I love getaway weekends. An interesting bed & breakfast, unique restaurant and some attraction with local flavor.
We’re driving down the road to my latest find and there’s a long period of silence. I take a quick sidelong glance and see her jaw working around. Okay, batten down the hatches.
“I brought champagne and chocolate dipped strawberries.”
“That’s nice, hon.”
“Have you noticed that I’m the one who thinks of the romantic touches?”
“Yes and nobody is more grateful than I.”
“You could do something.”
“Since you’re already covering it, that would seem to be a duplication of effort.”
“Not funny. You could do something at least once.”
“You mean, in addition to searching out B&Bs, restaurants and shops, making reservations, Mapquesting the route and paying for the whole thing."
“Yes, that’s what I mean.”
“Well maybe I have and it’s a surprise.”
“What?
“If I tell you, it isn’t a surprise.”
“Or, it just isn’t.”
“We’ll see.”
“Yes we will.”
Okay, I’ve got like 10 miles of country highway in the middle of nowhere to come up with something romantic without her detecting it. I’m not liking my odds. I see something up ahead.
“Need to make a rest stop?”
“No, I’m fine.”
“Well, I’m getting gas.”
“You just filled up back on the interstate.”
“We’re out in Indian country, hon. You never know when you’re going to see another pump.”
“You’re not going to find a romantic surprise in that little store.”
“Never crossed my mind.” How does she always know?
Let’s see. Moonpies? John Deere hat? Corndog? Not looking good.
“Can I help you there, babe?”
Nothing was clicking. Maybe the cashier could help. She appeared to be female-like.
“I’m looking for a little gift, something a lady might like.”
“Oh, we ain’t much on that stuff. Wait, how about this?” She flicked a lighter in the shape of a woman’s leg.
“Ya know, I’ll get back to you on that one. Where’s your rest room?” It was one of the deals around the back, and you needed to lug a key attached to an anvil.
Over the porcelain edifice is an array of vending machines. Hmmmm. Possible romantic touch? I’m becoming the very definition of desperation.
They all vend birth control, with the first one dispensing a variety of renditions in bright colors. Hey, nothing says party like that. I wince. It’s all fun until someone decides to make balloon animals.
The next offering is of the tickler variety, but the knobs, ridges and spikes in the illustration seem incongruent with that sensation. The plug does not appear to mate up well with the receptacle.
I have more than a passing acquaintance with the receptacle. When I was in the prototyping business, we had a client that manufactured feminine hygiene products. They would have us make latex models of the receptacle in varying configurations, so they could test insertion of their new product designs. They were a very good customer, because their models were always mysteriously disappearing from the lab.
The last machine featured the glow-in-the-dark model. Now this has real possibilities. I imagine sequestering myself in the bathroom and having her turn out all the lights. Then, I emerge into the darkness with the glowing sword and do the voice. “Luke, I am your father.” Good entrance, but might fall just short of romantic.
Okay, I think we’re done here. I go back to the shop to pay for the gas.
“Say mister, would you like the number for a flower place?”
“Do they deliver in town?”
“Yep, sure do.”
“Then, I sure do.”
Friday, February 29, 2008
Tuesday, February 26, 2008
Chasing the Dream
I have a few avocations that require equipment. I like to patronize local merchants, but sometimes it’s much more advantageous to buy elsewhere.
Last week, I placed an order via email with a little company about a thousand miles away that I buy from, anticipating they might mess it up. Their batting average isn’t good. I was very specific, trying to avert this situation, but today it became apparent they overcame my precautions. We’ll get it straightened out.
They are enthusiasts, not businesspeople. The upside of dealing with them is that they really know the equipment and give excellent advice. They use it themselves. And, they do try to take care of their fellow enthusiasts. But, they still fall prey to their weaknesses. I go into the deals with my eyes open about this.
Years ago, I owned a large cabin cruiser and berthed it on a long dock in a marina, along with other large boats. Most of them had electrical systems, plumbing, HVAC, etc. In other words, it’s like maintaining a house.
Except, these boats also had engines. Usually, two for propulsion and one to run the generator. Therefore, it’s like keeping up a house and a few cars.
An integral part of this type of boating is taking an evening or day a week to fix or replace something. There’s always a project. If you love boats, it’s not such a bad thing. This is part of it. Especially, the way it’s done.
You go down to the boat, turn on the stereo, lay out the tools and pop open a beer. Then, you get to work.
I am reminded of finals week in college. We laid out everything and steeled ourselves for all-nighters. At least, until someone broke. That is, felt a need for displacement activity. Someone would take a break and wander into another room to shoot the breeze. Then, another guy would show up. And another. Pretty soon, you had an all-night card game.
You’re working on your boat, as are a number of other guys. One of them ambles down the dock with an extra beer and offers it to you. What the heck. You deserve a break. You start talking boats and other guy things. Pretty soon, there’s three more guys. You break out the deck chairs and some more beers. A good time is had by all. We loved this.
One night, I’m grappling with a defective bilge pump and feel the boat list slightly. Someone has climbed aboard. I go topside and find Ed with a beer extended toward me. I’ve been working at least ten minutes, so I’m due for a rest.
But, Ed has more than the usual maritime gab on his mind. Another marina is for sale and he wants to know if I’m interested in discussing going partners on it. You mean, hang out at a marina full time? What’s to discuss? This is a no-brainer.
What greases the process is that Ed and I both own companies and use the same business lawyer. Ed makes an appointment with Jim and we go to see him.
Ed puts the financials in front of Jim. He says they can be reviewed later, he’ll tell Jim about the business first.
Jim says, “No, I’ll tell you. I gave you the appointment to look you both in the eyes when I tell you that you’re nuts.”
“Jim,” I interrupt, “you haven’t even heard the deal.
“Don’t have to. I’ve been through this a dozen times with clients who think they can have their cake and eat it too. It blinds you when it’s your hobby. This is a high risk, high maintenance business. One month of high water can kill a good part of your gas business. Docks wear out. Pipes and wiring break. Who’s going to do all that work? You guys see yourselves sitting around on some chaise lounges, sipping pina coladas, smoking Macanudos and watching the boat bimbos prance by.”
“That’s not true. I was thinking more like Bass Ale.”
We wrangled for hours, with no side giving any quarter. Finally, Jim just flat out refused to have anything to do with it. “If you guys were doing something that played to your strengths, I’d back you to the hilt. But, this ain’t it.”
It took a few days to come down to earth. Jim was right. If I took the romance out of the equation, it didn’t make any business sense.
Not that everything has to. But, a big mistake can take you down. I have a friend who bought a country club a few years ago and it’s bleeding him white.
Yeah, I do business with these guys with the equipment because they give good prices and even better advice. But, I’m also supporting their dream. They went for it and I hope they make it.
Last week, I placed an order via email with a little company about a thousand miles away that I buy from, anticipating they might mess it up. Their batting average isn’t good. I was very specific, trying to avert this situation, but today it became apparent they overcame my precautions. We’ll get it straightened out.
They are enthusiasts, not businesspeople. The upside of dealing with them is that they really know the equipment and give excellent advice. They use it themselves. And, they do try to take care of their fellow enthusiasts. But, they still fall prey to their weaknesses. I go into the deals with my eyes open about this.
Years ago, I owned a large cabin cruiser and berthed it on a long dock in a marina, along with other large boats. Most of them had electrical systems, plumbing, HVAC, etc. In other words, it’s like maintaining a house.
Except, these boats also had engines. Usually, two for propulsion and one to run the generator. Therefore, it’s like keeping up a house and a few cars.
An integral part of this type of boating is taking an evening or day a week to fix or replace something. There’s always a project. If you love boats, it’s not such a bad thing. This is part of it. Especially, the way it’s done.
You go down to the boat, turn on the stereo, lay out the tools and pop open a beer. Then, you get to work.
I am reminded of finals week in college. We laid out everything and steeled ourselves for all-nighters. At least, until someone broke. That is, felt a need for displacement activity. Someone would take a break and wander into another room to shoot the breeze. Then, another guy would show up. And another. Pretty soon, you had an all-night card game.
You’re working on your boat, as are a number of other guys. One of them ambles down the dock with an extra beer and offers it to you. What the heck. You deserve a break. You start talking boats and other guy things. Pretty soon, there’s three more guys. You break out the deck chairs and some more beers. A good time is had by all. We loved this.
One night, I’m grappling with a defective bilge pump and feel the boat list slightly. Someone has climbed aboard. I go topside and find Ed with a beer extended toward me. I’ve been working at least ten minutes, so I’m due for a rest.
But, Ed has more than the usual maritime gab on his mind. Another marina is for sale and he wants to know if I’m interested in discussing going partners on it. You mean, hang out at a marina full time? What’s to discuss? This is a no-brainer.
What greases the process is that Ed and I both own companies and use the same business lawyer. Ed makes an appointment with Jim and we go to see him.
Ed puts the financials in front of Jim. He says they can be reviewed later, he’ll tell Jim about the business first.
Jim says, “No, I’ll tell you. I gave you the appointment to look you both in the eyes when I tell you that you’re nuts.”
“Jim,” I interrupt, “you haven’t even heard the deal.
