Blue Collar Bossa Nova

On Magic, Karma & Luck

2006-09-22T20:26:00.000-05:00

A magic day, the kind when paths open in front of you in the grocery store, in the parking lot, in traffic. I remember a concert once upon a time when this happened; foot traffic was thick and I was going against the flow but somehow the sea of humanity parted and it was as if I was walking alone on a trail somewhere. I had a good buzz going but this was happening without thinking--I was traveling at a good rate and no one even brushed or challenged me. I'm normally placid in crowds, content to keep my place in line and give way as necessary. I like to think it's politeness or respect and not timidity but it's just the way I am, the way I was raised. Anyway, back to my magic day...

I had a bellyache from hell and reminded myself once again that I need to give up late night pizza and all the cheese associated thereof. But once I got myself moving the magic began. Here's what scares me: I put ten dollars in the change machine at the laundromat and received $20 worth of quarters. I would have suspected that I accidentally stuck a twenty in the slot--except that the same thing happened to me two weeks ago and so I double-checked this time. What bothers me is karma. This is the kind of thing that ALWAYS comes back on you. Always. I have vainly prided myself on being honest to a fault in matters such as this. I give clerks the pennies that I owe even when they blow it off. I think the fact that it was a machine caused me to turn a blind eye but the fact remains: the money belonged to someone else. So now I have to go back and explain and do the right thing. I imagine that not many people put tens in the slot or else they would have had the machine serviced. I see many people who will give the attendant a ten rather than use the machine. You can imagine what will happen when the wrong person finds out though. That person will take a c-note and have it broken down. Then they will go get $200 worth of change. And I imagine the attendant (who's a little crusty anyway) will hear all the coins jangling and go "Hey, hey, HEY! What you doing thell? You no need one-hundled dolla quawtahs".

Speaking of karma. I'm an asshole. I keep hearing that Dennis Leary song in my head every day lately and I know why. I owe a public apology to my buddy. When you can count your friends on two fingers you really don't need to be throwing them away. See, I couldn't face ya to tell you that I couldn't make that trip to Austin that we planned so many months ago. I couldn't afford it. I was supposed to be working steady by now. I knew you'd try to pay my way and I knew you couldn't afford it either. And I've been wanting to crawl into a hole. I told a friend (the other one), "No one wants me anymore" and he said "Yeah, but we're damn good looking". Reminded me of what my mom used to say, "Too bad you couldn't have been born rich instead of so good looking". Fact is, I could use a little less looks (though there's really none to spare anymore at this stage of life) and a lot more money.

There's another sad little truth about the matter: if I take a trip out of town I may not be coming back. In all probability I won't come back. I am miserable in Houston and I haven't been able to develop a rapport in better than ten years. Most of my antipathy is created by the freeways. I don't think traffic will ever be solved in this city--there are just too many cars on the road. You finish widening a stretch but the new road has to bottleneck down somewhere. By the time more lanes are completed it's already time to add more. I see the stress and the rage that overtakes drivers every time I'm out. Usually it envelopes me while driving three blocks to the grocery store. I keep telling people that every time I think I've seen everything, someone shows me something new.

Me and a guy were driving home from work the other day and we commented how people will try to pass a string of cars lined up for an exit. Then they want to cut in at the last minute and tie up two entire lanes while they maneuver. Sure enough, a pickup did it to us. We ignored him but he kept coming until we were forced to brake and pull off. He was willing to hit our beater with his brand new truck to squeeze in. We both cussed the driver and later pulled along his right side when traffic opened up. Our driver cussed their driver and spit on his car. We were separated again but fortune brought as back together. At which point our driver cussed them and spit on them again. He's from the Northeast and has a bit of the New York driver mentality that you hear so much about. This didn't lead to a shooting or anything but you can see how it happens. There's just no politeness or respect out there. Everyone is in a hurry. People race through traffic to be first to the stoplight. People pass on the shoulder. People race through parking lots and through apartment complexes. And always people imagine themselves to be much better drivers than they actually are. That's the scary part. Luck, and not reflexes or skill, saves them for a time. But sooner or later luck turns and they are the ones holding everyone else up.

But I was talking about leaving Houston. To me it's a money-hungry, lucre-chasing, dog-eat-dog place; it's unihibited greed driven by fear and insecurity. You think it's the same everywhere but the attitude about it is different some places. In California it seemed there was a lot of money and people really didn't mind spending it so maybe it only appeared more casual. I was warned about it when I arrived here. "Everyone wants to get over on someone". "People don't want to spend it but they sure want to take it". And at every party that I've ever attended here there has always been someone who says "Well, it's free beer". And you realize that is the only reason they're present. It was a new concept to me the first time I heard it. It's like "I don't want to be here but if it's free it's for me". I guess my point is, I don't like everything to be defined by dollars and cents. I don't want to negotiate and haggle over every little dime that is spent. I don't like companies that neglect the real workers to feed their bottom line. And I'm not going to a party for free beer if fun isn't included.

So where does that leave me? Well it seems I'm on the verge of adding destiny to this discussion. And I don't know where that fits in with magic, karma and luck. I have an idea but I don't want to go there right now. I just want to stop this spin and get off. So Jay, I'm sorry. Damn I've spent a lot of time apologizing for one thing or another in this life. But when you can't make 'em right ya gotta do the only thing ya know. BTW, do they have strip centers everywhere in Austin like they do here? I got an idea for a next gig that beats pushing brooms; washing windows is kinda rewarding afterwards when yer looking at shiny-clean glass. Speaking of, my reflection doesn't say good-looking to me unless ya mean in some odd kinda way. But maybe a reflection is magic in itself. And maybe that magic will help me get my karma in line. And then maybe I'll get lucky.

