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Friday, March 23, 2007
Monday, March 12, 2007
who does have it?
I spent the summer of 1994 covering the goings on of Boone County, Missouri. It was my auspicious beginning as a news reporter, working at the Columbia Missourian. We were a large staff for a small college town in the summer -- maybe 12 photographers along with a limitless score of news reporters from J140.
My first assignment involved the Boone County Fair, but that summer I would also find time to witness bigger things: Olympic Qualifying Games in St. Louis, the primary elections for County Commissioner. I remember writing an assignment on how fill flash and a red filter gave extra value to the readers who caught my coverage of the overturned port-a-potty on Route 65N. Yes, it was only the beginning.
But it was still summer in Mid-Missouri. That means being caught in a battle between the forces of heat and humidity, with an occasional respite for a flood or a tornado. I lived in a one bedroom apartment. It cost $265 per month with utilities. Like most, I had no air conditioner. Prayer is waiting for a breeze to cool your wet chest at 1 am in a Missouri June.
My granddad visited it once. Once he was back out in the air condish of the Cadillac, he let me know what he thought of it.
"A place for tramps!," he said, "What if your grandmother saw that? Come on!"
Actually, it was one of my better pied-a-terres in the Show-me-State. Certainly my basement apartment ($230 per month, free cable tv) in Marshall or my first place right next to I-70 (Jake Brakes no charge, rent $250 per month) could not compare. It even had a back yard and a front porch.
I followed a strict diet to keep up my energy for all of this reporting in the heat. That usually meant yogurt, granola, blueberries, honey, strawberries and about a quart of espresso for breakfast, followed by whatever they were serving at the Boone County Fair for lunch and then a few slices at Shakespeare's for dinner. I could eat for a week for under $50.
But I digress. The point of my story is the people I worked with. None of us actually came from Boone County, or even the Midwest. Short of two friends from Arkansas and St. Louis, we were a pretty bi-coastal crew. What we all shared was a curious passion for photography. Not just any kind of photography, but the photojournalism we saw in Aperture monographs of Roy Stryker or Robert Frank. I swooned for Eugene Richards. I had leafed through photos from the best years of Barney Cowherd.
We were young people with heroes.
Those heroes were real forces. We moved to the epicenter, and staked our young twenties not to the frivolity of a place like the tv show "Friends" but instead to at least two or three years in Columbia. That our initial sacrifice required further humiliation was hitting us all hard. Photography is a hard field to break into -- its not really work like a textile mill, almost anyone can learn to operate a digital camera, and it doesn't follow that someone with high SATs or an ordered mind will prove worthy of a job.
--
"Let's rent a movie," offered Sarah, always the leader in our group's social calendar. Sarah had a black coffee mug from Texaco that was taller than the length of her forearms. It could hold half a gallon of coffee. I think Sarah might have used that capacity a few times.
"Yeah," I said, "sounds great. We can meet over at my place and make a pasta before." I was real cool, not calling spaghetti by its grocery store name, but instead by my fancy waiter terminology. "A pasta..." Good thing I had "a pot" to cook in.
I put on water. Someone got a movie. The night was young.
Soon enough, Reggie, Thorne, Toby, Michael, Janet and Melina were there. I did have a television. It made a loud popping noise when you changed the channels. There was no remote. Someone had to get up. My apartment had a front porch with a swing and a back exit with a three step stoop. Because the stoop side was closer to the darkroom, most people came in through the back. It meant that you could leave both doors open and actually get a breeze.
After eating, we set down on my fold out bed to watch the film. We were decent people. Everyone took off their shoes. Sarah had socks with Mickey Mouse. They got some attention, but people were quickly taken with the enormity of my toe nails. It is true, they were big boys.
"Adam," said Thorne, "your feet are disgusting. "
"Ooh," said Sarah, turning impatient with my disgusting interruption, "I will not let you make me think about that!"
"No really, Adam," said Thorne, "what is the story here?"
These were friends, I felt like I could reason with them.
"My honest opinion," I said, and I know I said it but that doesn't mean I can explain it, " is that being in graduate school and all, with so many assignments, well, who really has the time, you know, to cut toenails?"
They promptly locked me out of my house. Someone threw some clippers out the back window.
My first assignment involved the Boone County Fair, but that summer I would also find time to witness bigger things: Olympic Qualifying Games in St. Louis, the primary elections for County Commissioner. I remember writing an assignment on how fill flash and a red filter gave extra value to the readers who caught my coverage of the overturned port-a-potty on Route 65N. Yes, it was only the beginning.
But it was still summer in Mid-Missouri. That means being caught in a battle between the forces of heat and humidity, with an occasional respite for a flood or a tornado. I lived in a one bedroom apartment. It cost $265 per month with utilities. Like most, I had no air conditioner. Prayer is waiting for a breeze to cool your wet chest at 1 am in a Missouri June.
My granddad visited it once. Once he was back out in the air condish of the Cadillac, he let me know what he thought of it.
"A place for tramps!," he said, "What if your grandmother saw that? Come on!"
Actually, it was one of my better pied-a-terres in the Show-me-State. Certainly my basement apartment ($230 per month, free cable tv) in Marshall or my first place right next to I-70 (Jake Brakes no charge, rent $250 per month) could not compare. It even had a back yard and a front porch.
I followed a strict diet to keep up my energy for all of this reporting in the heat. That usually meant yogurt, granola, blueberries, honey, strawberries and about a quart of espresso for breakfast, followed by whatever they were serving at the Boone County Fair for lunch and then a few slices at Shakespeare's for dinner. I could eat for a week for under $50.
But I digress. The point of my story is the people I worked with. None of us actually came from Boone County, or even the Midwest. Short of two friends from Arkansas and St. Louis, we were a pretty bi-coastal crew. What we all shared was a curious passion for photography. Not just any kind of photography, but the photojournalism we saw in Aperture monographs of Roy Stryker or Robert Frank. I swooned for Eugene Richards. I had leafed through photos from the best years of Barney Cowherd.
We were young people with heroes.
Those heroes were real forces. We moved to the epicenter, and staked our young twenties not to the frivolity of a place like the tv show "Friends" but instead to at least two or three years in Columbia. That our initial sacrifice required further humiliation was hitting us all hard. Photography is a hard field to break into -- its not really work like a textile mill, almost anyone can learn to operate a digital camera, and it doesn't follow that someone with high SATs or an ordered mind will prove worthy of a job.
--
"Let's rent a movie," offered Sarah, always the leader in our group's social calendar. Sarah had a black coffee mug from Texaco that was taller than the length of her forearms. It could hold half a gallon of coffee. I think Sarah might have used that capacity a few times.
"Yeah," I said, "sounds great. We can meet over at my place and make a pasta before." I was real cool, not calling spaghetti by its grocery store name, but instead by my fancy waiter terminology. "A pasta..." Good thing I had "a pot" to cook in.
I put on water. Someone got a movie. The night was young.
Soon enough, Reggie, Thorne, Toby, Michael, Janet and Melina were there. I did have a television. It made a loud popping noise when you changed the channels. There was no remote. Someone had to get up. My apartment had a front porch with a swing and a back exit with a three step stoop. Because the stoop side was closer to the darkroom, most people came in through the back. It meant that you could leave both doors open and actually get a breeze.
After eating, we set down on my fold out bed to watch the film. We were decent people. Everyone took off their shoes. Sarah had socks with Mickey Mouse. They got some attention, but people were quickly taken with the enormity of my toe nails. It is true, they were big boys.
"Adam," said Thorne, "your feet are disgusting. "
"Ooh," said Sarah, turning impatient with my disgusting interruption, "I will not let you make me think about that!"
"No really, Adam," said Thorne, "what is the story here?"
These were friends, I felt like I could reason with them.
"My honest opinion," I said, and I know I said it but that doesn't mean I can explain it, " is that being in graduate school and all, with so many assignments, well, who really has the time, you know, to cut toenails?"
They promptly locked me out of my house. Someone threw some clippers out the back window.
Saturday, March 10, 2007
Slices
In Fairfield, you had two choices for Pizza: Mike's and Luigi's.
Mike has a small shop. It butts out of a parking lot on the Post Road. It shares space in a commercial building with a trading card store and a watch repairman. It is very small - four tables lined up against each wall. At the end of the corridor created by those tables is a counter. In the 30 years that span my visits to Mike's, the walls have never grown out of their wood paneling. To this day, the decor still consists of an RC Cola sign and a ficus plant. The ficus plant is about to die.
Mike made great pizza. He had a lot to learn about customers.
There was only one door. It served as the vent for the oven at the opposite end of the building. Diners were caught in the cross wind. You could drink extra RC to slake the thirst from the dry air. You'd have to buy that, Mike didn't do any refills.
When you come in, you don't notice all of that decor because you immediately notice that Mike is already glaring at you. Like, as if you are just another one of those kids come over from the trading card shop, just want to loiter good for nothing in my shop again. Are you going to order, or what?" is what I think he means to say.
I am a macher. I can make it happen. I will order.
The sausage, in my opinion, stands out. No matter what you order, you get that crust. It must be made with a lot of egg, because it is very thick yet also very crisp. Couple that with loads of mozarrella and you have a great slice. I would say that each slice probably ships 500 calories across your tongue -- to eat a pie would sate most for two days or more.
