As promised, I am on letter duty (I said doodie) today as the mother is still in the hospital with a serious leg gash. OK, this one has gone much better for her. She is really recovering better than she did last time. I think it is a combination of 1) the knowledge of what will transpire, 2) the fact that she has one good (recently surgeried) hip, and 3) she is being blessed as a missionary mom.
She was given a blessing before she went in for surgery and there were some great things promised her. She has referred to this blessing often. One specific thing was that she would be calm and peaceful prior to the surgery. Strangely enough, she repeated over and over how noticeably calm she was and that she felt the spirit helping her along. She was grateful for this. Her surgery was Wednesday, as you know, and you should have receive a little note from me letting you know that she was in good shape. The doctor, I think, forgot to come out and tell me that she was done and that the procedure had gone well.
We arrived at the hospital at 5:30am and after checking in, they took her back to prepare her for surgery. After about 45 minutes, they came and got me and I went back to wish her well. She doesn’t remember that because she was so drugged up by then. She said goodbye and then I went to the surgery waiting area. And waited. And waited. I fell asleep in the chair while watching Anchorman on the iPod. I woke up and wiped the drool off myself and played it off to the other waiters who were trying not to stare. I pretended that I was retarded and began softly moaning and chanting incoherently. They felt bad. It worked, I win. Just kidding. The hospital staff finally alerted me at 12:30pm that she was headed up to recovery and would arrive in about 10 minutes.
Had I been mom I would have been freaking out. But since I am me and since I’m retarded, I wasn’t bothered. I was a little annoyed but not enough to grab the hospital administrator and strangle her like a Trek Chicken. We got to mom’s room and she wasn’t alone. Last time, she paid to be in a private room. This time, I tried to pay for a private room but there were too many patients and surgeries so there was no room. Not even in the Inn. So, she bunked with a great lady named Helen Charlene XXXXXX. I’m not sure what their last name was but her husband was Paul and they were in their 60’s with a slight chance of rain. I give you her whole name because she goes by either Charlene or Char. That is what mom called her. The hospital staff, on the other hand, called her Helen – EVERY TIME THEY DEALT WITH HER.
It seems that if you want to win somebody over, the lease you could do is get their name straight. Oh well, the comedy of errors that surrounded the staff at this hospital is a letter in itself. She comes home tomorrow (Monday) after spending 5 glorious days in culinary purgatory. That’s the politically correct way of indicating that the food sucked. Tonight we even had to get her some chicken to replace the fish and mashed potatoes she was served.
She comes home tomorrow and we are all excited for her return.
Sunday, September 02, 2007
Thursday, July 26, 2007
Did I Blog that?
OK, I've reached 75 blogs so my mind naturally starts to lose track of those topics or stories I have already told and those I haven't. Not that I can't go back and check them, and search for key word like tits, winkle, and vibraphone to jog my memory. And by memory, I mean...dicktation.
I have a weird tendency to think of a blog topic and even write the first paragraph or so in my mind so when I get down to actually typing it, the exercise is more like dictation -- at least for the first paragraph. This makes it difficult to remember whether or not it has actually been published. I would love to explore the blurred line between experienced memory and imagined memory. The 'memory' itself is stored the same way in either case. Weird.
My wife is NO help. Honey, did I already blog the time when I was walking on the fence at the Phoenix house and accidentally slipped off straddling the fence and simultaneously endangering the very existence of Max, Caitie, Abby, and Olivia? To which she replies, "I don't know."
Its not that she doesn't read my uninspired works. It is that she has selective amnesia. And these days she selects much of her life to forget. Once in a while there are glimmers of memory and once in a while a very vivid memory will be triggered by something as trivial as a popcorn ceiling.
Most of the time, when she doesn't remember things, they have to do with me, or a present I gave her, or someplace we have been together. This is frustrating because possibly the main or ONLY reason to bring somebody along with you to any event is so you can share a common experience about which you can later reminisce and co-exaggerate. The world is in harmony when both of you conveniently embellish and corroborate each other’s stories.
The problem is, if you are married to an Alzheimer’s patient it loses a little in the credibility department when she gives you the confused look after a bloated tale. Oh well, the burden of proof just becomes a little more onerous on me…no big deal.
I have taken to writing the ideas I need to blog down in a hidden, unpublished blog. My problem is, the list keeps growing and the opportunity to take dictation on them seems rare. At some point I will have to accept defeat and just pound them all out at once. Not likely…
I have a weird tendency to think of a blog topic and even write the first paragraph or so in my mind so when I get down to actually typing it, the exercise is more like dictation -- at least for the first paragraph. This makes it difficult to remember whether or not it has actually been published. I would love to explore the blurred line between experienced memory and imagined memory. The 'memory' itself is stored the same way in either case. Weird.
My wife is NO help. Honey, did I already blog the time when I was walking on the fence at the Phoenix house and accidentally slipped off straddling the fence and simultaneously endangering the very existence of Max, Caitie, Abby, and Olivia? To which she replies, "I don't know."
Its not that she doesn't read my uninspired works. It is that she has selective amnesia. And these days she selects much of her life to forget. Once in a while there are glimmers of memory and once in a while a very vivid memory will be triggered by something as trivial as a popcorn ceiling.
Most of the time, when she doesn't remember things, they have to do with me, or a present I gave her, or someplace we have been together. This is frustrating because possibly the main or ONLY reason to bring somebody along with you to any event is so you can share a common experience about which you can later reminisce and co-exaggerate. The world is in harmony when both of you conveniently embellish and corroborate each other’s stories.
The problem is, if you are married to an Alzheimer’s patient it loses a little in the credibility department when she gives you the confused look after a bloated tale. Oh well, the burden of proof just becomes a little more onerous on me…no big deal.
I have taken to writing the ideas I need to blog down in a hidden, unpublished blog. My problem is, the list keeps growing and the opportunity to take dictation on them seems rare. At some point I will have to accept defeat and just pound them all out at once. Not likely…
Thursday, June 21, 2007
Newness Colony
You can't spell nudist colony without a healthy colon.
We explore today the very nature of exploring. I was reminded the other day that new is great. In virtually every aspect of life, newness is appealing, exciting, and stimulating. I think everyone knows this. In every industry I can think of newness is the key to success. Certainly in the computer industry, newer, bigger, better, faster is better. But even in software, using a new application is great. Using a old application that has been revised and upgraded to have new features is great.
New wife? I think it is possible that affairs start as a result of our pursuit of newness. Have you ever met somebody you think is great, funny, entertaining, and witty - then you meet her husband. He treats her like crap because to him, she is old, used-up, and pruny. Her jokes are re-hashed, hackneyed junk she tries out on anybody who hasn't heard them yet. Her stories? Just as worn. But the new girl? Fresh and alive and charming and delightful with fun stories and a charismatic way of telling them.
Car companies know this all too well. Used cars are new to somebody. And new cars have that smell that feeds the need for newness. My car isn't new. But there is something missing - ah, yes, the Duramax with the Allison transmission. I will pull this trigger soon because I want a new truck. New sometimes pulls a trailer better too.
I have seen people fix up things and make them new again. I tried this with Debi. One hip down, one to go. I did this with my house. One hip down and one to go. Ba dum, ch! I’ll be here all night. Try the veal. It is like living in a new house that is really familiar. I can't describe it but I somehow really LOVE it because it is new. Remodels are a good way to make something old, new again. I have seen people jack their cars up, put new tires on, and put on a fuzzy steering wheel cover to bend the newness curve up again.
Then there's old that is so old it becomes new again. Classic cars are always a sight on the road. We look at them and remember the good old days when things were made better. Back then when you got in an accident in your steel-on-steel Chevy you just hosed off the dashboard and kept on driving it. It is only after you pass the classic Rambler that you realize that it is 115 degrees outside and he had his windows down because he had no air conditioning. Oh, and push button transmission and crappy shocks. And the whole thing could catch fire at any moment. Thank goodness I don’t like old cars.
Sometimes, just to keep things new, I avoid asking my wife for sex - just to change things up a bit. Keeps the relationship alive...
We explore today the very nature of exploring. I was reminded the other day that new is great. In virtually every aspect of life, newness is appealing, exciting, and stimulating. I think everyone knows this. In every industry I can think of newness is the key to success. Certainly in the computer industry, newer, bigger, better, faster is better. But even in software, using a new application is great. Using a old application that has been revised and upgraded to have new features is great.
New wife? I think it is possible that affairs start as a result of our pursuit of newness. Have you ever met somebody you think is great, funny, entertaining, and witty - then you meet her husband. He treats her like crap because to him, she is old, used-up, and pruny. Her jokes are re-hashed, hackneyed junk she tries out on anybody who hasn't heard them yet. Her stories? Just as worn. But the new girl? Fresh and alive and charming and delightful with fun stories and a charismatic way of telling them.
Car companies know this all too well. Used cars are new to somebody. And new cars have that smell that feeds the need for newness. My car isn't new. But there is something missing - ah, yes, the Duramax with the Allison transmission. I will pull this trigger soon because I want a new truck. New sometimes pulls a trailer better too.
I have seen people fix up things and make them new again. I tried this with Debi. One hip down, one to go. I did this with my house. One hip down and one to go. Ba dum, ch! I’ll be here all night. Try the veal. It is like living in a new house that is really familiar. I can't describe it but I somehow really LOVE it because it is new. Remodels are a good way to make something old, new again. I have seen people jack their cars up, put new tires on, and put on a fuzzy steering wheel cover to bend the newness curve up again.
Then there's old that is so old it becomes new again. Classic cars are always a sight on the road. We look at them and remember the good old days when things were made better. Back then when you got in an accident in your steel-on-steel Chevy you just hosed off the dashboard and kept on driving it. It is only after you pass the classic Rambler that you realize that it is 115 degrees outside and he had his windows down because he had no air conditioning. Oh, and push button transmission and crappy shocks. And the whole thing could catch fire at any moment. Thank goodness I don’t like old cars.
Sometimes, just to keep things new, I avoid asking my wife for sex - just to change things up a bit. Keeps the relationship alive...
Monday, June 18, 2007
Good Dreams and Brad Dreams
OK, I admit it. Lately the blog has kinda been a train wreck. OK, more like a train with its wheels locked so sparks shooting from the track as it smashes into a busload of retarded children headed for summer camp with their special guest star Lionel Richie singing ‘Hello’ and leading them in the chorus. (thx Adam) Sorry. There have been few posts and the ones that made it really blow. I think it is a mood thing and a time thing. Enough excuses.
Today’s topic: dreams. I am worried. Most of the time my dreams are benign and confusing with highlights of sexual content. I can cope with them. But sometimes I dream things that cannot possibly have originated in my brain. I mean, I know my brain. I live in it. It often generates the most random and unexpected things. I call that creativity. I like that aspect of my brain. But when I am faced with the realization that the dreams I have expose thoughts that are actually lurking in my mind…I entertain the thought of just accepting the psychosis and beginning the shock treatment.