“Don’t have to. I’ve been through this a dozen times with clients who think they can have their cake and eat it too. It blinds you when it’s your hobby. This is a high risk, high maintenance business. One month of high water can kill a good part of your gas business. Docks wear out. Pipes and wiring break. Who’s going to do all that work? You guys see yourselves sitting around on some chaise lounges, sipping pina coladas, smoking Macanudos and watching the boat bimbos prance by.”
“That’s not true. I was thinking more like Bass Ale.”
We wrangled for hours, with no side giving any quarter. Finally, Jim just flat out refused to have anything to do with it. “If you guys were doing something that played to your strengths, I’d back you to the hilt. But, this ain’t it.”
It took a few days to come down to earth. Jim was right. If I took the romance out of the equation, it didn’t make any business sense.
Not that everything has to. But, a big mistake can take you down. I have a friend who bought a country club a few years ago and it’s bleeding him white.
Yeah, I do business with these guys with the equipment because they give good prices and even better advice. But, I’m also supporting their dream. They went for it and I hope they make it.
Sunday, February 24, 2008
Relationships
I got the call Thursday afternoon. “Cherry found a new restaurant.” I already knew the rest, but she said it anyway. “Our plans for Saturday have changed.” Cherry’s discoveries are tantamount to those of Anasazi cliff dwellings and distant galaxies, but have much greater impact, as far as I’m concerned.
Saturday arrives and I’m looking at five couples and one fine looking menu. Small talk and catching up ensue until the first plates of exotic appetizers arrive. I spear a forkful of baba ganoush. Oh yeah! Cherry has done it again.
Samples are shared and chatter resumes. Cherry tells Sandy that Carol & Tim aren’t coming because…well, they called it quits this week. Every female head stops talking and swivels toward her. The guys keep eating.
Details, give us details. Cherry says she talked with Carol for only a few minutes. Yet, she seems to have acquired a couple decades worth of issues and background information. It transitions into a discussion about relationships. At least, among the women. The guys are staring at their plates.
Opinions and beliefs are based on life experiences, among other personal filters. Cherry & Don and Anita & Jim are in second marriages. Diane & George have been wed forever. Fawn & Eddie have a long term, albeit somewhat stormy relationship, and had each been married to others in younger days. Kathy & Bruce are on a date. They’ve known each other for a matter of months.
The women appear to be focusing on Tim’s shortcomings. I notice Jim flinching at some of them, as though he thinks they’re really talking about him. Mind you, Jim always thinks everyone is really talking about him. Mercifully, the conversation eventually turns back to the more mundane. What the kids are doing, the price of gas and the poor choices in upcoming elections.
Don invites everybody over to their place afterwards for drinks, which I pretty much saw coming. Much of his talk had been the thirty grand he put into finishing half their basement. You don’t drop that kind of money without using it at every opportunity to justify it. Everyone except Eddie and Bruce appear delighted. They seem to have had other plans. But, everyone goes.
I’ve been there before. The house is a few years old. It’s big and elegantly appointed. Yet, it’s the smallest house in the posh neighborhood. They were stretching to live there. Whatever floats your boat.
The women clustered around the sweeping breakfast bar in the kitchen. You would expect they’d have beelined for the redecoration, but it had been all Don’s baby and they had heard about it for months through Cherry. The guys followed Don to the capacious downstairs.
The new room was a media center, with big screen television, surround sound and mammoth u-shaped couch. This contrasted with the other half, which was a media center with big screen television, surround sound and mammoth u-shaped couch. It did also had a wet bar.
This begged the question, but I’m well past trying to figure out Don. George did the honors. Don explained that the one television was plasma while the other was LCD. Oh.
Drinks were ordered and mixed. We settled into a couch for some inconsequential guy talk. The Reds are screwing up again. The stock market is on a roller coaster. How hot is that Roselyn Sanchez, anyway? Has anyone worked Obama’s math and where does he think the money’s coming from?
Don usurps the role of moderator. The host’s prerogative. If he wants to be alpha dog, it’s okay by me. Surprisingly, he swings the conversation around to Carol & Tim and relationships. What is this, “The Big Chill?” Ah, but there’s an undercurrent of sex. That’s more our depth.
Don isn’t entirely satisfied with the frequency or nuances. This comes as no surprise to me since their body language is one of maintaining distance. He doesn’t treat Cherry with much respect, but that may be his passive-aggressive way of dealing with transgressions on her part.
George says they’ve been married for over thirty years. What’s sex? Everyone laughs, but he may not be kidding. Jim’s got all kinds of issues, which comes as no shock. No one bothers to point out that Anita’s merely reacting to his behavior. He hasn’t gotten it in years and isn’t about to start now.
The body language between Eddie and Fawn is always affectionate. He’s not providing any details, but says they have a good all-around relationship. Don says it’s easy for him to say because Fawn is a fox. An odd comment, since Cherry is no dog. Fawn and Cherry had both done some modeling in their younger days and still maintained themselves quite well. Bruce says they’re still very early in their relationship and it’s all heat. There’s a silence as each of us are alone with our thoughts.
Fueled by single malt scotch, it boils down to truth or dare. What is the one thing your relationship is based upon?
Don: Lifestyle. We couldn’t live like this on one income, and we like living like this.
Jim: It was tougher for both of them to take on the curveballs of life without a partner.
George: They’re married. Married people in their families are supposed to stay married.
Eddie: Mutual respect and admiration. Plus, they don’t live under the same roof.
Bruce: He’s in a couples phase. When he’s in a relationship, he wants to be out. When he’s out, he wants to be in.
Not exactly a Doris Day movie. But, neither is the real world.
Saturday arrives and I’m looking at five couples and one fine looking menu. Small talk and catching up ensue until the first plates of exotic appetizers arrive. I spear a forkful of baba ganoush. Oh yeah! Cherry has done it again.
Samples are shared and chatter resumes. Cherry tells Sandy that Carol & Tim aren’t coming because…well, they called it quits this week. Every female head stops talking and swivels toward her. The guys keep eating.
Details, give us details. Cherry says she talked with Carol for only a few minutes. Yet, she seems to have acquired a couple decades worth of issues and background information. It transitions into a discussion about relationships. At least, among the women. The guys are staring at their plates.
Opinions and beliefs are based on life experiences, among other personal filters. Cherry & Don and Anita & Jim are in second marriages. Diane & George have been wed forever. Fawn & Eddie have a long term, albeit somewhat stormy relationship, and had each been married to others in younger days. Kathy & Bruce are on a date. They’ve known each other for a matter of months.
The women appear to be focusing on Tim’s shortcomings. I notice Jim flinching at some of them, as though he thinks they’re really talking about him. Mind you, Jim always thinks everyone is really talking about him. Mercifully, the conversation eventually turns back to the more mundane. What the kids are doing, the price of gas and the poor choices in upcoming elections.
Don invites everybody over to their place afterwards for drinks, which I pretty much saw coming. Much of his talk had been the thirty grand he put into finishing half their basement. You don’t drop that kind of money without using it at every opportunity to justify it. Everyone except Eddie and Bruce appear delighted. They seem to have had other plans. But, everyone goes.
I’ve been there before. The house is a few years old. It’s big and elegantly appointed. Yet, it’s the smallest house in the posh neighborhood. They were stretching to live there. Whatever floats your boat.
The women clustered around the sweeping breakfast bar in the kitchen. You would expect they’d have beelined for the redecoration, but it had been all Don’s baby and they had heard about it for months through Cherry. The guys followed Don to the capacious downstairs.
The new room was a media center, with big screen television, surround sound and mammoth u-shaped couch. This contrasted with the other half, which was a media center with big screen television, surround sound and mammoth u-shaped couch. It did also had a wet bar.
This begged the question, but I’m well past trying to figure out Don. George did the honors. Don explained that the one television was plasma while the other was LCD. Oh.
Drinks were ordered and mixed. We settled into a couch for some inconsequential guy talk. The Reds are screwing up again. The stock market is on a roller coaster. How hot is that Roselyn Sanchez, anyway? Has anyone worked Obama’s math and where does he think the money’s coming from?
Don usurps the role of moderator. The host’s prerogative. If he wants to be alpha dog, it’s okay by me. Surprisingly, he swings the conversation around to Carol & Tim and relationships. What is this, “The Big Chill?” Ah, but there’s an undercurrent of sex. That’s more our depth.
Don isn’t entirely satisfied with the frequency or nuances. This comes as no surprise to me since their body language is one of maintaining distance. He doesn’t treat Cherry with much respect, but that may be his passive-aggressive way of dealing with transgressions on her part.
George says they’ve been married for over thirty years. What’s sex? Everyone laughs, but he may not be kidding. Jim’s got all kinds of issues, which comes as no shock. No one bothers to point out that Anita’s merely reacting to his behavior. He hasn’t gotten it in years and isn’t about to start now.
The body language between Eddie and Fawn is always affectionate. He’s not providing any details, but says they have a good all-around relationship. Don says it’s easy for him to say because Fawn is a fox. An odd comment, since Cherry is no dog. Fawn and Cherry had both done some modeling in their younger days and still maintained themselves quite well. Bruce says they’re still very early in their relationship and it’s all heat. There’s a silence as each of us are alone with our thoughts.
