I was soooo glad to see that training class go away today. I don't do well with listening to someone talk all day. It reminds me way too much of the lectures in college that used to be my personal cure for insomnia on many an afternoon. The client wanted to take a picture with us to show the folks back home that they had indeed traveled the requisite 7,000 miles from Seoul to learn how to use our product. All of the class' attendees and I had dined together 5 times (4 lunches and a dinner)in all this week, but they would be heading out early this time.
This meant that I would have the option of going with the rest of the guys today. My new co-workers are a fairly tightly-knit bunch that seem to take pleasure in each other's company each day for a mid-day meal. This is taking some getting used to for me as my recent pattern has been to grab a quick meal to eat at my desk when I'm actually in the office and not working from home. I think the working from home deal has made me more cognizant of how much faster I can get the work done without long "distractions or breaks. I've always been of the mindset that I need not work 8 hours in a day if I can actually finish that work in 5 or 6. But keep that on the hush. I'm still doing research on this little theory.
Much like my crew from last night, these guys are diverse in their own right. Two Canadians (one French, one regular), an Englishman, an Asian man, a Colombian and I headed over to eat some pizza at a popular spot near the job. Predictably, all of these engineers talked "tech" during the ride over and for a moment after we sat down in the pizza parlor until the conversation was hijacked as suddenly as daybreak inside a railway tunnel.
"That Korean girl was cute, eh?"
Leave it to a group of men in a profession without an abundance of women to take it there not 15 minutes after our Korean contingent had driven away from our building. This was met to very mixed reviews at the table. I played fly on the wall with this group, being the new guy and all, offering only minimal input, choosing instead to make sure that I made the right facial expressions and added the occasional interested and concurring nod right on cue.
Of course the conversation went into the gutter from here, so I'll spare you the gruesome details. Suffice it to say that there will be nary a dull moment lunching with these guys from here on out.
Friday, December 7, 2007
Thursday, December 6, 2007
Hangin' with the Homeboys
It's another glorious Thursday night in the San Francisco Bay Area and me and the crew, or rather, the Crew and I set out to do some celebrating. It's almost Friday and by all accounts, it has been a rough week. That's reason enough to celebrate. But we had actually convened for a birthday. Of course, with our crew, getting everyone together is never a small feat and today would be no different. I'm just glad that I wasn't the one with the difficult set of circumstances for once, and no one had to accomodate me. Somebody else drew that card today.
As usual, we tried to make sure that whatever our festivities turned out to be, run of the mill would not be a phrase used to describe them. Part of this is due to our mantra to live life to the fullest AND against the grain, taking the road less traveled. Most of the time that rules out things like chicken and beer at a sports bar. If we do resort to something like that, however, we'll throw a wrinkle in it by taking care that the scenery is way out of the norm( our norm, anyway), being perhaps a rarely visited part of town, or being a bar where that chicken is tandoori chicken or something like that, and the sport on those bar tv's is of the cricket or polo variety. This is never a tough sell with this very international group though. With two Jamaicans, a Persian, and myself we've got a wide range of experiences and tastes to draw upon. Recently we got together at the last minute on a Tuesday and ended up eating at a food court. Yes, a food court. But you've never seen a group of guys push a food court to its full potential like we did. No one got the cheesesteak and cup full of fries, or the stuffed, cheesy crust Sbarro pizza, or even a Big Mac. When we all met back at a table in the middle of the seating area, it looked like lunchtime in the United Nations cafeteria. Afghan, Indian, Jamaican and Japanese food covered our little formica table.
Tonight it would be Moroccan food at a restaurant called Aziza and live Cuban/Reggaeton/Hip Hop music at a bar called Mojito's in North Beach. The food was great and the service spectacular at this sophisticated, yet unpretentious and downright laid back Western Addition neighborhood restaurant. We entertained ourselves not only by marveling about the tasty treats being brought to us by our waitress, but also trying to figure out where she was from. This type of undertaking always busts me up. We always have this urge to make someone out to be much more exotic and mysterious than they really are. "She amazing!" remarked the birthday boy, adding, "...you see...that's what I'm talking about..she's very sophisticated."
"I know," added another, "she's very refined," he continued, having based his assessment solely on the way she placed the silverware on the table and the quiet confidence she exuded as she recited the evenings specials, as if these things speak to magna cum laude at Harvard and a masters in etiquette in a South Wales finishing school. "I think she's from South Africa...that accent..it's exquisite," the coconut rum libation that she had recommended clearly taking control of his faculties at this point.
I hadn't yet detected any accent, but I went along with the conversation anyway. She did have a very nice command of the menu and seemed very easy in her explanations of individual ingredients and how they complement one another for your tasting pleasure. Of course, any woman talking about food as if it's a science, or religion even, makes me smile and take notice. I liken it to the way that I might recollect that someone I met in a dark club "could've been Halle Berry's twin sister," judgement clouded by her rather impressive analysis of the nuances of Stockton and Malone's pick and roll, Jim Leyland's ability to manufacture runs, and why the West Coast offense is dying a slow death in some major collegiate programs. But, like I said, I played along.
Finally, as she was placing the dessert menus on the table I asked where she was from to end the debate once and for all. The wide speculation had all but dominated our conversation so I decided to throw down the gauntlet. South Africa got a vote, as did New Zealand. Feeling like I was the only one that had failed to see the emperor's new clothes, I cast my vote for the Midwest (you know, Kansas, Illinois, Ohio,...).
"Texas," she said,"but I then lived in New York for many years."
They were visibly disappointed. Somehow, in our circles, accents, far off homelands, and the assumption of diverse hobbies and, um...the ability to..uh..read earn very high marks on the first impressions scale. "She's still bad!" one of them finally blurted out after a very long, very palpable silence. Dessert was good and we spent only a short time at Cuban spot. The bad weather had apparently kept most people home tonight.
