On my flight from DC to Atlanta today, I sat next to a rule-breaker. You know the type. Despite the multiple announcements and common knowledge amongst most regular travelers, he continued to use his Blackberry throughout the taxi and takeoff. Stuff like that drives me crazy.
Do I understand the reason for the rule? Not a bit. It doesn’t make a lot of sense to me. If the airplane instruments are so sensitive to electronics that it’s a danger to have them on, shouldn’t there be a more decisive way of determining that none are used? That would seem logical, but since I’ll wager that on almost any given flight there is at least one person who forgot to turn off their cell phone and even more who feel they are exempt from doing what everyone else has to do, I don’t think the use of electronics are truly dangerous. If they were, there would be as many airplane crashes as car crashes, and yours truly would likely not be here.
The other reason to “turn off and stow” electronic instruments could be to stop them from becoming “projectiles.” If that is the case, I’m all for it. Most crashes occur during takeoff or landing, so it’s slightly comforting to know that I won’t have a Gameboy or an Ipod hurtling toward my forehead at 500 mph. This argument would make more sense if ALL possible “projectile” worthy material were stowed for take-offs and landings. Babies are still allowed to sit on parent’s laps, but fully capable of being flung at our unsuspecting faces by the force of impact. Books and magazines are openly read but not constricted from slicing through the air (hello? “paper cuts!”). I’ve even seen a person knitting! Personally, I’d rather be tapped on the head with a cell phone than be impaled with a ten inch knitting needle, but I don’t make the safety rules for the airlines.
No, I don’t understand the rule at all, and it’s never been fully explained to me. I asked a flight attendant once for the purpose of the rule and she looked at me as if I had asked for the briefcase containing nuclear weapons codes. “Just put away your cell phone, sir,“ she said, and I did. Whatever their reason, it must be good.
I wanted to tell my seatmate that he was supposed to put away his blackberry, but a confrontation prior to takeoff would have made the rest of the flight very uncomfortable, and there didn’t appear to be another seat I could move to. Then I tried to give him the benefit of the doubt. Maybe he just didn’t know better. This could have been his first flight. But then I saw him casually cover it as the flight attendant passed by. That’s when I understood.
He knew and he didn’t care. He didn’t care that the rest of us had done what we were told, following instructions like good little children on our first day of Kindergarten. No, he somehow felt that he was above all of that. Better than the rest of us. He continued to email, obviously so important that he could possibly endanger us all in order to share his words of wisdom with the world.
I started to tell the attendants, but I remember from school that “tattle-tales” are held in no higher esteem than the offenders. I would not lower myself to his level. I would merely loathe his behavior and psychically will that his BlackBerry spontaneously combust in his hands. It was all I could do.
He turned off his gadget about ten minutes into the flight, approximately the time that the rest of us were told we could use ours. He napped throughout the trip, and I was oddly pleased that he slept through the drink service. He did not deserve a drink and especially not the complimentary biscotti.
He awoke around the time that we were told to prepare for landing. As the rest of us dutifully turned off our electronics and stored them, I could not believe it when he actually reached for his phone once again and fired it up. Unbelievable, I thought, and looked around to see if others had noticed. No one had, too busy with their own lives and travel plans to see this blatant taunting of rules and conventions.
I decided I should say something, if for no other reason to stand up for the rest of us who do what we are told. It had to be a strong, clear statement, making him know in no uncertain terms that this kind of flagrant selfishness would be confronted…at least on my watch.
I tried to find a verbal strategy:
I could simply say “Dude,” and point at the phone, maybe lifting my right eyebrow for added emphasis.
I could be indignant, saying sternly, “That should be put away. It’s a law. Do it. Do it now!”
Or I could try to be nice, saying calmly, “hey, you probably missed the announcement, but I think we’re supposed to put that kind of thing away.”
The “nice” tactic would probably make the last few minutes of the flight and the taxi to the gate more pleasant. The other strategies would be more satisfying to me, on a deeper philosophical level, but might also get my face punched if this guy is not just a rule-breaker, but a raging psychopath. That’s the scary thing about rule-breakers…you just never know.
I decided on the nice calm option and was preparing to give him my best, polite smile when the attendant stopped at his seat and said, “Sir, you need to turn that off and put it away.”
The guy said, “I’m not transmitting, it’s fine,” and continued to peruse his phone.
Did I hear that right? I couldn’t believe it. This genius was disagreeing with the flight attendant. If I’ve learned one absolute thing in my years of air travel, it is this: you do not argue with the flight attendant, even if you know you are completely right. Get them in a bad mood and you end up being interrogated in a small room at the airport wearing silver bracelets. Or so I’ve heard.
This attendant was patient, but stern. “Sir, the announcement stated that you must turn it off and put it away. Please do that now.”
The guy didn’t even look up. He kept his fingers moving on his phone and answered, “Okay…okay. Just give me a minute.”
For a moment I thought these two might be married. He was responding to her like a reclining husband responds to a nagging wife. He might as well have been watching ESPN. He did not seem to realize that he was responding to someone who could summon Air Marshalls and taser guns.
She would not back down. “Sir, if you do not turn the phone off right now, I will have to alert the captain.”
Like a kid being told to put away his toys, he dramatically turned off phone and held it toward her. “There,” he said. “Happy?”
She gave him a cold stare that even gave me chills and said, “Now you need to put it away.”
He shoved it into his shirt pocket so forcefully that I’m surprised it didn’t rip the fabric. He did not look at the attendant again, but stared straight ahead, boiling in anger and no doubt making plans to call his lawyer or wondering where he could find some puppies to kick. I was glad I hadn’t said anything after all.
The heroic attendant nodded at me as I gave her a bemused look, then she continued up the aisle to complete her assigned duties. I could not help feeling a bit smug. Justice had been served upon the rule-breaker, and I was fortunate enough to witness it. I smiled at everyone I passed when I exited the plane and entered the terminal.
Will this episode change his behavior? Doubtful. People like that rarely accept their own faults. I’m sure he left that airplane feeling like he had been treated unfairly. Much as I am sharing this story about his obnoxious self-importance, he is probably sharing with his friends the incredibly rude, short-sighted behavior of the airline employee. A few minor tweaks to the tale and he could easily be the poor, misunderstood victim.
It makes me wonder how many times I’ve been that guy; completely oblivious to the truth of the situation and only concerned with my own interests. How many stories have I twisted, ever so slightly, to put myself in the better light?
I probably don’t want to know the answer to that question.
