First off, thanks to all of you for reading my blog and commenting too. Your feedback has made me a better writer and hopefully a little bit more spiritual as a person. I say this in part because this will be my last blog for awhile. School begins next week, along with 2 part time jobs. Realistically, I don't see how I'll have the time to keep this up.
So I'll close with some thoughts about our short trip to New York. Our itinerary, which we realized needed to be flexible, was:
1: Take a tour through my old neighborhood in the Bronx.
2: Museum of Natural History.
3: Out to our hotel in Queens.
4: Mets game in evening.
5: Have a relaxing next day and get back to CT in late PM.
Now, this is New York. And I know two things about the city. One is that plans can change in a (ahem) "New York" minute. And two is that there's probably something wrong with any plan that involves parking in Manhattan.
So we began...My girlfriend was not only curious about my old neighborhood but had a ton of really good questions about the layout, the people I grew up with, etc.
I grew up in Spuyten Duyvil. Most New Yorkers have no idea what this means. It's actually a Dutch term which probably means "Spouting Devil", due probably to the currents from the Hudson and Harlem rivers, which meet here. It's in the far northwestern corner of the Bronx, just south of Riverdale, which is one of the wealthiest neighborhoods in the city. But Spuyten Duyvil is solidly middle class to working class, depending on elevation. It's in the hilliest part of New York, which is probably why I love hills to this day. And let's face it, the name is way cooler than "Riverdale", a name only popular due to the Archie comics of the 60's. They may have money, but we have a cooler name.
The best part of growing up may have been the view from our west-facing apartment. I could see both rivers; the Henry Hudson bridge connecting Bronx and Manhattan; the Palisades of New Jersey, and some breathtaking sunsets. There were also boulders going down to the rivers that were literally big enough to create caves, which we played in as kids. If I had any talent as a painter, I could probably have sold one to the Louvre.
By the way, it always bothered me that the little creek separating the Bronx from Manhattan is called the Harlem "River". To my way of thinking, it's not a river. It's really just an arm of the Hudson.
Nonetheless, we did the tour. I grew up in a 1 BR apartment with my brother and mom, on the 2nd floor of an 11 story building. The building itself was part of a 4 building complex, all the other buildings being 10 stories. Each floor has 12 apartments. So, by my math, that's 492 apartments, of which 490 of them were probably Jewish. And yes, I mean the APARTMENTS, along with those who lived there. That's because most Jews put up something called a "mezuzah" by the door. It's a finger length size piece of metal containing part of the Torah. Meant to bring good luck.
Up until age 7 or so, I assumed the world was Jewish. All those people in Vietnam? Jewish, of course. All my favorite baseball players. Naturally, they were Jewish. (Hey, at least I was right about Koufax).
The 2 non-Jewish entries would be apartments 9F, which was Mrs. Yuen. And 7C in my building, which is where the Catanzaro's lived. I remember their daughter, Josephine, a tomboy, beating me up when I was 9. Yes, I lost to a girl. And I lost count of how my fights I lost to boys. Anyway, I can safely assume that the family probably wasn't Jewish. I suspect there were other "goyim" as well, but I can't remember a single one.
So we saw the buildings, my schools and synagogues, and lots of steep hills and beautiful views. The neighborhood is remarkably unchanged in 40+ years. I'm still amazed that I was lucky enough to grow up in a place so imbued by nature. I can't imagine any place in New York City like it. And it was a rent controlled apartment, no less.
I suggested afterwards that instead of the museum, we go to the Bronx Botanical Gardens. I went there once when I was very young, but remember next to nothing. I'm glad we revisited, because it really is a beautiful place. I suggested it in part because I thought V would like it, and as a hedge against the baseball game we were going to later that night. If she was bored silly at the game, at least she'd remember this part of the trip. And she had a wonderful time here.
The Mets game was great. We won 5-3. It was a thrilling game, capped by a moment that I'll remember forever. We sat three levels up, just inside the rightfield foul line. I told V that we were too high up for any home runs but if there were any, it would probably be by the visiting Atlanta Braves, who have a bunch of lefthanded power hitters. Our only guy was Ike Davis, who's having a miserable year. Well...it was the 8th inning. We're winning 4-3. Ike at the plate. And he launched a rocket. I will remember forever the picture of a baseball literally flying over our heads, 100 feet above the field, and 420 feet away. The ball landed 10 rows behind us and almost cleared the stadium. Measured at 440 feet. Interestingly, probably the closest I've ever come to catching a ball, in hundreds of games.
All in all, a wonderful evening. Only problem occurred on the subway back to our hotel. As the door closed, a woman next to me lost her balance, spilling the contents of a pouch containing, I'd say, 50 pills of a kaleidoscopic nature. Not only in appearance, but if ingested, probably what the user would see. She said she was an acupuncturist. I wanted to tell her that if that was true, then I was Alex Rodriguez. Helped her pick up her stash. She insisted on repaying me for my kindness, which I declined. Didn't stop her from putting something in my pocket. At first, I thought she was trying to pick my pocket. Then I thought maybe it was money. It was, instead, some of her private collection, which I promptly flushed down the toilet when we got back. She also gave another present...that being a foot wound to my girlfriend. Seems that when the train lurched a 2nd time, she lunged forward and accidentally stepped on V's foot. She gave a perfunctory apology, then turned to the embrace of some guy who may or may not have been her boyfriend. Or it could have been a perfect stranger. Couldn't tell, as they were into some heavy foreplay, albeit fully clothed. If not for the pain V was in, it would have been funny. I'm thinking, "only on a NY subway would this happen." I also thought about politely interrupting her from her probable impending climax, insisting on a real apology, but reconsidered.
We finished the trip with a driving tour of Manhattan (since parking is impossible, that was the only option). North on 1st Ave., across 125th St, north on to Amsterdam Ave. Stopped at the Cloisters but the $25.00 admission was too steep. I mean, the Cloisters are definitely worth seeing at a 15-20 admission. But 25? We headed home, stopped at a deli in my old neighborhood, and returned back to CT.
I find that I love the energy of the city. But only up to a point. And I hit that point near the end. I can't imagine ever living in New York. Or even commuting. I just get overloaded after a day.
Besides the bad foot, V also caught a cold. Probably the same one I caught in Rhode Island, 2 weeks earlier. But she also said she "had the time of her life" at the game, which just got me beaming.
That's New York for you...lots of highs and lows.
And with that, I want to thank you again for taking the time to read this little blog. (Well, a bit long today. Sorry.)
See you around...gp
Thursday, August 22, 2013
Sunday, August 18, 2013
Big ch-ch-ch-changes
So here's the deal...I start school on Aug. 29th. 12 credits this semester. I'm scared. I'm excited. I feel absolutely 100% this is the right thing to do. Yet, like someone about to go on stage, I wonder about bombing. I also have a tendency to take myself way too seriously, so in the end, I have a gut feeling that everything will go fine and I'm just being a drama king.
The background is this: 2 years ago, possibly this very week, I had an epiphany. I woke up with an image of my own therapy practice. My patients were mostly veterans, many of them Vietnam vets. And I pictured the conventional ways therapists and clients interact. But I also pictured using music, perhaps working with a licensed music therapist (a side goal for me). We all know the healing power of music. As a musician, I've seen music's transformative powers in action, both giving and receiving.
My to-do list for fall is:
The key to how well things go for me (and most people, I suspect) is organization.
I don't have an opinion about Martha Stewart, but I think she may be on to something. There was a time in my life when I was super-organized. I believe organization, on the surface, is the key to success. If I'm not organized, and there have been many, many times when this has been the case, there's some explanation. At these times, I'm almost always rushing things.
I'm not scattered, but on the other hand, my organizational skills have declined. Part of the problem is that I essentially have two addresses. My official address and the time I spend with my girlfriend at her house, which is about 20 miles away. I have trouble wrapping my head around two physical locations. What belongs where? Invariably, I find that wherever I am, the things I need are at the other place. My girlfriend said, "Why not just have two of everything?" For example, when it comes to vitamins, etc., all I have to do is split them into two bottles.
She does this frequently. That is, come up with a solution that's so obvious that I almost feel stupid not having thought of it. But she says these things in such a way where I don't feel stupid. Actually, it feels very humanizing. I call these moments "Love-duh's."
So, all these organizational skills will be put to the test over the next few months. As is always the case, when the challenge arises, a list of obstacles arises like targets in a video game. Some are true distractions. I don't have to have my place looking spotless. I don't need to upgrade my car. Or see every movie that's released that sounds moderately interesting. Or for that matter, rent every movie ever made that also might appeal to me. Or work on every side project I've ever envisioned. Or learn every gadget in the world that begins with "I-". Or single handedly bail out every poor nation in the world. Or even write this blog.
I do want to keep making music. I love playing with the band I'm in. They're a terrific group of people. Our chemistry is excellent. And we're pretty good, if I say so myself. Also, I DO need to go on a foliage trip. I've been doing that every year for most of my life. Nothing outdoors soothes my soul like seeing fall colors.
And even without the Mets, I want to see the World Series on TV. V told me yesterday that she was considering getting rid of cable. I was thunderstruck. The best WS of all time, for me, was 1991, Braves-Twins. No real rooting interest. Just great baseball. If it happens again, I don't want to miss it.
Music, baseball, fall trips. This so-called "must do" list is getting long. Maybe I can keep my blogs shorter, if I continue. Good time to quit for this week.
Happy rest of summer, y'all...gp
The background is this: 2 years ago, possibly this very week, I had an epiphany. I woke up with an image of my own therapy practice. My patients were mostly veterans, many of them Vietnam vets. And I pictured the conventional ways therapists and clients interact. But I also pictured using music, perhaps working with a licensed music therapist (a side goal for me). We all know the healing power of music. As a musician, I've seen music's transformative powers in action, both giving and receiving.
My to-do list for fall is:
- Do well in school.
- Do well at a 20 hour a week job, which happens to be in the social work department at SCSU. I've been told by my supervisor, who's also one of my professors, that if things are slow, I can spend some time studying.
- Do well teaching my one course as an adjunct professor at a different college.
- Keep playing in my band...and keep up with our rehearsals and gigs.
- Keep my relationship thriving. Something that I believe I will do but will still be a challenge. My girlfriend is also going back to school, plus she has a pretty stressful job as well.
- Keep in touch with all my good friends. A list which has expanded significantly in the last year, I might add.
- Stay healthy, including exercising every day. At minimum every other day.
The key to how well things go for me (and most people, I suspect) is organization.
I don't have an opinion about Martha Stewart, but I think she may be on to something. There was a time in my life when I was super-organized. I believe organization, on the surface, is the key to success. If I'm not organized, and there have been many, many times when this has been the case, there's some explanation. At these times, I'm almost always rushing things.
I'm not scattered, but on the other hand, my organizational skills have declined. Part of the problem is that I essentially have two addresses. My official address and the time I spend with my girlfriend at her house, which is about 20 miles away. I have trouble wrapping my head around two physical locations. What belongs where? Invariably, I find that wherever I am, the things I need are at the other place. My girlfriend said, "Why not just have two of everything?" For example, when it comes to vitamins, etc., all I have to do is split them into two bottles.
She does this frequently. That is, come up with a solution that's so obvious that I almost feel stupid not having thought of it. But she says these things in such a way where I don't feel stupid. Actually, it feels very humanizing. I call these moments "Love-duh's."
So, all these organizational skills will be put to the test over the next few months. As is always the case, when the challenge arises, a list of obstacles arises like targets in a video game. Some are true distractions. I don't have to have my place looking spotless. I don't need to upgrade my car. Or see every movie that's released that sounds moderately interesting. Or for that matter, rent every movie ever made that also might appeal to me. Or work on every side project I've ever envisioned. Or learn every gadget in the world that begins with "I-". Or single handedly bail out every poor nation in the world. Or even write this blog.
I do want to keep making music. I love playing with the band I'm in. They're a terrific group of people. Our chemistry is excellent. And we're pretty good, if I say so myself. Also, I DO need to go on a foliage trip. I've been doing that every year for most of my life. Nothing outdoors soothes my soul like seeing fall colors.
And even without the Mets, I want to see the World Series on TV. V told me yesterday that she was considering getting rid of cable. I was thunderstruck. The best WS of all time, for me, was 1991, Braves-Twins. No real rooting interest. Just great baseball. If it happens again, I don't want to miss it.
Music, baseball, fall trips. This so-called "must do" list is getting long. Maybe I can keep my blogs shorter, if I continue. Good time to quit for this week.
Happy rest of summer, y'all...gp
Monday, August 12, 2013
Rhode Island, etc.
So, we just came back from Rhode Island yesterday. I get rather opinionated whenever I drive through Rhode Island. All my geographic training kind of comes back. There's a part of me that thinks the state is a joke, and shouldn't be allowed to exist. Why does RI get equal representation in the Senate with the big boys (or girls...I don't want to hear sexist charges) from TX and CA? Doesn't seem fair. Not only that, the official state name isn't Rhode Island. It's "State of Rhode Island and Providence Plantations." Actually the longest state name in the country. With a 72 point font, you could make a banner with the state name and it would stretch from CT to MA.
Then again, there's something uniquely beautiful about RI. To begin with, the beaches are the nicest north of the Jersey Shore. Plus, there are some cool names like Misquamicut. We stopped there for dinner on the way back and discovered a whole "Jersey Shore" like culture. And I mean the actual Jersey Shore, not the brain dead "reality" show. It was a lot of fun. There are ferries, long bridges, and even a RI accent. Which is sort of Boston-like but not quite.
The major city, Providence, has its own charm as well. Canals in the center of town. All kinds of history. And just a little south, in tony Newport, the first synagogue in America. And the mansions.
Finally, there's a little patch of land in the southeast part of the state called Sakonnet Point which, if you can get there at quiet times, is as pretty a place as you'll find in New England.
So, I'm not going to go on a Chamber of Commerce campaign. But I just wanted to point out the quandary, for me, that is Rhode Island. Because, let's face it, a state this small really is over represented in Congress. Politically, it's a solid blue, old-school Democrat state. Which is another way of saying that it's hurting economically. As a native of Connecticut next door, I want to take it in like a lost bird and nurture it back to health. Not that CT is in great shakes financially. But it is healthier.
Such a merger, or conquest, if you prefer, is part of my plan to redraw the map so that we have 50 states, but realigned. Here's how it breaks down.
1: Let's face it...little CT and even littler RI have no right to exist politically. I personally love thumbing my nose at Rick Perry and TX and that my 2 senators probably carry more weight than the 2 from TX. Especially since one of them is Ted Cruz, a one man right wing grandstanding show. So what to do? Answer...merge them. A new state of Rhodecticut.
2: And we do the same for VT and NH. Again, during colonial times, it probably made sense. But now? I realize this is like a chemical experiment mixing a powerful acid with a powerful alkaline. But I still think it'll work. VT is on another planet anyway. Maybe we'll do them a favor. Welcome to Vermompshire.
3: And while we're at it, why does Delaware exist? It's a corporate haven. I realize that. But any other reason? No. We combine it with little Maryland and come up with Delaland. Or Maryware if you prefer.
4, 5, 6: States with directions? Don't need 'em. We now have Carolina, Virginia (taking over WV, which is a basket case anyway) and Dakota.
I realize that leaves us with 44 states. We need to get back to 50. How to do that? Easy. Break up the big boys (or girls).
1 and 2: California no longer exists. Again, a state that's hurting economically, with one of every 10 Americans, shouldn't have to shoulder this big a load. California is now broken into thirds. The northern, containing 97% of former hippies, "Hippieland". The middle, containing our most productive agricultural land, "Aliena", and the southern, containing LA and the afterthought of San Diego, the cliched but still effective, "LaLaLand."
