This is one of my favorite lines from the movie Jaws. When I find myself against a seemingly insurmountable problem, I'll say it quietly. I'm not sure why...I have this weird, cursed brain that remembers odd lines from movies, songs, and books and spits them out when applicable (sometimes even when not applicable). The problem with this condition is that it makes it difficult for the afflicted to assimilate successfully with other humans.
Usually, I get blank stares. Occasionally, I'll get that brief pause, a flash of recognition, and a realization of meaning and the application to the situation.
The other day, I got a nice surprise. We were putting together a robotic machine that is very complex, and everything started going wrong--We were missing vaccuum hoses and cables and cords and nothing matched up. I looked at the mess and said "You're gonna need a bigger boat!" The guy I was working with turned around and started Quint's speech about sharks:
"The thing about a shark, he's got lifeless eyes, black eyes, like a doll's eyes. When he comes after you, he doesn't seem to be living until he bites you, and those black eyes roll over white. . . ."
...and so on...
I thought that was kinda cool.
Another cool, somewhat related thing--I got to touch a piece of the Titanic. There was a display of artifacts excavated from the wreck, including a huge piece of the hull. A smaller piece was under plexiglass with an opening allowing visitors to reach in and touch the piece. It was haunting and eerie. As expected, I guess.
If you get a chance to see it, it's worth it (yes <---That's a link on the word "it").
Want to own something that was on the Titanic? You can buy some coal that was on board. It is packaged in a small vial and hung on a chain. Good Luck?
27 July 2006
24 July 2006
The Place I Don't Want to Be
It was smoky in the restaurant--we were seated by the smoking section of a nice place near the airport, close to the hotel where I would drop him off shortly for the evening. His flight was first thing in the morning and we had arranged for a shuttle to come and get him. I felt like an adult babysitter. This is the reason that there are expense accounts and taxis and rental cars--so you don't end up inconveniencing your co-workers by expecting them to give you rides to the airport.
Communication is a funny thing. I remember one of my mentors claiming, certainly at a moment of conflict, that you aren't communicating unless a message is both sent and received--this definition came to mind all day as I sat there on the hook for this colleague visiting from out of town to take care of our problem. I told my partner that he needed to take care of an issue with a customer. Next thing I know, I'm ferrying people back and forth from the airport. I take care of my fair share of things, and then some. It bugs me to have crossed something off my list, only to have the burden for its completion put back on my shoulders.
As the guy shifted in his seat across from me, I was acutely aware that I needed to call home. I thought I had warned my wife that I may be late, but I wanted to be sure. I'm glad she expects me and wants me to be home early if possible--almost to the point of being irritated when I can't make it on time. And the kids would be asking for me--I'm the one who puts them to bed every night, saying no to the fourth request for another drink of water, saying their prayers, telling them stories. That is, except for the last three weeks out of four, as I've been traveling so much. If I wanted to be away from home at night, there are other jobs to be had--better paying jobs.
I excused myself and called home on my cell phone. I wanted to talk quickly and just make sure Fran knew what I was up to. Surprisingly, she did, and was fine with the schedule. She even offered to keep the kids up a little later for me so I could put them to bed. I promised to hurry. On my part, I tried to muffle the background sounds of music and loud talking and clanking dishes. I was about to sit down to a beautiful steak dinner, but there was no need to rub it in and risk her being hurt or jealous. Eating with colleagues is more like work than enjoyment. There are limited points of conversation. Typically, things that are too philosophical, political, or in any other way controversial are off-limits. If you end up with a weirdo or someone with ideological differences or someone in a crisis who wants to talk, the experience can be tedious.
I started thinking about my colleague who set me up for this job of shuttling our out-of-town visitor around. Was this innocent, of out necessity? Was this a set-up job? Was he laughing at me for having to do this? Why did he schedule this visitor for the two days that he was going to be unavailable? Was it merely an accident? He needed to be by this guy's side! He needed to learn from him. Is he shifting this responsibility back to me purposely, because he is challenging my authority to assign the responsibility in the first place? Does he just want nothing to do with this thusfar failed project? Should I confront him about it, or beat about the bush and try to flush out the answer.
My attention shifted back to my dinner companion. He is a nice enough guy. We've been working together for about nine months now, off and on. He's from New York originally, but has moved his family down south. He flies in to handle special project for me--he's not especially talented, but he's pretty smart--got a Ph.D and lots of experience. He's absolutely one of the worst people I've worked with in the field of dealing with interpersonal issues. Part of his problem is that he's got too much pride, to the point of arrogance. I've heard that people shouldn't be allowed to know their own IQ's, and I think it applies here. Almost like he goes around thinking, "I'm smarter than you--it's my job to convert you to my way of thinking..." Instead of perhaps listening to others and learning something, if nothing else, perhaps just their viewpoint. Even if you don't think the other party has a valid position, one of the best ways to get them to consider your point of view is to make sure they know that you've completely considered theirs.
After a couple of blown projects with this guy, I shared my theory of this guy's interpersonal flaws with another colleague who works with him. Later, I received reports about this guy having emotional meltdowns publicly in similarly stressful situations. Another case for the books: What you need is balance--the ability to deal with people and the intellect to solve problems. Too much of one without the other results in an irritating , dysfunctional individual.
So, smiling to myself a little, my main goal was to get this meal over with relatively quickly and get this guy back to the hotel feeling like he had been coddled while he was in town. That was one of my theories on getting good support from my co-workers from out-of-town. When we had a flurry of projects, I would take a couple of hours to pick them up from the airport, make arrangements for them to get shuttled around, take them out for lunch and dinner and even give a half-hour tour of the city as we drove to our destinations.
My goal was to make it easy for them to come to town to help me so they wouldn't mind the extra work. Maybe even look forward to coming to town to help me. And I wouldn't feel guilty asking for extra effort from them since I had gone through extra effort to bring them in and treat them right. This co-worker had been reassigned away from our territory, but was in town to help clean up a failed project--a customer who had been given a free instrument for a long period of time, but had never been trained on how to use it--today was the 7-hour training day, and it was decided that it would be better for this guy to finish the project that he started, rather than give the responsibility to the new guy. When I found out my partner had arranged to be out of town and that it was clear that I was expected to pick this guy up at the airport, I thought it would be too abrupt a change to yank the red carpet out from under him right away, so I relunctantly agreed.
We had shared stories about kids, and some basic work gossip and the events of the day, and were running out of topics. I knew from previous experience that there were some off-limits family subjects that would provoke an emotional response. I also knew that he would like nothing better than to engage me in a political debate if it came up--which I couldn't take. I decided to steer the conversation toward a hunting trip that a lot of our colleagues take together each September. I realized that my dinner companion is one of those people who has the annoying ability to turn anything fun into a mathematical formula, so I anticipated learning the muzzle velocity of a 30-06. Instead, he made a joke about the Vice President shooting someone during a hunting trip last year and asking about the weaponry on hand during the hunting trip.
I responded with a comment about a unique gun that one of my co-workers has--a double-barreled shotgun with side-by-side barrels.
Immediately, I could see that I had somehow touched a nerve. He stared over my right shoulder and was completely silent. I glanced behind me to make sure someone wasn't coming out of the kitchen with some sort of giant cleaver.
"What?" I asked.
"Nothing," he said, "I just had a bad experience with a double-barreled shotgun one time."
"What happened? Did you have a barrel burst on you or something?" I had heard of a case where an acorn had lodged in the barrel, causing it to explode when fired, sending shrapnel flying.
His eyes lost their stare and he focused right at me. His piercing look was slightly alarming--his face suddenly showed his age a little more clearly--definitely over 50, not a prematurely greying 40.
"No, I was just remembering a time where I found myself looking down the barrel of one of those guns, and it was a pretty awful experience," he said quietly.