Thursday, July 30, 2009
Monday, July 27, 2009
Breakfast with a Vampire
This morning at breakfast, I saw a woman, probably in her mid-fifties, who looked like she had washed her face in lemon juice. Her voice matched her sour expression, dripping venom on anyone unfortunate enough to cross her path. She addressed the hostess and the servers with a tone of authority and disdain, while making her food order with such exact detail and pickiness that all of us within earshot knew that she could never be satisfied. As the server walked away, the woman rolled her eyes and puckered her lips as if to say she hated the unpleasant necessity of speaking to the “common folk.”
I don’t like making snap judgments of people I do not know, despite the fact that I’m very good at it, and there is the slim possibility that she might just be having a really bad day, but I honestly do not think so. The bitterness burdening her soul seeped out of her like the stench from a garbage truck that passes on a hot summer day. It clings to every part of her and pollutes the atmosphere.
Her husband didn’t look any happier, and I can certainly understand why. He is married to a vampire, a vicious beast who sucks the positive energy out of anyone in the room. His pale skin and weak eyes made it apparent that he was her most convenient and consistent victim. Any sympathy I had for him was easily balanced by the fact that by continuing to accept her behavior he was also an accomplice. I’m not sure if the fight had been drained out of him over the years or if he had ever even tried, but it was obvious that he was nothing more than an accessory to her now.
He ate what she ordered for him, an egg-white omelet and wheat toast. If he spoke at all it was so soft I could not hear him, and she only spoke to the server, which was any time the poor girl tried to pass their table to get to the rest of her customers.
Is this decaf coffee?
Yes, it definitely is.
It doesn’t taste like decaf. Did you get it from the right pot?
Yes, ma’am. It is definitely decaf.
The vampire waved her away and grumbled something to her husband, who obediently nodded in agreement. I wanted to ask how she knew the difference and how it didn’t taste like decaf. Was she suddenly more awake? I looked around for anything resembling holy water or a wooden stake.
Another table nearby was soon filled with a family of four; Dad, Mom, brother and sister. The girl looked to be about six and the boy maybe ten years old. They had their maps and travel guides ready for a fun-filled day of touring DC. I thought of our own trip to DC a few years back and the excitement I felt as I watched my girls experience the magnificent museums and humbling monuments that make this one of the great destinations in our country, if not the world.
As I slowly sipped my caffeinated coffee and tried to read the mornings USA Today (while keeping my eye on the vampire and her Igor-like husband), I couldn’t help but notice the particular habits of this young family. As they returned from the breakfast bar, the Dad was first, plate loaded with fruit. He didn’t look particularly happy with his healthy choices, and I have duplicated that expression many times. Passing up the sausage, bacon, biscuits and gravy that taunted from those round silver chafing dishes was a challenge, and as I looked at my own empty bowl of oatmeal, I could feel his pain.
The kids came back with small plates piled with crispy, curled bacon and a few scatters of hash browns. The Dad looked longingly at the bacon on his son’s plate, turning away quickly when his wife returned as if he had been ogling a pretty girl on the street. The mom was carrying a plate which was completely covered by a large round waffle. She set it down in front of the son and helped him slather it with butter and sink it under a tidal wave of sticky, sweet syrup.
The Mom left again and came back with a matching waffle for the daughter, whose eyes widened and lit up like it was Christmas morning. I couldn’t help but glance over at Dracula-woman, whose lips were permanently wrinkled from the constant sneer painted on her face, and wondered what it would take to make her smile like that little girl? Had she ever known happiness, even as a child? If so, what had so completely doused that spark for life that most of us try to cling to so desperately?
I was kind of sad for her, and her husband, but I understood that they themselves had made the choice to live that way. As much as the vampire had sucked the energy from the room, the laughter and smiles of those children had returned it. Light will always conquer darkness, and a smile is always more powerful than a frown.
I folded my paper and paid for my oatmeal, making a point of smiling at the beleaguered server and wishing her a good day on my way out. I wanted to say something witty or enlightening to the older couple as I passed their table, but I decided against it. Instead I exited the hotel and stood in the bright sunshine of this fine, Monday morning and thought, “this is going to be a very good day!”
But, of course, that could have been the caffeine talking.
I don’t like making snap judgments of people I do not know, despite the fact that I’m very good at it, and there is the slim possibility that she might just be having a really bad day, but I honestly do not think so. The bitterness burdening her soul seeped out of her like the stench from a garbage truck that passes on a hot summer day. It clings to every part of her and pollutes the atmosphere.
Her husband didn’t look any happier, and I can certainly understand why. He is married to a vampire, a vicious beast who sucks the positive energy out of anyone in the room. His pale skin and weak eyes made it apparent that he was her most convenient and consistent victim. Any sympathy I had for him was easily balanced by the fact that by continuing to accept her behavior he was also an accomplice. I’m not sure if the fight had been drained out of him over the years or if he had ever even tried, but it was obvious that he was nothing more than an accessory to her now.
He ate what she ordered for him, an egg-white omelet and wheat toast. If he spoke at all it was so soft I could not hear him, and she only spoke to the server, which was any time the poor girl tried to pass their table to get to the rest of her customers.
Is this decaf coffee?
Yes, it definitely is.
It doesn’t taste like decaf. Did you get it from the right pot?
Yes, ma’am. It is definitely decaf.
The vampire waved her away and grumbled something to her husband, who obediently nodded in agreement. I wanted to ask how she knew the difference and how it didn’t taste like decaf. Was she suddenly more awake? I looked around for anything resembling holy water or a wooden stake.
Another table nearby was soon filled with a family of four; Dad, Mom, brother and sister. The girl looked to be about six and the boy maybe ten years old. They had their maps and travel guides ready for a fun-filled day of touring DC. I thought of our own trip to DC a few years back and the excitement I felt as I watched my girls experience the magnificent museums and humbling monuments that make this one of the great destinations in our country, if not the world.
As I slowly sipped my caffeinated coffee and tried to read the mornings USA Today (while keeping my eye on the vampire and her Igor-like husband), I couldn’t help but notice the particular habits of this young family. As they returned from the breakfast bar, the Dad was first, plate loaded with fruit. He didn’t look particularly happy with his healthy choices, and I have duplicated that expression many times. Passing up the sausage, bacon, biscuits and gravy that taunted from those round silver chafing dishes was a challenge, and as I looked at my own empty bowl of oatmeal, I could feel his pain.
The kids came back with small plates piled with crispy, curled bacon and a few scatters of hash browns. The Dad looked longingly at the bacon on his son’s plate, turning away quickly when his wife returned as if he had been ogling a pretty girl on the street. The mom was carrying a plate which was completely covered by a large round waffle. She set it down in front of the son and helped him slather it with butter and sink it under a tidal wave of sticky, sweet syrup.
The Mom left again and came back with a matching waffle for the daughter, whose eyes widened and lit up like it was Christmas morning. I couldn’t help but glance over at Dracula-woman, whose lips were permanently wrinkled from the constant sneer painted on her face, and wondered what it would take to make her smile like that little girl? Had she ever known happiness, even as a child? If so, what had so completely doused that spark for life that most of us try to cling to so desperately?