Yet another construction detoured, semi-closure of the bridge would provide the final and most lasting memory of the night, though. The driver of our chariot got his signals crossed with the officer attempting to direct the long line of traffic to an alternate route, in a manner similar to the miscues that cause a quarterback to throw a touchdown pass to the opposing team. The receiver read "out route" while the quarterback threw the "in", and hit the strong safety right in the numbers leaving the fans calling for said quarterback's head and John Madden and Al Michaels to wax poetic about exactly what caused the quarterback to make that read ("The defensive back appears to have been following the Manning's eyes the whole time,") when in actuality it could have been that Football's Finest Females distracted that Tight End and he was mesmerized by the silver and black pom poms to the point that he never considered turning to the middle. Our driver had this same problem. While ol' Supercop was doing his best fly swatting impression from the middle of Howard Street , all of us in the car turned our heads in unison and commented on how peculiar we thought it for such an attractive Borinquen cop to be on duty as well, assisting with the directing duties for the adjacent street(A woman that fine couldn't possible be a cop, and especially not in this nasty weather, would probably have been deemed a rational argument at this point in time and with this group). Surely that caused our wheelman to lose focus and subsequently miss the bulk of what Barnie Fife was instructing him to do. He was immediately reprimanded.
"YOU! Pull right over there....NOW!"
He proceeded to lay into our man about how he had disobeyed a direct order and that he was trying to undermine his authority. "I'm sorry, Sir...I didn't mean to..I'm sorry, I was confused,...."
"DAMN RIGHT YOU WERE CONFUSED...YOU,.. DAMMIT...JUST DRIVE...GO STRAIGHT, DAMMIT, GO STRAIGHT!"
Unfortunately, we needed to turn left like everyone else to get on the bridge. I guess this was our punishment, going straight and having to go around the block again before we could get on the bridge. In fairness though, T.J. Hooker seemed to be saying go with one hand and stop with the other. It's a good thing he's not the guy guiding the 747's in for that last 50 feet on the tarmac after they've come from 10,000 miles away because that Boeing might have ended up crashing right through Terminal B. We laughed all the way home about this one, secretly relieved that we hadn't ended up face down on the curb in the rain.
As usual, we tried to make sure that whatever our festivities turned out to be, run of the mill would not be a phrase used to describe them. Part of this is due to our mantra to live life to the fullest AND against the grain, taking the road less traveled. Most of the time that rules out things like chicken and beer at a sports bar. If we do resort to something like that, however, we'll throw a wrinkle in it by taking care that the scenery is way out of the norm( our norm, anyway), being perhaps a rarely visited part of town, or being a bar where that chicken is tandoori chicken or something like that, and the sport on those bar tv's is of the cricket or polo variety. This is never a tough sell with this very international group though. With two Jamaicans, a Persian, and myself we've got a wide range of experiences and tastes to draw upon. Recently we got together at the last minute on a Tuesday and ended up eating at a food court. Yes, a food court. But you've never seen a group of guys push a food court to its full potential like we did. No one got the cheesesteak and cup full of fries, or the stuffed, cheesy crust Sbarro pizza, or even a Big Mac. When we all met back at a table in the middle of the seating area, it looked like lunchtime in the United Nations cafeteria. Afghan, Indian, Jamaican and Japanese food covered our little formica table.
Tonight it would be Moroccan food at a restaurant called Aziza and live Cuban/Reggaeton/Hip Hop music at a bar called Mojito's in North Beach. The food was great and the service spectacular at this sophisticated, yet unpretentious and downright laid back Western Addition neighborhood restaurant. We entertained ourselves not only by marveling about the tasty treats being brought to us by our waitress, but also trying to figure out where she was from. This type of undertaking always busts me up. We always have this urge to make someone out to be much more exotic and mysterious than they really are. "She amazing!" remarked the birthday boy, adding, "...you see...that's what I'm talking about..she's very sophisticated."
"I know," added another, "she's very refined," he continued, having based his assessment solely on the way she placed the silverware on the table and the quiet confidence she exuded as she recited the evenings specials, as if these things speak to magna cum laude at Harvard and a masters in etiquette in a South Wales finishing school. "I think she's from South Africa...that accent..it's exquisite," the coconut rum libation that she had recommended clearly taking control of his faculties at this point.
I hadn't yet detected any accent, but I went along with the conversation anyway. She did have a very nice command of the menu and seemed very easy in her explanations of individual ingredients and how they complement one another for your tasting pleasure. Of course, any woman talking about food as if it's a science, or religion even, makes me smile and take notice. I liken it to the way that I might recollect that someone I met in a dark club "could've been Halle Berry's twin sister," judgement clouded by her rather impressive analysis of the nuances of Stockton and Malone's pick and roll, Jim Leyland's ability to manufacture runs, and why the West Coast offense is dying a slow death in some major collegiate programs. But, like I said, I played along.
Finally, as she was placing the dessert menus on the table I asked where she was from to end the debate once and for all. The wide speculation had all but dominated our conversation so I decided to throw down the gauntlet. South Africa got a vote, as did New Zealand. Feeling like I was the only one that had failed to see the emperor's new clothes, I cast my vote for the Midwest (you know, Kansas, Illinois, Ohio,...).
"Texas," she said,"but I then lived in New York for many years."
They were visibly disappointed. Somehow, in our circles, accents, far off homelands, and the assumption of diverse hobbies and, um...the ability to..uh..read earn very high marks on the first impressions scale. "She's still bad!" one of them finally blurted out after a very long, very palpable silence. Dessert was good and we spent only a short time at Cuban spot. The bad weather had apparently kept most people home tonight.
