant light they had put on this kid. I couldn't help but think about how he might be perceived if he were not Caucasian. I remember my boyhood heroes Dwight Gooden and Darryl Strawberry (both African-American) having had their bouts with cocaine and neither of them was ever given a pass on that issue EVER again.
It seems quite apparent that the media always looks at blacks in the spotlight with a different set of glasses than they look at whites in the spotlight. Don't believe me? Consider a few recent examples other than the one that I mention above. Remember the girls from Gloucester High? About a month ago the story broke about there being 17 teen aged pregnant girls at one high school compared to only 4 the previous year. I recall hearing news reports that these poor girls were "socially isolated" or "lacking the support of their families". The compassion was so thick you could cut it with a knife, in sharp contrast to the promiscuity and lack of good sense that are usually pointed to when young black girls get pregnant. Sadly, the black community has written the book on broeken families and lack of support. Where is our compassion?Even young black women that are furthering their education at institutions of higher learning AND competing in the NCAA basketball championship game get called "hoes" unapolegetically by the media. (C'mon...Imus only apologized because his job was on the line.)
Back on Mr. Hamilton now, the media truly loves him. Meanwhile, Milton Bradley of the same Texas Rangers is getting next to no publicity although his batting average and slugging percentage eclipse those of Hamilton, and he trails him only by 4 in home runs. Unfortunately, Milton has been as famous for his explosive temper as his explosive bat in a tumultuous 8 year career. This year, he has not had any dust-ups that have captured the headlines, and it almost seems like the media is disappointed by that. Adam "Don't call me Pac-Man" Jones is now a Dallas Cowboy and after being suspended for the past year he seems to want to just play some football. But I'm willing to bet that even if he has an All-Pro season, every single one of his interviews this year will lead off with questions about his checkered when they should be more concerned with his ability to pick off a pass to save the game.
Finally, I've had it up to here (I've momentarily stopped typing, stood up, placed my right hand over the top of my head with the palm down, shaking it for emphasis) with the expectation that Barack or anybody in his camp should help to reconcile Hillary Clinton's debt. Is it just me or is this completely preposterous? Surely there have been expensive campaigns before and it's conceivable that both the winning and losing campaigns alike went into the hole. But never have I seen it become headline news that there is some issue over paying off Hillary's debt. I ask you to take special note of the apostrophe "s" after the word Hillary which clearly implies that the ownership of said debt is solely her own. I know the English language can be a bit obscure and confusing with all of its funky rules and such, so let's try it in Spanish. If you caught this story on CNN en Espanol you might hear that lovely Patricia Janiot call it "la deuda de Hillary", or debt of Hillary.
Why do Fox News and all of its little imps, as well as CNN, MSNBC and all of the other news outlets seem to be helping fan the flames of the guilt trip that is being slapped on to Brother Obama? Is it another case of the unique treatment by the media that I've touched on above? It almost seems like, "Look here, Barack, we've let you come around from the back door and actually come in the front door of the restaurant and eat in the dining room, so be grateful and help Hillary out." Does anyone else feel this or is it just me? I don't see anybody making a big deal about Ron Paul's, or Rudy Giuliani's failed campaigns and rushing to their aid and Rudy's camp seems to be in some trouble.
Hillary lost. It has pretty much been a wrap since February or March, but she kept the whole ugly affair going. Surely it cost millions to turn up the negative advertising heat and to fly her people around the country in total panic mode for an additional 4 months. Like Rudy, I'm sure she wasn't chillin' at the Super 8 and buckling down so that she would have enough to ride it out for the long haul. I'm quite sure she was all about ocean views, Four Season's suites, and serious spreads of cold cuts and croquettes on the campaign trail. I don't feel sorry for her or her camp one bit. These are grown people we're talking about. Very very educated grown people. With my little bachelor's degree, I can wrap my head around the concept that if I sink some capital into gaining an advantage over an opponent, no one is going to bail me out. If I'm an Olympic athlete and I don't end up winning the gold medal, I'm not going to go to the actual gold medalist and have him help me pay the coaches and trainers that worked with me all this time in preparation for my 5th place finish in the 400 meter dash. We all hoped that a gold medal would translate into lucrative endorsements, but a 5th place certainly will not.
