Another pressing deadline at work is keeping me busy most nights and weekends. Add to that the loose ends that remain loose after the move (“which box is my underwear in?”) and the usual exigencies of family life, and you have a recipe for blog neglect.
As an upstanding citizen of the blogosphere, however, I have a duty to see to it that this site not become a cobwebpage—a derelict site of outdated, stale material—so I have decided to add a fresh posting consisting of a piece I wrote several years ago that appeared in the guest op-ed spot in the Vancouver Sun. That’s right—I am keeping the site fresh by using outdated, stale material. Clever, no?
I came across this piece while going though some papers recently (see “loose ends”, above) and at first I was retroactively embarrassed by its strident, earnest tone. But I still believe in what I wrote, dammit, and I stand by these words, their naïve zealousness notwithstanding.
Anyway, it was about mission statements and it goes something like this:
MISSION STATEMENTS DON’T CUT THE MUSTARD
I guess it had to happen. The deli where I go for sandwiches has a mission statement. Posted in billboard proportions behind the counter, where the menu should be, is its corporate manifesto, replete with such feel-good sentiments as “we recognize and respect the rights of others” and “we acknowledge the diversity in our community.” The poor harried employee behind the counter was so busy respecting rights and acknowledging diversity that he forgot the mustard.
Nowadays, you can’t swing a PR flack without hitting a mission statement. Open a brochure, pick up a newsletter, enter an office, and there it is: a screed of self-congratulatory piffle—empty plastic words masquerading as noble declarations.
I may be wrong, but I don’t think Columbus had a mission statement. He had a mission, to be sure, but I doubt he posted a statement in the galley of the Santa Maria to the effect that “we are committed to exploring uncharted territory,” or “we recognize the right of all crewmen to rape, plunder and pillage.”
Jonas Salk did not publish a statement declaring that his research team “respects and values the contributions of its members.” This not to say that he did not cherish such beliefs, only that he was too busy eradicating a disease to embroider the words on a doily and have them framed.
But we live in a time when humility and quiet accomplishment are seen as weaknesses, when enterprising executroids buy off-the-rack personalities from Tony Robbins or other such snake-oil salesman, when what you say is more important than what you do.
And considering the expense and effort that often goes into preparing a mission statement, the lack of originality is appalling. The same sanctimonious bafflegab appears across the corporate spectrum—lifeless, stultifying balloon juice that barely registers on the consciousness. So many companies today are eager to face new challenges that you’d be inclined to think that we live in a nation of corporate daredevils. The truth is, of course, that challenges are usually problems, and nobody likes problems—least of all profit-conscious businesses.
At worst, when foisting spurious propaganda, mission statements are misleading. At best, they are superfluous. One local retail outlet, in a “statement of core values” issued to its employees, imparts the stunning revelation, “We recognize that profitability is essential to our success.” Well, duh. Might as well include the part about opening the doors. As for the “respect-the-rights-of-others” type of statements, these are nothing more than institutionalized edicts to “play nice”—something we all should have learned in Robert Fulghum’s kindergarten.
There is nothing inherently wrong, of course, with an organization striving to be virtuous and productive, or wanting to define its goals for the benefit of its members and the public.The practice of entrenching these ideals in a mission statement becomes insidious, however, when the words supersede the action, as if just saying it were enough to make it so.
Besides, as much as I enjoy being respected, recognized, and acknowledged, sometimes I just want the mustard.
Reprinted without permission from the Vancouver Sun
Sunday, May 30, 2004
Thursday, May 20, 2004
Self Image
A reader request has poured in, suggesting that, since I now have the ability to add images to these feeble postings, I might want to grace this page with a photo of myself. Oh, all right...
The author, in happier times
The author, in happier times
Tuesday, May 11, 2004
Now With Photographic Evidence!
Abby writing her blog (this has been a test of the newfangled Blogger photo feature)
Wednesday, May 05, 2004
Reflections On A Web Sight
So I’m sitting out here on my new patio in my new home at sunset, flush with pride of ownership, and flush with my fourth glass of wine, and flustered with the work I’m trying to do on the laptop, when I look down and see that a tiny green spider, about this big * has built an intricate, delicate web from the table edge to an adjacent chair.
Now, I’m not especially fond of spiders, or nature in general for that matter, but this sort of instinctual talent always fascinates me. Fascinates and annoys me. I mean, here is this spider—who, I remind you, is a mere speck of protoplasm no bigger than this *— that somehow has the innate engineering wherewithal to construct a complex architecture of fine filaments, in perfectly balanced, perfectly symmetrical proportion, while I, an advanced primate with a mortgage and a laptop, was utterly bumfuzzled while trying to assemble an Ikea TV stand the other night.
This would be a sobering thought if I weren’t so drunk.
Now, I’m not especially fond of spiders, or nature in general for that matter, but this sort of instinctual talent always fascinates me. Fascinates and annoys me. I mean, here is this spider—who, I remind you, is a mere speck of protoplasm no bigger than this *— that somehow has the innate engineering wherewithal to construct a complex architecture of fine filaments, in perfectly balanced, perfectly symmetrical proportion, while I, an advanced primate with a mortgage and a laptop, was utterly bumfuzzled while trying to assemble an Ikea TV stand the other night.
This would be a sobering thought if I weren’t so drunk.
Friday, April 23, 2004
The Week In Review
You know it’s going to be a weird week when you find yourself duct-taping a sandwich bag to your little daughter’s genital area.
A possible bladder infection—that was the diagnosis—and we were charged with the task of collecting the specimen and delivering it to the lab on time. This involved attaching the aforementioned apparatus—a glassine envelope held in place with gooey adhesive tape—and then chasing Abby around with a sippy cup in an attempt to induce production. First there was the struggle to get the bag on correctly. Then she wouldn’t go. By the time she did go, the bag had come loose. Full diaper, empty bag. We got a new bag on her, but of course now her bladder was empty, and she was getting cranky at our attempts at forced irrigation. When it finally worked—when we opened her diaper and beheld the sloshy bag of pee—Kim and I both cried out with delight and relief. This is what our lives have come to—two grown adults rejoicing over a bagful of urine.
But it’s been that kind of a week. Abby has been taking her first tentative steps, but she has had the misfortune to be doing it at a time when we are distracted by our upcoming move. Every evening has been consumed with frenzied packing and dismantling, so she has pretty much been left to do what she wants. And what she wants right now is to be mobile.
Usually she totters about for a few brief but lively moments, swaying and rubber-limbed like Robert Downey Jr. at a keg party, before gravity stakes its claim and she does a thudding face plant into the carpet. A couple of seconds of shocked silence, followed by a crescendo of wailing, followed by some maternal coddling and some paternal facial contortions to soothe and amuse, and all is fine—for about ten minutes, at which point the cycle begins anew.
She can stay upright for longer periods when she steadies herself against something, usually the coffee table, but although her performances are longer this way, they end with the same sudden, dramatic bellyflop—only this time with the added excitement of possible head trauma. I have become curiously attuned, if not accustomed, to the sound of Abby’s forehead striking the tabletop as she plummets to the floor. It’s sort of a dense, solid thwunk, and I am able to pick it out instantly amid the hubbub of packing and the background drone of Stanley Cup playoff action. I guess it’s just one of those natural parenting instincts.
I just hope that, during her unsupervised wanderings, she doesn’t find the rest of the dead bird. Oh, didn’t I mention the dead bird? We arrived home one day this week to a scattering of feathers throughout the place, as if a pillow had spontaneously exploded. Several pillows, in fact. And there was the cat, with a swagger in his step and a wild gleam in his eyes. We followed the trail to Abby’s room where we found, wedged partly under a dresser, a fragment of bird. Yeah, tell me about it. It was a sizeable chunk, but not sizeable enough to constitute a complete carcass.
As you can imagine, this adds a dimension of drama and unpredictability to our moving-out process. The place is a jumbled confusion of boxes and housewares and stacked furniture, offering a world of possibilities for a predatory housecat who wants to cache the remains of his prey. So now, every time we lift or move something, we do it at arm’s length, and with a sideways peek and an anticipatory grimace. I am embarrassed to admit that if there are still leftovers from Caesar’s experiment with vivisection, I am hoping they will remain concealed beyond easy reach (behind the washer, say, or under the fridge) until the next tenants trace the odor.
There is always a measure of melancholy, I find, that comes with moving. It is a clear demarcation in your life—another phase over, another chapter closed, another decomposing animal carcass left behind. But this time, perhaps because of Abby, or perhaps because we’re finally buying after years of renting, I’m feeling less regret.
“You should be proud,” the real estate agent said when we had closed the deal. I know that’s what real estate agents are supposed to say, but he’s right. And as I sat there the other night last week, atop a stack of boxes in a storm-tossed living room, eating macaroni and cheese out of the pot, surrounded by a frazzled wife, a homicidal cat, and a baby daughter who concusses herself on furniture while wearing a deflated pee-bag—well, I just couldn’t have been prouder.
A possible bladder infection—that was the diagnosis—and we were charged with the task of collecting the specimen and delivering it to the lab on time. This involved attaching the aforementioned apparatus—a glassine envelope held in place with gooey adhesive tape—and then chasing Abby around with a sippy cup in an attempt to induce production. First there was the struggle to get the bag on correctly. Then she wouldn’t go. By the time she did go, the bag had come loose. Full diaper, empty bag. We got a new bag on her, but of course now her bladder was empty, and she was getting cranky at our attempts at forced irrigation. When it finally worked—when we opened her diaper and beheld the sloshy bag of pee—Kim and I both cried out with delight and relief. This is what our lives have come to—two grown adults rejoicing over a bagful of urine.
But it’s been that kind of a week. Abby has been taking her first tentative steps, but she has had the misfortune to be doing it at a time when we are distracted by our upcoming move. Every evening has been consumed with frenzied packing and dismantling, so she has pretty much been left to do what she wants. And what she wants right now is to be mobile.
Usually she totters about for a few brief but lively moments, swaying and rubber-limbed like Robert Downey Jr. at a keg party, before gravity stakes its claim and she does a thudding face plant into the carpet. A couple of seconds of shocked silence, followed by a crescendo of wailing, followed by some maternal coddling and some paternal facial contortions to soothe and amuse, and all is fine—for about ten minutes, at which point the cycle begins anew.
She can stay upright for longer periods when she steadies herself against something, usually the coffee table, but although her performances are longer this way, they end with the same sudden, dramatic bellyflop—only this time with the added excitement of possible head trauma. I have become curiously attuned, if not accustomed, to the sound of Abby’s forehead striking the tabletop as she plummets to the floor. It’s sort of a dense, solid thwunk, and I am able to pick it out instantly amid the hubbub of packing and the background drone of Stanley Cup playoff action. I guess it’s just one of those natural parenting instincts.
I just hope that, during her unsupervised wanderings, she doesn’t find the rest of the dead bird. Oh, didn’t I mention the dead bird? We arrived home one day this week to a scattering of feathers throughout the place, as if a pillow had spontaneously exploded. Several pillows, in fact. And there was the cat, with a swagger in his step and a wild gleam in his eyes. We followed the trail to Abby’s room where we found, wedged partly under a dresser, a fragment of bird. Yeah, tell me about it. It was a sizeable chunk, but not sizeable enough to constitute a complete carcass.
As you can imagine, this adds a dimension of drama and unpredictability to our moving-out process. The place is a jumbled confusion of boxes and housewares and stacked furniture, offering a world of possibilities for a predatory housecat who wants to cache the remains of his prey. So now, every time we lift or move something, we do it at arm’s length, and with a sideways peek and an anticipatory grimace. I am embarrassed to admit that if there are still leftovers from Caesar’s experiment with vivisection, I am hoping they will remain concealed beyond easy reach (behind the washer, say, or under the fridge) until the next tenants trace the odor.
There is always a measure of melancholy, I find, that comes with moving. It is a clear demarcation in your life—another phase over, another chapter closed, another decomposing animal carcass left behind. But this time, perhaps because of Abby, or perhaps because we’re finally buying after years of renting, I’m feeling less regret.
“You should be proud,” the real estate agent said when we had closed the deal. I know that’s what real estate agents are supposed to say, but he’s right. And as I sat there the other night last week, atop a stack of boxes in a storm-tossed living room, eating macaroni and cheese out of the pot, surrounded by a frazzled wife, a homicidal cat, and a baby daughter who concusses herself on furniture while wearing a deflated pee-bag—well, I just couldn’t have been prouder.