Yet another construction detoured, semi-closure of the bridge would provide the final and most lasting memory of the night, though. The driver of our chariot got his signals crossed with the officer attempting to direct the long line of traffic to an alternate route, in a manner similar to the miscues that cause a quarterback to throw a touchdown pass to the opposing team. The receiver read "out route" while the quarterback threw the "in", and hit the strong safety right in the numbers leaving the fans calling for said quarterback's head and John Madden and Al Michaels to wax poetic about exactly what caused the quarterback to make that read ("The defensive back appears to have been following the Manning's eyes the whole time,") when in actuality it could have been that Football's Finest Females distracted that Tight End and he was mesmerized by the silver and black pom poms to the point that he never considered turning to the middle. Our driver had this same problem. While ol' Supercop was doing his best fly swatting impression from the middle of Howard Street , all of us in the car turned our heads in unison and commented on how peculiar we thought it for such an attractive Borinquen cop to be on duty as well, assisting with the directing duties for the adjacent street(A woman that fine couldn't possible be a cop, and especially not in this nasty weather, would probably have been deemed a rational argument at this point in time and with this group). Surely that caused our wheelman to lose focus and subsequently miss the bulk of what Barnie Fife was instructing him to do. He was immediately reprimanded.
"YOU! Pull right over there....NOW!"
He proceeded to lay into our man about how he had disobeyed a direct order and that he was trying to undermine his authority. "I'm sorry, Sir...I didn't mean to..I'm sorry, I was confused,...."
"DAMN RIGHT YOU WERE CONFUSED...YOU,.. DAMMIT...JUST DRIVE...GO STRAIGHT, DAMMIT, GO STRAIGHT!"
Unfortunately, we needed to turn left like everyone else to get on the bridge. I guess this was our punishment, going straight and having to go around the block again before we could get on the bridge. In fairness though, T.J. Hooker seemed to be saying go with one hand and stop with the other. It's a good thing he's not the guy guiding the 747's in for that last 50 feet on the tarmac after they've come from 10,000 miles away because that Boeing might have ended up crashing right through Terminal B. We laughed all the way home about this one, secretly relieved that we hadn't ended up face down on the curb in the rain.
Wednesday, December 5, 2007
Target Practice
I was standing at the urinal in the bathroom at the San Francisco Soup Company, taking time out for a bio-break before I rushed to catch the train when I had the following thought:
Who was the genius that came up with the idea to not only put an icy mint in the this wall-mounted vertical toilet, but that it would be a big hit if there were a mock filter placed over said mint and water that looked like a dart board?
Complete with bullseye and numbers around the circle and lines in all of the appropriate places, this was a bona fide dart board. No, this wasn't the first time I had ever seen one of these, but it did make me laugh out loud. Ladies, you probably don't know what I'm talking about, or that there was such a thing. The fellas are probably going to see to it that there are some consequences and repercussions for me speaking on these un-speakables. I told you. I observe. I am easily amused, and I can write a little bit. Some crazy things are bound to be said, and you know that I'm the Master of Minutae, the Tsunami of Soliloquys, and the Premier of Procrastination. You may call me His Royal Randomness.
Does this prove once and for all that we, as men, are very simple creatures? Are we this easily amused? (Well, we know I am, but...). Is everything a game for us? I can just imagine that there is some cat that came out of the men's room, arms over his head proclaiming his piss darts supremacy, telling all others to step off. "You betta axe somebody!" Or even worse, two cats in adjacent stalls competing. Okay, this is getting carried away. Sleep deprivation and hunger pains are not a good combination. So, again, I ask you: who was that genius?
He's probably a rich man now, just like the guy that came up with the java jacket (you know, the stupid piece of corrugated cardboard that makes sure you don't burn your hand as you drink your soy latte at Starbucks). He's probably cruising around in a 35-foot Bertram in Maui, fishing for Marlin's, and topping his day off by sipping some 18-year old, McCallan single-malt scotch. Brilliant.
Okay, I'm done. Another day above ground is a good day that I've lived to tell about. Life is good. Can you dig it?
Who was the genius that came up with the idea to not only put an icy mint in the this wall-mounted vertical toilet, but that it would be a big hit if there were a mock filter placed over said mint and water that looked like a dart board?
Complete with bullseye and numbers around the circle and lines in all of the appropriate places, this was a bona fide dart board. No, this wasn't the first time I had ever seen one of these, but it did make me laugh out loud. Ladies, you probably don't know what I'm talking about, or that there was such a thing. The fellas are probably going to see to it that there are some consequences and repercussions for me speaking on these un-speakables. I told you. I observe. I am easily amused, and I can write a little bit. Some crazy things are bound to be said, and you know that I'm the Master of Minutae, the Tsunami of Soliloquys, and the Premier of Procrastination. You may call me His Royal Randomness.
Does this prove once and for all that we, as men, are very simple creatures? Are we this easily amused? (Well, we know I am, but...). Is everything a game for us? I can just imagine that there is some cat that came out of the men's room, arms over his head proclaiming his piss darts supremacy, telling all others to step off. "You betta axe somebody!" Or even worse, two cats in adjacent stalls competing. Okay, this is getting carried away. Sleep deprivation and hunger pains are not a good combination. So, again, I ask you: who was that genius?
He's probably a rich man now, just like the guy that came up with the java jacket (you know, the stupid piece of corrugated cardboard that makes sure you don't burn your hand as you drink your soy latte at Starbucks). He's probably cruising around in a 35-foot Bertram in Maui, fishing for Marlin's, and topping his day off by sipping some 18-year old, McCallan single-malt scotch. Brilliant.
Okay, I'm done. Another day above ground is a good day that I've lived to tell about. Life is good. Can you dig it?
Tuesday, December 4, 2007
A Blog About Nothing
I woke up this morning simultaneously startled and wanting to throw the cell phone doubling as my alarm clock across the room. Wake up time, as it so often does , came much too soon for my liking. I shaved, showered, drove to work, drove home and went to sleep , with the expectation of doing it all again tomorrow. This is not very exciting stuff, is it? It worked so much better for Jerry Seinfeld and George Costanza in making their show about nothing. I guess it doesn't play nearly as well in in cyberspace on my blog page as it does each night in syndication. I've seen those shows dozens of times and still laugh at the same things, well, with the exception of the times when the scowl and shaking of the head that is inevitable each time Kramer appears on the screen.