3: We break up Texas. To begin with, Austin would be in favor of such a move. But it's just too big a state. The western part, native to so many great musicians, including one of my most beloved musicians, would be "Orbisonia". The east, "Barbequeland."
4: Florida? A joke already. So we spare continued embarrassment and break the state up along I-4. North of it, "Skynyrdania". South of it, "North Havana." (I hope my old Jewish relatives in Boca are OK with this).
5: As a native New Yorker, it's really about time we let New York City be the so-called 51st state it's always aspired to be. It thinks of itself as the center of the universe anyway. Why not push it in that direction? I realize this separates Nassau and Suffolk counties from the rest of the state. But hey, they can now join Rhodecticut and we can create a terrific beach tourism industry.
6: We also make Puerto Rico a state once and for all.
End result: 50 states, and more parity.
Thanks as always for reading.
Then again, there's something uniquely beautiful about RI. To begin with, the beaches are the nicest north of the Jersey Shore. Plus, there are some cool names like Misquamicut. We stopped there for dinner on the way back and discovered a whole "Jersey Shore" like culture. And I mean the actual Jersey Shore, not the brain dead "reality" show. It was a lot of fun. There are ferries, long bridges, and even a RI accent. Which is sort of Boston-like but not quite.
The major city, Providence, has its own charm as well. Canals in the center of town. All kinds of history. And just a little south, in tony Newport, the first synagogue in America. And the mansions.
Finally, there's a little patch of land in the southeast part of the state called Sakonnet Point which, if you can get there at quiet times, is as pretty a place as you'll find in New England.
So, I'm not going to go on a Chamber of Commerce campaign. But I just wanted to point out the quandary, for me, that is Rhode Island. Because, let's face it, a state this small really is over represented in Congress. Politically, it's a solid blue, old-school Democrat state. Which is another way of saying that it's hurting economically. As a native of Connecticut next door, I want to take it in like a lost bird and nurture it back to health. Not that CT is in great shakes financially. But it is healthier.
Such a merger, or conquest, if you prefer, is part of my plan to redraw the map so that we have 50 states, but realigned. Here's how it breaks down.
1: Let's face it...little CT and even littler RI have no right to exist politically. I personally love thumbing my nose at Rick Perry and TX and that my 2 senators probably carry more weight than the 2 from TX. Especially since one of them is Ted Cruz, a one man right wing grandstanding show. So what to do? Answer...merge them. A new state of Rhodecticut.
2: And we do the same for VT and NH. Again, during colonial times, it probably made sense. But now? I realize this is like a chemical experiment mixing a powerful acid with a powerful alkaline. But I still think it'll work. VT is on another planet anyway. Maybe we'll do them a favor. Welcome to Vermompshire.
3: And while we're at it, why does Delaware exist? It's a corporate haven. I realize that. But any other reason? No. We combine it with little Maryland and come up with Delaland. Or Maryware if you prefer.
4, 5, 6: States with directions? Don't need 'em. We now have Carolina, Virginia (taking over WV, which is a basket case anyway) and Dakota.
I realize that leaves us with 44 states. We need to get back to 50. How to do that? Easy. Break up the big boys (or girls).
1 and 2: California no longer exists. Again, a state that's hurting economically, with one of every 10 Americans, shouldn't have to shoulder this big a load. California is now broken into thirds. The northern, containing 97% of former hippies, "Hippieland". The middle, containing our most productive agricultural land, "Aliena", and the southern, containing LA and the afterthought of San Diego, the cliched but still effective, "LaLaLand."
3: We break up Texas. To begin with, Austin would be in favor of such a move. But it's just too big a state. The western part, native to so many great musicians, including one of my most beloved musicians, would be "Orbisonia". The east, "Barbequeland."
4: Florida? A joke already. So we spare continued embarrassment and break the state up along I-4. North of it, "Skynyrdania". South of it, "North Havana." (I hope my old Jewish relatives in Boca are OK with this).
5: As a native New Yorker, it's really about time we let New York City be the so-called 51st state it's always aspired to be. It thinks of itself as the center of the universe anyway. Why not push it in that direction? I realize this separates Nassau and Suffolk counties from the rest of the state. But hey, they can now join Rhodecticut and we can create a terrific beach tourism industry.
6: We also make Puerto Rico a state once and for all.
End result: 50 states, and more parity.
Thanks as always for reading.
Tuesday, August 6, 2013
Did I say that?
Well, I was tempted to look at all my previous blogs. All 54 of them. Because I wanted to say some things but I wasn't sure if I already said them.
I go through this a lot lately. I'm 57 and realize that every single thing I'm about to say may be a rerun. Hell, even what I just wrote may be a repeat. Sorry about that.
My girlfriend just smiles at me now. She puts up with it. Most of the people in my life don't say a word. This begs the question, "How do you know you're repeating yourself if no one points it out?" (And why do we say "beg" the question? What's the connection between asking and begging?)
But I digress...Anyway, I get these echoes...As I'm telling the story, something sounds familiar. I say to my girlfriend, "Did I say this once before?" She'll smile and say, "No, dear, you said it SEVEN times before. But I still love the story."
And then there's the whole subset of TV. Virtually every interaction I have these days seems to remind me of a scene from a sitcom, generally from 1964-1983, with the occasional 50's clip from I Love Lucy or The Honeymooners thrown in. Or to show I'm not a total dinosaur, the 90's. Some friend will be talking fast and I'm tempted, every time, to say "Hey, do you remember the classic 'Slow Down' scene from Taxi? Where Iggy is taking the written driving test?" And I'll start describing the scene, only to see this glaze over my friend's eyes. Taxi, M.A.S.H., Cheers, Mary Tyler Moore, All in the Family, Seinfeld, Frasier...not a day goes by when I don't run classic scenes from these shows in my head. My most common thought, 'God, did I already say this'?
I'm tempted to take a vow of silence for the rest of my life. But then, I realize that my memory used to be excellent. Above average, I dare say. I used to remember faces, names, important points that people tell me. The only thing I remember these days is trivia. I can remember baseball rosters, lyrics, and pretty much anything geographical. I can tell you every interstate highway in America and it's terminals. In short, I remember everything that no one else is the least bit interested in. But names and familiar faces? Unlikely.
I've developed something I call the "Jeff" theory. Which states that any familiar male face I see is probably named Jeff. My brother is named Jeff. Many of my friends over the years too. When I was living in Nashville, seems half the songwriters I met were Jeffs. If not Jeff, then Mike. But what's great about the Jeff assumption is that if I slur the name "Jeff", it can sound like any name beginning with a J or a soft G. That covers at least 1/3 of the male American population.
Women, however, are more difficult. I get especially frustrated with the following combinations: Katherine/Kathleen, Melissa/Melinda/Melanie, Janet/Janette/Janis/Jan/Jane/Joan/Jean/June. Do women do this intentionally to confuse men? Hell, it's hard enough remembering what I told to whom.
Maybe what I need to do is to take notes. Get myself a tablet of some kind. After each interaction, just log in what I wrote, when I said it, and who I said it to. That way, before I'm about to speak, I can just bring up the person and all the conversations I've had.
Certainly, other people must have the same problem. My girlfriend almost never repeats herself. On the very rare occasions that she does, I get an incredible rush of self-satisfaction. Aha! I REMEMBER this. If I'm really focused, then I can even remember WHEN she said it. Which I'll point out, of course.
Well, that's all I have to say.
Did I mention that I repeat myself?
Thanks for reading.
I go through this a lot lately. I'm 57 and realize that every single thing I'm about to say may be a rerun. Hell, even what I just wrote may be a repeat. Sorry about that.
My girlfriend just smiles at me now. She puts up with it. Most of the people in my life don't say a word. This begs the question, "How do you know you're repeating yourself if no one points it out?" (And why do we say "beg" the question? What's the connection between asking and begging?)
But I digress...Anyway, I get these echoes...As I'm telling the story, something sounds familiar. I say to my girlfriend, "Did I say this once before?" She'll smile and say, "No, dear, you said it SEVEN times before. But I still love the story."
And then there's the whole subset of TV. Virtually every interaction I have these days seems to remind me of a scene from a sitcom, generally from 1964-1983, with the occasional 50's clip from I Love Lucy or The Honeymooners thrown in. Or to show I'm not a total dinosaur, the 90's. Some friend will be talking fast and I'm tempted, every time, to say "Hey, do you remember the classic 'Slow Down' scene from Taxi? Where Iggy is taking the written driving test?" And I'll start describing the scene, only to see this glaze over my friend's eyes. Taxi, M.A.S.H., Cheers, Mary Tyler Moore, All in the Family, Seinfeld, Frasier...not a day goes by when I don't run classic scenes from these shows in my head. My most common thought, 'God, did I already say this'?
I'm tempted to take a vow of silence for the rest of my life. But then, I realize that my memory used to be excellent. Above average, I dare say. I used to remember faces, names, important points that people tell me. The only thing I remember these days is trivia. I can remember baseball rosters, lyrics, and pretty much anything geographical. I can tell you every interstate highway in America and it's terminals. In short, I remember everything that no one else is the least bit interested in. But names and familiar faces? Unlikely.
I've developed something I call the "Jeff" theory. Which states that any familiar male face I see is probably named Jeff. My brother is named Jeff. Many of my friends over the years too. When I was living in Nashville, seems half the songwriters I met were Jeffs. If not Jeff, then Mike. But what's great about the Jeff assumption is that if I slur the name "Jeff", it can sound like any name beginning with a J or a soft G. That covers at least 1/3 of the male American population.
Women, however, are more difficult. I get especially frustrated with the following combinations: Katherine/Kathleen, Melissa/Melinda/Melanie, Janet/Janette/Janis/Jan/Jane/Joan/Jean/June. Do women do this intentionally to confuse men? Hell, it's hard enough remembering what I told to whom.
Maybe what I need to do is to take notes. Get myself a tablet of some kind. After each interaction, just log in what I wrote, when I said it, and who I said it to. That way, before I'm about to speak, I can just bring up the person and all the conversations I've had.
Certainly, other people must have the same problem. My girlfriend almost never repeats herself. On the very rare occasions that she does, I get an incredible rush of self-satisfaction. Aha! I REMEMBER this. If I'm really focused, then I can even remember WHEN she said it. Which I'll point out, of course.
Well, that's all I have to say.
Did I mention that I repeat myself?
Thanks for reading.
Thursday, August 1, 2013
Hemingway and the summer of 2013
OK, so I'm embarrassed to say this, but until today, I never read anything
by Ernest Hemingway. My girlfriend has been saying nice things about him for
months now, and he sounded like my kind of author. So I asked her that if I was
to start somewhere, where should it be? She recommended "The Sun Also
Rises".
Thus, I begin. And the lines just jump off the page. The book, written in 1926, could have been written in 2013, other than a few phrases typical of the times. (You don't hear "swell" or "sore" much anymore). But the characters, their motives, the perspective...it could really be 2013. I think Hemingway may be the first rock and roll author.
A few weeks ago, I wrote about Hunter Thompson and what a dynamite writer he is. Now I know why...it's Hemingway tweaked for the rock and roll era. I'm also listening, Books on Tape, to "The Corrections", by Jonathan Franzen. It's Hemingway again, this time with a touch of Toni Morrison. Rock and blues, with a little jazz thrown in, if you will.
I don't know why I haven't read Hemingway before. Probably because he's enormously popular and therefore someone I haven't investigated, until now.
I've always been very suspicious about superstars, or super-anything, be it Hemingway, Star Wars (yep, only saw the first one, and that was belatedly), even Apple stuff. It's some kind of variation of a line by Groucho Marx, "Whoever commenced it; I'm against it."
The whole idea of reading has got me reflecting on this summer. As of spring, I was looking at 3 sources of income to tide me over for the summer. All three fell through. Right around that time, "V" (sorry, darling, I can't use 'girlfriend who chooses to remain anonymous' or 'my girlfriend' anymore.) and I did our thing at the Book Barn and got enough summer reading to last us into 2015. All these books...when will I ever have the time to read them? Not to worry...as the jobs fell through, and the dollars dwindled away, I discovered that I had all the time I needed to catch up on my reading. No income, other than unemployment, but at least I'll be well-read.
So I got busy, searched for jobs high and low, and got myself a part time job at Home Depot. (Having blogged before about my home repair chops, this was pretty ironic). As it turned out, this wasn't a problem, as they trained me to be a head cashier, even offering me more money than if I was hired as a regular cashier. Turns out you don't have to be Bob Vila to do this job well.
The whole Home Depot gig has been weighing on my conscience, because it's a temp job, unbeknownst to them, as it was only until school began. It was less than 2 weeks into the job that I discovered, via my school email, that I've received an assistantship, to the tune of about 2000 dollars. I was fretting over how to give notice, what I would say, etc. The folks there are really quite nice and professional and treated me very well. My manager was fine with me quitting. This is retail, after all. This stuff happens all the time.
I'm more likely to shop there now (although I still don't know what 99% of the inventory is for. But at least now I know where to find the products that I'm clueless about). So I'll put in a plug for them...if you need home stuff, go there.
So what seems to have happened is that while I was trying to get a better financial package at SCSU, and being stonewalled by faceless bureaucrats, what was really happening was that a package actually was in the works, unknown to me. And this gift didn't reveal itself until after I worked a retail job, at $10.25/hour.
I think the God of my understanding is a drama queen/king (I don't have a gender). He/she seems to do things for me at the last minute. In fact, early last summer, as I was fretting again about how to make ends meet, I got a call out of the blue from a recruiting agency, resulting in a consulting gig that netted me some decent income. This agency didn't even have my recent address. It was, again, a last minute thing. And it happened shortly after I made the decision to structure my day in the hope that staying focused would result in some decent income.
I haven't sorted out the lessons yet, but one of them certainly is a classic. If I take action, an action is taken for me.
I don't know the rest yet, but I'm not going to sort it all out just yet. I want to curl up with Hemingway.
"V" also told me about this guy named Shakespeare. Maybe I'll check him out next.
Thus, I begin. And the lines just jump off the page. The book, written in 1926, could have been written in 2013, other than a few phrases typical of the times. (You don't hear "swell" or "sore" much anymore). But the characters, their motives, the perspective...it could really be 2013. I think Hemingway may be the first rock and roll author.
A few weeks ago, I wrote about Hunter Thompson and what a dynamite writer he is. Now I know why...it's Hemingway tweaked for the rock and roll era. I'm also listening, Books on Tape, to "The Corrections", by Jonathan Franzen. It's Hemingway again, this time with a touch of Toni Morrison. Rock and blues, with a little jazz thrown in, if you will.
I don't know why I haven't read Hemingway before. Probably because he's enormously popular and therefore someone I haven't investigated, until now.
I've always been very suspicious about superstars, or super-anything, be it Hemingway, Star Wars (yep, only saw the first one, and that was belatedly), even Apple stuff. It's some kind of variation of a line by Groucho Marx, "Whoever commenced it; I'm against it."
The whole idea of reading has got me reflecting on this summer. As of spring, I was looking at 3 sources of income to tide me over for the summer. All three fell through. Right around that time, "V" (sorry, darling, I can't use 'girlfriend who chooses to remain anonymous' or 'my girlfriend' anymore.) and I did our thing at the Book Barn and got enough summer reading to last us into 2015. All these books...when will I ever have the time to read them? Not to worry...as the jobs fell through, and the dollars dwindled away, I discovered that I had all the time I needed to catch up on my reading. No income, other than unemployment, but at least I'll be well-read.
So I got busy, searched for jobs high and low, and got myself a part time job at Home Depot. (Having blogged before about my home repair chops, this was pretty ironic). As it turned out, this wasn't a problem, as they trained me to be a head cashier, even offering me more money than if I was hired as a regular cashier. Turns out you don't have to be Bob Vila to do this job well.