Tuesday, April 13, 2004
Thursday, April 01, 2004
Things I Have Been Doing Lately, In No Particular Order
LISTENING TO MY GOOD FRIEND, DENISE PRAILL, COMPLAIN ABOUT BEING IGNORED
Several years ago, I was watching coverage of the O.J Simpson freeway chase with my good friend, Denise Praill, when I happened to remark on how great a pal Al Cowlings was proving to be. After all, it’s one thing to be there to help your buddy move a piano, but when you volunteer to be a wheel man in a spectacular police chase…well, that’s pretty impressive loyalty, don’t you think?
“I would do that for you,” Denise said at the time.
“Seriously? You mean if I commit a vicious double murder and need to flee the jurisdiction, I can count on you to drive while I hunker down in the back seat and reload?”
“I’ll be there,” she said.
“You would be my Al Cowlings?”
“I would be your Al Cowlings.”
I was touched. I immediately offered to be her Al Cowlings as well, of course—secure in the knowledge that she is reliably even-tempered, so the chances of my actually being pressed into service are really quite slim. In any case, this exchange of vows has kept our friendship grounded over the years. If you’re lucky enough to have an Al Cowlings, you don’t take it for granted.
All this is by way of mentioning that my good friend, Denise Praill, has been monitoring these entries, and has let it be known that she is offended by her absence. I’m not sure why—it’s not like a mention here is comparable to making People’s list of the sexiest people alive—but she has been lobbying strenuously (and repeatedly) for official blog recognition, on the reasonable grounds that if you are prepared to aid and abet a person in the commission of multiple felonies, you at least deserve a mention in their silly online diary. Fair enough.
TAKING ABBY TO GET AN X-RAY
Abby to woman in the waiting room: “Hi.”
Woman in the waiting room to Abby: “Hi.”
Abby: “Hi.”
Woman: “Hi.”
Abby: “Hi.”
Woman: “Hi.”
If Abby hadn’t finally been called in for her x-ray, they would probably still be going at it.
Abby was getting a chest x-ray because, after three months and three visits to three different doctors, we finally found one who agreed that, at one year old, Abby was too young to have such a bone-rattling smoker’s cough. The pediatrician we saw suspected she had a touch of pneumonia. That’s how she put it, too—a touch of pneumonia. To my ears, that’s like saying you have just a pinch of the Black Plague.
The x-ray technician was a small, abrupt woman with thin lips and a stern look. I guess when you work with deadly radiation every day there is no time for frivolity. She watched, grim-faced, as I started removing Abby’s clothes and did my best to re-assure her (Abby, that is—the x-ray tech didn’t need to be re-assured).
“Don’t worry, we know how to deal with kids here.” She managed to make it sound like a threat.
Predictably, sitting half-naked on a big table in a darkened room in front of menacing machinery made Abby nervous, and when I moved away to go around the table to the other side as instructed, she panicked. She did that heart-wrenching pose she does, where she thrusts out her arms, hands open, fingers splayed—a beseeching, plaintive, body-language plea to be picked up and held. Her bottom lip quivered and her eyes moistened. Then the crying started—big blubbering anguished wails that turned her face red and made her tremble all over.
“Just get her to stand up against the plate,” Nurse Ratched said, in a manner not at all reminiscent of my good friend, Denise Praill. Under the circumstances, it would have been easier to nail Jello to a tree. Abby had worked herself into a wild-eyed fit and wanted nothing else but to be picked up. It didn’t help when the evil technician advanced on her swiftly and pinned her arms up against the wall above her head, demonstrating how I should hold her. Abby screamed louder and thrashed violently. By the time the damn pictures were taken, I was almost crying myself. I sometimes wonder if I’m too sensitive for this whole parenthood thing.
On the way out, Abby spotted a man sitting in the seat by the door.
Abby: “Hi.”
Man: “Hi.”
Abby: “Hi.”
Man: “Hi.”
Abby: “H--”
I tugged her out the door and we were gone.
GETTING AN EARACHE
It’s actually not just an earache—it’s more of a plugged, sloshy ear canal. I’m apparently retaining water in my head.
As a result, everything around me has taken on a faintly unpleasant, surreal aspect. It’s like being in a David Lynch film. I feel like I’m underwater all the time, my balance is off, my skull feels as heavy and dense as a medicine ball, and everyone sounds like Charlie Brown’s teacher. All my senses are affected. My contact with the world, and with my good friend, Denise Praill, seems oddly muted. I feel like Helen Keller in a duffel bag.
BUYING A HOME
We weren’t seriously looking to buy a place just now but, as John Lennon said, life is what happens to you when you’re busy making other plans. When Kim called me at work to say that she had come across a listing of interest, I thought, what the hell. As my good friend, Denise Praill, would say, there’s no harm in looking.
I had just three conditions. First of all, it had to be affordable enough that our monthly mortgage payment would not be higher than what we now spend on rent. Second, it had to be as close, or closer, to the city than our current home (I have already logged more travel miles than some veteran astronauts). And third, we needed a possession date no earlier than June, so we could have time to get our decrepit finances in order and liberate ourselves from our lease.
Given that these were the only criteria that I was steadfastly resolute about, it should come as no surprise that in three weeks we are taking possession of a home several miles farther out from the city at a price that is adding a fourth digit to our monthly housing costs.
Oh well. What’s the worst that could happen? I could default on the mortgage and have to flee from angry creditors. I’m not sure where I would go, exactly— but at least I know who would drive.
Several years ago, I was watching coverage of the O.J Simpson freeway chase with my good friend, Denise Praill, when I happened to remark on how great a pal Al Cowlings was proving to be. After all, it’s one thing to be there to help your buddy move a piano, but when you volunteer to be a wheel man in a spectacular police chase…well, that’s pretty impressive loyalty, don’t you think?
“I would do that for you,” Denise said at the time.
“Seriously? You mean if I commit a vicious double murder and need to flee the jurisdiction, I can count on you to drive while I hunker down in the back seat and reload?”
“I’ll be there,” she said.
“You would be my Al Cowlings?”
“I would be your Al Cowlings.”
I was touched. I immediately offered to be her Al Cowlings as well, of course—secure in the knowledge that she is reliably even-tempered, so the chances of my actually being pressed into service are really quite slim. In any case, this exchange of vows has kept our friendship grounded over the years. If you’re lucky enough to have an Al Cowlings, you don’t take it for granted.
All this is by way of mentioning that my good friend, Denise Praill, has been monitoring these entries, and has let it be known that she is offended by her absence. I’m not sure why—it’s not like a mention here is comparable to making People’s list of the sexiest people alive—but she has been lobbying strenuously (and repeatedly) for official blog recognition, on the reasonable grounds that if you are prepared to aid and abet a person in the commission of multiple felonies, you at least deserve a mention in their silly online diary. Fair enough.
TAKING ABBY TO GET AN X-RAY
Abby to woman in the waiting room: “Hi.”
Woman in the waiting room to Abby: “Hi.”
Abby: “Hi.”
Woman: “Hi.”
Abby: “Hi.”
Woman: “Hi.”
If Abby hadn’t finally been called in for her x-ray, they would probably still be going at it.
Abby was getting a chest x-ray because, after three months and three visits to three different doctors, we finally found one who agreed that, at one year old, Abby was too young to have such a bone-rattling smoker’s cough. The pediatrician we saw suspected she had a touch of pneumonia. That’s how she put it, too—a touch of pneumonia. To my ears, that’s like saying you have just a pinch of the Black Plague.
The x-ray technician was a small, abrupt woman with thin lips and a stern look. I guess when you work with deadly radiation every day there is no time for frivolity. She watched, grim-faced, as I started removing Abby’s clothes and did my best to re-assure her (Abby, that is—the x-ray tech didn’t need to be re-assured).
“Don’t worry, we know how to deal with kids here.” She managed to make it sound like a threat.
Predictably, sitting half-naked on a big table in a darkened room in front of menacing machinery made Abby nervous, and when I moved away to go around the table to the other side as instructed, she panicked. She did that heart-wrenching pose she does, where she thrusts out her arms, hands open, fingers splayed—a beseeching, plaintive, body-language plea to be picked up and held. Her bottom lip quivered and her eyes moistened. Then the crying started—big blubbering anguished wails that turned her face red and made her tremble all over.
“Just get her to stand up against the plate,” Nurse Ratched said, in a manner not at all reminiscent of my good friend, Denise Praill. Under the circumstances, it would have been easier to nail Jello to a tree. Abby had worked herself into a wild-eyed fit and wanted nothing else but to be picked up. It didn’t help when the evil technician advanced on her swiftly and pinned her arms up against the wall above her head, demonstrating how I should hold her. Abby screamed louder and thrashed violently. By the time the damn pictures were taken, I was almost crying myself. I sometimes wonder if I’m too sensitive for this whole parenthood thing.
On the way out, Abby spotted a man sitting in the seat by the door.
Abby: “Hi.”
Man: “Hi.”
Abby: “Hi.”
Man: “Hi.”
Abby: “H--”
I tugged her out the door and we were gone.
GETTING AN EARACHE
It’s actually not just an earache—it’s more of a plugged, sloshy ear canal. I’m apparently retaining water in my head.
As a result, everything around me has taken on a faintly unpleasant, surreal aspect. It’s like being in a David Lynch film. I feel like I’m underwater all the time, my balance is off, my skull feels as heavy and dense as a medicine ball, and everyone sounds like Charlie Brown’s teacher. All my senses are affected. My contact with the world, and with my good friend, Denise Praill, seems oddly muted. I feel like Helen Keller in a duffel bag.
BUYING A HOME
We weren’t seriously looking to buy a place just now but, as John Lennon said, life is what happens to you when you’re busy making other plans. When Kim called me at work to say that she had come across a listing of interest, I thought, what the hell. As my good friend, Denise Praill, would say, there’s no harm in looking.
I had just three conditions. First of all, it had to be affordable enough that our monthly mortgage payment would not be higher than what we now spend on rent. Second, it had to be as close, or closer, to the city than our current home (I have already logged more travel miles than some veteran astronauts). And third, we needed a possession date no earlier than June, so we could have time to get our decrepit finances in order and liberate ourselves from our lease.
Given that these were the only criteria that I was steadfastly resolute about, it should come as no surprise that in three weeks we are taking possession of a home several miles farther out from the city at a price that is adding a fourth digit to our monthly housing costs.
Oh well. What’s the worst that could happen? I could default on the mortgage and have to flee from angry creditors. I’m not sure where I would go, exactly— but at least I know who would drive.
Monday, March 08, 2004
Pool Shark
Swimming, for me, is a particularly good exercise because I am so bad at it. In fact, it might be more accurate to say that what I do is not really so much “swimming” as it is “not drowning.” When I leap into a pool, my mind knows that I’m headed for the other end, but my body has no idea how it’s going to get there. I simply plunge in and improvise. I thrash my limbs violently, churning up maelstroms of frothy water. I don’t bother trying to synchronize my movements in any way, because I am afraid that if I stop to think about what I’m doing I’ll lose the battle to stay afloat. For that reason, I don’t bother breathing, either—I just crane my neck and gasp whenever I feel my lungs are about to burst. Whether I take in air or water is pretty much a matter of chance. In any case, I invest a tremendous amount of exertion in traversing a pool-length, which is really the whole point of exercise, isn’t it?
The other day, at the pool in our complex, I was enjoying a leisurely morning death struggle (the whole pool to myself!) and had, with the usual flair and fuss, successfully navigated my maiden voyage to the other end. I paused, gripped the pool edge, caught my breath, and uncorked a satisfying chlorine belch. Then I turned to see that I had company.
A woman had entered the deck area and was advancing, slowly and deliberately, toward the shallow end. She was being slow and deliberate because she was—and this is a conservative estimate, I believe—about 114 years old. She was stooped and emaciated, and her body seemed to be made up exclusively of knuckles and sinew and waxy, wrinkled skin. She wore a flowery bathing cap and a benign expression.
“How’s the water?” she asked, in a tremulous croak.