I was kind of sad for her, and her husband, but I understood that they themselves had made the choice to live that way. As much as the vampire had sucked the energy from the room, the laughter and smiles of those children had returned it. Light will always conquer darkness, and a smile is always more powerful than a frown.
I folded my paper and paid for my oatmeal, making a point of smiling at the beleaguered server and wishing her a good day on my way out. I wanted to say something witty or enlightening to the older couple as I passed their table, but I decided against it. Instead I exited the hotel and stood in the bright sunshine of this fine, Monday morning and thought, “this is going to be a very good day!”
But, of course, that could have been the caffeine talking.
Thursday, July 23, 2009
My Two Cents...(not worth a nickel)
There are two sides to every story, and usually both have their fair share of merits and flaws. My two youngest daughters find particular joy in ratting each other out. Whether it’s a border issue (“she stepped inside my room!”) or a more flagrant drawing of first blood (“she hit me!”), they push their composure to the point of tears, demanding that we seek justice to the fullest extent of punishment allowed.
It’s frustrating, but almost comical, as the “she said-she said” back and forth begins. As one stands accused, they offer their rebuttal of innocence (“I went in her room to get the CD she stole from me,” and the ever present “she hit me first”). We listen as they rage, pointing fingers and looking to us for retribution, which we are unfit to provide. King Solomon himself would likely listen to their tirades for five minutes and glaze over as we do, shrugging and responding “I don’t know, whatever.”
That’s the problem with most quarrels. When both are at fault in some basic way, neither party seems mature and responsible enough to accept their portion of blame and walk away with a handshake and the mutual agreement to not behave moronically again. It’s an unfortunate part of our nature, obviously, to want full reparations for our perceived slight without recognizing our own culpability. Sibling relations, friendships, and even marriages have been destroyed because of this fundamentally human trait. It’s also the basic cause for every war throughout history. "I’m right, you’re wrong!" There is no in between.
This week we’ve seen a similar story played out on the national news. Prominent Harvard Professor Henry Louis Gates Jr. was arrested last Thursday on charges of “disorderly conduct.” It all started innocently enough, with a neighbor trying to do the right thing. They saw someone trying to break into Mr. Gates home and called the police. Unbeknownst to the neighbor and the responding officer, it was Gates himself, who had forgotten his keys, forcing his way into his own home.
Rationally thinking, this should have been quickly resolved and ended with some smiles and “thank you’s,” but not on that day. According to the arrest report, Mr. Gates explained that the home was his, so the officer asked for some form of photo identification with address that would prove his statement. Gates refused to show his ID, claiming that he was only being treated this way because he was black man. He began yelling “This is what happens to black men in America!” and “You don’t know who you’re messing with.”
Obviously, the police report could be leaving out some details. I don’t know the tone of voice the officer used when questioning Mr. Gates. I don’t know to what degree, if any, they used aggressive methods in the early part of their encounter. As far as the policemen knew, they were responding to a burglary, so they did not walk in expecting to find a Harvard Professor who happened to live there. It was a “perfect storm” for confusion and misunderstanding.
Now, I’m going to go out on a limb here and say that most of this would have been avoided if Mr. Gates had responded to the police arrival with some logic, patience and understanding. Answering calmly to the police questions, even if guns were drawn and tensions were high, would have gone a long way toward diffusing the situation. An immediate offer to show his Driver’s License would have probably ended the episode with the mutual understanding that the police were doing their job and he was doing what he had the right to do as a resident (enter his own home).
I don’t think requesting to see a photo ID is an outrageous request. If that were not allowed, and all anyone had to say was, “I live here, get out,” then we would have very few arrests for burglary, and a lot of angry homeowners with missing property. Are the police supposed to just turn and leave, saying, “Alright buddy, I’ll take your word for it!” Maybe if the robbers tell them that they are moving the cops will stay and help load the van!
Personally, if a neighbor calls 911 saying that someone is breaking into my home; I hope the police respond quickly and with guns drawn. If it happens to be me climbing in the window, I’m going to raise my hands and say “I forgot my key, check my wallet after you handcuff me!”
That said, I have to admit the obvious…I am not a black man living in America. I have not dealt with racial profiling or police pulling my car over just because of the color of my skin. My reaction might be different because I would give the police the benefit of the doubt that they will do the right thing. If I have done nothing wrong, I won’t get in trouble, right? That’s easy for me to say.
Gates was not arrested for breaking into his own home, however. He was arrested for “disorderly conduct.” Sgt. James Crowley lists the reason in his arrest report (and I quote):
“…Henry Gates, Jr…was placed under arrest…after being observed exhibiting loud and tumultuous behavior, in a public place, directed at a uniformed police officer who was present investigating a report of a crime in progress. These actions on behalf of Gates served no legitimate purpose and caused citizens passing by this location to stop and take notice while appearing surprised and alarmed.”
Can I use this on my kids? Can I lock them up for arguing with me in the aisles of Wal-Mart, causing other shoppers to look on us with “surprise and alarm?” If it’s that easy, I’m all for it! Even at home, during the refereeing of sisterly grudge matches, I’ve had to call “foul” and warn them that the “neighbors might hear.” Can I toss them in the dungeon for that? I had no idea!
Honestly, I don’t know if this officer, Sgt. James Crowley, is racist…as he is being accused by Professor Gates. He might be a good police officer who was just trying to do his job. He is a veteran officer with an exemplary record. But I think he let his emotions get the best of him, just like Gates. Once he realized that the outcome of the initial burglary call was a non-issue, he should have backed down. He should have walked to his car while Gates stood on the porch calling him names and simply driven away, letting the entire incident fade into a story to tell the wife or laugh about with buddies at a bar. There were no punches being thrown, no weapons being drawn, and no apparent threat of violence. The only wound was to his tender pride, and he refused to let it go untreated.
Now it is a media event, with both these previously unknown names and faces splashed across the nightly news and morning wake-up shows, creating further argument about racial tension in America. Even President Obama discussed it in his prime-time address last night, and if he had only asked me I could have told him something I thought he should have already known (being the father of two daughters himself). You don’t choose sides when both are behaving childishly.
Yes, it was “stupid.” I won’t argue with that. The arrest never should have happened and it was a “stupid” thing for the officer to do. Professor Gates was stupid when he forgot his keys (and I’ve been stupid that way many times myself). He was also stupid for protesting something that wasn’t necessarily a racial attack…just the police trying to protect his property from robbery. The whole mess stinks with “stupid.”