That's enough burning up for this day. I'd sure like to see this issue go away. Indeed I would. What I'd really like to see though, is for some media personnel to take an objective look at themselves and acknowledge the blatant differences in the way that they report the news along color lines.
Tuesday, July 8, 2008
Sidetracked
It seems that I just can't seem to sit down and write anything of any substance lately. Actually, I'm finding it difficult to even sit down at all. All of my time has been consumed by so many other things that writing has been difficult to do. I won't go so far as to suggest that the creative process has gone away with my spare time, but it has been compromised. Several times lately I have found myself brainstorming while engaged in these other all-consuming activities and wishing that I could stop right there and expand on that train of thought. The only problem is that the train won't stop moving. If I'm on the highway, I can't very well pull over to the side of the road and start writing something. With gas prices such as they are I'm not trying to do anything that will adversely effect my car's fuel efficiency. I've tried to say things out loud or even try to link the brainstorm to key phrases or happenings that may help me to trigger the memory when I am in a place where I can write, but it hasn't helped much. Most of the time when I stop to play catch-up, the S.S. Creativity has sailed. The train has already left the station.
I've managed to jot down a few random notes on the back of envelopes and spare receipts or whatever else might be within arms reach when I am inspired. Unfortunately, most of these have been stashed as hap-hazardly as the manner in which they were collected and few have been revisited. I haven't been terribly successful attempting to do this while operating a motor vehicle thus far, and as fate would have it this is when many ideas come (and subsequently go) as I am half listening to whatever is coming out of the speakers of my radio. On the bright side, I've had several musical inspirations born in this fashion and if they ever make it to print they should be pretty good. Don't tell anyone, but I've scrawled out some barely legible notes while driving through traffic. What I need is some sort of recording device to capture my thoughts. However, I'd be afraid to feel the pressure of this think-tank on wheels and might be disappointed in myself if I rode from point A to point B in complete silence. Besides, the typing and erasing, the re-reading and adjusting, along with the perusals of the online thesaurus and an occasional waltz through wikipedia have become part of my creative flow. Not being "connected" makes that a bit more challenging.
On more than one occasion I've engaged a friend in a topic that I wished to write about if for no other reason than to test a theory or to gain another perspective to be included when I actually got down to the business of writing. I worry that they can tell though. I don't want to be in the practice of interviewing my friends. Well, maybe it is good practice sometimes, but I'd rather just have a comfortably flowing conversation. This hobby is becoming a little more complicated than I had imagined it could or would be. Actually, I can't really recall having imagined anything about it at all. I just wrote. I had some time, and I wrote. Maybe there's something to the whole time thing. It appears to be as curiously essential to this whole process as anything else.
I've managed to jot down a few random notes on the back of envelopes and spare receipts or whatever else might be within arms reach when I am inspired. Unfortunately, most of these have been stashed as hap-hazardly as the manner in which they were collected and few have been revisited. I haven't been terribly successful attempting to do this while operating a motor vehicle thus far, and as fate would have it this is when many ideas come (and subsequently go) as I am half listening to whatever is coming out of the speakers of my radio. On the bright side, I've had several musical inspirations born in this fashion and if they ever make it to print they should be pretty good. Don't tell anyone, but I've scrawled out some barely legible notes while driving through traffic. What I need is some sort of recording device to capture my thoughts. However, I'd be afraid to feel the pressure of this think-tank on wheels and might be disappointed in myself if I rode from point A to point B in complete silence. Besides, the typing and erasing, the re-reading and adjusting, along with the perusals of the online thesaurus and an occasional waltz through wikipedia have become part of my creative flow. Not being "connected" makes that a bit more challenging.
On more than one occasion I've engaged a friend in a topic that I wished to write about if for no other reason than to test a theory or to gain another perspective to be included when I actually got down to the business of writing. I worry that they can tell though. I don't want to be in the practice of interviewing my friends. Well, maybe it is good practice sometimes, but I'd rather just have a comfortably flowing conversation. This hobby is becoming a little more complicated than I had imagined it could or would be. Actually, I can't really recall having imagined anything about it at all. I just wrote. I had some time, and I wrote. Maybe there's something to the whole time thing. It appears to be as curiously essential to this whole process as anything else.
