Give me a minute and I’ll remember what I was writing about. Oh yeah, Senior Moments. You know, those times when you forget things. When something is on the tip of your tongue or in the corner of your brain.
Living in an over 55 community it’s a rather common occurrence. Or I think it is. Can’t really remember if it is or not. But give me another minute. Sometimes I can remember my entire third grade class and then not remember why I walked into the kitchen.
Did a job for some neighbors the other day. Was on a ladder balancing a ceiling fan. The lady of the house related a story about her senior moment. She was telling a friend about a movie she liked. A movie starring Arnold Schwarzenegger. But she couldn’t remember the name of the movie so she kept describing it to her friend in hopes that it would jar her memory. Ironically, the movie was Total Recall.
Of course we all laugh at those moments. Usually in the retelling, if only to ourselves. In private. I don’t feel so bad about my lifelong inability to remember names anymore. It was introduced one minute and the next completely gone from my memory. It was quite embarrassing. Even tried name association. But after erroneously calling someone Mr. Hare because he reminded me of a rabbit, I gave that up. Now I just blame it on having a Senior Moment. Or as those of us that live here call it, a Solera Moment. That’s the name of our small community. No wait, yeah that’s it, just looked it up, so I know that’s correct.
Made a list of things needed at Home Depot. Things for jobs and things for home. Rewrote it several times. Grouped by where they would be found in the store. OK, so it’s a bit much, but in my days as a Handy Man it made sense and saved time. Plus, if needed, I could actually tear the list in half and give it to my helper. Naturally I had to translate it for him, but it was a good system. Anyway, so off I go to Home Depot. Half way there I realize that the list is still at home. In my office. Next to the light bulb that I was going to take along to ensure the correct replacement would be gotten.
But it’s part of life, these Solera Moments. Part of what is euphemistically called the aging process. Getting old, making our way down the road of life. A way of reminding us or our mortality. A reminder, gentle and otherwise, that it’s OK to be fallible. To be human. Well, gotta go, just remembered why I went to the kitchen in the first place.
Sunday, August 8, 2010
Tuesday, August 3, 2010
Vegas
On my way home from my disastrous adventure to cross Iowa on my bike, I stopped in Vegas. There I spent the night with, Dick, and his wife Jeanette. I’ve known Dick since grade school, maybe third grade. He’s always been a nice guy and it was nice to see him again. The last time was about ten years ago at our high school reunion. It was there that we reconnected after many, many years of making our separate ways through life.
I arrived about noon from Salt Lake City after having taken the wrong exit. Well, it was the right exit but off the wrong freeway. But that’s another story. Dick is a very capable direction giver and in no time I was pulling up in front of his home. It was about 102 degrees which to those of us that live in Bakersfield is no big deal.
He and his wife greeted me warmly despite her headache. He and I quickly settled at the dining room table while she, as most wives do, retired to another room. I mean, not many wives want to sit around while a couple of old farts reminisce about their glory days. Of course, the older we get, the better we were and besides, our wives have already heard all that crap. At least a thousand times before.
After a few minutes he asked if I’d like to see the sights. Of course I said yes. Hell, I had money burning a hole in my pocket ready to hand over to any casino in town. First of course, we stopped for some lunch. Then we got back in his car and I was ready to hit the Craps tables. That’s my favorite form of losing, er, that is, gambling. But boy was I wrong.
In short order, we were heading out of town along a two lane highway. In a matter of a few minutes right in front of us were some craggy mountains. Beautiful in red and white and shades of brown. Then we entered Red Rock Canyon. Whooda thunk it? In Vegas? A beautiful, picturesque and totally awesome vision of nature at its finest. It almost left me speechless. This is, to those that know me, quite a feat. And I quickly forgot about giving the casinos my money.
Dick teaches landscape at Southern Nevada Community College and is consequently very familiar with the local plant life. After touring the visitor center, we drove a scenic loop with stops along the way for a little closer look at the incredible rock formations. He pointed out different plants describing their family roots (pun intended). What a big difference being shown around by a knowledgeable guide. It was fascinating hearing about desert plants.
He also mentioned that there are petroglyphs and hiking trails, some with year round creeks. I asked what time of year would be best to return to explore some of the canyons. He quickly replied that April was when the creeks were at their fullest and the flowers were all in bloom. He added that I was welcome to come anytime. It’s possible he might be sorry to have made that offer as I am definitely going to try to get back in April.
I left for home the next day with a whole new perspective of Vegas. Like most others I never thought of Vegas as having homes with people living in them and certainly not as having such natural beauty. I came home richer. Not just because I didn’t leave any money at the casinos. I’m richer for experiencing Red Rock Canyon with an old friend.
I arrived about noon from Salt Lake City after having taken the wrong exit. Well, it was the right exit but off the wrong freeway. But that’s another story. Dick is a very capable direction giver and in no time I was pulling up in front of his home. It was about 102 degrees which to those of us that live in Bakersfield is no big deal.
He and his wife greeted me warmly despite her headache. He and I quickly settled at the dining room table while she, as most wives do, retired to another room. I mean, not many wives want to sit around while a couple of old farts reminisce about their glory days. Of course, the older we get, the better we were and besides, our wives have already heard all that crap. At least a thousand times before.
After a few minutes he asked if I’d like to see the sights. Of course I said yes. Hell, I had money burning a hole in my pocket ready to hand over to any casino in town. First of course, we stopped for some lunch. Then we got back in his car and I was ready to hit the Craps tables. That’s my favorite form of losing, er, that is, gambling. But boy was I wrong.
In short order, we were heading out of town along a two lane highway. In a matter of a few minutes right in front of us were some craggy mountains. Beautiful in red and white and shades of brown. Then we entered Red Rock Canyon. Whooda thunk it? In Vegas? A beautiful, picturesque and totally awesome vision of nature at its finest. It almost left me speechless. This is, to those that know me, quite a feat. And I quickly forgot about giving the casinos my money.
Dick teaches landscape at Southern Nevada Community College and is consequently very familiar with the local plant life. After touring the visitor center, we drove a scenic loop with stops along the way for a little closer look at the incredible rock formations. He pointed out different plants describing their family roots (pun intended). What a big difference being shown around by a knowledgeable guide. It was fascinating hearing about desert plants.
He also mentioned that there are petroglyphs and hiking trails, some with year round creeks. I asked what time of year would be best to return to explore some of the canyons. He quickly replied that April was when the creeks were at their fullest and the flowers were all in bloom. He added that I was welcome to come anytime. It’s possible he might be sorry to have made that offer as I am definitely going to try to get back in April.
I left for home the next day with a whole new perspective of Vegas. Like most others I never thought of Vegas as having homes with people living in them and certainly not as having such natural beauty. I came home richer. Not just because I didn’t leave any money at the casinos. I’m richer for experiencing Red Rock Canyon with an old friend.
Wednesday, July 28, 2010
Best Laid Plans
It’s not very big really. Well, actually it’s microscopic. That virus, bacteria, germ or whatever it is that causes what we generically call “food poisoning”. But despite its size, when it gathers together with others of its kind, well, you know what happens.
On my way to Iowa for my first attempt at traversing the state on my bicycle I left Bakersfield on Tuesday, July 20th. By Thursday I was in Cheyenne, Wyoming, right on schedule. Spotting a Holiday Inn along the highway, I pulled into their lot and luckily found a room for the night. I say luckily because the next day was the start of Frontier Days. It’s billed as the largest outdoor rodeo in the world. Asking the receptionist about local eateries, she cheerfully drew a blue line on a map showing the route from the hotel.
About an hour later, I’m in my car and looking for this locally famous dive (her words). Let’s see, she said to turn left and go under the highway then another left. I had to resort to memory since the map was on the dresser next to the TV in my room. About fifteen minutes and an equal number of turns later, no diner in sight. I had, however, spotted a fast food joint not too far from the hotel.
A local taco joint. Well why not? A Mexican fast food joint. A welcome sight so far away from home. That should fix me right up. But I know what you’re thinking. A Mexican fast food joint in Wyoming? In hindsight, you are absolutely right. But remember, this was supposed to be an adventure, my Road Trip. Just like the movies. So I pull into the parking lot in anticipation.
I should have known I was in trouble when the menu didn’t include rice or beans. But undaunted I order a combo plate. The girl behind the counter asked if the potatoes would be OK for the side dish. Well, why not? When in Wyoming, after all. I grabbed my cup and headed to the drink dispenser. And road trip history.
The food came fast enough. A soft taco, a beef and potato burrito with a side of potatoes. About those potatoes. Not exactly what was expected. They were what we Californians would call Tater Tots. But there was a very generous serving with cheese sauce for dipping. About that cheese sauce. It’s what we would call Cheez Whiz. I tried a couple. Not bad. Then on to the good stuff. Let’s see what Wyoming folks know about my kind of food.
The first bite into the taco just didn’t taste right. Neither did the second. Tried the burrito. The beef and potato burrito. Gotta tell you that when those are done right, oh yeah, I want to break out into dance. But alas, there would be no dancing that day. There was beef and potatoes or rather more Tater Tots. Two bites and that was the end of my dining experience. Oh well.
Back in the hotel it was time to check the next day’s route, watch a little local TV and hit the sack. Then at about 130AM there was that familiar feeling in my gut. Yikes. Let me spare you the details; you know what I’m talking about. By about 9AM there was nothing left inside me, but parts of my body thought otherwise. I tried to get another night at the hotel but the whole city was booked solid. Damn Frontier Days.
I booked a room in Laramie which was about fifty miles west, from whence I had come. Very methodically I packed, got dressed and made several trips to the car. In between all of this were trips to the bathroom alternately driving and sitting on the porcelain bus. At about that time voices of the housekeeping staff could be heard. Then whistling and singing. Singing? Really? How could anyone be so happy while I was so miserable?
I thought about calling the front desk and reporting this serious breach of courtesy. Or maybe taking matters into my own hands and opening the door and demanding silence. But sanity took over and I realized that maybe I was just a little jealous over the fact that someone enjoyed their job enough to whistle and sing while working. Never had that experience.
I made it to Laramie with one stop at a roadside rest stop. By the next morning I was exhausted. Drained. Thoughts of my sore butt on my bike’s saddle for seven minutes let alone seven days brought about pained looks on my face. I threw in the towel, quit, gave up. Turned tail and headed back to Bakersfield. Disappointed but not discouraged. There’s always next year. But next time I think I’ll fly. Oh, and stick to familiar places to eat.
On my way to Iowa for my first attempt at traversing the state on my bicycle I left Bakersfield on Tuesday, July 20th. By Thursday I was in Cheyenne, Wyoming, right on schedule. Spotting a Holiday Inn along the highway, I pulled into their lot and luckily found a room for the night. I say luckily because the next day was the start of Frontier Days. It’s billed as the largest outdoor rodeo in the world. Asking the receptionist about local eateries, she cheerfully drew a blue line on a map showing the route from the hotel.
About an hour later, I’m in my car and looking for this locally famous dive (her words). Let’s see, she said to turn left and go under the highway then another left. I had to resort to memory since the map was on the dresser next to the TV in my room. About fifteen minutes and an equal number of turns later, no diner in sight. I had, however, spotted a fast food joint not too far from the hotel.
A local taco joint. Well why not? A Mexican fast food joint. A welcome sight so far away from home. That should fix me right up. But I know what you’re thinking. A Mexican fast food joint in Wyoming? In hindsight, you are absolutely right. But remember, this was supposed to be an adventure, my Road Trip. Just like the movies. So I pull into the parking lot in anticipation.
I should have known I was in trouble when the menu didn’t include rice or beans. But undaunted I order a combo plate. The girl behind the counter asked if the potatoes would be OK for the side dish. Well, why not? When in Wyoming, after all. I grabbed my cup and headed to the drink dispenser. And road trip history.
The food came fast enough. A soft taco, a beef and potato burrito with a side of potatoes. About those potatoes. Not exactly what was expected. They were what we Californians would call Tater Tots. But there was a very generous serving with cheese sauce for dipping. About that cheese sauce. It’s what we would call Cheez Whiz. I tried a couple. Not bad. Then on to the good stuff. Let’s see what Wyoming folks know about my kind of food.
The first bite into the taco just didn’t taste right. Neither did the second. Tried the burrito. The beef and potato burrito. Gotta tell you that when those are done right, oh yeah, I want to break out into dance. But alas, there would be no dancing that day. There was beef and potatoes or rather more Tater Tots. Two bites and that was the end of my dining experience. Oh well.
Back in the hotel it was time to check the next day’s route, watch a little local TV and hit the sack. Then at about 130AM there was that familiar feeling in my gut. Yikes. Let me spare you the details; you know what I’m talking about. By about 9AM there was nothing left inside me, but parts of my body thought otherwise. I tried to get another night at the hotel but the whole city was booked solid. Damn Frontier Days.
I booked a room in Laramie which was about fifty miles west, from whence I had come. Very methodically I packed, got dressed and made several trips to the car. In between all of this were trips to the bathroom alternately driving and sitting on the porcelain bus. At about that time voices of the housekeeping staff could be heard. Then whistling and singing. Singing? Really? How could anyone be so happy while I was so miserable?
I thought about calling the front desk and reporting this serious breach of courtesy. Or maybe taking matters into my own hands and opening the door and demanding silence. But sanity took over and I realized that maybe I was just a little jealous over the fact that someone enjoyed their job enough to whistle and sing while working. Never had that experience.