Finally, the officer is now on video, broadcast on a local Boston news channel, saying that he will not apologize and never will. I’ve heard that before. I’ve seen my daughters stomp off to their rooms and slam their doors, mumbling under their breath about the incredible injustice of it all. Neither can see an ounce of guilt in their own actions and are shocked that the world doesn’t see it as clearly as they do.
As for myself, I’ve been married long enough that I know that “apology is the best policy,” and I do it without question or hesitancy. I’m a big believer in apologies. I can sincerely apologize for almost anything, even if I didn’t have anything to do with it. Living with four women I have realized that the simple act of breathing sometimes puts me at fault, so I just drop my head, eat some crow and say “I’m sorry.” It’s so much easier than the constant battles that no one can win. Life’s too short to be angry over “stupid” things all the time.
It’s frustrating, but almost comical, as the “she said-she said” back and forth begins. As one stands accused, they offer their rebuttal of innocence (“I went in her room to get the CD she stole from me,” and the ever present “she hit me first”). We listen as they rage, pointing fingers and looking to us for retribution, which we are unfit to provide. King Solomon himself would likely listen to their tirades for five minutes and glaze over as we do, shrugging and responding “I don’t know, whatever.”
That’s the problem with most quarrels. When both are at fault in some basic way, neither party seems mature and responsible enough to accept their portion of blame and walk away with a handshake and the mutual agreement to not behave moronically again. It’s an unfortunate part of our nature, obviously, to want full reparations for our perceived slight without recognizing our own culpability. Sibling relations, friendships, and even marriages have been destroyed because of this fundamentally human trait. It’s also the basic cause for every war throughout history. "I’m right, you’re wrong!" There is no in between.
This week we’ve seen a similar story played out on the national news. Prominent Harvard Professor Henry Louis Gates Jr. was arrested last Thursday on charges of “disorderly conduct.” It all started innocently enough, with a neighbor trying to do the right thing. They saw someone trying to break into Mr. Gates home and called the police. Unbeknownst to the neighbor and the responding officer, it was Gates himself, who had forgotten his keys, forcing his way into his own home.
Rationally thinking, this should have been quickly resolved and ended with some smiles and “thank you’s,” but not on that day. According to the arrest report, Mr. Gates explained that the home was his, so the officer asked for some form of photo identification with address that would prove his statement. Gates refused to show his ID, claiming that he was only being treated this way because he was black man. He began yelling “This is what happens to black men in America!” and “You don’t know who you’re messing with.”
Obviously, the police report could be leaving out some details. I don’t know the tone of voice the officer used when questioning Mr. Gates. I don’t know to what degree, if any, they used aggressive methods in the early part of their encounter. As far as the policemen knew, they were responding to a burglary, so they did not walk in expecting to find a Harvard Professor who happened to live there. It was a “perfect storm” for confusion and misunderstanding.
Now, I’m going to go out on a limb here and say that most of this would have been avoided if Mr. Gates had responded to the police arrival with some logic, patience and understanding. Answering calmly to the police questions, even if guns were drawn and tensions were high, would have gone a long way toward diffusing the situation. An immediate offer to show his Driver’s License would have probably ended the episode with the mutual understanding that the police were doing their job and he was doing what he had the right to do as a resident (enter his own home).
I don’t think requesting to see a photo ID is an outrageous request. If that were not allowed, and all anyone had to say was, “I live here, get out,” then we would have very few arrests for burglary, and a lot of angry homeowners with missing property. Are the police supposed to just turn and leave, saying, “Alright buddy, I’ll take your word for it!” Maybe if the robbers tell them that they are moving the cops will stay and help load the van!
Personally, if a neighbor calls 911 saying that someone is breaking into my home; I hope the police respond quickly and with guns drawn. If it happens to be me climbing in the window, I’m going to raise my hands and say “I forgot my key, check my wallet after you handcuff me!”
That said, I have to admit the obvious…I am not a black man living in America. I have not dealt with racial profiling or police pulling my car over just because of the color of my skin. My reaction might be different because I would give the police the benefit of the doubt that they will do the right thing. If I have done nothing wrong, I won’t get in trouble, right? That’s easy for me to say.
Gates was not arrested for breaking into his own home, however. He was arrested for “disorderly conduct.” Sgt. James Crowley lists the reason in his arrest report (and I quote):
“…Henry Gates, Jr…was placed under arrest…after being observed exhibiting loud and tumultuous behavior, in a public place, directed at a uniformed police officer who was present investigating a report of a crime in progress. These actions on behalf of Gates served no legitimate purpose and caused citizens passing by this location to stop and take notice while appearing surprised and alarmed.”
Can I use this on my kids? Can I lock them up for arguing with me in the aisles of Wal-Mart, causing other shoppers to look on us with “surprise and alarm?” If it’s that easy, I’m all for it! Even at home, during the refereeing of sisterly grudge matches, I’ve had to call “foul” and warn them that the “neighbors might hear.” Can I toss them in the dungeon for that? I had no idea!
Honestly, I don’t know if this officer, Sgt. James Crowley, is racist…as he is being accused by Professor Gates. He might be a good police officer who was just trying to do his job. He is a veteran officer with an exemplary record. But I think he let his emotions get the best of him, just like Gates. Once he realized that the outcome of the initial burglary call was a non-issue, he should have backed down. He should have walked to his car while Gates stood on the porch calling him names and simply driven away, letting the entire incident fade into a story to tell the wife or laugh about with buddies at a bar. There were no punches being thrown, no weapons being drawn, and no apparent threat of violence. The only wound was to his tender pride, and he refused to let it go untreated.
Now it is a media event, with both these previously unknown names and faces splashed across the nightly news and morning wake-up shows, creating further argument about racial tension in America. Even President Obama discussed it in his prime-time address last night, and if he had only asked me I could have told him something I thought he should have already known (being the father of two daughters himself). You don’t choose sides when both are behaving childishly.
Yes, it was “stupid.” I won’t argue with that. The arrest never should have happened and it was a “stupid” thing for the officer to do. Professor Gates was stupid when he forgot his keys (and I’ve been stupid that way many times myself). He was also stupid for protesting something that wasn’t necessarily a racial attack…just the police trying to protect his property from robbery. The whole mess stinks with “stupid.”
Finally, the officer is now on video, broadcast on a local Boston news channel, saying that he will not apologize and never will. I’ve heard that before. I’ve seen my daughters stomp off to their rooms and slam their doors, mumbling under their breath about the incredible injustice of it all. Neither can see an ounce of guilt in their own actions and are shocked that the world doesn’t see it as clearly as they do.
As for myself, I’ve been married long enough that I know that “apology is the best policy,” and I do it without question or hesitancy. I’m a big believer in apologies. I can sincerely apologize for almost anything, even if I didn’t have anything to do with it. Living with four women I have realized that the simple act of breathing sometimes puts me at fault, so I just drop my head, eat some crow and say “I’m sorry.” It’s so much easier than the constant battles that no one can win. Life’s too short to be angry over “stupid” things all the time.