And why is it that I am not free in my dreams. In the midst of the most disjointed, dysfunctional, delusional extravaganza, I am strangely aware of my boundaries. That doesn’t mean that I don’t go to the mall naked. It means that when I go to the mall naked I am always shamefully hiding behind a garbage can (and fashioning a suit of armor out of it) instead jogging round from store to store asking them if they want to participate in the ‘Name the Pee-Pee’ contest. Instead, I am wondering why it took me until I was in the mall upstairs outside the Mrs. Fields to REALIZE THAT I WAS NAKED! It must be the dough. Or the smell. And let’s just say that she wasn’t the only one handing out free samples…
I would never cheat on my wife. That said, I can’t even cheat in my dreams. I often find myself in compromising situations only to be thwarted by my morals and ethics. I don’t advocate explaining these dreams in great detail to the Mrs. because even if your explanation includes the disclaimer that your love for her and devotion to her transcended the subconscious so as to restrict your catatonic bone dancing you will still be sentenced to sofa-sleep. (Davenport dalliance dreams are delicious)
Why is nudity such a part of dreams? I see naked people. Usually I don’t know them. Often I am naked. Nearly always, my wife is naked. I will probably study this phenomenon a little more closely to see what the expert wacknoids who think they know but are really guessing have to say about it. My own pre-researched conclusion that I jump to is that the forbidden nature of nudity is socialized into us to the extent that it is only in dreams that we can dip our toe into these illicit waters.
Now, a dream. Last night I had a strangely disjointed dream about my friend Brad. Brad owns a successful advertising company but in my dream he was a plastic surgeon living and practicing out of his house in Hawaii. My dream picks up the story when I go in to visit him for an indescribable procedure. I can describe WHAT he did but not WHY he did it. I was lying on a table and he came up to my left arm and sank his scalpel deep into the shoulder and cut a line from it to the inside of my elbow right alongside my bicep. I remember feeling nothing. Not painful, no cutting. I do remember thinking that as he cut I was growing more delirious as if he had some sort of elixir on his knife that caused an anesthetic response (both local and general). As he cut, he complained about how hard it was to cut through a piece of fat near the shoulder/bicep division. He had to cut that a few times to get a deep as he somehow needed to cut. He left the room and my wife came in, naked, and slipped under the covers of the bed diagonal from me. He came back in and went to her bed, pulled down the covers, and used his scalpel on her hip, I believe, perhaps to revise her scar. But he must have forgotten the anesthetic because his first cut made her SCREAM so loudly that it woke me up.
This dream was not particularly troubling but I always have to ask myself...Why in Hawaii? Why Brad? Why wasn't the bed next to mine? I know why not my bed. She wouldn't want to disturb the large gash in my arm...
Today’s topic: dreams. I am worried. Most of the time my dreams are benign and confusing with highlights of sexual content. I can cope with them. But sometimes I dream things that cannot possibly have originated in my brain. I mean, I know my brain. I live in it. It often generates the most random and unexpected things. I call that creativity. I like that aspect of my brain. But when I am faced with the realization that the dreams I have expose thoughts that are actually lurking in my mind…I entertain the thought of just accepting the psychosis and beginning the shock treatment.
And why is it that I am not free in my dreams. In the midst of the most disjointed, dysfunctional, delusional extravaganza, I am strangely aware of my boundaries. That doesn’t mean that I don’t go to the mall naked. It means that when I go to the mall naked I am always shamefully hiding behind a garbage can (and fashioning a suit of armor out of it) instead jogging round from store to store asking them if they want to participate in the ‘Name the Pee-Pee’ contest. Instead, I am wondering why it took me until I was in the mall upstairs outside the Mrs. Fields to REALIZE THAT I WAS NAKED! It must be the dough. Or the smell. And let’s just say that she wasn’t the only one handing out free samples…
I would never cheat on my wife. That said, I can’t even cheat in my dreams. I often find myself in compromising situations only to be thwarted by my morals and ethics. I don’t advocate explaining these dreams in great detail to the Mrs. because even if your explanation includes the disclaimer that your love for her and devotion to her transcended the subconscious so as to restrict your catatonic bone dancing you will still be sentenced to sofa-sleep. (Davenport dalliance dreams are delicious)
Why is nudity such a part of dreams? I see naked people. Usually I don’t know them. Often I am naked. Nearly always, my wife is naked. I will probably study this phenomenon a little more closely to see what the expert wacknoids who think they know but are really guessing have to say about it. My own pre-researched conclusion that I jump to is that the forbidden nature of nudity is socialized into us to the extent that it is only in dreams that we can dip our toe into these illicit waters.
Now, a dream. Last night I had a strangely disjointed dream about my friend Brad. Brad owns a successful advertising company but in my dream he was a plastic surgeon living and practicing out of his house in Hawaii. My dream picks up the story when I go in to visit him for an indescribable procedure. I can describe WHAT he did but not WHY he did it. I was lying on a table and he came up to my left arm and sank his scalpel deep into the shoulder and cut a line from it to the inside of my elbow right alongside my bicep. I remember feeling nothing. Not painful, no cutting. I do remember thinking that as he cut I was growing more delirious as if he had some sort of elixir on his knife that caused an anesthetic response (both local and general). As he cut, he complained about how hard it was to cut through a piece of fat near the shoulder/bicep division. He had to cut that a few times to get a deep as he somehow needed to cut. He left the room and my wife came in, naked, and slipped under the covers of the bed diagonal from me. He came back in and went to her bed, pulled down the covers, and used his scalpel on her hip, I believe, perhaps to revise her scar. But he must have forgotten the anesthetic because his first cut made her SCREAM so loudly that it woke me up.
This dream was not particularly troubling but I always have to ask myself...Why in Hawaii? Why Brad? Why wasn't the bed next to mine? I know why not my bed. She wouldn't want to disturb the large gash in my arm...
Wednesday, June 06, 2007
Serenity
Am I told what to think?
What a funny notion but on the other hand, it happens. I was talking to a person I used to work with who stayed in the hell hole that was NDCHealth after I left. In a passing conversation sometime after I left I asked him if he liked working there. He said, "It's a great place to work. At least that is what I am told..."
How telling. Can't you hear the corporate rah, rah in that? Instead of actually making it a great place to work, they just tell people how much better it is. The problem is that employees who have been there and seen both worlds think the new working environment sucks. And they are right - except they are continuously told how much better things are now.
I wonder how often this happens in life. How often do we bother to gather empirical data versus being fed information via the media spoonful. How often have I used facts and data from unverified, plastic-haired commentator source versus my own research. I'm afraid I do this often. I don't have time, for example, to disect the federal register report on HIPAA legislation so I rely on shortcuts to bring me to a level of understanding that allows me to emphatically rant about regulations and requirements with minimal knowledge. Now that's convenience. This is not to say that I don't have my crap-detector finely tuned on every piece of information I receive, its just that if it sounds good and matches my core beliefs, it's readily added to the arsenal.
I was talking to a friend the other day and at the risk of sounding cryptic, we were talking about a subject that is controversial. I realized that I didn't have a stand on this issue. Now, in my many years of life that doesn't mean that I haven't ever thought about it but if I had to state my stance on the subject, I would have to defer until I had thought enough about it to make a statement. Either that or catch a documentary on Discovery that swayed my thinking and filled my arguement quiver with undocumented, unverifyable, unsubstantiated weapons.
I concluded at the end of our discussion that I wasn't affected by the topic and therefore didn't have a strong opinion - meaning that I would be able to argue either side effectively. This was a mistake. His take was that I should see the world as he sees it. There should be no middle ground and there certainly should be no such thing as a flexible opinion.
As I gather more information and change my mind as a result, I'm smarter, right? As I more deeply contemplate a topic and gather my own information, I should be better informed to make a decision, re-align my thinking, and fight to the death to make sure everyone sees it my way -- at least until I change my mind again...
What a funny notion but on the other hand, it happens. I was talking to a person I used to work with who stayed in the hell hole that was NDCHealth after I left. In a passing conversation sometime after I left I asked him if he liked working there. He said, "It's a great place to work. At least that is what I am told..."
How telling. Can't you hear the corporate rah, rah in that? Instead of actually making it a great place to work, they just tell people how much better it is. The problem is that employees who have been there and seen both worlds think the new working environment sucks. And they are right - except they are continuously told how much better things are now.
I wonder how often this happens in life. How often do we bother to gather empirical data versus being fed information via the media spoonful. How often have I used facts and data from unverified, plastic-haired commentator source versus my own research. I'm afraid I do this often. I don't have time, for example, to disect the federal register report on HIPAA legislation so I rely on shortcuts to bring me to a level of understanding that allows me to emphatically rant about regulations and requirements with minimal knowledge. Now that's convenience. This is not to say that I don't have my crap-detector finely tuned on every piece of information I receive, its just that if it sounds good and matches my core beliefs, it's readily added to the arsenal.
I was talking to a friend the other day and at the risk of sounding cryptic, we were talking about a subject that is controversial. I realized that I didn't have a stand on this issue. Now, in my many years of life that doesn't mean that I haven't ever thought about it but if I had to state my stance on the subject, I would have to defer until I had thought enough about it to make a statement. Either that or catch a documentary on Discovery that swayed my thinking and filled my arguement quiver with undocumented, unverifyable, unsubstantiated weapons.
I concluded at the end of our discussion that I wasn't affected by the topic and therefore didn't have a strong opinion - meaning that I would be able to argue either side effectively. This was a mistake. His take was that I should see the world as he sees it. There should be no middle ground and there certainly should be no such thing as a flexible opinion.
As I gather more information and change my mind as a result, I'm smarter, right? As I more deeply contemplate a topic and gather my own information, I should be better informed to make a decision, re-align my thinking, and fight to the death to make sure everyone sees it my way -- at least until I change my mind again...
Wednesday, May 30, 2007
Thin Line
First, some lyrics:
It’s a thin line between love and hate
It’s a thin line between love and hate
It’s five o’clock in the morning
And you’re just getting in
You knock on the front door
And a voice sweet and low says
Who is it? She opens up the door and lets you in
Never once asks where have you been
She says are you hungry?
Did you eat yet?
Let me hang up your coat
Pass me your hat
All the time she’s smiling
Never once raises her voice
Its five o’clock in the morning
You don’t give it a second thought
Its a thin line between love and hate
(repeat)
The sweetest woman in the world
Could be the meanest woman in the world
If you make her that way
You keep hurting her
She'll keep being quiet
She might be holding something inside
That’ll really, really hurt you one day
I see her in the hospital
Bandaged from foot to head
In a state of shock
Just that much from being dead
You couldn’t believe the girl
Would do something like this, ha
You didn’t think the girl had the nerve
But here you are
I guess action speaks louder than words
Its a thin line between love and hate
(repeat)
We were talking about a couple, let’s call them R and E, who really don’t deserve the two beautiful children they have because they are so busy being angry and hateful and vengeful with each other that they can’t see past their differences to be civil – even for their kids.