The whole Home Depot gig has been weighing on my conscience, because it's a temp job, unbeknownst to them, as it was only until school began. It was less than 2 weeks into the job that I discovered, via my school email, that I've received an assistantship, to the tune of about 2000 dollars. I was fretting over how to give notice, what I would say, etc. The folks there are really quite nice and professional and treated me very well. My manager was fine with me quitting. This is retail, after all. This stuff happens all the time.
I'm more likely to shop there now (although I still don't know what 99% of the inventory is for. But at least now I know where to find the products that I'm clueless about). So I'll put in a plug for them...if you need home stuff, go there.
So what seems to have happened is that while I was trying to get a better financial package at SCSU, and being stonewalled by faceless bureaucrats, what was really happening was that a package actually was in the works, unknown to me. And this gift didn't reveal itself until after I worked a retail job, at $10.25/hour.
I think the God of my understanding is a drama queen/king (I don't have a gender). He/she seems to do things for me at the last minute. In fact, early last summer, as I was fretting again about how to make ends meet, I got a call out of the blue from a recruiting agency, resulting in a consulting gig that netted me some decent income. This agency didn't even have my recent address. It was, again, a last minute thing. And it happened shortly after I made the decision to structure my day in the hope that staying focused would result in some decent income.
I haven't sorted out the lessons yet, but one of them certainly is a classic. If I take action, an action is taken for me.
I don't know the rest yet, but I'm not going to sort it all out just yet. I want to curl up with Hemingway.
"V" also told me about this guy named Shakespeare. Maybe I'll check him out next.
Thursday, July 25, 2013
Zimmerman, etc.
I often rail about people commenting on things without knowing the facts.
I don't know the facts of the Zimmerman trial. I wasn't there. I followed it from afar, but even then, not as closely as many people I know.
Therefore, I would like to give the jury the benefit of the doubt. They heard all the testimony.
On the other hand, this IS Florida.
But I'm trying to avoid that as a mitigating circumstance.
But in trying to understand the events, here's where I just don't get it:
1: Zimmerman sees a young black man walking around his neighborhood. He's black, ergo, he's suspicious. I think we can all safely say that if the kid was white, nothing would have happened. But let's forget about that for a moment...GZ calls the cops. The cops say, "we'll take care of it. Don't follow him." GZ does so anyway. I realize that probably has no legal bearing on the events, but in "things I don't get", this is the first, chronologically. Actually, I DO get it. He's a vigilante and wants to be a hero.
2: TM runs away, calling his girlfriend that he's being chased, scared to death. So, naturally, he hides in a shadow waiting to ambush GZ??? Really? Does that make sense? This is "TIDG" #2.
3: GZ tries to hunt down the suspicious character. He's armed, but it's not at the ready. TIDG #3.
4: TM ambushes GZ, pummeling him within an inch of his life. While GZ is being beaten to a pulp (according to testimony), he finds his gun and shoots TM. How is this possible? Where on his person was the gun kept so that he could be beaten to a pulp while at the same time having the wherewithal to find his gun? TIDG #4.
So, because FL has this "stand your ground" law, GZ can legally kill another human being because he's allegedly being threatened to the death.
I'm trying not to obsess over it. And in truth, I'm not. But, like the president, I also have a son who "could be Trayvon Martin." Somehow, my son has avoided all the profiling, suspicion, and all else that comes with being a young black male. I don't know how he's avoided it but that's what he told me just a few days ago. And it's consistent with all our previous conversations. He happens to be very likeable and social, so that helps. But when you're walking in a store, you're being watched. You are black. Therefore, you're a potential thief or thug.
We've talked about race ever since he could string a few words together. His mom, of course, knows it first hand and to her major credit, has been terrific in this regard. I know it's bragging, but it happens to be true...My son is amazingly confident and relaxed in his own skin.
I can't imagine saying anything new about race in America. Most conservatives think racism doesn't exist. I've had conversations with some of my conservative friends in which I ask them to try to imagine being guilty until proven innocent. 24/7. Every day. They still don't get it.
On the other end, many liberals see racism in things I don't see. They're very quick to accuse some people of racism and general idiocy.
I don't get the word "racist" as a noun. Adjective, yes. Noun, no. I have yet to meet anyone in America who's entirely free of racism, myself included. It's always been a matter of degree. I do know that demonizing those who have racism doesn't help things. I also know that ignoring it is just as bad, maybe worse. I suppose the best Rx is to have people of different viewpoints sit down and talk about it in a spirit of understanding and compassion. But I think we've become too polarized to do that.
Both the conservative and liberal viewpoints seem lazy to me. Both sides seem to not want to take the time to imagine what life is like on the other side of the fence. This takes work. I'm no Gandhi, and God knows I've been guilty of the same lack of patience and compassion. But I do feel with every fiber in my body that the only way to get this country working is to slow down and to develop compassion and empathy. Being guilty of racism doesn't make you a monster. It does mean that any time racism (or other "isms") get in the way, we're missing an opportunity to know someone and to appreciate them.
To do otherwise seems disrespectful. Therefore, I think it behooves all of us to look in the mirror without judgment, without the liberal police telling us how dumb we are. But to look honestly at ourselves and see that it's in our best interests to eradicate racism, etc. from our hearts. Little by little, day by day.
If GZ had seen a kid without color, I think he'd have acted differently. As for TM, we'll never know.
I don't know the facts of the Zimmerman trial. I wasn't there. I followed it from afar, but even then, not as closely as many people I know.
Therefore, I would like to give the jury the benefit of the doubt. They heard all the testimony.
On the other hand, this IS Florida.
But I'm trying to avoid that as a mitigating circumstance.
But in trying to understand the events, here's where I just don't get it:
1: Zimmerman sees a young black man walking around his neighborhood. He's black, ergo, he's suspicious. I think we can all safely say that if the kid was white, nothing would have happened. But let's forget about that for a moment...GZ calls the cops. The cops say, "we'll take care of it. Don't follow him." GZ does so anyway. I realize that probably has no legal bearing on the events, but in "things I don't get", this is the first, chronologically. Actually, I DO get it. He's a vigilante and wants to be a hero.
2: TM runs away, calling his girlfriend that he's being chased, scared to death. So, naturally, he hides in a shadow waiting to ambush GZ??? Really? Does that make sense? This is "TIDG" #2.
3: GZ tries to hunt down the suspicious character. He's armed, but it's not at the ready. TIDG #3.
4: TM ambushes GZ, pummeling him within an inch of his life. While GZ is being beaten to a pulp (according to testimony), he finds his gun and shoots TM. How is this possible? Where on his person was the gun kept so that he could be beaten to a pulp while at the same time having the wherewithal to find his gun? TIDG #4.
So, because FL has this "stand your ground" law, GZ can legally kill another human being because he's allegedly being threatened to the death.
I'm trying not to obsess over it. And in truth, I'm not. But, like the president, I also have a son who "could be Trayvon Martin." Somehow, my son has avoided all the profiling, suspicion, and all else that comes with being a young black male. I don't know how he's avoided it but that's what he told me just a few days ago. And it's consistent with all our previous conversations. He happens to be very likeable and social, so that helps. But when you're walking in a store, you're being watched. You are black. Therefore, you're a potential thief or thug.
We've talked about race ever since he could string a few words together. His mom, of course, knows it first hand and to her major credit, has been terrific in this regard. I know it's bragging, but it happens to be true...My son is amazingly confident and relaxed in his own skin.
I can't imagine saying anything new about race in America. Most conservatives think racism doesn't exist. I've had conversations with some of my conservative friends in which I ask them to try to imagine being guilty until proven innocent. 24/7. Every day. They still don't get it.
On the other end, many liberals see racism in things I don't see. They're very quick to accuse some people of racism and general idiocy.
I don't get the word "racist" as a noun. Adjective, yes. Noun, no. I have yet to meet anyone in America who's entirely free of racism, myself included. It's always been a matter of degree. I do know that demonizing those who have racism doesn't help things. I also know that ignoring it is just as bad, maybe worse. I suppose the best Rx is to have people of different viewpoints sit down and talk about it in a spirit of understanding and compassion. But I think we've become too polarized to do that.
Both the conservative and liberal viewpoints seem lazy to me. Both sides seem to not want to take the time to imagine what life is like on the other side of the fence. This takes work. I'm no Gandhi, and God knows I've been guilty of the same lack of patience and compassion. But I do feel with every fiber in my body that the only way to get this country working is to slow down and to develop compassion and empathy. Being guilty of racism doesn't make you a monster. It does mean that any time racism (or other "isms") get in the way, we're missing an opportunity to know someone and to appreciate them.
To do otherwise seems disrespectful. Therefore, I think it behooves all of us to look in the mirror without judgment, without the liberal police telling us how dumb we are. But to look honestly at ourselves and see that it's in our best interests to eradicate racism, etc. from our hearts. Little by little, day by day.
If GZ had seen a kid without color, I think he'd have acted differently. As for TM, we'll never know.
Thursday, July 18, 2013
Mucho macho estupido
Macho comes in all forms. So does stupidity. One can be macho, for example, by lifting something heavy that your sweetie just cannot lift. I love to do that and get googly eyes in return, as I subtly flex my muscles. If I don't bend my knees before doing this, I'll probably throw my back out. Fortunately, I've internalized the right way to do this.
If only I could internalize the shut off valve that says, "Um, dude, you can't paint a bathroom."
I've always had this thing about home repair. The thing...is that I suck at most of it. Or so I thought. My girlfriend has had a peculiar, distorted sense about this, saying that I'm better than I think I am.
She mentioned in April that a bedroom and bathroom needed painting, and would I like to do them and make a little extra money? I responded by saying, "Did anyone ever tell you how pretty you look in that light?" (which was actually true). 2nd time, I think I complimented her on her wardrobe. Can't remember the 3rd time, it might have been her eyes. (And yes, the compliments are true. Although I was still sucking up, hoping to change the subject.)
This did work...for a little while. Eventually, she said, "Thank you for the compliments, darling, but why won't you answer the question?"
Brain: "Danger, Will Robinson, Danger."
Mouth: "Oh, you mean the painting? That? Sure...no problem."
Now, in truth, I have painted before. And did a decent job of it. In fact, I remember in 1994 painting my new apartment, which I was moving to after my divorce. My son was 6 and he wanted to help. So we worked together and it was a wonderful (ahem) "bonding" experience. He wasn't bad for 6. And I wasn't bad for 38. But it wasn't as challenging as what my girlfriend needed.
First, the bathroom itself.
Gentlemen...have you ever looked closely at a woman's bathroom? Do you have any idea how many small things are in there that are in harm's way? Scrubbers, loofas, makeup, candles, flower things, toiletries, and God knows what all else that women cherish and that men are completely clueless about? Yeah, yeah, all I need to do is cover it with a drop cloth. Not only that, the paint is latex, which washes right off. I know that.
But my mind doesn't work that way. I set an insanely, wildly unrealistic, high bar that I can paint around everything. Don't need to move stuff. Hell, I don't even want to tape the trim and border areas because I somehow think I can paint around all that too. At least I ignored that and DID tape the trim areas that she didn't want me to paint.
I'm completely wrong, of course, about plowing my way through a paint job. There's no way I can do any of this. But I did move all the knick-knacks, tchotchkes, and other specimens of alien civilization that inhabit a woman's boudoir. I wish I had a camera to snap it all, because I had absolutely no idea how to put it back.
My girlfriend, in fact, is appreciative that I'm doing this and that I'm saving her money. (On our first date, she referred, 3 times no less, to how she loves "getting 12 cents out of every dime"). The Yankee mindset.
Still, I'm stressed. I must do this job perfectly. It's a testosterone test. One false move and I'm back to being the all thumbs slacker my first 2 wives made me out to be.
I also have an annoying habit of asking questions that I know the answer to if I just work it out in my mind. It pisses off my girlfriend at times. It's pissed off a lot of people, actually. I don't know why I do it. I'm thinking that maybe she'll think I'm being conscientious when all I'm doing is procrastinating and being a pain in the ass.
But I've got resources. To begin with, I've got great music in the background. If anyone is into old school R&B with very limited commercial interruption, check this:
http://aolradio.slacker.com/?aolid=782
Bobby Bland, Ray, Wilson, Aretha, Stevie, Motown, Memphis, Philly, soul/psychedelia. All here. I'm feeling better already.
My job gets off to a bad start as I spill a copious amount of paint. Fortunately, it all spills on to the drop cloth. I figure, I'll use the spilled paint for my brush. It works. I get a rhythm. I get a Zen thing happening, moving in a rhythm. I'm seeing a completed room, with 2 coats. Cleaning up. Fans on to air the room out. And my girlfriend walking in and just beaming at her newly painted bathroom. My Mets are on TV late PM...game in San Francisco. I'm hoping I can be done in time to catch it.
Then I realized that the white paint that's covering the green paint ain't going on so good.
1 coat...almost nothing.
2 coats. Major bleeding.
3 coats. Minor bleeding.
4 coats. Finally, the old green is now white.
To have to need 4 coats is not a good thing. It means that something is wrong. In this case, I forgot to add water to the paint, which my girlfriend explicitly told me to do. I did stir it, except it needed to be shaken. Since my name is not 007, I forgot that it needed to be shaken, not stirred.
During the 4th coat, I got sloppy. Tired, losing focus, I switched from R&B to hard rock. None of it was working. I rushed things.
Job is finished. Little bits of white latex on the green trim. No problem, I think. I'll just take a damp cloth and wash it away. The new white paint DID wash away. Unfortunately, so did the old green paint, exposing the wood, which I could swear was laughing at me.
And little glops of white paint here and there. First thought: "Hell, it doesn't bother me. Why would it bother my girlfriend?" 2nd thought, 2 seconds later; "Dream on. Of COURSE it'll bother her. It's her bathroom. I just f^&ked up my first big home repair assignment. She'll say, 'I can't be in a relationship with a man who can't paint a bathroom'".
I swear (and this is true), she noticed every single mistake the second she looked at the bathroom. But she was, as always, exceedingly gracious.
We did work it out. I got paid fairly, but I've got damage control work to do, on my dime. Which I'm fine with.
I did somewhat redeem myself with "Mucho macho estupido" redux.
We're having a heat wave. It's 95 degrees, humid as a sauna, and no rain in sight. What better time to mow a lawn? My girlfriend never said, "Honey, can you mow the lawn?" No. What she did say was "Honey, please don't overdo it. It's brutally hot. I know you'll take breaks and stay hydrated, right?" By the way, the mower has 2 bad wheels in the back, which means pushing it requires not only the elbow grease of 2 strong arms but "chest grease" as well. Literally pushing the mower with my chest. (Wheels are on order as I write this)
I should digress briefly and mention that the last time I mowed the lawn, there was very little gas in the tank but, miraculously, it lasted throughout the entire job. Having grown up Jewish and being aware of miracles, I named the experience "Lawnukkah".
I wasn't as lucky this time. I anticipated perhaps a 2 hour job. It lasted 4.5 hours, including breaks. This time, the little critters that inhabit the area, rabbits, bugs, squirrels, etc. all looked at me like I was insane. I heard one rabbit say to the other, "Doesn't he realize how hot it is? Hell, it's too hot for sex, even for me."
I ignored the rabbits. And my body. I could just hear the little melanomas being launched throughout my body. (Yes, I did apply lotion. At least I thought of that).
But, unlike my painting issues, I CAN mow a lawn. As can any monkey, or other animal. When I first start mowing, the lines, if taking from an aerial view, look like a Picasso painting. But I do eventually get the lines straight.
So I finished...and I must say the lawn looked pretty good. This time, my girlfriend came home with a special Pad Thai lunch for me.