Allow me to attempt to liven things up a bit. I woke up, went to work, had lunch, struggled to stay awake for the remainder of the day, drove home through lighter than usual traffic, took my daughter to basketball practice, ate and went to sleep. Yawn. Yeah, it's boring me too. Sorry, I'll try one more time. Since you and I both know that work provides nothing noteworthy the majority of the time (except for when I'm lucky enough to deal with special people-- see my Dilbert Files ) so we'll just fast-forward to lunch. Chinese food. "Chinese food?" you say. "You hate Chinese food!" True indeed, but let us put a caveat to that statement. The greasy stuff crammed into funny shaped white boxes that, after only a short time, leave you wondering if you had anything to eat at all, is that for which I have a strong dislike. However, having worked for a Taiwanese company and traveled to Asia to eat some real authentic food, which hardly resembles the crap we call Chinese food at all. I've managed to survive and sometimes almost enjoy the experience. I still won't ever request it and would rather go to a steakhouse if given the choice, but I can stand it.
The problem is that since I hardly ever seek out this cuisine voluntarily, I never know what to order. Nothing sounds particularly good and in my experience, the stuff that does rarely comes out like I expected. Luckily, my phone rang while I was struggling through the menu choices. I usually don't like for my cell phone to ring during meals, especially at fairly nice restaurants, but I do sometimes glance at the caller ID to make sure that its not an emergency or something.
As it turned out, it was my friend Mimi. It's like when you're using Microsoft Office and that stupid paper clip or that brown and white puppy dog or whatever character you had in the settings, popped up to foster a guess as to what you were trying to do and then started offering up ways to help you. Do you want to merge some documents? Do you want to archive your mail right now? It looks like you're writing a letter? May I help you? Well, unlike the paper clip, Mimi's timing was spot on because at that precise moment I was beginning to panic as I could see the waiter making it back to our table to take our order, and I still hadn't made any sense of this Chinese cuisine.
Let me tell you something about Mimi. About 4 or 5 Christmas' ago I was doing my usual December 23rd all-in-one-day shopping excursion to Union Square and at the 11th hour was having trouble finding a particular item. Not only did she help to decipher what I was trying to describe , but she was able to tell me precisely where to find it. No...I don't think you understand. I wish I could make it plain. I was standing on the corner of Geary and Stockton in front of the parking garage when I called her. With the presence of John Elway in the huddle on "The Drive" (you know, back in the 1987 AFC Championship game against the Browns?)she paused, took a deep breath and probably rolled up her sleeves, and licked her finger tips as if she needed to improve her grip on the ball before getting under center. The ball was snapped.
She told me to walk across the street where I would see a life sized picture of J-Lo in the window of the Louis Vuitton store. "Turn right," she said, " and walk down to the second set of double doors...that will be Macy's. Walk in and down the 3 stairs where you'll see a security guard sitting in front of a bank of elevators on the right." She was in rare form, marching down the field like a 4-star general. "Those elevators will take you to the Cheesecake Factory, but keep going straight about 10 more steps until you get to the counter where they keep the Movado watches, turn right and follow this counter around to the left where it well end as you reach the mannequin wearing the red Nautica jacket with the blue fleece lining," She was in the red-zone now. I felt like Indiana Jones following the very detailed instructions that had involved years of research, deciphering hieroglyphics, learning the secrets to get past the poisoned darts that flew out of the wall and ducking just in time to avoid decaptiation as the blade swung just above my head.
"Make a quarter turn to the right and then button hook over your left shoulder behind the white ivory display case," she said, back pedaling, scanning the field, looking for the open receiver. "And it is there that you will find the Coach key chains." Touchdown Broncos! At that point, I took the phone from my ear and looked all around that store to see if she was watching me or something. There have been no less than 5 incidents like this where Mimi has led me to within inches of whatever I was seeking in various shopping establishments across Northern California. If she were one of the X-men, her special power would be some sort of x-ray vision that would superimpose schematics and blueprints of all of the world's shopping centers about 6 inches in front of her face in green laser light. She's like what would happen if you crossed a librarian with Alicia Silverstone's Cher in Clueless.
Once again it appears that I have taken infinitely more time giving you background on a subject than the actual incident itself. But that's part of my charm right? You love my verbosity, don't you? Of course you do. That's why you tuned in to read my blog about nothing. Okay, let me wrap it up.
So, I'm back at Ming's, and the menu is making me nervous. I panic. Mimi calls. I told her of my very urgent situation and told her that I was at Ming's. Without hesitation, she said, "Get the Honey Walnut Prawns." This time, she sounded like Phil Jackson calling the play as the Bulls left the timeout. You know the rest.
Jordan takes the inbounds pass, drives to the middle with Ehlo draped all over him, stops, shoots...Bulls win!
Monday, December 3, 2007
Morning Cup of Jazz
One thing I can't recommend is heading into a technical training session while sleep deprived. All weekend I told myself that I was going to try to be well rested for the class that I'm scheduled for all this week, but somehow it just didn't work out. I had a late game last night and we managed to muster up enough motivation to dispense of the other team. After eating, blogging and getting my stuff ready to dash out the door in the morning it was sufficiently late and I knew I was going to struggle today, and struggle mightily.
It started out encouraging. The first hour was a review of the sales material that I have tried to familiarize myself with for the past few weeks. With a bowl of oatmeal in the tank I thought I had the perfect amount of energy to make it through to lunch, but not be too full that I would sabotage my efforts at being alert and attentive. The class got underway and I was feeling steady like the orchestra backing Ray Charles on Georgia on my mind, a very even tempo that I felt like I could sustain and keep going at least until the first break. The disc jockey in my head had other ideas, changing to a more somber Born Under a Bad Sign.
