Charlie and I were upnattem bright and early at 6:30 AM in Harper's Ferry, West Virginia. Decided to take the camper away for a couple of days. Like a lot of places on the East Coast, Harper's Ferry can get pretty hot and muggy during the summer so getting up early to get a walk in along the Shenendoah is the best way to do it. Of course, Harper's Ferry is nothing compared to being at Williamsburg around the same time. I figure you have to be just plain nuts to even attempt that one, and since I am not completely nuts I try to find some places where I am not asking myself, "What the hell are you doing here?"
So we took a nice walk along the river side, and Charlie managed to get in the water and look for fish. Every time he goes in the water he looks for fish. Once upon a time he saw some tiny fish - let's call them minnows - and chased them up and down the bank for at least a half hour. Hey, everyone gets to decide what's fun, right?
On the way back I saw a young man with a large back pack lying next to him. "Walking the trail?", I said. The "trail" is the Shenendoah trail that runs from Georgia to Maine. It's not uncommon to meet people in Harper's Ferry who are hiking either a part of or the entire length of the trail. I, by the way, no longer say that I am going on a hike. I take walks. Those who hike the trail are hikers.
But I digress. "So how long have been hiking so far?" "Three months", he replied. Bare in mind that this kid looked to be in pretty good shape. I can only offer agonizing mental comparisons of what I would look like had I been hiking that long non stop. "Oh really", I said, and "How many miles do you cover each day?" "About 17 miles", was his reply.
I once went on an 11 mile forced march (the military term for hiking), and by the time we arrived at our destination (which is another way of saying that we stopped somewhere), I would have used all the knowledge the military had given me to kill someone for a Coke.
And here's the kicker. I hadn't calculated how many miles this 29 year old had already hiked, when I asked, "And how far do you have to go?" Ready? "Approximately one thousand one hundred and sixty five miles", he replied without hesitation. Approximately. Could be a few yards more or less based on how on curvy the path was I was thinking. Approximately. Now the reason I wrote out one thousand one hundred and sixty five miles is because it gives the excursion a little more meat than saying he had to go another 1,165 miles. And he figured he would arrive in Maine in about three months.
He'd never been to Maine. Matter of fact, he'd never been to Harper's Ferry either. He was taking a side trip to Washington, DC on metro. He'd never been there either. Now I've been to Georgia and West Virginia and Maine and Washington, DC, but I can god damn guarantee you that I wouldn't have walked to any of them!
All told this lad will have spent six months of his life doing something that millions have probably heard about and who knows how many have actually thought about accomplishing.
But, one thousand one hundred and sixty five miles yet to go?
1,165 miles?
Sheesh.
Saturday, June 27, 2009
Tuesday, June 23, 2009
ADHD
ADHD. Adult deficit somethin' somethin' somethin'. Much too long of an expression to remember but truth is I have it and have had it even when I wasn't an adult. While I can't be certain when I transitioned from the childhood to the adult version, it was a long time ago.
Remember Ground Hog Day? Bill Murray woke up at exactly the same time every day and fell into a predicatable routine day after day. Not so here. Having a routine is not something that someone with ADHD is familiar with. It seems that every day I wake up to a new world meaning that every day I try to remember where things were the day before. Of course through the years there has been advice galore like, "If you put things in the same place each time, you wouldn't have to remember where they are!" Well that works to some degree but first you have to remember to put things in the same place which is a step before actually putting things in the same place in the first place and in no time at all you are spiraling into an infinite regression (looking yourself in a mirror with a mirror behind you, for example).
Time doesn't feel the same to me either. Time to me resembles the clocks in a Salvador Dali painting - kind of melting into different shapes here and there. I can't tell you how many times I was told to "stay focused" and "pay attention" like really, dude, you would think I knew what those things meant. In my case staying focused means having only ten things on my mind at the same time!!
I truly admire people who can keep their house, car, wallet, closet, garage, drawers, or shoes in order in the same way that I admire anyone who can do a triple backwards flip off a high bar and land on their feet without screaming "I DID IT". Anyone can remember where something is if it's always in the same place, but there's a real knack to finding out anew where everything is, was, or should be. (I know it's here somewhere...give me a sec.)
Of course there are side benefits. I tend to see things in a different light than others and find most situations amusing if not downright hysterical. While this might not be an attribute of ADHD, I like to associate the two trying to find some sunny side to the condition.
My earliest memory of the condition occurred in grade school when our class was selling seed packets. I am not sure I or anyone can remember exactly why we were selling seeds, but we were.
I ventured out with my supply of packets, knocked on the door of my first house and told the lady who answered that I was selling seeds. "Wanna buy some?" Well, before I knew it I was inside her house. She looked at what I had and asked, "How much are they?"
And then it hit me. That's why the teacher had written all the names of the seeds and their price on the chalk board!!!!! I didn't copy them down - to me that would have taken the rest of the school year to accomplish. (Side note: I was also dyslexic. My sister will remember this well. How do you spell "glad"? G-L-A-D. How do you spell "lake"?. G-L-A-K-E. Words melting together like Dali's clocks) Well, the lady was nice enough to notice that each packet had a price on it. She picked several packages out, gave me some money, and off I went.
The end of this story found me at the dining room table relating my day's adventure to my mother and father. I am not quite sure exactly what happened, but I remember my father laughing so hard that tears were pouring from his eyes. Hysterical. That's a good description.
I think what broke it wide open was when I told them that at one of the houses the person buying the seeds didn' t have exact change and asked me if I could give her change of a dollar. I told her I couldn't; she followed with, "I hear some change jingling in your pocket."
"I can't give you that", I replied, "that's the other peoples' money." It's very hard to listen to someone trying to correct you when they are on the verge of throwing up from laughing so hard but I kept insisting, "It WAS the other people's money. What's so funny about that?".
At some point the lesson sunk in but it was a foreshadowing of the challenges that lay ahead of me.
ADHD. Adult deficit somethin' somethin' somethin'.
Remember Ground Hog Day? Bill Murray woke up at exactly the same time every day and fell into a predicatable routine day after day. Not so here. Having a routine is not something that someone with ADHD is familiar with. It seems that every day I wake up to a new world meaning that every day I try to remember where things were the day before. Of course through the years there has been advice galore like, "If you put things in the same place each time, you wouldn't have to remember where they are!" Well that works to some degree but first you have to remember to put things in the same place which is a step before actually putting things in the same place in the first place and in no time at all you are spiraling into an infinite regression (looking yourself in a mirror with a mirror behind you, for example).
Time doesn't feel the same to me either. Time to me resembles the clocks in a Salvador Dali painting - kind of melting into different shapes here and there. I can't tell you how many times I was told to "stay focused" and "pay attention" like really, dude, you would think I knew what those things meant. In my case staying focused means having only ten things on my mind at the same time!!
I truly admire people who can keep their house, car, wallet, closet, garage, drawers, or shoes in order in the same way that I admire anyone who can do a triple backwards flip off a high bar and land on their feet without screaming "I DID IT". Anyone can remember where something is if it's always in the same place, but there's a real knack to finding out anew where everything is, was, or should be. (I know it's here somewhere...give me a sec.)
Of course there are side benefits. I tend to see things in a different light than others and find most situations amusing if not downright hysterical. While this might not be an attribute of ADHD, I like to associate the two trying to find some sunny side to the condition.
My earliest memory of the condition occurred in grade school when our class was selling seed packets. I am not sure I or anyone can remember exactly why we were selling seeds, but we were.
I ventured out with my supply of packets, knocked on the door of my first house and told the lady who answered that I was selling seeds. "Wanna buy some?" Well, before I knew it I was inside her house. She looked at what I had and asked, "How much are they?"
And then it hit me. That's why the teacher had written all the names of the seeds and their price on the chalk board!!!!! I didn't copy them down - to me that would have taken the rest of the school year to accomplish. (Side note: I was also dyslexic. My sister will remember this well. How do you spell "glad"? G-L-A-D. How do you spell "lake"?. G-L-A-K-E. Words melting together like Dali's clocks) Well, the lady was nice enough to notice that each packet had a price on it. She picked several packages out, gave me some money, and off I went.
The end of this story found me at the dining room table relating my day's adventure to my mother and father. I am not quite sure exactly what happened, but I remember my father laughing so hard that tears were pouring from his eyes. Hysterical. That's a good description.
I think what broke it wide open was when I told them that at one of the houses the person buying the seeds didn' t have exact change and asked me if I could give her change of a dollar. I told her I couldn't; she followed with, "I hear some change jingling in your pocket."
"I can't give you that", I replied, "that's the other peoples' money." It's very hard to listen to someone trying to correct you when they are on the verge of throwing up from laughing so hard but I kept insisting, "It WAS the other people's money. What's so funny about that?".
At some point the lesson sunk in but it was a foreshadowing of the challenges that lay ahead of me.
ADHD. Adult deficit somethin' somethin' somethin'.
Sunday, June 21, 2009
One lump or two?
What sounds better? One lump or two or one packet or two? Somewhere in the world people are still serving lumps of sugar with sugar tongs. Seen any of those lately?