Fueled by single malt scotch, it boils down to truth or dare. What is the one thing your relationship is based upon?
Don: Lifestyle. We couldn’t live like this on one income, and we like living like this.
Jim: It was tougher for both of them to take on the curveballs of life without a partner.
George: They’re married. Married people in their families are supposed to stay married.
Eddie: Mutual respect and admiration. Plus, they don’t live under the same roof.
Bruce: He’s in a couples phase. When he’s in a relationship, he wants to be out. When he’s out, he wants to be in.
Not exactly a Doris Day movie. But, neither is the real world.
Saturday, February 23, 2008
The Longest Month
I fire up the email this morning. First message. “The temperature in Port St. Joe today will reach 72.” I don’t have to look at the calendar. It’s exactly one month until our annual kayaking trip. Let the madness begin.
Every spring, we head south in search for the warmth of air and water. There’s something very special about it and the wait becomes agonizing about this time. There will be numerous emails and calls flying back and forth as the excitement builds.
I’ve led hundreds of outings, but still feel the electricity with this one. For that matter, many of the participants have been on numerous trips. So, I’m wondering, what’s the deal?
We have warm weather up here. Not all year, but a passable portion. We paddle virtually every month.
Our group trips are always a blast. It’s like going away to camp for adults with your best friends. But, we do a half dozen or so a year without this level of buzz.
Exotic location? Nah, this group gets around. They’ve been to more glamorous places than the Florida panhandle. And, with better accommodations. True, this is a McMansion hard by the Gulf shores. But, the best trip we ever had, we billeted at a worn out former hotel on the bank of the Homosassa River.
As I sit here and the email counter ticks upward, I’m thinking there’s something pent up that makes it special. It’s been close to half a year since we’ve traveled, bunked and partied together. This event signals the beginning of the season with more to come.
It’s going to be a long month.
Every spring, we head south in search for the warmth of air and water. There’s something very special about it and the wait becomes agonizing about this time. There will be numerous emails and calls flying back and forth as the excitement builds.
I’ve led hundreds of outings, but still feel the electricity with this one. For that matter, many of the participants have been on numerous trips. So, I’m wondering, what’s the deal?
We have warm weather up here. Not all year, but a passable portion. We paddle virtually every month.
Our group trips are always a blast. It’s like going away to camp for adults with your best friends. But, we do a half dozen or so a year without this level of buzz.
Exotic location? Nah, this group gets around. They’ve been to more glamorous places than the Florida panhandle. And, with better accommodations. True, this is a McMansion hard by the Gulf shores. But, the best trip we ever had, we billeted at a worn out former hotel on the bank of the Homosassa River.
As I sit here and the email counter ticks upward, I’m thinking there’s something pent up that makes it special. It’s been close to half a year since we’ve traveled, bunked and partied together. This event signals the beginning of the season with more to come.
It’s going to be a long month.
The Bat
My ex called and asked me to come over to fix something. I assessed the damages and went out to the garage to look for tools. I was surprised to find two old friends there.
After a few minutes, Carol came out to find me. “I was wondering what happened to you.”
I had lost track of time, staring at an old bat and ball glove. “What are these doing here?” I had forgotten all about them.
“You didn’t take them. Lauren (our daughter) uses them.”
I remembered the rituals. Getting your new glove was fraught with boundless excitement and anticipation. You oiled it, put a baseball in the pocket and tied it up tight with a rag. All part of breaking it in. That and getting your dad to steam it into you about a hundred times.
The bat was a quest. Just the right length, swing weight and feel. Although, it sometimes boiled down to the one that gifted you that magic day you couldn’t do anything but crush the ball.
These were not the equipment of my youth, but followed not that long after. The glove sucked in every ball near me and the ugly red bat rocketed many a sphere over the fence. I picked up the bat and swung it. Ah! Perfect. This evoked a previously made decision for reconsideration.
I haven’t played baseball for a long time, but I do kayak. The paddle is the equivalent of the bat. The quest for the perfect one is a little more complex because of the additional variables. There’s length, blade size, blade shape, blade offset, weight, shaft design and material.
I started with a fairly prosaic model until I found my groove. Then, I went to a really good one. It was awesome for rolls and play moves, but just didn’t feel entirely right on the forward stroke. Most of my strokes are forward strokes.
Later, I was buying a kayak from a dealer who has a great deal of expertise. He recommended a paddle to go with it, and offered a good discount. I told him I already had a paddle, but he insisted I try this one. It was a bit of an oddball design, but I gave it a shot. Incredible blade control and felt pretty good at almost everything. I took it.
Pretty good isn’t bad. But, it’s not perfect. I stuck with that design but would experiment with others I came across. No improvement, so I was suspecting I had discovered the summit. The search abated.
Last week, a friend brought a paddle he had acquired on ebay to pool practice. I tried it out. Wow. What a feel.
I went home and looked it up on the manufacturer’s web site. Sweet. Then, I looked at the price. Yikes.
My eyes drifted and noticed a link to an even higher grade of this design. There’s something better than this? The ultimate. The Sho-Gun. I clicked over to its page. Double sweet. I looked at the price. Double yikes. I mulled it over for a while, but couldn’t reconcile that investment with my moderate skills.
Now, I’m holding an old red bat. Carol says, “You look like you’re thinking about something.”
I take a swing. Perfect. Feels just perfect. “I’m thinking of buying a bat.” She raises her eyebrows. “ I mean a paddle.”
After a few minutes, Carol came out to find me. “I was wondering what happened to you.”
I had lost track of time, staring at an old bat and ball glove. “What are these doing here?” I had forgotten all about them.
“You didn’t take them. Lauren (our daughter) uses them.”
I remembered the rituals. Getting your new glove was fraught with boundless excitement and anticipation. You oiled it, put a baseball in the pocket and tied it up tight with a rag. All part of breaking it in. That and getting your dad to steam it into you about a hundred times.
The bat was a quest. Just the right length, swing weight and feel. Although, it sometimes boiled down to the one that gifted you that magic day you couldn’t do anything but crush the ball.
These were not the equipment of my youth, but followed not that long after. The glove sucked in every ball near me and the ugly red bat rocketed many a sphere over the fence. I picked up the bat and swung it. Ah! Perfect. This evoked a previously made decision for reconsideration.
I haven’t played baseball for a long time, but I do kayak. The paddle is the equivalent of the bat. The quest for the perfect one is a little more complex because of the additional variables. There’s length, blade size, blade shape, blade offset, weight, shaft design and material.
I started with a fairly prosaic model until I found my groove. Then, I went to a really good one. It was awesome for rolls and play moves, but just didn’t feel entirely right on the forward stroke. Most of my strokes are forward strokes.
Later, I was buying a kayak from a dealer who has a great deal of expertise. He recommended a paddle to go with it, and offered a good discount. I told him I already had a paddle, but he insisted I try this one. It was a bit of an oddball design, but I gave it a shot. Incredible blade control and felt pretty good at almost everything. I took it.
Pretty good isn’t bad. But, it’s not perfect. I stuck with that design but would experiment with others I came across. No improvement, so I was suspecting I had discovered the summit. The search abated.
Last week, a friend brought a paddle he had acquired on ebay to pool practice. I tried it out. Wow. What a feel.
I went home and looked it up on the manufacturer’s web site. Sweet. Then, I looked at the price. Yikes.
My eyes drifted and noticed a link to an even higher grade of this design. There’s something better than this? The ultimate. The Sho-Gun. I clicked over to its page. Double sweet. I looked at the price. Double yikes. I mulled it over for a while, but couldn’t reconcile that investment with my moderate skills.
Now, I’m holding an old red bat. Carol says, “You look like you’re thinking about something.”
I take a swing. Perfect. Feels just perfect. “I’m thinking of buying a bat.” She raises her eyebrows. “ I mean a paddle.”
Wednesday, February 20, 2008
Sound Bite of the Month
I'm listening to the news and they have a brief interview with some kind of analyst named Shabana Doshi (sp?) regarding an increase in the price of a barrel of crude oil. She says, "If you think about it, gasoline comes from crude oil."
And, even if you don't.
And, even if you don't.
Tuesday, February 19, 2008
Very Funny
I grew up in Philadelphia, which is a rich melting pot. With Germans, Poles, Brazilians, etc., it was a hotbed for soccer.
I loved soccer. Trouble was, so did everyone else. I was pretty good. They were excellent. Three players on my high school team, within a five- year window, went on to play on a World Cup team. I usually held down the bench.
I go off to college in Cincinnati. It’s a German town, so I expect it to be awash in soccer leagues. Almost nothing. Not even college intramurals. Bummer.
A few years after I graduate, the public recreation commission announces formation of a mens league. Hallelujah.
I go to the organizational meeting and hook up with some others to form a team. We’re not great, but neither is anyone else. And, I’m playing about as many minutes as I want. Lot of fun.
Jimmy Mack, our goalie, and I formed a close relationship. Interesting guy. He had done time in a state prison, but had turned his life around. I noticed he had great footwork, like a boxer. Turned out, he was.