I was hearing Jimi, but I was becoming uneasy now, not at all comfortable with somber mood of this selection. To combat the fatigue that was taking over, I shifted nervously in my chair, first crossing my left foot over to rest on my right knee, then switching about a minute later. I put my feet on the floor and tried to sit up straight as Jimi played over the very sinister, bluesy baseline. In an all out panic now, picked up my pen and prepared to write some notes. When Led Zeppelin's Dazed and Confused came on, I was done for, struggling for the coordination to write down a not so key point and to make it legible. Instead of letting the song ride out into the fade, the DJ must've pulled the plug, as the song slurred to a close right along with my eyelids. I made a valiant effort to jerk my head back and regain my composure, but I was going under faster than Mr. Bopinsiero with all that weight dragging him down after Tony and the boys tucked him in to sleep with the fishes. At last it was break time and I knew precisely what I had to do.
Charting a direct course toward the break room I had one thing on my mind. Black coffee. No sugar, no cream. There was enough for one last cup in the pot that someone had made earlier. I sucked it down like it contained the antidote for the life threatening affliction from which I was suffering. I felt the life flowing back into me upon tasting this magical elixir. I had to have another cup. Not being a regulary coffee drinker, I couldn't begin to tell you exactly how to brew another pot of coffee. I studied it for a moment. I looked in the drawer near the coffee pot and saw some filters and a package of Starbucks Decaf blend. I had no use for that. Tossing it aside, I rummaged through the drawer until I found some high octane Folgers. Opening the top of the coffee maker,as I had seen others do before, I noticed that there was what looked like a perfectly functional filter and the remnants of the previous batch's grounds. I poured the Folgers right over the other stuff, and briefly second guessed myself, but it was too late now. I started to pour the water right on those grounds in that filter. Luckily, I noticed the proper place for that water before allowing too much to spill into this rather tattered looking filter. Then I waited. I watched the dark drops, now resembling crude oil and smelling not at all like the wonderfully roasted scents that emanate from java houses the world around. Eyes widening and mouth watering as the drops chimed like Pavlov's bell as they hit the bottom of the pot, I felt my senses coming alive. I grabbed three packets of sugar as the class began to assemble back in the conference room signaling the end of the break, and returned to my seat armed and dangerous. As I sipped between the billows of steam that rose out of the plastic cup, I could hear the scratchiness of the needle hitting the vinyl of a tune that I could not yet make out. My left foot caught the rhythm and began to tap on the floor right on beat with the pen in my right hand. Like a jetliner just cleared for takeoff, I began to pick up speed as the pace quickened into Dizzy Gillespie's Salt Peanuts, and just as Jim Carrey's Chip Douglas, adorned in that ridiculous mustache and the Frank Poncharello CHiPs sunglasses became a hurricane of fists and backhands in his minor assault on the very self absorbed Owen Wilson in the Cable Guy, I began to furiously jot down everything that the instructor wrote down.
By the time Donald Byrd's Street Lady rang out, I had little need for the backrest as I now sat at attention on the edge of my chair. I could feel the energy start to subside a bit, like the smooth clarinet that settles in after Dave Brubeck's lively introduction in Rondo A la Turk, but we were almost at lunch so I knew that the judges could not help but score the 2nd round in my favor when we headed to our corners, Fatigue and I.
After lunch, kept him at bay for a few more rounds. A couple of assorted deli sandwich halves in my belly now, I switched to the Mocha flavored, 9.5 oz bottles of Starbucks Iced coffee now, and it's a good thing because Fatigue's home court advantage kicked in even more as the heater started to warm the narrow conference room. Like William Wallace and his band of Scotsmen in Braveheart, I fought valiantly as a warrior poet (whatever that is, but it sounds good when Mel Gibson says it in the narration that wraps up that epic film).
As we moved into the later rounds I no longer resembled a finely tuned fighting machine, but more like Apollo Creed stumbling around as a barely ambulant Rocky Balboa delivered insanely severe blows to his midsection, repeatedly lifting him off the ground. If I had a mirror, I'm sure I would've seen eyes as red as cherry tomatoes, bugging out of a countenance resembling that of Bill the Cat, the half-baked, ex-rockstar cat from the old Bloom County comic strip. Retention of any more of the days lessons was no longer an option. Saving face in front of the customers also in attendance and not making the instructor feel as though he had a hand in boring me to a near comatose state was all that I clung to at that point.
At last it was over and I walked around the building a few times before getting in the car to drive home. I had survived day one, but would come to find out the hard way that a bladder full of highly caffeinated beverages and bumper-to-bumper rush hour traffic do not a good mix make.
It started out encouraging. The first hour was a review of the sales material that I have tried to familiarize myself with for the past few weeks. With a bowl of oatmeal in the tank I thought I had the perfect amount of energy to make it through to lunch, but not be too full that I would sabotage my efforts at being alert and attentive. The class got underway and I was feeling steady like the orchestra backing Ray Charles on Georgia on my mind, a very even tempo that I felt like I could sustain and keep going at least until the first break. The disc jockey in my head had other ideas, changing to a more somber Born Under a Bad Sign.
I was hearing Jimi, but I was becoming uneasy now, not at all comfortable with somber mood of this selection. To combat the fatigue that was taking over, I shifted nervously in my chair, first crossing my left foot over to rest on my right knee, then switching about a minute later. I put my feet on the floor and tried to sit up straight as Jimi played over the very sinister, bluesy baseline. In an all out panic now, picked up my pen and prepared to write some notes. When Led Zeppelin's Dazed and Confused came on, I was done for, struggling for the coordination to write down a not so key point and to make it legible. Instead of letting the song ride out into the fade, the DJ must've pulled the plug, as the song slurred to a close right along with my eyelids. I made a valiant effort to jerk my head back and regain my composure, but I was going under faster than Mr. Bopinsiero with all that weight dragging him down after Tony and the boys tucked him in to sleep with the fishes. At last it was break time and I knew precisely what I had to do.