Not too long ago, I watched a documentary on coffee and learned how most large coffee brands keep prices low and as a consequence, those who grow the coffee cannot earn a sustainable wage. And low price also equates to low quality. I have found that Taster's Choice doesn't taste good to those who have purchased more expensive coffee. If we trace our morning cup of coffee back through the coffee bean to the place where the coffee is grown, the people harvesting the beans are not sitting down in a big house sipping their morning coffee. Most of them can't even afford a house or to send their children to school.
From coffee I moved to tea. Not having had tea in a long time I decided to venture into that domain as well. The tea that I purchased was far more expensive than the popular brands but in the long run worth the price difference.
So what does this have to do with sugar? Even after experimenting with higher grades of coffee and tea I was still using the packaged sweeteners. Either out of force of habit or hearing the echo of "sugar is bad for you", I dutifully ripped open and poured the contents of "substitue" sugar into my coffee and tea.
I suddenly realized that something was amiss. To move even further from my normal routine I purchased a box of real sugar...from Hawaii. I asked the grocer to put the sugar in a separate brown bag in case I was stopped on the way out of the store.
This isn't processed white sugar. The ONLY ingredient on the box is sugar. The first, last, and middle ingredients were sugar.
And, hard as it may seem to believe, sugar tastes good. It tastes so much better than the artificial sweeteners that it's hard to describe. But what price am I paying for this extravagance? One teaspoon of sugar equates to 15 calories. Given that the packaged substitutes have 0 calories and using standard math, it would seem that real sugar contains infinately more calories than the substitute. But 15 calories per cup of coffee? That amounts to 105 calories a week. I can absorb more calories than that by smelling a Hershey's chocolate bar.
Somewhere along the line I bought into the idea that artificial sweeteners are as good as real unrefined sugar or worse that sugar is bad for you.
Truth is, it isn't so.
One lump or two it is.
Not too long ago, I watched a documentary on coffee and learned how most large coffee brands keep prices low and as a consequence, those who grow the coffee cannot earn a sustainable wage. And low price also equates to low quality. I have found that Taster's Choice doesn't taste good to those who have purchased more expensive coffee. If we trace our morning cup of coffee back through the coffee bean to the place where the coffee is grown, the people harvesting the beans are not sitting down in a big house sipping their morning coffee. Most of them can't even afford a house or to send their children to school.
From coffee I moved to tea. Not having had tea in a long time I decided to venture into that domain as well. The tea that I purchased was far more expensive than the popular brands but in the long run worth the price difference.
So what does this have to do with sugar? Even after experimenting with higher grades of coffee and tea I was still using the packaged sweeteners. Either out of force of habit or hearing the echo of "sugar is bad for you", I dutifully ripped open and poured the contents of "substitue" sugar into my coffee and tea.
I suddenly realized that something was amiss. To move even further from my normal routine I purchased a box of real sugar...from Hawaii. I asked the grocer to put the sugar in a separate brown bag in case I was stopped on the way out of the store.
This isn't processed white sugar. The ONLY ingredient on the box is sugar. The first, last, and middle ingredients were sugar.
And, hard as it may seem to believe, sugar tastes good. It tastes so much better than the artificial sweeteners that it's hard to describe. But what price am I paying for this extravagance? One teaspoon of sugar equates to 15 calories. Given that the packaged substitutes have 0 calories and using standard math, it would seem that real sugar contains infinately more calories than the substitute. But 15 calories per cup of coffee? That amounts to 105 calories a week. I can absorb more calories than that by smelling a Hershey's chocolate bar.
Somewhere along the line I bought into the idea that artificial sweeteners are as good as real unrefined sugar or worse that sugar is bad for you.
Truth is, it isn't so.
One lump or two it is.
Thursday, June 18, 2009
A visit to the vet
Okay. Saturday morning. 9 AM. Charlie's next check up with his vet.
Going to check out how his heart is doing. No chance that he will be getting better. My only hope is that he isn't getting worse.
It started a little more than a year ago. To see a strong active dog fall to the ground for no apparent reason was a shock. Maybe he ate something or was overheated. I was prepared to hear any "normal" diagnosis from his vet. What I was not prepared to hear was that his heart murmur had progressed from a level 2 to a level 4. When I heard those words I looked at him and the doctor and with tears in my eyes struggled to ask her what that meant. Sometimes I guess you just know what certain words mean especially when you take into account the way those words are spoken. Not good. Not good at all.
So just about everything I knew about what can happen to a human being was now being applied to Charlie. Blood pressure. EKG. Blood tests. The vet then said that she could make arrangements for Charlie to be seen by a cardiologist. Today. Not good. Not good at all.
We went directly from the vet's to the specialist. I was holding Charlie still while the doctor performed an ECG. A new medical term. Cardiomyopathy. Never heard it before. Then "congestive heart failure". That I had heard before. Inwardly my only thoughts were, "Please don't apply the words heart failure to Charlie. Please."
In what can only be described as a foggy dream I remember him saying, "Maybe six months. Maybe a year."
Prescription and a CD wth pictures of Charlie's ECG in hand it was off to the pharmacy. I will find out what they're for later. "Do you want to wait for them to be filled or do you want to come back later?" An echo of "Maybe six months. Maybe a year." I'll wait, thank you.
So morning and evening, he gets his pills. With one exception, he hasn' t been off a leash since then. In a cast up to mid thigh, I had taken him to the local dog park. Me in a cast with crutches and a 130 pound dog trying to get into a cab. Charlie took off and ran about half way across the park before he stopped and nearly fell to the ground. That was the last time he was off lead in the park. It's okay that I have grand memories of him running across a field. Almost sounded like a horse.
We still go to the dog park regularly. It's okay if he wants to visit with every single dog in the park. I walk him over there and back. "No, he isn't vicious or a biter. He's on his lead because he has a heart condition."
And I will, once again, walk him to the vet's office.
This Saturday. 9 AM.
Please...
Going to check out how his heart is doing. No chance that he will be getting better. My only hope is that he isn't getting worse.
It started a little more than a year ago. To see a strong active dog fall to the ground for no apparent reason was a shock. Maybe he ate something or was overheated. I was prepared to hear any "normal" diagnosis from his vet. What I was not prepared to hear was that his heart murmur had progressed from a level 2 to a level 4. When I heard those words I looked at him and the doctor and with tears in my eyes struggled to ask her what that meant. Sometimes I guess you just know what certain words mean especially when you take into account the way those words are spoken. Not good. Not good at all.
So just about everything I knew about what can happen to a human being was now being applied to Charlie. Blood pressure. EKG. Blood tests. The vet then said that she could make arrangements for Charlie to be seen by a cardiologist. Today. Not good. Not good at all.
We went directly from the vet's to the specialist. I was holding Charlie still while the doctor performed an ECG. A new medical term. Cardiomyopathy. Never heard it before. Then "congestive heart failure". That I had heard before. Inwardly my only thoughts were, "Please don't apply the words heart failure to Charlie. Please."
In what can only be described as a foggy dream I remember him saying, "Maybe six months. Maybe a year."
Prescription and a CD wth pictures of Charlie's ECG in hand it was off to the pharmacy. I will find out what they're for later. "Do you want to wait for them to be filled or do you want to come back later?" An echo of "Maybe six months. Maybe a year." I'll wait, thank you.
So morning and evening, he gets his pills. With one exception, he hasn' t been off a leash since then. In a cast up to mid thigh, I had taken him to the local dog park. Me in a cast with crutches and a 130 pound dog trying to get into a cab. Charlie took off and ran about half way across the park before he stopped and nearly fell to the ground. That was the last time he was off lead in the park. It's okay that I have grand memories of him running across a field. Almost sounded like a horse.
We still go to the dog park regularly. It's okay if he wants to visit with every single dog in the park. I walk him over there and back. "No, he isn't vicious or a biter. He's on his lead because he has a heart condition."
And I will, once again, walk him to the vet's office.
This Saturday. 9 AM.
Please...
Catch and release program for flies
I knew it. I knew it. I knew it.
As soon as I saw that outstanding moment by moment coverage of Obama swatting that fly followed by a close up of the dead (or worse dying) fly I knew that someone somewhere was going to object. And, of course, they did, and of course it was PETA.
Was it that the President like untold millions of others was able to swat the fly dead or that they taped it or that they showed pictures of the fallen corpse?
On a day to day basis I am surrounded by dog lovers. If the prez had beaten his dog to the carpet all of us (even Michael Vick at this point in his life) would be horror struck. So somewhere between a fly and a dog we take a stand on what is morally acceptable to us. And I am quite sure that stand would differ based on our age, cultural background, geographical location, etc.
In like manner, don't we then need to take a stand on those who comment on the news? Once again I would say that we couldn't reach a 100% agreement on that either, but in PETA's case I would bet the barn that the majority of people would say that their opinion in this matter is just flat out ridiculous. And the more we pay attention to them the worse they get.