Mike had these wide forearms. If it wasn't for the kudzu-like black hair adorning them, you might miss them. I suppose the effect is like kudzu-in-winter: they remain under several layers of flour.
Here I am, consuming pounds of cheese, slowly drying out while sipping on a twelve ounce can of RC.
I want to tell Mike that I relish his pizza from my youth. I wonder how I can let him know that a visit to Mike's was the respite against the harrowing days of middle school. I want to tell Mike that I ate my best pies ever, here, with my Dad.
"You know, it is great you have had this place all these years..." I begin to say.
"Yeah," says Mike, "great to who?" He turns around. "This guy thinks his five dollars gets him a shoulder to cry on," he says to the assistant in the back, also covered with more of the same flour. "What do you want? Another RC?"
--
Every year Mike went on a summer vacation for two or three weeks. The sign would say "Closed," as if that was normal for a restaurant. I suppose Mike could have hired an employee to make the pies while he was gone, but Mike didn't work that way. Mike had a sisyphian-burden.
Luigi was the opposite. There were waiters at Luigi's. There was air conditioning. You could get mints and toothpicks after you paid your bill at Luigi's. You could get refills. A waiter would bring them.
Luigi always made Perfectly Normal Pizza. It had a thin crust and the cheese was a little greasy. You could get pasta or salad or things like antipasto, too. There were forty tables at least in his store. The oven was in the back. We never went there. Why?
Today, Mike is still breaking his back making pizza. I have never met Luigi. His store has its own parking lot now, and I think he opened a second restaurant in Black Rock. I think Luigi probably made so much money that he never even has to come to work.
--
Today (March 10), the first tulip bloom appeared in our yard.
Mike has a small shop. It butts out of a parking lot on the Post Road. It shares space in a commercial building with a trading card store and a watch repairman. It is very small - four tables lined up against each wall. At the end of the corridor created by those tables is a counter. In the 30 years that span my visits to Mike's, the walls have never grown out of their wood paneling. To this day, the decor still consists of an RC Cola sign and a ficus plant. The ficus plant is about to die.
Mike made great pizza. He had a lot to learn about customers.
There was only one door. It served as the vent for the oven at the opposite end of the building. Diners were caught in the cross wind. You could drink extra RC to slake the thirst from the dry air. You'd have to buy that, Mike didn't do any refills.
When you come in, you don't notice all of that decor because you immediately notice that Mike is already glaring at you. Like, as if you are just another one of those kids come over from the trading card shop, just want to loiter good for nothing in my shop again. Are you going to order, or what?" is what I think he means to say.
I am a macher. I can make it happen. I will order.
The sausage, in my opinion, stands out. No matter what you order, you get that crust. It must be made with a lot of egg, because it is very thick yet also very crisp. Couple that with loads of mozarrella and you have a great slice. I would say that each slice probably ships 500 calories across your tongue -- to eat a pie would sate most for two days or more.
Mike had these wide forearms. If it wasn't for the kudzu-like black hair adorning them, you might miss them. I suppose the effect is like kudzu-in-winter: they remain under several layers of flour.
Here I am, consuming pounds of cheese, slowly drying out while sipping on a twelve ounce can of RC.
I want to tell Mike that I relish his pizza from my youth. I wonder how I can let him know that a visit to Mike's was the respite against the harrowing days of middle school. I want to tell Mike that I ate my best pies ever, here, with my Dad.
"You know, it is great you have had this place all these years..." I begin to say.
"Yeah," says Mike, "great to who?" He turns around. "This guy thinks his five dollars gets him a shoulder to cry on," he says to the assistant in the back, also covered with more of the same flour. "What do you want? Another RC?"
--
Every year Mike went on a summer vacation for two or three weeks. The sign would say "Closed," as if that was normal for a restaurant. I suppose Mike could have hired an employee to make the pies while he was gone, but Mike didn't work that way. Mike had a sisyphian-burden.
Luigi was the opposite. There were waiters at Luigi's. There was air conditioning. You could get mints and toothpicks after you paid your bill at Luigi's. You could get refills. A waiter would bring them.
Luigi always made Perfectly Normal Pizza. It had a thin crust and the cheese was a little greasy. You could get pasta or salad or things like antipasto, too. There were forty tables at least in his store. The oven was in the back. We never went there. Why?
Today, Mike is still breaking his back making pizza. I have never met Luigi. His store has its own parking lot now, and I think he opened a second restaurant in Black Rock. I think Luigi probably made so much money that he never even has to come to work.
--
Today (March 10), the first tulip bloom appeared in our yard.
Thursday, February 15, 2007
I see yellow on your belt
This morning: "Maybe what would be best is if you could get him to channel his energy into something like karate," says Louise.
--
It could hardly be a different diagnosis than the one that led me to martial arts twenty five years ago. I was the kid who was getting bullied, usually by either Alec or Matt, at Fairfield Country Day.
The solution was Mas Oyama, the worlds' most powerful practitioner of martial arts. Actually, I did not train under the master himself. I suppose he was busy. I trained with the guys who had decided they wanted to be like Mas Oyama. It should have been an omen, but who reads school mottoes: It was not "to serve, not to be served," or "in truth there is life," but to learn 'techniques that would be good in a real fight."
My mom would drive me down to the martial arts center after we got out of school. Country Day let out at 4:30, so that was already pretty late. It took 20 minutes to get to the dingy corner of Tunxis Hill where the pack of Oyama fighters trained. You parked in the front, then ascended some concrete steps that wrapped around the building and reached an entrance on the second floor in the back. There was a drainage ditch running just past the door, from the Cal-Dor parking lot up on the hill. The drive down would go something like this:
"Mom, I've been thinking that maybe I'm not meant for martial arts."
"Well, you can finish the 26 lessons we paid for, and then you can drop it. What about Matt and Alec?"
I had no defense against the dual logic of spent costs and genuine need.
"I don't think I'm that worried about Matt and Alec anymore," I persevered, "but I could maybe quit now." I tried another gambit:
"I wouldn't mind coming home straight from school."
My mom would not be listening anymore. She'd pipe up: "Did you see that crazy driver?" then go back to charting our Jeep Wagoneer on its unchangeable course to the second floor torture den.
I was always a white belt. I have seen kids getting yellow and green belts, nowadays, but the world is softer. Grade inflation, green belts, its all part of the same illusion. White belt until you can go a minute against the instructor. That's the rule.
Our instructor never spoke to us directly. We repeated the same workout every time. But when he looked at me, I could tell that he was thinking about a belt.
"Ha," I bet he was thinking. "You can think about a belt stained with yellow. You surely have a lot of yellow stains. Your mommy can help you with that."
He was like that because his mentor, Mas Oyama, was tough. He killed three bulls. He chopped the horns off of forty nine others. Oyama had a technique, the "Godhand," where he could break the fists of any one who hits his bicep.
Class consisted of learning a few basic kicks and a arm swirl that was ended with a punch. That was fine. I could do that. Then we'd spend the last few minutes of the lesson working as a group to conquer the wanna-be Mas Oyama.
That was a problem. If your goal was wanting to be Mas Oyama, spitting nails was only a beginning. His philosophy was "One Strike, Certain Death," if that helps to frame a picture of the situation. When he wasn't fighting bulls, Mas Oyama would fight men in succession. In the 1950s, he fought over 300 challengers during three straight days, one at a time.
So that is what we did. All twelve kids would simultaneously take on the instructor, who was taking us on with Oyama's spirit in his heart.
It was a bit like All Quiet on the Western Front. We were comrades. My ally was Cam. Cam was from my neighborhood. He'd been bullied by the same enemies. He was also my size. But we both realized our fear had gotten us into bigger trouble now. We were together, if only because we were equally struck with terror.
We made a deal: Cam, I'll kick the instructor. You approach from the other side. Maybe one of us will hit a kidney.
I approach. I rock back, bringing my leg up and flexing my knee. It is the basic kick he has taught us for a month now. I guess he sees it coming. It might have been a laugh, or some kind of primal scream. Something like a guffaw comes out of his mouth, his first words that I feel are directed at me. The instructor grabs my instep and locks my thigh against his tricep. At this point, my kneecap is torqued backwards. I hop on my other foot, hoping to maintain a straight posture so that I won't crack it against the steel of his arm.
Its over in a second. He spins me, then lifts and throws me to the floor. I think this is known as The Flying Triangle Choke.
Gradually, the game would get more serious. I think we did it at the end so that lessons would end promptly. Our hope was not armistice, but rather the appearance of one of those Jeep Wagoneers or Plymouth Volares that heralded at least another two days of healing. Oh, let me just do some Algebra!
The Wagoneer came bit after seven. My dad liked to eat dinner at six. It didn't always have to be at six. He was willing to eat at 6:05, too. By then, the instructor would be sated with his devastation of our motley band of middle schoolers. But I hid anyway. I mean, he could always come back.
"What's the matter," mom would say when she arrived, "why are you lying on the floor underneath that sack of sweaty towels? Did you take your pills?"
--
About Alec and Matt, I did do some weight lifting next year. Alec became a lacrosse player at a Methodist University in the South. I learned to wrestle. That is a great sport.
--
It could hardly be a different diagnosis than the one that led me to martial arts twenty five years ago. I was the kid who was getting bullied, usually by either Alec or Matt, at Fairfield Country Day.