I made it to Laramie with one stop at a roadside rest stop. By the next morning I was exhausted. Drained. Thoughts of my sore butt on my bike’s saddle for seven minutes let alone seven days brought about pained looks on my face. I threw in the towel, quit, gave up. Turned tail and headed back to Bakersfield. Disappointed but not discouraged. There’s always next year. But next time I think I’ll fly. Oh, and stick to familiar places to eat.
Saturday, July 10, 2010
A Lot of Bull
Can it really be? Has one year gone by already? Yep. One year ago today I was in Pamplona running with the bulls with my son David. Well running with the bulls is a bit of a misnomer. It’s more like running away from the bulls.
It’s still a vivid memory. Sure hope years from now it’s just as clear. It was a special time for a father and son. Celebrating his thirtieth birthday in grand and ultra Macho style. Too bad my Dad wasn’t alive to share the adventure. Not by actually running but listening to our accounts and looking at the pictures. Although, not to sell my Dad short, given the opportunity he probably would’ve joined us. This nut didn’t fall far from that tree.
I have not tired of telling the story of our Spanish exploits. But others have, I’m sure. So if you’re one of those, it’s probably better if you stop reading now. But even if you’ve already heard it why not indulge me and give it another shot. It’s not your normal “what I did on vacation” story. I promise.
The wife, my son and I had flown to London and after a few days David and I flew to Pamplona. We flew via Iberian Airlines, the national airline of Spain. Four flights total. Two there and two back. All four were late. We actually missed our connection to Pamplona and arrived hours late. I think Iberian Airlines’ motto is “We just don’t care” or possibly “If you don’t like it, take the bus.” Either one pretty much sums up their service. And I use that term loosely.
But we made it and took a cab to our hotel. Not a bad place. We walked to downtown Pamplona and it was very exciting. Lots of activities. Vendors, bands, entertainers and drinks. I never felt in any sort of danger. The entire community embraces the festival as witnessed by the fact that almost everyone is decked out in white with red scarves, sashes and bandanas. The running of the bulls is a very small part of the Festival of San Fermin. But it is the most famous part.
The next morning we arrived at the route and put on our game faces. It was belly buttons to assholes in the overcrowded square and the nervousness was palpable. We finally made our way down the route and picked our spot. David reminded me to assume the fetal position should I fall. He reassured me by saying that if necessary he would pick me up and throw me over the fence. Yikes. Quite the reversal of roles.
At precisely 8AM the first rocket is set off, soars upward and explodes signaling the opening of the gates. Yep, the bulls are on their way. The look of sheer terror was a common one amongst the runners. Then a second rocket explodes. The last bull has cleared the gates. Still not too late to climb over the fence and just watch the bulls run by.
A few minutes later a wall of humans comes yelling and screaming towards us. I turn and join them. Literally seconds later, I’m sprawled on the cobblestones. But I didn’t come all the way from Bakersfield to watch the action from a fetal position. I get up and on my left is a bull.
Some moments will forever be etched in my brain. I remember thinking that the bull was not nearly as big as anticipated. I’m closing the distance between us. He’s deceptively fast. He’s at a gentle gait but I’m almost at a full sprint trying to keep up. The gap between us is now about ten feet. My sanity returns and I slow, watching as he moves on to meet his fate.
David and I meet and amid hugs, high fives and beaming smiles we take pictures. Exhilarated, adrenaline pumping and just plain tired. It’s over. Gone. All the planning and missed connection forgotten. Who cares about that stuff now? Hey, we ran with the bulls.
It’s still a vivid memory. Sure hope years from now it’s just as clear. It was a special time for a father and son. Celebrating his thirtieth birthday in grand and ultra Macho style. Too bad my Dad wasn’t alive to share the adventure. Not by actually running but listening to our accounts and looking at the pictures. Although, not to sell my Dad short, given the opportunity he probably would’ve joined us. This nut didn’t fall far from that tree.
I have not tired of telling the story of our Spanish exploits. But others have, I’m sure. So if you’re one of those, it’s probably better if you stop reading now. But even if you’ve already heard it why not indulge me and give it another shot. It’s not your normal “what I did on vacation” story. I promise.
The wife, my son and I had flown to London and after a few days David and I flew to Pamplona. We flew via Iberian Airlines, the national airline of Spain. Four flights total. Two there and two back. All four were late. We actually missed our connection to Pamplona and arrived hours late. I think Iberian Airlines’ motto is “We just don’t care” or possibly “If you don’t like it, take the bus.” Either one pretty much sums up their service. And I use that term loosely.
But we made it and took a cab to our hotel. Not a bad place. We walked to downtown Pamplona and it was very exciting. Lots of activities. Vendors, bands, entertainers and drinks. I never felt in any sort of danger. The entire community embraces the festival as witnessed by the fact that almost everyone is decked out in white with red scarves, sashes and bandanas. The running of the bulls is a very small part of the Festival of San Fermin. But it is the most famous part.
The next morning we arrived at the route and put on our game faces. It was belly buttons to assholes in the overcrowded square and the nervousness was palpable. We finally made our way down the route and picked our spot. David reminded me to assume the fetal position should I fall. He reassured me by saying that if necessary he would pick me up and throw me over the fence. Yikes. Quite the reversal of roles.
At precisely 8AM the first rocket is set off, soars upward and explodes signaling the opening of the gates. Yep, the bulls are on their way. The look of sheer terror was a common one amongst the runners. Then a second rocket explodes. The last bull has cleared the gates. Still not too late to climb over the fence and just watch the bulls run by.
A few minutes later a wall of humans comes yelling and screaming towards us. I turn and join them. Literally seconds later, I’m sprawled on the cobblestones. But I didn’t come all the way from Bakersfield to watch the action from a fetal position. I get up and on my left is a bull.
Some moments will forever be etched in my brain. I remember thinking that the bull was not nearly as big as anticipated. I’m closing the distance between us. He’s deceptively fast. He’s at a gentle gait but I’m almost at a full sprint trying to keep up. The gap between us is now about ten feet. My sanity returns and I slow, watching as he moves on to meet his fate.
David and I meet and amid hugs, high fives and beaming smiles we take pictures. Exhilarated, adrenaline pumping and just plain tired. It’s over. Gone. All the planning and missed connection forgotten. Who cares about that stuff now? Hey, we ran with the bulls.
Thursday, July 8, 2010
Da King Has Spoken
Well, Lebron James has decided where to play basketball. Would’ve watched his self serving hour long program, but had decisions of my own to make. Much more important decisions that actually affect me. Like what to watch on TV. So I really don’t know what his highness decided. Or care.
It’s difficult for me to relate to any professional athlete and their problems of just where to go to make their millions. Most will make more money in one year through contracts and endorsements than everyone that is reading this in our entire lives put together. Hell, I’ve been cutting corners for the last ten months just so I could drive all the way to Iowa to ride my bike.
Am I resentful or even maybe just a little jealous? Damn right. It’s why I haven’t attended a Major League Baseball game in years. Not since that strike years ago. I mean, millionaires striking for more money and benefits? Really? Sure wish I had those problems. So you’ll forgive me if I pass on all this “King James” hoopla. Whatever team he deems worthy deserves him.
But this crap only happens because we as a society not only support, but encourage this behavior. The ratings for King James will probably be astronomical. We love our sports heroes. They can do whatever they want anytime they want. That includes breaking the law. Even getting away with murder. Just ask OJ. But only if they’re winners. A championship ring on a finger brings immunity. But if you’re on a last place team, don’t even think about littering. You’ll be treated just like the rest of us commoners.
But somehow this short uncoordinated somewhat overweight Mexican is supposed to be all agog over where LeBron and all those other knuckleheads will be playing next year. Hey, talk to me when he’s actually on an NBA championship team. Which as far as I’m concerned will be never.
Well, gotta go. Another decision to be made. Grilled cheese sandwich or leftovers for dinner. Hey, if you want, I can record it and put it on YouTube. Might be just as entertaining.
It’s difficult for me to relate to any professional athlete and their problems of just where to go to make their millions. Most will make more money in one year through contracts and endorsements than everyone that is reading this in our entire lives put together. Hell, I’ve been cutting corners for the last ten months just so I could drive all the way to Iowa to ride my bike.
Am I resentful or even maybe just a little jealous? Damn right. It’s why I haven’t attended a Major League Baseball game in years. Not since that strike years ago. I mean, millionaires striking for more money and benefits? Really? Sure wish I had those problems. So you’ll forgive me if I pass on all this “King James” hoopla. Whatever team he deems worthy deserves him.
But this crap only happens because we as a society not only support, but encourage this behavior. The ratings for King James will probably be astronomical. We love our sports heroes. They can do whatever they want anytime they want. That includes breaking the law. Even getting away with murder. Just ask OJ. But only if they’re winners. A championship ring on a finger brings immunity. But if you’re on a last place team, don’t even think about littering. You’ll be treated just like the rest of us commoners.
But somehow this short uncoordinated somewhat overweight Mexican is supposed to be all agog over where LeBron and all those other knuckleheads will be playing next year. Hey, talk to me when he’s actually on an NBA championship team. Which as far as I’m concerned will be never.
Well, gotta go. Another decision to be made. Grilled cheese sandwich or leftovers for dinner. Hey, if you want, I can record it and put it on YouTube. Might be just as entertaining.
Saturday, June 26, 2010
Plug Ins
We bought a new coffee maker a couple of months ago. Our old one finally pooped out on us. Seems we don’t have very good luck with appliances. Especially coffee makers. Oh, and toasters. Seems like we had one toaster that lasted fifteen years and have had fifteen toasters that have lasted one year each.
I don’t know if it’s the quality of coffee makers and toasters these days that has gotten us onto this merry go round. We don’t abuse our possessions, particularly ones that are used on a daily basis. So what other explanation could it be other than poor craftsmanship? And just where does one get these machines repaired these days? Oh yeah, almost forgot, today all that stuff is disposable. Something went wrong? Throw it away and go buy a new one.
The new coffee maker is one in a very long line of coffee makers. The last one we actually broke on the first day we owned it. But we made do rather than face the hassles of returning it. You know, finding the receipt, repacking the damn thing and driving to the store. But as we all know, that’s actually the easy part. Once there, the quest for a parking spot is daunting. Almost as daunting as standing in line to face the clerk. The one that would rather be somewhere else. Anywhere else rather than facing us dissatisfied customers.
Despite our misuse, the coffee maker did its job. Making coffee. Every morning. Sometimes a second pot later on. But it too succumbed to old age and like the incontinent senior, wet all over our kitchen counter. We knew it was time for a new one. Fortunately for me, the wife was heading to Target that day so it fell on her. Whew. I’m not very good at those things and stores like Curnow’s just don’t exist. Not around here anyway. Besides, I generally equate price with quality and bring home the high end stuff only to get a lecture.
So the wife brings home the cheapest coffee maker known to mankind. I mean cheap. McDonalds cheap. It doesn’t even have an automatic shut off. Yikes. Why we could burn down the house just forgetting to turn the damn thing off before we go shopping. But I didn’t say anything for fear that she’d make me take it back and face all that nonsense. In marriage, you have to choose your battles wisely. And sparingly.
I don’t want to jinx it, but that coffee pot has worked beautifully. Brews the coffee and keeps it hot. Just the way I like it. As it turns out, that automatic turn off is actually not such a good thing for us. I’m up by 4AM and turning on the coffee is one of the first things I do. So two hours later the coffee pot would turn itself off. If I didn’t notice, there was cold coffee for the wife. Not a good thing.
I’m proud to report that so far the pot has not been inadvertently left turned on. I usually take the last cup and have remembered to turn it off. Not bad for an old fart. Now if I can just remember where in the hell I left the spare keys to my truck. Hmm, maybe I can remember over a cup of coffee and toast…
I don’t know if it’s the quality of coffee makers and toasters these days that has gotten us onto this merry go round. We don’t abuse our possessions, particularly ones that are used on a daily basis. So what other explanation could it be other than poor craftsmanship? And just where does one get these machines repaired these days? Oh yeah, almost forgot, today all that stuff is disposable. Something went wrong? Throw it away and go buy a new one.
The new coffee maker is one in a very long line of coffee makers. The last one we actually broke on the first day we owned it. But we made do rather than face the hassles of returning it. You know, finding the receipt, repacking the damn thing and driving to the store. But as we all know, that’s actually the easy part. Once there, the quest for a parking spot is daunting. Almost as daunting as standing in line to face the clerk. The one that would rather be somewhere else. Anywhere else rather than facing us dissatisfied customers.
Despite our misuse, the coffee maker did its job. Making coffee. Every morning. Sometimes a second pot later on. But it too succumbed to old age and like the incontinent senior, wet all over our kitchen counter. We knew it was time for a new one. Fortunately for me, the wife was heading to Target that day so it fell on her. Whew. I’m not very good at those things and stores like Curnow’s just don’t exist. Not around here anyway. Besides, I generally equate price with quality and bring home the high end stuff only to get a lecture.
So the wife brings home the cheapest coffee maker known to mankind. I mean cheap. McDonalds cheap. It doesn’t even have an automatic shut off. Yikes. Why we could burn down the house just forgetting to turn the damn thing off before we go shopping. But I didn’t say anything for fear that she’d make me take it back and face all that nonsense. In marriage, you have to choose your battles wisely. And sparingly.
I don’t want to jinx it, but that coffee pot has worked beautifully. Brews the coffee and keeps it hot. Just the way I like it. As it turns out, that automatic turn off is actually not such a good thing for us. I’m up by 4AM and turning on the coffee is one of the first things I do. So two hours later the coffee pot would turn itself off. If I didn’t notice, there was cold coffee for the wife. Not a good thing.