Monday, July 7, 2008
I said a 1...a 2....mmm...mmm....
I saw Wynton Marsalis last night. Even I couldn't have scripted a better way to cap off a holiday weekend than with this giant of jazz leading his Lincoln Center Jazz Orchestra through standards and some originals as another jazz luminary looked on. Dressed to the nines in a tuxedo and seated in about the 5th row, on the right side of the stage, legendary drummer Louie Bellson appeared to be enjoying the show immensely. Several times during the show, Wynton paid homage to the man who has played with everyone you've ever heard of, including a couple stints as the leader of Duke Ellington's rhythm section.
But I almost didn't make it. In a weekend that was filled with notable blunders such as my remembering that I forgot my house keys back in Modesto just as I was exiting the freeway in Downtown Oakland, and neglecting to print out the tickets for the show until 15 minutes before the show after searching for 30 minutes for a FedEx Kinko's, it was nice to be able to relax and enjoy the experience. Sure, I had definitely had my fill of jazz for the weekend with 2 trips to the Fillmore Jazz Festival in San Francisco, but this was different. Seeing Wynton after being at the festival was like sitting court side as Jordan dropped a double nickel on the Knicks at the Garden back in '95 after earlier in the day watching some 12 and Under AAU game at the local community college. You don't get the title of virtuoso by accident. Wynton is the real deal.
Initially, I thought it might be a letdown when the venue changed from the Mountain Winery in Saratoga to the Flint Center on the campus of De Anza College in Cupertino. Not only is the Mountain Winery one of the most wonderfully intimate outdoor venues known to man, with acoustics that are surprisingly second to none, but it's also the place that essentially was the birthplace of my love for jazz. It was in August of 1988 that I had the good fortune to see Miles Davis perform there and I've been hooked ever since. I got an email regarding the change about a week before the show and half thought about pursuing a refund. The message mentioned that "comparable" seats would be distributed upon your arrival at the Flint Center's box office. What's comparable to bleacher seats (i got the cheapest ones, so shoot me! Times are hard right now...) in a very expansive indoor theater? I thought for sure they'd seat me on the moon or something. Somehow, I ended up in the front row! I could literally hear the toe tapping of each of the musicians during each number. In fact, I could see their facial expressions and even queue in to the subtle gestures they made to one another during their sets.
Wynton was very understated, bringing out the best in all of his band mates much like his homeboy Chris Paul of the New Orleans Hornets might do. You knew that he could totally show out at any moment, but he did just enough to insure success. When necessary, he would embark on an impressive run, however brief, that would remind me that he indeed was the unnamed cornetist that displayed incredible skills behind the scenes in my favorite movie, as chronicled in my Destinations post awhile back. He assembled quite a collection of players for this tour. It would be more akin to Mr. Paul playing alongside the West All-Stars as there were some serious heavy hitters in each chair on that stage. I don't want to name them all, but Sherman Irby on the sax, Elliot Mason and Chris Crenshaw on the trombone (oh, you should've seen how he made it "wa-wa" with the mute on a tune called Holy Ghost!), Chris Enriquez on the bass were amazing all throughout the show. So talented in his own right was Shawn Jackson on the trumpet, that a couple times you could've closed your eyes and swore you were listening to Miles. Saxophonist Victor Goins took a solo on their cover of Coltrane's Giant Steps that made you wonder if the 'Trane had made a stop in the building.
Speaking of 'Trane, one of the most enjoyable things about the show were Wynton's musings between each number. If you've never had a chance to hear Wynton reflect on jazz, I implore you to check him out on the Ken Burns series or on the Jazz at Lincoln Center broadcasts on many jazz and Public Radio stations around the country.
He's a true historian of the craft and tells a wonderful story. Before the Giant Steps cover, he launched into this story about how when he was about 12 years old, he remembers a picture of John Coltrane (with Wynton's father Ellis and some other musicians) featured prominently in the living room of the self-described "old-country house in Kenner, LA" that he grew up in.
"I didn't really know who he was, but I could tell by how the others were gathered around him in the picture that he was kind of important," he said from his seat on the stage, looking every bit as comfortable as your grandfather settling into his easy chair for a long story about days gone by."He was looking just as country as he wanted to in that picture, and so was everybody else," he said with a slight chuckle. "This [Giant Steps] was the first jazz song that I actually liked. I was always around a lot of jazz to that point, but I wasn't really 'listening', or really liking any of it."