"What?! When did this happen?" He just shook his head.
"It was pretty bad, Mike. I don't know if I want to..."he trailed off and he had the stare again.
I knew this guy well enough to know that this was absolutely true, but that it was quite likely that I wouldn't hear much more of this story if he decided to end it abruptly.
"Did the gun go off?" It was ambiguous enough, designed to get the story out of him.
"The good thing about those guns," he said slowly, almost mechanically, apparently not hearing my question, "is that you know there are only two shots. Once they're both fired, that's it. In this case, when they were finished, they hit me in the head with the stock. That's where I got this knot on my head." He pulled back his hair to show an area on his forehead. I couldn't tell if there was a knot or scar--I believed him, though.
"They shot at you?"
He smiled a slight, odd smile and shook his head yes.
"Were you hit?"
"Not me."
"Another person with you?"
He nodded.
"Did they make it?"
The stare again. He slowly shook his head...and said--"No. They didn't make it."
"What? What in the hell happened?"
"I was working for the government at the time." His eyes were red and I saw there were tears. Now, I knew I had pushed too much.
"Hey, I'm sorry. You know, we can talk about something else."
He nodded, eyes still red, a pained expression on his face as he said "Yeah. I would appreciate that."
Suddenly self-conscious that I had been interrogating this poor guy, I swiftly changed the subject to something benign and that's where it stayed for the next half-hour as we finished the transaction that was the remainder of our dinner. His telegraphic answers told me that was definitely off-limits, maybe to be finished another day. We made it to his hotel in relative silence, except for a brief call to his kids to say "good night."
We shook hands and he walked away, not looking back.
Communication is a funny thing. I remember one of my mentors claiming, certainly at a moment of conflict, that you aren't communicating unless a message is both sent and received--this definition came to mind all day as I sat there on the hook for this colleague visiting from out of town to take care of our problem. I told my partner that he needed to take care of an issue with a customer. Next thing I know, I'm ferrying people back and forth from the airport. I take care of my fair share of things, and then some. It bugs me to have crossed something off my list, only to have the burden for its completion put back on my shoulders.
As the guy shifted in his seat across from me, I was acutely aware that I needed to call home. I thought I had warned my wife that I may be late, but I wanted to be sure. I'm glad she expects me and wants me to be home early if possible--almost to the point of being irritated when I can't make it on time. And the kids would be asking for me--I'm the one who puts them to bed every night, saying no to the fourth request for another drink of water, saying their prayers, telling them stories. That is, except for the last three weeks out of four, as I've been traveling so much. If I wanted to be away from home at night, there are other jobs to be had--better paying jobs.
I excused myself and called home on my cell phone. I wanted to talk quickly and just make sure Fran knew what I was up to. Surprisingly, she did, and was fine with the schedule. She even offered to keep the kids up a little later for me so I could put them to bed. I promised to hurry. On my part, I tried to muffle the background sounds of music and loud talking and clanking dishes. I was about to sit down to a beautiful steak dinner, but there was no need to rub it in and risk her being hurt or jealous. Eating with colleagues is more like work than enjoyment. There are limited points of conversation. Typically, things that are too philosophical, political, or in any other way controversial are off-limits. If you end up with a weirdo or someone with ideological differences or someone in a crisis who wants to talk, the experience can be tedious.
I started thinking about my colleague who set me up for this job of shuttling our out-of-town visitor around. Was this innocent, of out necessity? Was this a set-up job? Was he laughing at me for having to do this? Why did he schedule this visitor for the two days that he was going to be unavailable? Was it merely an accident? He needed to be by this guy's side! He needed to learn from him. Is he shifting this responsibility back to me purposely, because he is challenging my authority to assign the responsibility in the first place? Does he just want nothing to do with this thusfar failed project? Should I confront him about it, or beat about the bush and try to flush out the answer.
My attention shifted back to my dinner companion. He is a nice enough guy. We've been working together for about nine months now, off and on. He's from New York originally, but has moved his family down south. He flies in to handle special project for me--he's not especially talented, but he's pretty smart--got a Ph.D and lots of experience. He's absolutely one of the worst people I've worked with in the field of dealing with interpersonal issues. Part of his problem is that he's got too much pride, to the point of arrogance. I've heard that people shouldn't be allowed to know their own IQ's, and I think it applies here. Almost like he goes around thinking, "I'm smarter than you--it's my job to convert you to my way of thinking..." Instead of perhaps listening to others and learning something, if nothing else, perhaps just their viewpoint. Even if you don't think the other party has a valid position, one of the best ways to get them to consider your point of view is to make sure they know that you've completely considered theirs.
After a couple of blown projects with this guy, I shared my theory of this guy's interpersonal flaws with another colleague who works with him. Later, I received reports about this guy having emotional meltdowns publicly in similarly stressful situations. Another case for the books: What you need is balance--the ability to deal with people and the intellect to solve problems. Too much of one without the other results in an irritating , dysfunctional individual.
So, smiling to myself a little, my main goal was to get this meal over with relatively quickly and get this guy back to the hotel feeling like he had been coddled while he was in town. That was one of my theories on getting good support from my co-workers from out-of-town. When we had a flurry of projects, I would take a couple of hours to pick them up from the airport, make arrangements for them to get shuttled around, take them out for lunch and dinner and even give a half-hour tour of the city as we drove to our destinations.
My goal was to make it easy for them to come to town to help me so they wouldn't mind the extra work. Maybe even look forward to coming to town to help me. And I wouldn't feel guilty asking for extra effort from them since I had gone through extra effort to bring them in and treat them right. This co-worker had been reassigned away from our territory, but was in town to help clean up a failed project--a customer who had been given a free instrument for a long period of time, but had never been trained on how to use it--today was the 7-hour training day, and it was decided that it would be better for this guy to finish the project that he started, rather than give the responsibility to the new guy. When I found out my partner had arranged to be out of town and that it was clear that I was expected to pick this guy up at the airport, I thought it would be too abrupt a change to yank the red carpet out from under him right away, so I relunctantly agreed.
We had shared stories about kids, and some basic work gossip and the events of the day, and were running out of topics. I knew from previous experience that there were some off-limits family subjects that would provoke an emotional response. I also knew that he would like nothing better than to engage me in a political debate if it came up--which I couldn't take. I decided to steer the conversation toward a hunting trip that a lot of our colleagues take together each September. I realized that my dinner companion is one of those people who has the annoying ability to turn anything fun into a mathematical formula, so I anticipated learning the muzzle velocity of a 30-06. Instead, he made a joke about the Vice President shooting someone during a hunting trip last year and asking about the weaponry on hand during the hunting trip.
I responded with a comment about a unique gun that one of my co-workers has--a double-barreled shotgun with side-by-side barrels.
Immediately, I could see that I had somehow touched a nerve. He stared over my right shoulder and was completely silent. I glanced behind me to make sure someone wasn't coming out of the kitchen with some sort of giant cleaver.
"What?" I asked.
"Nothing," he said, "I just had a bad experience with a double-barreled shotgun one time."
"What happened? Did you have a barrel burst on you or something?" I had heard of a case where an acorn had lodged in the barrel, causing it to explode when fired, sending shrapnel flying.
His eyes lost their stare and he focused right at me. His piercing look was slightly alarming--his face suddenly showed his age a little more clearly--definitely over 50, not a prematurely greying 40.
"No, I was just remembering a time where I found myself looking down the barrel of one of those guns, and it was a pretty awful experience," he said quietly.
"What?! When did this happen?" He just shook his head.
"It was pretty bad, Mike. I don't know if I want to..."he trailed off and he had the stare again.
I knew this guy well enough to know that this was absolutely true, but that it was quite likely that I wouldn't hear much more of this story if he decided to end it abruptly.