Poor little T is only 9 years old and feeling the brunt of it. A new chapter was written this weekend involving a late visitation, a power-hungry, hypocritical mom, a butthole dad, and a couple of kids that basically got squashed in the middle of the drama.
At one point in the story, I turned to the storyteller and commented that A) I don’t know whose side I am on because I dislike both of them for different reasons, and B) it’s a thin line between love and hate. Only too recently have I been exposed to many folks who “don’t love each other anymore” and who are trying to move on in their rather advanced years. It seems to me there are fundamental prideful problems with each of them. How can they attempt to find love again? How can they try to sever deep ties with home and family and kids and lives without wrecking all? What makes them think their single offering is so desirable that others will want them?
So, I have decided to open a butthole-gone-single aging-meat-market (BGSAMM) dating service. I will list their real qualities –
1) Strong determination to walk away from responsibility
2) New-found desire to improve self and look good
3) Ability to forget past (accomplishments but not faults)
and their imagined qualities –
1) Thinks they are better off
2) Have more to offer to their pursued new relationship now that they are free
I think most of the BGSAMM participants think the opposite of love is hate. They could not be more wrong. The opposite of love is indifference. The opposite of love is ‘I do not care.’
It is the inability to think objectively and rationally that I don’t get. Why not fall in love with the person you were in love with before? Is that so hard? If you hate them now, you aren’t far away from loving them. Cut yourself a big slice of that humble pie you avoid so fervently and fold up the selfishness you hold so dear into a small wad and stick it under the table of reconciliation. If you look under there you find that many others in your situation have already done that. Gross, isn’t it?
Plus, you know what they look like naked so there won't be a 'third-nipple surprise.'
It’s a thin line between love and hate
It’s a thin line between love and hate
It’s five o’clock in the morning
And you’re just getting in
You knock on the front door
And a voice sweet and low says
Who is it? She opens up the door and lets you in
Never once asks where have you been
She says are you hungry?
Did you eat yet?
Let me hang up your coat
Pass me your hat
All the time she’s smiling
Never once raises her voice
Its five o’clock in the morning
You don’t give it a second thought
Its a thin line between love and hate
(repeat)
The sweetest woman in the world
Could be the meanest woman in the world
If you make her that way
You keep hurting her
She'll keep being quiet
She might be holding something inside
That’ll really, really hurt you one day
I see her in the hospital
Bandaged from foot to head
In a state of shock
Just that much from being dead
You couldn’t believe the girl
Would do something like this, ha
You didn’t think the girl had the nerve
But here you are
I guess action speaks louder than words
Its a thin line between love and hate
(repeat)
We were talking about a couple, let’s call them R and E, who really don’t deserve the two beautiful children they have because they are so busy being angry and hateful and vengeful with each other that they can’t see past their differences to be civil – even for their kids.
Poor little T is only 9 years old and feeling the brunt of it. A new chapter was written this weekend involving a late visitation, a power-hungry, hypocritical mom, a butthole dad, and a couple of kids that basically got squashed in the middle of the drama.
At one point in the story, I turned to the storyteller and commented that A) I don’t know whose side I am on because I dislike both of them for different reasons, and B) it’s a thin line between love and hate. Only too recently have I been exposed to many folks who “don’t love each other anymore” and who are trying to move on in their rather advanced years. It seems to me there are fundamental prideful problems with each of them. How can they attempt to find love again? How can they try to sever deep ties with home and family and kids and lives without wrecking all? What makes them think their single offering is so desirable that others will want them?
So, I have decided to open a butthole-gone-single aging-meat-market (BGSAMM) dating service. I will list their real qualities –
1) Strong determination to walk away from responsibility
2) New-found desire to improve self and look good
3) Ability to forget past (accomplishments but not faults)
and their imagined qualities –
1) Thinks they are better off
2) Have more to offer to their pursued new relationship now that they are free
I think most of the BGSAMM participants think the opposite of love is hate. They could not be more wrong. The opposite of love is indifference. The opposite of love is ‘I do not care.’
It is the inability to think objectively and rationally that I don’t get. Why not fall in love with the person you were in love with before? Is that so hard? If you hate them now, you aren’t far away from loving them. Cut yourself a big slice of that humble pie you avoid so fervently and fold up the selfishness you hold so dear into a small wad and stick it under the table of reconciliation. If you look under there you find that many others in your situation have already done that. Gross, isn’t it?
Plus, you know what they look like naked so there won't be a 'third-nipple surprise.'
Thursday, May 24, 2007
A Fish Story
I searched my blog and found that I haven’t used the word puke nearly enough. So, I have another puke story – this one from sophomore year at Westwood High. Don’t worry, this one does not involve cows, it involves fish. I also can’t tell this story without you seeing it coming down Broadway so I apologize in advance if your anticipation exceeds the payoff. I am reminded of this story because I just ran into a friend of mine at a restaurant and had a lovely chat with him. He has a cute daughter who is graduating this year – also a plus as I have a son.
Jim, whose real name is Jim, is 2 years older than I am – making him a lofty senior when I was a lowly sophomore. Steve, the other principal in this story, was also a senior. They were contemporaries of Dennis. Jim had a knack, a gift, or a talent which I did not discuss with his children while they were in the restaurant. He could puke on command. I’m not sure how this superpower helped him but somehow we were jealous of this ability when we were in high school. He assured us that when he really puked – that is when he was sick and retching – it was nasty, painful, uncomfortable, etc. much like the experiences we all can tell and re-tell before being shut down by the wimpy weak-stomached (WWS) in our midst. However, in daily life, he could reproduce a meal with great ease and no discomfort.
One day at Mc Don Al Ds, Micky dees, you get it, right, I am hiding this from the corporate name protection police, he actually ate a Begg Meck, regurgitated it back into the styro-container that used to house these burgers before we all turned green, and tried to return it. He claimed it was ‘undercooked.’ Gross, I know. But it gets better (or worse if you are a WWS). Jim often reproduced meals, which became boring after three to four years.
Senior year, there was a school-wide dance held in the gym for charity. There were several raffle-type activities yielding funds to be given to a worthy charity, I’m sure. One of the evening’s activities was goldfish swallowing. You can see it coming, can’t you? You could spend $1 on a goldfish that you would then have to swallow – all in the name of charity.
Not to be outdone, Jim and Steve teamed up in the name of charity as well. They cornered the DJ (from a local radio station who happened to be working our dance) and told him that between the two of them they would swallow the same goldfish. Pause. Really? How? Jim would eat the goldfish, blanch it back up, and Steve would eat it again. The DJ stopped the music and announced the offer these guys had made and began the bidding. I wish I could remember how high the bidding got – somewhere around $200 or so I think. Once the bidding stopped, a hush fell over the crowd as Jim ate a goldfish (and drank a little of the water from the fish tank for effect). A minute later, up came the fish back into a cup filled with other stomach contents. The DJ verified that indeed there was a little fish in the mixture so Steve grabbed the cup, hesitated slightly, and then drank it. Without peer pressure I don’t think he could have kept that concoction down. But he did. And we were all amazed at the combination of guts and stupidity. How does anyone survive high school?
Jim, whose real name is Jim, is 2 years older than I am – making him a lofty senior when I was a lowly sophomore. Steve, the other principal in this story, was also a senior. They were contemporaries of Dennis. Jim had a knack, a gift, or a talent which I did not discuss with his children while they were in the restaurant. He could puke on command. I’m not sure how this superpower helped him but somehow we were jealous of this ability when we were in high school. He assured us that when he really puked – that is when he was sick and retching – it was nasty, painful, uncomfortable, etc. much like the experiences we all can tell and re-tell before being shut down by the wimpy weak-stomached (WWS) in our midst. However, in daily life, he could reproduce a meal with great ease and no discomfort.
One day at Mc Don Al Ds, Micky dees, you get it, right, I am hiding this from the corporate name protection police, he actually ate a Begg Meck, regurgitated it back into the styro-container that used to house these burgers before we all turned green, and tried to return it. He claimed it was ‘undercooked.’ Gross, I know. But it gets better (or worse if you are a WWS). Jim often reproduced meals, which became boring after three to four years.
Senior year, there was a school-wide dance held in the gym for charity. There were several raffle-type activities yielding funds to be given to a worthy charity, I’m sure. One of the evening’s activities was goldfish swallowing. You can see it coming, can’t you? You could spend $1 on a goldfish that you would then have to swallow – all in the name of charity.
Not to be outdone, Jim and Steve teamed up in the name of charity as well. They cornered the DJ (from a local radio station who happened to be working our dance) and told him that between the two of them they would swallow the same goldfish. Pause. Really? How? Jim would eat the goldfish, blanch it back up, and Steve would eat it again. The DJ stopped the music and announced the offer these guys had made and began the bidding. I wish I could remember how high the bidding got – somewhere around $200 or so I think. Once the bidding stopped, a hush fell over the crowd as Jim ate a goldfish (and drank a little of the water from the fish tank for effect). A minute later, up came the fish back into a cup filled with other stomach contents. The DJ verified that indeed there was a little fish in the mixture so Steve grabbed the cup, hesitated slightly, and then drank it. Without peer pressure I don’t think he could have kept that concoction down. But he did. And we were all amazed at the combination of guts and stupidity. How does anyone survive high school?
Thursday, May 17, 2007
Crabby Maui
I couldn’t resist another travel blog. This one involves in-flight turbulence. Picture yourself in the cockpit of a 4-seat Cessna with a beautiful view of the Pacific Ocean and Kahului, the airport you just left on the isthmus of Maui, Hawaii. This was me a few years ago. What a great trip. What a fabulous sight. I was the third passenger, the first two being Kioki, our instructor/pilot and Jeff Ward, my business partner who was copilot/in-training pilot trying to get a few more flight hours. Where better than in Hawaii to enjoy a little flight instruction?
After taking off, we flew toward the West Maui Mountains and on over to the sea cliffs on Molokai and Lanai before heading back to Maui. The flight was smooth and fun, not the least bit scary and there was really no concern for the wind or the weather. The pilots handled the ride differently: Kioki was calm and Jeff was, um, hyper-alert. As we made our way back around to Maui we could see Lahaina and then we circled around the West Maui Mountains toward the isthmus on the south side. Kioki, a VERY seasoned flyer, casually mentioned that we would be breaking free of the protection of the mountains and that the trade winds through the isthmus were significant. We noticed a definite line in the water ahead where the calm sea gave way to the waves churned up by the wind. On cue, Kioki said, “…we always feel the wind right about here when we come around this … [something indecipherable because of the sudden blender-like shuddering of the increasingly tiny gnat-plane we were wrapped in]”. I think he meant mountain. Wow, you think turbulence is bad in a big plane? This was eventful because A) I have never been shaken so violently in a tiny craft before and B) Kioki found our girl-like screams amusing.