“Water’s great,” I said. I smiled but I was also looking around hopefully to see if she had someone with her—a family member or health–care worker— anyone to help lower her into the water and supervise while she soaked her decrepit bones. No one. She was reaching for the handrail from several steps away, precariously tottering toward the edge of the pool. She seemed on the brink of collapsing into a crumpled, liver-spotted heap, so I did what any superhero would do. I launched myself in her direction and began swimming mightily and with grim urgency toward her so I could chaperone. I used all the strokes in my repertoire—I kicked and punched and slapped at the water with fierce and, if I may say, spectacular, determination. Finally, I reached the 4-foot depth and I stood up, red-eyed and sputtering, and began frog-marching toward the edge to offer my assistance.
She was gone. Panic-stricken, I peered intently into the water, scanning the pool floor for her helpless shriveled body. Then I heard a gentle lapping of water in the distance behind me. I turned to see the old lady had just completed her length and was swimming back toward me. And not just swimming, as I understand swimming to be. She seemed to be practically skimming along the surface, knifing effortlessly and almost silently through the water with long, elegant, graceful strokes. All the while she maintained a relaxed, beatific smile.
I was appalled. Here I was ready to do my chivalrous duty out of respect for her repulsive decrepitude and she has the gall to be one of those “only as young as you feel” showboaters, frolicking around like she’s in a margarine commercial. I resolved right then to outswim her.
As it happens, I have some experience in beating old ladies in athletic endeavors. Just last fall, as a matter of fact, I competed in a half-marathon run in Victoria. Well all right, perhaps it’s over-stating things to say I competed. But I did complete the run. I had entered at the behest of a co-worker, Nicole, who had just done her first half-marathon and was going for a full marathon –that’s 42 freakin’ kilometers—in Victoria. Nicole is one of those people who can inspire others with her enthusiasm, damn her, and I became so caught up with the idea that before I knew it, I had an entry fee on my Visa bill and a training schedule in my hand. Nicole also assured me I would have company—her daughter would be entering the half-marathon, too, she said, and because she suffered from recurring knee problems, I wouldn’t have to worry about being outpaced. “You should be proud of me,” I said to Kim when I got home, “I’m going to be running in the crippled girls division.” Kim thought I was setting my sights too high.
As it turned out, Nicole’s daughter was unable to run on race day so I went it alone. I ran an inspired race. I ran non-stop the whole way and finished with a personal best (all right, personal first, personal only) of two hours and nine minutes. In the last few kilometers my left leg started to go numb, and my right eye for some reason started having painful spasms, so I ended up hobbling to the finish line like some grotesque, twitching homunculus, but I finished. And from that moment forward, two things happened.
The first is that I began to preface statements with the words “as an endurance athlete.” It’s amazing how easily that phrase can just fall into everyday conversation. To wit: “As an endurance athlete, I would appreciate it if you passed the potatoes.” Or: “As an endurance athlete, I can’t seem to find my keys.” See what I mean?
The second thing that happened is I became very confident—some would say even cocky—about my ability to blow the pants off old ladies in a foot race. I was sitting in the auditorium at the post-race awards ceremony, sore and tired but still buzzing from the endorphin rush, and I watched with awe as prizes were claimed in various participant categories (male 18 to 25, first-time runner ages 40 to 45, and so on). I was stunned by the times they posted. Fifty-six minutes. One hour and twelve minutes. These were times I wouldn’t have been able to approach, even had I worn a pair of ACME-brand rocket skates. Finally, though, they announced the winning time for the category of Women, ages 65 and older: two hours and fourteen minutes.
I was so elated I almost bounded for the stage to claim an award. I was a winner! Of all the old ladies in the race, none of them—not a single one, mind you—could outrun me. I was an undisputed category champion. I might have won the crippled girls’ crown by default, but I kicked ass on the blue-rinse grandmas, and I had the numbers to prove it. Now, whenever I see an old woman who looks as if she might be rather spry, I find myself sizing her up, as it were, and my competitive juices start to flow.
And that’s why I decided I was going to stay in that pool and match the swimming fossil, lap for lap. She was good, I’ll give her that—but she had the advantage of experience, after all, and I had the handicap of having to stop after each length to grab the pool edge and clear my lungs before plunging back for another lap. But then I would thrust off with renewed vigor and pursue her again in a tumultuous frenzy of manic paddling. For her part, she pretended not to notice that she was locked in this duel, so intimidated was she by my relentless gamesmanship.
Eventually, fatigue began to overwhelm me, my arms turned to rubber, and I fell behind by almost half a pool length. But I had one more weapon in my arsenal. I flipped onto my back and began scissoring the water with my legs, creating vast plumes of bubbly, noisy surf. Now she noticed me. She actually broke her stupid monotonous rhythm to watch as I cruised past like a runaway barge, furiously churning water, my arms flaccid at my sides, my face set in a rictus of Schwarzeneggerian intensity. She didn’t dare laugh when I cruised headfirst into the end of the pool.
Realizing, I suppose, that defeat was inevitable, the old lady finally made her way for the stairs at the shallow end. I stayed for a victory lap as she stepped shakily from the pool, then I emerged with a splash and made my way to the side bench to collect my towel. I was exhausted but exhilarated—another foe vanquished—and I was ready for a long rest.
On the other side of the change rooms, on our way out of the pool building, we met again, the old lady and I.
“A good way to start the day, isn’t it?” she remarked. “A little dip in the pool is so refreshing.” I had to admit she was being a good sport about the whole thing, and I suppose I couldn’t blame her for downplaying her defeat. I held the door for her and we headed across the parking lot together. For a moment I thought of sprinting ahead—we were on dry land now, my milieu—but I decided not to rub it in. I think I already proved what kind of a man I was.
***
SHAMELESS PLUG ALERT:
Speaking of strenuous physical endeavors, my wife, Kim, is going to undertake a grueling 60-kilometer walk this summer in the Weekend to End Breast Cancer, and my spousal duties dictate that I use this cyber-billboard to link to her web page, which features a plaintive request for support, and a picture of our beloved Abby, the world’s cutest baby.
The other day, at the pool in our complex, I was enjoying a leisurely morning death struggle (the whole pool to myself!) and had, with the usual flair and fuss, successfully navigated my maiden voyage to the other end. I paused, gripped the pool edge, caught my breath, and uncorked a satisfying chlorine belch. Then I turned to see that I had company.
A woman had entered the deck area and was advancing, slowly and deliberately, toward the shallow end. She was being slow and deliberate because she was—and this is a conservative estimate, I believe—about 114 years old. She was stooped and emaciated, and her body seemed to be made up exclusively of knuckles and sinew and waxy, wrinkled skin. She wore a flowery bathing cap and a benign expression.
“How’s the water?” she asked, in a tremulous croak.
“Water’s great,” I said. I smiled but I was also looking around hopefully to see if she had someone with her—a family member or health–care worker— anyone to help lower her into the water and supervise while she soaked her decrepit bones. No one. She was reaching for the handrail from several steps away, precariously tottering toward the edge of the pool. She seemed on the brink of collapsing into a crumpled, liver-spotted heap, so I did what any superhero would do. I launched myself in her direction and began swimming mightily and with grim urgency toward her so I could chaperone. I used all the strokes in my repertoire—I kicked and punched and slapped at the water with fierce and, if I may say, spectacular, determination. Finally, I reached the 4-foot depth and I stood up, red-eyed and sputtering, and began frog-marching toward the edge to offer my assistance.
She was gone. Panic-stricken, I peered intently into the water, scanning the pool floor for her helpless shriveled body. Then I heard a gentle lapping of water in the distance behind me. I turned to see the old lady had just completed her length and was swimming back toward me. And not just swimming, as I understand swimming to be. She seemed to be practically skimming along the surface, knifing effortlessly and almost silently through the water with long, elegant, graceful strokes. All the while she maintained a relaxed, beatific smile.
I was appalled. Here I was ready to do my chivalrous duty out of respect for her repulsive decrepitude and she has the gall to be one of those “only as young as you feel” showboaters, frolicking around like she’s in a margarine commercial. I resolved right then to outswim her.
As it happens, I have some experience in beating old ladies in athletic endeavors. Just last fall, as a matter of fact, I competed in a half-marathon run in Victoria. Well all right, perhaps it’s over-stating things to say I competed. But I did complete the run. I had entered at the behest of a co-worker, Nicole, who had just done her first half-marathon and was going for a full marathon –that’s 42 freakin’ kilometers—in Victoria. Nicole is one of those people who can inspire others with her enthusiasm, damn her, and I became so caught up with the idea that before I knew it, I had an entry fee on my Visa bill and a training schedule in my hand. Nicole also assured me I would have company—her daughter would be entering the half-marathon, too, she said, and because she suffered from recurring knee problems, I wouldn’t have to worry about being outpaced. “You should be proud of me,” I said to Kim when I got home, “I’m going to be running in the crippled girls division.” Kim thought I was setting my sights too high.
As it turned out, Nicole’s daughter was unable to run on race day so I went it alone. I ran an inspired race. I ran non-stop the whole way and finished with a personal best (all right, personal first, personal only) of two hours and nine minutes. In the last few kilometers my left leg started to go numb, and my right eye for some reason started having painful spasms, so I ended up hobbling to the finish line like some grotesque, twitching homunculus, but I finished. And from that moment forward, two things happened.
The first is that I began to preface statements with the words “as an endurance athlete.” It’s amazing how easily that phrase can just fall into everyday conversation. To wit: “As an endurance athlete, I would appreciate it if you passed the potatoes.” Or: “As an endurance athlete, I can’t seem to find my keys.” See what I mean?
The second thing that happened is I became very confident—some would say even cocky—about my ability to blow the pants off old ladies in a foot race. I was sitting in the auditorium at the post-race awards ceremony, sore and tired but still buzzing from the endorphin rush, and I watched with awe as prizes were claimed in various participant categories (male 18 to 25, first-time runner ages 40 to 45, and so on). I was stunned by the times they posted. Fifty-six minutes. One hour and twelve minutes. These were times I wouldn’t have been able to approach, even had I worn a pair of ACME-brand rocket skates. Finally, though, they announced the winning time for the category of Women, ages 65 and older: two hours and fourteen minutes.
I was so elated I almost bounded for the stage to claim an award. I was a winner! Of all the old ladies in the race, none of them—not a single one, mind you—could outrun me. I was an undisputed category champion. I might have won the crippled girls’ crown by default, but I kicked ass on the blue-rinse grandmas, and I had the numbers to prove it. Now, whenever I see an old woman who looks as if she might be rather spry, I find myself sizing her up, as it were, and my competitive juices start to flow.
And that’s why I decided I was going to stay in that pool and match the swimming fossil, lap for lap. She was good, I’ll give her that—but she had the advantage of experience, after all, and I had the handicap of having to stop after each length to grab the pool edge and clear my lungs before plunging back for another lap. But then I would thrust off with renewed vigor and pursue her again in a tumultuous frenzy of manic paddling. For her part, she pretended not to notice that she was locked in this duel, so intimidated was she by my relentless gamesmanship.
Eventually, fatigue began to overwhelm me, my arms turned to rubber, and I fell behind by almost half a pool length. But I had one more weapon in my arsenal. I flipped onto my back and began scissoring the water with my legs, creating vast plumes of bubbly, noisy surf. Now she noticed me. She actually broke her stupid monotonous rhythm to watch as I cruised past like a runaway barge, furiously churning water, my arms flaccid at my sides, my face set in a rictus of Schwarzeneggerian intensity. She didn’t dare laugh when I cruised headfirst into the end of the pool.
Realizing, I suppose, that defeat was inevitable, the old lady finally made her way for the stairs at the shallow end. I stayed for a victory lap as she stepped shakily from the pool, then I emerged with a splash and made my way to the side bench to collect my towel. I was exhausted but exhilarated—another foe vanquished—and I was ready for a long rest.
On the other side of the change rooms, on our way out of the pool building, we met again, the old lady and I.
“A good way to start the day, isn’t it?” she remarked. “A little dip in the pool is so refreshing.” I had to admit she was being a good sport about the whole thing, and I suppose I couldn’t blame her for downplaying her defeat. I held the door for her and we headed across the parking lot together. For a moment I thought of sprinting ahead—we were on dry land now, my milieu—but I decided not to rub it in. I think I already proved what kind of a man I was.
