I went outside to manage the tall grass that had grown up around the side of our house. I had not been keeping up with the whacking of weeds like I should, as a conscientious homeowner. That meant that I would be stringing along our longest extension cord with the intent of using a whip of fishing line to knock down the weeds that had been ignored up until now. It was a special project. It was deferred maintenance. I was going to take it on while I asked my son to take our lawnmower to all the foxtails that were about to drop their seed on our back yard.
I had not gone very far with my buzzing machine when I looked up and saw my son standing in front of me with a dangling string in his hand. It was the pull cord for our mower, and since he was standing there I knew that he hadn't finished his task. Instead, we were faced with our own new task: repairing the broken grass eating machine.
I have never been what would be described as particularly mechanically minded. I changed a few spark thplugs, and I know how to read a dipstick, but when it comes to taking things apart and putting them back together again, I have had a tendency to get stuck on that first step. But my son is a more evolved being than I am, and I trusted him to guide me as we took apart the top of the engine and used various sized attachments from our socket set to find our way to the heart of the matter. Finally, after taking twice as long to replace the pull cord than it would have to mow the front and back lawn, we had puzzled it out and put it back into one operational piece. I returned to the business with which I had begun.
At last, the grass level across our property had been maintained. My son and I put our tools away and headed inside to start the rest of our day. With a nice warm shower. Except the hot water never came. I worried and fussed over the faucet, then the hot water heater downstairs. It wasn't until several minutes had passed that it occurred to me that it could be the gas. I went upstairs and tried to get the front burner on the stove to light. No luck. I went on line to see if there was an outage in our area. With no outages reported, I picked up the phone to report one.
That call let me know that someone would be out to check on our lack of gas within the next seven hours. I sat there, dirty and sweaty, and resigned myself to the wait. Happily, it was only a two and a half hour wait, and the tech was happy to show me how a simple thump of on the earthquake valve, with something like a weed whacker, could set it off. Something like that was what was keeping the gas from coming into our house to warm the water that would heat the shower that would wash off the grime from fixing the mower that leveled the grass that my son was cutting while I was carelessly dropping the weed eater against the pipe that -
Well, I was glad that I had the day to spend on it.
Thursday, June 30, 2016
Wednesday, June 29, 2016
"No Tears For BHS"
That is what Lance wrote in my yearbook. Right below the rubber stamped blue ink that read, "_____, have a great summer - Lance." The fact that he had actually taken the time to write something beyond his oh-so-clever rubber stamp was a tribute to me. Lance was a senior, after all, and was off to the Colorado School of Mines in the Fall. He wasn't looking back. I thought that was so cool.
Not that Lance fit the standard issue definition of "cool" back in 1979.He was a lanky, bespectacled goof of a snare drummer who had risen to the ranks of our high school band's drum line through sheer tenacity and patience. As a junior, I was already taking notes about how to find this path, but I would do it from my position as next year's section leader of the sousaphones. Cool in high school band was calibrated differently than the rest of the world. Section leader or snare line carried a certain weight that could not be comprehended outside the band room.
But Lance was cool in my book before that. He was the guy who went to see Halloween in its first week of release and then proceeded to do a shot-by-shot retelling of that seminal slasher film for anyone who would sit still for it. I sat down with a friend of mine and listened, rapt. This is the guy who turned would be my locker partner as a senior, and much more.We went to see that movie for ourselves on Lance's recommendation, and it was the beginning of what became a lifelong connection. His girlfriend became mine, through a series of high school drama and intrigue that never managed to destroy my friendship. Years later, when I was a groomsman at my locker partner's wedding, it became obvious that a great many of us had paired off, with the notable exception of the girl that he had dated after I had taken up with that first girlfriend. We had all been friends, having shared the experience of marching band, and kept in touch but it seemed that there might be something missing. Like the fact that we had all been friends for lo those many years and never dated. This is how I hooked up with another one of my very good friend's ex-girlfriends. This one became my wife. For me, this was all in keeping with the much discussed stricture stating that band geeks were not allowed to date outside their species. My wife was a cymbal player. On the drum line.