I thought it was fair compensation. Because, to paraphrase a lyric from a song I wrote, all I need is free food. And a cold shower. Followed by a hot shower. And back rub stuff.
And a lobotomy...
If only I could internalize the shut off valve that says, "Um, dude, you can't paint a bathroom."
I've always had this thing about home repair. The thing...is that I suck at most of it. Or so I thought. My girlfriend has had a peculiar, distorted sense about this, saying that I'm better than I think I am.
She mentioned in April that a bedroom and bathroom needed painting, and would I like to do them and make a little extra money? I responded by saying, "Did anyone ever tell you how pretty you look in that light?" (which was actually true). 2nd time, I think I complimented her on her wardrobe. Can't remember the 3rd time, it might have been her eyes. (And yes, the compliments are true. Although I was still sucking up, hoping to change the subject.)
This did work...for a little while. Eventually, she said, "Thank you for the compliments, darling, but why won't you answer the question?"
Brain: "Danger, Will Robinson, Danger."
Mouth: "Oh, you mean the painting? That? Sure...no problem."
Now, in truth, I have painted before. And did a decent job of it. In fact, I remember in 1994 painting my new apartment, which I was moving to after my divorce. My son was 6 and he wanted to help. So we worked together and it was a wonderful (ahem) "bonding" experience. He wasn't bad for 6. And I wasn't bad for 38. But it wasn't as challenging as what my girlfriend needed.
First, the bathroom itself.
Gentlemen...have you ever looked closely at a woman's bathroom? Do you have any idea how many small things are in there that are in harm's way? Scrubbers, loofas, makeup, candles, flower things, toiletries, and God knows what all else that women cherish and that men are completely clueless about? Yeah, yeah, all I need to do is cover it with a drop cloth. Not only that, the paint is latex, which washes right off. I know that.
But my mind doesn't work that way. I set an insanely, wildly unrealistic, high bar that I can paint around everything. Don't need to move stuff. Hell, I don't even want to tape the trim and border areas because I somehow think I can paint around all that too. At least I ignored that and DID tape the trim areas that she didn't want me to paint.
I'm completely wrong, of course, about plowing my way through a paint job. There's no way I can do any of this. But I did move all the knick-knacks, tchotchkes, and other specimens of alien civilization that inhabit a woman's boudoir. I wish I had a camera to snap it all, because I had absolutely no idea how to put it back.
My girlfriend, in fact, is appreciative that I'm doing this and that I'm saving her money. (On our first date, she referred, 3 times no less, to how she loves "getting 12 cents out of every dime"). The Yankee mindset.
Still, I'm stressed. I must do this job perfectly. It's a testosterone test. One false move and I'm back to being the all thumbs slacker my first 2 wives made me out to be.
I also have an annoying habit of asking questions that I know the answer to if I just work it out in my mind. It pisses off my girlfriend at times. It's pissed off a lot of people, actually. I don't know why I do it. I'm thinking that maybe she'll think I'm being conscientious when all I'm doing is procrastinating and being a pain in the ass.
But I've got resources. To begin with, I've got great music in the background. If anyone is into old school R&B with very limited commercial interruption, check this:
http://aolradio.slacker.com/?aolid=782
Bobby Bland, Ray, Wilson, Aretha, Stevie, Motown, Memphis, Philly, soul/psychedelia. All here. I'm feeling better already.
My job gets off to a bad start as I spill a copious amount of paint. Fortunately, it all spills on to the drop cloth. I figure, I'll use the spilled paint for my brush. It works. I get a rhythm. I get a Zen thing happening, moving in a rhythm. I'm seeing a completed room, with 2 coats. Cleaning up. Fans on to air the room out. And my girlfriend walking in and just beaming at her newly painted bathroom. My Mets are on TV late PM...game in San Francisco. I'm hoping I can be done in time to catch it.
Then I realized that the white paint that's covering the green paint ain't going on so good.
1 coat...almost nothing.
2 coats. Major bleeding.
3 coats. Minor bleeding.
4 coats. Finally, the old green is now white.
To have to need 4 coats is not a good thing. It means that something is wrong. In this case, I forgot to add water to the paint, which my girlfriend explicitly told me to do. I did stir it, except it needed to be shaken. Since my name is not 007, I forgot that it needed to be shaken, not stirred.
During the 4th coat, I got sloppy. Tired, losing focus, I switched from R&B to hard rock. None of it was working. I rushed things.
Job is finished. Little bits of white latex on the green trim. No problem, I think. I'll just take a damp cloth and wash it away. The new white paint DID wash away. Unfortunately, so did the old green paint, exposing the wood, which I could swear was laughing at me.
And little glops of white paint here and there. First thought: "Hell, it doesn't bother me. Why would it bother my girlfriend?" 2nd thought, 2 seconds later; "Dream on. Of COURSE it'll bother her. It's her bathroom. I just f^&ked up my first big home repair assignment. She'll say, 'I can't be in a relationship with a man who can't paint a bathroom'".
I swear (and this is true), she noticed every single mistake the second she looked at the bathroom. But she was, as always, exceedingly gracious.
We did work it out. I got paid fairly, but I've got damage control work to do, on my dime. Which I'm fine with.
I did somewhat redeem myself with "Mucho macho estupido" redux.
We're having a heat wave. It's 95 degrees, humid as a sauna, and no rain in sight. What better time to mow a lawn? My girlfriend never said, "Honey, can you mow the lawn?" No. What she did say was "Honey, please don't overdo it. It's brutally hot. I know you'll take breaks and stay hydrated, right?" By the way, the mower has 2 bad wheels in the back, which means pushing it requires not only the elbow grease of 2 strong arms but "chest grease" as well. Literally pushing the mower with my chest. (Wheels are on order as I write this)
I should digress briefly and mention that the last time I mowed the lawn, there was very little gas in the tank but, miraculously, it lasted throughout the entire job. Having grown up Jewish and being aware of miracles, I named the experience "Lawnukkah".
I wasn't as lucky this time. I anticipated perhaps a 2 hour job. It lasted 4.5 hours, including breaks. This time, the little critters that inhabit the area, rabbits, bugs, squirrels, etc. all looked at me like I was insane. I heard one rabbit say to the other, "Doesn't he realize how hot it is? Hell, it's too hot for sex, even for me."
I ignored the rabbits. And my body. I could just hear the little melanomas being launched throughout my body. (Yes, I did apply lotion. At least I thought of that).
But, unlike my painting issues, I CAN mow a lawn. As can any monkey, or other animal. When I first start mowing, the lines, if taking from an aerial view, look like a Picasso painting. But I do eventually get the lines straight.
So I finished...and I must say the lawn looked pretty good. This time, my girlfriend came home with a special Pad Thai lunch for me.
I thought it was fair compensation. Because, to paraphrase a lyric from a song I wrote, all I need is free food. And a cold shower. Followed by a hot shower. And back rub stuff.
And a lobotomy...
Monday, July 8, 2013
July 4, etc.
First off, it's RR's (Random Rant's) 1st anniversary. I said I'd post something every Sunday. Well...maybe not always on Sunday. But I have put up something every week. Thanks to all for reading. I truly do appreciate it.
Now, re our nation's anniversary. I'm mostly positive about it, although I have mixed feelings. To begin with, I'm not into fireworks. For some reason, people have trouble understanding this. I don't like Free Bird, I've never been a big Star Wars guy and I can't walk into WalMart without getting irritable or depressed. Maybe I'm not American.
But can someone tell me what's so great about fireworks? It's people setting off dangerous stuff that's very loud. You know exactly what will happen. It scares dogs too. Yeah, I get that it's supposed to be a celebration of our independence.
Maybe that's what I dislike the most. Ask any fireworks freak about what happened in 1776 and they'll probably say, "1776? Was that when the 76ers won the NBA championship?" Some family on our block sets off firecrackers (not fireworks...no colors) at random times during the week. It's not celebratory. It's just obnoxious.
How many people really "get" what our country is all about? I don't claim to either. But I do try to focus on what I love about America. And there are many things. I love our music, our exuberance, our soul, our humor, our compassion. I love that we're the most generous nation on earth. I love that so many people choose to defend our country too, although we don't treat them the way we should.
Like a person, I love that we're not perfect and that there are many more people who, in a quiet way, try to make our country better. They're doctors, cops, firefighters, teachers, and most of all, parents. And this group far outweighs those who try to hurt us or even Americans who complain incessantly about America.
Here's another thing I love, and this was abundantly clear to me when my girlfriend and I went up to Tanglewood in the Berkshire Mountains. I saw diversity. Lots of it. A Dominican Republic family enjoying themselves while we were having a picnic by the Housatonic River. The guy with some heavy Eastern European accent delivering soft drinks to the convenience store we stopped at. The 2 Pakistani owners of the motel we stayed at. The groups of people from all over the world who attended the concert (Jackson Browne, by the way) as well as those who stopped at lovely Bash-Bish Falls at the tri-state (CT, MA, NY) border as we were heading home.
I find myself subjected to articles every day about foreigners who are anti-American, in some cases going to violent extremes. Yet, the foreigners I meet seem nothing like that. They take some getting used to, for me. There are customs, dress, accents, and personalities that don't always make sense to me. But I believe this is identical to how people reacted when my family arrived from Austria and the Ukraine 100 or so years ago. As would be true for other families, other generations, other times and places across America. I don't have to do a Vulcan mind-meld with people newly arrived. I don't even have to be best friends with them. But I'd do well to understand their struggle a bit. That they're in a new country, trying to provide for their families, and probably feeling intimidated. And if they're Islamic, having to deal with self-proclaimed patriotic Americans who feel their Christianity is under siege.
I can't think of any other country that can tell this kind of story. People settled Australia, for example, and even subjugated the native people like we did. As is true for Canada too, and much of Latin America. But none of these other countries have had immigration on the level that we do. And no one has had a record of success like we do.
This is serious stuff, I realize. And that's not what July 4th is about. It IS a day to celebrate. We can be more serious on our more pensive American holidays, like Memorial Day and Veterans Day. Even Labor Day.
So hand me a hot dog and a beer (Gluten free. No, on 2nd thought, don't give me a gluten-free beer until you can invent one that doesn't taste like cardboard). Crank up the Sousa and the Skynyrd (But not Free Bird. I'll take "They Call Me The Breeze", which features the best rock piano solo in history. RIP Billy Powell). Take me out to the ballgame and drape the bleachers in red, white, and blue. And celebrate who we are.
Now, re our nation's anniversary. I'm mostly positive about it, although I have mixed feelings. To begin with, I'm not into fireworks. For some reason, people have trouble understanding this. I don't like Free Bird, I've never been a big Star Wars guy and I can't walk into WalMart without getting irritable or depressed. Maybe I'm not American.
But can someone tell me what's so great about fireworks? It's people setting off dangerous stuff that's very loud. You know exactly what will happen. It scares dogs too. Yeah, I get that it's supposed to be a celebration of our independence.
Maybe that's what I dislike the most. Ask any fireworks freak about what happened in 1776 and they'll probably say, "1776? Was that when the 76ers won the NBA championship?" Some family on our block sets off firecrackers (not fireworks...no colors) at random times during the week. It's not celebratory. It's just obnoxious.
How many people really "get" what our country is all about? I don't claim to either. But I do try to focus on what I love about America. And there are many things. I love our music, our exuberance, our soul, our humor, our compassion. I love that we're the most generous nation on earth. I love that so many people choose to defend our country too, although we don't treat them the way we should.
Like a person, I love that we're not perfect and that there are many more people who, in a quiet way, try to make our country better. They're doctors, cops, firefighters, teachers, and most of all, parents. And this group far outweighs those who try to hurt us or even Americans who complain incessantly about America.
Here's another thing I love, and this was abundantly clear to me when my girlfriend and I went up to Tanglewood in the Berkshire Mountains. I saw diversity. Lots of it. A Dominican Republic family enjoying themselves while we were having a picnic by the Housatonic River. The guy with some heavy Eastern European accent delivering soft drinks to the convenience store we stopped at. The 2 Pakistani owners of the motel we stayed at. The groups of people from all over the world who attended the concert (Jackson Browne, by the way) as well as those who stopped at lovely Bash-Bish Falls at the tri-state (CT, MA, NY) border as we were heading home.
I find myself subjected to articles every day about foreigners who are anti-American, in some cases going to violent extremes. Yet, the foreigners I meet seem nothing like that. They take some getting used to, for me. There are customs, dress, accents, and personalities that don't always make sense to me. But I believe this is identical to how people reacted when my family arrived from Austria and the Ukraine 100 or so years ago. As would be true for other families, other generations, other times and places across America. I don't have to do a Vulcan mind-meld with people newly arrived. I don't even have to be best friends with them. But I'd do well to understand their struggle a bit. That they're in a new country, trying to provide for their families, and probably feeling intimidated. And if they're Islamic, having to deal with self-proclaimed patriotic Americans who feel their Christianity is under siege.
I can't think of any other country that can tell this kind of story. People settled Australia, for example, and even subjugated the native people like we did. As is true for Canada too, and much of Latin America. But none of these other countries have had immigration on the level that we do. And no one has had a record of success like we do.
This is serious stuff, I realize. And that's not what July 4th is about. It IS a day to celebrate. We can be more serious on our more pensive American holidays, like Memorial Day and Veterans Day. Even Labor Day.
So hand me a hot dog and a beer (Gluten free. No, on 2nd thought, don't give me a gluten-free beer until you can invent one that doesn't taste like cardboard). Crank up the Sousa and the Skynyrd (But not Free Bird. I'll take "They Call Me The Breeze", which features the best rock piano solo in history. RIP Billy Powell). Take me out to the ballgame and drape the bleachers in red, white, and blue. And celebrate who we are.
Monday, July 1, 2013
The Book Barn, and gonzo blogging
So, we went to the Book Barn.
If you're not lucky enough to live near the little village of Niantic, CT, you're missing something very special. The Book Barn is a series of three bookstores, but nothing like a standard Barnes & Noble. No, the main site is a string of little cabins, all containing thousands of books, broken out by category. There are also two smaller locations in a separate part of Niantic.
When you first arrive in the rather small parking lot on the main campus, you walk past the greeter, almost like you're entering an amusement park. Once past, you're greeted by flower gardens, and cats. Lots of cats. If you're allergic, you might want to factor this in. The owners love their cats. They even know where each cat (and there are about a dozen) resides. Thus, you'll see "Jake's chair", and a label written in 1st person, from Jake, asking the customers to not pet me and to basically leave me alone, because that's what I want.
But it's not the cats that you're there to see. You want to browse each cabin. We were there when it was beginning to rain. It eventually started pouring. Walking around, under an umbrella, hopping from cabin to cabin like a bee going from flower to flower, inhaling the scent of all roses, day lilies, hydrangeas, annuals, and the like. Then stepping into a cabin, shaking the umbrella dry, and inhaling the books.
It was an intoxicatingly fun day. It was here where I came across The Great Shark Hunt, a collection of essays and other outpourings from the king of gonzo journalism, Hunter S. Thompson. A man who shared a monogram with our 33rd president. And heartland roots. And absolutely nothing else that I can think of.
I love Thompson. It doesn't make much sense to me. The guy was over the top and, to steal the perfect adjective that my girlfriend used, a nihilist. He probably wasn't a warm, compassionate kind of guy. He loved guns, drugs, alcohol, and most symbols of excess. He was an incredibly troubled soul, eventually committing suicide at the age of 67.
But I love how he writes. He's the ultimate cynic. But he's an equal opportunity cynic. As far as I can tell, he had no agenda. He wasn't on the right or the left. He wrote in the present tense, a bit random, and full of primal language and ugly thoughts that we all think at times but rarely verbalize. Or write. Thompson did that and more.