Charting a direct course toward the break room I had one thing on my mind. Black coffee. No sugar, no cream. There was enough for one last cup in the pot that someone had made earlier. I sucked it down like it contained the antidote for the life threatening affliction from which I was suffering. I felt the life flowing back into me upon tasting this magical elixir. I had to have another cup. Not being a regulary coffee drinker, I couldn't begin to tell you exactly how to brew another pot of coffee. I studied it for a moment. I looked in the drawer near the coffee pot and saw some filters and a package of Starbucks Decaf blend. I had no use for that. Tossing it aside, I rummaged through the drawer until I found some high octane Folgers. Opening the top of the coffee maker,as I had seen others do before, I noticed that there was what looked like a perfectly functional filter and the remnants of the previous batch's grounds. I poured the Folgers right over the other stuff, and briefly second guessed myself, but it was too late now. I started to pour the water right on those grounds in that filter. Luckily, I noticed the proper place for that water before allowing too much to spill into this rather tattered looking filter. Then I waited. I watched the dark drops, now resembling crude oil and smelling not at all like the wonderfully roasted scents that emanate from java houses the world around. Eyes widening and mouth watering as the drops chimed like Pavlov's bell as they hit the bottom of the pot, I felt my senses coming alive. I grabbed three packets of sugar as the class began to assemble back in the conference room signaling the end of the break, and returned to my seat armed and dangerous. As I sipped between the billows of steam that rose out of the plastic cup, I could hear the scratchiness of the needle hitting the vinyl of a tune that I could not yet make out. My left foot caught the rhythm and began to tap on the floor right on beat with the pen in my right hand. Like a jetliner just cleared for takeoff, I began to pick up speed as the pace quickened into Dizzy Gillespie's Salt Peanuts, and just as Jim Carrey's Chip Douglas, adorned in that ridiculous mustache and the Frank Poncharello CHiPs sunglasses became a hurricane of fists and backhands in his minor assault on the very self absorbed Owen Wilson in the Cable Guy, I began to furiously jot down everything that the instructor wrote down.
By the time Donald Byrd's Street Lady rang out, I had little need for the backrest as I now sat at attention on the edge of my chair. I could feel the energy start to subside a bit, like the smooth clarinet that settles in after Dave Brubeck's lively introduction in Rondo A la Turk, but we were almost at lunch so I knew that the judges could not help but score the 2nd round in my favor when we headed to our corners, Fatigue and I.
After lunch, kept him at bay for a few more rounds. A couple of assorted deli sandwich halves in my belly now, I switched to the Mocha flavored, 9.5 oz bottles of Starbucks Iced coffee now, and it's a good thing because Fatigue's home court advantage kicked in even more as the heater started to warm the narrow conference room. Like William Wallace and his band of Scotsmen in Braveheart, I fought valiantly as a warrior poet (whatever that is, but it sounds good when Mel Gibson says it in the narration that wraps up that epic film).
As we moved into the later rounds I no longer resembled a finely tuned fighting machine, but more like Apollo Creed stumbling around as a barely ambulant Rocky Balboa delivered insanely severe blows to his midsection, repeatedly lifting him off the ground. If I had a mirror, I'm sure I would've seen eyes as red as cherry tomatoes, bugging out of a countenance resembling that of Bill the Cat, the half-baked, ex-rockstar cat from the old Bloom County comic strip. Retention of any more of the days lessons was no longer an option. Saving face in front of the customers also in attendance and not making the instructor feel as though he had a hand in boring me to a near comatose state was all that I clung to at that point.
At last it was over and I walked around the building a few times before getting in the car to drive home. I had survived day one, but would come to find out the hard way that a bladder full of highly caffeinated beverages and bumper-to-bumper rush hour traffic do not a good mix make.
Sunday, December 2, 2007
Ain't Necessarily So...
You're working the door as a ticket-taker/bouncer at a function your organization is putting on to honor some of its own, nervously shifting your weight back and forth, making a clapping sound made popular by the Three Stooges and counting the minutes until you can abandon your post and join the others inside for the banquet meal that always accompanies these type of functions. It's a cool fall evening and you're smartly dressed in a dark suit and very presidential looking tie, even if you're passing the time doing the Curly Shuffle. The nearly floor length overcoat that you are wearing is more for effect than anything as, after all, this is fall in Southern California, so its probably 63 degrees, and you ARE standing halfway in the doorway. Most of the gala's attendees have arrived and being a doorkeeper is getting to be pretty slow. In the distance you see a figure approaching with an interesting gait. As it nears, you cringe as you discover it's a nattily-dressed, disheveled middle-aged man heading toward you. You're mama taught you better than to be judgemental and that you're not better than anybody, but this man's stench makes you want to turn your back and slam the door tightly behind you. Luckily, your catholic school upbringing kicks in and you put on your smile and reciprocate his "good evening, friend...." After he prys and prods about what has so many nice-looking, handsomely-dressed young black people out on this fine evening, you explain that yours is a professional organization whose aim is to increase the number of culturally responsible Black Engineers who excel academically, succeed professionally and positively impact the community. At this, he suddenly launches into some technical talk of his own. Just as you're about to dismiss this blabbering as nothing but the mindless dribble of an old homeless drunk, you recognize that he's musing about Gauss, Leibniz, Faraday and Newton, names that have haunted you in your Physics and Electromagnetic theory classes. You throw him a bone and engage in some deeper discussion on this subject and others when it occurs to you that this man must not have always pushed a cart along Wilshire Boulevard stashing his belongings in the park where he retired each evening. You realize that 30 years ago he could've been you. Shoot, he probably was you, and save for a tough break here, some hardship there, and maybe a brush with a glass ceiling, or if such an organization had been available for him, he might be the keynote speaker at your banquet instead of a guy trying to soak up some of the heat that escaped the doorway on this fall evening in Southern California.