Lance would have been so proud.
Not that Lance fit the standard issue definition of "cool" back in 1979.He was a lanky, bespectacled goof of a snare drummer who had risen to the ranks of our high school band's drum line through sheer tenacity and patience. As a junior, I was already taking notes about how to find this path, but I would do it from my position as next year's section leader of the sousaphones. Cool in high school band was calibrated differently than the rest of the world. Section leader or snare line carried a certain weight that could not be comprehended outside the band room.
But Lance was cool in my book before that. He was the guy who went to see Halloween in its first week of release and then proceeded to do a shot-by-shot retelling of that seminal slasher film for anyone who would sit still for it. I sat down with a friend of mine and listened, rapt. This is the guy who turned would be my locker partner as a senior, and much more.We went to see that movie for ourselves on Lance's recommendation, and it was the beginning of what became a lifelong connection. His girlfriend became mine, through a series of high school drama and intrigue that never managed to destroy my friendship. Years later, when I was a groomsman at my locker partner's wedding, it became obvious that a great many of us had paired off, with the notable exception of the girl that he had dated after I had taken up with that first girlfriend. We had all been friends, having shared the experience of marching band, and kept in touch but it seemed that there might be something missing. Like the fact that we had all been friends for lo those many years and never dated. This is how I hooked up with another one of my very good friend's ex-girlfriends. This one became my wife. For me, this was all in keeping with the much discussed stricture stating that band geeks were not allowed to date outside their species. My wife was a cymbal player. On the drum line.
Lance would have been so proud.
Tuesday, June 28, 2016
Do Not Reply
It's a lecture that most people get at some point. Somewhere along the line, it takes a knowing, caring soul to point out to those uninitiated to the magic behind "reply all." It's that button right next to "reply" when you are sending an email. There are times when this is a very convenient tool. When you are having a cyber discussion with a group of friends and relatives about what sort of gift to give the new nephew, and you want everyone to pitch in with their best ideas, "reply all" is a great way to get everyone's opinion. Even though Cousin Carol always says that a sailor suit makes a great gift. For anyone. Anytime. Cousin Carol needs to have everyone reply to her and remind her that trains are always appropriate. This is a case when you definitely want to bang on that "reply all" button.
But if you want to have a more intimate discussion about how to get Cousin Carol help with that sailor suit problem, you might want to lay off the "reply all." Sure, she might benefit from your thoughts about ritual humiliation, or plans to show up at the next family gathering wearing matching sailor suits, but that would spoil the evil. By contrast, you might want to keep this sliver of information from Cousin Carol, just in case she is actually working on a plan for world domination that involves sailor suits.
It could happen. Better keep an eye on Cousin Carol and quit deleting those random emails she keeps sending you with links to cat videos.
But you would guess that somebody's lawyer, a high-powered type with access to other people's non-sailor-suit-related-secrets. Johnny Manziel's lawyer needs to lock down his "reply all" habits to avoid spreading his client's dirty laundry all down the street and across Al Gore's Internet. He accidentally texted his concerns about his dangerous party-boy to the Associated Press. Oops. Drinking, drugging, battery, you name the rule or statute, and Johnny's probably broken it. And now his lawyer is letting the whole world know. Not in the whole "I can't stand by and watch this happen" way that might make this a happier story, but more in the "Wait, did I say that? I don't think you can draw that conclusion based on the facts" kind of way. Johnny Football seems to be headed toward a wall, and accelerating. The good news? So far there has been no mention of sailor suits.
But if you want to have a more intimate discussion about how to get Cousin Carol help with that sailor suit problem, you might want to lay off the "reply all." Sure, she might benefit from your thoughts about ritual humiliation, or plans to show up at the next family gathering wearing matching sailor suits, but that would spoil the evil. By contrast, you might want to keep this sliver of information from Cousin Carol, just in case she is actually working on a plan for world domination that involves sailor suits.
It could happen. Better keep an eye on Cousin Carol and quit deleting those random emails she keeps sending you with links to cat videos.