Here's a brief passage about the year 1973. It was the height of the Watergate scandal, and Nixon was still in office. In looking back on the consensus opinion that 1973 was an amazing year, "This is probably true. I remember thinking that way, myself, back on those hot summer mornings when John Dean's face lit my tube day after day...incredible. Here was this crafty little ferret going down the pipe right in front of our eyes, and taking the President of the United States along with him."
Thompson was friends with various actors and rock stars. In particular, Warren Zevon, who is to rock what Thompson is to writing. Zevon is more muted, and was as much a composer as a lyricist. Thompson didn't have to write a tight lyric. He could just write unhinged, searing, and brilliant prose.
I never shared Thompson's penchant for excess. I'd be curious to know if he could write that well if he toned down his behavior. I suspect he couldn't. If Thompson got his mojo from "being" gonzo, so that he could write gonzo, that's not me either.
I wonder if there's a way to write that well and live a reasonably healthy lifestyle. Great art is often made by people who live in excess in some way. I'm past any desire for excess. These days, I'm more concerned with trying to understand centeredness, peace, and silence. With a million miles to go.
Maybe the trick is to hang around inspiring book stores. If I keep hanging around the Book Barn, who knows what I'll find.
If you're not lucky enough to live near the little village of Niantic, CT, you're missing something very special. The Book Barn is a series of three bookstores, but nothing like a standard Barnes & Noble. No, the main site is a string of little cabins, all containing thousands of books, broken out by category. There are also two smaller locations in a separate part of Niantic.
When you first arrive in the rather small parking lot on the main campus, you walk past the greeter, almost like you're entering an amusement park. Once past, you're greeted by flower gardens, and cats. Lots of cats. If you're allergic, you might want to factor this in. The owners love their cats. They even know where each cat (and there are about a dozen) resides. Thus, you'll see "Jake's chair", and a label written in 1st person, from Jake, asking the customers to not pet me and to basically leave me alone, because that's what I want.
But it's not the cats that you're there to see. You want to browse each cabin. We were there when it was beginning to rain. It eventually started pouring. Walking around, under an umbrella, hopping from cabin to cabin like a bee going from flower to flower, inhaling the scent of all roses, day lilies, hydrangeas, annuals, and the like. Then stepping into a cabin, shaking the umbrella dry, and inhaling the books.
It was an intoxicatingly fun day. It was here where I came across The Great Shark Hunt, a collection of essays and other outpourings from the king of gonzo journalism, Hunter S. Thompson. A man who shared a monogram with our 33rd president. And heartland roots. And absolutely nothing else that I can think of.
I love Thompson. It doesn't make much sense to me. The guy was over the top and, to steal the perfect adjective that my girlfriend used, a nihilist. He probably wasn't a warm, compassionate kind of guy. He loved guns, drugs, alcohol, and most symbols of excess. He was an incredibly troubled soul, eventually committing suicide at the age of 67.
But I love how he writes. He's the ultimate cynic. But he's an equal opportunity cynic. As far as I can tell, he had no agenda. He wasn't on the right or the left. He wrote in the present tense, a bit random, and full of primal language and ugly thoughts that we all think at times but rarely verbalize. Or write. Thompson did that and more.
Here's a brief passage about the year 1973. It was the height of the Watergate scandal, and Nixon was still in office. In looking back on the consensus opinion that 1973 was an amazing year, "This is probably true. I remember thinking that way, myself, back on those hot summer mornings when John Dean's face lit my tube day after day...incredible. Here was this crafty little ferret going down the pipe right in front of our eyes, and taking the President of the United States along with him."
Thompson was friends with various actors and rock stars. In particular, Warren Zevon, who is to rock what Thompson is to writing. Zevon is more muted, and was as much a composer as a lyricist. Thompson didn't have to write a tight lyric. He could just write unhinged, searing, and brilliant prose.
I never shared Thompson's penchant for excess. I'd be curious to know if he could write that well if he toned down his behavior. I suspect he couldn't. If Thompson got his mojo from "being" gonzo, so that he could write gonzo, that's not me either.
I wonder if there's a way to write that well and live a reasonably healthy lifestyle. Great art is often made by people who live in excess in some way. I'm past any desire for excess. These days, I'm more concerned with trying to understand centeredness, peace, and silence. With a million miles to go.
Maybe the trick is to hang around inspiring book stores. If I keep hanging around the Book Barn, who knows what I'll find.
Sunday, June 23, 2013
Lowering the sports bar
So I'm listening to the Mets game on the radio, and I hear a commercial for Nathan's. For those that may not know, Nathan's is a Brooklyn institution and the home of, arguably, the greatest hot dogs in America. I'm proud to claim it as part of my home city.
I'm listening to the narrator mention its storied history. 97 years old. And I'm enjoying it...until I hear about "the contest". That would be, of course, the hot dog eating contest, begun by them in the 1970's. And my mood changes on a dime from pride to disgust.
This blog isn't about the "sport" of "competitive eating." Which, of course, is especially popular in Bangladesh. It's about how some things get to be considered sports, whereas when us 50 something types were growing up, things like this would just be considered...well...gross.
But there's more. I notice that as I get older, things that have nothing whatsoever to do with athletic prowess are now considered sports. Why? Easy. Because people like me can't compete as easily in demanding sports. So the most rudimentary, mundane, everyday tasks can now be considered a sport.
Hey, ESPN has 10 sports channels. That's 1,680 hours of programming per week that has to be filled. There are only so many reruns and talking heads to go around. The rest of it has to be filled up with, well, "inventive" sports.
In all fairness, some of these newly minted sports DO require some mental toughness. Poker being one example. I love a good poker game. But let's face it. I could destroy everyone at the table and be morbidly obese. Same for fishing. Even chess. Or billiards...something else that I love.
I used to put golf in that category, but that's only because I've never played it and I imagine I wouldn't be very good at it. I do remember a couple of pretty overweight golfers but the good ones all look like they're in pretty good shape. So I'll grudgingly grant golf legitimate sports status. I still think it's boring as hell to watch. Then there's NASCAR, another sport requiring very little, if any, physically athletic prowess. Mentally, of course, it might be the most demanding sport of all.
And in the early days of Sports Illustrated, there were actually fisherman, chess wizards, and the like who made the cover.
It raises a question to me of how one defines a sport. How important is being physically fit?
I have my own personal sport. One I invented. I called it the 3 foot dash. I stand on a line with 11 other equally talented sprinters. When the starting gun goes off, I move my right leg three feet forward. As soon as my leg crosses the finish line, (and I'm almost impossible to beat at this), I get sponsor endorsements, bling, and groupies (well, not those anymore).
It's all in the timing, the rigorous training, and the Nathan's hot dogs that I consume before every event.
Anyone want to sponsor me?
I'm listening to the narrator mention its storied history. 97 years old. And I'm enjoying it...until I hear about "the contest". That would be, of course, the hot dog eating contest, begun by them in the 1970's. And my mood changes on a dime from pride to disgust.
This blog isn't about the "sport" of "competitive eating." Which, of course, is especially popular in Bangladesh. It's about how some things get to be considered sports, whereas when us 50 something types were growing up, things like this would just be considered...well...gross.
But there's more. I notice that as I get older, things that have nothing whatsoever to do with athletic prowess are now considered sports. Why? Easy. Because people like me can't compete as easily in demanding sports. So the most rudimentary, mundane, everyday tasks can now be considered a sport.
Hey, ESPN has 10 sports channels. That's 1,680 hours of programming per week that has to be filled. There are only so many reruns and talking heads to go around. The rest of it has to be filled up with, well, "inventive" sports.
In all fairness, some of these newly minted sports DO require some mental toughness. Poker being one example. I love a good poker game. But let's face it. I could destroy everyone at the table and be morbidly obese. Same for fishing. Even chess. Or billiards...something else that I love.
I used to put golf in that category, but that's only because I've never played it and I imagine I wouldn't be very good at it. I do remember a couple of pretty overweight golfers but the good ones all look like they're in pretty good shape. So I'll grudgingly grant golf legitimate sports status. I still think it's boring as hell to watch. Then there's NASCAR, another sport requiring very little, if any, physically athletic prowess. Mentally, of course, it might be the most demanding sport of all.
And in the early days of Sports Illustrated, there were actually fisherman, chess wizards, and the like who made the cover.
It raises a question to me of how one defines a sport. How important is being physically fit?
I have my own personal sport. One I invented. I called it the 3 foot dash. I stand on a line with 11 other equally talented sprinters. When the starting gun goes off, I move my right leg three feet forward. As soon as my leg crosses the finish line, (and I'm almost impossible to beat at this), I get sponsor endorsements, bling, and groupies (well, not those anymore).
It's all in the timing, the rigorous training, and the Nathan's hot dogs that I consume before every event.
Anyone want to sponsor me?
Wednesday, June 19, 2013
I'd like to be...under the sea
But not necessarily in an Octopus' Garden...in the shade.
I hope I don't shock my girlfriend with what I'm about to post. But I don't want to be in ANY garden. Shade, sun, or otherwise. Technically speaking, I'm OK being IN the garden. It's actually very nice. But I don't want to WORK the garden.
For the last 4 days, my left hip has been itching like mad. I have a rash the size and color of a small piece of salmon. To accompany this rash, I also have poison ivy on at least 4 places on my body. I have no idea where I got the PI from. Maybe it's not that. Maybe it's a bunch of bugs. Or I attacked myself with a red pen while I was sleeping.
My girlfriend is fine. No problems at all. She loves gardening, and is in fact very good at it. She's been trying to show me, through words and deeds, and the occasional drill sergeant mode, how wonderful a hobby gardening is. It's relaxing. It's spiritual. It's good for the environment.
That may all be true. But it sure isn't good for me on any of those levels. To be sure, it IS good for the various blood sucking leeches that have feasted off of me. I hope they appreciate what kind of a meal I've provided for them. That rash? My guess is that they're red spiders, who I briefly encountered at some point in my gardening forays. Or they may be fire ants. Or spider ants. Or one of my deceased aunts.
Speaking of which, I had an experience yesterday at my local Walgreen's. I went to buy some cortizone stuff to relieve the itching. Found a Walgreen's brand, with an applicator. And on sale too. Perfect. I bought it, went outside the store, looked at the directions, which said to shake and then, with gentle pressure, apply to affected areas. I never understand why they say to shake. I shake all over and it doesn't do anything.
(Bad joke, I know. Still reading?)
But seriously, I shook the tube. Tried to apply it. Nothing. Shook it again. Nothing. Pressed the tube a bit harder. Nothing. Pressed it harder still. Something. The "something" is that it exploded, spilling the cortizone all over my forearm, hand, and clothing.
Now, I confess to 2 things. One is that I don't like "stuff" on me. That can be cologne, even solid things like jewelry. When it's a potentially toxic chemical, that makes it way worse. The other confession is that I have a short fuse when it comes to bad packaging. I don't know why. Maybe it's the perceived laziness or incompetence of not being able to simply package a product correctly. Healthy food makers are notorious for this. Exploding cereal. Torrents of soy milk through a mangled container. Snacks more impenetrable than Fort Knox.
Anyway, I went back into the store. Got the same product. This time I went to the pharmacist and told her my story. She tried it. Same result. And I'm thinking, "If I had just said 'no to gardening', I'd be itch-free, a few dollars richer, and in a much better state of mind." I also thought this would make a dynamite practical joke. Too bad it's not April Fools Day.
By the way, before I forget, a quick shout out to the pharmacist and store manager at Walgreen's. They were both very nice and courteous. Which is my experience with most people who work in retail. The managers only hear complaints. Rarely compliments or nice things. I make a point to tell managers when things go well and to compliment their staff when appropriate, along with any major complaints.
But back to the point: I will help in the garden if it means that much to my girlfriend. I will get muddy, itchy, smelly, break my back, even get bitten by every critter in creation. After all, she treats me better than I have any right to be treated. She watches baseball with me. Except that there's no danger in watching the Mets, other than the emotional loss of watching them lose 2 of every 3 games.
And the Mets don't itch.
I hope I don't shock my girlfriend with what I'm about to post. But I don't want to be in ANY garden. Shade, sun, or otherwise. Technically speaking, I'm OK being IN the garden. It's actually very nice. But I don't want to WORK the garden.
For the last 4 days, my left hip has been itching like mad. I have a rash the size and color of a small piece of salmon. To accompany this rash, I also have poison ivy on at least 4 places on my body. I have no idea where I got the PI from. Maybe it's not that. Maybe it's a bunch of bugs. Or I attacked myself with a red pen while I was sleeping.
My girlfriend is fine. No problems at all. She loves gardening, and is in fact very good at it. She's been trying to show me, through words and deeds, and the occasional drill sergeant mode, how wonderful a hobby gardening is. It's relaxing. It's spiritual. It's good for the environment.
That may all be true. But it sure isn't good for me on any of those levels. To be sure, it IS good for the various blood sucking leeches that have feasted off of me. I hope they appreciate what kind of a meal I've provided for them. That rash? My guess is that they're red spiders, who I briefly encountered at some point in my gardening forays. Or they may be fire ants. Or spider ants. Or one of my deceased aunts.
Speaking of which, I had an experience yesterday at my local Walgreen's. I went to buy some cortizone stuff to relieve the itching. Found a Walgreen's brand, with an applicator. And on sale too. Perfect. I bought it, went outside the store, looked at the directions, which said to shake and then, with gentle pressure, apply to affected areas. I never understand why they say to shake. I shake all over and it doesn't do anything.
(Bad joke, I know. Still reading?)
But seriously, I shook the tube. Tried to apply it. Nothing. Shook it again. Nothing. Pressed the tube a bit harder. Nothing. Pressed it harder still. Something. The "something" is that it exploded, spilling the cortizone all over my forearm, hand, and clothing.
Now, I confess to 2 things. One is that I don't like "stuff" on me. That can be cologne, even solid things like jewelry. When it's a potentially toxic chemical, that makes it way worse. The other confession is that I have a short fuse when it comes to bad packaging. I don't know why. Maybe it's the perceived laziness or incompetence of not being able to simply package a product correctly. Healthy food makers are notorious for this. Exploding cereal. Torrents of soy milk through a mangled container. Snacks more impenetrable than Fort Knox.
Anyway, I went back into the store. Got the same product. This time I went to the pharmacist and told her my story. She tried it. Same result. And I'm thinking, "If I had just said 'no to gardening', I'd be itch-free, a few dollars richer, and in a much better state of mind." I also thought this would make a dynamite practical joke. Too bad it's not April Fools Day.
By the way, before I forget, a quick shout out to the pharmacist and store manager at Walgreen's. They were both very nice and courteous. Which is my experience with most people who work in retail. The managers only hear complaints. Rarely compliments or nice things. I make a point to tell managers when things go well and to compliment their staff when appropriate, along with any major complaints.
But back to the point: I will help in the garden if it means that much to my girlfriend. I will get muddy, itchy, smelly, break my back, even get bitten by every critter in creation. After all, she treats me better than I have any right to be treated. She watches baseball with me. Except that there's no danger in watching the Mets, other than the emotional loss of watching them lose 2 of every 3 games.
And the Mets don't itch.
Monday, June 10, 2013
Ssssh to !!!!!
Reggaeton: An urban form of music that blends Jamaican musical influences of dancehall, and Trinidadian soca with those of Latin America, such as salsa, bomba, Latin hip hop, and electronica.
I'm not positive it was Reggaeton that I heard Saturday night, as my band was trying to do a show in Branford. I do know this:
1: I literally felt like someone was hitting my stomach and head with a hammer. Hard to sing or play keyboards that way.
2: It was coming from a private birthday party literally in the same venue...on the other side of the cashier.
3: I asked the DJ to turn it down, so we could at least perform for, as it turned out, quite a few people.