Upon approach, Kioki told Jeff that the crosswind was about 30-40 knots with gusts. According to Kioki this is normal wind for the isthmus between two GIANT mountains with the trade winds, etc. According to Jeff, this was a reason to avoid takeoff – let alone attempting to land. In Arizona, these conditions cause private plane owners to divert. Kioki told Jeff to throttle back all the way to idle. Really, it looked like the propeller stopped spinning. We stayed in the air as a result of two forces: the wind and the audible prayers uttered from the back seat.
This landing reminded me of a short flight I took to Salt Lake City. I learned some new aviation terms during this flight – and not the ones used by other passengers who were puking in bags around me. We actually ran out of barf bags on that flight. Seriously, I didn’t think commercial planes could be bounced around the sky like this one was. When we got closer to landing, the wind, clouds, and, well, tornados were a little disconcerting. I was informed after we landed that they closed the airport. Our flight was evidently the experience that tipped the should-we-close-this-sucker-down scale. Upon approach, the plane’s nose pointed toward the mountains. We were flying at about a 45 degree angle relative to the runway. They call this ‘crabbing’ perhaps because crabs fly sideways. Crabbing allows the pilot to fly against crosswinds. I think I crabbed my pants.
After taking off, we flew toward the West Maui Mountains and on over to the sea cliffs on Molokai and Lanai before heading back to Maui. The flight was smooth and fun, not the least bit scary and there was really no concern for the wind or the weather. The pilots handled the ride differently: Kioki was calm and Jeff was, um, hyper-alert. As we made our way back around to Maui we could see Lahaina and then we circled around the West Maui Mountains toward the isthmus on the south side. Kioki, a VERY seasoned flyer, casually mentioned that we would be breaking free of the protection of the mountains and that the trade winds through the isthmus were significant. We noticed a definite line in the water ahead where the calm sea gave way to the waves churned up by the wind. On cue, Kioki said, “…we always feel the wind right about here when we come around this … [something indecipherable because of the sudden blender-like shuddering of the increasingly tiny gnat-plane we were wrapped in]”. I think he meant mountain. Wow, you think turbulence is bad in a big plane? This was eventful because A) I have never been shaken so violently in a tiny craft before and B) Kioki found our girl-like screams amusing.
Upon approach, Kioki told Jeff that the crosswind was about 30-40 knots with gusts. According to Kioki this is normal wind for the isthmus between two GIANT mountains with the trade winds, etc. According to Jeff, this was a reason to avoid takeoff – let alone attempting to land. In Arizona, these conditions cause private plane owners to divert. Kioki told Jeff to throttle back all the way to idle. Really, it looked like the propeller stopped spinning. We stayed in the air as a result of two forces: the wind and the audible prayers uttered from the back seat.
This landing reminded me of a short flight I took to Salt Lake City. I learned some new aviation terms during this flight – and not the ones used by other passengers who were puking in bags around me. We actually ran out of barf bags on that flight. Seriously, I didn’t think commercial planes could be bounced around the sky like this one was. When we got closer to landing, the wind, clouds, and, well, tornados were a little disconcerting. I was informed after we landed that they closed the airport. Our flight was evidently the experience that tipped the should-we-close-this-sucker-down scale. Upon approach, the plane’s nose pointed toward the mountains. We were flying at about a 45 degree angle relative to the runway. They call this ‘crabbing’ perhaps because crabs fly sideways. Crabbing allows the pilot to fly against crosswinds. I think I crabbed my pants.
Tuesday, May 08, 2007
as Big as Texas
Have you ever felt turbulence while on the ground that was so bad it made you want to toss your bagels? Almost as violent as when you were in the air? I have. Here’s the story:
When I was traveling extensively for the red menace, I had occasion to visit Dallas, Texas. I was headed for San Antonio but for some reason we were diverted to Dallas. I don’t remember if I was connecting through Dallas or if we landed there temporarily. All this was because of the weather there so we were delayed for some time waiting. The airline, in a heart-felt gesture, decided I deserved a $20 voucher for my delay and troubles to be used in the airport. So, I went to the closest airport kiosk and asked for a bagel and a juice. The total was $7. The girl behind the counter decided that she would let me in on a little secret. “You see”, she said, “you can’t get change for this. You might as well order $20 worth of food.” So, I did. I just got $13 worth of bagels. It filled a brown paper bag.
We were finally allowed to board the plane and I was relegated to the rear of the plane. We taxied to the runway and then the captain came on and told us that there was another nasty cell coming through so we would have to wait. Again. Here’s where the turbulence came in. I could see out my window that the sky was darkening and actually quite ominous. No big deal. Let’s wait for the storm. Wow! As the heart of the storm beat upon us that plane rocked, tipped, and yawed like a Mormon newlywed bed. Holy smokes, many of my fellow passengers were less than amused. An hour and a half later, the storm left. The pilot came on and informed us of the proverbial good news/bad news scenario. The good news was that we had been cleared to be able to take off. The storm was over. The bad news was that there were 27 other planes that had priority over our departure. We were queued up. They expected about a 90 minute delay before takeoff.
It was at this point that a rather ample hungry-looking black woman near me began to complain about her hunger. Asking her to wait for the storm was OK, but could we please cut in front of some of these other planes and get out of here so she could eat!? So, Samaritan that I am, I piped up with an offer of a poppy seed bagel. She declined sheepishly. I think she realized that she was the only one complaining. I then said, to everyone in my section, that the airline had been gracious enough to give me money for these bagels and that I couldn’t possibly eat them all. That did it. Oh, yes. She accepted my offer of a bagel, as did many others seated around me. I nearly emptied the bag. Can you believe it, after everyone had a bagel, she had the gall to ask, “…do you have cream cheese?” I had to laugh. The nerve. Me with free bagels but no cream cheese.
After distributing the bagels, eating them, suffering with no beverage (no, I didn’t ration my juice) and apparently suffering worse with no cream cheese, we took off. It seemed to me that they saw a crack in the sky, a break between storms, and went for it. The liftoff was spectacular. I expected to hear, “…and the Airbus A320 has cleared the tower for the first-ever multi-racial, multi-bagel, experimental land-speed record-setting flight…” We were freely batted about the sky headed for San Antonio – or so I thought. Remember that storm that we waited for? Well, apparently, it had made it most of the way to San Antonio by the time we waited for the 27 planes in front of us. So, we would have to ‘fly around’ for a while waiting for the same storm to leave the San Antonio area. So we did.
Then came the pilot with some more good news/bad news. The good news is that the storm was leaving the San Antonio area but the bad news was that FAA rules stated that our fuel levels had reached a point where we had to refuel wherever we were. This, happily, was in Abilene, Texas. Abilene, it seems, had never had a plane this big actually land in this airport so they had no facilities to allow us to disembark. A truck, with a long hose, came driving up to the plane and we waited while Otis squeezed the handle and the jet fuel trickled into our plane. I half expected Gomer and Goober to run out, wash the windshield, and run the pilot’s credit card out the window.
Who knew it would take me 7 hours to fly over Texas. Sure, all the Texans did, right.
When I was traveling extensively for the red menace, I had occasion to visit Dallas, Texas. I was headed for San Antonio but for some reason we were diverted to Dallas. I don’t remember if I was connecting through Dallas or if we landed there temporarily. All this was because of the weather there so we were delayed for some time waiting. The airline, in a heart-felt gesture, decided I deserved a $20 voucher for my delay and troubles to be used in the airport. So, I went to the closest airport kiosk and asked for a bagel and a juice. The total was $7. The girl behind the counter decided that she would let me in on a little secret. “You see”, she said, “you can’t get change for this. You might as well order $20 worth of food.” So, I did. I just got $13 worth of bagels. It filled a brown paper bag.
We were finally allowed to board the plane and I was relegated to the rear of the plane. We taxied to the runway and then the captain came on and told us that there was another nasty cell coming through so we would have to wait. Again. Here’s where the turbulence came in. I could see out my window that the sky was darkening and actually quite ominous. No big deal. Let’s wait for the storm. Wow! As the heart of the storm beat upon us that plane rocked, tipped, and yawed like a Mormon newlywed bed. Holy smokes, many of my fellow passengers were less than amused. An hour and a half later, the storm left. The pilot came on and informed us of the proverbial good news/bad news scenario. The good news was that we had been cleared to be able to take off. The storm was over. The bad news was that there were 27 other planes that had priority over our departure. We were queued up. They expected about a 90 minute delay before takeoff.
It was at this point that a rather ample hungry-looking black woman near me began to complain about her hunger. Asking her to wait for the storm was OK, but could we please cut in front of some of these other planes and get out of here so she could eat!? So, Samaritan that I am, I piped up with an offer of a poppy seed bagel. She declined sheepishly. I think she realized that she was the only one complaining. I then said, to everyone in my section, that the airline had been gracious enough to give me money for these bagels and that I couldn’t possibly eat them all. That did it. Oh, yes. She accepted my offer of a bagel, as did many others seated around me. I nearly emptied the bag. Can you believe it, after everyone had a bagel, she had the gall to ask, “…do you have cream cheese?” I had to laugh. The nerve. Me with free bagels but no cream cheese.
After distributing the bagels, eating them, suffering with no beverage (no, I didn’t ration my juice) and apparently suffering worse with no cream cheese, we took off. It seemed to me that they saw a crack in the sky, a break between storms, and went for it. The liftoff was spectacular. I expected to hear, “…and the Airbus A320 has cleared the tower for the first-ever multi-racial, multi-bagel, experimental land-speed record-setting flight…” We were freely batted about the sky headed for San Antonio – or so I thought. Remember that storm that we waited for? Well, apparently, it had made it most of the way to San Antonio by the time we waited for the 27 planes in front of us. So, we would have to ‘fly around’ for a while waiting for the same storm to leave the San Antonio area. So we did.
Then came the pilot with some more good news/bad news. The good news is that the storm was leaving the San Antonio area but the bad news was that FAA rules stated that our fuel levels had reached a point where we had to refuel wherever we were. This, happily, was in Abilene, Texas. Abilene, it seems, had never had a plane this big actually land in this airport so they had no facilities to allow us to disembark. A truck, with a long hose, came driving up to the plane and we waited while Otis squeezed the handle and the jet fuel trickled into our plane. I half expected Gomer and Goober to run out, wash the windshield, and run the pilot’s credit card out the window.
Who knew it would take me 7 hours to fly over Texas. Sure, all the Texans did, right.