But you would guess that somebody's lawyer, a high-powered type with access to other people's non-sailor-suit-related-secrets. Johnny Manziel's lawyer needs to lock down his "reply all" habits to avoid spreading his client's dirty laundry all down the street and across Al Gore's Internet. He accidentally texted his concerns about his dangerous party-boy to the Associated Press. Oops. Drinking, drugging, battery, you name the rule or statute, and Johnny's probably broken it. And now his lawyer is letting the whole world know. Not in the whole "I can't stand by and watch this happen" way that might make this a happier story, but more in the "Wait, did I say that? I don't think you can draw that conclusion based on the facts" kind of way. Johnny Football seems to be headed toward a wall, and accelerating. The good news? So far there has been no mention of sailor suits.
Monday, June 27, 2016
Last One Out, Turn Off The Lights
So, Great Britain chose to leave the European Union. I confess I am a little surprised. The idea of European Unity seemed like a good one to me, having been a big fan of the North Atlantic Treaty Organization for such a long time. Setting up that little group of countries in anticipation of the potential westward toppling of Soviet dominoes was a stroke of mild genius. Here in America, we could always count on the sound of trouble coming form NATO long before it ever reached out shores. When the European Economic Community switched to the European Union back in 1993, I figured it would be part of the homogenization of that continent that had been happening for so long. Once the wall came down in Berlin, and the Soviet Union became just plain old Russia again, it seemed like a great way to bring things together under one roof, so to speak. Kind of like a great big EPCOT Center.
Aside from my obvious and very simple-minded vision of the Disneyfication of Europe, I felt the example of a melting pot for all the cultures of all those countries would serve as a beacon to the rest of us living out here in Frontierland. One currency. One government. One voice. United. Out of many: one, to coin a phrase. Of course that meant that all those colorful foreign currencies were lost to the clunky Euro, and everyone had to learn to speak Esperanto. Okay, languages weren't affected that much, and there were still all those flags and chancellors and prime ministers and so forth.
And all that xenophobia.
The fact that the European Union was formed before and survived for some time after the events of September 11, 2001 is impressive. The terror Americans anticipated after the World Trade Centers fell never fully materialized. Not in Frontierland. In Europe, where everyone was within driving distance of some kind of terror cell, there have been multiple bombings, shootings and other such events made easier because of those "porous borders."
Through it all, the European Union stood strong. Now, Great Britain wants out. Never mind the economic and political chaos this will start, Never mind that Ireland and Scotland will probably take this opportunity to decide whether they want to remain part of Great Britain. Germany and France will continue to hold the line while countries like Albania and Montenegro wonder if they should give up their place in line to get into the club in the first place.
Meanwhile, back in Frontierland, Donald T-Rump lauds the people of Great Britain for "taking back their country." Do we need a bigger, brighter sign to tell us that this may not be a good idea after all? I dont pensi do.
Aside from my obvious and very simple-minded vision of the Disneyfication of Europe, I felt the example of a melting pot for all the cultures of all those countries would serve as a beacon to the rest of us living out here in Frontierland. One currency. One government. One voice. United. Out of many: one, to coin a phrase. Of course that meant that all those colorful foreign currencies were lost to the clunky Euro, and everyone had to learn to speak Esperanto. Okay, languages weren't affected that much, and there were still all those flags and chancellors and prime ministers and so forth.
And all that xenophobia.
The fact that the European Union was formed before and survived for some time after the events of September 11, 2001 is impressive. The terror Americans anticipated after the World Trade Centers fell never fully materialized. Not in Frontierland. In Europe, where everyone was within driving distance of some kind of terror cell, there have been multiple bombings, shootings and other such events made easier because of those "porous borders."
Through it all, the European Union stood strong. Now, Great Britain wants out. Never mind the economic and political chaos this will start, Never mind that Ireland and Scotland will probably take this opportunity to decide whether they want to remain part of Great Britain. Germany and France will continue to hold the line while countries like Albania and Montenegro wonder if they should give up their place in line to get into the club in the first place.