The solution was Mas Oyama, the worlds' most powerful practitioner of martial arts. Actually, I did not train under the master himself. I suppose he was busy. I trained with the guys who had decided they wanted to be like Mas Oyama. It should have been an omen, but who reads school mottoes: It was not "to serve, not to be served," or "in truth there is life," but to learn 'techniques that would be good in a real fight."
My mom would drive me down to the martial arts center after we got out of school. Country Day let out at 4:30, so that was already pretty late. It took 20 minutes to get to the dingy corner of Tunxis Hill where the pack of Oyama fighters trained. You parked in the front, then ascended some concrete steps that wrapped around the building and reached an entrance on the second floor in the back. There was a drainage ditch running just past the door, from the Cal-Dor parking lot up on the hill. The drive down would go something like this:
"Mom, I've been thinking that maybe I'm not meant for martial arts."
"Well, you can finish the 26 lessons we paid for, and then you can drop it. What about Matt and Alec?"
I had no defense against the dual logic of spent costs and genuine need.
"I don't think I'm that worried about Matt and Alec anymore," I persevered, "but I could maybe quit now." I tried another gambit:
"I wouldn't mind coming home straight from school."
My mom would not be listening anymore. She'd pipe up: "Did you see that crazy driver?" then go back to charting our Jeep Wagoneer on its unchangeable course to the second floor torture den.
I was always a white belt. I have seen kids getting yellow and green belts, nowadays, but the world is softer. Grade inflation, green belts, its all part of the same illusion. White belt until you can go a minute against the instructor. That's the rule.
Our instructor never spoke to us directly. We repeated the same workout every time. But when he looked at me, I could tell that he was thinking about a belt.
"Ha," I bet he was thinking. "You can think about a belt stained with yellow. You surely have a lot of yellow stains. Your mommy can help you with that."
He was like that because his mentor, Mas Oyama, was tough. He killed three bulls. He chopped the horns off of forty nine others. Oyama had a technique, the "Godhand," where he could break the fists of any one who hits his bicep.
Class consisted of learning a few basic kicks and a arm swirl that was ended with a punch. That was fine. I could do that. Then we'd spend the last few minutes of the lesson working as a group to conquer the wanna-be Mas Oyama.
That was a problem. If your goal was wanting to be Mas Oyama, spitting nails was only a beginning. His philosophy was "One Strike, Certain Death," if that helps to frame a picture of the situation. When he wasn't fighting bulls, Mas Oyama would fight men in succession. In the 1950s, he fought over 300 challengers during three straight days, one at a time.
So that is what we did. All twelve kids would simultaneously take on the instructor, who was taking us on with Oyama's spirit in his heart.
It was a bit like All Quiet on the Western Front. We were comrades. My ally was Cam. Cam was from my neighborhood. He'd been bullied by the same enemies. He was also my size. But we both realized our fear had gotten us into bigger trouble now. We were together, if only because we were equally struck with terror.
We made a deal: Cam, I'll kick the instructor. You approach from the other side. Maybe one of us will hit a kidney.
I approach. I rock back, bringing my leg up and flexing my knee. It is the basic kick he has taught us for a month now. I guess he sees it coming. It might have been a laugh, or some kind of primal scream. Something like a guffaw comes out of his mouth, his first words that I feel are directed at me. The instructor grabs my instep and locks my thigh against his tricep. At this point, my kneecap is torqued backwards. I hop on my other foot, hoping to maintain a straight posture so that I won't crack it against the steel of his arm.
Its over in a second. He spins me, then lifts and throws me to the floor. I think this is known as The Flying Triangle Choke.
Gradually, the game would get more serious. I think we did it at the end so that lessons would end promptly. Our hope was not armistice, but rather the appearance of one of those Jeep Wagoneers or Plymouth Volares that heralded at least another two days of healing. Oh, let me just do some Algebra!
The Wagoneer came bit after seven. My dad liked to eat dinner at six. It didn't always have to be at six. He was willing to eat at 6:05, too. By then, the instructor would be sated with his devastation of our motley band of middle schoolers. But I hid anyway. I mean, he could always come back.
"What's the matter," mom would say when she arrived, "why are you lying on the floor underneath that sack of sweaty towels? Did you take your pills?"
--
About Alec and Matt, I did do some weight lifting next year. Alec became a lacrosse player at a Methodist University in the South. I learned to wrestle. That is a great sport.
Tuesday, December 12, 2006
nifty guy
I am a nifty guy. The kind of nifty guy who demands a superb handheld communication device.
Yep, I must admit, those shiny treos and blackberries have been catching my eye for quite some time. Now they are nifty. They don't just make calls, they have calendars, they have sotware, they've got a whole bunch of stuff. Some of it, I don't even care about -- like maybe I can do without sending emails. I need a calendar, though. Carrying around a thick dateminder is fine, but why have both a phone and a calendar? Why not be nifty?
I'm not one to be caught paying too much for something like that, though. I prefer to spot a value. I found just such a value, on a blackberry 6710, on ebay. I think I paid $19.
Now, unfortunately, it is hard to set up a blackberry. You have to attach your serial port connector to the scsi device, and then attach a series of chargers, before establishing your pop3 connection. Ugh, I hate it. So when my blackberry came, i let it sit there.
I am going on a trip tomorrow, though, so I need my phone. I had to get down to business. I open up the box. Its been up in my office/smelly workout clothes room for quite some time. Its in a box, next to my We are the World Live Aid album. (You have one, too, right? With Lionel Richie and Kenny Rogers?) I open it, and immediately I see that this is going to be harder than I wanted. It has battery chargers for the handheld port and for travel, and the chargers have four different outlet choices -- US, UK, European, and, I don't know. The only one I can figure out is the handheld port charger. I install it in my computer. It has to go through the serial port connector, pretty fancy.
It powers up. There's a little lcd picture of an hourglass. That's a good sign. My blackberry is that it has an amazing keyborad. It has the entire qwerty set up. Deluxe. Funny, I bet there is going to have to be some strange method for dialing numbers. Or that I have to enter the numbers and then save them as names. That is going to be a real hassle with no numbers. Back to the manual.
Whoever wrote this manual, they deserve to read their own dreck. Yech. "A wireless email solution", what is that? Right, I know its got email, that's nice, but it does a hundred other things. Like make phone calls. Where is that section? I page through. Gee you can send emails or recieve them or set up forwarding. Great, but I want to make phone calls. Oh here it is--list of applications, page 21.
The blackberry 6710 provides a variety of email choices.
Er, no phone.
If you ever find a value like this, with your own nifty guy instincts, tell me.
Yep, I must admit, those shiny treos and blackberries have been catching my eye for quite some time. Now they are nifty. They don't just make calls, they have calendars, they have sotware, they've got a whole bunch of stuff. Some of it, I don't even care about -- like maybe I can do without sending emails. I need a calendar, though. Carrying around a thick dateminder is fine, but why have both a phone and a calendar? Why not be nifty?
I'm not one to be caught paying too much for something like that, though. I prefer to spot a value. I found just such a value, on a blackberry 6710, on ebay. I think I paid $19.
Now, unfortunately, it is hard to set up a blackberry. You have to attach your serial port connector to the scsi device, and then attach a series of chargers, before establishing your pop3 connection. Ugh, I hate it. So when my blackberry came, i let it sit there.
I am going on a trip tomorrow, though, so I need my phone. I had to get down to business. I open up the box. Its been up in my office/smelly workout clothes room for quite some time. Its in a box, next to my We are the World Live Aid album. (You have one, too, right? With Lionel Richie and Kenny Rogers?) I open it, and immediately I see that this is going to be harder than I wanted. It has battery chargers for the handheld port and for travel, and the chargers have four different outlet choices -- US, UK, European, and, I don't know. The only one I can figure out is the handheld port charger. I install it in my computer. It has to go through the serial port connector, pretty fancy.
It powers up. There's a little lcd picture of an hourglass. That's a good sign. My blackberry is that it has an amazing keyborad. It has the entire qwerty set up. Deluxe. Funny, I bet there is going to have to be some strange method for dialing numbers. Or that I have to enter the numbers and then save them as names. That is going to be a real hassle with no numbers. Back to the manual.
Whoever wrote this manual, they deserve to read their own dreck. Yech. "A wireless email solution", what is that? Right, I know its got email, that's nice, but it does a hundred other things. Like make phone calls. Where is that section? I page through. Gee you can send emails or recieve them or set up forwarding. Great, but I want to make phone calls. Oh here it is--list of applications, page 21.
The blackberry 6710 provides a variety of email choices.
Er, no phone.
If you ever find a value like this, with your own nifty guy instincts, tell me.
Wednesday, December 06, 2006
what a son
John punches in the numbers on the phone. He's calling a cousin -- not only dialing himself but pretty much handling the conversation.
"Blake -- This is John Rust. Maybe I can come over to your house, or we could go to the beach. No, not today. Maybe this summer."
---
At dinner lately, we've been praying for a few people. Emma is one of them. Tonight John led the prayer:
Thank you God, for good things, for all you do.
And for good food.
I love what you do.
Thank you for the buildings, and the telephone wires, and the choirs.
Thank you for the parking lots, and astronauts, and the car.
Help me to be a good boy.