So, let me tell you about a technique that I have used successfuly to catch a fly without hurting it. You have to come up behind the fly with an open hand, and as your hand gets close to the fly quickly close your hand and trap the fly safely in the airspace in your hand. It helps if you come up from the rear so that if it (is it okay if I call it an "it") takes off, the motion of your hand will follow the flight path. If you are successful you can feel the fly in your hand. The pest has now been safely captured.
Then what?
Kill it.
Next?
As soon as I saw that outstanding moment by moment coverage of Obama swatting that fly followed by a close up of the dead (or worse dying) fly I knew that someone somewhere was going to object. And, of course, they did, and of course it was PETA.
Was it that the President like untold millions of others was able to swat the fly dead or that they taped it or that they showed pictures of the fallen corpse?
On a day to day basis I am surrounded by dog lovers. If the prez had beaten his dog to the carpet all of us (even Michael Vick at this point in his life) would be horror struck. So somewhere between a fly and a dog we take a stand on what is morally acceptable to us. And I am quite sure that stand would differ based on our age, cultural background, geographical location, etc.
In like manner, don't we then need to take a stand on those who comment on the news? Once again I would say that we couldn't reach a 100% agreement on that either, but in PETA's case I would bet the barn that the majority of people would say that their opinion in this matter is just flat out ridiculous. And the more we pay attention to them the worse they get.
So, let me tell you about a technique that I have used successfuly to catch a fly without hurting it. You have to come up behind the fly with an open hand, and as your hand gets close to the fly quickly close your hand and trap the fly safely in the airspace in your hand. It helps if you come up from the rear so that if it (is it okay if I call it an "it") takes off, the motion of your hand will follow the flight path. If you are successful you can feel the fly in your hand. The pest has now been safely captured.
Then what?
Kill it.
Next?
Wednesday, June 17, 2009
What I meant to say was...
"Say what you mean and mean what you say." "Words have meaning." Two quotes from the president. Try to square that with, "What he meant to say was..."
Clearly there must be a morbid aversion in Washington to saying either,"I was wrong", or "He was wrong". People aren't wrong any more; they just didn't say what they meant. Joe Biden said that if you sneeze on an airplane, everyone is exposed to whatever it is that sneezes carry. The next day some staffer enlighltened us by saying that what Joe really meant to say was that if you are not feeling well you should stay away from public places.
Obviously, we must be idiots. Or lack memories. If Biden's first statement sounds anything like the revised version then Houston, we have a problem.
Would that I had this power when I was in school. If I realized overnight that I had answered a question incorrectly on an exam taken the previous day, I could recall my test and correct my mistakes and write, "What I meant to say was..." next to the correction. As I learned, I could have gone back and corrected all of my mistakes, and I coulda been a straight A student (or maybe evan a contender). How can you learn from your mistakes if after the fact someone convinces others that you really didn't make a mistake? You really weren't wrong afer all. Orwellian?
David Letterman came closer to admitting a mistake then some although I think it took a battery of reporters hammering on him until he admitted that his Sarah Palin joke wasn't funny. But in apologizing he acted like he just found out that there's a difference between intent and perception. Really? After a lifetime in comedy, he's just finding that out? At some point you have to operate as if what the other person heard is what you said. And if what they heard isn't what you want them to hear, then say it again until you agree that what they heard is what This is even worse than political spin. It's lying. It's creating the appearance that either (a) the person doesn't know how to communicate or correct themselves or (b) they are morons who need other people to correct their mistakes. Either way they don't come out very well. Are they going to go back to the text of their first statement and change it? In that way history will not recall their mistakes. It will only recall the corrected copy.
There isn't a human being I know who hasn't regretted certain things they have said. No one that I know of is free from making mistakes. The best of them know how to recognize when they are wrong and correct themselves (accent on themselves) as soon as they realize their error.
I read somewhere that a famous scientist stated that he liked to be wrong at least three times before breakfast. In that way he could constantly be correcting his erraneous beliefs and knowledge of the world.
Is it too much for our politicians and their staff to begin a new approach to how they communicate at a less taxing level and admit, let's say, to being wrong perhaps once a day?
Yeah. Right.
Clearly there must be a morbid aversion in Washington to saying either,"I was wrong", or "He was wrong". People aren't wrong any more; they just didn't say what they meant. Joe Biden said that if you sneeze on an airplane, everyone is exposed to whatever it is that sneezes carry. The next day some staffer enlighltened us by saying that what Joe really meant to say was that if you are not feeling well you should stay away from public places.
Obviously, we must be idiots. Or lack memories. If Biden's first statement sounds anything like the revised version then Houston, we have a problem.
Would that I had this power when I was in school. If I realized overnight that I had answered a question incorrectly on an exam taken the previous day, I could recall my test and correct my mistakes and write, "What I meant to say was..." next to the correction. As I learned, I could have gone back and corrected all of my mistakes, and I coulda been a straight A student (or maybe evan a contender). How can you learn from your mistakes if after the fact someone convinces others that you really didn't make a mistake? You really weren't wrong afer all. Orwellian?
David Letterman came closer to admitting a mistake then some although I think it took a battery of reporters hammering on him until he admitted that his Sarah Palin joke wasn't funny. But in apologizing he acted like he just found out that there's a difference between intent and perception. Really? After a lifetime in comedy, he's just finding that out? At some point you have to operate as if what the other person heard is what you said. And if what they heard isn't what you want them to hear, then say it again until you agree that what they heard is what This is even worse than political spin. It's lying. It's creating the appearance that either (a) the person doesn't know how to communicate or correct themselves or (b) they are morons who need other people to correct their mistakes. Either way they don't come out very well. Are they going to go back to the text of their first statement and change it? In that way history will not recall their mistakes. It will only recall the corrected copy.
There isn't a human being I know who hasn't regretted certain things they have said. No one that I know of is free from making mistakes. The best of them know how to recognize when they are wrong and correct themselves (accent on themselves) as soon as they realize their error.
I read somewhere that a famous scientist stated that he liked to be wrong at least three times before breakfast. In that way he could constantly be correcting his erraneous beliefs and knowledge of the world.
Is it too much for our politicians and their staff to begin a new approach to how they communicate at a less taxing level and admit, let's say, to being wrong perhaps once a day?
Yeah. Right.
Saturday, June 13, 2009
Whatchamacallits have names
No, the title of this morning's gem doesn't contain the name of a city in Michigan. It's that catch all phrase used to indicate things for which no name can be remembered. (Boy, that's a pretty good grammatical construct!)
I share a common experience with untold millions of kids through the ages - helping their fathers with a project. Now I don't think they called them projects back then. All I know is after a few memorable "do I have to's," I would end up "helping" my Dad do something around the house. Mind you this was in the days before Home Depot staffed its stores with "experts" - the definition of which is anyone who refers you to the isle with hammers no matter what the task. (That's part of a longer joke, but I have a lot of tasks to do today and can't go into it.) Helping, of course, can be more fully appreciated as waiting around for your Dad to ask for something.
Now I can't prove that nationality has anything to do with it but my father was German, born and bred. He later became a US citizen and very quickly learned how to lose his German accent. But not having grown up in the English language tools tended to become lumped individually into a group called "whatchamacallit". The most horrific scenario, of course, was to have a project take place away from the basement where all the tools were. (Ever wonder why professionals carry tool boxes around with them?)
So at some point and inevitably the project would come to a halt, because Dad needed a tool. Without even taking his eyes away from what he was doing he would utter, "Go get that thing, you know, the whatchamacallit." At first I would ask him to be more specific but after a few stern "Just go get it!" responses, I remember wandering down into the basement to retrieve the whatchamacallit, but after a few worrisome minutes, Dad would come down, pass right by me, reach into the pile of tools (is it okay if I don't have to keep writing whatchamacallits?), find the one he wanted, and rush back to the "job". While I am not the brightest bulb on the block I am not the dimmest either. It didn't take long for me simply walk into the basement and clear a path for him to get by me to the tool bench and wait for him.
I remember that after one particulary painful session accompanied by a few tears, I actually convinced him to be more specific when he told me what he wanted. He agreed. (Later on I made up a saying that it was a lot worse to fail at something that you don't know how to do than it is to fail at something that you do know how to do. Re the first instance you not only fail but you feel stupid as well.)
I can't tell you how glad I was the first time my Dad asked me to get a wrench.
Those of you who have been here before know full well what happened next. If you've never been here before and want proof that this is a pretty universal experience, ask your Dad, if you are lucky enough to still have him around, what it was like helping his Dad around the house.
So, whatchamacallits have names.
And, by the way, so do people.
My dad's name was Herman.
Sometimes I wish that we had had more time to learn the names of all those tools together.
Happy Father's Day
I share a common experience with untold millions of kids through the ages - helping their fathers with a project. Now I don't think they called them projects back then. All I know is after a few memorable "do I have to's," I would end up "helping" my Dad do something around the house. Mind you this was in the days before Home Depot staffed its stores with "experts" - the definition of which is anyone who refers you to the isle with hammers no matter what the task. (That's part of a longer joke, but I have a lot of tasks to do today and can't go into it.) Helping, of course, can be more fully appreciated as waiting around for your Dad to ask for something.