The WOW factor here reminded me of my childhood, growing up with the Martin Luther King Jr. painting in my living room (yes, perhaps this was obligatory for the 1970's black household). Also there, however, was a painting of Tommy Smith (of '68 Olympics 200 Meter Gold Medal black glove fame) thrusting his black fist defiantly into the sky in Mexico City. Additionally, there were some photos of Smith in my backyard with my dad and my uncles, all classmates at San Jose State during that time. Thumbing through photo albums you might also catch a much younger and thinner Dr. Harry Edwards, once a Spartan power forward from East St. Louis. That was my childhood. But I digress. This was John William Coltrane. Love Supreme Coltrane. In a Sentimental Mood Coltrane. Yes, THAT guy.
I could go on and on about how amazing it was to be seated in the front row as Mr. Marsalis and friends played fast and furious and to hear his recollections as the rest of them caught their breath. It's getting late though, so I'll leave you with this parting thought. One of the last numbers they played before leaving the stage (all acknowledging and bowing in the direction of Bellson as they exited stage right...and, of course, eventually returning for an encore after we cheered on our feet for 2 minutes after they left) was a 1938 Duke Ellington tune called Braggin' in Brass. According to Wynton you'll be hard pressed to find this one on wax unless you've got an old 78rpm because it was rarely ever played and there are almost no known recordings of it available. They saved the best for last here, playing at a break neck pace that allowed each and every band member to show his metal (er...brass) at one point or another. Ali Jackson rapped at the drums like he was mad at them, while Dan the Piano Man was one part Bill Evans, 2 parts Wynton Kelly, a splash of Ahmad Jamal and everywhere in between. Marsalis, with rubber plunger mute in his left hand (even playing hurt! the middle finger on his left hand was heavily bandaged) made a startling Horton the Elephant sound at the appropriate intervals during one stretch of the song, adding to its intensity. The whole thing reminded me of one of those old cartoons as I could picture a jazz orchestra made up of various animals scrambling to get the notes out as fast as they could. A big grizzly bear in a pork pie hat strummed the bass while a big, bad wolf in a trench coat and shades played the coolest sax you ever saw. Some dapper aardvarks wearing bow-ties blurted out the horns with snouts extended, but then snatched them back just in time so as not to get caught in the trombones coming across from the side. All the while, a rather large eared beagle with cuff links slammed his paws on a piano whose keys would shift way to the right like an old typewriter and he'd have to reach way down to bring the register back at the end of each measure. What? You forgot who was writing this? I can get a little carried away sometimes and I watched alot of cartoons back in my day, back before there were talking sponges and underwater squirrels, but that's a story for another day.
But I almost didn't make it. In a weekend that was filled with notable blunders such as my remembering that I forgot my house keys back in Modesto just as I was exiting the freeway in Downtown Oakland, and neglecting to print out the tickets for the show until 15 minutes before the show after searching for 30 minutes for a FedEx Kinko's, it was nice to be able to relax and enjoy the experience. Sure, I had definitely had my fill of jazz for the weekend with 2 trips to the Fillmore Jazz Festival in San Francisco, but this was different. Seeing Wynton after being at the festival was like sitting court side as Jordan dropped a double nickel on the Knicks at the Garden back in '95 after earlier in the day watching some 12 and Under AAU game at the local community college. You don't get the title of virtuoso by accident. Wynton is the real deal.
Initially, I thought it might be a letdown when the venue changed from the Mountain Winery in Saratoga to the Flint Center on the campus of De Anza College in Cupertino. Not only is the Mountain Winery one of the most wonderfully intimate outdoor venues known to man, with acoustics that are surprisingly second to none, but it's also the place that essentially was the birthplace of my love for jazz. It was in August of 1988 that I had the good fortune to see Miles Davis perform there and I've been hooked ever since. I got an email regarding the change about a week before the show and half thought about pursuing a refund. The message mentioned that "comparable" seats would be distributed upon your arrival at the Flint Center's box office. What's comparable to bleacher seats (i got the cheapest ones, so shoot me! Times are hard right now...) in a very expansive indoor theater? I thought for sure they'd seat me on the moon or something. Somehow, I ended up in the front row! I could literally hear the toe tapping of each of the musicians during each number. In fact, I could see their facial expressions and even queue in to the subtle gestures they made to one another during their sets.