Sunday, April 29, 2007
Teach Me to Lead
I now accept leadership as a legitimate art form. I don’t know how I felt earlier in my life. I probably accepted leadership for what it was and engaged in the lame, pedestrian leadership myself that I see so often in others now. Back then I didn’t understand the real reason for leaders. I think I thought leadership was more the enforcer/cop keeping vigil on naturally occurring events. I thought things would get done just fine without leaders keeping tabs on everything. I assumed that leaders were nothing more than watchdogs ensuring that there were no violations. I never accepted the notion that because the team lost too many games the coach should be fired. He never played. He didn’t lose. He didn’t drop any passes or jump off sides. I get it now.
I was wrong about leadership. Unfortunately, I was often in leadership positions so there are plenty of witnesses to my pathetic leadership skills.
Why? Did I have such crappy leaders and bosses early on that I didn’t grasp the true nature of great leadership? Or did I have such excellent leaders that their supremacy was seamless and undetectable? Many years ago when I learned that leaders can make or break something. I have seen inept leadership first-hand and heard of it second-hand and talked about it extensively third-hand.
On the other hand, because I have been both a good leader and an extremely poor one, I cannot in good conscience be critical of any leader. But I am anyway. Management styles differ vastly and effectiveness is often in the eye of the beholder – or the next manager up the poop chain. I tend, now, to manage as I like to be managed. I don’t really have any insight into great management. I guess that is why there are so many books on the subject – none of which agree with each other. I try to give direction and allow the ‘managed’ to control their own destiny. Sometimes I get into trouble because those who are managed need more direction. I don’t. I don’t like much direction. I invent. When I am given direction, it is often limiting, which is against what I should be about in my opinion.
I now stand in admiration of great leaders. I watch the tricks, tactics, and methods of leaders I see hoping to steal from them and incorporate some of their characteristics in my own leadership responsibilities.
A side note: my dad often brought home stray dogs to his house. His father would take them out the back door and behind the shed and 'teach them how to lead' which meant kill them. My dad never liked animals until much later in his life.
I was wrong about leadership. Unfortunately, I was often in leadership positions so there are plenty of witnesses to my pathetic leadership skills.
Why? Did I have such crappy leaders and bosses early on that I didn’t grasp the true nature of great leadership? Or did I have such excellent leaders that their supremacy was seamless and undetectable? Many years ago when I learned that leaders can make or break something. I have seen inept leadership first-hand and heard of it second-hand and talked about it extensively third-hand.
On the other hand, because I have been both a good leader and an extremely poor one, I cannot in good conscience be critical of any leader. But I am anyway. Management styles differ vastly and effectiveness is often in the eye of the beholder – or the next manager up the poop chain. I tend, now, to manage as I like to be managed. I don’t really have any insight into great management. I guess that is why there are so many books on the subject – none of which agree with each other. I try to give direction and allow the ‘managed’ to control their own destiny. Sometimes I get into trouble because those who are managed need more direction. I don’t. I don’t like much direction. I invent. When I am given direction, it is often limiting, which is against what I should be about in my opinion.
I now stand in admiration of great leaders. I watch the tricks, tactics, and methods of leaders I see hoping to steal from them and incorporate some of their characteristics in my own leadership responsibilities.
A side note: my dad often brought home stray dogs to his house. His father would take them out the back door and behind the shed and 'teach them how to lead' which meant kill them. My dad never liked animals until much later in his life.
Friday, April 27, 2007
Teaming
Teams. It seems teams are a part of every facet of life. I have been on teams, coached teams, and been kicked off teams. The common thing about teams is that association with a team teaches a life lesson that is useful in many circumstances.
When I was young, I was on football teams, baseball teams, basketball teams, softball teams, track teams, etc. Although the term Track Team seems a little strange since track is an individual event. But now that I think about it, Tennis Teams, Swim Teams and other individual-like sports have a different definition of a team.
So, there are the kinds of teams that promote a sense of belonging to a larger organization, like the track team or, I suppose, being schizophrenic. These honor the individual effort but don’t rely on teamwork per se to accomplish their objective. Sure, one track team beats another by virtue of points accumulated, but let’s not split hairs. Teams like a football team or basketball team count on each other to be able to conquer opponents, douse each other with champagne and blame each other for extraneous misconduct. No team, no event, no rape.
Being old now, I coach teams more than I participate on teams. Sports teams, that is. I am on management teams and the like but they are usually called task forces, panels, or juries. I derive great joy from coaching my children on teams but I try to involve them on different teams for the experience. Caitie’s teams have been fun to coach and I have learned how to manipulate them so they gain a sense of teamwork and a subsequent desire to assist each other and do better because they feel they are a part of an entity they care about. I used to be suspect of leadership but have a whole new take on that topic – for another blog.
In college I was forced to assemble teams for group projects. This was particularly difficult because I was always the team captain and always did the bulk of the work. As my education progressed, I figured out that I was going to be put into teams in each of my upper-division classes. I was also fortunate to find another guy who was a leader and who worked/shouldered his share of the project load. He and I coordinated our schedules to have the same classes. We would purposefully sit on opposite sides of the room and ‘recruit’ team members. When it came time to assemble teams, the teacher would invariably leave the formulation of the teams up to the students. This was perfect for us. We knew we would be on the same team but would strike up casual interviews with the others in the class to see if there were others whom we deemed worthy to be on our team.
Our dialogues went something like this: “Oh, I hate teams. I always get stuck doing all the work…” (hoping for a ‘me too’) or “Do you know if this class is hard? My GPA needs a boost…” (hoping for a ‘none of these classes are hard’) or “If we pull an all-nighter, do you object to wearing see-thru pajamas?” (hoping for ‘that’s all I have and I don’t wear underware’) – the last one was for female candidates only.
We ended up assembling great teams that accomplished strong results because we recruited well. Was that cheating?
When I was young, I was on football teams, baseball teams, basketball teams, softball teams, track teams, etc. Although the term Track Team seems a little strange since track is an individual event. But now that I think about it, Tennis Teams, Swim Teams and other individual-like sports have a different definition of a team.
So, there are the kinds of teams that promote a sense of belonging to a larger organization, like the track team or, I suppose, being schizophrenic. These honor the individual effort but don’t rely on teamwork per se to accomplish their objective. Sure, one track team beats another by virtue of points accumulated, but let’s not split hairs. Teams like a football team or basketball team count on each other to be able to conquer opponents, douse each other with champagne and blame each other for extraneous misconduct. No team, no event, no rape.
Being old now, I coach teams more than I participate on teams. Sports teams, that is. I am on management teams and the like but they are usually called task forces, panels, or juries. I derive great joy from coaching my children on teams but I try to involve them on different teams for the experience. Caitie’s teams have been fun to coach and I have learned how to manipulate them so they gain a sense of teamwork and a subsequent desire to assist each other and do better because they feel they are a part of an entity they care about. I used to be suspect of leadership but have a whole new take on that topic – for another blog.
In college I was forced to assemble teams for group projects. This was particularly difficult because I was always the team captain and always did the bulk of the work. As my education progressed, I figured out that I was going to be put into teams in each of my upper-division classes. I was also fortunate to find another guy who was a leader and who worked/shouldered his share of the project load. He and I coordinated our schedules to have the same classes. We would purposefully sit on opposite sides of the room and ‘recruit’ team members. When it came time to assemble teams, the teacher would invariably leave the formulation of the teams up to the students. This was perfect for us. We knew we would be on the same team but would strike up casual interviews with the others in the class to see if there were others whom we deemed worthy to be on our team.
Our dialogues went something like this: “Oh, I hate teams. I always get stuck doing all the work…” (hoping for a ‘me too’) or “Do you know if this class is hard? My GPA needs a boost…” (hoping for a ‘none of these classes are hard’) or “If we pull an all-nighter, do you object to wearing see-thru pajamas?” (hoping for ‘that’s all I have and I don’t wear underware’) – the last one was for female candidates only.
We ended up assembling great teams that accomplished strong results because we recruited well. Was that cheating?
Thursday, April 26, 2007
Extreme Optimism
OK, so I admit it, I'm an extreme optimist. I have been optimistic since I was a little tyke rolling down the driveway in Phoenix on my new bike that I didn't know how to ride yet and skinning my knees on the asphalt driveway. Oh, no, here comes a bifurcation – two blogs in one. Why was it OK for our parents to A) provide no visible means of protection for the little kamikaze bike riders, B) provide no medical assistance and little pharmaceutical assistance to our wounds, and C) HAVE AN ASPHALT DRIVEWAY WITH LOOSE GRAVEL TO CRASH ON AND IMBED INTO OUR WOUNDS IN THE FIRST PLACE? We had no knee pads, helmets, wrist guards, or other protective gear to help us bounce off the earth. And yet we survived. Strange, isn't it? It is perhaps this upbringing that contributed to my optimism. There, I knew it would be come back together.
I am afflicted by extreme optimism in so many ways. There are times when my optimism keeps me in the dark. There are times when my optimism gets me through tough times. But most of the time, optimism seems to be the way to most properly live my life. My wife says I am not realistic because I am optimistic. This seems misleading. The continuum is pessimism to optimism – not realism to optimism. I think optimism is a closer cousin to reality than pessimism because of three very important factors: optimists rule, pessimists suck and reality is conjured. No, really, the three things that I count on are 1) the goodness of people and their constant desire to continue to do the right thing regardless of their shortcomings, 2) events occur predictably for the most part, and 3) pessimists suck.
1) Carried to extremes, a pessimistic person would never drive on the freeway. Other drivers on the freeway may stop, or swerve, or try to cause trouble for the pessimistic driver who would constantly be on guard, stressed out, and pull over into the middle lane and creep along at 54 mph. I think this happens to old folks as they try with ever-increasing desperation to preserve their lives – either that or they don't trust their degenerated reflexes enough to avoid the driver who stops, swerves, or tries to cause trouble. Optimistic people travel the same freeway believing that all the other drivers will for the most part try not to crash into them, try to maintain the correct speed, and generally avoid trouble (or eye contact for that matter). Extreme optimists not only believe this but also look into every car thinking they for sure they will know someone and that person will want to have sex with them.
2) (The following example excludes many construction trades or the production of any software product) If I try to estimate the duration of a trip, the length of time to complete a project, or the time necessary to accomplish the tasks on my to-do list, I have to employ some sense of reason and logic and mix in some real time experience to prognosticate. Pessimistic folks plan extra time for a flat tire, a bomb scare in the store supplying materials to complete a project, or the inevitable multiplication of tasks on that to-do list. Pessimists will often remark that if they approach life in this negative frame of mind then they are never disappointed. That's too bad, because the majority of the time they aren't happy either. They constantly wait for the 'other shoe to drop' rather than enjoying the first shoe. And the saddest part is they wish everyone around them would join in their misery. Extreme optimists wish they had more on the to-do list to show just how much they can do – whether they can do it or not. The ability to achieve is irrelevant.