"Did the gun go off?" It was ambiguous enough, designed to get the story out of him.
"The good thing about those guns," he said slowly, almost mechanically, apparently not hearing my question, "is that you know there are only two shots. Once they're both fired, that's it. In this case, when they were finished, they hit me in the head with the stock. That's where I got this knot on my head." He pulled back his hair to show an area on his forehead. I couldn't tell if there was a knot or scar--I believed him, though.
"They shot at you?"
He smiled a slight, odd smile and shook his head yes.
"Were you hit?"
"Not me."
"Another person with you?"
He nodded.
"Did they make it?"
The stare again. He slowly shook his head...and said--"No. They didn't make it."
"What? What in the hell happened?"
"I was working for the government at the time." His eyes were red and I saw there were tears. Now, I knew I had pushed too much.
"Hey, I'm sorry. You know, we can talk about something else."
He nodded, eyes still red, a pained expression on his face as he said "Yeah. I would appreciate that."
Suddenly self-conscious that I had been interrogating this poor guy, I swiftly changed the subject to something benign and that's where it stayed for the next half-hour as we finished the transaction that was the remainder of our dinner. His telegraphic answers told me that was definitely off-limits, maybe to be finished another day. We made it to his hotel in relative silence, except for a brief call to his kids to say "good night."
We shook hands and he walked away, not looking back.
19 July 2006
Staring at the City Lights
On our visit to San Francisco last week, we took a break one day to go check out a famous bookstore--City Lights. This place is well-known for publishing beatnik poets like Jack Kerouac and Alan Ginsburg and is known for being pretty anti-establishment. I thought it was funny that they had two full shelves of Dostoevsky--or I guess that isn't funny. Maybe I'm losing track of who represents established society and who is against it any any particular moment in history. I guess good literature is just recognizable by everyone.
Browsing through the store was a surreal experience--I remember City Lights Publishers and reading Ginsburg's Howl in American Literature lecture when I was in college. The shop is actually a patchwork of add-ons, narrow passageways, and stairs, so unless you assertively claim your space directly in front of a section, inevitably someone would want you to move out of the way so they could squeeze past enroute to the Gay and Lesbian (wassup Google hits!?) department or the Poetry section upstairs. Trying to be polite, I was bounced around the whole store by the other customers for about 15 minutes until I found a lonely little corner of Faulkner that I could check out. And I found that my supposedly complete collection of Hemingway is not yet complete, but decided not to pay full price for lesser works.
There were all kinds of volumes that I hadn't seen before. And I forgot to mention that the whole store is filled with paperbacks--that was its claim to fame when it opened before it got into the business of political controversy. The place was complete disorganization--it was impossible to tell which shelf led to another and how things were categorized--they weren't really labeled. Mismatched bookshelves and old, unpadded chairs were scattered across the floor, and for some reason there were no lights on in the place. A thick group of clouds washed by overhead and the place went hazy grey with the letters on bookspines practically indiscerable.
No computers or indicies were placed to help cross-reference authors, titles, subjects, or locations within the store-In fact, now that I think of it, I don't believe there was a computer in the store at all--a protest?-this was definitely a place for random browsing.
I did end up buying a literature magazine with published short stories and poems--maybe I'll submit something some day...And a T.S. Eliot book.
Fran, who is usually the one who is typically the sentimental and historically-minded member of our family, was happy to look here and buy what she wants at Barnes & Noble. Yeah, man, she's just being part of the problem.
Wandering around with my finds firmly in hand, I came upon a table with some glossy-covered new paperbacks to graze on. Just then, a herd of tourists (damn them) passed through, brushing me back lest I make (gasp) contact. An familiar odor caught my attention--it reminded me of my days playing drums. I whirled around and spied rows of sheet music--I don't know where that particular smell comes from, but it's a certain musty odor (like rotting manilla paper) that they all seemed to have once the sheets get to a certain yellowed age. On the rack next to it was a reek of what appeared to be stage scripts.
I pulled up a rickety chair along a dark wall of the poetry section upstairs and read a little Ginsburg. I also checked out the in-house published "Haiku Dictionary", and read about 20 haikus about light and about 10 about lightning--I figured I could write my own book if I tried hard enough. Thought it might be kind of cool to buy a used book, but there wasn't anything that struck me as interesting--it was a little depressing that there were two identical books on breast cancer in the tiny section of used books.
Checking out, the one clerk in the store glanced up at me--"Bag?" I was hoping for something with the name of the store, but it was a plain, black bag. Behind the counter I could see two scraggly-looking guys rolling up colored-paper notices of some sort.
The whole thing reminded me a little of 84 Charing Cross Road--I think I need to go into more small bookstores in the future--it was a nice, relaxing break in our vacation, and as we stepped out and continued on our way to visit nearby Chinatown, I felt like I had been someplace significant.
Browsing through the store was a surreal experience--I remember City Lights Publishers and reading Ginsburg's Howl in American Literature lecture when I was in college. The shop is actually a patchwork of add-ons, narrow passageways, and stairs, so unless you assertively claim your space directly in front of a section, inevitably someone would want you to move out of the way so they could squeeze past enroute to the Gay and Lesbian (wassup Google hits!?) department or the Poetry section upstairs. Trying to be polite, I was bounced around the whole store by the other customers for about 15 minutes until I found a lonely little corner of Faulkner that I could check out. And I found that my supposedly complete collection of Hemingway is not yet complete, but decided not to pay full price for lesser works.
There were all kinds of volumes that I hadn't seen before. And I forgot to mention that the whole store is filled with paperbacks--that was its claim to fame when it opened before it got into the business of political controversy. The place was complete disorganization--it was impossible to tell which shelf led to another and how things were categorized--they weren't really labeled. Mismatched bookshelves and old, unpadded chairs were scattered across the floor, and for some reason there were no lights on in the place. A thick group of clouds washed by overhead and the place went hazy grey with the letters on bookspines practically indiscerable.
No computers or indicies were placed to help cross-reference authors, titles, subjects, or locations within the store-In fact, now that I think of it, I don't believe there was a computer in the store at all--a protest?-this was definitely a place for random browsing.
I did end up buying a literature magazine with published short stories and poems--maybe I'll submit something some day...And a T.S. Eliot book.
Fran, who is usually the one who is typically the sentimental and historically-minded member of our family, was happy to look here and buy what she wants at Barnes & Noble. Yeah, man, she's just being part of the problem.
Wandering around with my finds firmly in hand, I came upon a table with some glossy-covered new paperbacks to graze on. Just then, a herd of tourists (damn them) passed through, brushing me back lest I make (gasp) contact. An familiar odor caught my attention--it reminded me of my days playing drums. I whirled around and spied rows of sheet music--I don't know where that particular smell comes from, but it's a certain musty odor (like rotting manilla paper) that they all seemed to have once the sheets get to a certain yellowed age. On the rack next to it was a reek of what appeared to be stage scripts.
I pulled up a rickety chair along a dark wall of the poetry section upstairs and read a little Ginsburg. I also checked out the in-house published "Haiku Dictionary", and read about 20 haikus about light and about 10 about lightning--I figured I could write my own book if I tried hard enough. Thought it might be kind of cool to buy a used book, but there wasn't anything that struck me as interesting--it was a little depressing that there were two identical books on breast cancer in the tiny section of used books.
Checking out, the one clerk in the store glanced up at me--"Bag?" I was hoping for something with the name of the store, but it was a plain, black bag. Behind the counter I could see two scraggly-looking guys rolling up colored-paper notices of some sort.
The whole thing reminded me a little of 84 Charing Cross Road--I think I need to go into more small bookstores in the future--it was a nice, relaxing break in our vacation, and as we stepped out and continued on our way to visit nearby Chinatown, I felt like I had been someplace significant.