Wynton was very understated, bringing out the best in all of his band mates much like his homeboy Chris Paul of the New Orleans Hornets might do. You knew that he could totally show out at any moment, but he did just enough to insure success. When necessary, he would embark on an impressive run, however brief, that would remind me that he indeed was the unnamed cornetist that displayed incredible skills behind the scenes in my favorite movie, as chronicled in my Destinations post awhile back. He assembled quite a collection of players for this tour. It would be more akin to Mr. Paul playing alongside the West All-Stars as there were some serious heavy hitters in each chair on that stage. I don't want to name them all, but Sherman Irby on the sax, Elliot Mason and Chris Crenshaw on the trombone (oh, you should've seen how he made it "wa-wa" with the mute on a tune called Holy Ghost!), Chris Enriquez on the bass were amazing all throughout the show. So talented in his own right was Shawn Jackson on the trumpet, that a couple times you could've closed your eyes and swore you were listening to Miles. Saxophonist Victor Goins took a solo on their cover of Coltrane's Giant Steps that made you wonder if the 'Trane had made a stop in the building.
Speaking of 'Trane, one of the most enjoyable things about the show were Wynton's musings between each number. If you've never had a chance to hear Wynton reflect on jazz, I implore you to check him out on the Ken Burns series or on the Jazz at Lincoln Center broadcasts on many jazz and Public Radio stations around the country.
He's a true historian of the craft and tells a wonderful story. Before the Giant Steps cover, he launched into this story about how when he was about 12 years old, he remembers a picture of John Coltrane (with Wynton's father Ellis and some other musicians) featured prominently in the living room of the self-described "old-country house in Kenner, LA" that he grew up in. "I didn't really know who he was, but I could tell by how the others were gathered around him in the picture that he was kind of important," he said from his seat on the stage, looking every bit as comfortable as your grandfather settling into his easy chair for a long story about days gone by."He was looking just as country as he wanted to in that picture, and so was everybody else," he said with a slight chuckle. "This [Giant Steps] was the first jazz song that I actually liked. I was always around a lot of jazz to that point, but I wasn't really 'listening', or really liking any of it."
The WOW factor here reminded me of my childhood, growing up with the Martin Luther King Jr. painting in my living room (yes, perhaps this was obligatory for the 1970's black household). Also there, however, was a painting of Tommy Smith (of '68 Olympics 200 Meter Gold Medal black glove fame) thrusting his black fist defiantly into the sky in Mexico City. Additionally, there were some photos of Smith in my backyard with my dad and my uncles, all classmates at San Jose State during that time. Thumbing through photo albums you might also catch a much younger and thinner Dr. Harry Edwards, once a Spartan power forward from East St. Louis. That was my childhood. But I digress. This was John William Coltrane. Love Supreme Coltrane. In a Sentimental Mood Coltrane. Yes, THAT guy.
I could go on and on about how amazing it was to be seated in the front row as Mr. Marsalis and friends played fast and furious and to hear his recollections as the rest of them caught their breath. It's getting late though, so I'll leave you with this parting thought. One of the last numbers they played before leaving the stage (all acknowledging and bowing in the direction of Bellson as they exited stage right...and, of course, eventually returning for an encore after we cheered on our feet for 2 minutes after they left) was a 1938 Duke Ellington tune called Braggin' in Brass. According to Wynton you'll be hard pressed to find this one on wax unless you've got an old 78rpm because it was rarely ever played and there are almost no known recordings of it available. They saved the best for last here, playing at a break neck pace that allowed each and every band member to show his metal (er...brass) at one point or another. Ali Jackson rapped at the drums like he was mad at them, while Dan the Piano Man was one part Bill Evans, 2 parts Wynton Kelly, a splash of Ahmad Jamal and everywhere in between. Marsalis, with rubber plunger mute in his left hand (even playing hurt! the middle finger on his left hand was heavily bandaged) made a startling Horton the Elephant sound at the appropriate intervals during one stretch of the song, adding to its intensity. The whole thing reminded me of one of those old cartoons as I could picture a jazz orchestra made up of various animals scrambling to get the notes out as fast as they could. A big grizzly bear in a pork pie hat strummed the bass while a big, bad wolf in a trench coat and shades played the coolest sax you ever saw. Some dapper aardvarks wearing bow-ties blurted out the horns with snouts extended, but then snatched them back just in time so as not to get caught in the trombones coming across from the side. All the while, a rather large eared beagle with cuff links slammed his paws on a piano whose keys would shift way to the right like an old typewriter and he'd have to reach way down to bring the register back at the end of each measure. What? You forgot who was writing this? I can get a little carried away sometimes and I watched alot of cartoons back in my day, back before there were talking sponges and underwater squirrels, but that's a story for another day.