My Mr. Coffee Sucks

2006-07-26T12:28:00.000-05:00

Long ago, frustrated with a product, I Googled "product X sucks". It was so successful that I've repeated the search frequently when irked, using a company name, their product or some other related title. This always works as a starting point for an eventual closure. There are always plenty of people willing to condemn or denigrate some icon that is interfering with their karma. I try to avoid doing that. I'd rather 'fix' the problem than waste my time putting it down. Today though I must speak out. I've reached the end of my inexhaustible supply of patience.

I've owned Mr.Coffee machines since they first started making them, probably half a dozen through the years. I can remember buying another brand only once. Joe DiMaggio pitched Mr. Coffee and Joe wouldn't lie. Joe was always about class and performance. And Mr. Coffee always performed capably--eventually they wore out and part of the reason for that was maintenance or lack thereof. I was always lax about running vinegar through the works, waiting until the unit was gasping and choking in the throes of arterial blockage.

I hate my current Mr. Coffee and my displeasure began on the second day I owned it. That was nearly two years ago now so you can see where it is time to speak up. Nearly every day I waste a minute or two hating this contrivance and you know that can't be good for the soul. Actually I wrote a review at Amazon but found out, just before posting, that my model number wasn't in their list and I had actually written about a 'twin' model. That would make the review a defamation and I certainly wouldn't want to skewer a 'good' product. Just for the record, my model is a TF13, a sleek, black, techno-suburbia stealth design. A wonder of modern engineering, living on the coat tails of Joe's greatness.

In my review I used a "three strikes and yer out" analogy. I hinted that Joe DiMaggio would never have proclaimed this product worthy--it would have been beneath him. I may have mentioned that Joe was feeling some discomfort at his present home with the direction the company took after his departure. I guess I was trying to indicate that Mr. Coffee was not good for baseball in the way the baseball was good for Mr. Coffee.

Let me see if I can remember the strike count. I believe I started with the design. Strike one may have been a 'tall' fastball. Some first-year engineering school graduate extended the lid for this design to cover both the water reservoir and the filter cannister. The testers and marketing people loved it. Fine so far. But my cabinets are 18" above the counter (pretty standard for the lower units). The lid for Mr. Coffee stands 21" high when open. You see where I'm going? From day one I have had to pull this unit to the front of the counter to fill it. Plus the lid is always in the way of the cabinet door where I keep my filters (don't ask me why I don't move them--this is where they belong). My coffee maker doesn't sit at the front of the counter. It resides at the back to leave room for other activities at the front. Strike one.

Strike two must have been somehow related to the pause 'n' pour feature. It leaks. Well actually the leak is not from the basket shut-off mechanism. Condensation collects in the area around and underneath the filter cannister. There is an opening in the bottom that is not governed by the pause control. I would guess that its purpose is to allow basket overflow to escape through the bottom rather than bubble over the top and sides (a "feature" of a few past models of Mr. Coffee). The problem is that I have never, ever, no matter how carefully I try, been able to pull the coffee pot without water or coffee dripping onto the heat element. Twelve times a day I hear the sizzle of a frying pan when I'm not even cooking. This must somehow be akin to what water torture treatment feels like.

I'm pretty sure strike three must have been the carafe itself. Another 'leaker'. Impossible to pour into a stationary cup from 2" above the rim without also pouring on the surrounding counter. I havn't really investigated this but I usually fix user errors within a year of discovering the problem. Having said that, I just poured a cup of coffee and left no discernible telltale drip on the counter. So maybe I'm in a hurry sometimes and maybe I need to re-evaluate my pouring methods. But I'm calling it strike three and you never win an argument with an umpire.

So now I wait, hoping every day to hear Mr. Coffee TF13 do his death gurgle. I've worn the coating off of the heat element with the constant wiping and cleaning and I may have compromised the seal: Mr. Coffee has been doing a lot of popping and snorting lately and I fear (sic) the end is near. Rest easy Joe, I never blamed you for this. But some folks at Mr. Coffee need to check out your history--your work ethic and dedication to your profession. And then they need to emulate it. Because this Mr. Coffee sucks.

Betting On Pascal

2006-06-01T18:34:00.000-05:00

Pascal's Wager

A simple translation: "Either God exists or He doesn't. If you believe in God and He doesn't exist you lose nothing. If you don't believe in God and He does exist you lose everything. Therefore the smart wager would be to believe."

I notice a considerable amount of effort and time has gone into refuting the wager. I've read some of them. I always thought it was relatively simple. I am surprised that so few are willing to support it. Intimidation by logic? Why are all these people so dedicated to arguing against this wager? They could simply dismiss it. But they want a support network. They don't want to go to hell alone perhaps? Just kidding, I know you intellectuals and science types don't accept the existence of hell or heaven. So what do you want to believe? That your existence just ends abruptly? That your consciousness is absorbed by a cosmic collective? Seems like you could fit that into the wager. You don't believe in Pascal's Christian God? Replace it with your own then.

I have never looked at this as more than a statement of belief and why it's a good thing. Nothing more or less. I have no interest in the fact that it doesn't account for other religions or other gods. I do not care that it "assumes" a probability of >0 for the existence of God or that we need to make a presupposition based on a "finite" chance of God's existance. Why not mold it to your personal belief system? Why work so hard on disproving something unless you have an uncertainty. If you have uncertainty than you don't truly believe. You say hedging your bets would be perceived as such by God and denied? But there would have to be a god for that to happen. I don't get it... it seems you have already made your bet.

Is it really so harmful, so wrong for someone to accept this wager? You say there is a downside, that indeed there is something to lose. You might waste your time. You might mislead others. So what do you choose to live for instead? For attainment and/or recognition? Science can prove no doubt that a human dies and no longer uses his earthly acquisitions. You bring up all the atrocities that have been committed in the name of religion? I would like to suggest that there are committed theologies of pacifism and kindness. I would offer that atrocities have been committed that trangress all belief and non-belief systems.