I don’t know what he was like before prison, but he was very centered when I knew him. There are always some jerks who will take cheap shots at goalies, but Jimmy Mack kept his head.
In our second game, the other team was driving for the goal. Their wing took the shot, but it was obviously wide. Our offside fullback was covering the post and not watching the action. The ball hit him on the back of the head and bounced into the goal.
I half expected Jimmy Mack to ream out the fullback. But he just looked up at the sky and said, “Very funny.”
It’s a round ball, but there are some weird bounces. A few more games passed and there were some more weird goals. Jimmy Mack repeated his mantra.
I finally asked what that was about. Jimmy Mack grinned. “God has a sense of humor.”
Why think of that now, a few decades later? Last fall was the annual Green River race. It’s a downriver kayak event through some good rapids.
With kayaks, length means speed. You don’t see too many modern short boats in the race. People dredge up some good old fashioned long boats. The old designs don’t have the edges or bite to carve well in the turns, but they are quick. They are also starting to get scarce.
This year’s race had shades of NASCAR. Two kayak makers cobbled together molds to make special editions for their factory teams. Old school length and speed with modern design features. Sweet!
This caused quite a stir on the kayaking web chat rooms. There was a hue and cry for public availability. The makers were noncommittal. It’s very expensive to make a production mold and you have to sell hundreds of copies before you break even. Web postings do not equate to writing checks.
I know an owner of one of the companies and call him, begging to buy a boat used in the race. No sale. C’mon, you know you’ll make new boats for next year. No sale.
The other company announces that it plans to go into production with their version. I’m elated. I’ve got the fever. But, it’s a quick fall back to earth.
I start thinking. If I’m them, I know I have to cover my nut with a high price. Volume isn’t going to be all that great with a specialized kayak. And, I’ll probably limit distribution. The boats do me more good in the hands of racers where they’ll get media coverage, as opposed to ownership by some nubs like me.
So, I shift my thinking to finding an old school boat, like a Pirouette. Shouldn’t be that hard or expensive. I’d owned two in the not too distant past.
I start my search, scouring every ad board on the web. Nothing. Unbelievable. I email every dealer, outfitter and camp I know who might have one moldering in the barn. Not a blip.
This goes on for months. Nothing but dry wells. So, it’s time to start working some dealers for the “Green Boat” that’s supposed to come out in the spring. Don’t want to pay the premium, but I’m finding nothing across the country.
As expected, most of the dealers have received little or no word. But, they know they’ll be allotted darn few and are reluctant to commit.
Until this morning. One of them caves. I place the order and send a deposit before he can change his mind. Beautiful.
I get home tonight and turn on the computer. I navigate to the site I moderate for my local paddling club. This afternoon, someone posted an ad for a Pirouette. Right in my own backyard.
I look skyward. “Very funny.”
I loved soccer. Trouble was, so did everyone else. I was pretty good. They were excellent. Three players on my high school team, within a five- year window, went on to play on a World Cup team. I usually held down the bench.
I go off to college in Cincinnati. It’s a German town, so I expect it to be awash in soccer leagues. Almost nothing. Not even college intramurals. Bummer.
A few years after I graduate, the public recreation commission announces formation of a mens league. Hallelujah.
I go to the organizational meeting and hook up with some others to form a team. We’re not great, but neither is anyone else. And, I’m playing about as many minutes as I want. Lot of fun.
Jimmy Mack, our goalie, and I formed a close relationship. Interesting guy. He had done time in a state prison, but had turned his life around. I noticed he had great footwork, like a boxer. Turned out, he was.
I don’t know what he was like before prison, but he was very centered when I knew him. There are always some jerks who will take cheap shots at goalies, but Jimmy Mack kept his head.
In our second game, the other team was driving for the goal. Their wing took the shot, but it was obviously wide. Our offside fullback was covering the post and not watching the action. The ball hit him on the back of the head and bounced into the goal.
I half expected Jimmy Mack to ream out the fullback. But he just looked up at the sky and said, “Very funny.”
It’s a round ball, but there are some weird bounces. A few more games passed and there were some more weird goals. Jimmy Mack repeated his mantra.
I finally asked what that was about. Jimmy Mack grinned. “God has a sense of humor.”
Why think of that now, a few decades later? Last fall was the annual Green River race. It’s a downriver kayak event through some good rapids.
With kayaks, length means speed. You don’t see too many modern short boats in the race. People dredge up some good old fashioned long boats. The old designs don’t have the edges or bite to carve well in the turns, but they are quick. They are also starting to get scarce.
This year’s race had shades of NASCAR. Two kayak makers cobbled together molds to make special editions for their factory teams. Old school length and speed with modern design features. Sweet!
This caused quite a stir on the kayaking web chat rooms. There was a hue and cry for public availability. The makers were noncommittal. It’s very expensive to make a production mold and you have to sell hundreds of copies before you break even. Web postings do not equate to writing checks.
I know an owner of one of the companies and call him, begging to buy a boat used in the race. No sale. C’mon, you know you’ll make new boats for next year. No sale.
The other company announces that it plans to go into production with their version. I’m elated. I’ve got the fever. But, it’s a quick fall back to earth.
I start thinking. If I’m them, I know I have to cover my nut with a high price. Volume isn’t going to be all that great with a specialized kayak. And, I’ll probably limit distribution. The boats do me more good in the hands of racers where they’ll get media coverage, as opposed to ownership by some nubs like me.
So, I shift my thinking to finding an old school boat, like a Pirouette. Shouldn’t be that hard or expensive. I’d owned two in the not too distant past.
I start my search, scouring every ad board on the web. Nothing. Unbelievable. I email every dealer, outfitter and camp I know who might have one moldering in the barn. Not a blip.
This goes on for months. Nothing but dry wells. So, it’s time to start working some dealers for the “Green Boat” that’s supposed to come out in the spring. Don’t want to pay the premium, but I’m finding nothing across the country.
As expected, most of the dealers have received little or no word. But, they know they’ll be allotted darn few and are reluctant to commit.
Until this morning. One of them caves. I place the order and send a deposit before he can change his mind. Beautiful.
I get home tonight and turn on the computer. I navigate to the site I moderate for my local paddling club. This afternoon, someone posted an ad for a Pirouette. Right in my own backyard.
I look skyward. “Very funny.”
Monday, February 18, 2008
The Not-So-Great Race
The lunch table at work is my constant reminder of how far my path diverges from the mainstream. A lot of the chatter is about television race, survivor or other “reality” shows. I am past the point where I overheard about them fervently discussing intimate details of the contestants by name and thought they were referring to close friends or relatives. Probably, no relative would evoke that level of interest.
I don’t watch the shows, but have caught snippets through promos or while changing channels. It appears they cast contestants from an Abercrombie & Fitch catalog. This piqued the marketing side of my brain and I got to thinking, wouldn’t there be greater appeal if viewers could identify more with the contestants and the challenges?
Maybe not. Look at how long soap operas have been popular. I know few people who look like that, much less have the free time to run around all day swapping fluids.
But, why waste creative juices or the opportunity to exercise the creative legs? To begin with, how do you cast?
Easy. You stand outside a White Castle, Wal-Mart or check cashing service. You scoop up the “real people” and only the real people. Isn’t that something like the aliens do when they’re vetting for probing? I mean, you’ve never heard a Bill Gates or Henry Kissinger report being abducted by aliens. If it’s good enough for intelligent intergalactic scientists, it’s good enough for me.
That leaves the challenges. No problem. A sample gauntlet would be going to the license bureau to transfer plates, finding a plumber after 5:00 PM to fix a burst pipe, getting a simple oil change without getting hooked for add-on services, filling out a 1040EZ, and calling a customer assistance line with a question about your software. Racing from San Pedro Town to Mexico City with four cents in your pocket is mere child’s play compared to navigating through your basic domestic bureaucracy.
It won’t happen. People get enough reality in their lives. They’re not watching TV to find more.
I don’t watch the shows, but have caught snippets through promos or while changing channels. It appears they cast contestants from an Abercrombie & Fitch catalog. This piqued the marketing side of my brain and I got to thinking, wouldn’t there be greater appeal if viewers could identify more with the contestants and the challenges?
Maybe not. Look at how long soap operas have been popular. I know few people who look like that, much less have the free time to run around all day swapping fluids.
But, why waste creative juices or the opportunity to exercise the creative legs? To begin with, how do you cast?
Easy. You stand outside a White Castle, Wal-Mart or check cashing service. You scoop up the “real people” and only the real people. Isn’t that something like the aliens do when they’re vetting for probing? I mean, you’ve never heard a Bill Gates or Henry Kissinger report being abducted by aliens. If it’s good enough for intelligent intergalactic scientists, it’s good enough for me.
That leaves the challenges. No problem. A sample gauntlet would be going to the license bureau to transfer plates, finding a plumber after 5:00 PM to fix a burst pipe, getting a simple oil change without getting hooked for add-on services, filling out a 1040EZ, and calling a customer assistance line with a question about your software. Racing from San Pedro Town to Mexico City with four cents in your pocket is mere child’s play compared to navigating through your basic domestic bureaucracy.