18 July 2006
Where was I? Oh, yeah, I was growing...
I have to admit that this is a little personal and embarrassing, but I have realized that I've been playing it a little safe lately.
I have lived my entire life in Texas, which is sometimes called the "buckle" of the "Bible Belt" (does that make Mexico the crotch?).
Living in this area, many, if not most of the people in the circles I grew up in, oppose drinking alcohol. It is really looked down upon. Additionally, at our church, I would conservatively estimate that 95% are openly opposed to drinking alcohol. So, bars are typically considered to be completely inappropriate places to be.
There is a rationale behind this which I understand but do not embrace--people feel that drinking leads to drunkenness which is immoral. The safest way to avoid drunkenness is to avoid alcohol completely, so we are subjected to Puritanical lectures discouraging us.
I've even caught myself looking down my nose at people drinking in the wrong situation--you know, breaking the unwritten rules. One time we were at "guy's night out" with our church group and we went bowling--Up walks one of the guys with a Smirnoff Ice, and I was outraged. I thought it really went against the values of our group...Now how hypcritical is that?? It's really difficult for me to justify except to say that it is firmly ingrained in my subconscious.
I grew up in a family where there were alcoholics--I rode with my drunk relatives, careening all over the highway as they reached back to get drinks out of the cooler that they usually kept in the van. Several times they were expected for birthdays, etc. but somehow never showed up. Luckily, so far at least, I've dodged that bullet and am able to limit myself to a drink or two without going overboard. But I see how alcohol can get you into trouble pretty quickly.
Obviously, the bar scene is also condemned by our local critics, and I've never felt comfortable in places like that. When we visited England 10 years ago, I was a little apprehensive about going into a pub. I know, I'm an idiot.
So, a few years ago, when I was in New England at a workshop, I got into a discussion with one of the instructors and he suggested we head for the local pub, called The Captain Kidd. It was the heat of the New York/Boston baseball rivalry, and the locals were out in force to cheer Boston--this is where I somehow morphed into a Boston fan (my theory: when you're a Texas Rangers fan you have to pick another team, too, so you have something to cheer for in playoff season). The atmosphere was unbelievable, and we had a couple of drinks, enjoyed a nice discussion, and even took a couple of minutes to meet some new people. Over the next few days while I was in town, me and a few of my friends would gather at "The Kidd" to enjoy ourselves after working all day (one of my buddies got drunk every night and actually missed the bus to the airport because he was hung over). The funny thing was that the bartender hated everyone from out of town and he was very surly toward us the whole time, but somehow we didn't mind.
The nature of my job brings me together with guys from all over the country, and I think it would shock them to know that going into a pub with them really shakes me out of my comfort zone. If they knew what I was up to, it would shock my friends and family and cause people from my church to erase my name from their personal version of the Book of Life (the same people offended by that joke). I really hate hypocrites--I certainly tell anyone when it comes up, but don't go out of my way to mention it (like my own personal "don't ask, don't tell" policy.
It got a little tense one time when I went to my doctor, who happens to go to my church. The funny part was--for HIM, the "turn your head and cough" part was nothing compared to asking me "Do you drink alcoholic beverages?". When I told him "yes", he just smiled and somehow seemed relieved.
Last week, when I was in San Francisco, we would all get together every night at a place called Foley's. It would get swamped with trendy out-of-towners, but there were plenty of locals, too. The pub is clearly quite old and has tons of atmosphere--live music some nights, and the floor plan is a crazy maze of partitioned rooms. I actually looked forward to going there after work, and had a great time with my friends.
Feel free to tell me how goofy I am...
17 July 2006
13 July 2006
Fantasy Dinner Party
"To tell you the truth," I started out saying, then, realizing my foolishness, dropped my voice a few levels, "I kind of wish we did have a little earthquake while I'm out here." We were waiting for a table at an absolutely beautiful restaurant specializing in the finest seafood in the city. Unfortunately, we were to learn, a little too far into the process to turn back, that we had come too late and the choice seafood was sold out for the day.
My friend looked back at me somewhat blankly. I shrugged with a comically sheepish smile. But I really meant it--at least it would break up the monotony.
I've been in San Francisco for four days now.
I remember the sophomoric game of "what if..." You know--What if--You could get a million dollars, but you have to marry a woman you can't stand--would you do it? (a classic example--without it, we would have about half of the current body of fiction). Or you get to drive that new BMW you have always wanted, but it's painted bright pink with purple flowers on it (ie. do you want the car because it drives well or because it is a status symbol?)
The dilemma I'm currently facing: Say you are given the opportunity to stay in a fancy hotel and go out to fabulous restaurants for dinner each evening, and the bill is totally paid for by your company, with the stipulation that the only people you can share this with are a group of 10-15 relative strangers that you work with? The answer is: Well, okay--at least it will provide something to write about, right?
Just like any mixed group, there are moments of hilarity, annoyance, boredom, and even awkwardness...
One of the guys in the group is a native New Yorker, brash and abrasive. It's a personality type that is difficult to summarize, but my friend Laura has described life in the north as a fight for resources, and I think this is where the personality comes from. You need to speak up to be heard--if you want something, you claim it unashamedly, if you want someone to leave you alone, you make yourself appear strong, undefeatable:
"Can you believe this? Guy on a subway platform fires up a chainsaw and starts waving it around cutting people! Unbelievable"
I replied "Knowing New Yorkers, there were probably people walking by just sidestepping the guy like they've seen this all before and it doesn't even surprise them."
Deadpan, he replies, "Yeah, they're like (jerking his thumb to the right) 'Hey, get a load of this chainsawr asshole!'"
One of the guys at the table speaks with a pretty thick European accent--looks and sounds German--we later discovered he is Polish but has been living in America for most of his life, now. I've heard that there is a certain age, nine?, beyond which it is nearly impossible to learn English without an accent. This is the man who has chosen our restaurant tonight--it was too late to protest that I don't care for seafood as a rule. The group seemed determined to stay despite our projected 1 1/2 hour wait due to no reservations. I was thoroughly embarrassed because most of the men in our group, including me, were clearly underdressed for dinner at this place.
While waiting, we amused ourselves by talking in small groups for brief periods while some took breaks to smoke or order fresh drinks.
I told one of my friends about an incident from the conference which had been on my mind. A pretty woman had come by our station and had asked some very general questions which raised my suspicion. Her earrings somehow gave her away as not being part of the general crowd--they were too artistic in a crowd of businesspeople. My buddy, who was working with me at the time, started in with his always-ready banter which is ingeniously designed to test a woman's resolve to resist him. I stood by as a horrified witness as he told her that could give her his room key if she wanted to visit the "hospitality suite" and she blushed and smiled politely.
It turns out that Jeanie is a writer for a paper, but she also writes fiction. My friend pointed to me and said "You should read what Mike writes--he writes great stories!" It was my turn to blush in that "aw, shucks" way and smile politely while she asked me what I was up to. Then we compared what we were reading and she said "Dickens Austin", very fast together so I didn't realize that she was saying "Dickens, Austen". I confessed to being in the middle of Emma and by the time it all ended she ended up with my blog address. I was a little embarrassed about the whole incident.
Another story that I told to a select audience was about a near-International incident that happened the night before last.
Our company was hosting a cocktail reception and I found myself speaking with an extremely high-ranking Japanese official from our company. Even though I've been working with this group for six years, I am still occasionally surprised at the cultural differences that pop up, often with misunderstandings in language or manner that have the potential for disaster. I usually don't put these stories online because they are either very obscure or anecdotal, but in this case, since it happened to me and I am fairly certain of the pure intentions behind it, I'm making an exception.