It doesn't account for the 'type' of penalty or reward? Plug in your desired objectives or definitions of what it means to gain or lose everything. What would you hope to gain? What would you fear the most in the choice of undesired consequences? If you did believe in God what would He be? If you don't believe you are simply taking the 'other' wager are you not? Oh, you're not betting? Then why are you wasting your time arguing against it?

The key word is 'believe'. Maybe he shouldn't have called it a wager. Maybe it should just be a statement of belief: "I believe it is smart to believe in God" or "My belief is an act of faith". Nothing scientific there--completely subjective. Is that better for you? Or are you saying that no man is capable of belief? I'm pretty sure you're not going to take that track. Mankinds' beliefs are deep-seated and they are in evidence every day.

If you care to read further:

Wikipedia on Pascal's Wager
Stanford Encyclopedia of Philosophy
Alternate Articles at Infinite.org
Religious Tolerance.org

Another Hobbs Memory

2006-04-19T17:33:00.000-05:00

Stray dogs could be a problem out in the country.  Town folks would abandon their animals out there in the belief that they were giving their mutt a new home.  Surely that dog would wander up to a house and be adopted by a family.  Well they did wander up to the yard. These half-starved creatures had no survival skills and it was only natural for them to seek refuge from the coyotes around humans such as it was accustomed to.

We had a dog of our own though, a German Shepherd named Duchess. Duchess believed in protecting her household and was not amicable to first-time visitors whether animal or human.  At night we would hear the growl, low at first and then raising in pitch as the intruder moved closer. And finally when the desperate orphan would attempt to move in where food could be found a fight would ensue.

One dog was particularly troublesome.  We would hear the fights nightly and during the day we would see the hound circling warily from a distance, out of rock-throwing range.  He would skulk in the fields while the humans were about and move in at night for another round.  This went on for days and Dad must have mentioned it to Hobbs because the next thing you know, Hobbs offered to help out with the problem.

The image is burned into my conscious to this day. The weathered green ’57 Chevy pickup parked along the side of the road with the door open.  Hobbs taking position with one foot on the running board and one foot on the cab floor, resting the rifle on the cab.  Setting up left-handed.  I had never seen a left-handed shooter before.  Looking completely natural as if he had done this thousands of times before.  The dog meanwhile, sensing that he was an object of interest, had moved so far back that the shot looked impossible.

If you grew up on the farm the .22 rifle was likely to be the only firearm around.  We were not hunters and really had no reason to own large caliber guns; we dealt with pests and possibly hunted rabbits, not mountain lions and bears. If you have shooting experience you know that a .22 will work fine on birds that are perched 75 feet away.  But, while the round will carry better than a mile, accuracy is dependent on many factors when distance is increased.  The slug is light and affected by wind.  It travels along an arc and tumbles during flight.  Don’t be fooled though. I’m guessing that hunting rifle rounds will have a muzzle velocity greater than 2500 fps (feet per second) and a .22 probably goes one-third to one-fourth of that. Say 800 fps. At 100 yards the velocity will still be close to 700 fps.  That’s still traveling rather fast.  So while accuracy suffers due to other factors I mentioned, the bullet itself still has plenty of momentum.

At one time, using a .22 rifle, I could place a tight group in a target at 75 yards—with a scope.  I hunted rabbits without the scope but probably never shot one at a distance greater than 75 yards.  75 or 100 yards doesn’t seem like that great of a distance. But you are trying to shoot a quarter at that distance.  The naked eye can see a target but more than likely your gun sights will completely cover it. And you will notice every movement that the gun is making while you aim.  Even your breathing will cause the barrel to move.  And you realize that if you squeeze the trigger when the sight is dancing even slightly that you could miss the entire target, never mind the bull’s-eye.  So you keep both eyes open, breathe evenly, hold and slowly release your breath, squeeze the trigger.

The point I wanted to make here is that Hobbs was using a well-worn rifle with .22 short rounds.  The dog was about halfway across a field where the rows were ¼ mile long.  Allowing for the natural exaggerations caused by time’s affect on memory I would still not hesitate to put the distance at 150 yards.  I remember the crack of the rifle, a puff of dust just in front of the dog and howling.  That dog howled and ran and never stopped as long as it was visible.  It reached the end of the field, lit across another field, finally angled towards a road and never slowed.  I figure that dog decided he’d take his chances with the coyotes… he never showed up around the yard again.

I never asked so I don’t know if Hobbs hit where he was aiming.  But gathering from the casual way that he stepped down and put his rifle up I’m guessing that his shot went exactly where he wanted it to.

On Meeting An Angel At Kroger's...

2006-04-18T09:52:00.000-05:00

I met an angel the other day and now I don’t know now whether I’m supposed to recount this experience. When elements of the supernatural are involved you have to decide whether they are a gift or a warning. Of course, you must first decide if it was just a weird.

I exit my truck in the grocery parking lot and I see this wisp of a lady snatch a cart and march toward the entry. She’s looking around and does a little zigzag as she spots me. She almost seems to be trying to determine if she recognizes me but the moment passes and she resumes her trek. As we near the doors though she pauses and seems to be considering something. I hesitate, giving her room to regroup but she has made her decision. Evidently my character has been judged strong enough to be entrusted with something vital.

This gray-haired waif with her scarf and her granny specs plants herself in front of me, now less than 2 feet away and murmurs “Mmmm has a gun… over at Tapioca’s”. Now my hearing has been damaged by years of industry and rock music. I say “He does? Where?”, indicating that I didn’t hear plainly. She ignores this and goes on, “Yeah… and you know what? They don’t even care”.