It won’t happen. People get enough reality in their lives. They’re not watching TV to find more.
Thursday, February 14, 2008
Live and Learn
What means little or nothing to you might hit a raw nerve with someone from a different background. So, when adolescents hung nooses from trees in Jena, LA, it might not have been a blip on your radar screen, but it inflamed those with different pigmentation.
We learn and move on. Maybe. A Golf Channel television anchor uses the word “lynch” in reference to Tiger Woods and gets suspended. The connection may seem tenuous to some, but we can take from it. The capacious ability to learn is what separates us from lesser animals. Well, that plus we’re not afraid of vacuum cleaners.
Or, so you would think. Ten days later, the editor of “Golfweek” is fired over putting a noose on the cover of the magazine. Okay, we get it. Or, do we?
Tonight, I feel a need to put my mind in neutral. So, I pick up the television schedule. TV: chewing gum for the mind.
The Fox affiliate is running “The 39th NAACP Image Awards.” Good for them, but not of great interest to me. My eye scans down the page. The MNT affiliate is airing a movie opposite the awards show.
“Soul Food.” The story of a black family rent with strife.
Nice move.
We learn and move on. Maybe. A Golf Channel television anchor uses the word “lynch” in reference to Tiger Woods and gets suspended. The connection may seem tenuous to some, but we can take from it. The capacious ability to learn is what separates us from lesser animals. Well, that plus we’re not afraid of vacuum cleaners.
Or, so you would think. Ten days later, the editor of “Golfweek” is fired over putting a noose on the cover of the magazine. Okay, we get it. Or, do we?
Tonight, I feel a need to put my mind in neutral. So, I pick up the television schedule. TV: chewing gum for the mind.
The Fox affiliate is running “The 39th NAACP Image Awards.” Good for them, but not of great interest to me. My eye scans down the page. The MNT affiliate is airing a movie opposite the awards show.
“Soul Food.” The story of a black family rent with strife.
Nice move.
V-Day
I look at Valentine's Day much like your company Christmas Party. Your best-case scenario is that you keep your job. One slip, you're toast.
I was driving to work this morning and thought I'd buy a little extra insurance by calling her and wishing a very enjoyable Valentines Day from the start. She seldom answers her office phone, so I called the cell.
"I'm calling to wish you a wonderful day."
"Do you know where I am?" Who am I, Kreskin? She sounded a little irritated.
"Let's see. Cincinnati doesn't have an operating subway station, so I'm guessing the echo means you're in the john."
"Ladies room."
"Whatever."
I'm driving on a main artery at a decent clip. About three cars up, someone decides they can make it from a side street to the other side of the road. About two thirds of the way across our lane, the driver perceives the error in the calculation and freezes; stops right in the lane. This isn't helping.
Brake lights flare and hoods dive. I reflexively hit the brake and crank the wheel to pull a bootlegger turn. Except, this hasn't worked since about 2003. That's about the time my cars starting having the I'm-smarter-than-you automated overrides that pretty much prevent you from climbing icy hills, hard braking or other desirable moves. The brakes go into their frantic chattering and I have no choice but to cut the wheel back and go off the road.
"What was that?!" I tell her. "Well that would've been one heck of a note. You call, I hear you, then a crash and then dead air."
Think that would've ruined my day, too.
Maybe I can make up ground at work. I have pizza brought in for everyone for lunch. My treat.
"Don't you know we're on diets? Why are most of them meat topping? Didn't you send out for drinks? Do we have to use our own money in the pop machine?"
I'll stop on the way home and buy the cat a can of tuna. He'll appreciate it.
I was driving to work this morning and thought I'd buy a little extra insurance by calling her and wishing a very enjoyable Valentines Day from the start. She seldom answers her office phone, so I called the cell.
"I'm calling to wish you a wonderful day."
"Do you know where I am?" Who am I, Kreskin? She sounded a little irritated.
"Let's see. Cincinnati doesn't have an operating subway station, so I'm guessing the echo means you're in the john."
"Ladies room."
"Whatever."
I'm driving on a main artery at a decent clip. About three cars up, someone decides they can make it from a side street to the other side of the road. About two thirds of the way across our lane, the driver perceives the error in the calculation and freezes; stops right in the lane. This isn't helping.
Brake lights flare and hoods dive. I reflexively hit the brake and crank the wheel to pull a bootlegger turn. Except, this hasn't worked since about 2003. That's about the time my cars starting having the I'm-smarter-than-you automated overrides that pretty much prevent you from climbing icy hills, hard braking or other desirable moves. The brakes go into their frantic chattering and I have no choice but to cut the wheel back and go off the road.
"What was that?!" I tell her. "Well that would've been one heck of a note. You call, I hear you, then a crash and then dead air."
Think that would've ruined my day, too.
Maybe I can make up ground at work. I have pizza brought in for everyone for lunch. My treat.
"Don't you know we're on diets? Why are most of them meat topping? Didn't you send out for drinks? Do we have to use our own money in the pop machine?"
I'll stop on the way home and buy the cat a can of tuna. He'll appreciate it.
Wednesday, February 13, 2008
Snow Days
When I was a boy and snow was in the forecast, my chin would be resting on the window sill beside my bed all night. I was watching the streetlight to gauge the snowfall and praying for a school closing.
What was better than a snow day? An extra day out of school and a plethora of snowball fights, sledding and other delights.
I’d watch the flakes and send mental messages to the heavens to step it up. Also, to the school superintendent to pull the plug. C’mon! What do you have to lose? Call off school, you mean bastard.
That was then and this is now. Snow is forecast for the evening. Our front desk supervisor enters my office. I can hear other feet shuffling around outside the door.
She tells me a number of clients have already cancelled for tomorrow. She stands there, the implicit question clearly evident. I can almost smell the anticipation outside the door. I tell her that I’ll wait to see the conditions early in the morning and let her know. Standard procedure. I hear a collective sigh in the hallway.
I’m accountable for financial results and the welfare of the organization. Services are a perishable commodity. If you don’t render and bill them today, you can’t stick them in the warehouse and sell them tomorrow. They’re gone forever, along with the revenue. Expenses don’t take a day off.
I’m also responsible to clients who need the services. Some will get by without any trouble and may even not show up for an appointment if we were open. . Some won’t do so well.
But, I also think about my employees. I don’t want anyone to get hurt. I don’t take responsibility. They’re driving their cars, I’m not. And, if it looks too much for them to handle, they can take a sick day. They know their abilities and it’s their decisions. But, I still factor it into my decision.
Easy to make the call when you’re not responsible. Much harder when you are.
What was better than a snow day? An extra day out of school and a plethora of snowball fights, sledding and other delights.
I’d watch the flakes and send mental messages to the heavens to step it up. Also, to the school superintendent to pull the plug. C’mon! What do you have to lose? Call off school, you mean bastard.
That was then and this is now. Snow is forecast for the evening. Our front desk supervisor enters my office. I can hear other feet shuffling around outside the door.
She tells me a number of clients have already cancelled for tomorrow. She stands there, the implicit question clearly evident. I can almost smell the anticipation outside the door. I tell her that I’ll wait to see the conditions early in the morning and let her know. Standard procedure. I hear a collective sigh in the hallway.
I’m accountable for financial results and the welfare of the organization. Services are a perishable commodity. If you don’t render and bill them today, you can’t stick them in the warehouse and sell them tomorrow. They’re gone forever, along with the revenue. Expenses don’t take a day off.
I’m also responsible to clients who need the services. Some will get by without any trouble and may even not show up for an appointment if we were open. . Some won’t do so well.
But, I also think about my employees. I don’t want anyone to get hurt. I don’t take responsibility. They’re driving their cars, I’m not. And, if it looks too much for them to handle, they can take a sick day. They know their abilities and it’s their decisions. But, I still factor it into my decision.
Easy to make the call when you’re not responsible. Much harder when you are.
Tuesday, February 12, 2008
Catharsis
Admittedly, this is a cathartic exercise. Venting.
I belong to a group that has monthly dinner meetings. It was founded 80 years ago and is rich in tradition. The members take turns researching and presenting papers on controversial subjects as grist for discussion.
The membership usually numbers about 15. If you asked anyone what the criteria were for being invited into the group, I’d guess the response would be that one has to be “a character.” But, the unspoken yardstick is that someone should have the wit, intellect and disposition to contribute to the enjoyment of the experience.
It’s the latter that troubles me tonight. Within the past five years, we’ve had three members resign because of Matt. The very nature of the group is debate. We joust with enthusiasm and humor. There is ample representation at the polar ideologies and they are well-armed with knowledge and articulation. But, we are close-knit and all hug when the last volley has been fired.
Because, we know how to do it. Except Matt. Matt cannot present an opposing viewpoint and let it go at that. He has to attack another’s opinion and the owner of it.
There are varying theories about the root of aggression. Many are based upon poor self esteem. That may be the case with Matt, or it could be a cultural thing. He’s native to a country not known for polite conduct.
Last Wednesday, Kent was the most recent to resign in anger. That’s a loss. I am the antithesis of Kent in terms of approach to analyzing issues and arriving at conclusions. But he is experienced and astute, so I always listen and learn something. And, he’s just plain likeable.