Now I can't prove that nationality has anything to do with it but my father was German, born and bred. He later became a US citizen and very quickly learned how to lose his German accent. But not having grown up in the English language tools tended to become lumped individually into a group called "whatchamacallit". The most horrific scenario, of course, was to have a project take place away from the basement where all the tools were. (Ever wonder why professionals carry tool boxes around with them?)
So at some point and inevitably the project would come to a halt, because Dad needed a tool. Without even taking his eyes away from what he was doing he would utter, "Go get that thing, you know, the whatchamacallit." At first I would ask him to be more specific but after a few stern "Just go get it!" responses, I remember wandering down into the basement to retrieve the whatchamacallit, but after a few worrisome minutes, Dad would come down, pass right by me, reach into the pile of tools (is it okay if I don't have to keep writing whatchamacallits?), find the one he wanted, and rush back to the "job". While I am not the brightest bulb on the block I am not the dimmest either. It didn't take long for me simply walk into the basement and clear a path for him to get by me to the tool bench and wait for him.
I remember that after one particulary painful session accompanied by a few tears, I actually convinced him to be more specific when he told me what he wanted. He agreed. (Later on I made up a saying that it was a lot worse to fail at something that you don't know how to do than it is to fail at something that you do know how to do. Re the first instance you not only fail but you feel stupid as well.)
I can't tell you how glad I was the first time my Dad asked me to get a wrench.
Those of you who have been here before know full well what happened next. If you've never been here before and want proof that this is a pretty universal experience, ask your Dad, if you are lucky enough to still have him around, what it was like helping his Dad around the house.
So, whatchamacallits have names.
And, by the way, so do people.
My dad's name was Herman.
Sometimes I wish that we had had more time to learn the names of all those tools together.
Happy Father's Day
Friday, June 12, 2009
Is this your dog?
A lot of people start their relationships with an introduction, something like, "Hi, my name is Ed" or "I'd like you to meet whatshername".
My life with Charlie started with, "Is this your dog"?
Six years ago I answered a knock at the door and was greeted by a woman holding a rather large puppy. "Is this your dog", she said. I told her that the puppy wasn't mine, and I don't quite remember if it was 5 seconds or less before the puppy was on my shoulder. She said the puppy was just wandering around the neighborhood, and she was trying to find its owner.
With yet-to-be-named, I walked down the street with him on my shoulder. The woman who found him said she thought he came from a house a couple of blocks away. Within a couple of minutes we were standing in front of the suspect house and a few people were standing around. One of them said, "Oh, there's one of the puppies!" One of the puppies? "Yes there are nine of them, and a few got out this morning."
Well, that was enough for me to decide right there on the spot that he-whose-name-must-not-be-spoken wasn' t going back there. After returning home, I called a neighbor to borrow his dog crate. The neighbor's response proved to be even more enlightening. He said he would love to let us borrow it, but he and his wife had found two puppies hiding in the buses in front of their house and both of them were in the crate. The plot thickens.
I am not sure of the details but within a short span of time I had the crate and the three puppies at our house. It was pretty clear that whoever-it-was that was responsible for the litter wasn't getting them back.
Within a matter of a week or so, we had the puppies to the vet to receive their shots and to be checked out. Getting them adopted was a lay down. Two of them were adopted by people who worked at the veterinary hospital. Two of the three. Whatshisname wasn't put up for adoption.
I gave you-know-who a name..something like Geezer. My partner at the time had bought some treats named "Charlees". Well that was it. Charlee became Charlie. (No chance of someone making a mistake and pronouncing it "charlay") Welcome home boy. We all felt pretty good about what we had accomplished and could get on with our lives.
Not so fast cowboy. A couple of weeks later, as I was walking Charlie, I saw a German Shepherd walking towards me with two MORE puppies. While I know that dogs don't have goals the way we humans do (of course someone is going to say that chasing a squirrel is part of the goal of catching the squirrel, but you get the idea) the mother left the two puppies there and wandered back to her house.
Here we go again. Three of them into the house and into the crate. Another trip to the vet. More shots and exams and then the adoptions. One of them took longer to find a home for than the others....much longer and you know what happens the longer you have a puppy in the house, but we already had two and couldn't fathom having three. And worse yet, we named him. Klinger.
The day the fourth-out-of-five was picked up by his new owner. My partner and I were a mess. We knew what we had to do but you know, well, that rationale doesn't make it any easier. With tears to go round our last one left.
That was six years ago.
I can't be sure, but I wonder if another dog has ever come up to Charlie and said, "Is this your owner? And, if so, I wonder what Charlie's version of the story would be...
My life with Charlie started with, "Is this your dog"?
Six years ago I answered a knock at the door and was greeted by a woman holding a rather large puppy. "Is this your dog", she said. I told her that the puppy wasn't mine, and I don't quite remember if it was 5 seconds or less before the puppy was on my shoulder. She said the puppy was just wandering around the neighborhood, and she was trying to find its owner.
With yet-to-be-named, I walked down the street with him on my shoulder. The woman who found him said she thought he came from a house a couple of blocks away. Within a couple of minutes we were standing in front of the suspect house and a few people were standing around. One of them said, "Oh, there's one of the puppies!" One of the puppies? "Yes there are nine of them, and a few got out this morning."
Well, that was enough for me to decide right there on the spot that he-whose-name-must-not-be-spoken wasn' t going back there. After returning home, I called a neighbor to borrow his dog crate. The neighbor's response proved to be even more enlightening. He said he would love to let us borrow it, but he and his wife had found two puppies hiding in the buses in front of their house and both of them were in the crate. The plot thickens.
I am not sure of the details but within a short span of time I had the crate and the three puppies at our house. It was pretty clear that whoever-it-was that was responsible for the litter wasn't getting them back.
Within a matter of a week or so, we had the puppies to the vet to receive their shots and to be checked out. Getting them adopted was a lay down. Two of them were adopted by people who worked at the veterinary hospital. Two of the three. Whatshisname wasn't put up for adoption.
I gave you-know-who a name..something like Geezer. My partner at the time had bought some treats named "Charlees". Well that was it. Charlee became Charlie. (No chance of someone making a mistake and pronouncing it "charlay") Welcome home boy. We all felt pretty good about what we had accomplished and could get on with our lives.
Not so fast cowboy. A couple of weeks later, as I was walking Charlie, I saw a German Shepherd walking towards me with two MORE puppies. While I know that dogs don't have goals the way we humans do (of course someone is going to say that chasing a squirrel is part of the goal of catching the squirrel, but you get the idea) the mother left the two puppies there and wandered back to her house.
Here we go again. Three of them into the house and into the crate. Another trip to the vet. More shots and exams and then the adoptions. One of them took longer to find a home for than the others....much longer and you know what happens the longer you have a puppy in the house, but we already had two and couldn't fathom having three. And worse yet, we named him. Klinger.
The day the fourth-out-of-five was picked up by his new owner. My partner and I were a mess. We knew what we had to do but you know, well, that rationale doesn't make it any easier. With tears to go round our last one left.
That was six years ago.
I can't be sure, but I wonder if another dog has ever come up to Charlie and said, "Is this your owner? And, if so, I wonder what Charlie's version of the story would be...
Why Charliestree
I guess some titles are pretty self explanatory. Great Expectations. The Prince and the Pauper, Koyaanisqatsi, and, of course, The Man Who Shot Liberty Valence. Given that all of my favorite names were taken for this blog I had to come up with an address for this blog that I, at least, could remember.
Charliestree. Should be "What happens when Charlie and I are outside and he gets on the opposite side of a tree blog". Problem with that name is that it would severely limit other topics I might want to address. Couldn't follow that title with, "So what's up with Barney Frank?"
It's always nice to write about something that's fresh in your memory. Charlie and I were out for his usual walk this morning. On the way back he got behind a tree. I took a positon on the opposite side of the tree, and for the next several minutes we played a version of either ring-around-the-rosie, catch me if you can, or peek-a-boo. I don't know where he picked this up, and I didn't teach him how to do it. He's done it ever since he was a pup, and I must say, he's as agile now as he was then.
Whenever I move towards him he jumps to the opposite side of the tree. If I try to run around the tree to get him, he runs to the other side. He waits by crouching down this his front legs on the ground with his butt high in the air - the same position he takes when he wants to play with the other dogs. (Am I finally admitting that he sees me as a big dog?)
Mind you, this is a daily ritual practiced in all seasons irrespective of the temperature or the time of day. It could be 2 AM with the ground covered with ice and snow; it doesn't matter. Once he gets it into his head that we are going to play, we are going to play. I've tried to outlast him by not moving to either side to see if he will peek around the tree to see where I am. He always wins. I move first.
Although it may differ by breed, Charlie smiles. When we play his game (and believe me it IS his game) he is always smiling. There are times of course when I just don't want to play because it's too cold or I am too tired or it's too wet and muddy outside. But when he smiles, I smile. May be similar to hearing a baby laugh. I don't care if you happen to be mixing cement in your mouth; you are going to laugh.