I say “Oh yeah?” but this is a matter of fact so she nods and turns back to her other journey. Once inside the double-doors I take my time getting a cart. As her confidant I am also her co-conspirator and I’m trying to avoid a lengthy discourse. I walk into the store, a man on a mission. But she has set up shop at the service counter and barely glances as I pass so I go to work on my list. Several times as I shop she appears in the corner of my vision but I avoid eye contact. At one point she appears in front of me, little more than her purse and a deli takeout plate in her cart. But evidently my involvement is over and she soon disappears from view.

Which brings me to my point: why did this meeting become the defining moment of my day? What made me think of her later, bringing the apparition back to life? What if she were an angel; why would an angel contact me? A message? A reminder? “You need to listen more closely”. “You need to interact with those around you”. And why would an angel look you directly in the eyes and deliver an encrypted message? That should be rather obvious… to make you think about it later of course.

Living In The Past Again

2006-04-17T17:38:00.000-05:00

Well Jay, I finally figured out the name of the song we used to sing in the back of the pickup truck. “Wild Thing” by The Troggs. There was another one also: “Lil Red Riding Hood” by Sam The Sham & The Pharoahs. It took several weeks but then I wasn’t concentrating on remembering the entire time. It’s best sometimes to allow these memories to arrive on their own without forcing the issue.

The nice thing about remembering is that it gives a date to the event. So many years from my past don’t have numbers in them. I remember events, I remember songs that were playing in the background when events happened. I’m terrible with dates though. So anytime a date can be verified is a personal triumph.

The year would have been 1966. We were 11 years old. The farm truck that carried us into town for baseball games was probably a ’57 Chevy Apache. Or was it a Ford? I perfectly aware of the differences, thank you. The problem is I was surrounded by farm trucks in those days—and rode in the back of most of them either on asphalt or dusty dirt back roads. The reason I put that year on the truck is the fact that only the bosses and owners drove new trucks. The farm hands that I grew up around drove older vehicles.

My Dad drove his ’48 Chevy fat fender until the early 70’s when he finally bought a newer used truck. Hauled cotton-trailers to the gin for all those years and never put a dent on it. 6-cylinder 216 engine. Probably put well over 300,000 miles on it. Cattle whip resting on the back of the seat. A tool box ever-present in the bed. There was probably never a time when you wouldn’t be able to find some baling wire in the back; no farm hand was ever without baling wire, one of the handiest repair tools ever.

One of the hands my dad worked with was “Ol’ Henry”. He drove a Studebaker pickup. Seventy years old and still working in the fields. He never minded being pestered by kids. He would brace on his omnipresent shovel and spit brown tobacco juice between sentences, raising little clouds of dust every time he spat.

Hobbs (his first name) was another hand that worked on the same farm with us for many years. Now Hobbs was one of the most interesting (and loved) characters of our out-of-the-way existence. A wiry man, he didn’t really dress like the typical farmhand, wearing cowboy boots instead of round toe boots. I only saw him a few times without his cowboy hat on. He spoke Spanish just as well as English and we always wanted him to speak more of it. Dad, being raised with the guttural German sounds, always admired the lilting smoothness of Spanish. The topper was, he always addressed us kids as “Mr. Lyndon” and “Miss Teresa” and such. No one else in my memory ever did that; we loved to see him show up on the yard knowing what his greeting was going to be.

Hobbs was also a colorful man. He smoked. He drank. He had a common-law wife. All of the things that were preached on weekly at our church. You wouldn’t know it though except for the rare incidents. The only time he ever missed any work was when he was waiting in jail for my dad to bail him out. And there were hints of an actual wife somewhere and a stormy marriage that may have been the reason for his travel to our neck of the woods. But all we ever saw was the gentleman who said “How’s it going today, Mr. Lyndon?”

God rest you Mr. Hobbs.

Collecting Dust

2006-04-06T12:02:00.000-05:00

My collecting has always been somewhat obsessive. No doubt some of this compulsion is inherited from those before me who experienced at least a part of the Great Depression. Farmers had to scrounge for parts to repair tractors and implements so if something broke you kept it for parts. Even broken steel would be saved--it could be cut and formed and welded to another broken piece of steel. My interests always took a more domestic turn. I liked going through the photos, the old marble stash, the matchbooks, National Geographic magazines.

Just collecting was not enough though. My collections needed to be complete, at least in my mind. In grade school I kept track of the Tom Swift books I had and which ones I needed; later it was Louis L'Amour of which I garnered some 80-odd paperbacks. I had my library catalogued and brought my list when I visited the used-book stores (new was not a prerequisite). And books were grouped and ordered when the made their way to shelves. My dad's National Geographic collection ranged from around 1953 to early 70's; many times I re-ordered the issues by date. My personal tomes were ordered first by genre and then by author when there were enough volumes.

Some of my filing methods did not seem so orderly at first glance. Magazines and papers were stored away in boxes in closets. My mother marveled that I always knew in which box and in which general area that I needed to go to find something. It was not such a feat in actuality--I learned from watching Dad pack things for trips or for storage. He said he learned his techniques when he drove truck and had to load his own freight. He was methodical and ordered. When finished there was a logical reason for each placement. I never attained his neatness skills but I inherited the desire for it.

Another thing about my collecting: a collection becomes worthless when a piece of it goes missing or is damaged for some reason. It's tainted. Hunting replacements is just too overwhelming. I had a set of Wilson irons in college. When a dorm mate borrowed them and went golfing he lost my 9-iron and replaced it with an off-brand that didn't match. I was never able to golf with that set again without stewing over that mismatched club. And I never used that club either--it was either an 8-iron or pitching wedge from that point on. A large Tupperware of matchbooks was taken by thieves when they stripped my storage locker clean. I couldn't bear to start another collection since there were rare, and what I felt beautiful, containers that could never be replaced. No matter how many matchbooks I could have acquired afterwards there would always be this nag that part of it was missing.