Like most of the members, I understand the possible sources of Matt’s malice and don’t take it personally. But, I also understand people like Kent, who choose not to expose themselves to his problems. Life’s too short.
What makes it worse is the nature of people who do this out of poor self esteem. Their angry and argumentative behavior brings rejection by their peers, but they don’t see that. They blame their poor outcomes on everyone else. Failing to find self respect in socially acceptable realms, they organize their self esteem around alternatives. To gain identity and self respect, they congregate with others of their kind (a major factor in gang behavior).
This is relevant here because a few people like Matt will slip through the screening process and eagerly join in with his aggressive behavior, reinforcing one another’s bad conduct. If you don’t pull the weeds, they take over the garden.
When Kent stalked out of the meeting, I looked at Dave, the chair of the group. He did not meet my gaze, nor anyone else’s. He hadn’t done anything about the previous resignations and it did not appear that he would grapple with this one.
Easy for me to say? Perhaps. But, I sat in his chair years ago, and I stepped up and pulled the weeds the few times it was necessary. Not a pleasant task, but my responsibility.
I will talk with Kent. And, I will express myself to Dave. But first, I’m thinking this out on paper (or, in pixels).
I belong to a group that has monthly dinner meetings. It was founded 80 years ago and is rich in tradition. The members take turns researching and presenting papers on controversial subjects as grist for discussion.
The membership usually numbers about 15. If you asked anyone what the criteria were for being invited into the group, I’d guess the response would be that one has to be “a character.” But, the unspoken yardstick is that someone should have the wit, intellect and disposition to contribute to the enjoyment of the experience.
It’s the latter that troubles me tonight. Within the past five years, we’ve had three members resign because of Matt. The very nature of the group is debate. We joust with enthusiasm and humor. There is ample representation at the polar ideologies and they are well-armed with knowledge and articulation. But, we are close-knit and all hug when the last volley has been fired.
Because, we know how to do it. Except Matt. Matt cannot present an opposing viewpoint and let it go at that. He has to attack another’s opinion and the owner of it.
There are varying theories about the root of aggression. Many are based upon poor self esteem. That may be the case with Matt, or it could be a cultural thing. He’s native to a country not known for polite conduct.
Last Wednesday, Kent was the most recent to resign in anger. That’s a loss. I am the antithesis of Kent in terms of approach to analyzing issues and arriving at conclusions. But he is experienced and astute, so I always listen and learn something. And, he’s just plain likeable.
Like most of the members, I understand the possible sources of Matt’s malice and don’t take it personally. But, I also understand people like Kent, who choose not to expose themselves to his problems. Life’s too short.
What makes it worse is the nature of people who do this out of poor self esteem. Their angry and argumentative behavior brings rejection by their peers, but they don’t see that. They blame their poor outcomes on everyone else. Failing to find self respect in socially acceptable realms, they organize their self esteem around alternatives. To gain identity and self respect, they congregate with others of their kind (a major factor in gang behavior).
This is relevant here because a few people like Matt will slip through the screening process and eagerly join in with his aggressive behavior, reinforcing one another’s bad conduct. If you don’t pull the weeds, they take over the garden.
When Kent stalked out of the meeting, I looked at Dave, the chair of the group. He did not meet my gaze, nor anyone else’s. He hadn’t done anything about the previous resignations and it did not appear that he would grapple with this one.
Easy for me to say? Perhaps. But, I sat in his chair years ago, and I stepped up and pulled the weeds the few times it was necessary. Not a pleasant task, but my responsibility.
I will talk with Kent. And, I will express myself to Dave. But first, I’m thinking this out on paper (or, in pixels).
Sunday, February 10, 2008
Guys Are Oblivious, Chapter 274
I was talking with a kayak manufacturer about his business plan. He digressed into his background.
Woody had started out working for another company. During his tenure there, he conceived and managed a model he called the "Phat." Phat was a buzz word for "cool" at the time, something he factored into his branding strategy.
Sales were tepid on the whole and positively dismal among women. It wasn't until later that he found out that few women would paddle a boat that has "PHAT!" emblazoned on the side.
Woody had started out working for another company. During his tenure there, he conceived and managed a model he called the "Phat." Phat was a buzz word for "cool" at the time, something he factored into his branding strategy.
Sales were tepid on the whole and positively dismal among women. It wasn't until later that he found out that few women would paddle a boat that has "PHAT!" emblazoned on the side.
Tuesday, February 05, 2008
Technoghost
Last week, I lost audio on one station of my bedroom TV. I tried the other channels and they had sound.
Continuing an orderly diagnostic, I tested the other TVs in the house. No problems. Okay, then it’s a defect on one channel of one TV.
But wait. I’m clicking through and there’s sound on that channel. So, whatever crashed, fixed itself. Then, the sound goes off. WTF?
Fortunately, I noticed that the sound ceased at a commercial break. I kept watching. It came back on right at the start of another commercial. I logged occurrences. There was sound for some shows and some commercials, but not others. WTF?
Analyze the data. The stuff with sound originated at the network. The muted reception was local. I have somewhere to go and will puzzle this out later.
I get home and turn on the TV to catch the end of the Superbowl, which is on the station in question. The voiceover is in Spanish. WTF? I will repeat that. WTF?
I go into another room and turn on the TV. English. Okay, I think I know. Before I mess with it, I want to check my email, because I was expecting something that might necessitate a call before it got too late. I forgot that I had emailed the station with my problem. Someone had responded, confirming my diagnosis. The SAP setting had been changed.
I don’t watch much TV and wouldn’t know where to find the settings without the manual. I looked at my cat. He watches a lot of TV.
A day later, I get up early to check the web boards I moderate before heading off to work. The computer is on, which is odd. I usually turn it off at night. Not unusual for me to forget something anymore. No biggie.
Except, there’s no connectivity with the web. The page that comes up gives me the option of troubleshooting the problem. Sure. It comes up the problem is no connectivity. No kidding? It does suggest contacting my IP. That’ll have to wait until I get back home.
It’s eating at me all day, so I bug out a little early. I call the IP help line, expecting to be put on hold for endless empty apologies, cross-selling pitches, or elevator music arrangements of “Muskrat Love.” Pleasant surprise. The automated program informs me that they are tied up with other clients, but I don’t have to stay on the line. I can provide my phone number and they’ll call me within twenty minutes. Great, even though I expect this to be the equivalent of a twenty-minute wait estimate at a restaurant reservation desk.
But, I do get a call within the proscribed time. Now, to bridge the communication gap between technoweenie and the missing link. It helps that he can see things about the connection from his end.
He runs me through some standard quick cures, like rebooting the modem. No dice. He does learn not to assume that he can just tell me to call something up or perform a task, without telling me how. In English. With small words. See Jane run. Click the icon that looks like a ducky without a head.
He takes me deep into the bowels of my computer. I feel like a bit player in “Journey to the Center of the Earth.” We travel though many foreign lands, keystroking arcane languages. No luck. He brings in his supervisor.
The supervisor runs me through much the same gauntlet. Then, we probe deeper. Nothing works. He comes up with another idea and is navigating me through it. Fortunately, I’m astute enough to be providing feedback along the way, even though it isn’t requested. Something I report from the screen pulls him up short and we go back a step.
He asks me to read it off to him again. Then, he has me reset two things. It works!
“Thanks, I really appreciate it.”
“You’re welcome sir. Just stay out of the advanced settings.”
“Pardon me?”
“Don’t mess with the advanced settings anymore. That’s what messed it up.”
“I didn’t do anything. I was sleeping when it disconnected.” Even awake, I wouldn’t even know where to find them, much less mess with them.
“Well, someone did.”
“I get these downloads of program updates. Could that have changed them?”
“No sir, someone changed them.”
Cue the theremin music. Weird.
A vast right wing conspiracy to mess with my TV and computer? No, I’m not bonkers. It’s the ghost of Amesbury Drive. Since I’ve admitted some superstition in the previous entry, might as well out myself about Amy.
Continuing an orderly diagnostic, I tested the other TVs in the house. No problems. Okay, then it’s a defect on one channel of one TV.
But wait. I’m clicking through and there’s sound on that channel. So, whatever crashed, fixed itself. Then, the sound goes off. WTF?
Fortunately, I noticed that the sound ceased at a commercial break. I kept watching. It came back on right at the start of another commercial. I logged occurrences. There was sound for some shows and some commercials, but not others. WTF?
Analyze the data. The stuff with sound originated at the network. The muted reception was local. I have somewhere to go and will puzzle this out later.
I get home and turn on the TV to catch the end of the Superbowl, which is on the station in question. The voiceover is in Spanish. WTF? I will repeat that. WTF?
I go into another room and turn on the TV. English. Okay, I think I know. Before I mess with it, I want to check my email, because I was expecting something that might necessitate a call before it got too late. I forgot that I had emailed the station with my problem. Someone had responded, confirming my diagnosis. The SAP setting had been changed.
I don’t watch much TV and wouldn’t know where to find the settings without the manual. I looked at my cat. He watches a lot of TV.