While I was standing at the cocktail party and speaking to a Japanese friend of mine, we were approached by another, older Japanese man whom I did not know, who presented me with his business card. This is a very formal event during which parties typically exchange cards. The ceremony starts when an introduction is made, and the parties identify themselves in a very short, concise manner. Then, one party, very slowly and deliberately, reaches slowly into their pocket and begins to retrieve their card holder, signalling to the other that you had better hurry and get your own card out--the initiating party usually goes slow enough to let the other person catch up. A pristine card is retrieved and held forward with both hands very formally. The Japanese have cards printed in Japanese on one side and English on the other--they hold the proper language side up and face the card toward the receiver. (This is the point where the idiot who forgot his cards beings to apologize profusely again and again until told that they are excused).
(One trick that I like to play sometimes is to glance at the card in English, memorize the name, and then flip it over and act like I am reading the Japanese side, saying the name with a Japanese accent and pretending that I am reading the Japanese and discerning their name and title. I've only done it with a few people that I know are pretty much equals to me in the company so I couldn't offend them (or, they can't fire me if I do)--they usually laugh because so far none of the Americans I've ever met can speak even a passable amount of Japanese). Glad I didn't do that here...
Reading the card that I was given, I realized that I was in front of an extremely important person. Unconsciously, I repeated his title quietly to myself--I realized that he understood me and he smiled very broadly that I recognized his title and importance. During the course of conversation over a few minutes, the man reached out and tapped my watch very formally, recognizing that it is a nice watch and noticing that it is somewhat old. I was surprised--this has only happened a few times in the six or so years I've owned this watch.
"This--very nice watch. Very nice. Why you wear this watch-so old?"
"This watch belonged to my wife's father. When he passed away, my mother-in-law gave this watch to me."
He was clearly very pleased.
"Do you have a son?" he asked.
"Yes--I'm keeping this watch for him. When he's old enough, I'll give it to him."
"Oh, that's very good, Mike-san."
This seemed to please him very much. Some of my Japanese friends in the company talk about the importance of traditions and things such as that to the older generation, and that they have a hard time understanding some of the American "disposable" mentality--a lot of my friends think I'm overly sentimental and dwell too much on things like traditions and legacies. I know that I'm a little unusual in that regard, and it kind of felt good that it was appreciated. He reached over with both hands, shaking my hand and patting my wrist squarely with his left hand, bowing slightly.
I resisted any urge to bow back--I was told a few weeks ago that it was very awkward to Japanese people when Westerners bowed to them--he told me "Please, don't even try to do it. It's impossible for you to do it correctly."
We continued our conversation--the party got louder and louder. I made a cheesy comment about how the nice thing about staying in our Japanese hotel is that you can catch sumo wrestling at 2:00 AM. They laughed. We started down another line of conversation and then suddenly something odd happened.
The important person stepped over to me and reached out and grabbed my bicep firmly. He then pushed both hands firmly against my chest, and then patted me in the square of my back.
"You are a very strong man!" he exclaimed.
I froze. My personal space had just been violated. Normally, I would be very offended, but there was no question that there wasn't any kind of weird vibe in connection with what just happend. Just a routine checking of skeletal construction--you know, happens all the time, right?
I don't know how to convey this, but I'm confident that it wasn't a sexual harrassment type of thing. It was more like a "horse for sale" type of thing. Or a trainer checking out a boxer. I was clearly a foot taller and outweigh the guy by at least a hundred pounds, so I think I was just a freak of nature to him that he had to satisfy his curiosity about, and he suddenly felt comfortable doing so.
Did I mention that cocktails were being served?
A funny experience, it was one of those things that you just move on from without trying too hard to decipher the meaning.
A couple of other stories passed about people living through earthquakes, one of my colleague's father dying in an airplane crash, another colleague dying of a heart attack at age 50 last week, and how cool the weather is (55 degrees, and me (idiot)without a jacket). I'm forced to eat raw oysters for the first time (New York man utters a very unpublishable joke and I instantly zing him back with an unpublishable reply which quiets the whole table for just a second until there is some uncomfortable laughter).
Polish man recives his meal--milk-soaked halibut, and announces that it is completely unacceptable--sends it back. (Gee, I could have told him by the name that it would be disgusting). My roast duck is absolutely wonderful. Polish man receives a replacement fish (wreckfish?), which he pronounces undercooked and asks for it to be redone.
My New York friend, in protest to Polish man's pickiness and the fact that dinner has now reached a marathon three hour duration, solemnly spreads his napkin out on the floor, kneels down, taking a steak knife, and pretends to committ seppuku, which causes our table to burst out in uproarious laughter. The restaurant is now empty, and the chef is staring at us, unamused. We all point to Polish man and shake our heads disapprovingly. We sit at the table as he finishes his meal.
The chef rewards our condemnation by sending over complimentary desserts--fresh fruits and berries, homemade ice creams, cherry-covered cheesecakes, and, just for me, a beautiful German chocolate cake. Our table consists of a strict vegetarian and my friend who can not eat eggs, and he has prepared something special for each of them to accomodate their needs. Now THAT is a classy restaurant.
Walking home, I pondered the Fantasy Dinner Party concept, with the "what if..." conundrum figured into the mix. What if--you can go to a wonderful restaurant with fabulous food, impeccable service, in a beautiful, scenic city? You have to spend it with strangers, people you can not select, who may or may not have the same appreciation as you do, may embarrass you, may make you uncomfortable, or may be delightful to talk with.
You know what? Count me in!
My friend looked back at me somewhat blankly. I shrugged with a comically sheepish smile. But I really meant it--at least it would break up the monotony.
I've been in San Francisco for four days now.
I remember the sophomoric game of "what if..." You know--What if--You could get a million dollars, but you have to marry a woman you can't stand--would you do it? (a classic example--without it, we would have about half of the current body of fiction). Or you get to drive that new BMW you have always wanted, but it's painted bright pink with purple flowers on it (ie. do you want the car because it drives well or because it is a status symbol?)
The dilemma I'm currently facing: Say you are given the opportunity to stay in a fancy hotel and go out to fabulous restaurants for dinner each evening, and the bill is totally paid for by your company, with the stipulation that the only people you can share this with are a group of 10-15 relative strangers that you work with? The answer is: Well, okay--at least it will provide something to write about, right?
Just like any mixed group, there are moments of hilarity, annoyance, boredom, and even awkwardness...
One of the guys in the group is a native New Yorker, brash and abrasive. It's a personality type that is difficult to summarize, but my friend Laura has described life in the north as a fight for resources, and I think this is where the personality comes from. You need to speak up to be heard--if you want something, you claim it unashamedly, if you want someone to leave you alone, you make yourself appear strong, undefeatable:
"Can you believe this? Guy on a subway platform fires up a chainsaw and starts waving it around cutting people! Unbelievable"
I replied "Knowing New Yorkers, there were probably people walking by just sidestepping the guy like they've seen this all before and it doesn't even surprise them."
Deadpan, he replies, "Yeah, they're like (jerking his thumb to the right) 'Hey, get a load of this chainsawr asshole!'"
One of the guys at the table speaks with a pretty thick European accent--looks and sounds German--we later discovered he is Polish but has been living in America for most of his life, now. I've heard that there is a certain age, nine?, beyond which it is nearly impossible to learn English without an accent. This is the man who has chosen our restaurant tonight--it was too late to protest that I don't care for seafood as a rule. The group seemed determined to stay despite our projected 1 1/2 hour wait due to no reservations. I was thoroughly embarrassed because most of the men in our group, including me, were clearly underdressed for dinner at this place.
While waiting, we amused ourselves by talking in small groups for brief periods while some took breaks to smoke or order fresh drinks.