Some collections were never started because I could see a futility in the results. Stamps and coins: I knew collectors from both fields. One uncle would go through all of our pennies when he'd visit, looking for that elusive 1943 "D" or whatever it was. (Looking it up just now I see that a 1943 copper penny sold for over $40,000 back as far as 1958 and that there are about 40 of them still in circulation. Total. How futile and time-consuming is that?). Stamps posed another problem--there were just too many of them. I saw someone drag out about 5 large binder-type scrapbooks. I knew when I gave her an exotic stamp I had received that it was a stamp I would never be able to obtain again. Hence there was not going to be a stamp collection.

Most of my old collections have been corrupted or abandoned at this juncture. Tools, books, electronics. I came closest to losing everything when I was homeless (yes, another story I will have to tell the kids about someday, someway). Papers and magazines that I stored with friends managed to survive. Actually quite a few of them. I think sometimes it would have been better if they had all burned or been otherwise lost. A clean slate. I would never desire to collect anything again. Ever.

Which reminds me of where I was originally planning to go when I started this ramble. The computer. This is where my collections are these days. And man, what an overwhelming mess. I've got emails, graphics, notes, manuals, programs... Nearly everything from my computerized history except for the contents of a catastrophic 10MB disk failure. Music? Yes, I've got music. One of the finest rewards of my computer experience has been the digitized ability to replace most of an album collection that was nearly obliterated by ants while in storage. Did you know that there are ants that will burrow into tightly packed albums, eat the cardboard and then defecate on the vinyl? Neither did I. I'm not sure if this reasoning is scientific. For all I know the baked-on layers of adobe were a result of regurgitation. But I saw the ants and I saw what they did to several hundred albums. And the booklet that came with my John Mayall "Back To The Roots"? Well that was a sin that all ants should pay penance for.

What will I do when this computerized collection is ruined? Will I ever be able to sit in front of a monitor again? Will I be able to listen to a song without the reminder that it used to reside in my library? I think I will probably run, not walk, to the hills... the mountains that I love. And I will bring my collection of fishing poles.

A Blog By Any Other Name...

2006-03-15T13:38:00.000-06:00

I Hate Blog

Not blogs. I hate the word ‘blog’; I have never liked it. Originally it was a perversion of ‘weblog’ (which I would much prefer). The first time I heard someone extolling the virtues of blogging (circa 1999?) I thought, “Whoa buddy, what you have there is a diary”.

Don’t get me wrong, there’s nothing inherently wrong with a diary. There’s also nothing wrong with publishing your private thoughts over the web. You have to bare your soul to some extent to be a writer. My feeling is that the best writers are the ones who bare the most. Which is not to say that bad writers do not bare their soul—some do and it does not make them better writers. It merely exposes them for the shallow hacks they are. Hmmm, maybe I’m exposing too much of myself here. Moving quickly along…

About diaries: I’m uncomfortable with the diary word also. When I was growing up girls kept diaries. Men, if they wrote at all, kept journals and ledgers. For years I kept a dialogue in the form of a Word document which I called my “Limited Journal”. My explanation was this: “Why is this journal limited? Because a real journal would not be updated in sporadic bursts at oddly varying intervals. Because if it was complete and updated daily it would be a diary… Because I don’t want to call it a limited blog.”

So, back to ‘blog’. Too much like blob or slog (as in “slog through a foggy bog”). It’s also becoming synonymous in my mind with ‘crap’. If you are just going to link to alternative news and interpretive articles why not just call it a page of links. A ‘plinks’ maybe? If it’s a fragmented analysis of routine things it could be a ‘fart’. If you are going to write, “school was really boring today and I don’t have anything to say”… well, that’s a blog. Serious writing and reporting should be given a more dignified name. But dammit, I can’t come up with anything better.

Ramble On (Baby Steps Version)

2006-03-13T08:38:00.000-06:00

You know what it's like to have to leave a project for awhile and then get back into it? You dread it while at the same time you are desperate to get back before it becomes not just unmanageable but a matter of starting over. That's where I am. I wanted to get something in place for many reasons (one being to bump the last blog from front-page status--I'm denying now that any of it was true--it was just a cruel joke so don't try any of it at home). One other reason is that I'm reminded every day that times is not limitless as previously thought. Just because I have projects doesn't mean that I will be given time to complete them. My mother had sewing projects all around her when she collapsed on the floor; I think of that often. What comes to mind is the patchwork quilts she was making out of used blue jeans. Mom gave me a preview while they were in progress and I was looking forward to the day when she presented mine (she was making one for each of the 4 kids). Some of my aunts finished them later for us and darn if I better not get busy thanking them. Geez I'm such a crud. I'm going to take a break to get that going right now. This is going to have to wait.

BTW--Thanks J & B for the encouragement. I suspect (expect even) that you will be seeing more than enough of my ramblings now.

Funny Thing, This Depression....

2006-01-15T19:52:00.000-06:00

(Note: I wrote this at some other time and it does not apply to this moment. And if I was feeling this right now, it would not be what I was writing about anyway. You'll see what I mean...)

Yeah, I've been diagnosed: depression and anxiety. Had it for most of my life and didn't know it until several years ago. The clinician noticed the anxiety as soon as he talked to me and had a head-doctor come in and chat me up within minutes. I didn't especially like hearing it (I've seen the hokum drug commercials on TV and the drug merchants could have every one in America believing that they could benefit from their mood-altering 'scrips). But I guess that visit finally brought home to me that I might have some issues.