3) I am optimistic that I can change a pessimists mind. I can’t, but that doesn’t stop me from believing that I can. This is why pessimists suck. If they won’t bend to my constant, relentless optimism, then ‘rain on them.’
The other day, my brother-in-law Chris and I were in the basement cleaning and moving items up stairs when I began complaining about the fact that the giant hand-me-down TV would eventually have to make the trip down the stairs and try to turn the corner into the room. No room, no flexibility, and very heavy. So, in our discussion, Chris said, "…why don't you wrap the stairs around and open them up. You know the last 3 stairs don't have to have a banister…" He drew me a picture on the wall and I hastily agreed. He ran upstairs, grabbed his Skill saw and cut the end off the existing banister. Strangely enough, this began at 6:oopm and by midnight he and I (ok, mostly he) had the old stairs opened up and the new addition to wrap the stairs completed. At one point, during all the sweating and cutting, my sister pointed out, "…the problem is they are both optimists." She was right. We had no problem with this project. The timeline fit (Debi was coming home in 4 days) and the painter, carpet guy, and others had to be scheduled also. No problem. The thing is we did it. I did find out during the course of this that Chris is an extreme optimist like me. I explained my debilitating extreme optimism by telling them that each morning while in the shower, I wait for and wonder why my wife hasn't joined me. For 20 years I have had this thought EACH DAY with no reason to entertain such a thought! Chris confided that he has the same thoughts. His affliction is particularly acute since he gets up at 4:30am each day and still looks for these events to occur.
One more: Betsy and Trent visited one fine spring day and we decided to take the trailer out for a weekend campout. The place I selected was one that is great – except for two unanticipated drawbacks. One, mosquitoes. Two, getting down the ravine into the riverbed consisted of driving on roads not suitable for, um, trailers. So, I dragged the trailer to the edge and my extreme optimism kicked in. I was sure that I could make it down. Well, we did make it down, but we dragged the bottom of the trailer so badly that it tore off the plumbing (so no pooping) and bent up the bumper so badly that we couldn't get the back door open (so no quadding). I admit, in this instance, my extreme optimism cost me money. I could not, however, shut it off. I am currently looking for a 12 step program that helps me cope with over-happiness.
Wednesday, April 25, 2007
Grin Grimace Stoop Hunch
Grin Grimace Stoop Hunch
I’ve been noticing lately a strange set of human behaviors that are not usually called to consciousness. However, everyone knows about these. There are two sets of idiosyncratic behaviors that are not so idiosyncratic. Common idiosyncrasies. Who’s the oxy and who’s the moron now, huh?
The first one is the half-grin. This is used in social behavior when two individuals meet who really don’t know each other. There could be some familiarity between them, or they could be in a social situation that commonly demands a smile – and reciprocal smile between the two parties. However, the smile, being a little too familiar, does not quite fit. So, and you can try this at home, the half-smile is employed. This is done by using some, but not all of the smiling muscles in your face. Employ mostly the muscles immediately adjacent your mouth without using the higher cheek “…turn it upside down and smile that frown away” muscles. Want extra style points? Purse the lips a bit too, in a knowing fashion – poised and ready to say hello to the stranger should they break the half-grin barrier.
It seems that committing the whole face to a real smile is somewhat too personal or not worth the effort but not smiling at all shows gives off a stoic chill akin to the look I get from my wife after a good fart joke. So, instead of just looking ahead, or looking away (preferred, but not an option if you have been spotted looking directly at somebody as if you were going to have to pick them out of a line-up later) you just glance, give them the halfer, and move on. Not an issue. I am amazed how often I see this. I get it most at fast food restaurants – except In-N-Out where full-face smiles are handed out like Clinton pardons.
The second is the hunch. This is the act of walking in front of something, somebody, or a group of somebodys and stooping over slightly in Cro-Magnon form to avoid being seen, blocking view, or disrupting an event.
I see this one in several places. Church – when somebody comes in late (even in the back, strangely enough) they will walk in hunched over slightly. Movies – see the guy that got here late? So does everyone else even though he is walking as if his spine has suddenly given way. Conversations – when two people are talking in a hallway and somebody has to pass between them, there is usually a hunker involved. This move is usually accompanied by a streamline body turn so as to avoid getting too close to the conversators. This makes no sense to me but somehow it excuses them even if they don’t say it. The fact that their body posture demonstrates an inferior position allows the hallway conversation to continue uninterrupted.
Poop. See?
I’ve been noticing lately a strange set of human behaviors that are not usually called to consciousness. However, everyone knows about these. There are two sets of idiosyncratic behaviors that are not so idiosyncratic. Common idiosyncrasies. Who’s the oxy and who’s the moron now, huh?
The first one is the half-grin. This is used in social behavior when two individuals meet who really don’t know each other. There could be some familiarity between them, or they could be in a social situation that commonly demands a smile – and reciprocal smile between the two parties. However, the smile, being a little too familiar, does not quite fit. So, and you can try this at home, the half-smile is employed. This is done by using some, but not all of the smiling muscles in your face. Employ mostly the muscles immediately adjacent your mouth without using the higher cheek “…turn it upside down and smile that frown away” muscles. Want extra style points? Purse the lips a bit too, in a knowing fashion – poised and ready to say hello to the stranger should they break the half-grin barrier.
It seems that committing the whole face to a real smile is somewhat too personal or not worth the effort but not smiling at all shows gives off a stoic chill akin to the look I get from my wife after a good fart joke. So, instead of just looking ahead, or looking away (preferred, but not an option if you have been spotted looking directly at somebody as if you were going to have to pick them out of a line-up later) you just glance, give them the halfer, and move on. Not an issue. I am amazed how often I see this. I get it most at fast food restaurants – except In-N-Out where full-face smiles are handed out like Clinton pardons.
The second is the hunch. This is the act of walking in front of something, somebody, or a group of somebodys and stooping over slightly in Cro-Magnon form to avoid being seen, blocking view, or disrupting an event.
I see this one in several places. Church – when somebody comes in late (even in the back, strangely enough) they will walk in hunched over slightly. Movies – see the guy that got here late? So does everyone else even though he is walking as if his spine has suddenly given way. Conversations – when two people are talking in a hallway and somebody has to pass between them, there is usually a hunker involved. This move is usually accompanied by a streamline body turn so as to avoid getting too close to the conversators. This makes no sense to me but somehow it excuses them even if they don’t say it. The fact that their body posture demonstrates an inferior position allows the hallway conversation to continue uninterrupted.
Poop. See?
Monday, January 29, 2007
Retrieval System
I now admit that there are retrievable memories stored in my head that, but for the sake of some trigger, will never be released. I went to a fireside meeting last night and the following chain of events triggered a memory from 1970 (when Eva Von Zeppelin, heiress of the airship designer, sues in an attempt to stop 'Led Zeppelin' from using the family name). Ok, here it goes...
Last week, Doug Waldie told me he was going to a fireside featuring renowned author and historian Richard Bushman (Gouverneur Morris Professor of History emeritus at Columbia University) - ((Gouverneur Morris was the guy who wrote the friggin constitution)) so naturally I asked if I could crash the party. The party, you see, was actually being held in Scottsdale/Phoenix where Doug's brother-in-law is the Stake President. Let's now rewind back about umpteen years from when I was 2 years old to 12 years old (6th grade) and living in the vicinity of 56th Street and Osborn. I went to Ingleside Elementary School (which is now Ingleside Middle School) which at the time was a K-8 school. When I was in 4th or 5th grade there was a new coach who started his teaching career/coaching career at Ingleside and was our new, crew-cut coach with an attitude.
Flash forward to the events following the amazing fireside with Dr. Bushman (Harvard BS, Harvard MS, Harvard PhD). After 'amen' we all stood and I saw a very familair older, crew-cut gentleman walking toward the refreshments. I said 'Bevel...' to which he reacted but didn't pursue as he continued walking toward the back. I followed him and eventually stopped him in the gym and asked him if he was Coach Bevel. He indicated that he was and I introduced myself. I said nothing about his hair. He remembered me, or at least pretended to, and I related the following story to him - thus proving that I used my head for more than just holding my ears apart as my father often said was its only purpose: "I remember when Coach Bevel first started at Ingleside and he was our new coach. We did and exercise called 'Six Inches' where the victim lies down on his back and raises his heels off the ground six inches. Then he waits. Not more than six inches. Not less than six inches. No bent knees. No feet apart. In fact, if he violates the prescribed leg position, Coach Bevel would throw the football he was holding at the victim - trying to hit him in the stomach - which by now contained a burning muscle straining against the ever-increasing weight of his legs. I was a victim once - I guess my feet weren't in the correct position and I heard Coach Bevel holler and then **BLAMM-O** a football hit right next to my head. You see, those who can't do, teach. And those who can't play quarterback coach in elementary school.
Fortunately, he laughed at my story. I told this story to his wife as he was listening and he actually began laughing when I started the story with "...we used to do this exercise called 'Six Inches'." I don't know why, but I have very fond memories of Coach Bevel. I also told him that when I was playing football for Westwood High School he was coaching at Scottsdale High School. I greeted him at the end of the game and he claims he sort-of remembered that brief meeting as well. He asked me who my contemporaries would have been that stayed around to play sports in later years. I named a few of my friends from Ingleside and he said he had actually received an email from one of them a week prior. Pretty cool.
After this encounter, I went back to the refreshment table and Debi was there - Coach Bevel came over and met her too. After he left, I saw another familiar face which was confirmed by Doug as John Driggs (former Chairman of Western Savings) so I went over and spoke with him. He was Wil's good friend and we spoke for a few minutes. I love it when I meet someone my dad knew because they invariably charished their friendship with Wil.
I'm amazed at the retrieval system we have. I can't imagine the memories stored there. I have taken to trying to remember these and start writing them down when I get a chance.
What a lovely evening.
Last week, Doug Waldie told me he was going to a fireside featuring renowned author and historian Richard Bushman (Gouverneur Morris Professor of History emeritus at Columbia University) - ((Gouverneur Morris was the guy who wrote the friggin constitution)) so naturally I asked if I could crash the party. The party, you see, was actually being held in Scottsdale/Phoenix where Doug's brother-in-law is the Stake President. Let's now rewind back about umpteen years from when I was 2 years old to 12 years old (6th grade) and living in the vicinity of 56th Street and Osborn. I went to Ingleside Elementary School (which is now Ingleside Middle School) which at the time was a K-8 school. When I was in 4th or 5th grade there was a new coach who started his teaching career/coaching career at Ingleside and was our new, crew-cut coach with an attitude.