"Blake -- This is John Rust. Maybe I can come over to your house, or we could go to the beach. No, not today. Maybe this summer."
---
At dinner lately, we've been praying for a few people. Emma is one of them. Tonight John led the prayer:
Thank you God, for good things, for all you do.
And for good food.
I love what you do.
Thank you for the buildings, and the telephone wires, and the choirs.
Thank you for the parking lots, and astronauts, and the car.
Help me to be a good boy.
I've been misquoted
"Help me. Anyone will do," says the reporter. He is definitely desperate: "You'll do fine. I just need a comment about this proposal from the banking commissioner."
Its 4:10 pm on a Friday. I can believe that anyone will do.
"Its a guideline, not a law. Do you think this will stop a predatory broker?"
Hmmm...I guess I can answer that.
"Well, I suppose its not going to stop brokers so much as other people, who are less incentived by volume. Right, it might influence investors holding the mortgages long-term, it might influence perception of these products. Definitely, it makes sense for the commissioner to be worried about this, because there's a safety and soundness issue."
So in the paper, it runs:
A critic at the Community Reinvestment Association of North Carolina says, "Its not going to stop brokers."
---
I was upset. I found myself seeking empathy from some prisoners during a conversation at Orange County Prison later that night.
I asked Alvin and Alexander if they ever got made to look bad for something that they really didn't mean.
"Nope, not me," says Alexander. "Just got to keep your head down," added Alvin.
Great. Not even prisoners are willing to think that they ever get a bad rap.
Its 4:10 pm on a Friday. I can believe that anyone will do.
"Its a guideline, not a law. Do you think this will stop a predatory broker?"
Hmmm...I guess I can answer that.
"Well, I suppose its not going to stop brokers so much as other people, who are less incentived by volume. Right, it might influence investors holding the mortgages long-term, it might influence perception of these products. Definitely, it makes sense for the commissioner to be worried about this, because there's a safety and soundness issue."
So in the paper, it runs:
A critic at the Community Reinvestment Association of North Carolina says, "Its not going to stop brokers."
---
I was upset. I found myself seeking empathy from some prisoners during a conversation at Orange County Prison later that night.
I asked Alvin and Alexander if they ever got made to look bad for something that they really didn't mean.
"Nope, not me," says Alexander. "Just got to keep your head down," added Alvin.
Great. Not even prisoners are willing to think that they ever get a bad rap.
Tuesday, November 21, 2006
An onrushing car
When Susie and I sought to adopt, the agency required us to go to several training sessions for new parents. The content focused on basic skills that everyone should know. We learned how to resuscitate an infant, how to remove food from a choking baby's mouth, even how to change diapers. Some of it was laughably redundant with common sense.
During one of those sessions, we listened to the words of a mother who had adopted her son about two years ago. She was playing an important role in encouraging us. Many parents carry a lot of fear and self-doubt into adoption, having been conditions by other setbacks. It does not help when foreign countries put up a warren of regulations.
"There is nothing I wouldn't do for my baby," she said to us. "I know you will be like me. It takes time, but I know I would jump in front of an onrushing car to save him. I know it more than I know anything else."
"Uh," I thought, "I'll wait to see that!" I really did not feel that way.
You have to realize that at the time, I had never met John. Any parent who hears this would have to do a doubletake. But, remember, I was not a parent. I had not yet fallen for his bravado, his endless chatter and his earnest goodness.
Think about what she is saying. This is not just any test of parental duty. It is about the depth of parental love. She is talking about a split second reaction. She is talking about maybe dying for your child. Maybe dying for a cause that might not even save anyone. See the danger, step out and stop it, damn the risks. It is an attitude that says, 'Any cost is worth my child.' It is why no one believed Susan Smith.
I heard what that parent said in Greensboro at the adoption agency. I did not really believe it. That is what she was saying, and on that day in the late fall of 2003. I just was not feeling it. What I thought was that, yes, there was a lot I would do, but dying for an uncertain result? I doubted that she would do it, like the way I doubt it when people tell you that they loved the place setting or that they will call more often.
I am glad to say that time has given me some new perspective. I think my children have taught me a lot. This is one of those things.
This morning, I woke up late. It was almost eight. The sun was out. The day was starting. It was time to 'get with the program!' But I couldn't get going, because it was too special. As I awakened, I realized that there were four of us in our bed. John, myself, Rosie, Susie. Its a king size bed now, but with Rosie sprawled out perpendicular to the rest of us, there's not a lot of room. I guess she does that so that she can simultaneosly keep me at a distance from Susie.
I love these kind of mornings. Maybe it goes back to my own childhood. When I was John's age, I remember the radiant heat from my parent's soft sheets. More radiant than anything. More radiant than even the furnace vent at the landing of our home. In those memories, my dad is always grumbling as he gets up on the other side of the bed. My mom would stroke my earlobes. So now, I pass on that love. And it radiates back, warmly.
--
My brother jumped into the shore line of a lake in Missouri, wanting to save my son, who had fallen from a dock to the water. It was maybe 18 inches deep. John had on a life jacket. He was ok. But Tyler felt that fear, and he didn't doubt what he had to do. It was the feeling that John was in danger.
I would jump in front of that car. More and more, I realize the smallness of my life, the insignificance of any of my particular accomplishments. When I am gone, some things will find new life and a lot of things will just slip away. My children will stay. My career, will that really create a legacy? No, I don't think so.
--
But now I have another thought about that onrushing car. I feel the pull that send to jam your shoulder into the corner of those headlights. Anything that gives them the chance to survive. But what if a big hurt was rushing on to your child, and you could do nothing to stop him from being hit? No matter how much you wanted to? What then? What would it feel like to have that mission embedded in your spirit, and be unable to respond?
During one of those sessions, we listened to the words of a mother who had adopted her son about two years ago. She was playing an important role in encouraging us. Many parents carry a lot of fear and self-doubt into adoption, having been conditions by other setbacks. It does not help when foreign countries put up a warren of regulations.
"There is nothing I wouldn't do for my baby," she said to us. "I know you will be like me. It takes time, but I know I would jump in front of an onrushing car to save him. I know it more than I know anything else."
"Uh," I thought, "I'll wait to see that!" I really did not feel that way.
You have to realize that at the time, I had never met John. Any parent who hears this would have to do a doubletake. But, remember, I was not a parent. I had not yet fallen for his bravado, his endless chatter and his earnest goodness.
Think about what she is saying. This is not just any test of parental duty. It is about the depth of parental love. She is talking about a split second reaction. She is talking about maybe dying for your child. Maybe dying for a cause that might not even save anyone. See the danger, step out and stop it, damn the risks. It is an attitude that says, 'Any cost is worth my child.' It is why no one believed Susan Smith.
I heard what that parent said in Greensboro at the adoption agency. I did not really believe it. That is what she was saying, and on that day in the late fall of 2003. I just was not feeling it. What I thought was that, yes, there was a lot I would do, but dying for an uncertain result? I doubted that she would do it, like the way I doubt it when people tell you that they loved the place setting or that they will call more often.
I am glad to say that time has given me some new perspective. I think my children have taught me a lot. This is one of those things.
This morning, I woke up late. It was almost eight. The sun was out. The day was starting. It was time to 'get with the program!' But I couldn't get going, because it was too special. As I awakened, I realized that there were four of us in our bed. John, myself, Rosie, Susie. Its a king size bed now, but with Rosie sprawled out perpendicular to the rest of us, there's not a lot of room. I guess she does that so that she can simultaneosly keep me at a distance from Susie.
I love these kind of mornings. Maybe it goes back to my own childhood. When I was John's age, I remember the radiant heat from my parent's soft sheets. More radiant than anything. More radiant than even the furnace vent at the landing of our home. In those memories, my dad is always grumbling as he gets up on the other side of the bed. My mom would stroke my earlobes. So now, I pass on that love. And it radiates back, warmly.
--
My brother jumped into the shore line of a lake in Missouri, wanting to save my son, who had fallen from a dock to the water. It was maybe 18 inches deep. John had on a life jacket. He was ok. But Tyler felt that fear, and he didn't doubt what he had to do. It was the feeling that John was in danger.
I would jump in front of that car. More and more, I realize the smallness of my life, the insignificance of any of my particular accomplishments. When I am gone, some things will find new life and a lot of things will just slip away. My children will stay. My career, will that really create a legacy? No, I don't think so.
--
But now I have another thought about that onrushing car. I feel the pull that send to jam your shoulder into the corner of those headlights. Anything that gives them the chance to survive. But what if a big hurt was rushing on to your child, and you could do nothing to stop him from being hit? No matter how much you wanted to? What then? What would it feel like to have that mission embedded in your spirit, and be unable to respond?
Saturday, November 04, 2006
halloween
This is where I stand on Halloween candy. Get a lot. Save most of it. Eat it judiciously.
I collected and stored candy in a pillowcase with a draw string. The pillowcase had blue and red stripes. I think this is a tradition that has fed away. Now people use plastic jack-o-lantern tubs. Anyway, my pillowcase stayed under my bed. That was for security. I would triage my candy. I ate the jawbreakers right away. They were of no consequence. So too with the pez, an incredibly overrated candy. The baby ruth mattered. A bed of nougat laden with peanuts in a bath of chocolate. The baby ruth was eaten last. Often it was never consumed, but thrown out in a fit of parental oversight. "you cannot eat that, it will make you sick." And so it was never eaten, but truly savored.