Tuesday, July 21, 2009
A Fork in the Road
It’s hard to try and face your demons. Even the best of people have them, although some seem to tune out those nagging voices better than the rest of us do. I personally suffer from a lack of will, a tendency not to follow through. It’s not for lack of interest, because I desperately want to change, but that overwhelming desire to change only lasts until it comes time to act, and that is when my urge to procrastinate takes control.
I also have an addictive personality. I am addicted to television, movies, and most dangerously…food. It is a good thing I never took up drugs, drinking or smoking, because I would surely be dead by now. I have issues with moderation (as long as it doesn’t interfere with my inherent laziness).
That’s the problem with most things that are bad for you. You don’t really have to work or expend any effort to do them. I can sit in my cozy recliner, watch television and eat. My addictions are satisfied and my apparent repulsion to movement abated. There’s a comfort in slothful living, as the lack of exertion causes the muscles and joints to atrophy, it’s so much easier to simply rest (despite the fact that you haven’t done anything). It’s a vicious circle of lifelessness. The longer to let yourself go, the easier it is to stay there.
I’m getting to the age that it is not only stupid, but dangerous for me not to take better care of myself. I would say that I need to “exercise more,” but that would mean I have been making a recognizable attempt to exercise at all. We pay nearly $120 per month for a family membership to our local fitness center, and I can count on one hand the number of times I have stepped inside those doors in the last half a year. (Okay, I’ll be completely honest. I can probably count on one finger how many times I’ve stepped inside, and even then, I’m not sure if I did anything).
I’m the King of excuses. My excessive travel schedule keeps me away from home a lot, so when I am there, I say “I don’t want to spend time at the gym; I want to be with my family!” Awwww….I’m such a sweetheart! That’s so touching…but completely delusional. I don’t believe it even as it comes out of my mouth, and I’m sure my family doesn’t either. I don’t go because I’m lazy. It’s that simple.
I don’t really have a good excuse not to exercise when I travel either, but I am pretty gullible, so it doesn’t take much to convince myself to stay in my room and do nothing. Every hotel I stay in has some kind of fitness room, yet I flip on the television and stare mindlessly at a repeat of NCIS like it’s going to give me total enlightenment. Stupidity has to be a disease, right?
I hear people who say that you can get “addicted” to exercise. I can’t imagine. I would love to feel the same passion for a treadmill that I do for hot wings. I want to feel the burn in my muscles and say, “bring it on,” instead of “oh, that’s enough for now.” Is there a pill I can take that will make me want it? I’ll buy a lifetime supply.
I know the answer to the question, and I don’t like it. It comes down to the mental challenge, not the physical. I have to commit to beating these demons and be consistent. I have to do things I don’t want to do and give up lots of things I really enjoy. I have to battle my own personality for control of my future existence.
Yesterday, Connie and my three daughters hiked to the top of Mt. LeConte and back. That’s an eleven mile round trip, with an elevation climb of over 2500 feet in five and a half miles (most of that in the last half of the climb). I had a good excuse not to go, because I am at a meeting in Maryland, but even if I could have scheduled it, I wouldn’t have attempted the climb. I’m pretty sure my body probably wouldn’t have made it. I’m also pretty sure that my mind wouldn’t have let me try.
I have to change my self-perception. I have to alter not just what I CAN DO, but what I THINK I can do. I need to be braver. I need to take some risks. I have to push harder (as opposed to not pushing myself at all).
I’m so proud of my girls for conquering Mt LeConte. Ashlyn and Taylor had never hiked that far before, nor had Shelby’s friend Christine, who hiked with them. It was tough, but they did it. Last night they were exhausted and sore, but justifiably proud of their achievement. This was not a day of lying around the house, playing WII or watching Disney Channel. There were no cell phones, no computers, no Facebook. It was them vs. the mountain and they won.
As I talked to Connie last night, she told me of the long trip up the mountain and the difficulties coming back down. We don’t often think about the fact that the steep return downhill is even harder on the feet and legs, putting more stress and pressure on muscles and tendons, which have to stretch in ways they are not used to doing. It was an unfortunate time for Taylor to realize that she had begun to outgrow her hiking boots. Shortly after leaving the summit, her feet were in agony. Miles from the end of the trail, fighting tears and the painful swelling of blisters; she had no choice but to continue.
At Inspiration Point, still two miles from the end of the trail, they stopped for a break and Taylor removed her boots and socks. The tops of her toes were blistered and the sides of her feet were red and sore. Each step inside those boots had been painful.
Shelby sat down and removed her Keen hiking sandals, insisting that Taylor wear them. The larger, much more comfortable sandals brought relief to Taylors aching feet and she was able to hike the rest of the trail easily. Shelby obviously couldn’t wear Taylor’s boots, so she continued the hike barefoot, walking over gravel and shale, knobby roots and anything else that might poke up from the ground and into her tender skin.
After listening to Connie tell me this story over the phone, I lay in bed and thought about what had happened for a long time and woke up with it on my mind again this morning. I’m so glad my girls didn’t inherit my weaknesses. They faced challenges and they persevered. They had pain, yet they forged ahead. They sacrificed their own comfort for the good of someone they love. They are each, in their own way, amazing.
I am obviously proud, but also inspired. I would willingly die for any of them; jump in front of a bullet, fight a bear, race into a burning building. As a father, that goes without saying. More importantly though, am I willing to LIVE for them? Am I willing to get off the couch and make an effort? Will I take up the sword against the demons that taunt and whisper in my ear? Will I cut the strings they use to control me, moving me around the stage like the sluggish puppet I am? I’m going to try.
In six months I’m going to look back on these words as either the start down a new, exciting path or another humiliating failure in my attempts to get some control over my self-destructive habits. I’m hoping that making it public (at least as public as this basically invisible blog) will make me more accountable. Keep me in your thoughts and prayers. It’s going to be a rocky trail.
The journey begins…
I also have an addictive personality. I am addicted to television, movies, and most dangerously…food. It is a good thing I never took up drugs, drinking or smoking, because I would surely be dead by now. I have issues with moderation (as long as it doesn’t interfere with my inherent laziness).
That’s the problem with most things that are bad for you. You don’t really have to work or expend any effort to do them. I can sit in my cozy recliner, watch television and eat. My addictions are satisfied and my apparent repulsion to movement abated. There’s a comfort in slothful living, as the lack of exertion causes the muscles and joints to atrophy, it’s so much easier to simply rest (despite the fact that you haven’t done anything). It’s a vicious circle of lifelessness. The longer to let yourself go, the easier it is to stay there.