Only problem with the game is I have unconsciously made this a barometer for our relationship. Charlie has a heart condition; it's not good. Based on the doctor's forecasts he shouldn't be around right now. He should't be here period much less be able to play our silly little six year old game.
The other day Charlie started to walk back to our place without hiding behind the tree. My heart came up into my chest and then my throat. Maybe he just doesn't feel like it, I thought. Or maybe...
If someone had been walking past us at that particular moment they would have seen a tall barefooted man standing behind a tree peeking his head out every few seconds trying to attract his dog's attention and then watching as the man and the dog chased each other around a tree.
Not just any tree, sir.
Charlie's tree.
Charliestree. Should be "What happens when Charlie and I are outside and he gets on the opposite side of a tree blog". Problem with that name is that it would severely limit other topics I might want to address. Couldn't follow that title with, "So what's up with Barney Frank?"
It's always nice to write about something that's fresh in your memory. Charlie and I were out for his usual walk this morning. On the way back he got behind a tree. I took a positon on the opposite side of the tree, and for the next several minutes we played a version of either ring-around-the-rosie, catch me if you can, or peek-a-boo. I don't know where he picked this up, and I didn't teach him how to do it. He's done it ever since he was a pup, and I must say, he's as agile now as he was then.
Whenever I move towards him he jumps to the opposite side of the tree. If I try to run around the tree to get him, he runs to the other side. He waits by crouching down this his front legs on the ground with his butt high in the air - the same position he takes when he wants to play with the other dogs. (Am I finally admitting that he sees me as a big dog?)
Mind you, this is a daily ritual practiced in all seasons irrespective of the temperature or the time of day. It could be 2 AM with the ground covered with ice and snow; it doesn't matter. Once he gets it into his head that we are going to play, we are going to play. I've tried to outlast him by not moving to either side to see if he will peek around the tree to see where I am. He always wins. I move first.
Although it may differ by breed, Charlie smiles. When we play his game (and believe me it IS his game) he is always smiling. There are times of course when I just don't want to play because it's too cold or I am too tired or it's too wet and muddy outside. But when he smiles, I smile. May be similar to hearing a baby laugh. I don't care if you happen to be mixing cement in your mouth; you are going to laugh.
Only problem with the game is I have unconsciously made this a barometer for our relationship. Charlie has a heart condition; it's not good. Based on the doctor's forecasts he shouldn't be around right now. He should't be here period much less be able to play our silly little six year old game.
The other day Charlie started to walk back to our place without hiding behind the tree. My heart came up into my chest and then my throat. Maybe he just doesn't feel like it, I thought. Or maybe...
If someone had been walking past us at that particular moment they would have seen a tall barefooted man standing behind a tree peeking his head out every few seconds trying to attract his dog's attention and then watching as the man and the dog chased each other around a tree.
Not just any tree, sir.
Charlie's tree.
Thursday, June 11, 2009
The disappearance of "me"
"Me" seems to be disappearing. That's not a grammatically incorrect way of saying, "I seem to be disappearing". I mean the word "me" seems to be disappearing. Edged out of existence as it were to be supplanted with "I".
In other languages, German for one, there are familiar and proper forms of the word "you". (We Americans don't make that distinction. Both kings and paupers are both addressed as "hey, you". ) Depending on the context or level of familiarity with the other person, you would choose to use the form "du" or "sie". If you have just met someone and you use the informal word "du" your listener may feel offended. (Of course there are a lot of guttural sounds that may follow that like "acch" or a host of other unpleasant and potentially wet sounds. (See my crib notes on being sprayed by my high school German teacher) But that's German for ya.)
I fear that's not the case with misusing "I" or "me". It's as if saying "me" somehow demonstrates that you belong to a lower class of primate or that the frequent use of "I" bestows a level of class.
Take the following example ripped from today's headlines. "The senator invited my wife and I to dinner." If you are a registered supplicant you might be so impressed that someone knows a senator that you miss the error. How about, "My wife and I were invited to dinner by the senator." Or "the senator invited us to dinner." Now listen to "The senator invited we to dinner." Almost hurts your ears doesn't it? And you feel yourself wincing.
Perhaps someone somewhere developed a rule that said, "When in doubt, use "I". Or even worse they've never heard of direct or indirect objects. Or how to determine which form is correct. Now I know that some times (okay more than some times) I write in incomplete sentences. And surely someone somewhere cannot read this blog because incomplete sentences give them a head ache. Here's the difference. (I eliminated the word "but" from the previous sentence in order to make it a complete sentence. Put down the Tylenol, and take a step back). The difference is I know an incomplete sentence when I see one or even write one. Comprende?
Trust me. This is not a problem with any particular class of people. It would be one thing to assume that only the uneddicated would fall victim to this, but it seems to appear throughout the social spectrum. It's an equal opportunity offender.
Here's my guess. Some have come to the conclusion that the more you use the word "I" the more intelligent you either are or seem to be (and trust me, seeming to be intelligent does not equate to being intelligent). And perhaps this is the way the English language changes over time as improper forms of usage become more acceptable.
For me, I find that I am appalled when me hear it.
P.S. It was the prez who received the invite from the senator.
In other languages, German for one, there are familiar and proper forms of the word "you". (We Americans don't make that distinction. Both kings and paupers are both addressed as "hey, you". ) Depending on the context or level of familiarity with the other person, you would choose to use the form "du" or "sie". If you have just met someone and you use the informal word "du" your listener may feel offended. (Of course there are a lot of guttural sounds that may follow that like "acch" or a host of other unpleasant and potentially wet sounds. (See my crib notes on being sprayed by my high school German teacher) But that's German for ya.)
I fear that's not the case with misusing "I" or "me". It's as if saying "me" somehow demonstrates that you belong to a lower class of primate or that the frequent use of "I" bestows a level of class.
Take the following example ripped from today's headlines. "The senator invited my wife and I to dinner." If you are a registered supplicant you might be so impressed that someone knows a senator that you miss the error. How about, "My wife and I were invited to dinner by the senator." Or "the senator invited us to dinner." Now listen to "The senator invited we to dinner." Almost hurts your ears doesn't it? And you feel yourself wincing.
Perhaps someone somewhere developed a rule that said, "When in doubt, use "I". Or even worse they've never heard of direct or indirect objects. Or how to determine which form is correct. Now I know that some times (okay more than some times) I write in incomplete sentences. And surely someone somewhere cannot read this blog because incomplete sentences give them a head ache. Here's the difference. (I eliminated the word "but" from the previous sentence in order to make it a complete sentence. Put down the Tylenol, and take a step back). The difference is I know an incomplete sentence when I see one or even write one. Comprende?
Trust me. This is not a problem with any particular class of people. It would be one thing to assume that only the uneddicated would fall victim to this, but it seems to appear throughout the social spectrum. It's an equal opportunity offender.
Here's my guess. Some have come to the conclusion that the more you use the word "I" the more intelligent you either are or seem to be (and trust me, seeming to be intelligent does not equate to being intelligent). And perhaps this is the way the English language changes over time as improper forms of usage become more acceptable.
For me, I find that I am appalled when me hear it.
P.S. It was the prez who received the invite from the senator.
Wednesday, June 10, 2009
Political Distress Signs
What do political staffers do during an election? Who gets the job of driving around the area to see who has the most lawn signs up? Oops. Our opponent(s) have more signs than we do; time to stick a few more in the ground. Is this the kind of job that eventually lands you some cushy position in the government if your candidate wins? Does it perhaps qualify you to be an assistant director in the parks department earning $150,000 a year because you spent so much time aerating the grass between street lanes?
While I understand that we have a Constitutional right to free speech, how many times do you have to see someone's name before you realize that they are running for something? Terry McAuliffe had so many signs in some areas that you couldn't see the grass. This is clearly the case where more is not better.
And ugly? One sign might be a distraction. Thousands of them are an abomination. And to what creative heights do the sign makers need to ascend? Let's see should we use the blue background with white lettering? Or perhaps the green background with white lettering. No…let's go with the blue.
While I haven't taken the time to look up any local regulations it would seem that there is some kind of limit to the size of these monstrosities. Thank god for small favors. Otherwise we would have a war on whose was bigger. Not an uncommon battle for most politicians by the way. Mine's bigger than yours to wit I should win. In order to really make a difference why not come to a gentleman's agreement and limit the number of signs that are…..oh, lost my head there. Hard to find a couple of gentlemen bent on winning at all costs who would agree on limiting anything.
And what about the green movement? How much does it cost to make, deliver, distribute, and eventually remove and destroy all of those atrocities? What kind of a carbon foot print do they leave? How do we let them know that we really don't need to spend all of that energy making our highways and lawns look like a national reproduction of the moronic activities at political conventions. Funny hats. Funny buttons. Funny signs. Funny people…in a morbid sense of the word.
Now as for effectiveness. If the assumption is that the more people are exposed to this nauseating kind of advertising the better the chances of someone winning were true, we could eliminate all of the speeches, debates, and endless series of mind numbing commercials.
But practically we know that isn't true.
McAuliffe lost by double digits.