Wednesday, July 2, 2008
Limited Access
I'm going crazy over here with the on-again-off-again nature of my internet connection today. All day while I was working I had to deal with the frustration of losing my connection for no good reason, usually when I desperately needed to look something up to assist my client. Even this evening after the workday was essentially over, I found myself growing frustrated by the intermittent nature of my ability to browse the web. I wanted to see what tomorrow's weather was going to be and suddenly I couldn't reach weather.com. I can still send instant messages and my music is streaming so I must be connected. I click a link on a web page that I already have open and it goes nowhere. I try to open a new browser and allow it to open up the Google homepage, but that gives me the ol' "Not Found". Now I'm getting upset. What started out as a simple inquiry about tomorrow's weather has turned into a quest to find one webpage, ANY web page that will allow me connect to it.
And what are these warnings about Threats and executable files? Is my virus detector doing its job or creating problems. Maybe the ignorance of not knowing that any problems were present truly was bliss. Since this AVG virus guard was installed I seem to be seeing more and more strange behavior. However, maybe the problem has been there for quite awhile and this virus guard is just helping me to identify it. I hope I catch it in time because I'm getting tired of whatever it is forcing me to restart my computer after a time to reset the connection. It feels like the internet industry has been set back 10 years as my web pages are coming up with the blinding speed of a dial-up connection on a commodore 64. That is, of course, if the web pages come up at all. Why hasn't my music stopped? Why can these people keep sending me instant messages? How frustrated am I right now?
And what are these warnings about Threats and executable files? Is my virus detector doing its job or creating problems. Maybe the ignorance of not knowing that any problems were present truly was bliss. Since this AVG virus guard was installed I seem to be seeing more and more strange behavior. However, maybe the problem has been there for quite awhile and this virus guard is just helping me to identify it. I hope I catch it in time because I'm getting tired of whatever it is forcing me to restart my computer after a time to reset the connection. It feels like the internet industry has been set back 10 years as my web pages are coming up with the blinding speed of a dial-up connection on a commodore 64. That is, of course, if the web pages come up at all. Why hasn't my music stopped? Why can these people keep sending me instant messages? How frustrated am I right now?
Tuesday, July 1, 2008
Tables Turn
For the last three months I have been completely avoiding him. I don't answer his calls, and I walk the other way when I see him coming. I've all but resorted to living an underground existence. I'm like the invisible man lurking in the shadows. I'm not afraid, but I'm just not up to facing him right now. Well, at least I haven't been up to it until now.
What a difference a day makes, is what they say. Twenty four little hours and oh my, how the tables have turned. Whereas yesterday I had no leg to stand on, today I am downright in a position of power. With a single bit of breaking news he has gone from a guy who is holding all of the cards to a man in one of the most unenviable positions around. The Discovery Channel might make a special white collar edition of their Dirtiest Jobs series with him in mind.
I'm not talking about the landlord or any bill collector, because they never seem to lose their edge and always manage to keep a foot planted firmly upon my neck. No, I'm talking about the guy that Golden State Warriors Season Ticket Sales-Guy. Yesterday, he was the keeper of a relatively attractive product. Not only had it showed modest gains like any prospective blue-chip holding might, but it's portfolio had been bolstered by a prolonged period of high performance. Emerging from the clouds that often keep a lid on the flash in the pans, preventing them from reaching the stratosphere, it had appeared poised to leave behind the label of potential, forging a path instead for one more rock solid like Prudential. But all of that changed today. With the news that Baron Davis has signed with the Los Angeles Clippers, the Golden State Warriors have plummeted to the Earth back to the ranks of the pretenders, no longer remotely contenders. The wheels have fallen off. The glue is gone. The bubble has burst.