These days I try to deal with it (the depression part) myself. I've used several medications and had some problems with all of them. Paxil made my brain feel like it was floating several inches above my head. Within days of starting on Elavil I actually chomped down so hard in my sleep that I broke a tooth. So I return these days to the St. John's Wort. I can't say that it works for sure but I do know that I've never had a bout when I've faithfully dosed every day. The problem is though that I always stop taking it, however gradual, because I feel good and don't recognize a need to continue. So it's possible that after I've been off awhile the old enemy sneaks in and grabs me.

You see, what I do is take 'vacations'. I disappear. I don't phone, I don't go out, I don't answer the door. My lady understands this pretty well and she's actually told me to let her know when I'm feeling this and she'll give me time to get through it. And she has gone through this with me before. But it's not like I know that I've arrived and I can give someone a warning: "Hey, I'm depressed and I'm gonna take a few days or a few weeks until it goes away". When it's arrived, it's there. I'm not thinking "I'm depressed and so I'm not gonna talk to or see anyone".

I actually feel worse after the phase is over. I've let people down, even closest friends. Years ago I let a job or two go because I didn't know how to explain what happened. Still don't. I think all of my bosses valued my work ethic enough to try and chase me down but most times I never returned. A couple of employers thought I was worth bringing back and I actually did go and face the music. Shame-faced and with every plausible excuse that I could make for my abscence. And always realizing that I had lost an option for the future. That I wouldn't be able to ask for a vacation that I could actually enjoy because I'd already had one.

Why did I bring this up? Well, there have been some nights lately where I haven't slept at all. I've always been a night owl and while working on projects it's not unusual for time to get away. But in retrospect, I typically have sleepless nights when my episodes occur. And it's not like I sit in a chair fretting and cursing the world that makes me feel gloomy. I don't drink and clean my gun. I work on things. I repair, I polish, I scrub. I do a lot of organizing. I write a lot. I may be trying to compensate for the anxiety part of my disorder; the hands and fingers that are always moving. I see myself as all zen and mellow but I just can't enter that state of total relaxation.

Oh man... McAfee starting a virus scan. And dog races on in the television background. I can tell because you hear a boring voice for twenty seconds and then twenty seconds of silence, twenty more seconds of patter, 30 more seconds of silence. I've never watched this in my life. But these two events occuring at this moment tell me one thing: it's 3:00 in the friggin morning. Hasta.

Firefox Or Fried Lox?

2005-12-25T02:14:00.000-06:00

What is up with Firefox? I've used the incarnations of this browser for years... I once preferred Netscape to IE, did Mozilla, then Phoenix, finally settled in happily with Firefox. Happy through 1.0 that is. I can't even tell you how disappointed I am with 1.5. It took a lot of work to get Firefox to a point where it has consistently been recommended over IE. One kludge like this though and... well, people have short memories and very little patience these days.

It's sad that the extension I use the most now involves clicking the button to "View this page in IE". And I've even used the "Always view this page in IE" choice. I don't know what happened. I don't care. And much as I love the open-source community, I just want to say "C'mon people. Get it right or leave it alone. Yer acting like all the major slop-ware players when you distribute something like this."

My friend installed it and said he regretted it right away. Thought he might have put viruses on his computer. I said "well I put it on one machine and I like that you can move the tabs around". So I went ahead and installed it on my work machine. Should have known better. Movable tabs just ain't enough. I wanted to keep my other version installed (just in case) so I gave FF 1.5 a new directory. Trouble is I didn't create a new profile for it. Nearly all my extensions (those that even worked with the new engine) needed to be updated. So guess what happened when I went back to run the older Fox? Extensions not compatible. I don't feel like running around the ring so for the time I am enduring. But not for long I'm afraid. This is the first time I've been able to use Microsoft software and actually feel like it's running 'clean'.

I've been noticing a certain amount of snobbery among some elements of the Mozilla clan and the CSS exclusivists. "Code written for IE isn't clean. The reason some stuff doesn't render in Mozilla is because it doesn't conform to the pure standards and specs set forth by the Holy Overlord of the Internet." And as badly as I want to write clean code, I've found many things work easily in IE but I have to jump through hoops to make them right for Firefox. I guess pure is also associated with difficult as in "if it's too easy it must not be right".

Well, looks like I'll hafta re-install Java again. I've done it once already since the upgrade and now my web host can't see it again. It works in IE though... every time. Same goes for the post editor in the blogger dashboard—none of the formatting buttons or tabs is showing, but it’s fine in IE. That just about does it. See ya back in 1.0. This stuff needs to ferment for awhile.

Traditional In A New Way

2005-12-25T01:54:00.000-06:00

It's officially Christmas day now and I have "The Christmas Story" providing my background as I write. I don't know that I've ever watched a movie as many times as I have this one. Not watched through and through although I've done that too. But every year TBS seems to run a 24-hour marathon featuring this movie and I'll let it play on between naps and anything else I happen to be doing. It's just a classic and one of those few flicks I can stand to watch more than twice.

Christmas has traditionally been a rather depressing time for me, especially the lean years when I haven't had the funds to give proper gifts. But when I reflect on past Christmas days many fond memories roll in and most of them are from a youth that was immersed in a culture that almost seems alien now. There was the anticipation and exuberance brought on by the Santa of course. But the 'reason' for Christmas was strongly stressed in my childhood. On those occasions when we were allowed to open a gift or two on Christmas eve, we first had to endure another reading from the Bible, retelling what we heard countless times in the weeks leading up to the big day.

Not that this was a bad thing. Now, more than ever, I can appreciate the wisdom and values that my parents tried to instill in us. And I treasure all the old pre-Christmas services as well. What I miss these days more than ever is the old candlelight program that the choir put on every year. With the lights dimmed, the entire evening was focused on the music. "Carol Of The Bells" is one that I can recall at any instant; others strike a chord when I hear them but I would be hard-pressed to name many of them. Of course, when I was still a kid, I was more interested in the little paper lunch sack that were handed out as we left--it would include an orange, maybe an apple, walnuts, and a modicum of candy (probably Kisses or Tootsie Rolls).