I’m proud to report that so far the pot has not been inadvertently left turned on. I usually take the last cup and have remembered to turn it off. Not bad for an old fart. Now if I can just remember where in the hell I left the spare keys to my truck. Hmm, maybe I can remember over a cup of coffee and toast…
Thursday, June 24, 2010
Movie Experience
The wife and I went to a movie the other day. The early cheaper show. We still call them matinees. Guess that dates us. We like the cheaper prices, easier to find parking spots and smaller crowds in the theater. Ah, retirement.
We saw Knight and Day, the new Tom Cruise and Cameron Diaz movie. It was the best choice among all the animated, 3D and just plain stupid offerings. I’m not a big Tom Cruise fan anymore. Not that I ever thought he was an actor worthy of an Oscar. Well, maybe for Rain Man. I stopped going to his movies, giving him my money a while back because he let out his inner jerk.
He’s not alone among celebrities that I avoid supporting. Russell Crowe heads the list. It took me years before I could watch him in Gladiator. Didn’t even order it on Netflix but watched it on regular, or rather satellite TV. I reluctantly give him credit for a fine performance. Denzel Washington is another one as is Queen Latiffa. Both because they purportedly said early in their careers that they not only don’t like white people but don’t want their money. OK, not a problem.
We hold our celebrities in high esteem. Simply because they are celebrities. As if being famous automatically bestows wisdom and integrity. Kinda like Paris Hilton. Or Lindsay Lohan. Or that up and coming train wreck Miley Cyrus. All are products and poor reflections of their parents. But we love to hear all about their lives. Every lurid detail. I think it was better when the studios kept all that stuff hush-hush.
Tom Cruise fell out of grace for me with that ill advised rant about post partum women in general and Brooke Shields in particular. He went right off the big jerk scale. Much to her credit Ms Shields took the high moral road and refused to get caught up in it. But most of the frustrated housewives that lust after Tom Cruise seemingly stood by their idol. Shame on 'em.
So we went to the movie and a funny thing happened. Actually, two. First, I actually liked the movie. Turns out, it’s exactly my kind of movie. Despite the fact that there was no nudity or sex. It was mindless entertainment with plenty of humor, action and a little suspense. I watch movies first and foremost to be entertained. I don’t care about subplots and symbolism. Just make me laugh or cry or anything in between. Which is why I love so many foreign films.
The second funny thing that happened was an affirmation of civility. After the movie was over I picked up the somewhat empty popcorn bag and soft drink cup. It was then that I noticed that almost everyone else in the theater was doing the same. We were gathering our trash to remove it from the theater. Out of consideration to those that would follow. All this without being asked or told. I must admit that most of us were older but there were a couple of younger folks that followed suit.
Maybe it was a cosmic alignment that led us to civil behavior. Maybe we all had caring parents that taught us to pick up after ourselves. Maybe it was because none of were celebrities and had lost sight of who we are, where we came from. It was a nice reflection on all our parents.
We saw Knight and Day, the new Tom Cruise and Cameron Diaz movie. It was the best choice among all the animated, 3D and just plain stupid offerings. I’m not a big Tom Cruise fan anymore. Not that I ever thought he was an actor worthy of an Oscar. Well, maybe for Rain Man. I stopped going to his movies, giving him my money a while back because he let out his inner jerk.
He’s not alone among celebrities that I avoid supporting. Russell Crowe heads the list. It took me years before I could watch him in Gladiator. Didn’t even order it on Netflix but watched it on regular, or rather satellite TV. I reluctantly give him credit for a fine performance. Denzel Washington is another one as is Queen Latiffa. Both because they purportedly said early in their careers that they not only don’t like white people but don’t want their money. OK, not a problem.
We hold our celebrities in high esteem. Simply because they are celebrities. As if being famous automatically bestows wisdom and integrity. Kinda like Paris Hilton. Or Lindsay Lohan. Or that up and coming train wreck Miley Cyrus. All are products and poor reflections of their parents. But we love to hear all about their lives. Every lurid detail. I think it was better when the studios kept all that stuff hush-hush.
Tom Cruise fell out of grace for me with that ill advised rant about post partum women in general and Brooke Shields in particular. He went right off the big jerk scale. Much to her credit Ms Shields took the high moral road and refused to get caught up in it. But most of the frustrated housewives that lust after Tom Cruise seemingly stood by their idol. Shame on 'em.
So we went to the movie and a funny thing happened. Actually, two. First, I actually liked the movie. Turns out, it’s exactly my kind of movie. Despite the fact that there was no nudity or sex. It was mindless entertainment with plenty of humor, action and a little suspense. I watch movies first and foremost to be entertained. I don’t care about subplots and symbolism. Just make me laugh or cry or anything in between. Which is why I love so many foreign films.
The second funny thing that happened was an affirmation of civility. After the movie was over I picked up the somewhat empty popcorn bag and soft drink cup. It was then that I noticed that almost everyone else in the theater was doing the same. We were gathering our trash to remove it from the theater. Out of consideration to those that would follow. All this without being asked or told. I must admit that most of us were older but there were a couple of younger folks that followed suit.
Maybe it was a cosmic alignment that led us to civil behavior. Maybe we all had caring parents that taught us to pick up after ourselves. Maybe it was because none of were celebrities and had lost sight of who we are, where we came from. It was a nice reflection on all our parents.
Wednesday, June 23, 2010
Knucklehead Thieves
Went for a bike ride last week. Nothing unusual, I do it all the time. But when I got back to my pickup it had been broken into. Passenger window shattered into countless pieces. Glass on the ground and all over the interior of my truck. Yikes.
I really don’t understand the mentality of stealing. Sure, we’ve all done it whether it’s grabbing a piece of candy from the bin at the grocery store or taking home some staples from the office. Not that doing it is OK. But what I don’t understand is the theft of personal property. My simplistic approach is that if you like something I have, get a job, save some money and go buy one for yourself. But alas, some people find it easier to just steal.
What’s ironic in my case is what was taken. Keep in mind that my Chevy pickup is a work truck. Nothing fancy. One factory hubcap is missing and probably will never be replaced. Didn’t even have power windows until I bought a kit and converted them myself a couple of years ago. So what, you may ask is worth breaking into and taking? Well, the factory radio had been replaced with one worth a couple of bucks. But they only had time to take the faceplate, leaving the bulk of the radio in the dash. Both pieces worthless without the other.
They scored pretty big with my cycling gear. Had a satchel behind the seat with my winter riding clothes; arm warmers, gloves, skull cap and wind/rain repellant jacket. Visible on the front seat was another satchel with more riding gear. Extra pair of riding glasses, spare lenses for the pair I had on and some energy bars. Hope they choke on them.
Most people think I felt violated. Not really, but I’m sure if my truck could speak… What those knuckleheads did was to get into my brain. To shake my level of security, comfort and safety. Is it OK to park at my favorite spot now? Should I take only the bare minimum wherever I go in my truck? Emptying the contents and leaving nothing visible to any would be thieves? When I went for another ride with a group two days later we parked in the same place. But it was later in the morning and there were already other vehicles present. Unlike the fateful morning when it was 530 in the morning and mine was the only vehicle there. That was my rationalization anyway.
The ride had a very heavy feel to it. Not my legs but my head. Couldn’t shake the feeling that I’d get back and find that the replacement window shattered. Should I have left the faceplate for the new radio in the tool box? But then they might think that the old radio was still in place and steal it to complete the set. But leaving the new faceplate/radio for all to see could be tempting as well. It was, needless to say quite a nerve racking ride. But when we got back, all was well. Pizza was on me that day.
Tried to ride again on Monday after a weird weekend of second guessing and bank account dealings(but that’s another story)but saw some suspicious characters and went home. It’s just a mental block. I’ve found a new parking spot and went for a ride yesterday. Screw ‘em. They ain’t gonna ruin it for me. Besides, I’m a firm believer in Karma.
I really don’t understand the mentality of stealing. Sure, we’ve all done it whether it’s grabbing a piece of candy from the bin at the grocery store or taking home some staples from the office. Not that doing it is OK. But what I don’t understand is the theft of personal property. My simplistic approach is that if you like something I have, get a job, save some money and go buy one for yourself. But alas, some people find it easier to just steal.
What’s ironic in my case is what was taken. Keep in mind that my Chevy pickup is a work truck. Nothing fancy. One factory hubcap is missing and probably will never be replaced. Didn’t even have power windows until I bought a kit and converted them myself a couple of years ago. So what, you may ask is worth breaking into and taking? Well, the factory radio had been replaced with one worth a couple of bucks. But they only had time to take the faceplate, leaving the bulk of the radio in the dash. Both pieces worthless without the other.
They scored pretty big with my cycling gear. Had a satchel behind the seat with my winter riding clothes; arm warmers, gloves, skull cap and wind/rain repellant jacket. Visible on the front seat was another satchel with more riding gear. Extra pair of riding glasses, spare lenses for the pair I had on and some energy bars. Hope they choke on them.
Most people think I felt violated. Not really, but I’m sure if my truck could speak… What those knuckleheads did was to get into my brain. To shake my level of security, comfort and safety. Is it OK to park at my favorite spot now? Should I take only the bare minimum wherever I go in my truck? Emptying the contents and leaving nothing visible to any would be thieves? When I went for another ride with a group two days later we parked in the same place. But it was later in the morning and there were already other vehicles present. Unlike the fateful morning when it was 530 in the morning and mine was the only vehicle there. That was my rationalization anyway.
The ride had a very heavy feel to it. Not my legs but my head. Couldn’t shake the feeling that I’d get back and find that the replacement window shattered. Should I have left the faceplate for the new radio in the tool box? But then they might think that the old radio was still in place and steal it to complete the set. But leaving the new faceplate/radio for all to see could be tempting as well. It was, needless to say quite a nerve racking ride. But when we got back, all was well. Pizza was on me that day.
Tried to ride again on Monday after a weird weekend of second guessing and bank account dealings(but that’s another story)but saw some suspicious characters and went home. It’s just a mental block. I’ve found a new parking spot and went for a ride yesterday. Screw ‘em. They ain’t gonna ruin it for me. Besides, I’m a firm believer in Karma.
Sunday, June 20, 2010
My Dad
I never played catch with my Father. He didn’t know how. As a young man growing up in Mexico he had other priorities. Earning a living and getting an education took precedence over beisbol. He might have been a capable futbol player but I never knew. My Dad kept those things to himself.
My own life always seemed like a series of disappointments to my Dad. The few moments that felt like triumphs were met with little acknowledgement, let alone praise. The occasional hug or even rarer fumbled words of encouragement prompted me to finally decide that they were best celebrated within me; in emulation of his life.
There was, however, never a lack of words of caution. “Don’t act silly” was his favorite and most often heard. Really? How else was an immature young man supposed to act? Silliness was my forte, always just below the surface of my personality. Lurking, waiting for the right moment to surface. But his admonishments to stifle that behavior overruled my own feelings. Most of the time anyway.
But as we both grew older I came to understand my Dad. Little by little secrets of his own life surfaced revealing a complex set of ethos held deeply in his heart. His Dad wasn’t around much, leaving my Dad to fend with his siblings. Stories of disappointments, heartaches and frustrations would occasionally be told. But not to me by my Dad. Usually from my brother who never played catch with my Dad either.
Much later I was asked to leave my last real job. You know, that’s just the PC way of saying I was fired. After much debate, I decided to become a self employed handy man. It was tough at first and I literally hit the streets distributing self made flyers door to door. It was from that activity and word of mouth that my business grew.
One day on my weekly lunch visit to my parents my Mom had to make a quick trip to the store for some missing ingredient. It was just my Dad and me sitting at the kitchen table. I savored those times when it was just us two. We could put our guards down and have normal conversations about anything. He asked how work was going. I told him the truth, that things were not bad. He looked at me and in the filtered sunlight coming through the curtains; it almost looked as if his eyes were a little teary. I knew better and wrote it off to the eye drops he used.
In a very quiet tone he told me that he was very proud of how I had built up my own business. To the impartial observer it might have appeared that I had also become teary eyed. I told him that the work ethic in me was learned from him. Before anything else was said, Mom walked in from her errand and the conversation turned to the price of groceries.
I never played catch with my Father, but I learned so much more. Thanks, Dad. Rest in peace.
My own life always seemed like a series of disappointments to my Dad. The few moments that felt like triumphs were met with little acknowledgement, let alone praise. The occasional hug or even rarer fumbled words of encouragement prompted me to finally decide that they were best celebrated within me; in emulation of his life.
There was, however, never a lack of words of caution. “Don’t act silly” was his favorite and most often heard. Really? How else was an immature young man supposed to act? Silliness was my forte, always just below the surface of my personality. Lurking, waiting for the right moment to surface. But his admonishments to stifle that behavior overruled my own feelings. Most of the time anyway.
But as we both grew older I came to understand my Dad. Little by little secrets of his own life surfaced revealing a complex set of ethos held deeply in his heart. His Dad wasn’t around much, leaving my Dad to fend with his siblings. Stories of disappointments, heartaches and frustrations would occasionally be told. But not to me by my Dad. Usually from my brother who never played catch with my Dad either.
Much later I was asked to leave my last real job. You know, that’s just the PC way of saying I was fired. After much debate, I decided to become a self employed handy man. It was tough at first and I literally hit the streets distributing self made flyers door to door. It was from that activity and word of mouth that my business grew.
One day on my weekly lunch visit to my parents my Mom had to make a quick trip to the store for some missing ingredient. It was just my Dad and me sitting at the kitchen table. I savored those times when it was just us two. We could put our guards down and have normal conversations about anything. He asked how work was going. I told him the truth, that things were not bad. He looked at me and in the filtered sunlight coming through the curtains; it almost looked as if his eyes were a little teary. I knew better and wrote it off to the eye drops he used.