Heheheehehehe.
While I understand that we have a Constitutional right to free speech, how many times do you have to see someone's name before you realize that they are running for something? Terry McAuliffe had so many signs in some areas that you couldn't see the grass. This is clearly the case where more is not better.
And ugly? One sign might be a distraction. Thousands of them are an abomination. And to what creative heights do the sign makers need to ascend? Let's see should we use the blue background with white lettering? Or perhaps the green background with white lettering. No…let's go with the blue.
While I haven't taken the time to look up any local regulations it would seem that there is some kind of limit to the size of these monstrosities. Thank god for small favors. Otherwise we would have a war on whose was bigger. Not an uncommon battle for most politicians by the way. Mine's bigger than yours to wit I should win. In order to really make a difference why not come to a gentleman's agreement and limit the number of signs that are…..oh, lost my head there. Hard to find a couple of gentlemen bent on winning at all costs who would agree on limiting anything.
And what about the green movement? How much does it cost to make, deliver, distribute, and eventually remove and destroy all of those atrocities? What kind of a carbon foot print do they leave? How do we let them know that we really don't need to spend all of that energy making our highways and lawns look like a national reproduction of the moronic activities at political conventions. Funny hats. Funny buttons. Funny signs. Funny people…in a morbid sense of the word.
Now as for effectiveness. If the assumption is that the more people are exposed to this nauseating kind of advertising the better the chances of someone winning were true, we could eliminate all of the speeches, debates, and endless series of mind numbing commercials.
But practically we know that isn't true.
McAuliffe lost by double digits.
Heheheehehehe.
Tuesday, June 9, 2009
UP - No PG rating?
Up - No PG rating?
There are times when kids cry at the movies. There are times when kids and their parents both cry at the movies. As to the first incident, parents console their kids. As to the second, kids and their parents console each other. We finally have a third group. When parents cry but not the kids.
The movie is UP.
If you were to have seen Eight Below - the story of sled dogs stranded in the Arctic you may have witnessed both adults and children crying side by side in the theater. If you are an animal lover, how could you not? Given all the anthropomorphism in the movies it would hard to fight against the notion that the valiant dogs braved the winter cold and worked with each other to eventually be saved by their human friends. Hard to pass up.
Then there's UP, the new release by Disney. There's something there for the kids of course. A wacky bird named Kevin (what else?), talking dogs whose attention is always capable of being diverted by the possible of a squirrel near by (true, true), and the boy scout trying to win his last merit badge.
But the underlying story will, I think, escape the kids. Carl, the leading figure in the movie - modeled after either Andy Rooney or the crotchety version of Spencer Tracy - is bound and determined to complete an adventure the he had promised to his wife. He teams up with Russel - a boy scout who needs his last merit badge - and begins a trek that will hopefully give each of them what they need. Pretty straightforward story line bound to reach its foregone conclusion.
But what makes this a movie not for kids takes place in Carl's private inward life's journey. His quest to fulfill a promise he made to his wife takes a dramatic turn that leaves adults - if they have any heart at all - taking a deep breath and perhaps shedding a tear or two. I don't think young children will get it. They may giggle at the talking dogs or the house floating over the countryside but they won't get the subtleties of Carl's journey.
Siskel and Ebert once remarked that what made a movie memorable for them was that when you woke up the morning after you saw the movie you remembered and cared about the characters. One cannot see this movie without remembering the experience that Carl had which goes to prove that telling a good story isn't restricted to the media that we are used to. In the past in order to be exposed to a story we had to listen to someone or read a book or attend a play or opera or see a film with real actors.
We now have another choice. Animated films.
First there was WALL-E and now there's UP.
Leave the children at home and go see a good film.
There are times when kids cry at the movies. There are times when kids and their parents both cry at the movies. As to the first incident, parents console their kids. As to the second, kids and their parents console each other. We finally have a third group. When parents cry but not the kids.
The movie is UP.
If you were to have seen Eight Below - the story of sled dogs stranded in the Arctic you may have witnessed both adults and children crying side by side in the theater. If you are an animal lover, how could you not? Given all the anthropomorphism in the movies it would hard to fight against the notion that the valiant dogs braved the winter cold and worked with each other to eventually be saved by their human friends. Hard to pass up.
Then there's UP, the new release by Disney. There's something there for the kids of course. A wacky bird named Kevin (what else?), talking dogs whose attention is always capable of being diverted by the possible of a squirrel near by (true, true), and the boy scout trying to win his last merit badge.
But the underlying story will, I think, escape the kids. Carl, the leading figure in the movie - modeled after either Andy Rooney or the crotchety version of Spencer Tracy - is bound and determined to complete an adventure the he had promised to his wife. He teams up with Russel - a boy scout who needs his last merit badge - and begins a trek that will hopefully give each of them what they need. Pretty straightforward story line bound to reach its foregone conclusion.
But what makes this a movie not for kids takes place in Carl's private inward life's journey. His quest to fulfill a promise he made to his wife takes a dramatic turn that leaves adults - if they have any heart at all - taking a deep breath and perhaps shedding a tear or two. I don't think young children will get it. They may giggle at the talking dogs or the house floating over the countryside but they won't get the subtleties of Carl's journey.
Siskel and Ebert once remarked that what made a movie memorable for them was that when you woke up the morning after you saw the movie you remembered and cared about the characters. One cannot see this movie without remembering the experience that Carl had which goes to prove that telling a good story isn't restricted to the media that we are used to. In the past in order to be exposed to a story we had to listen to someone or read a book or attend a play or opera or see a film with real actors.
We now have another choice. Animated films.
First there was WALL-E and now there's UP.
Leave the children at home and go see a good film.
Saturday, June 6, 2009
This day. That day. Saturday. D Day
As I was trying to remember what I was going to do today I remembered that this was the anniversary of D Day. The 65th anniversary.
I live near Washington, DC. I have a motorcyle. The WW II memorial is only 30 minutes away. My list can wait.
On the way to the Mall I pass Arlington Cemetary. The White House. Memories of that particular set of war footage showing perhaps four or five soldiers running across the beach with two of them getting hit are, for so reason, running through my head.
I've brought my camera knowing full well that I am not going there to take pictures of the memorial. It hasn't changed that much since the last time I took pictures of it.
I went there to see them. The veterans.
As I approach the monument it occurs to me that the worst moment of my life must pale in comparison to the thousands of moments each of those men and women experienced. I know that I am going to die. The older I get the more I know it. But to know that I am going to do something that may result in my death within a matter of days is an incomprensible thought to me. And death won't come in a hospital room surrounded by my loved ones or those who are dedicated to keep me alive. No, to look at death in some nameless place in a manner too horrific to even think about is something that I cannot imagine but something that some of the people I am about to see have experienced.
And then, there they were. Flown in for the day to see the Memorial and to be seen. A line of men and women, most of them in wheel chairs, lined up against one of the southern walls of the monument.
Camera in hand I took my time taking pictures of each of them as individuals. One veteran made me smile. Even now he was taking pictures of us with a disposable camera. Why doesn't he have one of those great new portable digital cameras? It doesn't matter. He's here and I get to see him.
At the mere thought of approaching him to shake his hand and to say, "Thank you for your service", I am overcome with emotion, and tears are streaming down my face. I can't let him see me like this, I think. I should be more in control. Get a grip on yourself.
But then I remember that for these guys there were those terrible moments when they didn't have the chance to get a grip on themselves. And for some of them who were not here, they had no chance of anything at all.
To make the day even more remarkable, after mustering the will to approach him, and after taking his hand and saying, "Thank you", he looked up at me and in the most understanding voice summed up the feelings I think we both had.
"Thank you for caring", he said.
This day. Saturday. D Day.
Friday, June 5, 2009
On Humor
Humor is funny. I don't mean funny "ha ha" because of course it is. I mean funny in that you can't define it or engage in it using a formula. If you like your neighbor's spaghetti sauce you can always ask, "How did you make that?" and you will shortly be able to duplicate the recipe. Unless of course when you eat it you say, "This tastes funny". Not so with humor.
Of course people have analyzed humor to determine what's funny and what's not or what makes people laugh - which of course is a different thing altogether. (Note the many times you have told someone, "That's funny" and didn't laugh.)
The problem with trying to determine what makes people laugh is that someone will try to learn how to be funny. I can't think of anything less humorous than someone who is not funny trying to make people laugh. Or figuring out how to make them laugh. The least offensive form of this is to buy a joke book. Puhlease.
Now I must admit that one of the most hysterical moments I have ever had in my life - and people who know me also know that I have had countless numbers of them - was listening to someone trying to tell a joke and failing miserably. The incident took place at Rehoboth Beach one summer many years ago. The attempting teller (can you really put those two words together) just couldn't get it right. And with each successive attempt he got funnier exponentially. (By the way never use exponentially in a joke. It tends to kill the punch line.) By the time we begged, literally begged, him to stop , we were all holding our stomachs with tears coming out of our eyes (where else would they come from) and were close to needing oxygen to breathe.
Of course the joke teller (he could now qualify to be in that class) had no idea why we were laughing which of course caused several more blood vessels in our eyes to burst.