***
SHAMELESS PLUG ALERT:
Speaking of strenuous physical endeavors, my wife, Kim, is going to undertake a grueling 60-kilometer walk this summer in the Weekend to End Breast Cancer, and my spousal duties dictate that I use this cyber-billboard to link to her web page, which features a plaintive request for support, and a picture of our beloved Abby, the world’s cutest baby.
Tuesday, February 24, 2004
One Flu Over The Cuckoo's Nest
I awoke yesterday morning to find that the pesky malaise I had been hosting for the last few days had blossomed into a bona fide illness. My head throbbed, my throat felt like flaming sandpaper, my tongue had a disagreeable pasty coating, and I was manufacturing phlegm in astonishingly prodigious quantities. Evidently my body had downloaded a virus, probably as an attachment, which was now infecting my internal hard drive. Clearly, it was time to reboot.
Oddly enough, though, I don’t really mind being sick like this. I wouldn’t go so far as to endorse illness as a way of life, but if you have to be somewhere on the continuum of physical discomfort, this is the place to be: sick enough to justify a day of rest, but not so grievously afflicted as to involve the intervention of referred specialists or the introduction of a colostomy bag.
Maybe it’s because that, amid the relentless exigencies of everyday life in a hyperactive world, a day off from work usually means a day of frenetic activity. Things just have to get done. Something always has to be done. Getting sick, then, is about the only opportunity one has to indulge in idle repose.
And indulge I did. After calling in my regrets to the office, I shuffled off to the couch and began feathering my nest: Pillows, comforter, wooly socks. Tissues, lozenges, Tylenol. Soothing teas, water, orange juice. Newspapers, magazines, books. CNN, Price is Right, Adam-12. I anesthetized myself with antihistamines and TV and lay there all day and into the evening, glassy-eyed and blissfully disconnected from real life, wearing the slack expression of a man who has been deprived of oxygen for a tragically prolonged period.
Remarkable, isn’t it, how easy it is to disengage from the world, how quickly you can unhook yourself from all those terribly vital things that make our lives so urgent ? Or at least things that seem terribly vital until you spend a day absorbed with nothing more mentally taxing than breathing. All the pressures and nagging chores that kept me so strenuously occupied now seemed oddly remote, as if they belonged to another person, in another time. One day of no traffic, no deadlines, no human contact, and I was loving it—the flaming sandpaper in my throat notwithstanding.
When it was time to turn in, and I made my way down the hall to the bedroom, comforter in tow, I realized it was the first time I had been vertical in hours. And I also realized, with a trace of wistfulness, that my headache and chills had gone. I was still raspy and sore, and feeling as dull as a mallet, but I knew I would be back at work in the morning. Probably a good thing, too. A couple more days of that kind of hibernation and I could easily end up recusing myself from active participation in life for good, and spend the rest of my time on the couch, benumbed by game shows, flipping through glossy magazines, and eating bon bons by the handful. And that kind of a life would take all the fun out of being sick.
PS: I would like to point out for the record that I did come within $1000 without going over on my showcase bid.
Oddly enough, though, I don’t really mind being sick like this. I wouldn’t go so far as to endorse illness as a way of life, but if you have to be somewhere on the continuum of physical discomfort, this is the place to be: sick enough to justify a day of rest, but not so grievously afflicted as to involve the intervention of referred specialists or the introduction of a colostomy bag.
Maybe it’s because that, amid the relentless exigencies of everyday life in a hyperactive world, a day off from work usually means a day of frenetic activity. Things just have to get done. Something always has to be done. Getting sick, then, is about the only opportunity one has to indulge in idle repose.
And indulge I did. After calling in my regrets to the office, I shuffled off to the couch and began feathering my nest: Pillows, comforter, wooly socks. Tissues, lozenges, Tylenol. Soothing teas, water, orange juice. Newspapers, magazines, books. CNN, Price is Right, Adam-12. I anesthetized myself with antihistamines and TV and lay there all day and into the evening, glassy-eyed and blissfully disconnected from real life, wearing the slack expression of a man who has been deprived of oxygen for a tragically prolonged period.
Remarkable, isn’t it, how easy it is to disengage from the world, how quickly you can unhook yourself from all those terribly vital things that make our lives so urgent ? Or at least things that seem terribly vital until you spend a day absorbed with nothing more mentally taxing than breathing. All the pressures and nagging chores that kept me so strenuously occupied now seemed oddly remote, as if they belonged to another person, in another time. One day of no traffic, no deadlines, no human contact, and I was loving it—the flaming sandpaper in my throat notwithstanding.
When it was time to turn in, and I made my way down the hall to the bedroom, comforter in tow, I realized it was the first time I had been vertical in hours. And I also realized, with a trace of wistfulness, that my headache and chills had gone. I was still raspy and sore, and feeling as dull as a mallet, but I knew I would be back at work in the morning. Probably a good thing, too. A couple more days of that kind of hibernation and I could easily end up recusing myself from active participation in life for good, and spend the rest of my time on the couch, benumbed by game shows, flipping through glossy magazines, and eating bon bons by the handful. And that kind of a life would take all the fun out of being sick.
PS: I would like to point out for the record that I did come within $1000 without going over on my showcase bid.
Wednesday, February 18, 2004
The Final Curtain
I always like to sit close to the stage at live theater performances. It’s unsophisticated, I know—as any genteel patron of the arts will tell you, it’s advisable to be several rows back from the action, so as not to be distracted by the pancake makeup and costume imperfections. But I like the immediacy, the sense of being almost in the scene, the thrill of being hit in the eye with the spit of actors in the throes of thespian exuberance. It doesn’t even really matter what the show is. Just put me up front and I’ll sit there, saucer-eyed and open-mouthed, like a toddler watching Barney.
Last week, our seats for the local Arts Club production of Same Time, Next Year were perfect, as far as I was concerned—second row, center stage—and we settled in with the customary sense of anticipation. I love a theater just before curtain time: the rustle and murmur of the crowd, the warm, artful lighting, the--
“HOLY COW, THESE ARE GREAT SEATS, EH? RIGHT UP FRONT, FIRST ROW! LOOK AT THAT!”
He was in his thirties or forties—an aggressively stupid man with a black leather jacket and leather lungs, one of those exceedingly loud and jocular types who is all unrestrained brio and expansive gestures. He was with a younger blonde woman, who looked uncomfortable (a blind date?) and another, older, couple (his parents?). He thudded into his seat directly in front of me and propped his cowboy-booted feet up on the lip of the stage.
“OH HEY, LOOK THERE’S A BED ON THE STAGE! I GUESS IT’S SUPPOSED TO BE LIKE A HOTEL ROOM OR SOMETHING!” He gave the blonde woman a sharp elbow in the ribs. “WOW, THESE ARE GREAT SEATS. RIGHT UP FRONT, EH?”
Kim and I exchanged looks. Everyone within earshot, which is to say everyone in the first twelve rows, exchanged looks. The blonde woman sunk a little lower into her seat. Just my luck, I thought. Guy’s acting like he’s never been to a play before.
“I’VE NEVER BEEN TO A PLAY BEFORE. WOW, THIS IS GREAT, EH? IT’S JUST LIKE BEING AT A TV SHOW, BUT LIVE, YOU KNOW? WOW, THESE ARE GREAT SEATS, EH? RIGHT UP FRONT.” Another elbow in the ribs.
The house lights dimmed. The audience settled. Then the stage lights came up to reveal the actors in the bed. One leaned over to the other and sa--
“HA HA HA HA HA! BWA HA HA HA!” Our front row cowboy threw his head back until it was almost on my lap and slapped his thighs with delight. He elbowed his companions on either side and pointed out to them that the actors were actually in the bed. He proved to be a reliable interpreter in this regard. Later in the scene, for instance, when the action called for a room service delivery, which was announced by a knock and a call of “Room Service!” he snorted extravagantly and belched out a laugh, then leaned in toward the blonde woman. “The guy’s bringing room service,” he announced helpfully, then gave her an elbow in the ribs and pointed to the stage, to illustrate precisely where the bringing of room service was taking place. No doubt she was a theater-going rookie, too, and he felt compelled to provide her the benefit of his keen perceptions. Such a considerate man.
And so it went for the rest of the night. He found every line thigh-slappingly hilarious, as only the truly witless can do. At one point, the blonde woman, as acutely aware of his obnoxiousness as he was oblivious, meekly suggested, with a hand on his wrist, that he temper his enthusiasm, but he brushed her off brusquely and hooted even louder. And, predictably, when the final curtain came and the actors strode out for their bows, Mr. Excitement popped up from his seat like a jack-in-the-box, and gave himself a standing ovation for enjoying this cultural experience. He whistled and huzzahed and raised his hands above his head to clap. I half-expected him to ignite a lighter and yell for an encore. When he turned to see the rest of the audience offering enthusiastic applause from their seats, he gave an admonishing shake of his head, then turned back to the actors and redoubled his decibel output.
I have come to believe—because I am monstrously self-involved, as should be apparent to any regular reader of this page—that people like this are drawing breath on this planet for the exclusive purpose of annoying me. They’re everywhere I go: The woman in front of me at the gas station cashier who has to have every crumpled lottery ticket she can dig out of her purse—all fifty-four of them— verified as a loser before allowing me to pay for my gas and get on with my life. People who wait for the light to turn green—and then signal left. People who name their children Gennifur—and get mad at you for spelling it wrong. Charlie Sheen. People who solicit e-mail orders for penis-enlargement pills that, if you ask me, taste like aspirin. Smugly earnest college students who want to raise my awareness about anything. People who believe that Initial Capitalization is a form of Emphasis. Flannel-mouthed furniture salesmen. People who think their tattoos make them interesting. Flinty careerists. Shameless lickspittles. Guttersnipes and ragamuffins. Jackanapeses and fusspots. All the people that make me wish that spontaneous human combustion would occur more often and more spontaneously.
But for those of us who feel that our lives are eternally beset by bozos, I offer this consoling thought: the world is coming to an end. I don’t mean to be alarmist or anything, but I read recently that many reputable and wholly credible scientists believe that we are overdue for a devastating cataclysm—probably a crashing meteorite or comet— that will instantly and irrevocably wipe out all traces of human existence. Everything on this earth, from the Dead Sea Scrolls to the works of Shakespeare, to the music of Celine Dion—gone in a cosmic flash, the whole planet exploding in a violent profusion of dirt and stone and fire and collectible Beanie Babies.
This used to bother me. But now I take solace from the idea that when that time comes and we as a species, and our fellow animals, and our little blue marble in space are all mercilessly expunged from existence, my friend from the theater will be there, too. In fact, knowing him, I’m sure he’ll have a front row seat. He’ll stare up at the sky, and point at the advancing killer fireball and elbow his companion in the ribs.
“WOW. THIS IS GREAT, he’ll say. “I’VE NEVER SEEN A METEORITE BEFO--”
Last week, our seats for the local Arts Club production of Same Time, Next Year were perfect, as far as I was concerned—second row, center stage—and we settled in with the customary sense of anticipation. I love a theater just before curtain time: the rustle and murmur of the crowd, the warm, artful lighting, the--
“HOLY COW, THESE ARE GREAT SEATS, EH? RIGHT UP FRONT, FIRST ROW! LOOK AT THAT!”
He was in his thirties or forties—an aggressively stupid man with a black leather jacket and leather lungs, one of those exceedingly loud and jocular types who is all unrestrained brio and expansive gestures. He was with a younger blonde woman, who looked uncomfortable (a blind date?) and another, older, couple (his parents?). He thudded into his seat directly in front of me and propped his cowboy-booted feet up on the lip of the stage.
“OH HEY, LOOK THERE’S A BED ON THE STAGE! I GUESS IT’S SUPPOSED TO BE LIKE A HOTEL ROOM OR SOMETHING!” He gave the blonde woman a sharp elbow in the ribs. “WOW, THESE ARE GREAT SEATS. RIGHT UP FRONT, EH?”
Kim and I exchanged looks. Everyone within earshot, which is to say everyone in the first twelve rows, exchanged looks. The blonde woman sunk a little lower into her seat. Just my luck, I thought. Guy’s acting like he’s never been to a play before.
“I’VE NEVER BEEN TO A PLAY BEFORE. WOW, THIS IS GREAT, EH? IT’S JUST LIKE BEING AT A TV SHOW, BUT LIVE, YOU KNOW? WOW, THESE ARE GREAT SEATS, EH? RIGHT UP FRONT.” Another elbow in the ribs.