In a very quiet tone he told me that he was very proud of how I had built up my own business. To the impartial observer it might have appeared that I had also become teary eyed. I told him that the work ethic in me was learned from him. Before anything else was said, Mom walked in from her errand and the conversation turned to the price of groceries.
I never played catch with my Father, but I learned so much more. Thanks, Dad. Rest in peace.
Monday, June 14, 2010
Faceless Book
My FaceBook days are once again behind me. Hopefully this time for good. It has very little to do with any privacy issues but more to do with my expectations. Or maybe I’m just one of those grumpy old men that can’t abide foolishness. In others.
The lure of FaceBook is appealing. Staying connected to friends and family. It’s free and relatively easy to use. But those two facets cut both ways. It’s what makes it hugely popular and at times a pain the neck. Reading about other people’s lives can be educational if not entertaining. But hearing other people’s political and religious opinions can be at the very least tedious. And a monumental waste of time. It brings to mind my philosophy about opinions. Someone’s attempt at changing my opinion is usually about as successful as me changing theirs.
The use of FaceBook as a forum for expressing opinions was not something I anticipated. Or welcomed. I looked forward to hearing about the weather in different parts of the state and country or even the world. Even hearing about children and grandchildren or even pets was nice. Or how about a vacation, a weekend getaway? Yeah, bring it on. Lousy day at work? Go ahead, cry on my electronic shoulder. I can take it. But I just don’t think FaceBook is the place to solve the world’s problems.
I even abided those silly games like The Farm (or whatever it’s called), or Mafia Wars or, well you know what I’m talking about. At least those were usually just one line items easily ignored, unlike the rants about government and politicians. Jeez, take it to the ballot box. And judging by the latest election, it’s probably something that most FB users don’t do. It is after all, much easier to sit on our butts typing than it is studying the issues and voting. But do you think that we can solve the world’s problems by venting our opinions on FaceBook? Really?
Back in the 60’s I learned through during my protesting days that the petition was the least effective tool in changing the status quo. What a petition represented was the zeal and effort of the person gathering signatures. It showed that one person went through the exercise to contact others and gather signatures. Those signing simply did just that. Nothing else required. Not sure if that still holds true today, but judging from the actions or inactions of politicians today, I think today’s electronic petitions are even less valuable. To begin with, how do you verify the validity of electronic signatures? So requests to join others in protest or support via emails and websites and FB pages might be pretty damn silly. Plus it was one more thing that bugged me.
Yeah, yeah, I know there’s a way to block, hide or otherwise keep people off my page. Pretty simple stuff, I’m told. But why have them as friends if I have to block them? I enjoy hearing about their ups and downs and sharing laughs. Even the occasional witty barb directed at politicians can be enjoyed. Occasionally.
So it’s no big deal. I’ve disabled my FaceBook account. Picked up my marbles and gone home. Partly petulant, partly disgusted, largely disappointed. But mostly just a grumpy old man.
The lure of FaceBook is appealing. Staying connected to friends and family. It’s free and relatively easy to use. But those two facets cut both ways. It’s what makes it hugely popular and at times a pain the neck. Reading about other people’s lives can be educational if not entertaining. But hearing other people’s political and religious opinions can be at the very least tedious. And a monumental waste of time. It brings to mind my philosophy about opinions. Someone’s attempt at changing my opinion is usually about as successful as me changing theirs.
The use of FaceBook as a forum for expressing opinions was not something I anticipated. Or welcomed. I looked forward to hearing about the weather in different parts of the state and country or even the world. Even hearing about children and grandchildren or even pets was nice. Or how about a vacation, a weekend getaway? Yeah, bring it on. Lousy day at work? Go ahead, cry on my electronic shoulder. I can take it. But I just don’t think FaceBook is the place to solve the world’s problems.
I even abided those silly games like The Farm (or whatever it’s called), or Mafia Wars or, well you know what I’m talking about. At least those were usually just one line items easily ignored, unlike the rants about government and politicians. Jeez, take it to the ballot box. And judging by the latest election, it’s probably something that most FB users don’t do. It is after all, much easier to sit on our butts typing than it is studying the issues and voting. But do you think that we can solve the world’s problems by venting our opinions on FaceBook? Really?
Back in the 60’s I learned through during my protesting days that the petition was the least effective tool in changing the status quo. What a petition represented was the zeal and effort of the person gathering signatures. It showed that one person went through the exercise to contact others and gather signatures. Those signing simply did just that. Nothing else required. Not sure if that still holds true today, but judging from the actions or inactions of politicians today, I think today’s electronic petitions are even less valuable. To begin with, how do you verify the validity of electronic signatures? So requests to join others in protest or support via emails and websites and FB pages might be pretty damn silly. Plus it was one more thing that bugged me.
Yeah, yeah, I know there’s a way to block, hide or otherwise keep people off my page. Pretty simple stuff, I’m told. But why have them as friends if I have to block them? I enjoy hearing about their ups and downs and sharing laughs. Even the occasional witty barb directed at politicians can be enjoyed. Occasionally.
So it’s no big deal. I’ve disabled my FaceBook account. Picked up my marbles and gone home. Partly petulant, partly disgusted, largely disappointed. But mostly just a grumpy old man.
Saturday, June 12, 2010
I WON(?)
Got a notification via email that once again, I was on the winning side of a class action law suit. But I’m older and a little wiser now about being a winner in those actions. This time I didn’t come up with big schemes on how I would spend my money.
I remember my first win, the thrill of victory, the smell of impending riches. We, abused customers, had brought the big giant, AT&T, to its knees. Bloodied and head bowed, it had sent up the proverbial white flag in defeat and resignation. My notification way back then, pre email days, came via USPS. It had that official look to it. In anticipation the envelope was ripped open and the letter quickly scanned for those magic word$. There, in the first paragraph which was a good omen, the pronouncement of our victory was heralded for all the world to see. Millions of dollars had been won. Millions!! To be shared by all us winners. Containment of my excitement was barely possible.
Even with some quick math done in my head, my share of the loot would formidable. My brain was working overtime. Where could that money be spent? New tools, shoes or jewelry for the wife? Or, was my share big enough for, gulp, a new car? The classic American Dream of getting something for nothing had finally come true for me. But I knew better than to tell anyone. No need to have friends and relatives coming out of the woodwork for a handout. Let them win their own lawsuit.
Reading further down the congratulatory letter, the terms of my victory were disclosed. Yikes. My portion of the winnings was that I was entitled to a ten percent discount on my next purchase at any AT&T store, or a free upgrade of my memory card for my cell phone. That’s it?! A discount or a free upgrade? It took me a week before I was able to face the disappointment and make a trip to the local AT& T store. As if to add insult to injury, I was told my cell phone already had the big memory card. I had walked in dejected and walked out humiliated.
My next victory was over the big orange box, Home Depot. Once again, us little guys had prevailed over a faceless, uncaring and greed y corporation. Once again I was notified that my hard working attorneys, altruist fellows that they are, had extracted an agreement from the big orange box on my behalf. This agreement was also worth millions of dollars. Maybe this time was different. Maybe there would be a check in the mail. Maybe I could at least go to MacDonalds for lunch with my portion of the settlement.
But alas, the losing attorneys were quite the clever group. They knew better than to offer any free merchandise but gave us a discount on future purchases. But with a disingenuous twist. In order to receive said discount, the purchase had to be over a specific dollar amount. Then I had to send in the original receipt along with the enclosed post card to a specific address. Then as I recall, my credit card account would be credited with the discount amount. Well, we’re both waiting for me to do that.
So my latest win is over Classmates.com. My account expires this month and I had already decided to let it lapse. So my part of the settlement, a whopping two dollar discount on enrollment fees is for naught. Is it just me, or is the timing of that offer just a coincidence? Nah, corporate America and the attorneys of the world wouldn’t be so devious. They surely have their customer’s best interest at heart.
I remember my first win, the thrill of victory, the smell of impending riches. We, abused customers, had brought the big giant, AT&T, to its knees. Bloodied and head bowed, it had sent up the proverbial white flag in defeat and resignation. My notification way back then, pre email days, came via USPS. It had that official look to it. In anticipation the envelope was ripped open and the letter quickly scanned for those magic word$. There, in the first paragraph which was a good omen, the pronouncement of our victory was heralded for all the world to see. Millions of dollars had been won. Millions!! To be shared by all us winners. Containment of my excitement was barely possible.
Even with some quick math done in my head, my share of the loot would formidable. My brain was working overtime. Where could that money be spent? New tools, shoes or jewelry for the wife? Or, was my share big enough for, gulp, a new car? The classic American Dream of getting something for nothing had finally come true for me. But I knew better than to tell anyone. No need to have friends and relatives coming out of the woodwork for a handout. Let them win their own lawsuit.
Reading further down the congratulatory letter, the terms of my victory were disclosed. Yikes. My portion of the winnings was that I was entitled to a ten percent discount on my next purchase at any AT&T store, or a free upgrade of my memory card for my cell phone. That’s it?! A discount or a free upgrade? It took me a week before I was able to face the disappointment and make a trip to the local AT& T store. As if to add insult to injury, I was told my cell phone already had the big memory card. I had walked in dejected and walked out humiliated.
My next victory was over the big orange box, Home Depot. Once again, us little guys had prevailed over a faceless, uncaring and greed y corporation. Once again I was notified that my hard working attorneys, altruist fellows that they are, had extracted an agreement from the big orange box on my behalf. This agreement was also worth millions of dollars. Maybe this time was different. Maybe there would be a check in the mail. Maybe I could at least go to MacDonalds for lunch with my portion of the settlement.
But alas, the losing attorneys were quite the clever group. They knew better than to offer any free merchandise but gave us a discount on future purchases. But with a disingenuous twist. In order to receive said discount, the purchase had to be over a specific dollar amount. Then I had to send in the original receipt along with the enclosed post card to a specific address. Then as I recall, my credit card account would be credited with the discount amount. Well, we’re both waiting for me to do that.
So my latest win is over Classmates.com. My account expires this month and I had already decided to let it lapse. So my part of the settlement, a whopping two dollar discount on enrollment fees is for naught. Is it just me, or is the timing of that offer just a coincidence? Nah, corporate America and the attorneys of the world wouldn’t be so devious. They surely have their customer’s best interest at heart.
Wednesday, June 9, 2010
Oil and Us
The BP oil spill in the gulf has sure turned out to be a disaster. Of course it’s brought out all the self righteous and convenient environmentalists. The same people that are shaking their heads and pointing fingers while driving their cars around town.
We all share in the blame. Our incessant and increased dependency for oil in its many forms has gotten us to where we are today. I accept my share of the blame. Proudly. I’ve listened to others just as proudly attest to their part in the fight against big oil. Some have even said that they’ve written their elected officials. Really? Do they mean the same people that we all criticize and call names? The same people we hate and whom we say ignore us and aren’t doing their jobs? So, let’s see. We, all of us, got ourselves into this mess and the solution is to ask for help from the people we accuse of being inept? Hmm, well good luck with that.
Passing the buck is a fine American tradition. It’s sure beats actually doing something such as giving up your cars, motorcycles, boats, RV’s and anything else that uses oil in any form. I don’t even bother passing the buck, so you’re one up on me. But at least I’m honest in my lack of efforts, as disturbing as that might be. I have two vehicles, none of which is known for good gas mileage. Give either one up? Talk to me when gas is $20 a gallon.
So what, you might rightly ask, is my solution? I don’t have one. No wait, I do. Let the next generation take care of it. Yeah, that’s the ticket. Remember when as a kid you broke something, you would take it to your parents cradling it in both hands and offering it up? You would have that lower lip sticking out, eyes tearing up a little and tell them you broke it and could they fix it. Pretty please? In a reversal of roles, that’s what us old farts can do. Hand the world to our children. What the hell, it’s their turn to help us out, isn’t it?
I don’t recycle. Just as with the oil problem, I rely on others to do that for me. Just as I prefer to leave driving those sissy hybrid cars to, um, others as well. If you want to save the planet for following generations, I applaud and encourage you. Why, I’ll even send you good vibes as I sit here typing on my laptop in my office while my iPod plays oldies and the TV playing in the living room. I raise a plastic glass of beer in your honor. Good work. Keep it up.
It’s not that I don’t believe in recycling, it’s just too big a hassle for me. For me. Maybe not for you, but for me. So next time you drive to the recycle center to redeem those cans and bottles, pat yourself on the back for me. And forget about the irony that we use even more oil driving to that center. Tell you what, if it makes you feel any better, go ahead and use me as an example to your friends and relatives. You know, “I know this guy that refuses to do his share to save the world.”
Well my gardener is pushing his rather noisy mower back and forth across my front lawn and it’s disrupting my thoughts. Maybe I’ll go for a ride in my gas guzzler pickup to buy some petroleum based products.
We all share in the blame. Our incessant and increased dependency for oil in its many forms has gotten us to where we are today. I accept my share of the blame. Proudly. I’ve listened to others just as proudly attest to their part in the fight against big oil. Some have even said that they’ve written their elected officials. Really? Do they mean the same people that we all criticize and call names? The same people we hate and whom we say ignore us and aren’t doing their jobs? So, let’s see. We, all of us, got ourselves into this mess and the solution is to ask for help from the people we accuse of being inept? Hmm, well good luck with that.
Passing the buck is a fine American tradition. It’s sure beats actually doing something such as giving up your cars, motorcycles, boats, RV’s and anything else that uses oil in any form. I don’t even bother passing the buck, so you’re one up on me. But at least I’m honest in my lack of efforts, as disturbing as that might be. I have two vehicles, none of which is known for good gas mileage. Give either one up? Talk to me when gas is $20 a gallon.