I told one of my friends about an incident from the conference which had been on my mind. A pretty woman had come by our station and had asked some very general questions which raised my suspicion. Her earrings somehow gave her away as not being part of the general crowd--they were too artistic in a crowd of businesspeople. My buddy, who was working with me at the time, started in with his always-ready banter which is ingeniously designed to test a woman's resolve to resist him. I stood by as a horrified witness as he told her that could give her his room key if she wanted to visit the "hospitality suite" and she blushed and smiled politely.
It turns out that Jeanie is a writer for a paper, but she also writes fiction. My friend pointed to me and said "You should read what Mike writes--he writes great stories!" It was my turn to blush in that "aw, shucks" way and smile politely while she asked me what I was up to. Then we compared what we were reading and she said "Dickens Austin", very fast together so I didn't realize that she was saying "Dickens, Austen". I confessed to being in the middle of Emma and by the time it all ended she ended up with my blog address. I was a little embarrassed about the whole incident.
Another story that I told to a select audience was about a near-International incident that happened the night before last.
Our company was hosting a cocktail reception and I found myself speaking with an extremely high-ranking Japanese official from our company. Even though I've been working with this group for six years, I am still occasionally surprised at the cultural differences that pop up, often with misunderstandings in language or manner that have the potential for disaster. I usually don't put these stories online because they are either very obscure or anecdotal, but in this case, since it happened to me and I am fairly certain of the pure intentions behind it, I'm making an exception.
While I was standing at the cocktail party and speaking to a Japanese friend of mine, we were approached by another, older Japanese man whom I did not know, who presented me with his business card. This is a very formal event during which parties typically exchange cards. The ceremony starts when an introduction is made, and the parties identify themselves in a very short, concise manner. Then, one party, very slowly and deliberately, reaches slowly into their pocket and begins to retrieve their card holder, signalling to the other that you had better hurry and get your own card out--the initiating party usually goes slow enough to let the other person catch up. A pristine card is retrieved and held forward with both hands very formally. The Japanese have cards printed in Japanese on one side and English on the other--they hold the proper language side up and face the card toward the receiver. (This is the point where the idiot who forgot his cards beings to apologize profusely again and again until told that they are excused).
(One trick that I like to play sometimes is to glance at the card in English, memorize the name, and then flip it over and act like I am reading the Japanese side, saying the name with a Japanese accent and pretending that I am reading the Japanese and discerning their name and title. I've only done it with a few people that I know are pretty much equals to me in the company so I couldn't offend them (or, they can't fire me if I do)--they usually laugh because so far none of the Americans I've ever met can speak even a passable amount of Japanese). Glad I didn't do that here...
Reading the card that I was given, I realized that I was in front of an extremely important person. Unconsciously, I repeated his title quietly to myself--I realized that he understood me and he smiled very broadly that I recognized his title and importance. During the course of conversation over a few minutes, the man reached out and tapped my watch very formally, recognizing that it is a nice watch and noticing that it is somewhat old. I was surprised--this has only happened a few times in the six or so years I've owned this watch.
"This--very nice watch. Very nice. Why you wear this watch-so old?"
"This watch belonged to my wife's father. When he passed away, my mother-in-law gave this watch to me."
He was clearly very pleased.
"Do you have a son?" he asked.
"Yes--I'm keeping this watch for him. When he's old enough, I'll give it to him."
"Oh, that's very good, Mike-san."
This seemed to please him very much. Some of my Japanese friends in the company talk about the importance of traditions and things such as that to the older generation, and that they have a hard time understanding some of the American "disposable" mentality--a lot of my friends think I'm overly sentimental and dwell too much on things like traditions and legacies. I know that I'm a little unusual in that regard, and it kind of felt good that it was appreciated. He reached over with both hands, shaking my hand and patting my wrist squarely with his left hand, bowing slightly.
I resisted any urge to bow back--I was told a few weeks ago that it was very awkward to Japanese people when Westerners bowed to them--he told me "Please, don't even try to do it. It's impossible for you to do it correctly."
We continued our conversation--the party got louder and louder. I made a cheesy comment about how the nice thing about staying in our Japanese hotel is that you can catch sumo wrestling at 2:00 AM. They laughed. We started down another line of conversation and then suddenly something odd happened.
The important person stepped over to me and reached out and grabbed my bicep firmly. He then pushed both hands firmly against my chest, and then patted me in the square of my back.
"You are a very strong man!" he exclaimed.
I froze. My personal space had just been violated. Normally, I would be very offended, but there was no question that there wasn't any kind of weird vibe in connection with what just happend. Just a routine checking of skeletal construction--you know, happens all the time, right?
I don't know how to convey this, but I'm confident that it wasn't a sexual harrassment type of thing. It was more like a "horse for sale" type of thing. Or a trainer checking out a boxer. I was clearly a foot taller and outweigh the guy by at least a hundred pounds, so I think I was just a freak of nature to him that he had to satisfy his curiosity about, and he suddenly felt comfortable doing so.
Did I mention that cocktails were being served?
A funny experience, it was one of those things that you just move on from without trying too hard to decipher the meaning.
A couple of other stories passed about people living through earthquakes, one of my colleague's father dying in an airplane crash, another colleague dying of a heart attack at age 50 last week, and how cool the weather is (55 degrees, and me (idiot)without a jacket). I'm forced to eat raw oysters for the first time (New York man utters a very unpublishable joke and I instantly zing him back with an unpublishable reply which quiets the whole table for just a second until there is some uncomfortable laughter).
Polish man recives his meal--milk-soaked halibut, and announces that it is completely unacceptable--sends it back. (Gee, I could have told him by the name that it would be disgusting). My roast duck is absolutely wonderful. Polish man receives a replacement fish (wreckfish?), which he pronounces undercooked and asks for it to be redone.
My New York friend, in protest to Polish man's pickiness and the fact that dinner has now reached a marathon three hour duration, solemnly spreads his napkin out on the floor, kneels down, taking a steak knife, and pretends to committ seppuku, which causes our table to burst out in uproarious laughter. The restaurant is now empty, and the chef is staring at us, unamused. We all point to Polish man and shake our heads disapprovingly. We sit at the table as he finishes his meal.
The chef rewards our condemnation by sending over complimentary desserts--fresh fruits and berries, homemade ice creams, cherry-covered cheesecakes, and, just for me, a beautiful German chocolate cake. Our table consists of a strict vegetarian and my friend who can not eat eggs, and he has prepared something special for each of them to accomodate their needs. Now THAT is a classy restaurant.
Walking home, I pondered the Fantasy Dinner Party concept, with the "what if..." conundrum figured into the mix. What if--you can go to a wonderful restaurant with fabulous food, impeccable service, in a beautiful, scenic city? You have to spend it with strangers, people you can not select, who may or may not have the same appreciation as you do, may embarrass you, may make you uncomfortable, or may be delightful to talk with.
You know what? Count me in!
06 July 2006
Running on Empty
When i was in college I would pull all-nighters all the time. I worked 40-60 hours per week and took a full courseload. Even after college, I would get obsessed with different things and stay up all night working...One time it was a project. Another time it was when I was trying to buy a house. Other projects for my job have kept me up--I've survived. I guess I'm getting old--I barely survived today. My body is clearly telling me "Don't pull that shit anymore!"
Periodically, I would down something caffeinated to pep me up and keep me going. I had a crazy day scheduled--first of all, a meeting with a person I really like--it went well, as expected. I started crashing mid-morning, and I got into a kind of survival mode where I felt like I had a sort of tunnel vision--I could focus on one thing at a time, but wasn't multi-tasking as well as I normally force myself to do. I had planned the day out pretty well, so things went like clockwork. Or, rather as if I was sleepwalking through it--a passenger on a train.