My sister was able to save her candy as well. She kept hers somewhere in her room. I do not know where. It was the princess room and I was a foreigner there, given only an occasional visa to its environs.
I know Gretchen saved her candy well, though, because it was still in the house on one fateful Thanksgiving dinner with The Binghams. The Binghams lived about two miles away. We went to church with them. I think their son, Tyler, went to school with my brother. Tyler Bingham was perfect. Well, not as perfect as Bruce Balastier. Obviously. But still, pretty close to that standard and certainly a more ideal expression of the good son than myself or my brother. I think he had an acolyte collar on him that day, actually. Did I mention he was a great alto in the choir? I am sure you already heard that from my mother. Anyway, so Tyler is perfect but he had a sister, much older, who I had never met before but who came to dinner that year. I think she was somewhere between 17 and 30. Being about 10, it was hard to tell.
In our house, Thanksgiving dinner was as much about method as about content. The point was to eat in as long and drawn out a fashion as posssible. Dinner might last about 150 minutes. You were not supposed to get up the whole time. There would be a short break before dessert, and then another 60 minutes at least of eating and talking. Even the food was formal: There was no banana pudding with nilla wafer dessert. No sweet potato with marshmallows and pecans. No cheerwine. There were dishes like succotash, waldorf salad. Cranberry dressing without rings. Anyway, I am going on too long. The point is that this was part fun and part work, especially if you were impatient.
Tyler's sister was impatient. She got up from the table early in the meal. That was apparently ok. We didn't hear from her until dessert. Or, her mother didn't find her until dessert. Tyler's sister was upstairs, though, in the princess room, eating candy. All of Gretchen's candy.
I collected and stored candy in a pillowcase with a draw string. The pillowcase had blue and red stripes. I think this is a tradition that has fed away. Now people use plastic jack-o-lantern tubs. Anyway, my pillowcase stayed under my bed. That was for security. I would triage my candy. I ate the jawbreakers right away. They were of no consequence. So too with the pez, an incredibly overrated candy. The baby ruth mattered. A bed of nougat laden with peanuts in a bath of chocolate. The baby ruth was eaten last. Often it was never consumed, but thrown out in a fit of parental oversight. "you cannot eat that, it will make you sick." And so it was never eaten, but truly savored.
My sister was able to save her candy as well. She kept hers somewhere in her room. I do not know where. It was the princess room and I was a foreigner there, given only an occasional visa to its environs.
I know Gretchen saved her candy well, though, because it was still in the house on one fateful Thanksgiving dinner with The Binghams. The Binghams lived about two miles away. We went to church with them. I think their son, Tyler, went to school with my brother. Tyler Bingham was perfect. Well, not as perfect as Bruce Balastier. Obviously. But still, pretty close to that standard and certainly a more ideal expression of the good son than myself or my brother. I think he had an acolyte collar on him that day, actually. Did I mention he was a great alto in the choir? I am sure you already heard that from my mother. Anyway, so Tyler is perfect but he had a sister, much older, who I had never met before but who came to dinner that year. I think she was somewhere between 17 and 30. Being about 10, it was hard to tell.
In our house, Thanksgiving dinner was as much about method as about content. The point was to eat in as long and drawn out a fashion as posssible. Dinner might last about 150 minutes. You were not supposed to get up the whole time. There would be a short break before dessert, and then another 60 minutes at least of eating and talking. Even the food was formal: There was no banana pudding with nilla wafer dessert. No sweet potato with marshmallows and pecans. No cheerwine. There were dishes like succotash, waldorf salad. Cranberry dressing without rings. Anyway, I am going on too long. The point is that this was part fun and part work, especially if you were impatient.
Tyler's sister was impatient. She got up from the table early in the meal. That was apparently ok. We didn't hear from her until dessert. Or, her mother didn't find her until dessert. Tyler's sister was upstairs, though, in the princess room, eating candy. All of Gretchen's candy.
Sunday, October 29, 2006
surprise
Samson Doggie would like everyone to check out a link. Sometime back, I spent a few days pasting some photos on to an online publishing site. I was making a hand out for one of CRA-NC's conferences, a calendar of abandoned mobile homes. It is a pain to make those calendar's at Kinko's, so instead we made them through an online publisher.
Lo and behold, the free press found it. Today the little calendar that I made up for fun is reaching 23 million readers. It's the fifth one down.
In another great moment for the free press, three of my all-time favorite authors, some of whom only publish books once every eight years, have all managed to have new novels/works of nonfiction ready for the fall. Richard Ford, Cormac McCarthy, and Jonathan Franzen all have new books out. How wonderful.
Where do you get organic fertilizer for your yard?
Lo and behold, the free press found it. Today the little calendar that I made up for fun is reaching 23 million readers. It's the fifth one down.
In another great moment for the free press, three of my all-time favorite authors, some of whom only publish books once every eight years, have all managed to have new novels/works of nonfiction ready for the fall. Richard Ford, Cormac McCarthy, and Jonathan Franzen all have new books out. How wonderful.
Where do you get organic fertilizer for your yard?
Tuesday, October 17, 2006
property
I open the front door and let Samson bound out into the yard. He leaps down the stairs, spurts along the dirty brick path, and hops over the second set of stairs. He dips into a spot between the brick wall that faces Urban Avenue and the planter box near the mailbox. He stares right at a pair of golden mutts across the street, lifting his leg, as if to assert that he lives here. He does not just show up in a dented up 1982 Volkswagen Fox, like some other dogs.
I want to talk to the two men across the street working on our gas lines. I approach. They are wearing bright orange overalls. One sits at the controls of a large digger. Dale, let's call him.
"Don't worry about my dog," I offer. "What's with the ditch? Will there be room for bulbs?"
I mean will there be room for narcissisum, amaryliss, and other beautiful bulbs.
A brown orb of spit, about the size of a blow pop, slips from Dale's mouth. Dale must be one of those types who lived in North Carolina before it was invaded by people ferreting boxes of samosas back and forth in their all wheel drive Samosa, before Duke found out how to raise money properly, before Governor Martin invented the research park.
"Sir?"
"Right," I turn and ask more specifically, "so where's the gas line?"
He walks me back across the street. The line extends on roughly the boundary between my yard and that owned by my neighbor. Except, of course, I don't really have a neighbor. I have a property flipper Said flipper is currently not home, because a realtor and an older lady are coming out of the home as I make my way up the embankment.
Samson barks to announce himself.
The realtor fiddles at the door with the keys. The other lady, I presume she is the homebuyer, folds her arms and stares back at Samson.
"He has an electric fence," I tell her. Sometimes I think it is possible to be to outwardly kind to people. Why go the extra step of bending over backwards to comfort a stranger? She might be a dog lover. She is certainly in no danger. Samson's not crossing that line.
I was right to wish I hadn't been so kind. She folds her arms and turns to me.
"I am not worried about him," she says, her tone indicating that were she worried, I would know. "But if he barks, that will be unacceptable."
Er, excuse me mam, but you are what, a prospective neighbor? Fine, you are so smart, so go ahead and pay $220 per square foot for a home that is on a block that was pricing out at $75 per square foot in January 2003. I guess you really have one up on me!
"Er," I offer, "I believe he is a dog. Dogs bark." Then I am just silent. I stare.
She crosses, again, tighter. She looks away.
I hear the sound of a heavy dollop of tobacco juice hitting the ground.
"Sh...Yankees," says Dale.
I want to talk to the two men across the street working on our gas lines. I approach. They are wearing bright orange overalls. One sits at the controls of a large digger. Dale, let's call him.
"Don't worry about my dog," I offer. "What's with the ditch? Will there be room for bulbs?"
I mean will there be room for narcissisum, amaryliss, and other beautiful bulbs.
A brown orb of spit, about the size of a blow pop, slips from Dale's mouth. Dale must be one of those types who lived in North Carolina before it was invaded by people ferreting boxes of samosas back and forth in their all wheel drive Samosa, before Duke found out how to raise money properly, before Governor Martin invented the research park.
"Sir?"
"Right," I turn and ask more specifically, "so where's the gas line?"
He walks me back across the street. The line extends on roughly the boundary between my yard and that owned by my neighbor. Except, of course, I don't really have a neighbor. I have a property flipper Said flipper is currently not home, because a realtor and an older lady are coming out of the home as I make my way up the embankment.
Samson barks to announce himself.
The realtor fiddles at the door with the keys. The other lady, I presume she is the homebuyer, folds her arms and stares back at Samson.
"He has an electric fence," I tell her. Sometimes I think it is possible to be to outwardly kind to people. Why go the extra step of bending over backwards to comfort a stranger? She might be a dog lover. She is certainly in no danger. Samson's not crossing that line.
I was right to wish I hadn't been so kind. She folds her arms and turns to me.
"I am not worried about him," she says, her tone indicating that were she worried, I would know. "But if he barks, that will be unacceptable."
Er, excuse me mam, but you are what, a prospective neighbor? Fine, you are so smart, so go ahead and pay $220 per square foot for a home that is on a block that was pricing out at $75 per square foot in January 2003. I guess you really have one up on me!
"Er," I offer, "I believe he is a dog. Dogs bark." Then I am just silent. I stare.