To this day I cannot remember the joke. Or the punch line. Or even the name of the person telling it.
All I remember is laughing.
Humor is funny.
The New Buzz Word - Innovation
Innovation. It seems to be the new buzzword around town. Used to be efficiency. Or quality improvement. Now it's innovation.
All the major companies seem to be infected with it. Staying ahead of the curve through innovation. Problem is that we tend to forget that innovation has been around for a long time, but innovations (mutations) that didn't make it, aren't around any more.
Nature has been innovating for a long, long, long time. Matter of fact, without innovation, there wouldn't be a Nature at all!! What if we make the feathers on this bird just a little bit darker to improve it's ability to survive in the winter. If the bird lives long enough to breed then perhaps that innovation (okay it's a hybrid) will work. Most don't. No, by far the vast majority don't work. Almost none? Of course what these companies are all trying to achieve is some kind of an "edge" - a competitive advantage that will either maintain or increase their market share. (In nature we call that surviving.)
So to tell someone or some group of employees that they need to be innovative (so many ways to use that word) are we forgetting that we are, by nature, innovators and the product of innovation? Perhaps we would be better off to concentrate on how we have stopped people from being innovative. In some cases from beating it out of them when they were children. That's NOT the way we do it here. (Modern translation - not made here.) Everyone I know (who has remained awake at all meetings) can identify people who can espouse innovation as long as you don't "do it" around them. Almost sounds like, "I command thee to be innovative!! Good luck.
According to evolutionary theory all plants and animals adapt and are the product of adaptation. The ones we see are the ones that made it, remembering of course there was no up front "plan" for adaptation. No mechanism planned for whatever variation we see. For some reason the variations we see offered some kind of advantage to the species - ergo evolutionary success (even though maybe only for the short term).
So innovation is related to evolution. Without evolution as we know it, we wouldn't be here - and nothing else would either for that matter. Of course no company has the resources to create 20,000 new products a year to see if they stick so they do plan in a way. Without even asking the question, Nature has found the niches in the population (market place). No plan. Just using the basic hardware that comes with the original equipment.
So maybe we can take a lesson from nature. Instead of saying that innovation will save us, or make us bigger or better, perhaps we should pause and remember that Mother Nature already has. In Nature there is no one to say, "That won't work!" If it doesn't work - aka staying alive long enough to reproduce - then it doesn't. If that happens in a company, heads will roll. (New coke, Edsel, and, alas, the Segway.)
(My opinion. No matter how hard GMC innovates, it won't work. New things compete for food (money) and if you can get (eat) something equal or better for less money (expend less energy) then Nature will have her way. The less efficient eater will starve and die or be to week to have sex (unless supplemented with bail outs) while the smaller more efficient specimen (that doesn't have to share its food with retired family members) will survive and propagate (get bigger, build more plants, be seen or more highways).)
You can't train people to be innovative, to (God help us), think outside the box, but I think you can allow innovation to take place by not demanding that people be innovative. Just find the ones who already are and let 'em rip.
All the major companies seem to be infected with it. Staying ahead of the curve through innovation. Problem is that we tend to forget that innovation has been around for a long time, but innovations (mutations) that didn't make it, aren't around any more.
Nature has been innovating for a long, long, long time. Matter of fact, without innovation, there wouldn't be a Nature at all!! What if we make the feathers on this bird just a little bit darker to improve it's ability to survive in the winter. If the bird lives long enough to breed then perhaps that innovation (okay it's a hybrid) will work. Most don't. No, by far the vast majority don't work. Almost none? Of course what these companies are all trying to achieve is some kind of an "edge" - a competitive advantage that will either maintain or increase their market share. (In nature we call that surviving.)
So to tell someone or some group of employees that they need to be innovative (so many ways to use that word) are we forgetting that we are, by nature, innovators and the product of innovation? Perhaps we would be better off to concentrate on how we have stopped people from being innovative. In some cases from beating it out of them when they were children. That's NOT the way we do it here. (Modern translation - not made here.) Everyone I know (who has remained awake at all meetings) can identify people who can espouse innovation as long as you don't "do it" around them. Almost sounds like, "I command thee to be innovative!! Good luck.
According to evolutionary theory all plants and animals adapt and are the product of adaptation. The ones we see are the ones that made it, remembering of course there was no up front "plan" for adaptation. No mechanism planned for whatever variation we see. For some reason the variations we see offered some kind of advantage to the species - ergo evolutionary success (even though maybe only for the short term).
So innovation is related to evolution. Without evolution as we know it, we wouldn't be here - and nothing else would either for that matter. Of course no company has the resources to create 20,000 new products a year to see if they stick so they do plan in a way. Without even asking the question, Nature has found the niches in the population (market place). No plan. Just using the basic hardware that comes with the original equipment.
So maybe we can take a lesson from nature. Instead of saying that innovation will save us, or make us bigger or better, perhaps we should pause and remember that Mother Nature already has. In Nature there is no one to say, "That won't work!" If it doesn't work - aka staying alive long enough to reproduce - then it doesn't. If that happens in a company, heads will roll. (New coke, Edsel, and, alas, the Segway.)
(My opinion. No matter how hard GMC innovates, it won't work. New things compete for food (money) and if you can get (eat) something equal or better for less money (expend less energy) then Nature will have her way. The less efficient eater will starve and die or be to week to have sex (unless supplemented with bail outs) while the smaller more efficient specimen (that doesn't have to share its food with retired family members) will survive and propagate (get bigger, build more plants, be seen or more highways).)
You can't train people to be innovative, to (God help us), think outside the box, but I think you can allow innovation to take place by not demanding that people be innovative. Just find the ones who already are and let 'em rip.
On Philosophy
I am not a philosopher but I have read (or at times, tried to read) philosophy. Sometimes I think that in order to read and understand philosophy you have to have the same amount of will power it takes for those guys to sit through a week long texas holdem tournament. Sure you might be good, but can you sit expressionless for that long?
To know philosophy I guess is to know what each of the multitude of philosophers had or has to say about things (forget for the moment that some of them might say that there are no such things as "things".) And what about the things that philosophers have said about what other philosophers have said.? An infinite regression or just an indication that I really can't keep track of all of that.
Is there a world "out there" or an internal soul "in here". Do we all see a world the same way.? What is a six letter word for existential breakdown? So many terms to remember. And hard to follow. Sometimes it feels like trying to understand Greenspan talking about current or future economic conditions. (Luckily it all became clear when I found out that he wrote his books while sitting in a bathtub! How can you not trust a man who writes half under water?)
I used to have a friend who would ask me questions whenever I asked him a question. I think he was trying to follow that venerable philosophical tradition of leading me to discover my own truth. All well in good but it doesn't work that well when all I wanted was to find out where the closest 7-11 was. But at least he wasn't acting like he knew and I didn't. And I must admit that not relying on him for answers was a bit challenging if not frustrating at times. I guess that's the road less travelled. (I'll take books with the word road in them for $200, Alex.)
I've seen some people who think they are philosophers or have that word somewhere in their official title, but most of the time I really can't stand listening to them. That's one of the reasons I think that philosophy has (so far at least) utterly failed at providing us with important insight into the human condition. (Well, there was Hannah Arendt but she's the exception to the rule. If a rule is really a rule are there allowed to be exceptions?) Often it seems like if I went to the doctor because I needed an operation and he told me that I had to take and pass a course in anatomy before he would operate on me. I don't need to know ALL of that. Sometimes if there are two of them in the room they start completing each other's sentences or laugh at things that, quite frankly, I don't find very funny. Now don't get me wrong, I like to laugh but it usually involves someone getting hit with an object in the groin or making mysterious noises with their body. Now that's funny.
So what good is philosophy? Must have some value or it wouldn't have been around that long. Maybe it's just a place where people who can remember complex notions can sit together and leave the rest of us alone. I always thought that the statue of "The Thinker" was perfect because he spent so much time thinking that he had no time to work or buy clothes. He was built pretty well though. How do you think he stayed in shape?
Perhaps there's a philosopher out there somewhere who can answer that question.
To know philosophy I guess is to know what each of the multitude of philosophers had or has to say about things (forget for the moment that some of them might say that there are no such things as "things".) And what about the things that philosophers have said about what other philosophers have said.? An infinite regression or just an indication that I really can't keep track of all of that.
Is there a world "out there" or an internal soul "in here". Do we all see a world the same way.? What is a six letter word for existential breakdown? So many terms to remember. And hard to follow. Sometimes it feels like trying to understand Greenspan talking about current or future economic conditions. (Luckily it all became clear when I found out that he wrote his books while sitting in a bathtub! How can you not trust a man who writes half under water?)
I used to have a friend who would ask me questions whenever I asked him a question. I think he was trying to follow that venerable philosophical tradition of leading me to discover my own truth. All well in good but it doesn't work that well when all I wanted was to find out where the closest 7-11 was. But at least he wasn't acting like he knew and I didn't. And I must admit that not relying on him for answers was a bit challenging if not frustrating at times. I guess that's the road less travelled. (I'll take books with the word road in them for $200, Alex.)