The house lights dimmed. The audience settled. Then the stage lights came up to reveal the actors in the bed. One leaned over to the other and sa--
“HA HA HA HA HA! BWA HA HA HA!” Our front row cowboy threw his head back until it was almost on my lap and slapped his thighs with delight. He elbowed his companions on either side and pointed out to them that the actors were actually in the bed. He proved to be a reliable interpreter in this regard. Later in the scene, for instance, when the action called for a room service delivery, which was announced by a knock and a call of “Room Service!” he snorted extravagantly and belched out a laugh, then leaned in toward the blonde woman. “The guy’s bringing room service,” he announced helpfully, then gave her an elbow in the ribs and pointed to the stage, to illustrate precisely where the bringing of room service was taking place. No doubt she was a theater-going rookie, too, and he felt compelled to provide her the benefit of his keen perceptions. Such a considerate man.
And so it went for the rest of the night. He found every line thigh-slappingly hilarious, as only the truly witless can do. At one point, the blonde woman, as acutely aware of his obnoxiousness as he was oblivious, meekly suggested, with a hand on his wrist, that he temper his enthusiasm, but he brushed her off brusquely and hooted even louder. And, predictably, when the final curtain came and the actors strode out for their bows, Mr. Excitement popped up from his seat like a jack-in-the-box, and gave himself a standing ovation for enjoying this cultural experience. He whistled and huzzahed and raised his hands above his head to clap. I half-expected him to ignite a lighter and yell for an encore. When he turned to see the rest of the audience offering enthusiastic applause from their seats, he gave an admonishing shake of his head, then turned back to the actors and redoubled his decibel output.
I have come to believe—because I am monstrously self-involved, as should be apparent to any regular reader of this page—that people like this are drawing breath on this planet for the exclusive purpose of annoying me. They’re everywhere I go: The woman in front of me at the gas station cashier who has to have every crumpled lottery ticket she can dig out of her purse—all fifty-four of them— verified as a loser before allowing me to pay for my gas and get on with my life. People who wait for the light to turn green—and then signal left. People who name their children Gennifur—and get mad at you for spelling it wrong. Charlie Sheen. People who solicit e-mail orders for penis-enlargement pills that, if you ask me, taste like aspirin. Smugly earnest college students who want to raise my awareness about anything. People who believe that Initial Capitalization is a form of Emphasis. Flannel-mouthed furniture salesmen. People who think their tattoos make them interesting. Flinty careerists. Shameless lickspittles. Guttersnipes and ragamuffins. Jackanapeses and fusspots. All the people that make me wish that spontaneous human combustion would occur more often and more spontaneously.
But for those of us who feel that our lives are eternally beset by bozos, I offer this consoling thought: the world is coming to an end. I don’t mean to be alarmist or anything, but I read recently that many reputable and wholly credible scientists believe that we are overdue for a devastating cataclysm—probably a crashing meteorite or comet— that will instantly and irrevocably wipe out all traces of human existence. Everything on this earth, from the Dead Sea Scrolls to the works of Shakespeare, to the music of Celine Dion—gone in a cosmic flash, the whole planet exploding in a violent profusion of dirt and stone and fire and collectible Beanie Babies.
This used to bother me. But now I take solace from the idea that when that time comes and we as a species, and our fellow animals, and our little blue marble in space are all mercilessly expunged from existence, my friend from the theater will be there, too. In fact, knowing him, I’m sure he’ll have a front row seat. He’ll stare up at the sky, and point at the advancing killer fireball and elbow his companion in the ribs.
“WOW. THIS IS GREAT, he’ll say. “I’VE NEVER SEEN A METEORITE BEFO--”
Tuesday, February 10, 2004
How I Spent My Winter Vacation
I am feeling seasonally discombobulated lately, and I blame it on Florida. After ten days of sunshine and shirtsleeves, and late evening meals on outdoor patios, I found it hard to accept that I had to scrape ice off my windshield yesterday morning. And it’s that weird time of year here, too, when the days are just starting to get longer—not quite wintry anymore, but not yet spring. I don’t know, it just seems oddly surreal. Then again, it might just be a natural psychic letdown that comes with having an intense period of work followed by an intense period of vacationing. All I know is that since I’ve been back, I’ve been feeling about as ambitious as a narcoleptic squeegee kid.
Kim and baby Abby joined me in Orlando last week and, as required by Florida law, we visited Disney World. We went out with a group of my co-workers one night to see Disney MGM, although Abby and I abstained from the more lively rides—Abby because she doesn’t meet the height requirements and me because I don’t like fun. While waiting outside the Star Wars ride for my companions I did, however, get to see a young boy sneak up behind his father and attempt to sodomize him with a souvenir light saber, which pretty much made my night.
We spent the whole day Wednesday at Epcot Center, where we got to sample faux ethnic food and buy ersatz handicrafts in a fabricated environment staffed by people pretending to be foreigners—a truly authentic Disney experience. I actually had a great time there, although that’s partly because the English ales, French wines, German lagers, and Mexican tequilas were real enough.
We even managed to escape Mickey’s grip for a couple of nights and venture beyond the Disney borders. On our last full day in town, for instance, we drove out to the Kennedy Space Center, where we stood in line for half an hour for the privilege of buying tickets that allowed us to stand in line for the security checkpoint, which, once cleared, meant we could stand in line for photos on our way to stand in line for the buses that took us to the various sites of the compound where we stood in line to see the exhibits and re-enactments of daring explorations where men boldly explored parts of the universe where there were NO LINES. But for someone like me, who has a soft spot for NASA history, and who truly admires the “spacial entrepreneurs” as President Bush has so eloquently described them, it was worth it. We even got to watch an actual rocket launch from Cape Canaveral, which followed a stunning pink and orange sunset, and then we drove off to Cocoa Beach for dinner, as I imagine Major Nelson and Major Healy did after a long day of tormenting Dr. Bellows.
But it was the evening we did nothing that was the most memorable. That is to say, we did nothing that was sanctioned by the Florida Tourist Board. We had just moved into our more modest digs, after the company-sponsored events were over. Kim and I took turns going for a swim in the outdoor pool, while the other watched Abby. I floated for a long time on my back, alone in the pool, watching planes arc across the dark blue sky and over a moon that seemed startlingly bright—a shiny dime on velvet. Later that night, we sat out on the deck alone, the three of us in the dark, just the pool lights on. We brought out wine, and ordered pizza, and watched a movie on the laptop—a private theater under the stars, on a balmy Florida night. It might not have had the Disney imprimatur, but to me that qualifies as family fun in its purest form.
Kim and baby Abby joined me in Orlando last week and, as required by Florida law, we visited Disney World. We went out with a group of my co-workers one night to see Disney MGM, although Abby and I abstained from the more lively rides—Abby because she doesn’t meet the height requirements and me because I don’t like fun. While waiting outside the Star Wars ride for my companions I did, however, get to see a young boy sneak up behind his father and attempt to sodomize him with a souvenir light saber, which pretty much made my night.
We spent the whole day Wednesday at Epcot Center, where we got to sample faux ethnic food and buy ersatz handicrafts in a fabricated environment staffed by people pretending to be foreigners—a truly authentic Disney experience. I actually had a great time there, although that’s partly because the English ales, French wines, German lagers, and Mexican tequilas were real enough.
We even managed to escape Mickey’s grip for a couple of nights and venture beyond the Disney borders. On our last full day in town, for instance, we drove out to the Kennedy Space Center, where we stood in line for half an hour for the privilege of buying tickets that allowed us to stand in line for the security checkpoint, which, once cleared, meant we could stand in line for photos on our way to stand in line for the buses that took us to the various sites of the compound where we stood in line to see the exhibits and re-enactments of daring explorations where men boldly explored parts of the universe where there were NO LINES. But for someone like me, who has a soft spot for NASA history, and who truly admires the “spacial entrepreneurs” as President Bush has so eloquently described them, it was worth it. We even got to watch an actual rocket launch from Cape Canaveral, which followed a stunning pink and orange sunset, and then we drove off to Cocoa Beach for dinner, as I imagine Major Nelson and Major Healy did after a long day of tormenting Dr. Bellows.
But it was the evening we did nothing that was the most memorable. That is to say, we did nothing that was sanctioned by the Florida Tourist Board. We had just moved into our more modest digs, after the company-sponsored events were over. Kim and I took turns going for a swim in the outdoor pool, while the other watched Abby. I floated for a long time on my back, alone in the pool, watching planes arc across the dark blue sky and over a moon that seemed startlingly bright—a shiny dime on velvet. Later that night, we sat out on the deck alone, the three of us in the dark, just the pool lights on. We brought out wine, and ordered pizza, and watched a movie on the laptop—a private theater under the stars, on a balmy Florida night. It might not have had the Disney imprimatur, but to me that qualifies as family fun in its purest form.
Tuesday, January 27, 2004
Dateline: Florida
So we’re sitting on the tarmac in Vancouver, waiting for airport crews to clean off the dead birds from our runway (ewww!) when I glance over at my seatmate and see that he is reading—I swear this is true—Floor Covering Weekly (top story: “Investment Firm Buys Florida Tile”). Three things come to mind: First of all, either this man is in the floor covering business or he is trying to induce a coma. Second, I really hope he doesn’t strike up a conversation with me. Third, is there really enough news in the world of floor coverings to warrant a weekly publication?
Anyway, after a refreshing 2 hours of sleep last night and 7 hours of flying time (and half an hour of dead-bird removal waiting time) I am now in Orlando. It’s a pleasantly warm evening, there’s a light breeze blowing through the window, the palm trees outside are bathed in floodlights, and I’ve finally managed to get the mini-bar open. I feel like Bogart in Key Largo—if Bogart sat around in his underwear swilling Heineken and watching the Shopping Channel.
Anyway, after a refreshing 2 hours of sleep last night and 7 hours of flying time (and half an hour of dead-bird removal waiting time) I am now in Orlando. It’s a pleasantly warm evening, there’s a light breeze blowing through the window, the palm trees outside are bathed in floodlights, and I’ve finally managed to get the mini-bar open. I feel like Bogart in Key Largo—if Bogart sat around in his underwear swilling Heineken and watching the Shopping Channel.
Friday, January 23, 2004
Abby's Magic Bookmark
It started with Little Yellow Ball.
All young children, because they are exceptionally stupid, become entranced by mundane objects as they navigate their way through what is—for them—a bewildering and wondrous world of colors, dimensions, and textures. My daughter, Abby, I can attest, has diligently spent the last few months cataloguing her universe with solemn determination. Newspapers, books, candlesticks, teddy bears, spaghetti, socks, squeaky toys, Daddy’s eyeball—each has at one point or another been seized in her lunging, doughy fist and subjected to a rigorous 3-point battery of tests:
1. Does it make noise when I shake it?
2. Does it make noise when I hit it against something else?
3. Will it fit in my mouth?
Her research has been exhaustive, and her methodology so efficient that she seldom takes more than a few moments to make a determination on these criteria and move on. Our job as parents has been simply to keep the supply of objects coming; a ten month-old, we have found, needs tactile stimuli the way a junkie needs crack. So when she fell in love with, and adopted, Little Yellow Ball, it was a breakthrough of sorts.
It happened at a house party we attended over the holidays—one of those “parents and infants” parties where the main topics of conversation are sleeping schedules and diaper absorbency. Our hosts brought out a particularly beguiling toy—a plastic cube about the size of a packing crate—that drew the children toward it like the spaceship in Close Encounters of the Third Kind. It had a multiplicity of attachments, a detachable lid, and big, hand-sized buttons that summoned flashing lights and whooping sirens.
Most importantly, though, it came with an assortment of plastic, hollow, colored balls that could be dropped through holes or down sliding chutes. And among these colored balls was a little yellow ball—a little yellow ball that I would soon ingeniously name Little Yellow Ball—that inexplicably captured Abby’s fancy.