I’m getting to the age that it is not only stupid, but dangerous for me not to take better care of myself. I would say that I need to “exercise more,” but that would mean I have been making a recognizable attempt to exercise at all. We pay nearly $120 per month for a family membership to our local fitness center, and I can count on one hand the number of times I have stepped inside those doors in the last half a year. (Okay, I’ll be completely honest. I can probably count on one finger how many times I’ve stepped inside, and even then, I’m not sure if I did anything).
I’m the King of excuses. My excessive travel schedule keeps me away from home a lot, so when I am there, I say “I don’t want to spend time at the gym; I want to be with my family!” Awwww….I’m such a sweetheart! That’s so touching…but completely delusional. I don’t believe it even as it comes out of my mouth, and I’m sure my family doesn’t either. I don’t go because I’m lazy. It’s that simple.
I don’t really have a good excuse not to exercise when I travel either, but I am pretty gullible, so it doesn’t take much to convince myself to stay in my room and do nothing. Every hotel I stay in has some kind of fitness room, yet I flip on the television and stare mindlessly at a repeat of NCIS like it’s going to give me total enlightenment. Stupidity has to be a disease, right?
I hear people who say that you can get “addicted” to exercise. I can’t imagine. I would love to feel the same passion for a treadmill that I do for hot wings. I want to feel the burn in my muscles and say, “bring it on,” instead of “oh, that’s enough for now.” Is there a pill I can take that will make me want it? I’ll buy a lifetime supply.
I know the answer to the question, and I don’t like it. It comes down to the mental challenge, not the physical. I have to commit to beating these demons and be consistent. I have to do things I don’t want to do and give up lots of things I really enjoy. I have to battle my own personality for control of my future existence.
Yesterday, Connie and my three daughters hiked to the top of Mt. LeConte and back. That’s an eleven mile round trip, with an elevation climb of over 2500 feet in five and a half miles (most of that in the last half of the climb). I had a good excuse not to go, because I am at a meeting in Maryland, but even if I could have scheduled it, I wouldn’t have attempted the climb. I’m pretty sure my body probably wouldn’t have made it. I’m also pretty sure that my mind wouldn’t have let me try.
I have to change my self-perception. I have to alter not just what I CAN DO, but what I THINK I can do. I need to be braver. I need to take some risks. I have to push harder (as opposed to not pushing myself at all).
I’m so proud of my girls for conquering Mt LeConte. Ashlyn and Taylor had never hiked that far before, nor had Shelby’s friend Christine, who hiked with them. It was tough, but they did it. Last night they were exhausted and sore, but justifiably proud of their achievement. This was not a day of lying around the house, playing WII or watching Disney Channel. There were no cell phones, no computers, no Facebook. It was them vs. the mountain and they won.
As I talked to Connie last night, she told me of the long trip up the mountain and the difficulties coming back down. We don’t often think about the fact that the steep return downhill is even harder on the feet and legs, putting more stress and pressure on muscles and tendons, which have to stretch in ways they are not used to doing. It was an unfortunate time for Taylor to realize that she had begun to outgrow her hiking boots. Shortly after leaving the summit, her feet were in agony. Miles from the end of the trail, fighting tears and the painful swelling of blisters; she had no choice but to continue.
At Inspiration Point, still two miles from the end of the trail, they stopped for a break and Taylor removed her boots and socks. The tops of her toes were blistered and the sides of her feet were red and sore. Each step inside those boots had been painful.
Shelby sat down and removed her Keen hiking sandals, insisting that Taylor wear them. The larger, much more comfortable sandals brought relief to Taylors aching feet and she was able to hike the rest of the trail easily. Shelby obviously couldn’t wear Taylor’s boots, so she continued the hike barefoot, walking over gravel and shale, knobby roots and anything else that might poke up from the ground and into her tender skin.
After listening to Connie tell me this story over the phone, I lay in bed and thought about what had happened for a long time and woke up with it on my mind again this morning. I’m so glad my girls didn’t inherit my weaknesses. They faced challenges and they persevered. They had pain, yet they forged ahead. They sacrificed their own comfort for the good of someone they love. They are each, in their own way, amazing.
I am obviously proud, but also inspired. I would willingly die for any of them; jump in front of a bullet, fight a bear, race into a burning building. As a father, that goes without saying. More importantly though, am I willing to LIVE for them? Am I willing to get off the couch and make an effort? Will I take up the sword against the demons that taunt and whisper in my ear? Will I cut the strings they use to control me, moving me around the stage like the sluggish puppet I am? I’m going to try.
In six months I’m going to look back on these words as either the start down a new, exciting path or another humiliating failure in my attempts to get some control over my self-destructive habits. I’m hoping that making it public (at least as public as this basically invisible blog) will make me more accountable. Keep me in your thoughts and prayers. It’s going to be a rocky trail.
The journey begins…
Monday, July 20, 2009
Woe is me
I don’t think of myself as a “whiny” person, but I feel particularly “whiny” today. First, it’s Monday, and even though I worked yesterday, which means Monday is not the first day of my work week, I still blame Monday just for being “Monday.”
Monday will never be thought of in the same way as the fun, carefree and popular “Fridays” and “Saturdays,” or respected in any way like the more serious, contemplative, but wonderfully restful and comforting “Sundays.” No, Mondays are the “ugly, teased” kids at the party and always will be. Even the nerds that are Tuesday and Thursday have more friends. Mondays are loners. Mondays grow up to be school shooters.
On top of it being Monday, I just don’t feel well. I got into some dust or pollen on Saturday that has really aggravated my allergies. Runny nose, scratchy throat, coughing, headache, etc., etc. My head is in armed conflict with itself and the rest of my body, and like most modern wars, everyone’s a loser. The Chemical warfare waged last night did not vanquish the enemy as intended, but kept me awake for most of the night, and has left me a glassy-eyed, staggering zombie, prone to loud, unexpected sneezes and trance-like stares into nothingness.
I suppose it is fortunate for my family that I am not at home this week, because I am not a joy to be around. You can’t have “whiny” without a double dose of “grumpy,” and if I weren’t already obstinate enough (or so I hear), then just slap me around with some allergies and drain me of most of my energy.
Of course, I know how amazingly pathetic it is to whine over some allergies. It will pass. My staggeringly well maintained healthy lifestyle will soon return and I’ll be dancing on rooftops before I know it. I am well aware of how fortunate I am compared to so many others who are having serious health issues. I’m just being whiny.
Truth be told, I am not really a “glass half empty” kind of person. In general, I not only see LIFE as “half full,” but sparkling, cool, and amazingly tasty. It truly is a beautiful thing…this crystal clear glass of refreshing liquid. It’s up to my clumsy old self to keep from spilling it.