4: The DJ turned it down fractionally, if at all.
5: I couldn't focus on our show. Neither could my bandmates, as far as I could tell. But being troopers, we went on. We do a really neat medley of songs from Abbey Road (Golden Slumbers, Carry That Weight, The End). If you know them, you know much of it is pretty soft. We always close with it and get a nice round of applause. It's a sort of showcase for our drummer, Rob, who does the lead vocals as well as the iconic Ringo drum solo. It's rapidly becoming our signature work. Well, we did close with it, for the dozen or so people remaining. Everyone else left early because, presumably, they couldn't hear themselves think, let alone our music.
I like to think I've got a reasonably healthy attitude about our band. That is, we work very hard to put on the best show we can. I take the music very seriously. But I don't take us as a band, nor myself in particular, nearly as seriously. We're a cover band, like hundreds of others just in CT alone. We're not looking for Grammies. We don't pretend to be the Beatles reincarnated. All we want to do is put on a good show, make people happy, get them dancing, and preferably get reasonably compensated. I happen to think, objectively, that we DO put on a good show. We're a six person band (5 men, 1 woman) and we all sing, do harmonies, and play various instruments. We're probably not session quality musicians but we know what we're doing. We like each other and it generally shows when we play out. We have a small but growing following.
But Saturday night, no one could tell how we sounded. Because no one could hear us. Which raises a number of questions:
1: Who was responsible for scheduling a deafening birthday party literally 20 feet away under the same roof? Answer: The club manager. Club managers, and/or restaurant owners, frankly, aren't known for being highly ethical. Or compassionate. Or giving a rat's ass about the quality of music. They often have trouble making the connection that if you treat musicians with respect, you get better music. And...better music = more people. More people = more consumption. More consumption = more money.
2: What do we, as a band, do about this? What do I, not being the frontman, do in particular? Answer: I do nothing other than my foray to the other party. Our frontman, John, curtails our show, correctly. He then talked to the manager and explained what happened. I'm told the owner/manager was very apologetic and even upped our pay. I suspect a drove of complaints from our audience helped. He paid John via check and as I write this, based on years of experience, am nervous whether the check will clear. The owner has some investments here so probably won't vanish into thin air.
I give John high marks for handling this the right way, especially given his, and our, mood. I wouldn't have handled it as well.
3: On a wider level, did anyone care in the least that we were being drowned out? Answer: For the birthday party, no. For the owner, also...no. Until he got an earful and realized he was losing money.
I'm not very proud of myself. I like to think of myself as tolerant and not someone prone to stereotyping. But mentally, I was fighting it. ("Why can't they speak English?" "Why are they being so rude?" "Do they have any idea, or care, that they're disrupting a show?" Even a brief, "They're all like that", even though my experience is that nothing could be further from the truth. The overwhelming majority of Hispanic people I've met over the years are exactly the opposite).
The birthday party, I'm told, was not Puerto Rican. Which is where reggaeton originated and is most popular. I was told that the party was, in fact, Ecuadoran.
I wanted so much to just let it be, accept the moment and find something humorous in all of it. I could not. Some people tried to cheer me up, something that no one should ever try to do with me. I find "cheering someone up", albeit well intended, actually disrespectful. It's something I don't do with anyone else. If I'm pissed, let me work through it. Ask me questions if you like, but don't play Annie "The Sun Will Come Out Tomorrow" with me.
On a larger level, I find myself repeatedly, as I get older, craving silence. We seem to be addicted to volume. The louder, the better, I suppose. Loud music, loud politicians, comedians, celebrities. Odd...even in college, I wasn't that way. I remember wanting to walk out of loud clubs. While everyone was into Led Zeppelin, I was into the Moody Blues. While my friends liked Procol Harum/Robin Trower, I was into Procol Harum/Gary Brooker. I was (and still am) OK with loud music on occasion as long as it's rhythmic and not assaultive.
Which leads to 2 rules I'd enact if I was POTUS or dictator. (The two are rapidly becoming the same. But that's another blog).
1: As mentioned numerous times in earlier blogs, it's time for a national STHU (Shut the Hell Up) day. We start out with 15 minutes of silence. It's not a religious thing, although if you're the type to pray, this would be a good time to do it. But all internet servers down. All TV's off. Radios, smartphones, billboards...all off. Most of all, just be quiet. Please. Tell someone you love them if you like. Other than that, please just STHU. Maybe we can eventually build to an entire day. And then make it a worldwide thing. Can you imagine? The whole world quiet for, hell, even 30 minutes? How cool (and healing) would that be? "Imagine there's no volume." I think John Lennon would approve.
2: It's time to simplify our legal system. No more labyrinth judicial systems. Felonies, misdemeanors, etc. From now on, we just have 3 levels of being an asshole. We have minor assholes, major assholes, and hopeless assholes. A jury can decide on the level. When proclaiming sentence, they can collectively say, "You're a (adjective) asshole." And the convicted can go to asshole jail. We can keep an asshole database, so if it's a first offense, it can be noted but maybe we can let the asshole walk. Because, let's face it, we've all been assholes at some point in our lives. Numerous times, most likely. So we can be allowed a few priors before imprisonment.
I begin with club owners. And then anyone who chooses to be obnoxious. Throw 'em in minor asshole jail. And crank up the reggaeton to maximum volume. Follow it with Celine Dion. That'll change anybody.
I'm not positive it was Reggaeton that I heard Saturday night, as my band was trying to do a show in Branford. I do know this:
1: I literally felt like someone was hitting my stomach and head with a hammer. Hard to sing or play keyboards that way.
2: It was coming from a private birthday party literally in the same venue...on the other side of the cashier.
3: I asked the DJ to turn it down, so we could at least perform for, as it turned out, quite a few people.
4: The DJ turned it down fractionally, if at all.
5: I couldn't focus on our show. Neither could my bandmates, as far as I could tell. But being troopers, we went on. We do a really neat medley of songs from Abbey Road (Golden Slumbers, Carry That Weight, The End). If you know them, you know much of it is pretty soft. We always close with it and get a nice round of applause. It's a sort of showcase for our drummer, Rob, who does the lead vocals as well as the iconic Ringo drum solo. It's rapidly becoming our signature work. Well, we did close with it, for the dozen or so people remaining. Everyone else left early because, presumably, they couldn't hear themselves think, let alone our music.
I like to think I've got a reasonably healthy attitude about our band. That is, we work very hard to put on the best show we can. I take the music very seriously. But I don't take us as a band, nor myself in particular, nearly as seriously. We're a cover band, like hundreds of others just in CT alone. We're not looking for Grammies. We don't pretend to be the Beatles reincarnated. All we want to do is put on a good show, make people happy, get them dancing, and preferably get reasonably compensated. I happen to think, objectively, that we DO put on a good show. We're a six person band (5 men, 1 woman) and we all sing, do harmonies, and play various instruments. We're probably not session quality musicians but we know what we're doing. We like each other and it generally shows when we play out. We have a small but growing following.
But Saturday night, no one could tell how we sounded. Because no one could hear us. Which raises a number of questions:
1: Who was responsible for scheduling a deafening birthday party literally 20 feet away under the same roof? Answer: The club manager. Club managers, and/or restaurant owners, frankly, aren't known for being highly ethical. Or compassionate. Or giving a rat's ass about the quality of music. They often have trouble making the connection that if you treat musicians with respect, you get better music. And...better music = more people. More people = more consumption. More consumption = more money.
2: What do we, as a band, do about this? What do I, not being the frontman, do in particular? Answer: I do nothing other than my foray to the other party. Our frontman, John, curtails our show, correctly. He then talked to the manager and explained what happened. I'm told the owner/manager was very apologetic and even upped our pay. I suspect a drove of complaints from our audience helped. He paid John via check and as I write this, based on years of experience, am nervous whether the check will clear. The owner has some investments here so probably won't vanish into thin air.
I give John high marks for handling this the right way, especially given his, and our, mood. I wouldn't have handled it as well.
3: On a wider level, did anyone care in the least that we were being drowned out? Answer: For the birthday party, no. For the owner, also...no. Until he got an earful and realized he was losing money.
I'm not very proud of myself. I like to think of myself as tolerant and not someone prone to stereotyping. But mentally, I was fighting it. ("Why can't they speak English?" "Why are they being so rude?" "Do they have any idea, or care, that they're disrupting a show?" Even a brief, "They're all like that", even though my experience is that nothing could be further from the truth. The overwhelming majority of Hispanic people I've met over the years are exactly the opposite).
The birthday party, I'm told, was not Puerto Rican. Which is where reggaeton originated and is most popular. I was told that the party was, in fact, Ecuadoran.
I wanted so much to just let it be, accept the moment and find something humorous in all of it. I could not. Some people tried to cheer me up, something that no one should ever try to do with me. I find "cheering someone up", albeit well intended, actually disrespectful. It's something I don't do with anyone else. If I'm pissed, let me work through it. Ask me questions if you like, but don't play Annie "The Sun Will Come Out Tomorrow" with me.
On a larger level, I find myself repeatedly, as I get older, craving silence. We seem to be addicted to volume. The louder, the better, I suppose. Loud music, loud politicians, comedians, celebrities. Odd...even in college, I wasn't that way. I remember wanting to walk out of loud clubs. While everyone was into Led Zeppelin, I was into the Moody Blues. While my friends liked Procol Harum/Robin Trower, I was into Procol Harum/Gary Brooker. I was (and still am) OK with loud music on occasion as long as it's rhythmic and not assaultive.
Which leads to 2 rules I'd enact if I was POTUS or dictator. (The two are rapidly becoming the same. But that's another blog).
1: As mentioned numerous times in earlier blogs, it's time for a national STHU (Shut the Hell Up) day. We start out with 15 minutes of silence. It's not a religious thing, although if you're the type to pray, this would be a good time to do it. But all internet servers down. All TV's off. Radios, smartphones, billboards...all off. Most of all, just be quiet. Please. Tell someone you love them if you like. Other than that, please just STHU. Maybe we can eventually build to an entire day. And then make it a worldwide thing. Can you imagine? The whole world quiet for, hell, even 30 minutes? How cool (and healing) would that be? "Imagine there's no volume." I think John Lennon would approve.
2: It's time to simplify our legal system. No more labyrinth judicial systems. Felonies, misdemeanors, etc. From now on, we just have 3 levels of being an asshole. We have minor assholes, major assholes, and hopeless assholes. A jury can decide on the level. When proclaiming sentence, they can collectively say, "You're a (adjective) asshole." And the convicted can go to asshole jail. We can keep an asshole database, so if it's a first offense, it can be noted but maybe we can let the asshole walk. Because, let's face it, we've all been assholes at some point in our lives. Numerous times, most likely. So we can be allowed a few priors before imprisonment.
I begin with club owners. And then anyone who chooses to be obnoxious. Throw 'em in minor asshole jail. And crank up the reggaeton to maximum volume. Follow it with Celine Dion. That'll change anybody.
Wednesday, June 5, 2013
Sloooooow Dooooowwwwnnnn
The title refers to a classic bit from the great sitcom Taxi, back in the late 70's. I can't possibly do justice to it in a blog, but here's the link. http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pvn-tBeLpCk
In the top 5 for the funniest scenes in sitcom history. Might want to start at the 4 minute mark. That's where it gets good.
I only mention this because "slow down" is becoming a mantra. It can't be this easy, and I know it's not. But every time I get in trouble, it's in some way related to the world speeding up on me. Saying something stupid, not listening carefully enough, losing my temper, even being stopped by a cop, as was the case 3 weeks ago. I was going 57 in a 45 mph zone. And the cop was actually tailgating me, probably entrapping me into speeding up. I fell for it.
Should I ever be stopped again, I have a strategy, which I didn't need to use this time, as I got off with a warning. I plan on saying to the officer, "Officer, if I can tell you the funniest joke you've ever heard, will you let me go with a warning?" I actually have two in mind, one more or less about sex and the other more or less about religion. I plan on giving the officer a choice, thinking that'll be more likely to entice him.
But, back to the main subject. Seems that illegally speeding should be a signal to me to slow everything down. The thing about all this though is that it's not logical. How is it possible to do more when I slow down? Yet, it seems to be true. Add to it that I may have an anxiety disorder. Not officially, but if my mind was a car, I wouldn't be allowed on the road. I refer to this as "mental NASCAR." And I'm the Richard Petty of it.
Somehow, this ties into something spiritual. But I don't think I can write about it, as I just don't understand it. But I do know this...if I was president, I'd encourage slowing down any chance I got. This includes a subject I've blogged about before...silence. I'd suggest we have a national STHU day. (Shut the Hell Up). My real name for it is STFU day but that may be offensive to some.
When I'm racing, I'm not in the moment. I'm jumping ahead of myself, foreseeing a future that probably won't happen. And analyzing a past that's already been analyzed to death.
One really helpful Rx for this, for me, is simply breathing. I can't believe how helpful it's been for me to simply take a series of slow, deep breaths. I start at 10 and count down. But if I'm feeling really stressed, I'll start at 20.
I also can sing my way through my high-speed zones. And with the warmer weather, biking too has been tremendously helpful. But in the end, it's becoming a question of simply slowing down. Or, as the good Reverend Jim might say...
"Whaaaaaat's ................A...................Yehhhhhlllllllow..................Liiiiiiight.............Meeeeeeeeeeen?"
In the top 5 for the funniest scenes in sitcom history. Might want to start at the 4 minute mark. That's where it gets good.
I only mention this because "slow down" is becoming a mantra. It can't be this easy, and I know it's not. But every time I get in trouble, it's in some way related to the world speeding up on me. Saying something stupid, not listening carefully enough, losing my temper, even being stopped by a cop, as was the case 3 weeks ago. I was going 57 in a 45 mph zone. And the cop was actually tailgating me, probably entrapping me into speeding up. I fell for it.
Should I ever be stopped again, I have a strategy, which I didn't need to use this time, as I got off with a warning. I plan on saying to the officer, "Officer, if I can tell you the funniest joke you've ever heard, will you let me go with a warning?" I actually have two in mind, one more or less about sex and the other more or less about religion. I plan on giving the officer a choice, thinking that'll be more likely to entice him.
But, back to the main subject. Seems that illegally speeding should be a signal to me to slow everything down. The thing about all this though is that it's not logical. How is it possible to do more when I slow down? Yet, it seems to be true. Add to it that I may have an anxiety disorder. Not officially, but if my mind was a car, I wouldn't be allowed on the road. I refer to this as "mental NASCAR." And I'm the Richard Petty of it.
Somehow, this ties into something spiritual. But I don't think I can write about it, as I just don't understand it. But I do know this...if I was president, I'd encourage slowing down any chance I got. This includes a subject I've blogged about before...silence. I'd suggest we have a national STHU day. (Shut the Hell Up). My real name for it is STFU day but that may be offensive to some.
When I'm racing, I'm not in the moment. I'm jumping ahead of myself, foreseeing a future that probably won't happen. And analyzing a past that's already been analyzed to death.
One really helpful Rx for this, for me, is simply breathing. I can't believe how helpful it's been for me to simply take a series of slow, deep breaths. I start at 10 and count down. But if I'm feeling really stressed, I'll start at 20.
I also can sing my way through my high-speed zones. And with the warmer weather, biking too has been tremendously helpful. But in the end, it's becoming a question of simply slowing down. Or, as the good Reverend Jim might say...
"Whaaaaaat's ................A...................Yehhhhhlllllllow..................Liiiiiiight.............Meeeeeeeeeeen?"