Which finally brings us to tonight's sermon. I was working earlier and the TV behind me was doing its mindless thing when I started hearing a bunch of Christmas hymns. Being the bright guy that I am, I figured that it was a local church production. Some of the songs were a little jazzed up, some even seemed a little butchered, but oh well... many music directors these days try to spice things up and update traditional music to fit with today's tastes. Maybe appeal better to youth. So give it your best shot people.

I finally decided to sit down though and see who it was. And it was no choir. It was glam shots of celebrities, many celebrities, and seemed to be taken at some award ceremony (or ceremonies...I forget which... I'm not good at keeping up with those events). But these stars were posing, preening for cameras and generally indulging a public that can't get enough of them. And I thought at that moment it was the most revolting display of misplaced values that I've ever seen. Talk about celebrity worship, talk about your idols and false gods. Of course I know that it's not right to blame the famous. It's not even right to blame the producers and TV people. All they do is try to satiate the appetite of a giant mindless mass. But it's numbing just the same

Now I know God has a sense of humor so I don't know: you think he can laugh at this? If I were Him I'd be pissed. And I'd be thinking "This is just about enough...it may be time to wrap things up".

Man Thinks He's Nostradamus

2005-12-13T15:53:00.000-06:00

I’m gonna do something that I wouldn’t normally do. Probably at once the first and last time that I do this. But my lady keeps telling me I should be an announcer because I frequently make calls before the sports analysts on football and Nascar telecasts. Now of course I shouldn’t be an announcer--at the very least you must be able to talk to do that. My predictive skills involve a little sleight of hand born from years of experience watching. One trick is a familiarity with a particular announcer’s style. Another comes from the predictability of the sports themselves. Flag in the offensive backfield? Offensive holding. Flag on a return? Illegal block in the back. Crash in the third turn? Jimmy Johnson did it.

Now there may have been a couple of instances when I was really astute or really lucky but I’m not quite the expert I may have led her to believe. That’s not going to stop me here. The prognosticator is at work. Formulating my theory before my views are warped and corrupted by the Houston sportswriters. Because I think I know what they will be saying and I doubt that the reactions will be favorable.

The Texans have hired Dan Reeves as a consultant. I like it. You see I was afraid that Dom Capers would take the full hit on this one and I think the blame lies a little higher. In my view this at least gives him a fighting chance. Now I don’t know how much influence he’s had on personnel decisions—if his opinions have directly accounted for all the Texan’s player moves maybe he should shoulder a greater share of the blame. But while I’ve never been a fan of his style of team I see a lot in him that I respect. He works hard. He doesn’t badmouth his team. His players seem to like him as a man if not a coach.

Reeves is going to be evaluating players and making suggestions. How will his observations line up with those in place among the current front office? Charley Casserly cannot feel good about this. Who’s opinions will be valued more—the man who’s been involved in 9 Super Bowls or the man who’s team is 1-12? I’ve experienced this type of thing first hand. You bring in someone from outside and tell your department head “This is not a demotion. We want to help you.” It is a demotion though. You don’t hire a man who commands the kind of money that Dan Reeves must bring to be a consultant. Yeah, I know, a six-week commitment. But you are Casserly and you are the one the boss confides in. It’s not a sign of confidence when the boss need another set of eyes. My feeling? If I was Casserly I would resign. Bob McNair is giving him an “out” and that’s the kindest way to put it.

So Dan Reeves will be the next GM of the Texans. Probably in time for the draft. And should his vision not mesh that well with Capers or the team not show drastic improvement by early next year, than Dom is on shaky ground too. Dan Reeves would probably consent to double-duty as a head coach with a lot of authority over player transactions. I like to think that two classy guys like Reeves and Capers could get along, Dom doing the coaching and Dan making all the personnel calls. But neither of them will be consulting Casserly.

Gettin' Busy Widdit

2005-12-06T16:46:00.000-06:00

I’ve been gearing up. Forever. I’ve been trying to figger out what I wanna be when I grow up for 40 years. My mantra has always been “Life is what happens while we make other plans” (Tommy Smothers [on Late Night With Johnny Carson] is the first person I heard say that so I always give him the credit). Well Dodge is changing! And I’m outta time.

The way I usually view it is: I don’t post because I’m writing larger works (in my mind and in assorted scribbling and notes). I’m working on diatribes. I’m making novels. Writing screenplays. Extrapolating wisdom from journals full of collected notes to myself. I just have to go dig them out and polish them off a bit. If I wrote it down it must have been important so it will always be relevant. In fact, it is better to let the stuff age because I might change my mind later. Being objective will be much easier when I view it the next time around.

My problem stems from attaining a goal to be published by age 25. (Yeah, that’s what it was! I also blame a writer’s conference I attended but that’s another story.) It was one of those small press publications where payment is made in the form of copies. It didn’t matter, that’s where the ‘real’ writers were. It was a publishing credit and I was on my way. Which brings me back to the problem. See, I never formulated the next step; there were no further goals. Oh I thought about creating goals. I just couldn’t visualize them. Or maybe I just couldn’t make the commitment.

One might say that I have a commitment problem. Someone else might call it a procrastination problem. I prefer to say that I’ve never had a really good concept of time. In fact, it’s been lousy. I can realize and admit this shortcoming only in a past sense. Because the present has always stood still for me. My favorite ballplayers never peaked and their best years were always ahead. I thought Bonanza would just continue throughout my life. Rock stars were always older than me but they weren’t aging either. My uncles and cousins would always be just a visit away.