Monday will never be thought of in the same way as the fun, carefree and popular “Fridays” and “Saturdays,” or respected in any way like the more serious, contemplative, but wonderfully restful and comforting “Sundays.” No, Mondays are the “ugly, teased” kids at the party and always will be. Even the nerds that are Tuesday and Thursday have more friends. Mondays are loners. Mondays grow up to be school shooters.
On top of it being Monday, I just don’t feel well. I got into some dust or pollen on Saturday that has really aggravated my allergies. Runny nose, scratchy throat, coughing, headache, etc., etc. My head is in armed conflict with itself and the rest of my body, and like most modern wars, everyone’s a loser. The Chemical warfare waged last night did not vanquish the enemy as intended, but kept me awake for most of the night, and has left me a glassy-eyed, staggering zombie, prone to loud, unexpected sneezes and trance-like stares into nothingness.
I suppose it is fortunate for my family that I am not at home this week, because I am not a joy to be around. You can’t have “whiny” without a double dose of “grumpy,” and if I weren’t already obstinate enough (or so I hear), then just slap me around with some allergies and drain me of most of my energy.
Of course, I know how amazingly pathetic it is to whine over some allergies. It will pass. My staggeringly well maintained healthy lifestyle will soon return and I’ll be dancing on rooftops before I know it. I am well aware of how fortunate I am compared to so many others who are having serious health issues. I’m just being whiny.
Truth be told, I am not really a “glass half empty” kind of person. In general, I not only see LIFE as “half full,” but sparkling, cool, and amazingly tasty. It truly is a beautiful thing…this crystal clear glass of refreshing liquid. It’s up to my clumsy old self to keep from spilling it.
Thursday, July 16, 2009
Homecoming
While we drove home from the Nashville airport last night, and throughout the long dinner stop in Cookville, we were entertained by the thrilling tales of my daughter Shelby’s European travels in the last fifteen days. Regaling us with descriptions of London, Paris, the Swiss Alps, Venice, and Munich, her enthusiasm could hardly be contained. At one point, as I listened, I had to wonder, “have I ever been that excited about anything?”
Her favorite part of the trip, which I’m sure would have been mine as well, was Switzerland. She loved the Alps, and was properly impressed by the majesty of the Matahorn. The allure of Paris was lost on her, saying that it was smelly and dirty for the most part, and not the soaring symbol of romance she had been led to believe. As a father, I was greatly relieved. No infatuations with a swarthy lothario named “Pierre.”
She made lots of new friends, and had told lots of stories that ended with “it was the funniest thing I’ve ever seen.” She also learned some lessons about drinking tap water in foreign countries, which led to an unpleasant incident at Notre Dame, but otherwise, she seemed to have a great time.
Now that she’s home, we’ve got tons of photos to view, and probably lots more stories that didn’t make it through the first draft of “and then…” That’s okay, I have time.
I realize that she returns from travel much like I do, excited to see everyone at first, but then retreating into a required period of decompression. She is grumpy and stand-offish, used to being alone, or at least not having to deal with the family dynamic. I feel her pain, but I don’t appreciate being on the other end of the ugly. If it was meant as a lesson for me…a look in the mirror…I didn’t like it.
As happy as I am that she had a good time, I’m more thrilled that she’s home. I deal with my own excessive travel much better than I deal with the thought of my wife or children out in this big dangerous world without me there to protect them. It’s an old fashioned, probably sexist mindset, but it’s the only mind I have.
Her favorite part of the trip, which I’m sure would have been mine as well, was Switzerland. She loved the Alps, and was properly impressed by the majesty of the Matahorn. The allure of Paris was lost on her, saying that it was smelly and dirty for the most part, and not the soaring symbol of romance she had been led to believe. As a father, I was greatly relieved. No infatuations with a swarthy lothario named “Pierre.”
She made lots of new friends, and had told lots of stories that ended with “it was the funniest thing I’ve ever seen.” She also learned some lessons about drinking tap water in foreign countries, which led to an unpleasant incident at Notre Dame, but otherwise, she seemed to have a great time.
Now that she’s home, we’ve got tons of photos to view, and probably lots more stories that didn’t make it through the first draft of “and then…” That’s okay, I have time.
I realize that she returns from travel much like I do, excited to see everyone at first, but then retreating into a required period of decompression. She is grumpy and stand-offish, used to being alone, or at least not having to deal with the family dynamic. I feel her pain, but I don’t appreciate being on the other end of the ugly. If it was meant as a lesson for me…a look in the mirror…I didn’t like it.
As happy as I am that she had a good time, I’m more thrilled that she’s home. I deal with my own excessive travel much better than I deal with the thought of my wife or children out in this big dangerous world without me there to protect them. It’s an old fashioned, probably sexist mindset, but it’s the only mind I have.
Monday, July 13, 2009
Why I Hate John McCain
Okay, I don’t really “hate” John McCain. Besides being a war hero he seems like a pretty decent fellow who sincerely wants to do what he thinks is right for our country. Even if I don’t always agree with him, I can’t hate him for that. If I ever met him, I’d probably even bypass the handshake and give the old guy a hug. He’s kind of cuddly.
I don’t even hate him for introducing Sarah Palin into our National consciousness. It was a shrewd move, and in nine out of ten elections it would have probably paid off. His staff failed him miserably though by not researching her background and family situations a little better. A quick lift on the edge of the governor’s office carpet would have probably found enough dirt to say “lets hold off for now until a cleaning crew makes another pass,” but that’s not John McCain’s fault. He went with his gut feeling, something I kind of admire.
Besides, she’s pretty darn beautiful. Before I heard her speak I too was hypnotized by her dazzling smile and even had the brief temptation to take up moose hunting, strip mine the Smoky Mountains and go to war with anyone who doesn’t speak English. Fortunately, she started talking and hasn’t stopped since, so I’m constantly reminded that some of her ideas and mine are about as far apart as Alaska is from Tennessee.
No, the reason I’m upset with John McCain, and why I might never be able to forgive him, is that he has unleashed the disease that is “Levi Johnston” on an innocent, unsuspecting world. While most of the tabloid garbage or mistakes you step in eventually gets thrown out or scrapped off your shoe, this kid doesn’t seem to go away. He is evil and he must be stopped.
Although he started out with the charming admission that he was just a “#%@ing redneck” from Wasilla, Alaska who didn’t like big cities and all the attention, he took to the cameras and microphones like a pro. Once the election was over and the prospect of actual parental responsibilities was evident, he and Bristol broke up and he started a media feud with the Palins.