A day later, I get up early to check the web boards I moderate before heading off to work. The computer is on, which is odd. I usually turn it off at night. Not unusual for me to forget something anymore. No biggie.
Except, there’s no connectivity with the web. The page that comes up gives me the option of troubleshooting the problem. Sure. It comes up the problem is no connectivity. No kidding? It does suggest contacting my IP. That’ll have to wait until I get back home.
It’s eating at me all day, so I bug out a little early. I call the IP help line, expecting to be put on hold for endless empty apologies, cross-selling pitches, or elevator music arrangements of “Muskrat Love.” Pleasant surprise. The automated program informs me that they are tied up with other clients, but I don’t have to stay on the line. I can provide my phone number and they’ll call me within twenty minutes. Great, even though I expect this to be the equivalent of a twenty-minute wait estimate at a restaurant reservation desk.
But, I do get a call within the proscribed time. Now, to bridge the communication gap between technoweenie and the missing link. It helps that he can see things about the connection from his end.
He runs me through some standard quick cures, like rebooting the modem. No dice. He does learn not to assume that he can just tell me to call something up or perform a task, without telling me how. In English. With small words. See Jane run. Click the icon that looks like a ducky without a head.
He takes me deep into the bowels of my computer. I feel like a bit player in “Journey to the Center of the Earth.” We travel though many foreign lands, keystroking arcane languages. No luck. He brings in his supervisor.
The supervisor runs me through much the same gauntlet. Then, we probe deeper. Nothing works. He comes up with another idea and is navigating me through it. Fortunately, I’m astute enough to be providing feedback along the way, even though it isn’t requested. Something I report from the screen pulls him up short and we go back a step.
He asks me to read it off to him again. Then, he has me reset two things. It works!
“Thanks, I really appreciate it.”
“You’re welcome sir. Just stay out of the advanced settings.”
“Pardon me?”
“Don’t mess with the advanced settings anymore. That’s what messed it up.”
“I didn’t do anything. I was sleeping when it disconnected.” Even awake, I wouldn’t even know where to find them, much less mess with them.
“Well, someone did.”
“I get these downloads of program updates. Could that have changed them?”
“No sir, someone changed them.”
Cue the theremin music. Weird.
A vast right wing conspiracy to mess with my TV and computer? No, I’m not bonkers. It’s the ghost of Amesbury Drive. Since I’ve admitted some superstition in the previous entry, might as well out myself about Amy.
Superstition
I’m at a roundtable discussion and the conversation turns to superstition. The most superstitious segment going is bingo players. They all have their little dolls, special markers, favorite seats, etc. If there’s a tremor in their universe, look out.
Someone says it’s not because they’re bingo players. It’s because they’re a bunch of little old ladies in print dresses. I disagree on all counts.
Sunday night, I’m having dinner with a friend before going to kayak roll practice. My cell phone bleeps. I get “the look” but answer it. I know to keep it short.
“Who was that?”
“Mother Crutcher.” Nickname of a buddy.
“What did he want?”
“Do you have to know everything?”
“No, just what Bruce wanted.”
“He was tipping me off to get a Superbowl bet down on the Giants before kickoff.”
“Why did he wait until now?”
“He’s watching the pre-game and saw that the Pats coach switched to a red hoodie.”
“And?”
“He usually wears a gray one. Pats are going to lose.”
“Says Bruce.”
“No, they’re going to lose. You don’t go undefeated all season with your gray hoodie and then change. You lose. No doubt”
“And you say Cheryl and I are crazy.”
“No doubt.”
Guys are superstitious, especially about sports. I don’t bet much, or even follow sports closely. But sometimes there’s something that tips me off and I will bet, for the sport of it. Some little sign that tells me who will win a game. That is, if I don’t watch it.
My pick will win, but it’s really not up to them. It’s my ritual. If I watch the game, they’ll lose, in spite of whatever tipped me off. If I don’t watch it, they win. No, really. Scientific fact.
This year’s BCS Bowl national championship football game, Ohio State vs. LSU. A week before the game, some highlights come on TV while I’m waiting for the news. My eyes are drawn to an LSU defensive lineman. The guy is a wrecking ball.
The clips jump around, LSU playing different teams. I’m watching him. Great technique, stays low and is very strong. No one is really handling him. He’ll wreak havoc with anyone. Anyone.
Still, not enough to compel a bet. I want a sure thing or I don’t plunk down the coin.
The day before the game, I’m Iistening to the radio. They’re talking Ohio State. Blah, blah, blah. The team was embarrassed, getting upset last year. The coach isn’t letting them forget it this year. He changed the locker room door combination to the losing score of last year’s game. There’s your sign.
So, he hasn’t programmed to win. The message is to avoid losing. A negative mindset. I call in a bet. I up the odds by picking Ohio State to lose big. Of course, I don’t watch the game. It pays off.
I’m a sophomore in high school, warming the bench. Third on the depth chart. The starter sprains an ankle the first defensive set of the game. The next set, his backup gets knocked cold. I’m in. Killer game.
The opposition helped. Pegging me as the weak spot, they ran everything my way. Fattened up my stats. Didn’t matter that had something to do with it. Have to keep the karma going.
You wear a t-shirt under the pads. Keeps the straps and buckles from chaffing. I wore the same t-shirt the next game and the game after that. And, the next year and the year after that. Still have it.
It was looking pretty ratty by my senior year. My mother tried to throw it away but I rescued it and kept it hid. Kept it through college, even though it had some holes and the seams were giving out. My wife tried to pitch it. Still have it. The shirt, not the wife.
I kayak. If you’re going to do whitewater or open water, it’s almost essential to be able to roll it up, in the event of a capsize. I learned the roll in controlled conditions, as most do.
I had it down to an automatic. They tell you everything changes in the rapids. A combat roll is different. You turn upside down, it’s dark and violent. Alarms go off and lights flash. You forget everything you know about rolling and screw up. Yeah, right. I know how to roll.
Next time I’m in a rapid, I wipe out. Alarms go off and lights flash. I blow the roll. A few days later, I’m out on the river again, hit a nasty hole in the middle of a rapid and go down. I blow the roll.
Combat roll panic? Don’t be silly. I have a few pairs of kayaking shoes. I wore an older set when I learned the roll. On the river, I was wearing a different pair. Started wearing my “rolling shoes” every time I did feisty water. Hardly missed a roll. Not superstition. Scientific proof. Yeah, right.
I’ve been around a lot of guys in sports and I’m far from unique in this respect. Many professional athletes have their inviolable rituals.
Little old ladies in print dresses? Nah. It’s guys.
Someone says it’s not because they’re bingo players. It’s because they’re a bunch of little old ladies in print dresses. I disagree on all counts.
Sunday night, I’m having dinner with a friend before going to kayak roll practice. My cell phone bleeps. I get “the look” but answer it. I know to keep it short.
“Who was that?”
“Mother Crutcher.” Nickname of a buddy.
“What did he want?”
“Do you have to know everything?”
“No, just what Bruce wanted.”
“He was tipping me off to get a Superbowl bet down on the Giants before kickoff.”
“Why did he wait until now?”
“He’s watching the pre-game and saw that the Pats coach switched to a red hoodie.”
“And?”
“He usually wears a gray one. Pats are going to lose.”
“Says Bruce.”
“No, they’re going to lose. You don’t go undefeated all season with your gray hoodie and then change. You lose. No doubt”
“And you say Cheryl and I are crazy.”
“No doubt.”
Guys are superstitious, especially about sports. I don’t bet much, or even follow sports closely. But sometimes there’s something that tips me off and I will bet, for the sport of it. Some little sign that tells me who will win a game. That is, if I don’t watch it.
My pick will win, but it’s really not up to them. It’s my ritual. If I watch the game, they’ll lose, in spite of whatever tipped me off. If I don’t watch it, they win. No, really. Scientific fact.
This year’s BCS Bowl national championship football game, Ohio State vs. LSU. A week before the game, some highlights come on TV while I’m waiting for the news. My eyes are drawn to an LSU defensive lineman. The guy is a wrecking ball.
The clips jump around, LSU playing different teams. I’m watching him. Great technique, stays low and is very strong. No one is really handling him. He’ll wreak havoc with anyone. Anyone.
Still, not enough to compel a bet. I want a sure thing or I don’t plunk down the coin.
The day before the game, I’m Iistening to the radio. They’re talking Ohio State. Blah, blah, blah. The team was embarrassed, getting upset last year. The coach isn’t letting them forget it this year. He changed the locker room door combination to the losing score of last year’s game. There’s your sign.
So, he hasn’t programmed to win. The message is to avoid losing. A negative mindset. I call in a bet. I up the odds by picking Ohio State to lose big. Of course, I don’t watch the game. It pays off.
I’m a sophomore in high school, warming the bench. Third on the depth chart. The starter sprains an ankle the first defensive set of the game. The next set, his backup gets knocked cold. I’m in. Killer game.
The opposition helped. Pegging me as the weak spot, they ran everything my way. Fattened up my stats. Didn’t matter that had something to do with it. Have to keep the karma going.