The folks over there in the Warriors ticket office have got to feel alot like the folks downstairs in the sales office for my condominium complex, and many others of its kind in the area. A mere 18 months ago, this place was hot. It was new and exciting with breathtaking views. It was positioned as a get-it-now-while-its-still-affordable type proposition. You don't want to be late to the game, because you'll miss out. "Trying to get in on this opportunity down the line will be far more costly," they said. "You'll pay more and you'll be stuck with what's left. Don't miss out," they said. Then the economy went south and they can't give these units away. Well, they just about gave some of them away, but there are still some left.
If I close my eyes, I can envision a support group taking place in some multi-purpose room of some community center. The Warriors ticket guy is there and the condo sales guys are there, and they're all commiserating about their sense of hopelessness. They lament about how arrogant they were and how easy their jobs were at one point.
"Hi...my name is Chris, and I work in the season ticket office for the Golden State Warriors...,"
HI CHRIS!
"I'm having a hard time putting things into words. I'm feeling really overwhelmed. I don't know quite who to turn to. I'm overcome by the emptiness."
ITS OKAY, CHRIS. TAKE YOUR TIME BROTHER.
"I'm trying to come to grips with the reality that I have to make follow up calls to some loyal fans to whom I have been less than gracious to over the last few months...," he mumbles. "Cold calls are now so lonely as well. I feel so vulnerable."
Chris goes on blabbering for another few minutes until he is comforted by the gentle hand of Barry the condo sales guy, caressing his back and urging him to stay strong. Choking back the tears, Chris hands the floor over to Barry, one of the old hands in this group with some 9+ months of experience, to offer his sage testimonial.
"Hi, My name is Barry, and I sell condos...,"
HI BARRY
"Well, I don't really sell condos. I sometimes show them and helped to put them up for auction, but rarely do I ever sell one. It's like I've been cursed and have to serve this penance for the rest of my natural life. I didn't make the prices or the mortgage rates, but I also did nothing to stop them. I didn't protest. I condoned them. I enabled them. Some mornings, the guilt is altogether too much for me. But I put my feet on the floor one at a time and I walk over to the mirror and I tell myself that I am a good person and that I will help to right the situation somehow, and that, Chris, is how I get through my days."
YOU'RE SO BRAVE, BARRY.
Brave? Perhaps. A cautionary tale? Indeed. If my phone rings tomorrow I might be more inclined to pick it up and talk shop with Chris. I'm not so sure why since my financial situation has not improved. The laws of the universe have not chosen to make the fate of my position improve inversely proportional to the decline of his or Barry's. I'm just as broke today as I was yesterday and as I will be tomorrow. But I might pick up the call anyway, just like I might be inclined to stare at a trainwreck or at some fresh roadkill off the side of the road. Why? Because I can't help but do it. Maybe I'll be like the cat toying with the mouse instead of just putting him out of his misery quickly and decisively. I could prolong his agony, allowing him to make feeble attempts at sweeting his deal instead of immediately eradicating him with some very resolute rejection. But where is the humanity in that? I shouldn't kick a man while he's down. He's got nothing to offer me now, but at least he is continuing on anyway. There's got to be credit given for that. Quite honorable indeed to carry on in this way. It's downright courageous.
Don't worry, Chris. I'll be cordial and even respectful when you call. You'll get letdown easy, but you're dignity will remain fully intact. Although the shoe is on the other foot (and no longer on my neck), you must march on brave soldier, like the true warrior that you are.
What a difference a day makes, is what they say. Twenty four little hours and oh my, how the tables have turned. Whereas yesterday I had no leg to stand on, today I am downright in a position of power. With a single bit of breaking news he has gone from a guy who is holding all of the cards to a man in one of the most unenviable positions around. The Discovery Channel might make a special white collar edition of their Dirtiest Jobs series with him in mind.