Flash forward to the events following the amazing fireside with Dr. Bushman (Harvard BS, Harvard MS, Harvard PhD). After 'amen' we all stood and I saw a very familair older, crew-cut gentleman walking toward the refreshments. I said 'Bevel...' to which he reacted but didn't pursue as he continued walking toward the back. I followed him and eventually stopped him in the gym and asked him if he was Coach Bevel. He indicated that he was and I introduced myself. I said nothing about his hair. He remembered me, or at least pretended to, and I related the following story to him - thus proving that I used my head for more than just holding my ears apart as my father often said was its only purpose: "I remember when Coach Bevel first started at Ingleside and he was our new coach. We did and exercise called 'Six Inches' where the victim lies down on his back and raises his heels off the ground six inches. Then he waits. Not more than six inches. Not less than six inches. No bent knees. No feet apart. In fact, if he violates the prescribed leg position, Coach Bevel would throw the football he was holding at the victim - trying to hit him in the stomach - which by now contained a burning muscle straining against the ever-increasing weight of his legs. I was a victim once - I guess my feet weren't in the correct position and I heard Coach Bevel holler and then **BLAMM-O** a football hit right next to my head. You see, those who can't do, teach. And those who can't play quarterback coach in elementary school.
Fortunately, he laughed at my story. I told this story to his wife as he was listening and he actually began laughing when I started the story with "...we used to do this exercise called 'Six Inches'." I don't know why, but I have very fond memories of Coach Bevel. I also told him that when I was playing football for Westwood High School he was coaching at Scottsdale High School. I greeted him at the end of the game and he claims he sort-of remembered that brief meeting as well. He asked me who my contemporaries would have been that stayed around to play sports in later years. I named a few of my friends from Ingleside and he said he had actually received an email from one of them a week prior. Pretty cool.
After this encounter, I went back to the refreshment table and Debi was there - Coach Bevel came over and met her too. After he left, I saw another familiar face which was confirmed by Doug as John Driggs (former Chairman of Western Savings) so I went over and spoke with him. He was Wil's good friend and we spoke for a few minutes. I love it when I meet someone my dad knew because they invariably charished their friendship with Wil.
I'm amazed at the retrieval system we have. I can't imagine the memories stored there. I have taken to trying to remember these and start writing them down when I get a chance.
What a lovely evening.
Tuesday, January 23, 2007
Boy or Girl
Boy or Girl? This is the first question usually asked about a person. In the olden days (I always wanted to say that) there were no ultrascans and high-tech imaging devices to expose your pre-birth winkie so the does-the-apple-have-a-stem question was usually answered at birth. It has been a goal for most of my life to never have that question asked of me again. I'm sure when I was luggage my mom had to dress me in something blue so folks would not make the mistake of calling me a girl, thus incurring offended mother wrath. Still, I was born in the 60's so the 70's were during my formative years and all role-model boys around me had longer hair. Girl hair.
I bring this up because today my wife (who is a verified girl) and I were dining at Chevy's and she noticed a woman/man/thing sitting at a table near us. Debi pointed out that 'Pat' was wearing a white shirt, slacks and a necktie but had pierced earrings. Short, sticky-uppy gray hair, glasses, a bit corpulent (thus concealing boobs or man boobs) and had a high voice. I have 'Pat' tipping the female scale but Debi wasn't too sure. This got me to thinking: is it desirable to be misjudged as a girl?
Well, that depends on who you are and where you are. Our painter has a son named Page. May be Paige. May be Peij. Who knows. When I was introduced to Page, our painter went out of his way to say, "...this is my SON Page." Good thing, too. I saw a pretty, petite, young 12-year-old with shoulder-length, curly, strawberry-blonde hair and delicate features who looked up at me and said, "Hi." I thought, OK, first of all, cut that kid's hair off, get him to go outside and scream a lot to rough up his voice, and maybe even get a marker and fill in a little mustache to butch him up a little. Wow, what a sad situation for this kid. And there is no way he doesn't get butchered at school. Unless he goes to an all-girls Catholic school.
Which brings me to my next point...I remember wanting to dress and act as a girl to see if I would be detected in certain unmentionable social situations. The problem was I was 6'2" and 195 lbs. I don't think I could have pulled it off (so to speak) which accomplished my earlier-stated goal. I remember talking to a girl who wanted to try the same sort of reversal so we discussed binding her breasts (I volunteered, it was the least I could do...) and trying to talk lower and meatier but she just couldn't pull it off. I've decided that nearly none can. When I see a trannie I often identify them as having switched before it becomes aparent. I am not sure, however, if I am right all of the time.
There are several movies that do a poor job of passing the girl off as a boy that I have seen lately. It takes a great deal of suspended reality to get me even close to believing these movies. In each of these movies there is the obligatory 'let-me-see-your-junk' skinny dipping scene where she can't toss the laundry with the chums for fear of flashing the fronts. I guess that is what makes great cinema - I just never buy it. Perhaps this is because I was thwarted as a lad with my huge, um, muscles and bulging, um, pecks. No guys I know like their prom dates to sport stubble.
Oh well, the chick in the restaurant remains a mystery - not her gender, but why she would look that way in the first place...
I bring this up because today my wife (who is a verified girl) and I were dining at Chevy's and she noticed a woman/man/thing sitting at a table near us. Debi pointed out that 'Pat' was wearing a white shirt, slacks and a necktie but had pierced earrings. Short, sticky-uppy gray hair, glasses, a bit corpulent (thus concealing boobs or man boobs) and had a high voice. I have 'Pat' tipping the female scale but Debi wasn't too sure. This got me to thinking: is it desirable to be misjudged as a girl?
Well, that depends on who you are and where you are. Our painter has a son named Page. May be Paige. May be Peij. Who knows. When I was introduced to Page, our painter went out of his way to say, "...this is my SON Page." Good thing, too. I saw a pretty, petite, young 12-year-old with shoulder-length, curly, strawberry-blonde hair and delicate features who looked up at me and said, "Hi." I thought, OK, first of all, cut that kid's hair off, get him to go outside and scream a lot to rough up his voice, and maybe even get a marker and fill in a little mustache to butch him up a little. Wow, what a sad situation for this kid. And there is no way he doesn't get butchered at school. Unless he goes to an all-girls Catholic school.
Which brings me to my next point...I remember wanting to dress and act as a girl to see if I would be detected in certain unmentionable social situations. The problem was I was 6'2" and 195 lbs. I don't think I could have pulled it off (so to speak) which accomplished my earlier-stated goal. I remember talking to a girl who wanted to try the same sort of reversal so we discussed binding her breasts (I volunteered, it was the least I could do...) and trying to talk lower and meatier but she just couldn't pull it off. I've decided that nearly none can. When I see a trannie I often identify them as having switched before it becomes aparent. I am not sure, however, if I am right all of the time.
There are several movies that do a poor job of passing the girl off as a boy that I have seen lately. It takes a great deal of suspended reality to get me even close to believing these movies. In each of these movies there is the obligatory 'let-me-see-your-junk' skinny dipping scene where she can't toss the laundry with the chums for fear of flashing the fronts. I guess that is what makes great cinema - I just never buy it. Perhaps this is because I was thwarted as a lad with my huge, um, muscles and bulging, um, pecks. No guys I know like their prom dates to sport stubble.
Oh well, the chick in the restaurant remains a mystery - not her gender, but why she would look that way in the first place...
Saturday, January 20, 2007
No Experience Necessary
“I'm impressed by your 'yada yada' “ (where yada yada refers to the attributes of our conduct, intellect, and vision). That is what we heard one day while interviewing technicians. This kid was a college student. His graduation was eminent. A computer science degree. And he must have been coached to say something along those lines. It seemed genuine but somehow scripted. Here's the problem with it as I pointed out to my partner after this candidate left. “Hey, lookie here, we impressed a college student. Whoopie!
My problem isn't that he had the ego to come in to our offices and profess his superiority (thus nearly elevating us to his status by being 'impressed'). My issue with his attitude is that he clearly does not place value in the most important element of knowledge: experience. Perhaps he isn't experienced enough. I felt like saying, “...excuse me drooling college pimple who couldn't code his way out of a paper bag...kiss my umpteen-years-of-sitting-in-front-of-a-computer-with-glassy-eyed ass. You don't even know what you don't know yet. You'll not be able to handle technical questions, computer questions, customer questions, boss questions, colleague questions, wife questions, and mother questions with the degree of elegance I have for some time. It will take you years to master the art of time-filling and clock-burning. I will take you longer – if ever – to refine the art of butt-kissing-without-seeming-like-it-is-butt-kissing.” I know, them's fightin' words. Don't worry, I'm a CodeWarrior.
Experience shows most, I think, when troubleshooting or problem solving. Book smarts don't reach the far corners of a boot failure. I was over fixing a friend's computer. He has been a plumber for 30 years. I sat down, diagnosed his trouble, made the proper corrections and adjustments, and his computer was fixed and singing again. He commented that he had invited several people over to fix his computer who had all failed. One, in fact, was a newly trained and certified technology company technician and installer. I hope that was ambiguous enough.
Nothing against the fine and reportedly thorough training program he had just completed, he just lacked the experience of having been there. I asked my friend if it would be better to entrust the most complex plumbing problems to someone who had just graduated from a trade school in plumbing or himself. He didn't hesitate because there are things he knows about plumbing that he can't teach. (Water flows downhill and never lick your fingers...among others) Thoughts, feelings, impressions, and twinges all result from experience (or old age, I've discovered – especially the twinges).
I get that there are entry-level jobs that post no requirements to be hired. No experience necessary jobs, however, don't exist. You have to have made a sandwich, or at least seen a sandwich made to make one.
I heard a statement the other day that said, in effect, "...if you are a different person today than you were a year ago it is most probably a result of something you read or someone you met." To this I would add Jeff's wise and crappy advice, "...it could also be a result of something you did (to gain experience) or a disease you got."
I've seen people change for change sake. No external forces, no real reason, just something that made them change. Drastically. I think it would be hard for me to change drastically. I make little changes in my life but I am tightly integrated with my current life. Deviation would create ripples beyond reasonable control. There are those who hate ripples. That's been my experience.
My problem isn't that he had the ego to come in to our offices and profess his superiority (thus nearly elevating us to his status by being 'impressed'). My issue with his attitude is that he clearly does not place value in the most important element of knowledge: experience. Perhaps he isn't experienced enough. I felt like saying, “...excuse me drooling college pimple who couldn't code his way out of a paper bag...kiss my umpteen-years-of-sitting-in-front-of-a-computer-with-glassy-eyed ass. You don't even know what you don't know yet. You'll not be able to handle technical questions, computer questions, customer questions, boss questions, colleague questions, wife questions, and mother questions with the degree of elegance I have for some time. It will take you years to master the art of time-filling and clock-burning. I will take you longer – if ever – to refine the art of butt-kissing-without-seeming-like-it-is-butt-kissing.” I know, them's fightin' words. Don't worry, I'm a CodeWarrior.