I've seen some people who think they are philosophers or have that word somewhere in their official title, but most of the time I really can't stand listening to them. That's one of the reasons I think that philosophy has (so far at least) utterly failed at providing us with important insight into the human condition. (Well, there was Hannah Arendt but she's the exception to the rule. If a rule is really a rule are there allowed to be exceptions?) Often it seems like if I went to the doctor because I needed an operation and he told me that I had to take and pass a course in anatomy before he would operate on me. I don't need to know ALL of that. Sometimes if there are two of them in the room they start completing each other's sentences or laugh at things that, quite frankly, I don't find very funny. Now don't get me wrong, I like to laugh but it usually involves someone getting hit with an object in the groin or making mysterious noises with their body. Now that's funny.
So what good is philosophy? Must have some value or it wouldn't have been around that long. Maybe it's just a place where people who can remember complex notions can sit together and leave the rest of us alone. I always thought that the statue of "The Thinker" was perfect because he spent so much time thinking that he had no time to work or buy clothes. He was built pretty well though. How do you think he stayed in shape?
Perhaps there's a philosopher out there somewhere who can answer that question.
Disappearing Act
I am not sure exactly when it happened. I didn't feel myself fading away; it felt more like I was fading into the background. In front of me were an animal and an object - Charlie, my rather large, beautiful, and almost impossible to ignore dog and my Piaggio MP3 3 wheeled motorcycle. While I am willing to admit that humans are biologically primed to notice differences in the environment, the harsh reality of fading to black to serve as an information giver can be disconcerting.
What kind of dog is that? Wow, he's big. Never saw a motorcycle with three wheels. Does it stand up by itself? Is he part Dane? Does he bite? It looks neat; who makes it? In this world of noticeable differences, what is noticed is either my hand (only) attached to the leash or my leg visible on the side of the bike.
He's a Shepherd Rottweiler mix. Yes he is. Yeah, three wheels is unusual. It does stand up by itself until I release the controls. Then it drives like a motorcycle, and yes I can lean into curves. No, he has no Great Dane in him. (Can't prove it but I doubt it.) No he doesn't bite. (My internal response is much longer. What the hell would make you think I would let a 131 pound dog who is taller than your child near him if he was a biter?)
I guess having something different doesn't equate to being something different. True story. On a warm day last summer, a waitress from the Chart House in Old Town, Alexandria came walking all the way across the pier to bring Charlie a glass of ice water with the attending comment "Your dog looked thirsty." She and the other staff could see that from several hundred feet away and thank their dog loving souls, they responded.
Being totally invisible by this point it might have been nice to hear, "Oh, how about you sir. Are you thirsty too? Hungry? Could we bring you a shrimp cocktail or bloody mary? But no treats, petting, or butt rubs for me. (Only true dog aficionados know what a "butt rub" is.) No questions on how much I eat or how old I am. No concern for whether or not I will get any taller.
As for the bike, it attracts a lot of attention from older guys who've never had a motorcycle but who have dreamed of owning one. They aren't capable of being "hard core" bikers" and neither am I but there is some thrill to riding down the street, with the air rushing past you….oh, I almost forgot this isn't about me. Let them use the bike to stimulate their dreams.
And to tell you the truth, standing in the background enjoying every time Charlie makes someone smile isn't about me either. Whether they are young or old he wakes them up to the world of differences and I guess it really doesn't matter if they see me smiling in the background.
Yes, three gallons of premium, please.
I'm behind the curtain, Charlie. Get out there; this day is yours.
What kind of dog is that? Wow, he's big. Never saw a motorcycle with three wheels. Does it stand up by itself? Is he part Dane? Does he bite? It looks neat; who makes it? In this world of noticeable differences, what is noticed is either my hand (only) attached to the leash or my leg visible on the side of the bike.
He's a Shepherd Rottweiler mix. Yes he is. Yeah, three wheels is unusual. It does stand up by itself until I release the controls. Then it drives like a motorcycle, and yes I can lean into curves. No, he has no Great Dane in him. (Can't prove it but I doubt it.) No he doesn't bite. (My internal response is much longer. What the hell would make you think I would let a 131 pound dog who is taller than your child near him if he was a biter?)
I guess having something different doesn't equate to being something different. True story. On a warm day last summer, a waitress from the Chart House in Old Town, Alexandria came walking all the way across the pier to bring Charlie a glass of ice water with the attending comment "Your dog looked thirsty." She and the other staff could see that from several hundred feet away and thank their dog loving souls, they responded.
Being totally invisible by this point it might have been nice to hear, "Oh, how about you sir. Are you thirsty too? Hungry? Could we bring you a shrimp cocktail or bloody mary? But no treats, petting, or butt rubs for me. (Only true dog aficionados know what a "butt rub" is.) No questions on how much I eat or how old I am. No concern for whether or not I will get any taller.
As for the bike, it attracts a lot of attention from older guys who've never had a motorcycle but who have dreamed of owning one. They aren't capable of being "hard core" bikers" and neither am I but there is some thrill to riding down the street, with the air rushing past you….oh, I almost forgot this isn't about me. Let them use the bike to stimulate their dreams.
And to tell you the truth, standing in the background enjoying every time Charlie makes someone smile isn't about me either. Whether they are young or old he wakes them up to the world of differences and I guess it really doesn't matter if they see me smiling in the background.
Yes, three gallons of premium, please.
I'm behind the curtain, Charlie. Get out there; this day is yours.
On Andy Rooney
So what about Andy Rooney. Who is this guy anyway? Of course these questions wouldn't really matter to someone who doesn't watch 60 Minutes in the same way I don't really care about what you search for on Google.
But how do you get a job like his? And how much do you think he gets paid for his five minute slot. Now of course I know that it takes time to prepare for the weekly piece but really, how much time can it take? And if it takes as much time as I think it does, and he makes as much as I think he does, then he has to be one of the highest paid news people on television. Not that I begrudge him that. With those eyebrows and (almost) suits, he gets to comment about anything he wants.
I once though of developing a web site that dealt with things that nobody really cared about (toned down version of what I was really going to say) until my brother-in-law said something to the effect of, "Who cares what you really don't care about" Another innovative idea shot down in its infancy.
But really, who wouldn't want to be paid for talking about subjects like the mail he gets or how food is coming in smaller and smaller containers for the same price. Thank goodness he has his five minutes. I'm not sure if I could take an hour of it. Excluding commercials that would look like perhaps seven or eight vignettes. By the way, I really like the word vignette but don't often have the chance to use it.
He seems to be genuinely liked. When he is introduced by Lesley Stahl or one of the other "regular" news people, they always seem to have a smile on their face. Really doesn't matter what he is going to talk about. It's Andy's turn. Let him close out the show.
I'll bet that Andy is one of those people who is fortunate enough n their older years (don’t ya just hate that expression) to only do those things that he wants to. He may want to make some comments on the GMC affair or president Obama but I don't think people come into his office (more about that later) and tell him what to talk about. If anything he would do five minutes on how someone came into his office to tell him what to talk about. Nice going Andy. It's all grist for the mill.
I'm glad there are people like Andy around. And I'm glad that he can get paid for dong his thing and that people enjoy what he has to say.
But sometimes, the more I watch him the more I feel like I can finally know what a curmudgeon is or at least what one of them looks like.
What do you think?
But how do you get a job like his? And how much do you think he gets paid for his five minute slot. Now of course I know that it takes time to prepare for the weekly piece but really, how much time can it take? And if it takes as much time as I think it does, and he makes as much as I think he does, then he has to be one of the highest paid news people on television. Not that I begrudge him that. With those eyebrows and (almost) suits, he gets to comment about anything he wants.
I once though of developing a web site that dealt with things that nobody really cared about (toned down version of what I was really going to say) until my brother-in-law said something to the effect of, "Who cares what you really don't care about" Another innovative idea shot down in its infancy.
But really, who wouldn't want to be paid for talking about subjects like the mail he gets or how food is coming in smaller and smaller containers for the same price. Thank goodness he has his five minutes. I'm not sure if I could take an hour of it. Excluding commercials that would look like perhaps seven or eight vignettes. By the way, I really like the word vignette but don't often have the chance to use it.
He seems to be genuinely liked. When he is introduced by Lesley Stahl or one of the other "regular" news people, they always seem to have a smile on their face. Really doesn't matter what he is going to talk about. It's Andy's turn. Let him close out the show.
I'll bet that Andy is one of those people who is fortunate enough n their older years (don’t ya just hate that expression) to only do those things that he wants to. He may want to make some comments on the GMC affair or president Obama but I don't think people come into his office (more about that later) and tell him what to talk about. If anything he would do five minutes on how someone came into his office to tell him what to talk about. Nice going Andy. It's all grist for the mill.
I'm glad there are people like Andy around. And I'm glad that he can get paid for dong his thing and that people enjoy what he has to say.
But sometimes, the more I watch him the more I feel like I can finally know what a curmudgeon is or at least what one of them looks like.
What do you think?
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