Meanwhile, back in Frontierland, Donald T-Rump lauds the people of Great Britain for "taking back their country." Do we need a bigger, brighter sign to tell us that this may not be a good idea after all? I dont pensi do.
Sunday, June 26, 2016
Behaving Badly
It was a trip to the past when Democrats staged a sit-in on the floor of the House of Representatives. Way back when sitting still sent a message: We shall not be moved. It was more than just a folk song. It was a consciousness raising tool. Gandhi and his followers used it to unhinge the British colonization of India. In the 1960's, this tactic was used in Greensboro, North Carolina to wake people up to the racial injustices that existed throughout our own country. Anti-war protesters picked it up and sat with it during Vietnam. John and Yoko took it a step further by staging a bed-in for peace. Part of Congress was sending a message in those twenty-five hours: We will not be moved, until it's time to head off on vacation.
Georgia Representative John Lewis said, in the wee hours of the morning, "By sitting in, we are really standing up." And now comes the Fourth of July Recess. Two weeks for members of congress to head home to their constituents and face the music. As our nation celebrates its two hundred fortieth birthday, we remain at odds about what to do about the rights and responsibilities set forth by our founding fathers. It should be noted that the Bill of Rights was not ratified until 1791, so the principles set forth in the Declaration of Independence have a fifteen year head start on all those constitutional amendments. Words like, "When in the course of human events it becomes necessary for one people to dissolve the political bands which have connected them with another," and "We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal, that they are endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable Rights, that among these are Life, Liberty and the pursuit of Happiness. That to secure these rights, Governments are instituted among Men, deriving their just powers from the consent of the governed."
I have recently been stuck on that "life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness," since it seems to be severely limited by the use of assault weapons. But take a look at that next phrase, the one about deriving their just powers from the consent of the governed. Universal background checks for gun purchases have a higher approval rating than Mother Theresa. When was the last time ninety-two percent of our country agreed on anything?
And yet, here we are, filibustering and sitting down in the halls of congress, trying to get anything that looks like meaningful legislation done there. It's not hippies or students or militant minorities clogging things up. It's our elected officials. Thanks for the flashback, but once everyone comes back from the fireworks, we will most likely have experienced another ten mass shootings, given our current pace. Then, I suppose, we can get back to the arduous task of sitting around and waiting for something to change.
Georgia Representative John Lewis said, in the wee hours of the morning, "By sitting in, we are really standing up." And now comes the Fourth of July Recess. Two weeks for members of congress to head home to their constituents and face the music. As our nation celebrates its two hundred fortieth birthday, we remain at odds about what to do about the rights and responsibilities set forth by our founding fathers. It should be noted that the Bill of Rights was not ratified until 1791, so the principles set forth in the Declaration of Independence have a fifteen year head start on all those constitutional amendments. Words like, "When in the course of human events it becomes necessary for one people to dissolve the political bands which have connected them with another," and "We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal, that they are endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable Rights, that among these are Life, Liberty and the pursuit of Happiness. That to secure these rights, Governments are instituted among Men, deriving their just powers from the consent of the governed."
I have recently been stuck on that "life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness," since it seems to be severely limited by the use of assault weapons. But take a look at that next phrase, the one about deriving their just powers from the consent of the governed. Universal background checks for gun purchases have a higher approval rating than Mother Theresa. When was the last time ninety-two percent of our country agreed on anything?
And yet, here we are, filibustering and sitting down in the halls of congress, trying to get anything that looks like meaningful legislation done there. It's not hippies or students or militant minorities clogging things up. It's our elected officials. Thanks for the flashback, but once everyone comes back from the fireworks, we will most likely have experienced another ten mass shootings, given our current pace. Then, I suppose, we can get back to the arduous task of sitting around and waiting for something to change.