Now you're visiting a church in the Bay Area, where outside in the parking lot, all of the finest automobiles that money can buy are represented. You're impressed by how ornately the women are dressed, how distinguished all of the men are in their Sunday best, and how cherubic the well behaved children are. The choir makes a joyful noise that seems to have rained down from nowhere if not Heaven. The preacher brings the Good Word with all of the fire and zeal of the Deep South, the organist helping him bring it home at its climax. The ushers have seated you next to a very well groomed and pleasant gentleman holding a braille edition of the King James Version of the Bible in his lap, that helps the preacher along at appropriate intervals in his sermon calling out, "C'mon, Pastor! Tell it! AMEN! Hallelujah." You enjoy the whole scene, the antics and friendly disposition of this sightless man of God, and the sermon is right on time. Afterward you learn from the friend that invited you that this man is a registered sex offender.
You see a mountain of a man walking through the park with two young children, them the apple of his eyes, and he of theirs. He moves effortlessly as if gliding, with a bounce to his step befitting the park's beautifully landscaped,rolling hills of lush green grass set against a clear blue sky at the horizon. Women swoon as he passes, commenting to one another about how attractive it is to see a man so at ease with his children, lamenting that "...there aren't anymore good ones like him out there...." Quietly envious, you too wish that you could have his life for a day, and experience the bliss that must be his everyday life. But it ain't necessarily so. Superdad battles a depression so intense that he will try to take his own life later that evening.
Life at the surface is never quite as interesting as what a seeker shall find along the way should they endeavor to encounter an experience or two.
Now you're visiting a church in the Bay Area, where outside in the parking lot, all of the finest automobiles that money can buy are represented. You're impressed by how ornately the women are dressed, how distinguished all of the men are in their Sunday best, and how cherubic the well behaved children are. The choir makes a joyful noise that seems to have rained down from nowhere if not Heaven. The preacher brings the Good Word with all of the fire and zeal of the Deep South, the organist helping him bring it home at its climax. The ushers have seated you next to a very well groomed and pleasant gentleman holding a braille edition of the King James Version of the Bible in his lap, that helps the preacher along at appropriate intervals in his sermon calling out, "C'mon, Pastor! Tell it! AMEN! Hallelujah." You enjoy the whole scene, the antics and friendly disposition of this sightless man of God, and the sermon is right on time. Afterward you learn from the friend that invited you that this man is a registered sex offender.
You see a mountain of a man walking through the park with two young children, them the apple of his eyes, and he of theirs. He moves effortlessly as if gliding, with a bounce to his step befitting the park's beautifully landscaped,rolling hills of lush green grass set against a clear blue sky at the horizon. Women swoon as he passes, commenting to one another about how attractive it is to see a man so at ease with his children, lamenting that "...there aren't anymore good ones like him out there...." Quietly envious, you too wish that you could have his life for a day, and experience the bliss that must be his everyday life. But it ain't necessarily so. Superdad battles a depression so intense that he will try to take his own life later that evening.
Life at the surface is never quite as interesting as what a seeker shall find along the way should they endeavor to encounter an experience or two.
Saturday, December 1, 2007
The Notorious J.O.E.
The first time she ever caught me doing this, my daughter was really perplexed. A notorious ear-hustler, with a future in the CIA at the rate she's going, she routinely interrogates me about my phone conversations as soon as I put the receiver down.
"Dad, why did you tell that lady that your name was Joe?" she asked, nose crinkled up, head cocked to the side, and being scratched by the index finger of her right hand. I told her that it was just easier that way. Now before you lambast me for being a horrible parent and setting a horrible example, allow me to give you the proper context.
I have one of those names. It seemes easy enough. It looks just like it is spelled. Maybe the problem is with people hearing me say it. Maybe I mumble. Maybe they are too conditioned for me respond with something like "Hi, I'm Darryl/Demetrius/Devin/Justin/Chester." I don't know. Blame my parents. Blame my Uncle Dennis. Blame the 1970s. I've never really heard the entire blow-by-blow of how he came to get naming rights, but my dad's youngest brother Dennis, then a student at Harvard, allegedly offered up my gem of a first name and my mother loved it. I'm lucky that naming male first borns wasn't as sought after as naming many major league stadiums these days. I might be called Network Associates, Invesco, or Monster.com or some other deplorable label that saps every bit of tradition out of a place like the Coliseum, Mile High or The 'Stick! Fearing that I'd be called June-Bug, my mom vetoed the John Jr. idea as well as one that would have served the dual purpose of honoring some of my dad's lifelong friends and speaking to my bi-racial lineage. As a result Juan Antonio was tossed aside as well. Met with opposition at every turn, my dad probably threw his hands up and let lil' bro offer up his suggestion.
As it turns out, my name IS indeed very popular. That is, if I were born about 12,000 miles to the East, in Ethiopia. I went the first 16 years of my life, never encountering a namesake, until I met a kid from Ethiopia with the same name. I've run into maybe 2 or 3 since and like clockwork, they've all been from there. Ethiopians and Eritreans are always very excited when they learn my name. Apparently, its like being named Mike or Steve or Joe here in the States. It has never earned me any points with the beautiful women from that part of the world, but that's another story.
As usual, I've taken you on quite a tangent. A few weeks ago, under my daughter's watchful eye, and her bionic ears at the ready, I ordered something using my real name. I don't know why I did it. It usually wastes a good 30-45 seconds in repeating it 4 or 5 times and then spelling it and they butchered it as usual. I must've had something on my mind. Who knows. When we went to pick up whatever it was that I had ordered, my daughter smiled at me as they called out "Justin! Your order's ready...."
Fast forwarding to tonight, we were driving down the highway about 20 minutes away from Zachary's Chicago Style Pizza in Oakland and I called in my order because cooking was no longer an option at that hour.
Perhaps my daughter is using some high-tech, bluetooth tapping device and I started to hear some clicking sounds alerting me that there was indeed another little set of ears clued in (or perhaps I'm as paranoid as a Cold War politician), but I was acutely aware this time.
Berkeley-ish College Kid (BCK): Hello Zachary's can you hold............What would you like?"
Me: Yes................................ Medium, deep dish, pepperoni and sausage
BCK: What size?
Me: Uh...medium!