She crosses, again, tighter. She looks away.
I hear the sound of a heavy dollop of tobacco juice hitting the ground.
"Sh...Yankees," says Dale.
Sunday, June 25, 2006
It takes a village to exchange this propane
A lot of people have said, "Gee I like this blog!" But some others have said, "It tells me nothing about industrial management theory." I have been thinking about that. I believe that my experience on Thursday evening can resolve that dilemma.
Let me set the scene:
I am home from my afternoon swim. Susie wants me to grill. Tonight is David Post's birthday. We are serving ribs. This is odd to begin with, because David and virtually all of the guests are Jewish. But don't worry about that. The important thing is that it is 82 degrees, humid, and I am eviscerating some beautiful ribs. To help me with my objective, I have carefully selected a handcrafted beverage.
Then....my propane runs out. We have a big tank. Even so, this happens about once every eight months. And it threatens a perfect afternoon. Not to mention these ribs.
I have lost face.
There is an exchange place nearby. The ribs still need another fifteen minutes. I could put the ribs in the oven. That, to me, strikes of a disastrous choice. Like buying a Porsche, and then getting it with an automatic transmission. I will get more propane.
I put the propane in the passenger seat and head over to the neighborhood exchange at Handee-Hugo's. This is a Carolina institution. They sell cheap gas. They sell money orders. "We love our troops,' says their sign in the window. They keep fresh barrels of propane outside on the sidewalk in a locked cage.
I lug the tank into the store. Empty of gas, it weighs 20 pounds. Three employees stand up behind the counter. Two flank a set of registers to the right, while the third sweeps in the back.
I look at the man on the right, lift the propane with my right shoulder.
"I need to exchange," I say. Its obvious, right?
He looks at me for a second. "I do not have the key," he mumbles. Then he looks back out the window. Maybe he is scouting for a more preferable customer -- one that will busy his register without asking him to lift heavy tanks.
The other one behind the register continues staring past the Bud Light Display. The sweeper has moved on to shuffling napkins at the hot dog rotissiserie. Its just the four of us. Looking four different ways. Like U2's cover art on the Joshua Tree album.
"So," I feel I have to mention it, "I was hoping to get more propane."
I believe that each one of these clerks hopes the other will fall for the dreaded propane job. I am just caught in their little war.
"But if you don't have it," I continue, "now would be a good time to speak up."
This drives me nuts. Back home, I am losing more face. Yet, we are talking about propane here. I set down the tank in the middle of their store. Let them go about their business of selling cigarettes, lighters, and 40 ouncers. Deal with me. Or my propane tank will just wait.
I guess my gambit was rooted in the right logic. A whirlwind of boxes, clip boards, cell phones and keys crosses the room. Its the manager.
He knows what's up.
"Like I said," he says to the man at the first register, "any register key will work the propane. You got a register, you can do the propane."
I can barely say anything before they are ringing me up.
So the answer is -- it takes four workers from two different management levels in order to exchange one tank of propane.
So there are two sides to everything.
Let me set the scene:
I am home from my afternoon swim. Susie wants me to grill. Tonight is David Post's birthday. We are serving ribs. This is odd to begin with, because David and virtually all of the guests are Jewish. But don't worry about that. The important thing is that it is 82 degrees, humid, and I am eviscerating some beautiful ribs. To help me with my objective, I have carefully selected a handcrafted beverage.
Then....my propane runs out. We have a big tank. Even so, this happens about once every eight months. And it threatens a perfect afternoon. Not to mention these ribs.
I have lost face.
There is an exchange place nearby. The ribs still need another fifteen minutes. I could put the ribs in the oven. That, to me, strikes of a disastrous choice. Like buying a Porsche, and then getting it with an automatic transmission. I will get more propane.
I put the propane in the passenger seat and head over to the neighborhood exchange at Handee-Hugo's. This is a Carolina institution. They sell cheap gas. They sell money orders. "We love our troops,' says their sign in the window. They keep fresh barrels of propane outside on the sidewalk in a locked cage.
I lug the tank into the store. Empty of gas, it weighs 20 pounds. Three employees stand up behind the counter. Two flank a set of registers to the right, while the third sweeps in the back.
I look at the man on the right, lift the propane with my right shoulder.
"I need to exchange," I say. Its obvious, right?
He looks at me for a second. "I do not have the key," he mumbles. Then he looks back out the window. Maybe he is scouting for a more preferable customer -- one that will busy his register without asking him to lift heavy tanks.
The other one behind the register continues staring past the Bud Light Display. The sweeper has moved on to shuffling napkins at the hot dog rotissiserie. Its just the four of us. Looking four different ways. Like U2's cover art on the Joshua Tree album.
"So," I feel I have to mention it, "I was hoping to get more propane."
I believe that each one of these clerks hopes the other will fall for the dreaded propane job. I am just caught in their little war.
"But if you don't have it," I continue, "now would be a good time to speak up."
This drives me nuts. Back home, I am losing more face. Yet, we are talking about propane here. I set down the tank in the middle of their store. Let them go about their business of selling cigarettes, lighters, and 40 ouncers. Deal with me. Or my propane tank will just wait.
I guess my gambit was rooted in the right logic. A whirlwind of boxes, clip boards, cell phones and keys crosses the room. Its the manager.
He knows what's up.
"Like I said," he says to the man at the first register, "any register key will work the propane. You got a register, you can do the propane."
I can barely say anything before they are ringing me up.
So the answer is -- it takes four workers from two different management levels in order to exchange one tank of propane.
So there are two sides to everything.
Wednesday, June 21, 2006
Grand Opening
People often ask, "where do you work?" It is one of those questions that everyone wants to know, maybe because they can think of little else that would prefer to know instead, or because maybe they sense from my presence that I am a Guy with a Story.
Say, for example, that I am at a dinner party. There's a tv on in another room. Susie is in the kitchen with a friend. And I'm out in the living room. Sprawled out like a tamale in the sun.
"Where do you work?" says the Other Husband.
I am not sure if he actually wants to know. He is not looking at me. He sits way back in his soft couch, a finger lingering on a remote. He is waiting for dinner.
We are two lame non-cookers. Kind of like those pirates who don't do anything. Except we watch kids.
"Oh, I work at CRA-NC."
His eyes continue to follow his son. The toddler, about 3 as far as I can tell, nears a lamp. This furrows his brow. He looks back at me for a second. His lips open, but no words come out. As if my words have failed to spark a signal synapse of interest.
"You know," I say, "The Community Reinvestment Association of North Carolina. CRA-NC."
This does not advance his understanding. It does shorten whatever window of interest existed. If my answer led to dinner, now that would be interesting.
But I go on, because now that I am married, I have grown accustomed to droning on when no one is listening.
"We work on housing policy. We work on manufactured housing. I have a book on manufactured housing. We think manufactured housing can lead to opportunities for asset building. We organize. We have alternative media products. I work on HMDA data. We just got a loan from the FHLB. CRA-NC works with CFED."
I have totally blinded him. Maybe I can clear it up for him:
"CRA-NC," I say, is not unlike ACORN."
----
But...CRA-NC did have some big news the other day. We opened our new building officially. Last year we bought a ransacked 1920 brick building in the otherwise disinvested streets of North Central Durham. Since then, we've been fixing it up. On Friday, we opened it to the public.
It was a great day, with jazz music and karaoke. I have some pictures of the day. Notice who is sitting in with the band.
Wednesday, June 14, 2006
Father's Day
We had two driveways, separated by a long row of hedges that flowered in late May. In the fall, brown leaves slid across the shiny blacktop that sloped down and left near the basketball. We had a two car garage. That was once the standard. Now I suppose it designates the property as a fixer-upper. Nevertheless, with all of that black top we always kept one car outside. My dad used most of his side for tools. He had a tool box with wheels, Snap-On Tools calenders. Bosch and Castrol -- Sebring 94! The works.
Dad had a wooden board with wheels that he used to slide underneath our cars with when he fixed things. I'd stand there. Mainly, I did nothing useful. It looked like the scene in the Wizard of Oz, when Dorothy lands on the Wicked Witch of the East. Just a pair of feet. Except there were no ruby slippers. More likely, it was a pair of Bass Weejuns and some paint stained khakis. No socks, so that you could really see his skinny pale legs.
Dad's hand would jut out. Get the 3/18ths Lassiter!!! Don't just stand there! Its next to the ratchets, by the Hanover Set."
Then his figures would snap. And snap. And then his wrist would rotate while his finger jutted out to the back of the garage.
"Uh," I'd say, "where do you mean, specifically?" Because basically there were hundreds of tools in that garage. Each one was soddered with his code number. They all looked like they were in the Hanover Set.
The feet would pull a body out from under the car about now.
My father would emerge, his fingers dripping with oil, his white t-shirt so worn as to resemble gauze, and look puzzled. I think he wondered how someone could be smart in school, and never bother to find out how an engine works.
He would hold an oil filter gently, considering its manufacture more as an effort at art than as an example of blind reproduction. Did it have a good seal? Would that gasket last? He'd pour a few drops of oil on the seal. Those fingers, already oiled, spread the viscous clear liquid evenly across the circumference.
Pretty much I was quiet at this time. I could hear his breath. Always heavy. And the fresh scent of Speed Stick.