So what, you might rightly ask, is my solution? I don’t have one. No wait, I do. Let the next generation take care of it. Yeah, that’s the ticket. Remember when as a kid you broke something, you would take it to your parents cradling it in both hands and offering it up? You would have that lower lip sticking out, eyes tearing up a little and tell them you broke it and could they fix it. Pretty please? In a reversal of roles, that’s what us old farts can do. Hand the world to our children. What the hell, it’s their turn to help us out, isn’t it?
I don’t recycle. Just as with the oil problem, I rely on others to do that for me. Just as I prefer to leave driving those sissy hybrid cars to, um, others as well. If you want to save the planet for following generations, I applaud and encourage you. Why, I’ll even send you good vibes as I sit here typing on my laptop in my office while my iPod plays oldies and the TV playing in the living room. I raise a plastic glass of beer in your honor. Good work. Keep it up.
It’s not that I don’t believe in recycling, it’s just too big a hassle for me. For me. Maybe not for you, but for me. So next time you drive to the recycle center to redeem those cans and bottles, pat yourself on the back for me. And forget about the irony that we use even more oil driving to that center. Tell you what, if it makes you feel any better, go ahead and use me as an example to your friends and relatives. You know, “I know this guy that refuses to do his share to save the world.”
Well my gardener is pushing his rather noisy mower back and forth across my front lawn and it’s disrupting my thoughts. Maybe I’ll go for a ride in my gas guzzler pickup to buy some petroleum based products.
Tuesday, June 8, 2010
It's gone
I was driving home from the weekly bike group ride the other day. I was in my pickup with my neighbor Libby riding shotgun. The group had met at a local pizza place to refuel our bodies, celebrate our twenty mile ride and gab. As is my usual practice, I took the long way home and drove through Hart Park. Libby, having grown up in Bakersfield, always points out landmarks along the way. I love hearing stories about my new hometown and she’s a capable storyteller.
Hart Park is a major landmark, established years ago. The Kern River forms its eastern and northern boundaries. Off of the Kern is a smaller canal type diversion. On that canal is what is commonly called the water wheel house. Or what’s left of it. It’s a wooden log type house with a big water wheel. I’m not sure what purpose it served but it’s in really bad shape having been ignored for years; left own its own to shamefully decay and crumble. It represents government at its worse, hiding their own greed, ineptitude and self interests behind the ever popular excuse of budget restraints. Well, they at least had enough money to surround the house with a chain link fence. Yikes.
As we drove past, I couldn’t help but notice that the house had suffered another collapse, this time along the roofline. Like an old nag now suffering the indignity of a swayed back. But unlike that nag, who might mercifully be put out of its misery, the house remains. Struggling hopelessly against the inevitable surrender to gravity. I slowed and made a comment about the poor condition of the house. Then Libby uttered this: “It’s like watching my youth disappear.” It went in my ears and directly to my heart.
I grew up in a company owned lumber mill town. The homes, the buildings, the land, the mill, all owned by Pickering Lumber. It was considered by many in the county as the other side of the tracks. The far side. But it was home. Where I learned how to ride a bike, went to church (believe it or not), joined Cub Scouts and later Boy Scouts. Where we got our dog “Sparky” and learned about life.
Then ownership of the lumber mill changed hands and the new company, Fiberboard, decided it was time to get out of the landlord business. I was long gone by then, forging my way through life but my parents had stayed. One day they got an eviction notice. Thirty days to get out of town. Thirty days. After nearly thirty years of faithfully paying rent, maintaining their home, raising four children and making countless memories. Hit the road, Jack. Corporate America at its finest.
A petition was circulated, my parents at the forefront. Letters to the editor written. Fiberboard relented. But not on its decision of eviction, but on the number of days given to hit the road. They also gave residents an opportunity to buy the homes. But not the land. The home would have to be moved. Like most of the others, my parents sold the house to a local contractor. Standard, the town where all this happened, by childhood home, would cease to exist.
My parents had a home built and finally lived the American Dream. Now on my visits to that area I always drive through Standard. Sometimes I actually stop, emotions permitting, and walk along the highway that was the main street, memories flooding in. Picking out landmarks, usually trees or remains of an old dirt side street. Remembering where the families of my youth lived. Scattered now like the ashes of the burning lumber from the mill.
Well at least the homes got new families and a new life. Making memories for new generations, providing protection and warmth to body and soul. Hopefully they’re being taken care of in their old age. Not being allowed to crumble and fall which would be like watching my youth disappear.
Hart Park is a major landmark, established years ago. The Kern River forms its eastern and northern boundaries. Off of the Kern is a smaller canal type diversion. On that canal is what is commonly called the water wheel house. Or what’s left of it. It’s a wooden log type house with a big water wheel. I’m not sure what purpose it served but it’s in really bad shape having been ignored for years; left own its own to shamefully decay and crumble. It represents government at its worse, hiding their own greed, ineptitude and self interests behind the ever popular excuse of budget restraints. Well, they at least had enough money to surround the house with a chain link fence. Yikes.
As we drove past, I couldn’t help but notice that the house had suffered another collapse, this time along the roofline. Like an old nag now suffering the indignity of a swayed back. But unlike that nag, who might mercifully be put out of its misery, the house remains. Struggling hopelessly against the inevitable surrender to gravity. I slowed and made a comment about the poor condition of the house. Then Libby uttered this: “It’s like watching my youth disappear.” It went in my ears and directly to my heart.
I grew up in a company owned lumber mill town. The homes, the buildings, the land, the mill, all owned by Pickering Lumber. It was considered by many in the county as the other side of the tracks. The far side. But it was home. Where I learned how to ride a bike, went to church (believe it or not), joined Cub Scouts and later Boy Scouts. Where we got our dog “Sparky” and learned about life.
Then ownership of the lumber mill changed hands and the new company, Fiberboard, decided it was time to get out of the landlord business. I was long gone by then, forging my way through life but my parents had stayed. One day they got an eviction notice. Thirty days to get out of town. Thirty days. After nearly thirty years of faithfully paying rent, maintaining their home, raising four children and making countless memories. Hit the road, Jack. Corporate America at its finest.
A petition was circulated, my parents at the forefront. Letters to the editor written. Fiberboard relented. But not on its decision of eviction, but on the number of days given to hit the road. They also gave residents an opportunity to buy the homes. But not the land. The home would have to be moved. Like most of the others, my parents sold the house to a local contractor. Standard, the town where all this happened, by childhood home, would cease to exist.
My parents had a home built and finally lived the American Dream. Now on my visits to that area I always drive through Standard. Sometimes I actually stop, emotions permitting, and walk along the highway that was the main street, memories flooding in. Picking out landmarks, usually trees or remains of an old dirt side street. Remembering where the families of my youth lived. Scattered now like the ashes of the burning lumber from the mill.
Well at least the homes got new families and a new life. Making memories for new generations, providing protection and warmth to body and soul. Hopefully they’re being taken care of in their old age. Not being allowed to crumble and fall which would be like watching my youth disappear.
Saturday, June 5, 2010
Volunteering again
Volunteered for the Ronald McDonald House walk today. I didn’t do any walking, but was supposed to hand out water to the heartier souls. To those braving the sun and heat while raising money for an admirable cause. That’s what was supposed to happen.
As is usually the case with volunteer driven events, it was chaotic. I found my leader, Julie and then we took off in search of finding our respective spots. She was walking, but the task at hand was to find my spot. I let her do the talking as I had already started a pretty good sweat and the heat was already starting to wear on me. She spoke with one volunteer diligently guarding the entrance who directed us to a person seemingly in charge who promptly proceeded to tell us that they already had enough people to hand out water. Well, OK.
She looked a little at a loss as what to do with me, and I quickly suggested that I could just go home. No big deal. She actually looked like that might be a viable option. Then she got on her walkie talkie and made the announcement that she had a volunteer and asked if anyone was in need. She pointed to another in charge person that was waving her hand in the air. She told me to go see her. Geez, and to think that I was that close to just going home. Said goodbye to Julie and off I went.
Introductions were made and she asked how I felt about trash. I contribute daily, I thought, but instead replied that whatever she needed me to do was fine. First we went to the sign up table and a yellow ID band was placed on my wrist. It evoked the powerful words of Jesse Jackson: “I am somebody”. Then she turned to two young volunteers and told them they were to help me with the trash duties and that we should follow her.
When we got to the appointed spot, we both turned around and quickly realized that it was just the two of us. She told me to go back and tell those two young uns that she said they are on trash duty. Well, all of us parents know how that went. I’ll just say I wound up pulling out trash bags from cans and replacing them with new ones with two other adult volunteers. Of course the irony that they had what looked like possibly the only adult male volunteer that is Mexican doing trash patrol didn’t escape me. Guess the lawns didn’t need trimming.
But honestly, it didn’t matter to me, it was brainless work that included lots of sitting in the shade watching people getting free McDonald’s coffee drinks and bagels and other snacks. It was perfect as I’m such an avid people watcher. Plus it got me into the VIP area which is always of interest. Even at charitable events there’s a pecking order. Usually in direct correlation to the money contributed. But with us trash guys, we have access to almost all areas. Walking into the VIP area empty trash bag in hand reminded me of when I actually worked for a trash company. Using the old, “I’m with the trash company” routine, I was given access to the streets around OJ’s house when the LAPD closed them to non residents due to so many gawkers.
I actually had a good time and it was for a very good cause, so it was a win-win. I was happy to help. Plus I’ll be better prepared next time. Hope the organizers are as well.
As is usually the case with volunteer driven events, it was chaotic. I found my leader, Julie and then we took off in search of finding our respective spots. She was walking, but the task at hand was to find my spot. I let her do the talking as I had already started a pretty good sweat and the heat was already starting to wear on me. She spoke with one volunteer diligently guarding the entrance who directed us to a person seemingly in charge who promptly proceeded to tell us that they already had enough people to hand out water. Well, OK.
She looked a little at a loss as what to do with me, and I quickly suggested that I could just go home. No big deal. She actually looked like that might be a viable option. Then she got on her walkie talkie and made the announcement that she had a volunteer and asked if anyone was in need. She pointed to another in charge person that was waving her hand in the air. She told me to go see her. Geez, and to think that I was that close to just going home. Said goodbye to Julie and off I went.
Introductions were made and she asked how I felt about trash. I contribute daily, I thought, but instead replied that whatever she needed me to do was fine. First we went to the sign up table and a yellow ID band was placed on my wrist. It evoked the powerful words of Jesse Jackson: “I am somebody”. Then she turned to two young volunteers and told them they were to help me with the trash duties and that we should follow her.
When we got to the appointed spot, we both turned around and quickly realized that it was just the two of us. She told me to go back and tell those two young uns that she said they are on trash duty. Well, all of us parents know how that went. I’ll just say I wound up pulling out trash bags from cans and replacing them with new ones with two other adult volunteers. Of course the irony that they had what looked like possibly the only adult male volunteer that is Mexican doing trash patrol didn’t escape me. Guess the lawns didn’t need trimming.
But honestly, it didn’t matter to me, it was brainless work that included lots of sitting in the shade watching people getting free McDonald’s coffee drinks and bagels and other snacks. It was perfect as I’m such an avid people watcher. Plus it got me into the VIP area which is always of interest. Even at charitable events there’s a pecking order. Usually in direct correlation to the money contributed. But with us trash guys, we have access to almost all areas. Walking into the VIP area empty trash bag in hand reminded me of when I actually worked for a trash company. Using the old, “I’m with the trash company” routine, I was given access to the streets around OJ’s house when the LAPD closed them to non residents due to so many gawkers.
I actually had a good time and it was for a very good cause, so it was a win-win. I was happy to help. Plus I’ll be better prepared next time. Hope the organizers are as well.
Wednesday, June 2, 2010
My Day
As days go, today was not a good one. Not a bad one, but just not a good one. Started off feeling a little out of sorts and went downhill from there.
Had a job at 8AM and on the way, stopped from some coffee at the community center where I live. Thought I might run into someone to help pull me out of my funk. Walked out with a cup of coffee and my mood not much better than when I walked in. Did have some small talk with the receptionist, she’s getting married soon. Real soon. Wished her well. Couldn’t help but notice the optimism in her eyes and comments. Ah, youth. Then realized I had forgotten my cell phone. Yeah, that’s more in tune with the mood of the day.
Went back home, got my cell and off to my job. It went OK except that I had forgotten my wire cutters. But Gwen, my customer, was nice as usual and I enjoy her sardonic wit. Finished the work in time for a call from another neighbor with another job. Really wanted to go home and mope, but duty calls.
The job went smoothly. She has a small dog, well actually two, but one is a Jack Russell Terrier. Jeez, you can’t look at that dog without smiling. Running and barking. Jumping up on the recliner and to the top of the back of the chair. Reaching out, begging for attention. Who can resist that stuff? Certainly not me. Had to go over and talk that “baby dog talk” while petting and rubbing.
Went to the bank and then to Starbucks. Yikes. I go more often than I care to admit, but I needed something sweet to get my blood sugar out of the homicidal range. Looked like it might be crowded inside and I didn’t feel like sitting alone so drove into the drive thru. I was the third car in line. Should be a piece of cake getting my sugar fix. Or so I thought.
I sat as patiently as possible for what seemed like an hour and a half waiting for the car already at the window to get their order and get the hell out of the way. I actually thought that maybe he was on a run from the office. You know, twenty different orders, twenty different ring ups on the register, twenty different envelopes with money. I was wrong about that too. He got his one drink and off he went. The driver ahead drove up to the window. Won’t be long now.