BCK: Ok...name?
Here it was, the moment of truth. In these instances, I like to keep it simple. Mono-syllabic, hard consonant sounds if possible...very anglo, very common.
Me: Joe!
Joe is the gold standard in mono-syllabic,anglo, any American can get it right names. The rest of the call would go off without a hitch. In 20 minutes, I would arrive at Zachary's, walk in to claim my pie and stroll out of there. Or so I thought.
BCK: Last initial?
Me: D! (i wasn't expecting this one, so it momentarily threw me for a loop, but I think I salvaged it fairly well. After all, D should be okay. It might be confused with B, or G, but it was still to follow Joe, so it shouldn't really matter.)
When I got to the counter, no one could find a medium, deep-dish pepperoni and sausage for Joe. We went over each detail again, one by one. I told them it was a medium pizza. I told them it was deep dish. I told them that it had both pepperoni and sausage. How could this happen? My plan was infallible, save for the possible exception of human error. But I mean, c'mon...Joe? It's a three letter name. It's one syllable. Any 2-year old can get Joe right.
Well, they finally found my medium, deep-dish, pepperoni and sausage. It only took about 10 minutes of them getting frustrated, and me getting frustrated, but I lived to tell about it. As usual, Zachary's made a delicious pie that my kids and I enjoyed tremendously. Back at the house when my daughter went to get herself a second piece, we finally got the good laugh that was a fitting end to our ordeal. Mr. BCK totally spaced when he was on the phone with me. Either that or his hand was on auto-pilot as it wrote down Bill B.
"Dad, why did you tell that lady that your name was Joe?" she asked, nose crinkled up, head cocked to the side, and being scratched by the index finger of her right hand. I told her that it was just easier that way. Now before you lambast me for being a horrible parent and setting a horrible example, allow me to give you the proper context.
I have one of those names. It seemes easy enough. It looks just like it is spelled. Maybe the problem is with people hearing me say it. Maybe I mumble. Maybe they are too conditioned for me respond with something like "Hi, I'm Darryl/Demetrius/Devin/Justin/Chester." I don't know. Blame my parents. Blame my Uncle Dennis. Blame the 1970s. I've never really heard the entire blow-by-blow of how he came to get naming rights, but my dad's youngest brother Dennis, then a student at Harvard, allegedly offered up my gem of a first name and my mother loved it. I'm lucky that naming male first borns wasn't as sought after as naming many major league stadiums these days. I might be called Network Associates, Invesco, or Monster.com or some other deplorable label that saps every bit of tradition out of a place like the Coliseum, Mile High or The 'Stick! Fearing that I'd be called June-Bug, my mom vetoed the John Jr. idea as well as one that would have served the dual purpose of honoring some of my dad's lifelong friends and speaking to my bi-racial lineage. As a result Juan Antonio was tossed aside as well. Met with opposition at every turn, my dad probably threw his hands up and let lil' bro offer up his suggestion.
As it turns out, my name IS indeed very popular. That is, if I were born about 12,000 miles to the East, in Ethiopia. I went the first 16 years of my life, never encountering a namesake, until I met a kid from Ethiopia with the same name. I've run into maybe 2 or 3 since and like clockwork, they've all been from there. Ethiopians and Eritreans are always very excited when they learn my name. Apparently, its like being named Mike or Steve or Joe here in the States. It has never earned me any points with the beautiful women from that part of the world, but that's another story.
As usual, I've taken you on quite a tangent. A few weeks ago, under my daughter's watchful eye, and her bionic ears at the ready, I ordered something using my real name. I don't know why I did it. It usually wastes a good 30-45 seconds in repeating it 4 or 5 times and then spelling it and they butchered it as usual. I must've had something on my mind. Who knows. When we went to pick up whatever it was that I had ordered, my daughter smiled at me as they called out "Justin! Your order's ready...."
Fast forwarding to tonight, we were driving down the highway about 20 minutes away from Zachary's Chicago Style Pizza in Oakland and I called in my order because cooking was no longer an option at that hour.
Perhaps my daughter is using some high-tech, bluetooth tapping device and I started to hear some clicking sounds alerting me that there was indeed another little set of ears clued in (or perhaps I'm as paranoid as a Cold War politician), but I was acutely aware this time.
Berkeley-ish College Kid (BCK): Hello Zachary's can you hold............What would you like?"
Me: Yes................................ Medium, deep dish, pepperoni and sausage
BCK: What size?
Me: Uh...medium!
BCK: Ok...name?
Here it was, the moment of truth. In these instances, I like to keep it simple. Mono-syllabic, hard consonant sounds if possible...very anglo, very common.
Me: Joe!
Joe is the gold standard in mono-syllabic,anglo, any American can get it right names. The rest of the call would go off without a hitch. In 20 minutes, I would arrive at Zachary's, walk in to claim my pie and stroll out of there. Or so I thought.
BCK: Last initial?
Me: D! (i wasn't expecting this one, so it momentarily threw me for a loop, but I think I salvaged it fairly well. After all, D should be okay. It might be confused with B, or G, but it was still to follow Joe, so it shouldn't really matter.)
When I got to the counter, no one could find a medium, deep-dish pepperoni and sausage for Joe. We went over each detail again, one by one. I told them it was a medium pizza. I told them it was deep dish. I told them that it had both pepperoni and sausage. How could this happen? My plan was infallible, save for the possible exception of human error. But I mean, c'mon...Joe? It's a three letter name. It's one syllable. Any 2-year old can get Joe right.
Well, they finally found my medium, deep-dish, pepperoni and sausage. It only took about 10 minutes of them getting frustrated, and me getting frustrated, but I lived to tell about it. As usual, Zachary's made a delicious pie that my kids and I enjoyed tremendously. Back at the house when my daughter went to get herself a second piece, we finally got the good laugh that was a fitting end to our ordeal. Mr. BCK totally spaced when he was on the phone with me. Either that or his hand was on auto-pilot as it wrote down Bill B.
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