I had to work with a co-worker for most of the day. A nice enough guy with the potential for being a little on the talkative, annoying side. My patience was worn, so a couple of times I "shush'ed" him while I was concentrating on a problem. My head was a dull ache. There was no retreat.
By midafternoon, the day crescendoed to a roar. I was busy coordinating the events of tomorrow, talking to Mike D. about a presentation, stopping for a brief lunch, and asking another co-worker to get some items ready for an important meeting in the morning.
At 3:00, I found myself in a surreal situation.
I can't give specifics--sorry.
I was sitting, completely alone, in a room, perfecting the performance of some pretty complicated equipment. I was totally covered--wearing a suit from head to toe, including foot covers and a poofy blue head thingy. Slowly, I turned my head to the left--next to me was a bank of incubators full of human embryos. It turned out there were hundreds of incubating embryos and eggs.
I thought of the movie Aliens--you know, the part where they go into the egg room and there are hundreds of those embryonic aliens. Part creeped-out, part humbled. How many souls were in those tubes? I got a clear picture of the molecules in the body passed down from generation to generation, without the confusion of ethics or religion or faith or emotions or trying to define what a family is in a social sense. Just in terms of lineage and heritance and the mechanics of embryonic development. It must be hard to people who work in such conditions daily to avoid a God complex.` Somehow, being in that room gave me a sense of power.
Those incubators held hope for those families--it was humbling, actually.
It's interesting what I was sensitive to when fatigued to the point of dropping my barriers...
Periodically, I would down something caffeinated to pep me up and keep me going. I had a crazy day scheduled--first of all, a meeting with a person I really like--it went well, as expected. I started crashing mid-morning, and I got into a kind of survival mode where I felt like I had a sort of tunnel vision--I could focus on one thing at a time, but wasn't multi-tasking as well as I normally force myself to do. I had planned the day out pretty well, so things went like clockwork. Or, rather as if I was sleepwalking through it--a passenger on a train.
I had to work with a co-worker for most of the day. A nice enough guy with the potential for being a little on the talkative, annoying side. My patience was worn, so a couple of times I "shush'ed" him while I was concentrating on a problem. My head was a dull ache. There was no retreat.
By midafternoon, the day crescendoed to a roar. I was busy coordinating the events of tomorrow, talking to Mike D. about a presentation, stopping for a brief lunch, and asking another co-worker to get some items ready for an important meeting in the morning.
At 3:00, I found myself in a surreal situation.
I can't give specifics--sorry.
I was sitting, completely alone, in a room, perfecting the performance of some pretty complicated equipment. I was totally covered--wearing a suit from head to toe, including foot covers and a poofy blue head thingy. Slowly, I turned my head to the left--next to me was a bank of incubators full of human embryos. It turned out there were hundreds of incubating embryos and eggs.
I thought of the movie Aliens--you know, the part where they go into the egg room and there are hundreds of those embryonic aliens. Part creeped-out, part humbled. How many souls were in those tubes? I got a clear picture of the molecules in the body passed down from generation to generation, without the confusion of ethics or religion or faith or emotions or trying to define what a family is in a social sense. Just in terms of lineage and heritance and the mechanics of embryonic development. It must be hard to people who work in such conditions daily to avoid a God complex.` Somehow, being in that room gave me a sense of power.
Those incubators held hope for those families--it was humbling, actually.
It's interesting what I was sensitive to when fatigued to the point of dropping my barriers...
2:20 AM Update
Project is 50% complete.
2 Cups of coffee down.
1-2 Cups to go.
Watching: Harold and Kumar Go to White Castle
things are looking bad.
2 Cups of coffee down.
1-2 Cups to go.
Watching: Harold and Kumar Go to White Castle
things are looking bad.
What happens when you put off a project for weeks and weeks and weeks
A: You end up working on the project, drinking Thai coffee, watching a cut up version of "Passenger 57", having random neurons firing wildly. Fighting said neurons to try to keep on task.
Wish me luck.
Wish me luck.
What happens when you cross "Bridget Jones' Diary" with "To Kill a Mockingbird"?
Fran, inspecting gray hairs growing on my temples: "Helllloo, Atticus!" (I think she had a crush on him).
In an unrelated note, we have determined that both of us tried to have sea monkeys for pets when we were growing up...
In an unrelated note, we have determined that both of us tried to have sea monkeys for pets when we were growing up...
04 July 2006
03 July 2006
Offsides
Here's the scene--I've got the whole family set up to view a fireworks show sponsored by a local neighborhood. It's dark, after the kids' bedtime, and they are squirming a little. Another family, friends of ours, is sitting next to us. We're all in folding chairs lined up along a sidewalk--all except Kaitlyn, our 2-year-old, who is strapped into her stroller. Yes, restraints are critical to containment--otherwise we would spend the whole time chasing the two-year-old around the parking lot.
We live in the "older" neighborhood adjacent to a new, fancier one. There were acres and acres of swamp land, and, in a blockbuster real estate deal, a high-profile developer plowed down all the mesquite trees, filled the swamp back up with load after load of dirt, leveled the whole thing out, and built million-dollar mansions on top of it. One of the key selling features to these homes was that the community was "exclusive". For some reason, this seems to really annoy me. I think I'm one of the people who is supposed to be excluded. Fran seems to get even more militant about it, saying that the community as a whole has a bad attitude.
One thing is absolutely certain: Nearly every day we have someone racing through our neighborhood, sometimes going double the speed limit, and they round the corner at top speed into the new, exclusive neighborhood on screeching tires. I don't know how a driving philosophy can be selected for in a population, but it has come about--this leads to the annoyance.
So how did we come to view the fireworks sponsored by this community? Well, one this is certain: We didn't read about it in the paper like every other fireworks display. Every Fourth of July, this community sponsors a display, but they make a point of not publicising it in the paper like everyone else. In fact, they often hold it on odd days before the Fourth--we interpret this as "These are our fireworks and we don't wanna share!" Do we have a chip on our shoulder? Maybe. However, I think I generally do a good job of looking at things objectively, and there is definitely something going on with this group of people as a whole. After that, their intentions are interpreted in the most negative possible way.
It reminds me of Robert Frost's "Mending Wall", and the lines:
Before I built a wall I'd ask to know
What I was walling in or walling out,
And to whom I was like to give offence.
Something there is that doesn't love a wall,
I guess the idea of being walled out kind of bugs me. Do "good fences make good neighbors?" And I'm a little sensitive about my kids being snubbed--the neighborhood built their own school and the parents withdrew all of their children from our local school--like they didn't want to mix with the "riffraff".
But back to our scene: As we are set up in the dark waiting for our eyes to bootleg-view the exclusive light emitted from the exclusive show, we got a call from another family--they are firmly in place about 200 yards away in a different parking lot, where the view is "better". Stubbornness told me to stay put--our car is 20 yards away and it will be so easy to leave after the show is over, but it seems the family we are with wants to move to be with the other group, so we just go ahead and do it--I can tell that Fran isn't thrilled either, as we had just gotten Kaitlyn to settle down and stop fussing.
I took the chairs across and get them set up. The other family actually was in a better position, but the area is cramped with groups of neighhborhood families out to get a good view of the show. We're conscious of planting our 2-year-old in the middle of the group and disturbing the peace. I'm thinking this when Fran wheels the stroller up to the area--the last few feet are over dirt and rock, and hard to wheel the stroller. In the meantime, the boys from our three families are lined up in the way of the stroller, watching the remnants of a different fireworks display from another town miles and miles away. It is so far that we can see the light but can't hear the "boom!" at all.
Our show was running very late by now--it was supposed to have started 15 minutes ago, and we were wondering if they were perhaps canceled--it was very windy. We were all in place waiting for them to start--well, almost all of us--Fran was coming up behind with the rickety stroller we brought in the car, not thinking that Kaitlyn would end up having to be pushed across a field.