Saturday, June 25, 2016
*
When I was told, "If something sounds too good to be true, it probably isn't," I wasn't really listening. I heard the "too good to be true" part, then I kind of spaced out. That's what happens when I hear "free." My eyes glaze over and I start to salivate. Mostly metaphorically, but the common sense part of my brain begins to shut down and I start to lurch toward whatever special offer hangs in front of me. Before I revert completely to that slobbering lizard brain that seeks out only those things too good to be true, the left side of what is left of my gray matter tries to focus in on the fine print. There has to be a catch.
There always is one. A catch, that is. Most of the time, I catch myself before I put on my shoes and leave the house. Sometimes the fresh air is enough to bring me back to my right mind. They aren't really giving away new cars. Or big screen TVs. They're dragging you to their store/lot/showroom to try and convince you to buy something to ease the disappointment you feel when you don't win. But what happens when you don't get that breeze in your face?
Sitting in front of my computer a few nights ago, I spotted a story on Al Gore's Internet that said Ticketmaster was giving away tickets. It seems that after years of charging all those "convenience fees," a lawsuit was made and eventually settled to the tune of many millions of dollars. As it turns out, a small chunk of this court-directed largesse was pointed in my direction, verified by a quick check of my Ticketmaster account. At the time, I went immediately to the link that promised to show me the available events for which I could exchange my vouchers for free tickets. Free.
I should have seen it coming. I wanted to go see Flight of the Conchords, and lo and behold their show was included on the list of available events. I spent the next hour or two trying to get their web site to fork over the free tickets. "Sorry, we are unable to process your request at this time. Please try again later." That's what I did. Later. Then again early the next morning. When business hours for the customer service folks began, I was poised and ready. I dialed.
I really don't know what I should have expected. It's a great big tentacled corporation that has been taking my money for decades now, and I really expected it to reverse that trend? All those free tickets were gone. The limited number of tickets released to each of the selected shows were gobbled up almost immediately. Not that their web site could give me that message, nor the first two customer service representatives who insisted that I should be able to simply apply my voucher codes to the blah, blah, blah, blah. No, it won't work. I was put on hold again to have my concern escalated. Escalated to a guy who told me the same thing, but when I walked through the steps with him on the line and asked him to do the same, he came up empty as well. There were no free tickets. Gone, they were. Absent. Snapped up. Not sold out, but given out. Handed to those who were not me. They were someone else. Without a clear explanation of the process or an expectation of how I might expect to use my vouchers, even though I have years to use them.
Thanks for the adventure, Ticketmaster. The thrill of the chase and so on. Things went back to normal after I hung up the phone. I still have all those vouchers, and sometime in the future I hope to turn them into something besides the hollow offer of free. Hope is the thing with feathers, Emily Dickinson once wrote. I won't be flying anywhere soon.
There always is one. A catch, that is. Most of the time, I catch myself before I put on my shoes and leave the house. Sometimes the fresh air is enough to bring me back to my right mind. They aren't really giving away new cars. Or big screen TVs. They're dragging you to their store/lot/showroom to try and convince you to buy something to ease the disappointment you feel when you don't win. But what happens when you don't get that breeze in your face?
Sitting in front of my computer a few nights ago, I spotted a story on Al Gore's Internet that said Ticketmaster was giving away tickets. It seems that after years of charging all those "convenience fees," a lawsuit was made and eventually settled to the tune of many millions of dollars. As it turns out, a small chunk of this court-directed largesse was pointed in my direction, verified by a quick check of my Ticketmaster account. At the time, I went immediately to the link that promised to show me the available events for which I could exchange my vouchers for free tickets. Free.
I should have seen it coming. I wanted to go see Flight of the Conchords, and lo and behold their show was included on the list of available events. I spent the next hour or two trying to get their web site to fork over the free tickets. "Sorry, we are unable to process your request at this time. Please try again later." That's what I did. Later. Then again early the next morning. When business hours for the customer service folks began, I was poised and ready. I dialed.