Tuesday, May 28, 2013
Jobs
Before the main topic, one more thing about the weather. We just finished a spell of weather unlike anything I can remember in the northeast. Temps probably 25 degrees below normal. And snow in northern New England. I've NEVER heard of snow this late in the year in these parts. Not even at the highest elevations. I don't know what to think about global warming. Or even global change. There's been more bizarre weather in the last year than I can remember. I truly don't know what to make of it.
OK, on to the main topic. The "J" word. I don't have a full time one at the moment. My two closest buddies have had major events happen in the last few weeks. One just got a full time job in what sounds like a perfect match for his skills. He's 61. Another just lost his, after many years. And he'll be turning 60 later this year.
I don't know what to make of it either (my phrase for the blog, I guess). On the hopeful side, one can say that there's always a shot, regardless of age. On the down side, one could say that a job is never safe. And I know from personal experience about how hard it is to find work in middle age. I know that if I'm the one making hiring decisions, do I hire someone healthy, fresh out of college who might stick around for awhile? Or do I hire someone middle age who probably has health issues and will probably only stick around for a short while? Oh, and is probably expecting a higher salary based on their history?
Pretty easy decision.
Which leads me to where I'm at. I start school in late August. I'm so thrilled and grateful that words cannot do justice. I'm incredibly lucky to have a family member (my uncle) who is footing my bill. Without him, it would be next to impossible to do this. Until late August, I'm essentially in the same boat as my buddy who lost his job. I'm supposed to be teaching as an adjunct professor in a few weeks but for both courses, the enrollment is very low and I wouldn't be surprised if each course got cancelled. I essentially have no other income and am trying to be as inventive and open minded as I can. I'll get by one way or another. Even if I can't find anything, I'm still way more fortunate than so many other people.
I'll do whatever it takes. I've already gone literally door to door in areas of high concentration professional industries with resume in hand. Most of the time, I've been treated as if I was an insect, to be shooed away like any other annoyance. It doesn't particularly bother me, but that's only because I'm expecting this reaction and am mentally prepared for it. But as a society, I don't know the answer. The numbers suck. Baby boomers sucking up society's resources. Especially when we're unemployed. Corporations with more and more operations overseas. Why? Because a CEO answers to the stockholders. Which means profits, as close to the edge of illegal as possible without hopefully crossing the lines. That means tax havens, cheap labor, all the other things that are destroying our economy. And completely legally.
I don't have any answers for society. I think I favor a flat tax, which I do think will encourage employers to keep jobs stateside. But I don't know enough about it nor do I think that it would be a panacea.
As for me, all I can do is to do the footwork and to be as open minded and as inventive as possible.
It does seem that every success I've ever had has been counter intuitive. That is, good things happen not only when I least expect them, but also when I'm not pushing things and stressing out. Last year at this time, I was wondering how I could make it through the summer. Out of the blue, I got a call from a recruiting agency. They didn't even have my most recent address. They offered me a 3 week consulting gig which provided a good chunk of my summer income.
I close with a list of the things that help me:
1: Noticing beauty and contentment. Yesterday, my girlfriend and I were at a picnic. A lot of the people there were in recovery. I could have done a much better job of just appreciating their journeys. I did not. My girlfriend alluded to this...not directly. But the lesson was learned. And supplemented when, later on, we were driving by a local beach and saw so many kids just having a great time, eating, playing. It was Memorial Day. And I thought about our veterans, and how lucky we are to be living in America, despite our problems and the rigged system that I alluded to above.
2: Being grateful for what I have. (I keep an alphabetical list)
3: Finding humor.
4: Listening to my inner voice. Which often tells me to slow my mind down.
5: Forgiving myself for my past, and even current screwups.
Thanks for reading.
OK, on to the main topic. The "J" word. I don't have a full time one at the moment. My two closest buddies have had major events happen in the last few weeks. One just got a full time job in what sounds like a perfect match for his skills. He's 61. Another just lost his, after many years. And he'll be turning 60 later this year.
I don't know what to make of it either (my phrase for the blog, I guess). On the hopeful side, one can say that there's always a shot, regardless of age. On the down side, one could say that a job is never safe. And I know from personal experience about how hard it is to find work in middle age. I know that if I'm the one making hiring decisions, do I hire someone healthy, fresh out of college who might stick around for awhile? Or do I hire someone middle age who probably has health issues and will probably only stick around for a short while? Oh, and is probably expecting a higher salary based on their history?
Pretty easy decision.
Which leads me to where I'm at. I start school in late August. I'm so thrilled and grateful that words cannot do justice. I'm incredibly lucky to have a family member (my uncle) who is footing my bill. Without him, it would be next to impossible to do this. Until late August, I'm essentially in the same boat as my buddy who lost his job. I'm supposed to be teaching as an adjunct professor in a few weeks but for both courses, the enrollment is very low and I wouldn't be surprised if each course got cancelled. I essentially have no other income and am trying to be as inventive and open minded as I can. I'll get by one way or another. Even if I can't find anything, I'm still way more fortunate than so many other people.
I'll do whatever it takes. I've already gone literally door to door in areas of high concentration professional industries with resume in hand. Most of the time, I've been treated as if I was an insect, to be shooed away like any other annoyance. It doesn't particularly bother me, but that's only because I'm expecting this reaction and am mentally prepared for it. But as a society, I don't know the answer. The numbers suck. Baby boomers sucking up society's resources. Especially when we're unemployed. Corporations with more and more operations overseas. Why? Because a CEO answers to the stockholders. Which means profits, as close to the edge of illegal as possible without hopefully crossing the lines. That means tax havens, cheap labor, all the other things that are destroying our economy. And completely legally.
I don't have any answers for society. I think I favor a flat tax, which I do think will encourage employers to keep jobs stateside. But I don't know enough about it nor do I think that it would be a panacea.
As for me, all I can do is to do the footwork and to be as open minded and as inventive as possible.
It does seem that every success I've ever had has been counter intuitive. That is, good things happen not only when I least expect them, but also when I'm not pushing things and stressing out. Last year at this time, I was wondering how I could make it through the summer. Out of the blue, I got a call from a recruiting agency. They didn't even have my most recent address. They offered me a 3 week consulting gig which provided a good chunk of my summer income.
I close with a list of the things that help me:
1: Noticing beauty and contentment. Yesterday, my girlfriend and I were at a picnic. A lot of the people there were in recovery. I could have done a much better job of just appreciating their journeys. I did not. My girlfriend alluded to this...not directly. But the lesson was learned. And supplemented when, later on, we were driving by a local beach and saw so many kids just having a great time, eating, playing. It was Memorial Day. And I thought about our veterans, and how lucky we are to be living in America, despite our problems and the rigged system that I alluded to above.
2: Being grateful for what I have. (I keep an alphabetical list)
3: Finding humor.
4: Listening to my inner voice. Which often tells me to slow my mind down.
5: Forgiving myself for my past, and even current screwups.
Thanks for reading.
Tuesday, May 21, 2013
Tornadoes
It's one thing to be a weather freak. In this area, I proudly let my freak flag fly. I loved the movie "Twister", even though it was a bit Hollywood-ish. But I've fantasized about being a tornado chaser. When I was in college, I did research on tornadoes. Like many, my first
exposure of any kind was via Dorothy and Toto. I've been hooked on them
ever since.
But it's another thing to be on the receiving end of one. Especially when it's an F4 tornado.
Tornadoes are as American as apple pie. Over 80% of the world's tornadoes occur in the USA.
I've never encountered a tornado up close and personal. I've come close. In July '89, a tornado in the New Haven CT area demolished part of a nearby neighborhood. 9 years later, April '98, tornadoes tore through my locale of Nashville, destroying part of downtown.
It's amazing how little we know about them. We don't know entirely why they form (although we do know how). We can't accurately predict its path, intensity, or even when they'll form, where they'll touch down, or how long they'll stay on the ground.
All this is a roundabout way of saying that I'm equally saddened and astounded at the devastation in Moore, OK yesterday. This wasn't your average tornado. It was an F4 or even an F5, F5 being a tornado with maximum devastation. It was also a mile wide; enormous compared to the normal 1/4 mile girth. In fact, an F5 tore through Moore 14 years ago, clocking the highest wind in recorded history, 303 mph.
Yesterday's tornado killed at least 51 people. Almost certainly a higher count by week's end. 2 schools leveled. Lives literally uprooted.
In a way, it's part of life in tornado alley. There are sirens, shelters, and the highest tornado awareness anywhere in the world. But how can anyone prepare for such an event? Especially when it's a monster?
I go back and forth on global warming, or change, or whatever the scientifically correct term is. Having studied meteorology, I'm surprised that I'm this ambivalent. But we've just gone through a brutally cold winter, and a cold spring so far. Not much in the way of warming. I'm not sure how to define climate change. Isn't the climate always changing? I have a close friend in California who denies such a thing exists. He acknowledges the extremes of the last 10 years but believes it's part of a larger, natural, cycle. He may be right.
On the other hand, we've had superstorms, super-tornadoes, record droughts in the midwest, a record blizzard in February, and other extremes, never seen before. This seems like a lot more than coincidence.
At times like these, God gets mentioned in a variety of ways. How could God allow this? Why would God-fearing (whatever that means) people be struck twice? What is God's plan?
I have very little patience for questions like these. The God that I believe in tells me to just stay open, pay attention, and take care of those less fortunate. I want to stay open to real suffering like this. I want to feel a healthy sadness and to try to remember to be thankful for what I do have and to put my petty annoyances in perspective. I've been in a mini-hissy fit all afternoon because the power washer that I rented had 2 bad washers and a defective shut-off mechanism. Two articles in USA Today on the twister and I found the perspective. Oh, and the job got done.
I want to fully appreciate the incredible heroism that must have taken place yesterday. Children being rescued by complete strangers. Families separated and reunited. Pets being saved. I want to be present with every single person affected by this beast of a storm. I'd like us all to remember, as we're reminded for the umpteenth time, that we're all in this together.
Someday...
But it's another thing to be on the receiving end of one. Especially when it's an F4 tornado.
Tornadoes are as American as apple pie. Over 80% of the world's tornadoes occur in the USA.
I've never encountered a tornado up close and personal. I've come close. In July '89, a tornado in the New Haven CT area demolished part of a nearby neighborhood. 9 years later, April '98, tornadoes tore through my locale of Nashville, destroying part of downtown.
It's amazing how little we know about them. We don't know entirely why they form (although we do know how). We can't accurately predict its path, intensity, or even when they'll form, where they'll touch down, or how long they'll stay on the ground.
All this is a roundabout way of saying that I'm equally saddened and astounded at the devastation in Moore, OK yesterday. This wasn't your average tornado. It was an F4 or even an F5, F5 being a tornado with maximum devastation. It was also a mile wide; enormous compared to the normal 1/4 mile girth. In fact, an F5 tore through Moore 14 years ago, clocking the highest wind in recorded history, 303 mph.
Yesterday's tornado killed at least 51 people. Almost certainly a higher count by week's end. 2 schools leveled. Lives literally uprooted.
In a way, it's part of life in tornado alley. There are sirens, shelters, and the highest tornado awareness anywhere in the world. But how can anyone prepare for such an event? Especially when it's a monster?
I go back and forth on global warming, or change, or whatever the scientifically correct term is. Having studied meteorology, I'm surprised that I'm this ambivalent. But we've just gone through a brutally cold winter, and a cold spring so far. Not much in the way of warming. I'm not sure how to define climate change. Isn't the climate always changing? I have a close friend in California who denies such a thing exists. He acknowledges the extremes of the last 10 years but believes it's part of a larger, natural, cycle. He may be right.
On the other hand, we've had superstorms, super-tornadoes, record droughts in the midwest, a record blizzard in February, and other extremes, never seen before. This seems like a lot more than coincidence.
At times like these, God gets mentioned in a variety of ways. How could God allow this? Why would God-fearing (whatever that means) people be struck twice? What is God's plan?
I have very little patience for questions like these. The God that I believe in tells me to just stay open, pay attention, and take care of those less fortunate. I want to stay open to real suffering like this. I want to feel a healthy sadness and to try to remember to be thankful for what I do have and to put my petty annoyances in perspective. I've been in a mini-hissy fit all afternoon because the power washer that I rented had 2 bad washers and a defective shut-off mechanism. Two articles in USA Today on the twister and I found the perspective. Oh, and the job got done.
I want to fully appreciate the incredible heroism that must have taken place yesterday. Children being rescued by complete strangers. Families separated and reunited. Pets being saved. I want to be present with every single person affected by this beast of a storm. I'd like us all to remember, as we're reminded for the umpteenth time, that we're all in this together.
Someday...
Monday, May 13, 2013
The year of spending dangerously
First, a small update. Last week's blog sat in draft until a few minutes ago. Now published.
So, in what seems like an ethnic irony, I don't fit my stereotype. I'm like the clownfish in Finding Nemo, who's not very funny. Or like a person of color who's not athletic, an Asian who's not good at math, I'm an ethnic Jew who doesn't understand money. (Just to say this explicitly, I think all of these stereotypes are ridiculous...but they DO exist...Except for the clownfish. They're generally hilarious. And tasty, I might add.)
It wasn't always this way. I was always interested in how money works but I've never been self-disciplined enough to follow the path to wealth. And I admire those who do. I'm learning little by little but I'm 57 and it's getting late.
Thus, we come to our current year of 2013. A year in which the following happens, or has happened:
January: My son turned 25
February: My brother turned 60
March: My nephew turned 20
April: My uncle turned 80
May: Well...nothing. But it IS Mother's Day and I wanted to do something nice for GWCTRA.
June: I get a breather. (And I expect to be treated like a king for Father's Day. Hey...I've earned it)
July: My good friend Andy has a landmark. (I don't know if he wants me to say any more)
August: Another good friend, Andy's wife Diane also has a landmark. (And I REALLY don't know if she'd appreciate me saying any more)
September: My brother and sister in law celebrate their 25th anniversary.
October: GWCTRA has a birthday. Not a landmark, but it IS my 1st since we've met.
November: Speaking of which, GWCTRA and I celebrate our 1st anniversary, assuming she hasn't kicked my butt out the door before then.
December: It's MY birthday. And again, I expect everyone to be very, very, nice to me. Besides, it's now the holidays. Let me say up front...I'll be too broke to get you anything.
What kind of family planning is this? Didn't anyone central in my life consider how much this will cost me? And in 5 years, assuming I'm not in debtors prison, I'll have to do it all over again.
So, if you don't have any special occasions that began in a year ending in a 3 or an 8, give me a call. I'm sure this can be the start of a beautiful friendship. If you ARE in the "3" or "8" club, give me a call too. Just don't expect anything from me.
So, in what seems like an ethnic irony, I don't fit my stereotype. I'm like the clownfish in Finding Nemo, who's not very funny. Or like a person of color who's not athletic, an Asian who's not good at math, I'm an ethnic Jew who doesn't understand money. (Just to say this explicitly, I think all of these stereotypes are ridiculous...but they DO exist...Except for the clownfish. They're generally hilarious. And tasty, I might add.)
It wasn't always this way. I was always interested in how money works but I've never been self-disciplined enough to follow the path to wealth. And I admire those who do. I'm learning little by little but I'm 57 and it's getting late.
Thus, we come to our current year of 2013. A year in which the following happens, or has happened:
January: My son turned 25
February: My brother turned 60
March: My nephew turned 20
April: My uncle turned 80
May: Well...nothing. But it IS Mother's Day and I wanted to do something nice for GWCTRA.
June: I get a breather. (And I expect to be treated like a king for Father's Day. Hey...I've earned it)
July: My good friend Andy has a landmark. (I don't know if he wants me to say any more)
August: Another good friend, Andy's wife Diane also has a landmark. (And I REALLY don't know if she'd appreciate me saying any more)
September: My brother and sister in law celebrate their 25th anniversary.
October: GWCTRA has a birthday. Not a landmark, but it IS my 1st since we've met.