She grabbed it as it rolled along a chute, plucking it deftly out of its orbit. She shook it vigorously (see Criteria 1, above). She held it to her face and stared at it with that sort of singular intensity only an infant or a dangerous imbecile can achieve. Then she decided that this little yellow ball needed her companionship (or she needed its) and it stayed fused in her fist for the remainder of the evening. She continued to play with the other toys, but she refused to relinquish Little Yellow Ball. She held it close to her pudgy body, to protect it from marauding toddlers. She rapped it against my head when I picked her up. Every once and awhile she would stare at it again, with renewed interest and (I imagined) solicitous concern. This was one special little yellow ball. It was a traumatic moment for everyone, as you can imagine, when we had to crowbar Little Yellow Ball out of her hand when it was time to leave.
So naturally, like all foolish first-time parents, we went out the next day and spent fifty bucks on the amazing packing crate toy, unpacked it with haste, and proudly presented Abby with her very own Little Yellow Ball. Which she promptly threw at the cat and forgot about.
The lesson here (apart from discovering that I can spend over 500 words on a preamble) is that children are selfish little shits, and any money spent on them is better spent on malt liquor and hookers. And that explains why Abby’s latest infatuation is with a magic bookmark that cost us absolutely nothing.
Actually, there are three identical magic bookmarks, which we picked up on a recent trip to Village Books in Bellingham (a visit chronicled with nauseating detail on this very page). I have to say that I too was captivated by these bookmarks, which is why I helped myself to three of them. They are promotional giveaways for the new edition of the Chicago Manual of Style, and they come in a fetching red and white, with black print. And if that wasn’t sexy enough, they are made of—get this—plastic. It’s that neat kind of thin, but durable, pliable plastic—the kind that makes a satisfying wopple, wopple, wopple sound when you shake it (see Criteria 1, above). I know, I know, is that cool or what? Kim and I each keep one in our current reading and the other is in a book on our coffee table.
We keep these bookmarks close at hand because, aside from performing their page-marking duties with admirable efficiency, they also serve as the most reliable baby soother since the invention of the Children’s Tylenol “accidental” overdose. No matter how cranky Abby gets, no matter how hard she’s crying, no matter how inconsolable she seems, just hand her the magic bookmark and she instantly—instantly—becomes absorbed and gleeful. She’ll hold it in both hands and study it. Then do a single-handed shake to produce the wopple effect. She’ll try to fold it in half, and giggle when it pops back. It is so astonishingly effective in grasping and holding her attention that we are thinking of canceling the day care arrangement and just leaving her home alone with a handful of magic bookmarks.
These little synthetic rectangles have transformed our lives to such a profound degree that they are now doing more actual parenting than we are. Or at least more effective parenting. The other night, for instance, Kim and I were lying in bed reading, with Abby asleep between us. When Abby began to stir and fuss, we both, without looking up from our respective pages, instinctively withdrew our bookmarks from our books, and handed them over. A few moments of wopple wopple wopple (see Criteria 1, above), followed by a few moments of intense attempted origami, and Abby drifted off to a serene, deep sleep, still holding a magic bookmark against her nose.
So, in the spirit of bonhomie that is my personal trademark, I hereby offer a magic bookmark to any sleep-deprived, nerve-frazzled parent. That’s right, you too can have your very own powerful baby suppressant, guaranteed to placate even the most obstreperous child, for one easy payment of fifty dollars. And if you act now, I’ll even throw in a little yellow ball.
All young children, because they are exceptionally stupid, become entranced by mundane objects as they navigate their way through what is—for them—a bewildering and wondrous world of colors, dimensions, and textures. My daughter, Abby, I can attest, has diligently spent the last few months cataloguing her universe with solemn determination. Newspapers, books, candlesticks, teddy bears, spaghetti, socks, squeaky toys, Daddy’s eyeball—each has at one point or another been seized in her lunging, doughy fist and subjected to a rigorous 3-point battery of tests:
1. Does it make noise when I shake it?
2. Does it make noise when I hit it against something else?
3. Will it fit in my mouth?
Her research has been exhaustive, and her methodology so efficient that she seldom takes more than a few moments to make a determination on these criteria and move on. Our job as parents has been simply to keep the supply of objects coming; a ten month-old, we have found, needs tactile stimuli the way a junkie needs crack. So when she fell in love with, and adopted, Little Yellow Ball, it was a breakthrough of sorts.
It happened at a house party we attended over the holidays—one of those “parents and infants” parties where the main topics of conversation are sleeping schedules and diaper absorbency. Our hosts brought out a particularly beguiling toy—a plastic cube about the size of a packing crate—that drew the children toward it like the spaceship in Close Encounters of the Third Kind. It had a multiplicity of attachments, a detachable lid, and big, hand-sized buttons that summoned flashing lights and whooping sirens.
Most importantly, though, it came with an assortment of plastic, hollow, colored balls that could be dropped through holes or down sliding chutes. And among these colored balls was a little yellow ball—a little yellow ball that I would soon ingeniously name Little Yellow Ball—that inexplicably captured Abby’s fancy.
She grabbed it as it rolled along a chute, plucking it deftly out of its orbit. She shook it vigorously (see Criteria 1, above). She held it to her face and stared at it with that sort of singular intensity only an infant or a dangerous imbecile can achieve. Then she decided that this little yellow ball needed her companionship (or she needed its) and it stayed fused in her fist for the remainder of the evening. She continued to play with the other toys, but she refused to relinquish Little Yellow Ball. She held it close to her pudgy body, to protect it from marauding toddlers. She rapped it against my head when I picked her up. Every once and awhile she would stare at it again, with renewed interest and (I imagined) solicitous concern. This was one special little yellow ball. It was a traumatic moment for everyone, as you can imagine, when we had to crowbar Little Yellow Ball out of her hand when it was time to leave.
So naturally, like all foolish first-time parents, we went out the next day and spent fifty bucks on the amazing packing crate toy, unpacked it with haste, and proudly presented Abby with her very own Little Yellow Ball. Which she promptly threw at the cat and forgot about.
The lesson here (apart from discovering that I can spend over 500 words on a preamble) is that children are selfish little shits, and any money spent on them is better spent on malt liquor and hookers. And that explains why Abby’s latest infatuation is with a magic bookmark that cost us absolutely nothing.
Actually, there are three identical magic bookmarks, which we picked up on a recent trip to Village Books in Bellingham (a visit chronicled with nauseating detail on this very page). I have to say that I too was captivated by these bookmarks, which is why I helped myself to three of them. They are promotional giveaways for the new edition of the Chicago Manual of Style, and they come in a fetching red and white, with black print. And if that wasn’t sexy enough, they are made of—get this—plastic. It’s that neat kind of thin, but durable, pliable plastic—the kind that makes a satisfying wopple, wopple, wopple sound when you shake it (see Criteria 1, above). I know, I know, is that cool or what? Kim and I each keep one in our current reading and the other is in a book on our coffee table.
We keep these bookmarks close at hand because, aside from performing their page-marking duties with admirable efficiency, they also serve as the most reliable baby soother since the invention of the Children’s Tylenol “accidental” overdose. No matter how cranky Abby gets, no matter how hard she’s crying, no matter how inconsolable she seems, just hand her the magic bookmark and she instantly—instantly—becomes absorbed and gleeful. She’ll hold it in both hands and study it. Then do a single-handed shake to produce the wopple effect. She’ll try to fold it in half, and giggle when it pops back. It is so astonishingly effective in grasping and holding her attention that we are thinking of canceling the day care arrangement and just leaving her home alone with a handful of magic bookmarks.
These little synthetic rectangles have transformed our lives to such a profound degree that they are now doing more actual parenting than we are. Or at least more effective parenting. The other night, for instance, Kim and I were lying in bed reading, with Abby asleep between us. When Abby began to stir and fuss, we both, without looking up from our respective pages, instinctively withdrew our bookmarks from our books, and handed them over. A few moments of wopple wopple wopple (see Criteria 1, above), followed by a few moments of intense attempted origami, and Abby drifted off to a serene, deep sleep, still holding a magic bookmark against her nose.
So, in the spirit of bonhomie that is my personal trademark, I hereby offer a magic bookmark to any sleep-deprived, nerve-frazzled parent. That’s right, you too can have your very own powerful baby suppressant, guaranteed to placate even the most obstreperous child, for one easy payment of fifty dollars. And if you act now, I’ll even throw in a little yellow ball.
Tuesday, January 13, 2004
Insert Title Here
Big Project at Work
--3-day PowerPoint presentation
--presented at end of month in Florida
Number One With A Bullet!
Now only capable of thinking and writing in bullet points
--and subpoints
--with corny headlines
--and exclamation marks!
A unique way of writing
--affects thinking process
--conserves prepositions/verbs
Where’s the Balance?
Working long hours and weekends
Not much of a life
--with family
--with friends
--for blogging
--personal hygiene
--Paris Hilton
[insert image of someone not having a life]
Time Flies
Often forget what day it is
--Monday?
--Tuesday?
--Wednesday?
--Thursday?
--Friday?
--Saturday?
--Sunday?
Days blend into one another
[insert image of calendar]
Quit Yer Bitching!
Lots of people work like this
--astronauts
--medical interns
--chain gang prisoners
[insert image of people working hard]
It Has Its Moments
Fun moments
--brainstorming bull sessions
--adrenaline rushes
--hallucinations from sleep deprivation
Bad moments
--the seventeenth draft
--running out of bullet point ammo
Wonderful ironic moments
--last minute rush on Time Management material
--heated arguments over Conflict Resolution material
[insert image of an iron]
The Payoff
Attending program in Orlando, Florida
--break from gloomy winter
--watching presentation being presented
--sense of accomplishment
--sense of pride
--sense of terror
--sense of getting three days off afterward to do nothing but drink beer and see Mickey
[insert image of guy getting thrown out of Disney World]
--3-day PowerPoint presentation
--presented at end of month in Florida
Number One With A Bullet!
Now only capable of thinking and writing in bullet points
--and subpoints
--with corny headlines
--and exclamation marks!
A unique way of writing
--affects thinking process
--conserves prepositions/verbs
Where’s the Balance?
Working long hours and weekends
Not much of a life
--with family
--with friends
--for blogging
--personal hygiene
--Paris Hilton
[insert image of someone not having a life]
Time Flies
Often forget what day it is
--Monday?
--Tuesday?
--Wednesday?
--Thursday?
--Friday?
--Saturday?
--Sunday?
Days blend into one another
[insert image of calendar]
Quit Yer Bitching!
Lots of people work like this
--astronauts
--medical interns
--chain gang prisoners
[insert image of people working hard]
It Has Its Moments
Fun moments
--brainstorming bull sessions
--adrenaline rushes
--hallucinations from sleep deprivation
Bad moments
--the seventeenth draft
--running out of bullet point ammo
Wonderful ironic moments
--last minute rush on Time Management material
--heated arguments over Conflict Resolution material
[insert image of an iron]
The Payoff
Attending program in Orlando, Florida
--break from gloomy winter
--watching presentation being presented
--sense of accomplishment
--sense of pride
--sense of terror
--sense of getting three days off afterward to do nothing but drink beer and see Mickey
[insert image of guy getting thrown out of Disney World]
Friday, January 02, 2004
Should Old Hard Drives Be Forgot
Well, what's a new desk, and a new chair--and a new year--without a new computer?
Our four-year-old Compaq has, for some time, been prone to sudden seizures. I can be in the middle of composing a breathtakingly sublime sentence, or opening an email, or surreptitiously sneaking Paris Hilton's name into the Google search bar, when all systems will obstinately and intractably lock up.
As a long time computer user, I have, of course, developed a repertoire of techniques for troubleshooting and solving these sorts of freeze-up situations--techniques that I will graciously share with you now.
First (you might want to take notes here), I grasp the mouse firmly with my right hand and lift it to about eye level. (Those of you who are too short might want to start out at shoulder level. That's fine.) Then I carefully, and with exacting precision, smash the fucking thing on the desk repeatedly like a masturbating monkey while spewing oaths in a red-faced, spittle-drenched fury.
If that doesn't work (and it hasn't yet, but I'll keep you posted), I pick up the keyboard and repeat the procedure. Finally, I yell for Kim (if you don't have a Kim of your own, you'll have to get one--they're available at fine stores everywhere).
"The computer's seized up again!" I'll cry, when she finally appears. I then slam the mouse down a few more times and toss it onto the desk with a theatrical air of resignation, to illustrate just how seized up it is. Then, having satisfied myself that we are all suitably aware of how comprehensively this computer has seized up, I reboot.