I had been lucky with the first driver but then it became apparent that maybe the driver in front of me was the one with the twenty orders. As they finally got their one drink, I realized once again I was so wrong. So what the hell was going on inside? Sorry I asked. But that’s the problem with drive thru’s; once you’re in, there’s no getting out.
When it was finally my turn, the young man with long unkempt, unruly and seemingly unwashed hair pulled back in a futile attempt at a pony tail asked me what I had ordered. Deep breath. Serenity now. I repeated my order and off he went. Back he came with my scone and coffee. As he was ringing up my total, he was talking into his Madonna headset. But not to another drive thru customer. He was talking to some unseen coworker. I handed him my Starbucks gift card. He ran it through, handed me my order and then my receipt and card. Without missing a beat with his conversation. But more important to me, anyway, without a word of thanks.
Fortunately that level of service is very unusual at Starbucks. Fortunately I was able to control my outrage. Another deep breath and instead of saying something, I drove off. It actually a good thing for both of us. After a few more errands, I got home to my own hounds. They’re always happy to see me, even if it’s just for the treats they get whenever I come home.
Stayed home for the rest of the day, doing crosswords and reading. Took a snooze on the sofa with my hounds. I only do it for them. Well, maybe I get something out it as well. Sure gave me a new outlook for the rest of the afternoon. Tomorrow is another day. Maybe there will be someone different at the drive thru at Starbucks. Someone that embraces the corporate attitude of excellent customer service. Here’s hoping.
Had a job at 8AM and on the way, stopped from some coffee at the community center where I live. Thought I might run into someone to help pull me out of my funk. Walked out with a cup of coffee and my mood not much better than when I walked in. Did have some small talk with the receptionist, she’s getting married soon. Real soon. Wished her well. Couldn’t help but notice the optimism in her eyes and comments. Ah, youth. Then realized I had forgotten my cell phone. Yeah, that’s more in tune with the mood of the day.
Went back home, got my cell and off to my job. It went OK except that I had forgotten my wire cutters. But Gwen, my customer, was nice as usual and I enjoy her sardonic wit. Finished the work in time for a call from another neighbor with another job. Really wanted to go home and mope, but duty calls.
The job went smoothly. She has a small dog, well actually two, but one is a Jack Russell Terrier. Jeez, you can’t look at that dog without smiling. Running and barking. Jumping up on the recliner and to the top of the back of the chair. Reaching out, begging for attention. Who can resist that stuff? Certainly not me. Had to go over and talk that “baby dog talk” while petting and rubbing.
Went to the bank and then to Starbucks. Yikes. I go more often than I care to admit, but I needed something sweet to get my blood sugar out of the homicidal range. Looked like it might be crowded inside and I didn’t feel like sitting alone so drove into the drive thru. I was the third car in line. Should be a piece of cake getting my sugar fix. Or so I thought.
I sat as patiently as possible for what seemed like an hour and a half waiting for the car already at the window to get their order and get the hell out of the way. I actually thought that maybe he was on a run from the office. You know, twenty different orders, twenty different ring ups on the register, twenty different envelopes with money. I was wrong about that too. He got his one drink and off he went. The driver ahead drove up to the window. Won’t be long now.
I had been lucky with the first driver but then it became apparent that maybe the driver in front of me was the one with the twenty orders. As they finally got their one drink, I realized once again I was so wrong. So what the hell was going on inside? Sorry I asked. But that’s the problem with drive thru’s; once you’re in, there’s no getting out.
When it was finally my turn, the young man with long unkempt, unruly and seemingly unwashed hair pulled back in a futile attempt at a pony tail asked me what I had ordered. Deep breath. Serenity now. I repeated my order and off he went. Back he came with my scone and coffee. As he was ringing up my total, he was talking into his Madonna headset. But not to another drive thru customer. He was talking to some unseen coworker. I handed him my Starbucks gift card. He ran it through, handed me my order and then my receipt and card. Without missing a beat with his conversation. But more important to me, anyway, without a word of thanks.
Fortunately that level of service is very unusual at Starbucks. Fortunately I was able to control my outrage. Another deep breath and instead of saying something, I drove off. It actually a good thing for both of us. After a few more errands, I got home to my own hounds. They’re always happy to see me, even if it’s just for the treats they get whenever I come home.
Stayed home for the rest of the day, doing crosswords and reading. Took a snooze on the sofa with my hounds. I only do it for them. Well, maybe I get something out it as well. Sure gave me a new outlook for the rest of the afternoon. Tomorrow is another day. Maybe there will be someone different at the drive thru at Starbucks. Someone that embraces the corporate attitude of excellent customer service. Here’s hoping.
Sunday, May 30, 2010
Me and the girls
It’s been a couple of months since we started a cycling group where I live. As with most other groups we started strong and dwindled down to a core of riders. What were about ten are now four. With me the only male. Again.
It seems to be a pattern in my life that I get along with women and they seem to enjoy my company. Pretty sure I get that from my Dad. Anyway, the group went for our usual Friday morning ride. We carpooled to the bike path and while waiting for “Dotty” to return from the restroom I, in my usual manner, started dispensing advice. This time about properly equipping a bike for riding. The two women, Mary and Libby were rapt in my speech. Or at least they were putting on a good act.
I mentioned that for riding anywhere but on the streets of our community, a spare tube should be carried. Plus tire levers for prying tires off rims and a pump for inflating tubes. All this would necessitate a saddle bag. Not the kind cowboys use, but a small bag that attaches under the saddle of the bike. That’s what the seat is called; the saddle.
As I pointed to the one on my bike, Libby commented on its cuteness to which Mary agreed. She also mentioned that it would be perfect for carrying all kinds of stuff. I agreed and repeated some of the items considered essential for riding. Libby then said she meant it would be perfect for lipstick, a comb or brush. Mary added that maybe a small mirror would be useful. Sheesh.
By then Dotty joined us, much to my relief and off we went. I alternate between riding alongside the three dispensing encouragement and more advice. When we hit a hill that it too steep and one has to walk, I’ll walk alongside suggesting that the spot be remembered where they dismounted for comparison on future rides. This day the clouds were putting on a spectacular display so I used them to distract and put thoughts of the humiliation of walking out of our minds.
The rides are slower than my usual pace and I ride my mountain bike instead of my road bike. It makes for more congenial rides. I subscribe to the practice of never riding faster than the slowest rider. I remember well the feeling of being the last guy; the slowest; the shortest. Besides, these are supposed to be fun, leisurely rides and not races or endurance contests.
We had a good time as usual and then went to Starbucks. It’s where we solve the problems of the world. Where the girls wonder if there’s a saddle bag big enough for a thermos of hot coffee. Sheesh.
It seems to be a pattern in my life that I get along with women and they seem to enjoy my company. Pretty sure I get that from my Dad. Anyway, the group went for our usual Friday morning ride. We carpooled to the bike path and while waiting for “Dotty” to return from the restroom I, in my usual manner, started dispensing advice. This time about properly equipping a bike for riding. The two women, Mary and Libby were rapt in my speech. Or at least they were putting on a good act.
I mentioned that for riding anywhere but on the streets of our community, a spare tube should be carried. Plus tire levers for prying tires off rims and a pump for inflating tubes. All this would necessitate a saddle bag. Not the kind cowboys use, but a small bag that attaches under the saddle of the bike. That’s what the seat is called; the saddle.
As I pointed to the one on my bike, Libby commented on its cuteness to which Mary agreed. She also mentioned that it would be perfect for carrying all kinds of stuff. I agreed and repeated some of the items considered essential for riding. Libby then said she meant it would be perfect for lipstick, a comb or brush. Mary added that maybe a small mirror would be useful. Sheesh.
By then Dotty joined us, much to my relief and off we went. I alternate between riding alongside the three dispensing encouragement and more advice. When we hit a hill that it too steep and one has to walk, I’ll walk alongside suggesting that the spot be remembered where they dismounted for comparison on future rides. This day the clouds were putting on a spectacular display so I used them to distract and put thoughts of the humiliation of walking out of our minds.
The rides are slower than my usual pace and I ride my mountain bike instead of my road bike. It makes for more congenial rides. I subscribe to the practice of never riding faster than the slowest rider. I remember well the feeling of being the last guy; the slowest; the shortest. Besides, these are supposed to be fun, leisurely rides and not races or endurance contests.
We had a good time as usual and then went to Starbucks. It’s where we solve the problems of the world. Where the girls wonder if there’s a saddle bag big enough for a thermos of hot coffee. Sheesh.
Tuesday, May 18, 2010
The Day I Met Walt Disney
For a kid growing up in the 50’s, the Mickey Mouse Club was required TV viewing. Now as an adult whenever anyone sings “M-I-C-K-E-Y” who amongst us can’t resist finishing the chorus? Come on, you know you want to.
I grew up in a small town near Sonora, California in the Mother Lode Country. Every Christmas vacation we travelled to Los Angeles to stay with relatives. It took the better part of a year for my parents to save enough money for a trip to Disneyland. My late dad worked at a lumber mill, having given up a teaching job in Mexico to immigrate to the U.S. He now worked with his hands instead of his brains but I never heard him complain. We knew the sacrifices it took and it made us appreciate the trip even more.
I was about ten when we went to Disneyland. It was a different time back then. Going anywhere in public meant putting on your Sunday best. None of this shorts and tee shirts that is now acceptable almost anywhere. Going to Disneyland would’ve required wearing suits, had we owned any. Pictures of the day show my sisters in full skirts and freshly pressed blouses, my brother and I in slacks, dress shirts and dress shoes. My dad wore a suit and tie of course and my mom and Tia in what would today be considered office attire. It was a pretty big deal going to The Happiest Place on Earth.
We kids went crazy trying to figure out what ride we wanted to try first. My cousins, who had been a few times before, were trying to guide us through the dizzying choices. We didn’t care about those “A” tickets, who wants to ride on a horse drawn trolley down the middle of Main Street? Our first ride had to be at least a “D” or preferably the famous “E” Ticket. The Holy Grail of all amusement park rides. It has all faded into a blur now, but I seem to recall that the first ride was the Tomorrow Land Rockets to the Moon. To a small town boy, it was worth the half hour wait, which by today’s standards would be fantastic.
After riding the Dumbo, Alice in Wonderland, Mr. Toad’s Wild Ride and Peter Pan, I was getting tired. Our parents went along with the decision to head for more rides. The others went ahead, but my parents, Tio Pete and I sat on a bench at a point where we could see the river boat, Frontier Land and Tom Sawyer’s Island. I was tired, but in absolute heaven. It was a pleasant reality for a ten year old being in Disneyland with family and perfect Southern California weather. How could life be any better?
I was sitting next to my Dad when he leaned over touching his arm to my shoulder. I looked up at him and with a slight head movement, indicated that I should look ahead. I looked and there, standing in a grassy area about fifty feet in front of us was Walt Disney. He was in a suit, just standing there alone, looking around. I honestly couldn’t believe it. My mom noticed and said I should go over and say hello. She might as well have told me to fly to the moon. People that know me now can’t believe that up until about my second year of college, I was very shy. Painfully shy. But it’s true and for me to approach someone as famous as Walt Disney was well beyond my capabilities.
Thankfully my Mom came to the rescue. She took me by the hand and we nervously walked to where he was standing. If memory serves me, we had to step over a very short looped white wire fence, the kind that was popular back then for flower beds. I remember that he seemed about ten feet tall, almost regal, but with a very friendly face and a smile. Mom pushed my hand towards him and he reached out and shook it. He had such a grandfatherly quality about him as he gently engulfed my hand in his. I know he said something to me, but with my heart pounding, not a word was heard. I do remember that he was a gentleman and made us feel as if we were the most important people in the world. I was the richest kid in the world at that moment.
Fortunately my Dad had the presence of mind to grab my camera and capture the moment for me. It’s one of those moments in my life that will never be forgotten thanks to his quick thinking. As I look at the picture now I see a small boy in total awe, looking goofy at his first celebrity encounter. The Pendleton Store is just visible in the background. My mom is behind me, a steadying hand on my arm, smiling for the camera. But the real focus is the man himself, Walt Disney, in his suit and tie casually facing the camera. The genius behind the world’s most famous and best amusement park, animated movies and Mickey Mouse, taking time to shake a young boy’s hand. And fill his heart with absolute joy. Truly this is the stuff dreams are made of.
We were later joined by my cousins and siblings. They were at first incredulous and then jealous. Very jealous. You know, sometimes in pays to be the sensitive, shy and tired one in the family. It sure did that day. Even now people that are close to my age are in absolute awe and sometimes more than just a little envious over the story of the day I met Walt Disney.
Oh, almost forgot, M-O-U-S-E!!!
I grew up in a small town near Sonora, California in the Mother Lode Country. Every Christmas vacation we travelled to Los Angeles to stay with relatives. It took the better part of a year for my parents to save enough money for a trip to Disneyland. My late dad worked at a lumber mill, having given up a teaching job in Mexico to immigrate to the U.S. He now worked with his hands instead of his brains but I never heard him complain. We knew the sacrifices it took and it made us appreciate the trip even more.
I was about ten when we went to Disneyland. It was a different time back then. Going anywhere in public meant putting on your Sunday best. None of this shorts and tee shirts that is now acceptable almost anywhere. Going to Disneyland would’ve required wearing suits, had we owned any. Pictures of the day show my sisters in full skirts and freshly pressed blouses, my brother and I in slacks, dress shirts and dress shoes. My dad wore a suit and tie of course and my mom and Tia in what would today be considered office attire. It was a pretty big deal going to The Happiest Place on Earth.