He would set that filter down in the crook of the hood. He'd take his glasses off, blow his nose like a fog horn, wipe his forehead with a cloth diaper, and expound.
It could pretty much be anything from the canon of Awesome Pieces of Fatherly Knowledge. They rotated. The effect was something akin to classic records in a juke box. Few new ones were ever invented.
Here are ten all time Faves:
1) Shift down, stay off the brakes, accelerate through the curve.
2) Get with the program
3) Order the adult donut
4) Don't smoke those damn cigarettes
5) Just make sure its from my store. And, get your gig line straight.
6) One Day at a Time
7) The job expands to fill the available time.
8) Adoption would be a good thing for you to think about. It is nothing to be afraid of.
9) We have more than some, less than others.
10) Take nothing but pictures, leave nothing but footprints.
Dad had a wooden board with wheels that he used to slide underneath our cars with when he fixed things. I'd stand there. Mainly, I did nothing useful. It looked like the scene in the Wizard of Oz, when Dorothy lands on the Wicked Witch of the East. Just a pair of feet. Except there were no ruby slippers. More likely, it was a pair of Bass Weejuns and some paint stained khakis. No socks, so that you could really see his skinny pale legs.
Dad's hand would jut out. Get the 3/18ths Lassiter!!! Don't just stand there! Its next to the ratchets, by the Hanover Set."
Then his figures would snap. And snap. And then his wrist would rotate while his finger jutted out to the back of the garage.
"Uh," I'd say, "where do you mean, specifically?" Because basically there were hundreds of tools in that garage. Each one was soddered with his code number. They all looked like they were in the Hanover Set.
The feet would pull a body out from under the car about now.
My father would emerge, his fingers dripping with oil, his white t-shirt so worn as to resemble gauze, and look puzzled. I think he wondered how someone could be smart in school, and never bother to find out how an engine works.
He would hold an oil filter gently, considering its manufacture more as an effort at art than as an example of blind reproduction. Did it have a good seal? Would that gasket last? He'd pour a few drops of oil on the seal. Those fingers, already oiled, spread the viscous clear liquid evenly across the circumference.
Pretty much I was quiet at this time. I could hear his breath. Always heavy. And the fresh scent of Speed Stick.
He would set that filter down in the crook of the hood. He'd take his glasses off, blow his nose like a fog horn, wipe his forehead with a cloth diaper, and expound.
It could pretty much be anything from the canon of Awesome Pieces of Fatherly Knowledge. They rotated. The effect was something akin to classic records in a juke box. Few new ones were ever invented.
Here are ten all time Faves:
1) Shift down, stay off the brakes, accelerate through the curve.
2) Get with the program
3) Order the adult donut
4) Don't smoke those damn cigarettes
5) Just make sure its from my store. And, get your gig line straight.
6) One Day at a Time
7) The job expands to fill the available time.
8) Adoption would be a good thing for you to think about. It is nothing to be afraid of.
9) We have more than some, less than others.
10) Take nothing but pictures, leave nothing but footprints.
Saturday, June 10, 2006
Yard Sale
The smell of a baker's dozen of chocolate bagels hangs in the cabin of the Sienna. It is 8:40 am on Saturday morning. I am out with my buddy, cruising. If we find something to extend the trip back from Brueggers, then Susie will have more peace.
And there it is...a yard filled with junk.
"John" I say,"this is called a garage sale. Or, in some cases, a tag sale. It is where people sell stuff for nothing. Don't touch."
The sale fronts a smallish brick ranch. I can see crock pots, golf clubs, records, books, latin american weavings, Yankee candles.
"Are you the host-ess?" I ask. "How much are cd's?"
"They are a quarter," she says. She appears to be about my age. All of her junk is here, but I can't make any demographic analyses. Lots of books about sermons, but then it is too disparate after that: Etonic golf spikes?
"We just want to keep it from the landfill," she adds.
I think, how nice. I think Dick Cheney would say that you have a wonderful ethic there.
I see that she will not be offering me "grandfather's mysterious German travel camera" with the Zeiss lens.
But the compact discs are a bargain. Behold, not just any songs, but the ones that bring back high school in full technicolor. My parents sent me to one fancy prep school, but it didn't help to change the music that I heard while I was there.
"Rock'N the 80s, eh?" I say, giving her a glance that suggests that I too share her guilty pleasure.
She is a quick one, too, because she knows that acquisition of an 80s disc, or mere possession, could need an explanation among strangers.
"We get XM Radio," she says, "you know?"
I do know. But for now, I leave her to explain. Let her twist in the wind. I had XM for a week last month in California. It was great. All the baseball that I wanted to hear. Plus, times for bluegrass. I succumbed to the 80s channel at the end of a long day of talking/shooting/talking.
But she doesn't need to say anymore. I know she knows. I know she knows about so much else, too. 80s music, before it all happened.
It would be too much, but I know that:
She remembered when Coke Classic was not, and when New Coke was.
She watched music videos
She wore "leggings" and wanted to look like Cyndi Lauper
Her husband probably has one of those thin shiny ties. Also one of those square woven jobs.
The cd collection tells more of her narrative. Right next to it are some of the things that came next. I'd say what came next was better, too. We were the same people, but the world let us grow up.
There's Tracy Chapman. The whole UnPlugged Genre that is represented here by 10,000 Maniacs and Eric Clapton.
So I also know that:
She knows what ACT UP stands for.
She remembers PETA
She thought Clinton was a little to the right.
We got a lot of stuff. But all of those days carrying shoes from Payless and not eating for Oxfam, where did that go?
Its time to go. I have her music now. She's got my five bucks.
And there it is...a yard filled with junk.
"John" I say,"this is called a garage sale. Or, in some cases, a tag sale. It is where people sell stuff for nothing. Don't touch."
The sale fronts a smallish brick ranch. I can see crock pots, golf clubs, records, books, latin american weavings, Yankee candles.
"Are you the host-ess?" I ask. "How much are cd's?"
"They are a quarter," she says. She appears to be about my age. All of her junk is here, but I can't make any demographic analyses. Lots of books about sermons, but then it is too disparate after that: Etonic golf spikes?
"We just want to keep it from the landfill," she adds.
I think, how nice. I think Dick Cheney would say that you have a wonderful ethic there.
I see that she will not be offering me "grandfather's mysterious German travel camera" with the Zeiss lens.
But the compact discs are a bargain. Behold, not just any songs, but the ones that bring back high school in full technicolor. My parents sent me to one fancy prep school, but it didn't help to change the music that I heard while I was there.
"Rock'N the 80s, eh?" I say, giving her a glance that suggests that I too share her guilty pleasure.
She is a quick one, too, because she knows that acquisition of an 80s disc, or mere possession, could need an explanation among strangers.
"We get XM Radio," she says, "you know?"
I do know. But for now, I leave her to explain. Let her twist in the wind. I had XM for a week last month in California. It was great. All the baseball that I wanted to hear. Plus, times for bluegrass. I succumbed to the 80s channel at the end of a long day of talking/shooting/talking.
But she doesn't need to say anymore. I know she knows. I know she knows about so much else, too. 80s music, before it all happened.
It would be too much, but I know that:
She remembered when Coke Classic was not, and when New Coke was.
She watched music videos
She wore "leggings" and wanted to look like Cyndi Lauper
Her husband probably has one of those thin shiny ties. Also one of those square woven jobs.
The cd collection tells more of her narrative. Right next to it are some of the things that came next. I'd say what came next was better, too. We were the same people, but the world let us grow up.
There's Tracy Chapman. The whole UnPlugged Genre that is represented here by 10,000 Maniacs and Eric Clapton.
So I also know that:
She knows what ACT UP stands for.
She remembers PETA
She thought Clinton was a little to the right.
We got a lot of stuff. But all of those days carrying shoes from Payless and not eating for Oxfam, where did that go?
Its time to go. I have her music now. She's got my five bucks.
Wednesday, June 07, 2006
What will he say next
John: "Why do cars hit people? Why is it bad? Why?"
Always he ends with that same rejoinder. I kneel to face him eye to eye. His face is slightly bent, like a Japanese in a moment of dishonor. John might hear me now.
"You can't run in the road because cars do not see you." Using words like dangerous is lost, I suppose, because they rely on Telling when he needs Showing. I can't show what happens when a car hits a little boy, of course.
I am feeling like I am stuck in a battle that will only be waged with time and patience.
He speaks again.
"Why did Jesus die? Who killed him? Did Daniel help?"
----
911 Urban Avenue welcomes Joan, member of Bruderhof and new family friend, to our cast of family and friends. Joan will be with us for about two months. She grew up in England and has the accent to show for it. Like Kathy, she likes marmite, gardens, and walks. She brings a new openness to dogs and adds to our appetite for watercoloring. Joan has worked as a 5th and 6th grade teacher in Catskill. Her favorite newspaper section is the International page. She likes tea. 'Nuff said.
Always he ends with that same rejoinder. I kneel to face him eye to eye. His face is slightly bent, like a Japanese in a moment of dishonor. John might hear me now.
"You can't run in the road because cars do not see you." Using words like dangerous is lost, I suppose, because they rely on Telling when he needs Showing. I can't show what happens when a car hits a little boy, of course.
I am feeling like I am stuck in a battle that will only be waged with time and patience.
He speaks again.
"Why did Jesus die? Who killed him? Did Daniel help?"