You wear a t-shirt under the pads. Keeps the straps and buckles from chaffing. I wore the same t-shirt the next game and the game after that. And, the next year and the year after that. Still have it.
It was looking pretty ratty by my senior year. My mother tried to throw it away but I rescued it and kept it hid. Kept it through college, even though it had some holes and the seams were giving out. My wife tried to pitch it. Still have it. The shirt, not the wife.
I kayak. If you’re going to do whitewater or open water, it’s almost essential to be able to roll it up, in the event of a capsize. I learned the roll in controlled conditions, as most do.
I had it down to an automatic. They tell you everything changes in the rapids. A combat roll is different. You turn upside down, it’s dark and violent. Alarms go off and lights flash. You forget everything you know about rolling and screw up. Yeah, right. I know how to roll.
Next time I’m in a rapid, I wipe out. Alarms go off and lights flash. I blow the roll. A few days later, I’m out on the river again, hit a nasty hole in the middle of a rapid and go down. I blow the roll.
Combat roll panic? Don’t be silly. I have a few pairs of kayaking shoes. I wore an older set when I learned the roll. On the river, I was wearing a different pair. Started wearing my “rolling shoes” every time I did feisty water. Hardly missed a roll. Not superstition. Scientific proof. Yeah, right.
I’ve been around a lot of guys in sports and I’m far from unique in this respect. Many professional athletes have their inviolable rituals.
Little old ladies in print dresses? Nah. It’s guys.
Sunday, February 03, 2008
Cloverfield
Yesterday, I was granted the present of any three wishes. One of them I made was to be taken to see “Cloverfield.”
Like many youngsters of my era, I was hooked on monster films. “It Came from Outer Space,” “20 Million Miles to Earth,” “Rodan,” “It Came from Beneath the Sea,” and the granddaddy of them all, “Godzilla.”
This list causes me to digress to fabricate a trivia question. Who are two classic monster film stars who later co-starred in a long-running TV series? Raymond Burr (Godzilla) and William Hopper (20 Million Miles to Earth). The series was “Perry Mason.”
While the special effects of “Godzilla” were primitive to the point of being comical, the terror was contagious. Japanese do great terror. Good transference. “Cloverfield’ adds a dimension.
I’m not that concerned about giving away any surprises in “Cloverfield.” The ending is revealed in the opening sequence, if you’re paying attention.
The viewpoint is a hand held camera. A little distressing at first, but you get used to it.
The camera starts out with its role in two young people hooking up in New York City. This apparently was not erased, as the storyline jumps a month to a going away party for the guy. He’s moving to Japan for a job.
There are some subplots woven in, with a decent dose of humor. This tends to draw you in and make it a more personal tragedy. The camera has been passed to a friend. As the drama of the party unfolds, something of greater importance occurs. New York comes under attack. Decades have passed since “King Kong,” and they still don’t have a monster emergency plan.
From there, the derivative aspects of the film emerge. “Escape from New York,” “Planet of the Apes.” and “Aliens,” not to mention echoes of the real life September 11th. A little irksome, but palatable.
Most monster flicks divulge all the whats, whys and wherefores. Part of the charm of this is that you experience the fear of the unknown. The characters of the film have little idea what’s going on, so either do you. There is no lengthy explanation of the origin or nature of the beast. No moral messages or symbolism. Just straight-up giant lizard kicking your ass. I like it. Closer to realism (as intergalactic dinosaur scenarios go). I don’t need to hear how our hedonism or thirst for nuclear weapons manifested itself as some kind of karmic payback. I just want a low level airstrike scrambled to splatter his scaly hide over three states.
There is the obligatory, “Don’t go there!” device. Of course, the protagonist does anyway. The rescue of the damsel is unbelievable in several respects, but you live with it. To fully enjoy this, you must ignore the implausible. Buildings toppling all around you, panicky citizen stampedes, peril springing out at every corner, and this guy still has a camera plastered to his face. I’d have dropped it in the first two seconds and be swiveling my head like an owl. Just go with it.
Not a flick I’d watch a second time. But, the impact of the first experience makes it worthwhile.
In the post-movie analysis, I’m asked the inevitable question. “A four hundred foot monster is closing in on me and I’m pinned by building debris. I call you on the cell phone. You’d come rescue me, wouldn’t you?”
I answer, returning the tongue-in-cheek tone. “Sure, hon.”
I’d be paddling my kayak down the East River so fast I could pull a water skier.
Like many youngsters of my era, I was hooked on monster films. “It Came from Outer Space,” “20 Million Miles to Earth,” “Rodan,” “It Came from Beneath the Sea,” and the granddaddy of them all, “Godzilla.”
This list causes me to digress to fabricate a trivia question. Who are two classic monster film stars who later co-starred in a long-running TV series? Raymond Burr (Godzilla) and William Hopper (20 Million Miles to Earth). The series was “Perry Mason.”
While the special effects of “Godzilla” were primitive to the point of being comical, the terror was contagious. Japanese do great terror. Good transference. “Cloverfield’ adds a dimension.
I’m not that concerned about giving away any surprises in “Cloverfield.” The ending is revealed in the opening sequence, if you’re paying attention.
The viewpoint is a hand held camera. A little distressing at first, but you get used to it.
The camera starts out with its role in two young people hooking up in New York City. This apparently was not erased, as the storyline jumps a month to a going away party for the guy. He’s moving to Japan for a job.
There are some subplots woven in, with a decent dose of humor. This tends to draw you in and make it a more personal tragedy. The camera has been passed to a friend. As the drama of the party unfolds, something of greater importance occurs. New York comes under attack. Decades have passed since “King Kong,” and they still don’t have a monster emergency plan.
From there, the derivative aspects of the film emerge. “Escape from New York,” “Planet of the Apes.” and “Aliens,” not to mention echoes of the real life September 11th. A little irksome, but palatable.
Most monster flicks divulge all the whats, whys and wherefores. Part of the charm of this is that you experience the fear of the unknown. The characters of the film have little idea what’s going on, so either do you. There is no lengthy explanation of the origin or nature of the beast. No moral messages or symbolism. Just straight-up giant lizard kicking your ass. I like it. Closer to realism (as intergalactic dinosaur scenarios go). I don’t need to hear how our hedonism or thirst for nuclear weapons manifested itself as some kind of karmic payback. I just want a low level airstrike scrambled to splatter his scaly hide over three states.
There is the obligatory, “Don’t go there!” device. Of course, the protagonist does anyway. The rescue of the damsel is unbelievable in several respects, but you live with it. To fully enjoy this, you must ignore the implausible. Buildings toppling all around you, panicky citizen stampedes, peril springing out at every corner, and this guy still has a camera plastered to his face. I’d have dropped it in the first two seconds and be swiveling my head like an owl. Just go with it.
Not a flick I’d watch a second time. But, the impact of the first experience makes it worthwhile.
In the post-movie analysis, I’m asked the inevitable question. “A four hundred foot monster is closing in on me and I’m pinned by building debris. I call you on the cell phone. You’d come rescue me, wouldn’t you?”
I answer, returning the tongue-in-cheek tone. “Sure, hon.”
I’d be paddling my kayak down the East River so fast I could pull a water skier.
Friday, February 01, 2008
Greetings
I received a card in the mail yesterday, but saved it until today to savor. The sender never fails to move me with her selection, no matter what the occasion.
The reverse is not entirely true. It usually goes something like her asking, “Did you even read this before you sent it?”
“Uh, yeah. Kind of.”
“So, I’m your niece, now?”
“But, it’s a nice picture, isn’t it?”
I should know better. Years ago, I was in the greeting card publishing business. (Might be easier if I listed businesses I haven’t been in.)
Upon entering the field, I prowled the card racks to get a sense of consumer behavior. Guys were usually shopping within 24 hours of the event. Before or after. They got in, picked whatever was in the upper left pockets of the appropriate section and got out.
To women, it was more of an experience. They would leisurely work their ways up and down the aisles, frequently pausing to read cards. Actually read them.
They would seldom buy one. Instead, they bought all the cards that struck their fancies. It didn’t matter if an event was imminent. One was sure to arise and they’d have the perfect card for it. Hence, the brand name “Shoebox.” It’s common for them to squirrel away cards in shoeboxes.
Next time, I’ll do better.
The reverse is not entirely true. It usually goes something like her asking, “Did you even read this before you sent it?”
“Uh, yeah. Kind of.”
“So, I’m your niece, now?”
“But, it’s a nice picture, isn’t it?”
I should know better. Years ago, I was in the greeting card publishing business. (Might be easier if I listed businesses I haven’t been in.)
Upon entering the field, I prowled the card racks to get a sense of consumer behavior. Guys were usually shopping within 24 hours of the event. Before or after. They got in, picked whatever was in the upper left pockets of the appropriate section and got out.
To women, it was more of an experience. They would leisurely work their ways up and down the aisles, frequently pausing to read cards. Actually read them.
They would seldom buy one. Instead, they bought all the cards that struck their fancies. It didn’t matter if an event was imminent. One was sure to arise and they’d have the perfect card for it. Hence, the brand name “Shoebox.” It’s common for them to squirrel away cards in shoeboxes.
Next time, I’ll do better.
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