November: Speaking of which, GWCTRA and I celebrate our 1st anniversary, assuming she hasn't kicked my butt out the door before then.
December: It's MY birthday. And again, I expect everyone to be very, very, nice to me. Besides, it's now the holidays. Let me say up front...I'll be too broke to get you anything.
What kind of family planning is this? Didn't anyone central in my life consider how much this will cost me? And in 5 years, assuming I'm not in debtors prison, I'll have to do it all over again.
So, if you don't have any special occasions that began in a year ending in a 3 or an 8, give me a call. I'm sure this can be the start of a beautiful friendship. If you ARE in the "3" or "8" club, give me a call too. Just don't expect anything from me.
Let's hear it for catchers
First off, a shoutout to Mr. Germain. He was my Little League coach and a good guy. There I was, 10 years old, playing 2B with a mitt too small, and talent even smaller. At least as a second baseman. He saw this pudgy kid and said, "I think you might work out as catcher."
So, I put on the "tools of ignorance", aka the chest protector, the mask, the outsized (and outdated) catcher's glove, (the kind that was circular with a pocket in the middle), the shin pads, and off I went behind the plate. Catching Gene Bentz, the hardest thrower in little league. Easy job. All I had to worry about were foul tips, of which there were many.
I hated being a catcher at first. Up and down on every pitch. Putting on the gear and taking it off every inning, often in 80+ degree heat. But after a few innings, something happened. I really got into it. I loved thinking with the pitcher and the batter. Playing chess, except it was on a baseball field. It's the most demanding position in baseball. In fact, it's the most demanding position in any sport I can think of. What position in any sport calls for so many different skills? As a catcher, you need to:
It's no surprise that there are more ex-catchers as managers than any other position. Catchers are psychologists. So perhaps it's no surprise that I'm going into the social work profession, looking to become a therapist. Maybe it all began on the Little League diamond. Which, by the way, wasn't a diamond. They didn't have foul lines nor fences. So it wasn't so much a baseball diamond. More like a baseball polygon of some kind. I remember one of the rare times I got hold of a pitch and jacked it down the left field line. Umpire called it foul. There was no way he could see it clearly. Hell, there weren't any chalk lines to work off of. But I saw that ball. And it was fair, I still say.
Not only that, we were officially in the minor leagues. We were the Cubs, with little "Cub-like" jerseys and caps, in Cub blue. If you made it to the next level, you got the whole uniform thing. Pants with stirrups, cleated shoes, and much cooler jerseys and caps.
I never made it to the Little League "majors". Tried a few times but got cut each time. My brother, on the other hand, was really good. Played 1B and could hit for serious power. He was a Cincinnati Red, as I recall. I was way jealous of his uni. Still, the pain of being cut lasted only a day or two. As long as I could catch and be such a central part of the game, I was OK with it. And as a chubby 10 year old, I found the perfect position. Slow as molasses? No problem. A little overweight? Put on those tools, baby. Considered brainy in school? Squat down behind home plate, my man.
Catchers today are chiseled. I don't think pudgy catchers could make it to the pros. Some catchers of note:
1: Ivan "Pudge" Rodriguez, possibly the greatest all around catcher who ever played, wasn't pudgy. He had the greatest arm of any catcher I've ever seen. And was a phenomenal clutch hitter.
2: The Braves have a catcher, Evan Gattis, who could be an NFL linebacker. Absolutely the most menacing looking catcher I've ever seen.
3: Craig Biggio, who played all of his 20 years with the Houston Astros, started at catcher but was moved to 2B to preserve his knees, as he was the only catcher who was jackrabbit fast. He'll be almost certainly going into the Hall of Fame next year, his first year of eligibility.
4: Jerry Grote played his glory years with my NY Mets, catching the 1969 staff of Tom Seaver, et al. Grote wasn't great offensively but he called a great game and had a great arm.
5: Johnny Bench, considered by most to be the greatest catcher of all time, redefined the position on both offense and defense.
Catchers: They rock.
So, I put on the "tools of ignorance", aka the chest protector, the mask, the outsized (and outdated) catcher's glove, (the kind that was circular with a pocket in the middle), the shin pads, and off I went behind the plate. Catching Gene Bentz, the hardest thrower in little league. Easy job. All I had to worry about were foul tips, of which there were many.
I hated being a catcher at first. Up and down on every pitch. Putting on the gear and taking it off every inning, often in 80+ degree heat. But after a few innings, something happened. I really got into it. I loved thinking with the pitcher and the batter. Playing chess, except it was on a baseball field. It's the most demanding position in baseball. In fact, it's the most demanding position in any sport I can think of. What position in any sport calls for so many different skills? As a catcher, you need to:
- Hit, preferably for power but at least for average (I did neither, although I did have an ability to make contact and use the entire field)
- Have a good arm. (That, I did)
- Make sure the fielders are position properly. (I was pretty good at that too, actually)
- "Working" the umpire so you get the close calls. This calls for diplomacy, debating skills, and a bit of chicanery, such as framing a borderline pitch as a strike by how you position your glove. (Irrelevant in Little League. The umpires have absolute power.)
- And #1...work with the pitcher. That means calling the right pitches and knowing your pitcher. Is he laid back? Intense? Is he working too slowly? Too fast? (This was what I loved to do and what I did best, although Bentz was like Bob Gibson. Just let him pitch and don't even think of interrupting his rhythm.)
- Oh, and to do all these things while squatting down for half the game. If you catch 9 innings, you're probably catching around 120 pitches or so. So you're squatting/rising 120 times, perhaps 140 times a year if you're a starting catcher. How many people can do all this?
It's no surprise that there are more ex-catchers as managers than any other position. Catchers are psychologists. So perhaps it's no surprise that I'm going into the social work profession, looking to become a therapist. Maybe it all began on the Little League diamond. Which, by the way, wasn't a diamond. They didn't have foul lines nor fences. So it wasn't so much a baseball diamond. More like a baseball polygon of some kind. I remember one of the rare times I got hold of a pitch and jacked it down the left field line. Umpire called it foul. There was no way he could see it clearly. Hell, there weren't any chalk lines to work off of. But I saw that ball. And it was fair, I still say.
Not only that, we were officially in the minor leagues. We were the Cubs, with little "Cub-like" jerseys and caps, in Cub blue. If you made it to the next level, you got the whole uniform thing. Pants with stirrups, cleated shoes, and much cooler jerseys and caps.
I never made it to the Little League "majors". Tried a few times but got cut each time. My brother, on the other hand, was really good. Played 1B and could hit for serious power. He was a Cincinnati Red, as I recall. I was way jealous of his uni. Still, the pain of being cut lasted only a day or two. As long as I could catch and be such a central part of the game, I was OK with it. And as a chubby 10 year old, I found the perfect position. Slow as molasses? No problem. A little overweight? Put on those tools, baby. Considered brainy in school? Squat down behind home plate, my man.
Catchers today are chiseled. I don't think pudgy catchers could make it to the pros. Some catchers of note:
1: Ivan "Pudge" Rodriguez, possibly the greatest all around catcher who ever played, wasn't pudgy. He had the greatest arm of any catcher I've ever seen. And was a phenomenal clutch hitter.
2: The Braves have a catcher, Evan Gattis, who could be an NFL linebacker. Absolutely the most menacing looking catcher I've ever seen.
3: Craig Biggio, who played all of his 20 years with the Houston Astros, started at catcher but was moved to 2B to preserve his knees, as he was the only catcher who was jackrabbit fast. He'll be almost certainly going into the Hall of Fame next year, his first year of eligibility.
4: Jerry Grote played his glory years with my NY Mets, catching the 1969 staff of Tom Seaver, et al. Grote wasn't great offensively but he called a great game and had a great arm.
5: Johnny Bench, considered by most to be the greatest catcher of all time, redefined the position on both offense and defense.
Catchers: They rock.
Thursday, May 2, 2013
80
Since last week was a number, I figured I might as well keep it going.
80 refers to my uncle's recent birthday. We went up to his place in New Hampshire to celebrate. As I've mentioned many times, my uncle is the closest thing I have to a parent, having lost my mom when I was 13 and my dad when my mom was 7 months pregnant with me. He took me and my brother in because it was the right thing to do. If you were to ask him, he'd downplay it. But he in fact saved us from an orphanage and/or foster care. I thanked him in those early years by being an angry adolescent, testing his patience and probably everyone else around me. In addition, as a closeted (to me and my brother) gay man, he also had to go through hiding his orientation. Which was, strangely, the right thing to do at the time, considering how angry and homophobic I was.
Throughout the weekend, which went very very well, I had all kinds of inner dialogues and I learned a few things as well.
1: I have a self-destructive tendency to be responsible for everyone's happiness. Not a healthy thing, that. Especially given the mix of personalities, which consisted of my uncle, my girlfriend, my brother, who came all the way in from California, and my son, who came up from Washington DC. Keep in mind that I was the hub of the wheel, in the sense that, other than me, no one had spent significant time with anyone else. Was I nervous about how everyone would get along? Um...yeah. Not to worry. Everyone felt amazingly at home. There was enough laughter in one weekend to last for a year. Yet, my anxiety was through the roof, and remained that way until we left.
2: My son is funny enough to literally do stand up comedy, although his humor is more observational and might be better suited to writing. But he had us in stitches the whole weekend, just commenting on things.
3: My girlfriend (often referred to as GWCTRA, girlfriend who chooses to remain anonymous), who I already knew was a keeper, was amazing. It's as if she knew everyone for 20 years or more. That's how relaxed and comfortable she was. I am indeed a lucky man.
4: My brother, who I've had an up and down relationship with over the years, also was right at home. He was also funny, as well as gracious, erudite, and outspoken. Oh, and he picked up the tab for breakfast. Thanks, ZM! (My brother, real name Jeff, is aka "The ZenMaster")
5: My uncle may be 80 but has the mind of someone half his age. To call him "sharp" would actually be condescending, because he can hold his own intellectually and mentally with anyone. Oh, and he picked up the tab for dinner. Thanks, Uncle Ken!
6: Try as I might, my uncle and brother will never "get" my musical wiring. I wrote a song for my uncle's birthday which was well received, it seemed. But my expectations were probably unrealistically high. It's as if I thought I wrote another Somewhere Over The Rainbow. For them, music is "nice" and probably just "something I do". But it's never been understood. Music has been a friend and enemy to me over the years. Mostly the former. But I've also let it take me down financial and geographic roads that were not healthy. I learned that to try to force them to "get" me in this area is wasted energy. My energy is better spent loving and appreciating them for who they are rather than to resent this part of them. I'm not totally at peace with it but I'm working on it.
Why, then, the anxiety? Good question. Wish I had a good answer. I do know that on the last day, I couldn't wait to leave. It wasn't because of the company, or anything anyone did or said. It was just that I felt the room closing in on me. I felt naked and exposed, although no one in the room was there to judge me. There's ancient wisdom that says we fear success more than failure, as failure is familiar, while success is not. Maybe that has something to do with it.
This is something to discuss in therapy. But I do know that if I can make it to 80 and be half as sharp as my uncle, it'll be OK. My vision of me at 80:
1: To have GWCTRA with me, laughing, singing, kissing, and challenging me.
2: To have a continued strong relationship with my son. And that he'll be doing something he finds rewarding. And to keep our unique father-son dialogue going. Which is another way of saying; to laugh with him at stuff that no one else would "get" or find funny. And to be his #1 ear for things he probably wouldn't talk about with anyone else.
3: To have my brother, who'll be 83 at the time, still talking music, baseball, politics, and family stuff.
4: My uncle? Well, he'll be physically gone. But I believe people really do live on through others, when they pass on their kindness, compassion, humor, and grace. In that sense, he'll still be here.
Hey, maybe I should have retitled this "4". Because these are the 4 people that matter the most to me.
Thanks for reading.
80 refers to my uncle's recent birthday. We went up to his place in New Hampshire to celebrate. As I've mentioned many times, my uncle is the closest thing I have to a parent, having lost my mom when I was 13 and my dad when my mom was 7 months pregnant with me. He took me and my brother in because it was the right thing to do. If you were to ask him, he'd downplay it. But he in fact saved us from an orphanage and/or foster care. I thanked him in those early years by being an angry adolescent, testing his patience and probably everyone else around me. In addition, as a closeted (to me and my brother) gay man, he also had to go through hiding his orientation. Which was, strangely, the right thing to do at the time, considering how angry and homophobic I was.
Throughout the weekend, which went very very well, I had all kinds of inner dialogues and I learned a few things as well.
1: I have a self-destructive tendency to be responsible for everyone's happiness. Not a healthy thing, that. Especially given the mix of personalities, which consisted of my uncle, my girlfriend, my brother, who came all the way in from California, and my son, who came up from Washington DC. Keep in mind that I was the hub of the wheel, in the sense that, other than me, no one had spent significant time with anyone else. Was I nervous about how everyone would get along? Um...yeah. Not to worry. Everyone felt amazingly at home. There was enough laughter in one weekend to last for a year. Yet, my anxiety was through the roof, and remained that way until we left.
2: My son is funny enough to literally do stand up comedy, although his humor is more observational and might be better suited to writing. But he had us in stitches the whole weekend, just commenting on things.
3: My girlfriend (often referred to as GWCTRA, girlfriend who chooses to remain anonymous), who I already knew was a keeper, was amazing. It's as if she knew everyone for 20 years or more. That's how relaxed and comfortable she was. I am indeed a lucky man.
4: My brother, who I've had an up and down relationship with over the years, also was right at home. He was also funny, as well as gracious, erudite, and outspoken. Oh, and he picked up the tab for breakfast. Thanks, ZM! (My brother, real name Jeff, is aka "The ZenMaster")
5: My uncle may be 80 but has the mind of someone half his age. To call him "sharp" would actually be condescending, because he can hold his own intellectually and mentally with anyone. Oh, and he picked up the tab for dinner. Thanks, Uncle Ken!
6: Try as I might, my uncle and brother will never "get" my musical wiring. I wrote a song for my uncle's birthday which was well received, it seemed. But my expectations were probably unrealistically high. It's as if I thought I wrote another Somewhere Over The Rainbow. For them, music is "nice" and probably just "something I do". But it's never been understood. Music has been a friend and enemy to me over the years. Mostly the former. But I've also let it take me down financial and geographic roads that were not healthy. I learned that to try to force them to "get" me in this area is wasted energy. My energy is better spent loving and appreciating them for who they are rather than to resent this part of them. I'm not totally at peace with it but I'm working on it.
Why, then, the anxiety? Good question. Wish I had a good answer. I do know that on the last day, I couldn't wait to leave. It wasn't because of the company, or anything anyone did or said. It was just that I felt the room closing in on me. I felt naked and exposed, although no one in the room was there to judge me. There's ancient wisdom that says we fear success more than failure, as failure is familiar, while success is not. Maybe that has something to do with it.
This is something to discuss in therapy. But I do know that if I can make it to 80 and be half as sharp as my uncle, it'll be OK. My vision of me at 80:
1: To have GWCTRA with me, laughing, singing, kissing, and challenging me.
2: To have a continued strong relationship with my son. And that he'll be doing something he finds rewarding. And to keep our unique father-son dialogue going. Which is another way of saying; to laugh with him at stuff that no one else would "get" or find funny. And to be his #1 ear for things he probably wouldn't talk about with anyone else.
3: To have my brother, who'll be 83 at the time, still talking music, baseball, politics, and family stuff.
4: My uncle? Well, he'll be physically gone. But I believe people really do live on through others, when they pass on their kindness, compassion, humor, and grace. In that sense, he'll still be here.
Hey, maybe I should have retitled this "4". Because these are the 4 people that matter the most to me.
Thanks for reading.
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