We kids went crazy trying to figure out what ride we wanted to try first. My cousins, who had been a few times before, were trying to guide us through the dizzying choices. We didn’t care about those “A” tickets, who wants to ride on a horse drawn trolley down the middle of Main Street? Our first ride had to be at least a “D” or preferably the famous “E” Ticket. The Holy Grail of all amusement park rides. It has all faded into a blur now, but I seem to recall that the first ride was the Tomorrow Land Rockets to the Moon. To a small town boy, it was worth the half hour wait, which by today’s standards would be fantastic.
After riding the Dumbo, Alice in Wonderland, Mr. Toad’s Wild Ride and Peter Pan, I was getting tired. Our parents went along with the decision to head for more rides. The others went ahead, but my parents, Tio Pete and I sat on a bench at a point where we could see the river boat, Frontier Land and Tom Sawyer’s Island. I was tired, but in absolute heaven. It was a pleasant reality for a ten year old being in Disneyland with family and perfect Southern California weather. How could life be any better?
I was sitting next to my Dad when he leaned over touching his arm to my shoulder. I looked up at him and with a slight head movement, indicated that I should look ahead. I looked and there, standing in a grassy area about fifty feet in front of us was Walt Disney. He was in a suit, just standing there alone, looking around. I honestly couldn’t believe it. My mom noticed and said I should go over and say hello. She might as well have told me to fly to the moon. People that know me now can’t believe that up until about my second year of college, I was very shy. Painfully shy. But it’s true and for me to approach someone as famous as Walt Disney was well beyond my capabilities.
Thankfully my Mom came to the rescue. She took me by the hand and we nervously walked to where he was standing. If memory serves me, we had to step over a very short looped white wire fence, the kind that was popular back then for flower beds. I remember that he seemed about ten feet tall, almost regal, but with a very friendly face and a smile. Mom pushed my hand towards him and he reached out and shook it. He had such a grandfatherly quality about him as he gently engulfed my hand in his. I know he said something to me, but with my heart pounding, not a word was heard. I do remember that he was a gentleman and made us feel as if we were the most important people in the world. I was the richest kid in the world at that moment.
Fortunately my Dad had the presence of mind to grab my camera and capture the moment for me. It’s one of those moments in my life that will never be forgotten thanks to his quick thinking. As I look at the picture now I see a small boy in total awe, looking goofy at his first celebrity encounter. The Pendleton Store is just visible in the background. My mom is behind me, a steadying hand on my arm, smiling for the camera. But the real focus is the man himself, Walt Disney, in his suit and tie casually facing the camera. The genius behind the world’s most famous and best amusement park, animated movies and Mickey Mouse, taking time to shake a young boy’s hand. And fill his heart with absolute joy. Truly this is the stuff dreams are made of.
We were later joined by my cousins and siblings. They were at first incredulous and then jealous. Very jealous. You know, sometimes in pays to be the sensitive, shy and tired one in the family. It sure did that day. Even now people that are close to my age are in absolute awe and sometimes more than just a little envious over the story of the day I met Walt Disney.
Oh, almost forgot, M-O-U-S-E!!!
Thursday, May 6, 2010
RAGBRAI, or you've got to be kidding
So you’re wondering what the heck this RAGBRAI thing is. Is it real or imagined? Something I dreamt up while, uh, contemplating the universe? Well, it’s real, so just read on.
RAGBRAI stands for The Registers Annual Great Bicycle Ride Across Iowa. OK, let it sink in for a couple of seconds. Take another look if necessary. Yes, it does say a bicycle ride across Iowa. All four hundred plus miles. From Sioux City on the Missouri River to Dubuque on the Mississippi. It’s the oldest and largest event of its kind.
So let me give you some details, answer some of those questions that are undoubtedly rattling around in your head. First, no, I’m not kidding. Yes, I am crazy. The ride is held on the last full week of July every year and lasts for one week. See and you thought it was one all day ride. Relax. It’s not a race, but more like a big party on bikes. It’s a fun filled ride with stops along the way in lots of small towns. They take advantage of the big influx of people and have food and drink and who knows what for sale. Fund raising opportunities for plenty of organizations. So I’m actually doing some good while pedaling my um, heart out.
But all that charity aside, it is basically a bicycle ride. For riders, there are two main components of any ride. Distance and elevation gain. A fifty mile ride that is relatively level is much easier than a 20 mile ride with big gains in elevation. Think of how your car works harder going uphill compared to being on a level road. That’s how riders can feel. Hence the importance of the uphill climbs on any given ride. This year’s RAGBRAI has an overall elevation gain of 14,527 feet. That’s not a typo. Here it is again: 14,527 feet of climbing. And you thought Iowa was flat. Well so did I.
So if you ever wonder what I’m up to, well, I’m on my bike a lot. The organizers strongly suggest that you ride at least 1000 miles in training prior to the event. Good advice. Last year I rode 62 miles to celebrate my 62nd birthday. So, I know doing 62 miles in one day is possible for me. But getting up and doing it again and again and so on for one week is another matter. And then there’s that pesky climbing.
I know what you’re thinking and pretty sure of the look on your face. You’re wondering why. I follow Sir Edmund Hillary’s philosophy: because it’s there. Because it’s a challenge and because it’s something I’ve wanted to do. But puhleeze, don’t say it’s on my bucket list. That’s a silly phrase and the concept is too confining. I just remember old things to do like running with the bulls in Pamplona or find new ones like RAGBRAI. I don’t need no stinking list.
Hope this answers your questions. So now that you know, I ask one thing. One simple thing. Send some good vibes my way during my training and especially on the last week of July. I’ll return the favor anytime you want. Maybe you’ll want to do RAGBRAI next year. Come on, we’ll do it together.
RAGBRAI stands for The Registers Annual Great Bicycle Ride Across Iowa. OK, let it sink in for a couple of seconds. Take another look if necessary. Yes, it does say a bicycle ride across Iowa. All four hundred plus miles. From Sioux City on the Missouri River to Dubuque on the Mississippi. It’s the oldest and largest event of its kind.
So let me give you some details, answer some of those questions that are undoubtedly rattling around in your head. First, no, I’m not kidding. Yes, I am crazy. The ride is held on the last full week of July every year and lasts for one week. See and you thought it was one all day ride. Relax. It’s not a race, but more like a big party on bikes. It’s a fun filled ride with stops along the way in lots of small towns. They take advantage of the big influx of people and have food and drink and who knows what for sale. Fund raising opportunities for plenty of organizations. So I’m actually doing some good while pedaling my um, heart out.
But all that charity aside, it is basically a bicycle ride. For riders, there are two main components of any ride. Distance and elevation gain. A fifty mile ride that is relatively level is much easier than a 20 mile ride with big gains in elevation. Think of how your car works harder going uphill compared to being on a level road. That’s how riders can feel. Hence the importance of the uphill climbs on any given ride. This year’s RAGBRAI has an overall elevation gain of 14,527 feet. That’s not a typo. Here it is again: 14,527 feet of climbing. And you thought Iowa was flat. Well so did I.
So if you ever wonder what I’m up to, well, I’m on my bike a lot. The organizers strongly suggest that you ride at least 1000 miles in training prior to the event. Good advice. Last year I rode 62 miles to celebrate my 62nd birthday. So, I know doing 62 miles in one day is possible for me. But getting up and doing it again and again and so on for one week is another matter. And then there’s that pesky climbing.
I know what you’re thinking and pretty sure of the look on your face. You’re wondering why. I follow Sir Edmund Hillary’s philosophy: because it’s there. Because it’s a challenge and because it’s something I’ve wanted to do. But puhleeze, don’t say it’s on my bucket list. That’s a silly phrase and the concept is too confining. I just remember old things to do like running with the bulls in Pamplona or find new ones like RAGBRAI. I don’t need no stinking list.
Hope this answers your questions. So now that you know, I ask one thing. One simple thing. Send some good vibes my way during my training and especially on the last week of July. I’ll return the favor anytime you want. Maybe you’ll want to do RAGBRAI next year. Come on, we’ll do it together.
Monday, April 26, 2010
The Passing
I got passed while driving my pickup the other day. Happens a lot more often lately. But this time was a bit different. Happened early in the morning about six thirty. But that’s not the unusual part. It happened on a stretch of a two lane highway. Guess my going the speed limit wasn’t fast enough for that younger man in a hurry.
Used to be I was in a hurry all the time. Then I retired. It’s been about six years, and it’s taken some time to transition into a slower pace. I no longer live in the rat race. No longer have to face the grind that I used to call everyday living. Don’t usually know what time it is anymore as I’ve stopped wearing a watch. Most of the time I couldn’t even tell you the date. Or the day. But those are good problems to have. Retirement. I recommend it highly.
There was some construction going on not too far from the house so sometimes I’d drive the long way home. It takes me through Hart Park which is very big. I forget how many acres big. It’s a great place. Probably spend more time there in the last six years than all other parks I’ve lived close to put together. I often wonder who is responsible for enforcing the speed limit there. Apparently nobody. I could very well be the only one in Bakersfield if not all of Kern County that actually drives the speed limit through that park.
When riding my bicycle through the park I don’t use Alfred Harrell Hwy anymore. The shoulder along the road is virtually nonexistent. Drivers unwilling to obey the speed limit and share the road make it too dangerous for me. Had one too many close calls with drivers on their way to the soccer park. One soccer mom in a Sherman Tank came just a little too close. Well, her SUV sure felt like a tank as it zoomed past. Mere inches from the handlebars. I didn’t realize her passengers were on the way to play in a World Cup competition. But thanks to her I now ride through the park on the street that parallels the river. I hope her team won.
It’s not often that I drive during rush hour. That’s what we call it here. Try the L.A. freeways at three in the afternoon. Now that’s a rush hour. But it’s all relative. We’re in just as big a hurry here. To get to the TV at home. To watch another reality show. Then go to bed. To get up and do it all over tomorrow. I won’t tell you to stop and smell the roses. Or the coffee. But only because no matter how many times someone gave me that advice, I never took it either. I was in too much of a hurry. Passing people.
Saturday, April 24, 2010
Senior Discounts
Was told by a friend the other day, that when buying mattresses and box springs you can actually haggle over the price. Didn’t know that. But I mentioned that when in the mood, I will ask if the business offers a “Senior Discount.” Saying that phrase out loud is always a bittersweet moment.
There are lots of places that offer a discount, however nominal, to us old folks. All you have to do is gather up the courage, face the fact that you’re old, have become your parents and ask. All the person on the other end of the question can do is follow Nancy Reagan’s advice and “Just say no.” But I wonder where else I might be able to save a couple of bucks.
Haggling is pretty much a given in some industries. Take buying a car for example. Even though it is a lot less nerve racking these days, it still can be quite daunting. But it’s expected. Or at least un-American not to go back and forth with the salesman. Two heavy weights. Taking shots, blocking shots, quick jabs and finally the big roundhouse; getting up and telling the wife that it’s time to leave. And actually heading for the door. My Dad was very good at that, much to my embarrassment.
Makes me wonder where else I could save some cash simply by negotiating. Maybe next time I go to breakfast at some local coffee shop I could try this ploy when placing my order: “I see that your number one breakfast is listed at $6.99. Will you take five bucks? And throw in a free cup of coffee?” Do you think that would work?
Of course I’m always leery about buying stuff from businesses that will haggle over their stated prices. Why not just list the lowest price? Probably because for the one brave soul that asks and actually receives the good price, there has to be at least 100 of us suckers that will just fork over the full price for the product or service. Capitalism at its finest.
When I was a Home Improvement Specialist, which is just a politically correct title for a Handyman, I rarely if ever gave discounts. I did give better prices to some people, mostly single Moms or widows. But I never gouged anyone because I felt that since they lived in the better part of town and in a fancier home that they could afford it. When asked if I could do better on my quote, I always said that it was my best price (which it was) and if they could find someone to do it cheaper AND better, that’s who they should use. Rarely lost any jobs and the ones that went elsewhere, I was better off that they did. I learned that the haggling doesn’t usually stop at the original quote.
There are plenty of places, so I’m told, including major fast food chains that offer senior discounts just for the asking. So go ahead, scrunch up your courage and ask. And keep your fingers crossed that the teenager across the counter from you doesn’t yell over their shoulder “Hey, this old fart wants to know if he can get a discount.”
Wednesday, April 21, 2010
Class Action
We’re all suckers for get rich quick schemes to one extent or another. Just look at all the states that run a lottery. Or those emails from some Liberian, Nigerian or even Iberian Prince.
While in college a bunch of us knuckleheads came up with a rather ingenious plan. It came after unsuccessfully trying to return a defective item of clothing with a lifetime guarantee. The return policy was so complex and time consuming that it was better to just toss whatever it was that had been purchased. We thought maybe using that same concept and selling socks, that it would make us a bundle of money. Fortunately it turned out to be just a bunch of hot air. We should have become lawyers and just cashed in on Class Action Lawsuits. We could’ve made huge amounts of money. Legally.
My first victory against big business came over Levi Strauss, but not as a member of any lawsuit. They agreed to a settlement without admitting to price gouging. All I had to do was send in my name and address with a statement as to how many pairs of Levis I had purchased. Based on that number, we would all get a piece of the settlement pie. Problem was that it was left to the honor system. No proof of purchase required. Seems we all claimed to have purchased more pants than Levi Strauss had ever sewn together in its entire history. I’m still waiting for that money.