On Christmas Eve, the computer seized up again. No surprise there, I just followed the aforementioned protocol and expected to be up and running again. But this time it was different. This time, the machine began making distressingly plaintive gurgling noises, and the reboot didn't work--just a black screen advising me to try a "rescue" procedure. I felt panicky and ashamed. It was like having a hypochondriac friend whom you have been teasing suddenly develop a fatal tumor. Oh my god, you really were sick! I'm so sorry! I didn't mean all those things I said. Please just get better!
And so it was that we arrived, on a bluish wintry evening just after Christmas, on the doorstep of one of Kim's friends-- a friend whose husband happens to be an accomplished professional computer techie guy. We crossed the threshold bearing our sickly CPU like beseeching, supplicating peasants.
It has been said that one of the defining characteristics of modern man is that, unlike his counterparts in, say, the 19th century, whose world consisted of nothing more technologically advanced than a water pump, he does not have even a rudimentary understanding of the workings of many of the devices he uses. A farmer in the 1860s, for instance, knew the purpose of every component of his horse-drawn plow, whereas a businessman in today's world is unlikely to be able to explain how the plane he is sitting in remains aloft. In my case, if I were confined to using only the apparatus whose functionings I could explain, the technology in my world would consist primarily of toothbrushes and paper clips.
All this was brought vividly to mind as I watched Shaun descend upon our computer's innards with practiced ease and stunning alacrity, while I stood by and helpfully held a screwdriver like a gormless twit. He hooked the system up to his monitor, performed a number of operations with a swift clacking of keys, and came up with a definitive diagnosis: our hard drive was in its death throes. The patient didn't have long to live. I won't go in to the details here, largely because I don't understand them, but the upshot of it all is that he was able to devise an emergency life-support system to save our data and then--get this--he offered to procure a new hard drive for us (actually two hard drives,as it turned out) at no charge, from his place of work--some sort of computer-wonderland where entirely serviceable hard drives are evidently routinely discarded like candy wrappers.
A couple of days later our computer received a new heart, which is now performing with admirable gusto. We even got a free upgrade to Windows XP and a housecall visit because--it was discovered--Kim bent the prongs on the monitor cable during reassembly. What can I say--never mind about getting yourself a Kim, find yourself a Shaun.
Speaking of upgrades, sharp-eyed regular visitors to this page of cyber-swill may also notice that my breathtakingly sublime prose has been given a spit shine and a new hat, thanks to the deft ministrations of a bored co-worker--another crackerjack techo witch doctor. (Thanks again, A.J.!) We pilfered an hour or so of company time on Christmas Eve to have the site try on some new ensembles ("does this font make my S look big?") and I have to admit that I have since sneaked back for several peeks, like a teenage girl secretly preening before the mirror in her new hairstyle.
Not a bad way to start the new year, digitally-speaking, anyway. A sleek new web page, crispy new gigabytes out the wazoo, and ferociously resilient dual hard drives. Paris Hilton, here I come.
Our four-year-old Compaq has, for some time, been prone to sudden seizures. I can be in the middle of composing a breathtakingly sublime sentence, or opening an email, or surreptitiously sneaking Paris Hilton's name into the Google search bar, when all systems will obstinately and intractably lock up.
As a long time computer user, I have, of course, developed a repertoire of techniques for troubleshooting and solving these sorts of freeze-up situations--techniques that I will graciously share with you now.
First (you might want to take notes here), I grasp the mouse firmly with my right hand and lift it to about eye level. (Those of you who are too short might want to start out at shoulder level. That's fine.) Then I carefully, and with exacting precision, smash the fucking thing on the desk repeatedly like a masturbating monkey while spewing oaths in a red-faced, spittle-drenched fury.
If that doesn't work (and it hasn't yet, but I'll keep you posted), I pick up the keyboard and repeat the procedure. Finally, I yell for Kim (if you don't have a Kim of your own, you'll have to get one--they're available at fine stores everywhere).
"The computer's seized up again!" I'll cry, when she finally appears. I then slam the mouse down a few more times and toss it onto the desk with a theatrical air of resignation, to illustrate just how seized up it is. Then, having satisfied myself that we are all suitably aware of how comprehensively this computer has seized up, I reboot.
On Christmas Eve, the computer seized up again. No surprise there, I just followed the aforementioned protocol and expected to be up and running again. But this time it was different. This time, the machine began making distressingly plaintive gurgling noises, and the reboot didn't work--just a black screen advising me to try a "rescue" procedure. I felt panicky and ashamed. It was like having a hypochondriac friend whom you have been teasing suddenly develop a fatal tumor. Oh my god, you really were sick! I'm so sorry! I didn't mean all those things I said. Please just get better!
And so it was that we arrived, on a bluish wintry evening just after Christmas, on the doorstep of one of Kim's friends-- a friend whose husband happens to be an accomplished professional computer techie guy. We crossed the threshold bearing our sickly CPU like beseeching, supplicating peasants.
It has been said that one of the defining characteristics of modern man is that, unlike his counterparts in, say, the 19th century, whose world consisted of nothing more technologically advanced than a water pump, he does not have even a rudimentary understanding of the workings of many of the devices he uses. A farmer in the 1860s, for instance, knew the purpose of every component of his horse-drawn plow, whereas a businessman in today's world is unlikely to be able to explain how the plane he is sitting in remains aloft. In my case, if I were confined to using only the apparatus whose functionings I could explain, the technology in my world would consist primarily of toothbrushes and paper clips.
All this was brought vividly to mind as I watched Shaun descend upon our computer's innards with practiced ease and stunning alacrity, while I stood by and helpfully held a screwdriver like a gormless twit. He hooked the system up to his monitor, performed a number of operations with a swift clacking of keys, and came up with a definitive diagnosis: our hard drive was in its death throes. The patient didn't have long to live. I won't go in to the details here, largely because I don't understand them, but the upshot of it all is that he was able to devise an emergency life-support system to save our data and then--get this--he offered to procure a new hard drive for us (actually two hard drives,as it turned out) at no charge, from his place of work--some sort of computer-wonderland where entirely serviceable hard drives are evidently routinely discarded like candy wrappers.
A couple of days later our computer received a new heart, which is now performing with admirable gusto. We even got a free upgrade to Windows XP and a housecall visit because--it was discovered--Kim bent the prongs on the monitor cable during reassembly. What can I say--never mind about getting yourself a Kim, find yourself a Shaun.
Speaking of upgrades, sharp-eyed regular visitors to this page of cyber-swill may also notice that my breathtakingly sublime prose has been given a spit shine and a new hat, thanks to the deft ministrations of a bored co-worker--another crackerjack techo witch doctor. (Thanks again, A.J.!) We pilfered an hour or so of company time on Christmas Eve to have the site try on some new ensembles ("does this font make my S look big?") and I have to admit that I have since sneaked back for several peeks, like a teenage girl secretly preening before the mirror in her new hairstyle.
Not a bad way to start the new year, digitally-speaking, anyway. A sleek new web page, crispy new gigabytes out the wazoo, and ferociously resilient dual hard drives. Paris Hilton, here I come.
Tuesday, December 23, 2003
It'll Be a Blue Christmas Without White Christmas
Generally speaking, I would sooner give Ed Asner a tongue bath than sit through a movie musical, but each year around this time I make an exception for White Christmas. I just have to watch Bing and Danny and “the girls” sip martinis in “a drafty old club car” for the umpteenth time while they sing rapturously—and let’s admit it, goofily—about snow. Chalk it up to nostalgia.
Growing up, I learned just about everything about adult life from watching White Christmas. I learned that nightclubs were places where men showed up dressed in pastel suits with matching shoes and sat with elegant women (boy, girl, girl, boy) at tables with white tablecloths where they drank cocktails and flirted coyly and listened to brassy bands and danced expansively and “had a few laughs.” Even after I came of age and had visited my share of nightclubs—dank, shrieking dungeons where beer-soaked louts came on crudely to glassy-eyed women on sweaty, flesh-pit dance floors while grinding to an amplified bass line that could make your ears bleed—even after that, the defining image of a nightclub, in my mind, was a place where the waiters wore tuxedos and the Haynes Sisters performed two shows a night.
I learned that war was fun—kind of a summer camp where you met lifelong buddies and were governed by an avuncular general with a heart of gold. Sure, there was combat, too—that scene where Danny Kaye saves Bing from the falling papier-mache wall? Shades of Saving Private Ryan—but the battlegrounds were clearly defined and the enemy obligingly good about surrendering.
Most important, I learned that a short, jug-eared doofus can win the heart of the most stunningly beautiful woman if he knows how to sing persuasively about insomnia cures (just count your blessings instead of sheep).
The sad thing is the reality was much less glamorous, not just for me but for the actors in their remaining days, each of them with an off-screen tale of woe. There’s Bing, the emotionally distant, abusive father; Danny Kaye, who had the misfortune to be gay before it was fashionable; Vera-Ellen, one of the pioneers of anorexia nervosa, a condition probably brought on by the stress of having a hyphen for a middle name. And Rosemary Clooney—lovely, wistful, Rosemary “Love, You Didn’t Do Right By Me” Clooney, who was serially abandoned by both parents as a child and descended into madness in her middle years before enjoying a late, and all too brief, career revival.
So we watched it again last weekend. And once again, I have those dopey songs in my head for days afterward. Danny saves Bing from the falling wall again, the general gets misty again when he sees the old troops, Rosemary comes back again, the snow falls, and once more there is a white Christmas. Just like the ones I used to know.
Growing up, I learned just about everything about adult life from watching White Christmas. I learned that nightclubs were places where men showed up dressed in pastel suits with matching shoes and sat with elegant women (boy, girl, girl, boy) at tables with white tablecloths where they drank cocktails and flirted coyly and listened to brassy bands and danced expansively and “had a few laughs.” Even after I came of age and had visited my share of nightclubs—dank, shrieking dungeons where beer-soaked louts came on crudely to glassy-eyed women on sweaty, flesh-pit dance floors while grinding to an amplified bass line that could make your ears bleed—even after that, the defining image of a nightclub, in my mind, was a place where the waiters wore tuxedos and the Haynes Sisters performed two shows a night.
I learned that war was fun—kind of a summer camp where you met lifelong buddies and were governed by an avuncular general with a heart of gold. Sure, there was combat, too—that scene where Danny Kaye saves Bing from the falling papier-mache wall? Shades of Saving Private Ryan—but the battlegrounds were clearly defined and the enemy obligingly good about surrendering.
Most important, I learned that a short, jug-eared doofus can win the heart of the most stunningly beautiful woman if he knows how to sing persuasively about insomnia cures (just count your blessings instead of sheep).
The sad thing is the reality was much less glamorous, not just for me but for the actors in their remaining days, each of them with an off-screen tale of woe. There’s Bing, the emotionally distant, abusive father; Danny Kaye, who had the misfortune to be gay before it was fashionable; Vera-Ellen, one of the pioneers of anorexia nervosa, a condition probably brought on by the stress of having a hyphen for a middle name. And Rosemary Clooney—lovely, wistful, Rosemary “Love, You Didn’t Do Right By Me” Clooney, who was serially abandoned by both parents as a child and descended into madness in her middle years before enjoying a late, and all too brief, career revival.
So we watched it again last weekend. And once again, I have those dopey songs in my head for days afterward. Danny saves Bing from the falling wall again, the general gets misty again when he sees the old troops, Rosemary comes back again, the snow falls, and once more there is a white Christmas. Just like the ones I used to know.
Saturday, December 20, 2003
Dan Swings A Deal
Well, what’s a new desk without a new chair?
The new desk is taller than the old one, which meant either I would have to peer, Kilroy-style, at desktop level while working, or we would have to adjust our chair’s height. While attempting to manipulate the controls on our old chair (a penitentially uncomfortable, gruesomely stained, steno-pool affair that we picked up at a yard sale), Kim managed to sever whatever vertebrae were holding the back support in place, and the backrest collapsed to seat level and stayed there. Instant and irreversible paralysis.
And so we motored off to fetch a replacement. “There’s that place on Hastings Street,” I say to Kim, “that always has office furniture out on the sidewalk. I think they’re having a sale.” And indeed, when we pull up there is a clutch of swivel chairs outside the premises and a handwritten sign that says “Closing Sale” in large, irregular letters on the window. “All right, a closing sale. Maybe I can swing a deal,” I say. Kim rolls her eyes.