I feel a little guilty as Fran struggles with the stroller, asking the boys to move a little out of the way so she could get by. She was standing, waiting, right in front of some other family who was being very quiet, as if in alarm over the stir from our chaotic readjustments, for a couple of minutes. Fran, self-conscious about being in the way when the show starts, was unable to move until the boys clear out. And they were moving so slowly.
That's when she heard a woman turn to her husband and say quietly "Great. Now we get to see everyone's butt..."
Fran, horrified, whirled around to the woman and indignantly said "I beg your pardon?"
The woman, shocked at being confronted, looked at Fran still struggling with the stroller, and stammered "Umm, do you need help with your stroller?"
Fran said, "No! I'm going as fast as I can--I'm trying to get out of your way!"
I stood ten feet away--it was like watching a train wreck when you can't do anything about it.
Fran had a nickname given to her by one of our co-workers when I first met her--it was "Chispita", which means "Little spark of fire". That is a really fitting nickname for her at times--and what I mean specifically is that it fits at times like this. Maybe she already had a little irritation going at the fact that we collectively don't care for this neighborhood that we're in, and that we were being forced to move after being set up for half an hour, and that now we were half a mile away from our car, and that there were mosquitoes everywhere, and I bought a six-pack of cokes and now suddenly she doesn't drink coke so she doesn't have anything to drink and it's all my fault, and we brought the crappy stroller and not the nice stroller, and that my son was off trying to find a frog, and that her husband had parked his ass in a folding chair instead of helping with the stroller, and here she was with her butt in front of these people, and she hadn't been to the gym in a week and was feeling self-conscious...so, the little spark lit up.
I saw and heard the whole thing. What the woman actually said was "Great. Now we get to see everyone's but ours..." Referring to the far-off fireworks that the kids were watching instead of the one that was supposed to be launched from nearby. Everyone was wondering why our show was starting so late.
In the split-second before I could intervene (and by intervene I mean turn and run as fast as I can the other direction before it was declared that the other husband and I should meet at dawn with dueling pistols on top of the old swamp), the two women had worked it out and both were feeling a little embarrassed--mostly Fran, I guess. Just then the fireworks seemed to start up and poor Kaitlyn, who was an hour past her bedtime, started fussing and I scooped her out of her stroller and held her during the whole show.
For the record, I prefer my fireworks in the sky.
We live in the "older" neighborhood adjacent to a new, fancier one. There were acres and acres of swamp land, and, in a blockbuster real estate deal, a high-profile developer plowed down all the mesquite trees, filled the swamp back up with load after load of dirt, leveled the whole thing out, and built million-dollar mansions on top of it. One of the key selling features to these homes was that the community was "exclusive". For some reason, this seems to really annoy me. I think I'm one of the people who is supposed to be excluded. Fran seems to get even more militant about it, saying that the community as a whole has a bad attitude.
One thing is absolutely certain: Nearly every day we have someone racing through our neighborhood, sometimes going double the speed limit, and they round the corner at top speed into the new, exclusive neighborhood on screeching tires. I don't know how a driving philosophy can be selected for in a population, but it has come about--this leads to the annoyance.
So how did we come to view the fireworks sponsored by this community? Well, one this is certain: We didn't read about it in the paper like every other fireworks display. Every Fourth of July, this community sponsors a display, but they make a point of not publicising it in the paper like everyone else. In fact, they often hold it on odd days before the Fourth--we interpret this as "These are our fireworks and we don't wanna share!" Do we have a chip on our shoulder? Maybe. However, I think I generally do a good job of looking at things objectively, and there is definitely something going on with this group of people as a whole. After that, their intentions are interpreted in the most negative possible way.
It reminds me of Robert Frost's "Mending Wall", and the lines:
Before I built a wall I'd ask to know
What I was walling in or walling out,
And to whom I was like to give offence.
Something there is that doesn't love a wall,
I guess the idea of being walled out kind of bugs me. Do "good fences make good neighbors?" And I'm a little sensitive about my kids being snubbed--the neighborhood built their own school and the parents withdrew all of their children from our local school--like they didn't want to mix with the "riffraff".
But back to our scene: As we are set up in the dark waiting for our eyes to bootleg-view the exclusive light emitted from the exclusive show, we got a call from another family--they are firmly in place about 200 yards away in a different parking lot, where the view is "better". Stubbornness told me to stay put--our car is 20 yards away and it will be so easy to leave after the show is over, but it seems the family we are with wants to move to be with the other group, so we just go ahead and do it--I can tell that Fran isn't thrilled either, as we had just gotten Kaitlyn to settle down and stop fussing.
I took the chairs across and get them set up. The other family actually was in a better position, but the area is cramped with groups of neighhborhood families out to get a good view of the show. We're conscious of planting our 2-year-old in the middle of the group and disturbing the peace. I'm thinking this when Fran wheels the stroller up to the area--the last few feet are over dirt and rock, and hard to wheel the stroller. In the meantime, the boys from our three families are lined up in the way of the stroller, watching the remnants of a different fireworks display from another town miles and miles away. It is so far that we can see the light but can't hear the "boom!" at all.
Our show was running very late by now--it was supposed to have started 15 minutes ago, and we were wondering if they were perhaps canceled--it was very windy. We were all in place waiting for them to start--well, almost all of us--Fran was coming up behind with the rickety stroller we brought in the car, not thinking that Kaitlyn would end up having to be pushed across a field.
I feel a little guilty as Fran struggles with the stroller, asking the boys to move a little out of the way so she could get by. She was standing, waiting, right in front of some other family who was being very quiet, as if in alarm over the stir from our chaotic readjustments, for a couple of minutes. Fran, self-conscious about being in the way when the show starts, was unable to move until the boys clear out. And they were moving so slowly.
That's when she heard a woman turn to her husband and say quietly "Great. Now we get to see everyone's butt..."
Fran, horrified, whirled around to the woman and indignantly said "I beg your pardon?"
The woman, shocked at being confronted, looked at Fran still struggling with the stroller, and stammered "Umm, do you need help with your stroller?"
Fran said, "No! I'm going as fast as I can--I'm trying to get out of your way!"
I stood ten feet away--it was like watching a train wreck when you can't do anything about it.
Fran had a nickname given to her by one of our co-workers when I first met her--it was "Chispita", which means "Little spark of fire". That is a really fitting nickname for her at times--and what I mean specifically is that it fits at times like this. Maybe she already had a little irritation going at the fact that we collectively don't care for this neighborhood that we're in, and that we were being forced to move after being set up for half an hour, and that now we were half a mile away from our car, and that there were mosquitoes everywhere, and I bought a six-pack of cokes and now suddenly she doesn't drink coke so she doesn't have anything to drink and it's all my fault, and we brought the crappy stroller and not the nice stroller, and that my son was off trying to find a frog, and that her husband had parked his ass in a folding chair instead of helping with the stroller, and here she was with her butt in front of these people, and she hadn't been to the gym in a week and was feeling self-conscious...so, the little spark lit up.
I saw and heard the whole thing. What the woman actually said was "Great. Now we get to see everyone's but ours..." Referring to the far-off fireworks that the kids were watching instead of the one that was supposed to be launched from nearby. Everyone was wondering why our show was starting so late.
In the split-second before I could intervene (and by intervene I mean turn and run as fast as I can the other direction before it was declared that the other husband and I should meet at dawn with dueling pistols on top of the old swamp), the two women had worked it out and both were feeling a little embarrassed--mostly Fran, I guess. Just then the fireworks seemed to start up and poor Kaitlyn, who was an hour past her bedtime, started fussing and I scooped her out of her stroller and held her during the whole show.
For the record, I prefer my fireworks in the sky.
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