I’ve been a member of several class action lawsuits. Of course I joined, just like you. After all, we were united against those meanies otherwise known as corporate America. Faceless entities we love to hate. My first successful lawsuit was against AT&T. I eagerly tore open all envelopes from attorneys until one day the notice came. I read it, hands trembling a little. We had prevailed! Our attorneys had brought AT&T to its knees and forced them into a multimillion dollar settlement. Way to go. Not sure what I was going to do with my share. Maybe a new car, but not too fancy.
Turns out my winnings consisted of choosing one of a couple options. One, I could upgrade to a bigger memory card for my cell phone. Two, I got a whopping ten percent discount on my next purchase over $25 at any conveniently located cell phone store. OK, it’s not a new car but it was a moral victory. Seems that’s really all it was since my cell phone already had the big memory card. And I didn’t understand how me spending money to save money was much of a victory.
One settlement actually reminded me of my college scheme. I was notified by attorneys that my next opponent was Home Depot. With much anticipation I joined the other plaintiffs. Once again, I was part of the winning team. Hooray! A little less eagerly I opened the envelope explaining how to claim my share of the millions my attorneys were able to wrangle away from the big orange box. Let’s see if I remember correctly. On my next purchase over a certain amount all I needed to do was send my receipt along with the enclosed post card to the address listed. Then ten percent, of my purchase would be refunded to me. What?
It has taken me a while, but I think I’ve got this class action lawsuit stuff figured out. OK, here goes. I’m the one that has been allegedly screwed over. My money has been taken, shall we say, just a bit on the shady side by big corporations. Then, when the lawsuits are won by attorneys and million dollar settlements are made, all I get are lousy discounts? From the same people that I sued for taking my money in the first place. So just who gets those millions? Just like you, I’ve figured that out too.
The bright side is that it didn’t cost me anything to join the lawsuits. It’s tough not to want a part of the American dream; hitting the legal lotto. And there are no hard feelings on my part. I still have an AT&T iPhone, buy Levis and shop at Home Depot. As an added benefit I now I know where part of my money goes. From my pocket to their registers to attorneys. Mine and yours. Brings a tear to my eye. But it’s a not a tear of anger or regret. It’s more like envy.
So next time you get an offer to join a class action lawsuit, go ahead. What have you got to lose? Or maybe you prefer to think that you’re taking the moral high road and doing it to just teach those CEO’s a lesson. If you don’t do it, who will? Either way, I have a pair of socks that come with a lifetime guarantee with your name on them waiting for you.
While in college a bunch of us knuckleheads came up with a rather ingenious plan. It came after unsuccessfully trying to return a defective item of clothing with a lifetime guarantee. The return policy was so complex and time consuming that it was better to just toss whatever it was that had been purchased. We thought maybe using that same concept and selling socks, that it would make us a bundle of money. Fortunately it turned out to be just a bunch of hot air. We should have become lawyers and just cashed in on Class Action Lawsuits. We could’ve made huge amounts of money. Legally.
My first victory against big business came over Levi Strauss, but not as a member of any lawsuit. They agreed to a settlement without admitting to price gouging. All I had to do was send in my name and address with a statement as to how many pairs of Levis I had purchased. Based on that number, we would all get a piece of the settlement pie. Problem was that it was left to the honor system. No proof of purchase required. Seems we all claimed to have purchased more pants than Levi Strauss had ever sewn together in its entire history. I’m still waiting for that money.
I’ve been a member of several class action lawsuits. Of course I joined, just like you. After all, we were united against those meanies otherwise known as corporate America. Faceless entities we love to hate. My first successful lawsuit was against AT&T. I eagerly tore open all envelopes from attorneys until one day the notice came. I read it, hands trembling a little. We had prevailed! Our attorneys had brought AT&T to its knees and forced them into a multimillion dollar settlement. Way to go. Not sure what I was going to do with my share. Maybe a new car, but not too fancy.
Turns out my winnings consisted of choosing one of a couple options. One, I could upgrade to a bigger memory card for my cell phone. Two, I got a whopping ten percent discount on my next purchase over $25 at any conveniently located cell phone store. OK, it’s not a new car but it was a moral victory. Seems that’s really all it was since my cell phone already had the big memory card. And I didn’t understand how me spending money to save money was much of a victory.
One settlement actually reminded me of my college scheme. I was notified by attorneys that my next opponent was Home Depot. With much anticipation I joined the other plaintiffs. Once again, I was part of the winning team. Hooray! A little less eagerly I opened the envelope explaining how to claim my share of the millions my attorneys were able to wrangle away from the big orange box. Let’s see if I remember correctly. On my next purchase over a certain amount all I needed to do was send my receipt along with the enclosed post card to the address listed. Then ten percent, of my purchase would be refunded to me. What?
It has taken me a while, but I think I’ve got this class action lawsuit stuff figured out. OK, here goes. I’m the one that has been allegedly screwed over. My money has been taken, shall we say, just a bit on the shady side by big corporations. Then, when the lawsuits are won by attorneys and million dollar settlements are made, all I get are lousy discounts? From the same people that I sued for taking my money in the first place. So just who gets those millions? Just like you, I’ve figured that out too.
The bright side is that it didn’t cost me anything to join the lawsuits. It’s tough not to want a part of the American dream; hitting the legal lotto. And there are no hard feelings on my part. I still have an AT&T iPhone, buy Levis and shop at Home Depot. As an added benefit I now I know where part of my money goes. From my pocket to their registers to attorneys. Mine and yours. Brings a tear to my eye. But it’s a not a tear of anger or regret. It’s more like envy.
So next time you get an offer to join a class action lawsuit, go ahead. What have you got to lose? Or maybe you prefer to think that you’re taking the moral high road and doing it to just teach those CEO’s a lesson. If you don’t do it, who will? Either way, I have a pair of socks that come with a lifetime guarantee with your name on them waiting for you.
Monday, April 19, 2010
Old Movies
Old Movies
Don’t go to many movies these days. Probably because I’m not a big fan of special effects. Really limits my choices. Guess I’m not in the right demographic group. Actually, I don’t think they even have a retired dude over 60 that prefers good acting over explosions, group. But they should.
I love old movies. Horror movies. They’re just hokey enough. Can’t believe that we were actually scared by that stuff. I mean, seriously, a grasshopper walking across a picture of an office building? Did we really believe it was supposed to be a mutant insect scaling a real building? Enough of us must have. Why else would there be so many of those movies around? Maybe we were scared of the unknown. The unknown effects of the atomic bomb. Silly us.
There’s hardly anything better on a lazy afternoon than an old horror movie. House On A Haunted Hill. Scared the heck out of me as a kid. Creature From the Black Lagoon. More hokey than scary, but with Julie Adams, whew. In a bathing suit. Double whew. Giant ants. Them. One of my all time favorites. Poor little girl. Alone in the desert. Utters the title word in sheer terror. Still elicits the desire to bring out the magnifying glass to extract some revenge.
Today’s slasher movies just don’t cut it. Or maybe that’s the problem. They cut too much. And are today’s youth really that dumb? Do they never get that they shouldn’t open door number three? Or go alone into the house? In the old movies the lead actors were smart. And were always with other smart people. You could tell because they wore glasses. The soldiers were always the dumb ones. Trying to kill the monster with mere rifles or tanks. Or flamethrowers. As if that would kill any giant mutant grasshopper. Good luck with that.
But back then we always had hope for the Army. Pre Viet Nam, Iraq and other winless wars. We could always count on them. If nothing else, for the sheer numbers they brought. Eventually the smart characters, the ones with glasses and sometimes pipes, won the day. Sometimes the smart ones had to call in the Air Force. To bomb the creature into submission or death. But usually the Air Force pilots weren’t smart enough. But how could they be? They didn’t wear glasses.
It’s been said by those who wear glasses today, that those movies had deeper meanings. Infamous pods turning people into mindless beings. People shrinking. People growing. Mutant animals. Creatures from outer space. All that actually representing Communism, reckless use of chemicals and other evil. Yikes. Don’t know about all that stuff. I still don’t see all the subplots and metaphors. It’s just entertainment. Please don’t explain them to me. I love those movies just the way they are. Hokey.
Those old movies had a notable lack of S.E.X. They did sometimes have flirting. Always between two unmarried characters. And sometimes the suggestive glimpse of an ankle. Or, gulp, a peek at a calf. The lower leg, not the baby animal. Oh my, time for a cold shower. There were no gory deaths. No excessive violence. Car chases hadn’t been invented. No nudity. Even the fifty foot woman somehow found adequate clothing. Everything was left to the imagination. As it should be. And for a young boy, that’s all that was needed.
Today’s movies with their gazillion dollar budgets don’t compare. Even big named stars succumb to the lure of the big payday. By taking horrible roles. Used to rush to see the latest Sean Connery movie. Then I saw The League of Extraordinary Gentlemen. Excruciating. Poor acting and lousy scripts can’t be improved by throwing money at them. Or by special effects. Take a hint from some foreign movies. Plots and characters we love. Or love to hate.
Of course, the only way to watch old movies is with a big bowl of freshly popped popcorn. I’m a gadget guy. Love my iPod, Satellite radio, iPhone and countless other goodies. But not when it comes to popcorn. No prepackaged microwave junk. No pouring the popcorn into a machine. Popcorn is sacred. Handed down to us by my ancestors, the Aztecs. Well, OK, maybe not. But I do take it serious. I use an old style hand cranked stove top popper. It’s primal. Man, fire, popcorn. Stand back.
You can’t eat popcorn without melted butter. Real butter. Lots of it. Poured carefully in sync as the bowl is slowly rotated. Then add just enough salt to unite the flavors. Mmmm. What to drink? Dr. Pepper of course. Cold. Anything less would be un-American. One last thing. Napkins. A handful. Time sit on the sofa and watch a hokey movie. And let my imagination go crazy.
Don’t go to many movies these days. Probably because I’m not a big fan of special effects. Really limits my choices. Guess I’m not in the right demographic group. Actually, I don’t think they even have a retired dude over 60 that prefers good acting over explosions, group. But they should.
I love old movies. Horror movies. They’re just hokey enough. Can’t believe that we were actually scared by that stuff. I mean, seriously, a grasshopper walking across a picture of an office building? Did we really believe it was supposed to be a mutant insect scaling a real building? Enough of us must have. Why else would there be so many of those movies around? Maybe we were scared of the unknown. The unknown effects of the atomic bomb. Silly us.
There’s hardly anything better on a lazy afternoon than an old horror movie. House On A Haunted Hill. Scared the heck out of me as a kid. Creature From the Black Lagoon. More hokey than scary, but with Julie Adams, whew. In a bathing suit. Double whew. Giant ants. Them. One of my all time favorites. Poor little girl. Alone in the desert. Utters the title word in sheer terror. Still elicits the desire to bring out the magnifying glass to extract some revenge.
Today’s slasher movies just don’t cut it. Or maybe that’s the problem. They cut too much. And are today’s youth really that dumb? Do they never get that they shouldn’t open door number three? Or go alone into the house? In the old movies the lead actors were smart. And were always with other smart people. You could tell because they wore glasses. The soldiers were always the dumb ones. Trying to kill the monster with mere rifles or tanks. Or flamethrowers. As if that would kill any giant mutant grasshopper. Good luck with that.
But back then we always had hope for the Army. Pre Viet Nam, Iraq and other winless wars. We could always count on them. If nothing else, for the sheer numbers they brought. Eventually the smart characters, the ones with glasses and sometimes pipes, won the day. Sometimes the smart ones had to call in the Air Force. To bomb the creature into submission or death. But usually the Air Force pilots weren’t smart enough. But how could they be? They didn’t wear glasses.
It’s been said by those who wear glasses today, that those movies had deeper meanings. Infamous pods turning people into mindless beings. People shrinking. People growing. Mutant animals. Creatures from outer space. All that actually representing Communism, reckless use of chemicals and other evil. Yikes. Don’t know about all that stuff. I still don’t see all the subplots and metaphors. It’s just entertainment. Please don’t explain them to me. I love those movies just the way they are. Hokey.
Those old movies had a notable lack of S.E.X. They did sometimes have flirting. Always between two unmarried characters. And sometimes the suggestive glimpse of an ankle. Or, gulp, a peek at a calf. The lower leg, not the baby animal. Oh my, time for a cold shower. There were no gory deaths. No excessive violence. Car chases hadn’t been invented. No nudity. Even the fifty foot woman somehow found adequate clothing. Everything was left to the imagination. As it should be. And for a young boy, that’s all that was needed.
Today’s movies with their gazillion dollar budgets don’t compare. Even big named stars succumb to the lure of the big payday. By taking horrible roles. Used to rush to see the latest Sean Connery movie. Then I saw The League of Extraordinary Gentlemen. Excruciating. Poor acting and lousy scripts can’t be improved by throwing money at them. Or by special effects. Take a hint from some foreign movies. Plots and characters we love. Or love to hate.
Of course, the only way to watch old movies is with a big bowl of freshly popped popcorn. I’m a gadget guy. Love my iPod, Satellite radio, iPhone and countless other goodies. But not when it comes to popcorn. No prepackaged microwave junk. No pouring the popcorn into a machine. Popcorn is sacred. Handed down to us by my ancestors, the Aztecs. Well, OK, maybe not. But I do take it serious. I use an old style hand cranked stove top popper. It’s primal. Man, fire, popcorn. Stand back.
You can’t eat popcorn without melted butter. Real butter. Lots of it. Poured carefully in sync as the bowl is slowly rotated. Then add just enough salt to unite the flavors. Mmmm. What to drink? Dr. Pepper of course. Cold. Anything less would be un-American. One last thing. Napkins. A handful. Time sit on the sofa and watch a hokey movie. And let my imagination go crazy.
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