It must be because my youth was too damn stable. Poor but never hungry. Never even realizing we were poor until high school. We were like the Waltons and in fact I’ve often characterized my childhood as such. No TV in the house until I was in the 8th grade (and only then because a doctor recommended it to my mom as a sedative to keep my dad down while he recovered from an illness). This, by the way, was probably the reason that my brother and sisters were all reading by the time they went to kindergarten. Hmmm, now there’s an interesting old German word for you—remind me to go back into that later.

Anyway, it was church twice on Sunday as well as Wednesday night. Shared bedrooms. One bathroom shared by a family of 6. A 10-mile drive to town. Happy? Damn right it was happy. Which will do it for this reminisce. What I was ultimately getting to was the irreparable damage done by such a glorious existence. To do that I must skip ahead. At some point life moves along and a certain reality enters into your consciousness. More of those omnipotent people that fill your youth are dying. You no longer have baseball player or racecar driver as an occupational option. At first the players are your age. Then they are younger than you. Then they begin to look like kids. Like your kids even.

Try this sometime: become a homeless person in yer 30’s. Get yerself bailed out by family living 3 states away (thus avoiding jail or death). Get yer act together enough to work as a temp on an assembly line of a large corporation. You should not feel old until you attend a company meeting that is geared to the 20 year olds and what their IRA’s or Keough’s or whatever will be doing by the time they reach yer age. Finish yer assignment and go to work at another company for less pay than you made 20 years earlier. Work that dead-end job fer about 10 years. Done? Now go out and buy yerself a house. You’ve earned it. But doncha think ya better make it a 10-year note?

Ya see what I’m saying here? Time is the ultimate tyranny. Ya better just put that novel on hold and get yer little ass shaking.

Erratum

2005-10-11T12:53:00.000-05:00

(or Why I'm Not A Reporter)

I've been putting off getting back to this. In fact I really didn't want to come back at all. Because I knew I would have to acknowledge an error. I hate doing that.

It turns out that the lady in the previous post did NOT accept the FEMA card as payment. I wondered about that. I wondered if that would even be legal. I asked questions and tried to get all the pieces right when the story was being told. And I still got it wrong. Which is why I should stick to writing only from personal experience... because every retelling introduces the possibility of distortion. You know--the old story whispered around a circle thing? Where it comes back to the original teller unrecognizable? Somehow I must have undergone a brain fade. As far as I'm concerned this makes the story better and it's how I wanted it to be the first time. But I was trying to get it right.

I had some more wanderings for today. I wanted to say something about how all of a sudden you see the car makers advertising their 30-mpg models. Which, except for the fact that my 350ci 1/2-ton beast does half of that, means very little to me. We could do 40+ years ago. Does this whole thing with the major price hikes and rush to fuel-efficient vehicles seem familiar to you. Or are you old enough? Which is not to say I don't believe that our resources are finite. I've felt that we've needed to manage these better for years (the fact that I'm driving under V8 power is accidental--ask anyone, I'm an old tree-huggin' fool). It just seems funny is all. There's always ways for our largest corporations to thrive when everything seems to be going south.

Like I said, I had more "telling" to do today. But this apology just took everything out of me...

Where's My Damn Discount?

2005-10-05T01:26:00.000-05:00

My lady stopped by the liquor store on her way home from work, a local little store run by some of the nicest folk you'll ever hope to meet. We are recognized there and usually pass a few friendly words back and forth. The owner's wife frequently works behind the counter; a pretty, slight woman who always has a smile and kind words. Today she says "I wish you would have come in ten minutes earlier".

It seems three young men put a $55 bottle of Patron on the counter. And proceed to demand a discount. You see, they are displaced New Orleans evacuees. Many local businesses and eateries have signs out advertising discounts for victims of Katrina. Therefore, it goes, the discounts should apply everywhere. Our friend explains that discounts generally apply to those things we regard as necessities such as food and shelter; to her mind expensive liquor is not something you 'need' but something you 'want'. The men become abusive, cursing and calling her names. They scare her so badly that she locks the doors after they leave, opening it only for familiar customers.

If you've watched the media coverage at all you are jumping to conclusions. Don't. These guys were white The other thing I should mention: they paid for their purchase with a Red Cross debit card. Meanwhile, our friend is standing true to her words. When my lady laughingly asks if she's going to get a discount she says "Do you want me to tell you?"

Not Ready For Prime Time

2005-09-30T14:06:00.000-05:00

I'm not ready to do this. I set this account up as a lark because I wanted to see what kind of templates were available and maybe get a glimpse of the underlying code. OK, now I know. Sneaky the way they make you post in order to preview. Exposing myself to the www is not a problem, nothing I haven't done before. But the web is already inundated with useless words and I hate to add to the trashpile with an experiment. Well, what the heck, I've come this far already...

Do ya think someone will ever come up with an internet garbage collection service? For all the antiquated HTML and Windows95 Tutorials? And if so, will a new industry spring up around it? You can just see the terrible logistics of it already. Because ya can't just toss this stuff anywhere. Here's a partial list of what would be involved: you would need scientists to study the target content to determine if a problem actually exists, engineers to determine the best methods of disposal. You would need a consortium to propose specs, politicians to create policy and take credit, lawyers to interpret the new canon.

Look I'm not even scratching the surface here. You have your support and maintenance personnel, admininistration and clerical... At some point even the neignborhood associations would get involved: "Look, yer little homesite is becoming an eyesore." There's something for everyone here. New curriculum for teachers, new sermons for preachers. And a recycling industry would probably benefit as much as anyone since one man's poison is still another man's medicine. As long as it's not another blog that goes "well I'm bored and I really don't have much to say right night now so see y'all later".

I've got an overwhelming urge to listen to The Allman Bothers 'Wasted Words'.