“Thirty bucks!” I say, “What a deal. You can’t do better than that.” I’m pointing out a sleek little number with burgundy upholstery and a satisfying array of adjustment levers that is sitting atop a desk. A weathered piece of cardboard pinned beneath its casters says it’s marked down from a hundred bucks. “Sold!” I shout in triumph. Kim rolls her eyes audibly.
The proprietor we meet inside is a swarthy man with greasy hair and a suspiciously indefinable accent. He’s standing in a floor space littered with office remnants in various states of decrepitude. The place has the eerie, defeated feel of an abandoned storefront campaign headquarters.
“That chair,” I say, pointing out the window. “Thirty bucks?” He looks at the chair, then at me.
“No, that chair fifty bucks.”
“Fifty bucks? There’s a sign that says thirty bucks. Which chairs are thirty bucks, then?”
“No chair. The desk.”
“The desk is thirty bucks?”
“Chair is fifty bucks. Good deal.” He guides me to the window and points out a handwritten sticker on the back of the chair. “You see. It was one hundred and forty. Now fifty bucks. Good deal.”
“Well, I suppose that is a good deal,” I say. Kim is rolling her eyes again, but she’s not as quick as I am in negotiating. It is clearly a one hundred and forty-dollar chair—it says so in indelible magic marker on the sticker—and we would now be saving ninety dollars instead of just seventy! Still, I don’t want him to think that I’m an easy mark, so I play it cool.
“Fifty bucks, eh?” I rub my chin thoughtfully. “Let me take another look.” He follows me out onto the sidewalk and begins demonstrating the many features of the chair. The seat goes up. The seat goes down. The armrests go up. The armrests go down. The backrest goes up. The backrest goes down. I ask him to show me how the seat moves once more, just so he knows that I’m savvy.
“Very good deal,” he says. “American made. Not Taiwan crap. The real thing.” He leans in conspiratorially and confides, “Chinese lady buys one earlier today.” He looks at me significantly. I have no idea what that is supposed to mean.
“OK,” I say. “Yeah. OK. I like it.”
“I let you have it,” he says. “For seventy bucks.”
“Seventy bucks?”
“Seventy bucks, tax included. I’m closing out. I give you a deal. Seventy bucks, no tax.” Well, I figure, it’s always a bonus when you’re able to evade the taxman’s grasping fingers. Can’t pass up that opportunity.
“Sold,” I say.
Back inside I explain to Kim how I have negotiated us a price of seventy dollars for the chair. “It’s a good deal,” I say, “half off the regular price.” Her eyes are rolling like pinwheels.
The greasy man notices us looking at the plastic floor mats that facilitate easy chair-rolling on carpeted surfaces. There a few of them scattered about, and they appear scuffed and obviously well-used. “I'll let you have one,” he says. “I give you one.”
“Well, thank you.” We start comparing them for size and condition.
“Yep. Just ten bucks.”
Kim and I confer briefly and decide that we really don’t need one. “Never mind,” I say, "just the chair.” I mean, really. Who does he think he’s dealing with?
The new desk is taller than the old one, which meant either I would have to peer, Kilroy-style, at desktop level while working, or we would have to adjust our chair’s height. While attempting to manipulate the controls on our old chair (a penitentially uncomfortable, gruesomely stained, steno-pool affair that we picked up at a yard sale), Kim managed to sever whatever vertebrae were holding the back support in place, and the backrest collapsed to seat level and stayed there. Instant and irreversible paralysis.
And so we motored off to fetch a replacement. “There’s that place on Hastings Street,” I say to Kim, “that always has office furniture out on the sidewalk. I think they’re having a sale.” And indeed, when we pull up there is a clutch of swivel chairs outside the premises and a handwritten sign that says “Closing Sale” in large, irregular letters on the window. “All right, a closing sale. Maybe I can swing a deal,” I say. Kim rolls her eyes.
“Thirty bucks!” I say, “What a deal. You can’t do better than that.” I’m pointing out a sleek little number with burgundy upholstery and a satisfying array of adjustment levers that is sitting atop a desk. A weathered piece of cardboard pinned beneath its casters says it’s marked down from a hundred bucks. “Sold!” I shout in triumph. Kim rolls her eyes audibly.
The proprietor we meet inside is a swarthy man with greasy hair and a suspiciously indefinable accent. He’s standing in a floor space littered with office remnants in various states of decrepitude. The place has the eerie, defeated feel of an abandoned storefront campaign headquarters.
“That chair,” I say, pointing out the window. “Thirty bucks?” He looks at the chair, then at me.
“No, that chair fifty bucks.”
“Fifty bucks? There’s a sign that says thirty bucks. Which chairs are thirty bucks, then?”
“No chair. The desk.”
“The desk is thirty bucks?”
“Chair is fifty bucks. Good deal.” He guides me to the window and points out a handwritten sticker on the back of the chair. “You see. It was one hundred and forty. Now fifty bucks. Good deal.”
“Well, I suppose that is a good deal,” I say. Kim is rolling her eyes again, but she’s not as quick as I am in negotiating. It is clearly a one hundred and forty-dollar chair—it says so in indelible magic marker on the sticker—and we would now be saving ninety dollars instead of just seventy! Still, I don’t want him to think that I’m an easy mark, so I play it cool.
“Fifty bucks, eh?” I rub my chin thoughtfully. “Let me take another look.” He follows me out onto the sidewalk and begins demonstrating the many features of the chair. The seat goes up. The seat goes down. The armrests go up. The armrests go down. The backrest goes up. The backrest goes down. I ask him to show me how the seat moves once more, just so he knows that I’m savvy.
“Very good deal,” he says. “American made. Not Taiwan crap. The real thing.” He leans in conspiratorially and confides, “Chinese lady buys one earlier today.” He looks at me significantly. I have no idea what that is supposed to mean.
“OK,” I say. “Yeah. OK. I like it.”
“I let you have it,” he says. “For seventy bucks.”
“Seventy bucks?”
“Seventy bucks, tax included. I’m closing out. I give you a deal. Seventy bucks, no tax.” Well, I figure, it’s always a bonus when you’re able to evade the taxman’s grasping fingers. Can’t pass up that opportunity.
“Sold,” I say.
Back inside I explain to Kim how I have negotiated us a price of seventy dollars for the chair. “It’s a good deal,” I say, “half off the regular price.” Her eyes are rolling like pinwheels.
The greasy man notices us looking at the plastic floor mats that facilitate easy chair-rolling on carpeted surfaces. There a few of them scattered about, and they appear scuffed and obviously well-used. “I'll let you have one,” he says. “I give you one.”
“Well, thank you.” We start comparing them for size and condition.
“Yep. Just ten bucks.”
Kim and I confer briefly and decide that we really don’t need one. “Never mind,” I say, "just the chair.” I mean, really. Who does he think he’s dealing with?
Tuesday, December 16, 2003
Dan Tries Out The New Desk
That last entry was sort of a test. I’ve got a new desk and have just finished re-arranging the furniture in my den, and I had to see what it felt like to write while facing West. I don’t know, it’s going to take some getting used to. There’s that, and also the fact that since firing up the computer in the new location everything on the monitor—icons, web pages, Word text—is all ridiculously jumbo-sized. It suddenly feels like I’m using a Fisher Price computer while wearing oven mitts.
* * *
I see from my jumbo-sized email that one of my devoted readers (the other one is on vacation) is down with the flu and her febrile mind has been speculating on what poor Saddam’s last days of “freedom” were like. “Was lying in the dirt-tube his day job?” Trudy, the self-proclaimed art-slut wonders. “Did he actually emerge from the hole at 5:30 after a hard day in the bunker and sleep in the hut?” Good question. And while we’re at it, here’s another one. They say that when Saddam was found he identified himself as the president of Iraq and said he wanted to negotiate. Now, I’m no insane deposed dictator but it seems to me when you’re cornered in a dirt-tube with only the lice and rats for company and you’re staring down the barrel of an armored brigade, your bargaining position is going to be kind of shaky. What was he going to do, swap his freedom for a can of Spam and a ball of earwax?
Hmm… maybe I’ll try facing Northeast…
* * *
I see from my jumbo-sized email that one of my devoted readers (the other one is on vacation) is down with the flu and her febrile mind has been speculating on what poor Saddam’s last days of “freedom” were like. “Was lying in the dirt-tube his day job?” Trudy, the self-proclaimed art-slut wonders. “Did he actually emerge from the hole at 5:30 after a hard day in the bunker and sleep in the hut?” Good question. And while we’re at it, here’s another one. They say that when Saddam was found he identified himself as the president of Iraq and said he wanted to negotiate. Now, I’m no insane deposed dictator but it seems to me when you’re cornered in a dirt-tube with only the lice and rats for company and you’re staring down the barrel of an armored brigade, your bargaining position is going to be kind of shaky. What was he going to do, swap his freedom for a can of Spam and a ball of earwax?
Hmm… maybe I’ll try facing Northeast…
If Today Is Your Birthday
You have the energy of a hyperactive, goal-oriented gerbil. You are loyal, kind, and have an unusually large, red tongue. When "Shirts" are playing against "Skins" you always contrive to be on the "Skins" side. You know that the people are represented by two separate and equally important groups, but you can never remember what they are. You are known for your clever wit, your stylish socks, and your tendency to mispronounce foliage. People secretly envy you for your neatly trimmed cuticles. Today, someone will say "Happy birthday" and you will foolishly reply, "You too!"
Your hobbies include navel-gazing and looking on the bright side.
Your favorite tire pressure is 35psi.
Your hobbies include navel-gazing and looking on the bright side.
Your favorite tire pressure is 35psi.
Sunday, December 14, 2003
Welcome Back, Saddam
While watching the coverage of Saddam Hussein’s capture this morning (and geez, he’s really let himself go, hasn’t he?) I realized that one of the things I’m thankful for is that I live in a country where we don’t celebrate momentous national events by spraying the streets with gunfire. Sure, it’s understandable, even commendable, that a good number of Iraqi citizens would greet the news with a measure of demonstrable ebullience, but couldn’t they convey that joy without bringing lethal ammunition into play? Most of these celebrants in the streets of Baghdad are displaying a sort of ballistic enthusiasm that makes Yosemite Sam look like Mahatma Gandhi.
We here in Canada had our own regime change last week, and we should all be proud that when Paul Martin was sworn in to replace Jean Chretien, Robson Street merchants didn’t burst from their stores with automatic weapons to perforate the skies with bullets. Color me paternalistic, but I think that, while we’re over there re-making the Middle East in our own image, we might want to start by gently prying the Uzi out of Habib’s hands and introducing him to a slide whistle.
***
And isn’t it graciously civil, not to mention fundamentally American, that the first thing US officials did upon seizing the arch-villain was to give him a comprehensive makeover? Sort of a Queer Eye For The Dictator Guy (“Saddam? Can I be honest here? This whole grizzled hobo beard thing just isn’t doing it for me.”) A shower, a haircut, a shave, and--from the looks of the endlessly-looped video footage—an examination of his tonsils were all included in the package. Who knows, perhaps Dr. Phil is being airlifted in to help him slim down for the upcoming tribunal. And just wait until Saddam finds out what the While You Were Out crew has done to his palaces.
We here in Canada had our own regime change last week, and we should all be proud that when Paul Martin was sworn in to replace Jean Chretien, Robson Street merchants didn’t burst from their stores with automatic weapons to perforate the skies with bullets. Color me paternalistic, but I think that, while we’re over there re-making the Middle East in our own image, we might want to start by gently prying the Uzi out of Habib’s hands and introducing him to a slide whistle.
***
And isn’t it graciously civil, not to mention fundamentally American, that the first thing US officials did upon seizing the arch-villain was to give him a comprehensive makeover? Sort of a Queer Eye For The Dictator Guy (“Saddam? Can I be honest here? This whole grizzled hobo beard thing just isn’t doing it for me.”) A shower, a haircut, a shave, and--from the looks of the endlessly-looped video footage—an examination of his tonsils were all included in the package. Who knows, perhaps Dr. Phil is being airlifted in to help him slim down for the upcoming tribunal. And just wait until Saddam finds out what the While You Were Out crew has done to his palaces.
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