I'm not talking about the landlord or any bill collector, because they never seem to lose their edge and always manage to keep a foot planted firmly upon my neck. No, I'm talking about the guy that Golden State Warriors Season Ticket Sales-Guy. Yesterday, he was the keeper of a relatively attractive product. Not only had it showed modest gains like any prospective blue-chip holding might, but it's portfolio had been bolstered by a prolonged period of high performance. Emerging from the clouds that often keep a lid on the flash in the pans, preventing them from reaching the stratosphere, it had appeared poised to leave behind the label of potential, forging a path instead for one more rock solid like Prudential. But all of that changed today. With the news that Baron Davis has signed with the Los Angeles Clippers, the Golden State Warriors have plummeted to the Earth back to the ranks of the pretenders, no longer remotely contenders. The wheels have fallen off. The glue is gone. The bubble has burst.
The folks over there in the Warriors ticket office have got to feel alot like the folks downstairs in the sales office for my condominium complex, and many others of its kind in the area. A mere 18 months ago, this place was hot. It was new and exciting with breathtaking views. It was positioned as a get-it-now-while-its-still-affordable type proposition. You don't want to be late to the game, because you'll miss out. "Trying to get in on this opportunity down the line will be far more costly," they said. "You'll pay more and you'll be stuck with what's left. Don't miss out," they said. Then the economy went south and they can't give these units away. Well, they just about gave some of them away, but there are still some left.
If I close my eyes, I can envision a support group taking place in some multi-purpose room of some community center. The Warriors ticket guy is there and the condo sales guys are there, and they're all commiserating about their sense of hopelessness. They lament about how arrogant they were and how easy their jobs were at one point.
"Hi...my name is Chris, and I work in the season ticket office for the Golden State Warriors...,"
HI CHRIS!
"I'm having a hard time putting things into words. I'm feeling really overwhelmed. I don't know quite who to turn to. I'm overcome by the emptiness."
ITS OKAY, CHRIS. TAKE YOUR TIME BROTHER.
"I'm trying to come to grips with the reality that I have to make follow up calls to some loyal fans to whom I have been less than gracious to over the last few months...," he mumbles. "Cold calls are now so lonely as well. I feel so vulnerable."
Chris goes on blabbering for another few minutes until he is comforted by the gentle hand of Barry the condo sales guy, caressing his back and urging him to stay strong. Choking back the tears, Chris hands the floor over to Barry, one of the old hands in this group with some 9+ months of experience, to offer his sage testimonial.
"Hi, My name is Barry, and I sell condos...,"
HI BARRY
"Well, I don't really sell condos. I sometimes show them and helped to put them up for auction, but rarely do I ever sell one. It's like I've been cursed and have to serve this penance for the rest of my natural life. I didn't make the prices or the mortgage rates, but I also did nothing to stop them. I didn't protest. I condoned them. I enabled them. Some mornings, the guilt is altogether too much for me. But I put my feet on the floor one at a time and I walk over to the mirror and I tell myself that I am a good person and that I will help to right the situation somehow, and that, Chris, is how I get through my days."
YOU'RE SO BRAVE, BARRY.
Brave? Perhaps. A cautionary tale? Indeed. If my phone rings tomorrow I might be more inclined to pick it up and talk shop with Chris. I'm not so sure why since my financial situation has not improved. The laws of the universe have not chosen to make the fate of my position improve inversely proportional to the decline of his or Barry's. I'm just as broke today as I was yesterday and as I will be tomorrow. But I might pick up the call anyway, just like I might be inclined to stare at a trainwreck or at some fresh roadkill off the side of the road. Why? Because I can't help but do it. Maybe I'll be like the cat toying with the mouse instead of just putting him out of his misery quickly and decisively. I could prolong his agony, allowing him to make feeble attempts at sweeting his deal instead of immediately eradicating him with some very resolute rejection. But where is the humanity in that? I shouldn't kick a man while he's down. He's got nothing to offer me now, but at least he is continuing on anyway. There's got to be credit given for that. Quite honorable indeed to carry on in this way. It's downright courageous.
Don't worry, Chris. I'll be cordial and even respectful when you call. You'll get letdown easy, but you're dignity will remain fully intact. Although the shoe is on the other foot (and no longer on my neck), you must march on brave soldier, like the true warrior that you are.
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