----
911 Urban Avenue welcomes Joan, member of Bruderhof and new family friend, to our cast of family and friends. Joan will be with us for about two months. She grew up in England and has the accent to show for it. Like Kathy, she likes marmite, gardens, and walks. She brings a new openness to dogs and adds to our appetite for watercoloring. Joan has worked as a 5th and 6th grade teacher in Catskill. Her favorite newspaper section is the International page. She likes tea. 'Nuff said.
Friday, June 02, 2006
grandmother rules
Now in Connecticut visiting my mother.
Everything is a bit different with kids on the road. We could not bring all of our kid property with us. We do not have a stroller. We do not have a full changing station. And, there is never a familiar place for either child to unwind. But there are some things that are better to the kids. Rosie loves the attention from Katie-Baba.
We had lunch yesterday, while trying to get away to Brooklyn. Watermelon (yellow) and peanut butter on bread. Some ham and cheese. But then Katie-baba moves in with a chocolate chip cookie. And then she adds a popsicle. Rosie eats the popsicle in her left hand. Then moves to the right for a draw on the cook. Sort of like Ralph Macchio -- popsicle on, cookie off. repeat.
-----
"Susie! Look at that cemetery!" I shout. We are driving across the whitestone bridge. This is a large bridge that leads into New York City. There is a bit of water and then a large cemetery. It is an overcast day. The skyline of New York hangs behind a curtain of white mist. The layering is quite an effect. Rectangular graves in the foreground, rectangular skyscrapers in the rear.
"Take a picture!" I continue. Susie picks up the camera. The camera is conveniently in the passenger seat foot area. I continue my instructions.
"See, there's the cemetery..." I am motioning with my fingers at the composition of choice.
WHAMM!
Yep. You could have imagined what came next. Bumper to the Sienna in front of us. Bam.
We stop. I turn off the car. I can tell that the car ahead is not damaged, but there is a custom here.
I get out.
A woman emerges from the car in front. She is asian, about 40, with a ponytail. She looks exhausted and confused. Maybe sleepy.
"Do you want to exchange information?" I ask. It is the normal thing to ask. There is no damage to my car. Everything seems straight. She grabs her neck.
"You hit me."
The words spill out slowly. You......hit......me...
Yes, it is true.
"Yes," I say. "I did."
Cars are backing up in our lane. Do I need to mention that this is the Whitestone Bridge at 5 pm on Thursday afternoon?
"Do you want to say, exchange cards?" I continue.
"Forget it."
----
Back in the car:
"Damn," says Susie.
"No," I assure her, "its ok. No damage. And I definitely hit her."
"I couldn't get that window to open," says Susie. "I totally missed the picture."
Everything is a bit different with kids on the road. We could not bring all of our kid property with us. We do not have a stroller. We do not have a full changing station. And, there is never a familiar place for either child to unwind. But there are some things that are better to the kids. Rosie loves the attention from Katie-Baba.
We had lunch yesterday, while trying to get away to Brooklyn. Watermelon (yellow) and peanut butter on bread. Some ham and cheese. But then Katie-baba moves in with a chocolate chip cookie. And then she adds a popsicle. Rosie eats the popsicle in her left hand. Then moves to the right for a draw on the cook. Sort of like Ralph Macchio -- popsicle on, cookie off. repeat.
-----
"Susie! Look at that cemetery!" I shout. We are driving across the whitestone bridge. This is a large bridge that leads into New York City. There is a bit of water and then a large cemetery. It is an overcast day. The skyline of New York hangs behind a curtain of white mist. The layering is quite an effect. Rectangular graves in the foreground, rectangular skyscrapers in the rear.
"Take a picture!" I continue. Susie picks up the camera. The camera is conveniently in the passenger seat foot area. I continue my instructions.
"See, there's the cemetery..." I am motioning with my fingers at the composition of choice.
WHAMM!
Yep. You could have imagined what came next. Bumper to the Sienna in front of us. Bam.
We stop. I turn off the car. I can tell that the car ahead is not damaged, but there is a custom here.
I get out.
A woman emerges from the car in front. She is asian, about 40, with a ponytail. She looks exhausted and confused. Maybe sleepy.
"Do you want to exchange information?" I ask. It is the normal thing to ask. There is no damage to my car. Everything seems straight. She grabs her neck.
"You hit me."
The words spill out slowly. You......hit......me...
Yes, it is true.
"Yes," I say. "I did."
Cars are backing up in our lane. Do I need to mention that this is the Whitestone Bridge at 5 pm on Thursday afternoon?
"Do you want to say, exchange cards?" I continue.
"Forget it."
----
Back in the car:
"Damn," says Susie.
"No," I assure her, "its ok. No damage. And I definitely hit her."
"I couldn't get that window to open," says Susie. "I totally missed the picture."
Wednesday, May 31, 2006
Farewell Kathy: You are our Best
We returned Kathy to her home at Catskill community yesterday. After 14 months, the time finally came for Kathy to be back with her family. As our minivan pulled out of the lower circle, even Rosie realized that a moment of gravity was taking place. John understood exactly the implication of the event.
"I am very disappointed," says John. "Why does Kathy want to stay at Catskill?"
I think John would like to stay at Catskill. It is a lot of fun to be there. Let's see -- in three days -- we went fishing, took a pony ride, swam in waterfalls, and sang guitar songs. I ran to a mountain lake every morning.
On Monday morning two days ago, I looked at my watch to check the time. It was 8:15 am. I had just finished weeding a blueberry patch for an hour. I had already gone running and swam in a lake. I had eaten breakfast with about fifteen other people. And soon, I would be fastening Rifton equipment in the factory shop. Quite a morning!
Kathy shepherded us through the birth of Rosie and the death of Zeddie. She has shared late night chocolates and tea with us for many evenings. We introduced her to email, computers, the mall, and religion with liturgy. She went to prison ministry. She got to know Rose and Phyllis and even put up with Samson. She is the godparent to Rosie.
We drove down aptly named Danger Road (Route 16) and off into the horizon. Joan will join us in Brooklyn shortly.
"I am very disappointed," says John. "Why does Kathy want to stay at Catskill?"
I think John would like to stay at Catskill. It is a lot of fun to be there. Let's see -- in three days -- we went fishing, took a pony ride, swam in waterfalls, and sang guitar songs. I ran to a mountain lake every morning.
On Monday morning two days ago, I looked at my watch to check the time. It was 8:15 am. I had just finished weeding a blueberry patch for an hour. I had already gone running and swam in a lake. I had eaten breakfast with about fifteen other people. And soon, I would be fastening Rifton equipment in the factory shop. Quite a morning!
Kathy shepherded us through the birth of Rosie and the death of Zeddie. She has shared late night chocolates and tea with us for many evenings. We introduced her to email, computers, the mall, and religion with liturgy. She went to prison ministry. She got to know Rose and Phyllis and even put up with Samson. She is the godparent to Rosie.
We drove down aptly named Danger Road (Route 16) and off into the horizon. Joan will join us in Brooklyn shortly.
Tuesday, May 02, 2006
Growing Season
Rosie has made use of daddy and mommy. She has not learned a verbal "no," although she does have a "yeah." She shakes her head. Her new word is "Samson." I think that we are about to witness a lot of growth out of her. She eats more than John these days. Yesterday they both picked strawberries. Rosie ate a lot of them.
Right now I cannot spend enough time in my garden. We made a raised bed for tomatoes on Saturday. It is eight by four. We put in two better boys and a lemon boy. Susie will put in the rest soon. The soil is a special blend -- almost forty percent manures -- to appeal to those plants. I put in some monster hostas as well.
Poll: What do you say to someone who grew up in the 80s, and yet cannot recognize a bitchin' camaro?
Friday, April 28, 2006
A Heroine for Planners
I want to use this space to mourn the passing of someone who helped me decide to change careers. There are not many heroes in the field of urban planning. I have wondered why for a while. What heroes there are tend to be on the margins of the field. They are authors, or iconoclasts. Few work for a county devising zoning regs. One of those authors was Jane Jacobs, who passed away this week. She lived in New York and Toronto. She believed in density, but she argued that everything was best in moderation. She believed in functional cities with a tolerance for messiness. She liked alleys. She thought delivery trucks were the enzyme of skyscrapers. She hated the Vietnam War. She felt the same about our follies in Iraq.
Jane Jacobs never used regression. She never made maps or any kind of regulation. But she put into words the feelings that people had about their favorite places that were otherwise left unsaid. Why is it so pleasing to watch pedestrians? Why is it so lonely driving around at night in a suburb? If it takes a person to commit crime, why do we feel more safe in places with lots of people?
This reminds me about the degree to which planning reflects a belief in the power of environment. Planners see the will of nurture above the ability nature. They think that a person is very much a chameleon, capable of changing depending upon place.
Jane Jacobs never used regression. She never made maps or any kind of regulation. But she put into words the feelings that people had about their favorite places that were otherwise left unsaid. Why is it so pleasing to watch pedestrians? Why is it so lonely driving around at night in a suburb? If it takes a person to commit crime, why do we feel more safe in places with lots of people?
This reminds me about the degree to which planning reflects a belief in the power of environment. Planners see the will of nurture above the ability nature. They think that a person is very much a chameleon, capable of changing depending upon place.
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