I really don't know what I should have expected. It's a great big tentacled corporation that has been taking my money for decades now, and I really expected it to reverse that trend? All those free tickets were gone. The limited number of tickets released to each of the selected shows were gobbled up almost immediately. Not that their web site could give me that message, nor the first two customer service representatives who insisted that I should be able to simply apply my voucher codes to the blah, blah, blah, blah. No, it won't work. I was put on hold again to have my concern escalated. Escalated to a guy who told me the same thing, but when I walked through the steps with him on the line and asked him to do the same, he came up empty as well. There were no free tickets. Gone, they were. Absent. Snapped up. Not sold out, but given out. Handed to those who were not me. They were someone else. Without a clear explanation of the process or an expectation of how I might expect to use my vouchers, even though I have years to use them.
Thanks for the adventure, Ticketmaster. The thrill of the chase and so on. Things went back to normal after I hung up the phone. I still have all those vouchers, and sometime in the future I hope to turn them into something besides the hollow offer of free. Hope is the thing with feathers, Emily Dickinson once wrote. I won't be flying anywhere soon.
Friday, June 24, 2016
So Close
I was thinking, for a little while, about how I can relax and let some of my ennui go in the wake of the somewhat surprising collapse of the Golden State Warriors in their quest for a second consecutive NBA Championship. I was thinking that I have lost a few Super Bowls in my day. That thought stuck around for a few days, and it even came out as part of our community discussions about how we were all going to cope with getting so close to the top of that mountain and then having to it the reset button and start all over again next Fall.
Then I was thinking, "Wait a minute, I never lost any Super Bowls. I never played in a Super Bowl." That's the bottom line. I watched a lot of Super Bowls, some of which involved teams for whom I have invested a lot of time and money in purchase of jerseys, bath towels, hats and note pads. I grew up watching the Denver Broncos, and for a brief period of time I considered playing for them. That was when I was in second grade. Dreams die hard, but my fascination with spectator sports only ramped up from there. I discovered over the years that I wasn't the athletic type. I was the watcher type.
I watched a lot of football, some basketball, and a little bit of baseball. I became fascinated with the notion that I could influence the outcome of certain contests simply by how much I cared. This gave me plenty of heartache as seasons came and went without any Super Bowl, World Series or NBA Championship trophies to show for it. When I was a junior in high school, our basketball team took state. The next year, when I was a senior, they made it all the way to the finals and lost. Major disappointment. Second best team in the whole state and that wasn't worth a day off school like we got the year before.
Then I thought, "Maybe I've been thinking about this the wrong way all these years." I didn't play in any of those games, why should I feel bad? Shouldn't I be getting some sort of personal apology from the teams that let me down? I bought the T-shirt, I sat and stared at the TV for all those hours, wading through all those truck and beer commercials, where's my appreciation for having stuck with it all those weeks just to get the news: Wait til next year.
Or maybe I should look into getting a roster spot.
Then I was thinking, "Wait a minute, I never lost any Super Bowls. I never played in a Super Bowl." That's the bottom line. I watched a lot of Super Bowls, some of which involved teams for whom I have invested a lot of time and money in purchase of jerseys, bath towels, hats and note pads. I grew up watching the Denver Broncos, and for a brief period of time I considered playing for them. That was when I was in second grade. Dreams die hard, but my fascination with spectator sports only ramped up from there. I discovered over the years that I wasn't the athletic type. I was the watcher type.
I watched a lot of football, some basketball, and a little bit of baseball. I became fascinated with the notion that I could influence the outcome of certain contests simply by how much I cared. This gave me plenty of heartache as seasons came and went without any Super Bowl, World Series or NBA Championship trophies to show for it. When I was a junior in high school, our basketball team took state. The next year, when I was a senior, they made it all the way to the finals and lost. Major disappointment. Second best team in the whole state and that wasn't worth a day off school like we got the year before.
Then I thought, "Maybe I've been thinking about this the wrong way all these years." I didn't play in any of those games, why should I feel bad? Shouldn't I be getting some sort of personal apology from the teams that let me down? I bought the T-shirt, I sat and stared at the TV for all those hours, wading through all those truck and beer commercials, where's my appreciation for having stuck with it all those weeks just to get the news: Wait til next year.
Or maybe I should look into getting a roster spot.
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