Experience shows most, I think, when troubleshooting or problem solving. Book smarts don't reach the far corners of a boot failure. I was over fixing a friend's computer. He has been a plumber for 30 years. I sat down, diagnosed his trouble, made the proper corrections and adjustments, and his computer was fixed and singing again. He commented that he had invited several people over to fix his computer who had all failed. One, in fact, was a newly trained and certified technology company technician and installer. I hope that was ambiguous enough.
Nothing against the fine and reportedly thorough training program he had just completed, he just lacked the experience of having been there. I asked my friend if it would be better to entrust the most complex plumbing problems to someone who had just graduated from a trade school in plumbing or himself. He didn't hesitate because there are things he knows about plumbing that he can't teach. (Water flows downhill and never lick your fingers...among others) Thoughts, feelings, impressions, and twinges all result from experience (or old age, I've discovered – especially the twinges).
I get that there are entry-level jobs that post no requirements to be hired. No experience necessary jobs, however, don't exist. You have to have made a sandwich, or at least seen a sandwich made to make one.
I heard a statement the other day that said, in effect, "...if you are a different person today than you were a year ago it is most probably a result of something you read or someone you met." To this I would add Jeff's wise and crappy advice, "...it could also be a result of something you did (to gain experience) or a disease you got."
I've seen people change for change sake. No external forces, no real reason, just something that made them change. Drastically. I think it would be hard for me to change drastically. I make little changes in my life but I am tightly integrated with my current life. Deviation would create ripples beyond reasonable control. There are those who hate ripples. That's been my experience.
Friday, January 19, 2007
I Know Stupid Stuff
There is a virtual traveling trophy (one day we will have a real one when this gets serious) in our office called the KOOK Award. Yes, to the biggest kook. Kook stands for Keeper Of Obscure Knowledge. Every once in a while somebody in the office snaps off a definition of a practice, object, or idea to which everyone else immediately responds, "...BS." The validity of said obscure fact is then validated on the Internet and the person keeping such knowledge is then awarded the KOOK award. This trophy is a badge of both honor and wonder. I will give some examples.
There is a practice known as threading. It is a form of facial hair removal where two pieces of thread are twisted together around a group of hairs on a face and then BITTEN off. This one came out in a conversation in the office and I was actually frightened that this kind of knowledge could be attained, let alone retained.
The funny thing is that there is a great deal of knowledge in my head that I take for granted that is sometimes surprising to my co-workers. I think everyone should know that the Kashmir is a region in India, once the capital, and also a song by Led Zeplin and not to be confused with cashmere the wool or lead whose chemical symbol is Pb. (I learned the chemical symbol in 8th grade chemistry and the way I remembered it is we used to say that Lead Zeplin played a concert at Pacific Beach. Strange remembering strange facts but even stranger knowing how and when you learned them.) Everyone should know that neon is inert. So is Krypton. Used to make Kryptonite...I think.
Keeping obscure knowledge is not a problem for my wife. She used to be the smartest girl I know. Then, is seeped away. I don't know why. I still think she is the smartest KOOK because often she knows that Ben Afleck is no longer dating Jennifer and now dates Paris or Angelina. I can also call her whenever somebody asks a question about a movie such as, "...you know that movie with Cuba Gooding, Jr. and Al Pachino?" to which she replies, "...you mean 'Men of Honor' with Cuba Gooding, Jr. and Robert Deniro?" We're not worthy. Her friends call her 'Google' because she knows so much.
I'm glad she's not in my office or the KOOK Trophy would constantly reside in her office. Virtually.
There is a practice known as threading. It is a form of facial hair removal where two pieces of thread are twisted together around a group of hairs on a face and then BITTEN off. This one came out in a conversation in the office and I was actually frightened that this kind of knowledge could be attained, let alone retained.
The funny thing is that there is a great deal of knowledge in my head that I take for granted that is sometimes surprising to my co-workers. I think everyone should know that the Kashmir is a region in India, once the capital, and also a song by Led Zeplin and not to be confused with cashmere the wool or lead whose chemical symbol is Pb. (I learned the chemical symbol in 8th grade chemistry and the way I remembered it is we used to say that Lead Zeplin played a concert at Pacific Beach. Strange remembering strange facts but even stranger knowing how and when you learned them.) Everyone should know that neon is inert. So is Krypton. Used to make Kryptonite...I think.
Keeping obscure knowledge is not a problem for my wife. She used to be the smartest girl I know. Then, is seeped away. I don't know why. I still think she is the smartest KOOK because often she knows that Ben Afleck is no longer dating Jennifer and now dates Paris or Angelina. I can also call her whenever somebody asks a question about a movie such as, "...you know that movie with Cuba Gooding, Jr. and Al Pachino?" to which she replies, "...you mean 'Men of Honor' with Cuba Gooding, Jr. and Robert Deniro?" We're not worthy. Her friends call her 'Google' because she knows so much.
I'm glad she's not in my office or the KOOK Trophy would constantly reside in her office. Virtually.
Thursday, January 18, 2007
Managing Thickness
I have learned throughout this process of remodeling the house that life is ALL about managing thickness. When you buy a new pair of socks, the thickness of them determines to some degree if they are comfortable and if your shoes fit. However, never has the thickness debate been more evident than when building something. I had some sense of this before I began so I didn't worry too much about it as we went. Adding to a room meant just kicking a wall out, adding some studs and drywall and painting over it. Not so. The concrete guy was 3/4" off on one side. This has caused me more grief and cost me about $6,600.
Doors swing to hit floors and other doors if thickness is not managed. Will there be tile or granite? Different thickness in the finished product means different materials used to arrive at the finished product. What's on the floor? Carpet? Tile? What's under the floor? Concrete? Wood? What will you put out there once it is done? Flagstone? All these questions help the designer determine thickness.
We had 'whoops' in our walls. That’s what our painter called them. Our drywallers, of all subs, have been the worst and cost us the most in repair/redone work. So much for saving a buck. Of all the subs, I think the drywallers were one of the most important and I didn’t realize that until now – amid paying to get their mistakes fixed. They did a poor job of managing thickness.
Through this process my hair is thinning. I guess I will have to manage the thickness of that , too. I remember an old Fernando sketch done by Billy Crystal where he had Gene Siskel and Roger Ebert on his show and they were discussing Muriel Hemmingway’s boob job. This is back in the day when breast augmentation was rare. Fernando asked G and R how much difference the surgery made to which Roger replied with a hand gesture demonstrating thumb and index finger about 1.5 inches apart. This is not where I got the original idea to employ hand gestures demonstrating various breast statuses but it should have been the genesis.
Another thickness which I have believed for 20 or more years comes from the Jethro Tull album “Thick as a Brick” which Richard informed me while we were young referred to unit size. There is a line in one of Tull’s songs that says, “…I’m tight against the seam,” which, of course, infers a state of arousal – the seam being the seam of ones pants. That song, of course, was from “Songs From the Wood.” I think the thickness in this instance is more centered on my thick skull for believing this. See for yourself. The song is called “Velvet Green” and is about grass and trees and cows. Silly me.
Doors swing to hit floors and other doors if thickness is not managed. Will there be tile or granite? Different thickness in the finished product means different materials used to arrive at the finished product. What's on the floor? Carpet? Tile? What's under the floor? Concrete? Wood? What will you put out there once it is done? Flagstone? All these questions help the designer determine thickness.
We had 'whoops' in our walls. That’s what our painter called them. Our drywallers, of all subs, have been the worst and cost us the most in repair/redone work. So much for saving a buck. Of all the subs, I think the drywallers were one of the most important and I didn’t realize that until now – amid paying to get their mistakes fixed. They did a poor job of managing thickness.
Through this process my hair is thinning. I guess I will have to manage the thickness of that , too. I remember an old Fernando sketch done by Billy Crystal where he had Gene Siskel and Roger Ebert on his show and they were discussing Muriel Hemmingway’s boob job. This is back in the day when breast augmentation was rare. Fernando asked G and R how much difference the surgery made to which Roger replied with a hand gesture demonstrating thumb and index finger about 1.5 inches apart. This is not where I got the original idea to employ hand gestures demonstrating various breast statuses but it should have been the genesis.
Another thickness which I have believed for 20 or more years comes from the Jethro Tull album “Thick as a Brick” which Richard informed me while we were young referred to unit size. There is a line in one of Tull’s songs that says, “…I’m tight against the seam,” which, of course, infers a state of arousal – the seam being the seam of ones pants. That song, of course, was from “Songs From the Wood.” I think the thickness in this instance is more centered on my thick skull for believing this. See for yourself. The song is called “Velvet Green” and is about grass and trees and cows. Silly me.
Sunday, January 07, 2007
OK, items to blog:
Cruise
Remodel
We went on a cruise to the exotic land of Catalina, San Diego, and Ensanada, Mexico. We spent Christmas Day at sea. The weather was perfect and we had a great time.
We have not much remodeling left. Just the cabinets, the flooring, the electrical and plumbing, and the countertops. Not bad.
The end.
Just kidding. Not much in the blogging mood right now. I will do a brain-dump later. However...
On the cruise we met a rather interesting gentleman named Yefim. We became friends on our short trip and I got him to tell us a little about himself. He is 77 and a Russian Jew. His English was rough so I couldn’t get as much out of him as I would have liked. I first learned that he was a ship-building engineer and later learned that he was in the military during the Cold War. Yefim said that in 1965 he was in a Russian submarine looking through the periscope at San Francisco. And ‘America’ didn’t see him. He now lives in San Francisco.
His family has an interesting tale to tell as well. His father is one of 11 children – nine of whom were killed by Nazis. His father and his uncle were the only survivors of their family.
Yefim was there with his grandson Martin. Martin slipped between English and Russian freely. They were a delight. I will post some video soon showing them and us and such as that.
ttfn
Cruise
Remodel
We went on a cruise to the exotic land of Catalina, San Diego, and Ensanada, Mexico. We spent Christmas Day at sea. The weather was perfect and we had a great time.
We have not much remodeling left. Just the cabinets, the flooring, the electrical and plumbing, and the countertops. Not bad.
The end.
Just kidding. Not much in the blogging mood right now. I will do a brain-dump later. However...
On the cruise we met a rather interesting gentleman named Yefim. We became friends on our short trip and I got him to tell us a little about himself. He is 77 and a Russian Jew. His English was rough so I couldn’t get as much out of him as I would have liked. I first learned that he was a ship-building engineer and later learned that he was in the military during the Cold War. Yefim said that in 1965 he was in a Russian submarine looking through the periscope at San Francisco. And ‘America’ didn’t see him. He now lives in San Francisco.
His family has an interesting tale to tell as well. His father is one of 11 children – nine of whom were killed by Nazis. His father and his uncle were the only survivors of their family.
Yefim was there with his grandson Martin. Martin slipped between English and Russian freely. They were a delight. I will post some video soon showing them and us and such as that.
ttfn
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