For a kid who didn’t want the attention, he searched it out with the relish and destructive power of a wild hog rooting for truffles. He hired a lawyer and a publicist (ironically named “Tank”), who arranged for his appearances in countless television interviews and a variety of print articles. He even appeared in a recent photo spread in GQ magazine, shirtless while holding his naked baby. Something tells me that the magazine should either rethink its photo subjects or change its name once again. Even abbreviated, “Gentlemen’s Quarterly” is not entirely accurate when you promote a nineteen year old rube who’s only verified accomplishment in life has been impregnating a teenage girl. That, my friends, is no “gentleman.”
It has also been announced that Levi Johnston has been offered a lead role in a movie with a former Miss Oregon (and “Apprentice” contestant). I’m rooting for a snuff film, personally, but the simple fact that he has parlayed a youthful indiscretion into a film career is particularly disheartening. There’s also talk of a reality show, of course, and I have to wonder what kind of sad, miserable life forms will sit and watch this preening, egomaniac strut through his day to day life, vainly attempting to extend his 15 minutes of fame into what has surely been a lifetime by now.
The fact that our culture can turn this kid into a source of news probably says more about us than it does about him. Kato Kaelin, Jessica Hahn, Paris Hilton, Kevin Federline….and now Levi Johnston. Famous for being famous and relatively useless otherwise. It’s enough to make a person cry for the future of our society.
I’m betting that John McCain shakes his head and possibly sheds a tear every time he sees an interview with this empty headed media hound that he unintentionally wrought upon us. Levi Johnston, who says he only wants to speak the “truth” but doesn’t seem to know what that word means anymore than the words “honor,” “respect,” or “decorum,” is an embarrassment to himself and humanity. Here’s hoping he goes away soon.
I don’t even hate him for introducing Sarah Palin into our National consciousness. It was a shrewd move, and in nine out of ten elections it would have probably paid off. His staff failed him miserably though by not researching her background and family situations a little better. A quick lift on the edge of the governor’s office carpet would have probably found enough dirt to say “lets hold off for now until a cleaning crew makes another pass,” but that’s not John McCain’s fault. He went with his gut feeling, something I kind of admire.
Besides, she’s pretty darn beautiful. Before I heard her speak I too was hypnotized by her dazzling smile and even had the brief temptation to take up moose hunting, strip mine the Smoky Mountains and go to war with anyone who doesn’t speak English. Fortunately, she started talking and hasn’t stopped since, so I’m constantly reminded that some of her ideas and mine are about as far apart as Alaska is from Tennessee.
No, the reason I’m upset with John McCain, and why I might never be able to forgive him, is that he has unleashed the disease that is “Levi Johnston” on an innocent, unsuspecting world. While most of the tabloid garbage or mistakes you step in eventually gets thrown out or scrapped off your shoe, this kid doesn’t seem to go away. He is evil and he must be stopped.
Although he started out with the charming admission that he was just a “#%@ing redneck” from Wasilla, Alaska who didn’t like big cities and all the attention, he took to the cameras and microphones like a pro. Once the election was over and the prospect of actual parental responsibilities was evident, he and Bristol broke up and he started a media feud with the Palins.
For a kid who didn’t want the attention, he searched it out with the relish and destructive power of a wild hog rooting for truffles. He hired a lawyer and a publicist (ironically named “Tank”), who arranged for his appearances in countless television interviews and a variety of print articles. He even appeared in a recent photo spread in GQ magazine, shirtless while holding his naked baby. Something tells me that the magazine should either rethink its photo subjects or change its name once again. Even abbreviated, “Gentlemen’s Quarterly” is not entirely accurate when you promote a nineteen year old rube who’s only verified accomplishment in life has been impregnating a teenage girl. That, my friends, is no “gentleman.”
It has also been announced that Levi Johnston has been offered a lead role in a movie with a former Miss Oregon (and “Apprentice” contestant). I’m rooting for a snuff film, personally, but the simple fact that he has parlayed a youthful indiscretion into a film career is particularly disheartening. There’s also talk of a reality show, of course, and I have to wonder what kind of sad, miserable life forms will sit and watch this preening, egomaniac strut through his day to day life, vainly attempting to extend his 15 minutes of fame into what has surely been a lifetime by now.
The fact that our culture can turn this kid into a source of news probably says more about us than it does about him. Kato Kaelin, Jessica Hahn, Paris Hilton, Kevin Federline….and now Levi Johnston. Famous for being famous and relatively useless otherwise. It’s enough to make a person cry for the future of our society.
I’m betting that John McCain shakes his head and possibly sheds a tear every time he sees an interview with this empty headed media hound that he unintentionally wrought upon us. Levi Johnston, who says he only wants to speak the “truth” but doesn’t seem to know what that word means anymore than the words “honor,” “respect,” or “decorum,” is an embarrassment to himself and humanity. Here’s hoping he goes away soon.
Thursday, July 9, 2009
Transformed
I love the hotel where I’m staying this week because I can leave my room and within four minutes be standing in the lobby of the movie theater next door. This may be my favorite hotel ever.
I have seen three movies this week, which I don’t think I’ve done since college, and the lingering celluloid images flashing through my mind has definitely helped me survive the lengthy days sitting in boring meetings. Fortunately, not much was required of me this week other than attending, because my thoughts were on giant robots, subway trains and tommy guns.
I started the week with Transformers: Revenge of the Fallen, sequel to a movie I didn’t think I would enjoy but did very much. The new movie has some spectacular action sequences, increasing the number of robots from the first movie and making the battles more epic in scale. Most of the original human cast returns, led by Shia LeBeouf and Megan Fox, who represent one of those “geeky guy/stunningly beautiful girl” couples that is marketed to the primary audience for this kind of film.
My biggest problem with this film is that it seemed to have lost its identity. It started as a kids show, which was designed to sell toys…to KIDS. Yet the movie is full of bad language, sexual innuendo, sexy girls in revealing outfits, anatomically correct robots, and two dogs who act like they are on their honeymoon. This didn’t seem to bother most of the attendee’s at the crowded theater where I watched the movie. Families with ages ranging from toddlers to teens chomped on popcorn and laughed as the dogs humped and one male character dropped his pants for a loving close-up of his thong wearing hairy rear-end. This ain’t Disney.
Even worse was the offensive racial characters created for two smaller robots who help the heroes along the way. Talking in exaggerated street/rap slang and sporting a gold tooth, these obnoxious bots should inspire protests, not laughs or cheers. How this idea made it past a late night, drunken first draft script session, I’ll never know.
Another thing that drove me crazy was the completely illogical inclusion of a robot who can transform into a human. I know that arguing “logic” when discussing a “giant robot movie” seems ridiculous, but any film, even a fantasy film, should develop its own rules and logic. If the bad robots have the ability to transform into humans, then why don’t they do that all the time, replacing humans at high levels of government? This could come in very handy. Not in this movie, however. This device is only used once and then we move on. Dumb.
I walked out of Transformers: Revenge of the Fallen thinking that it’s a shame that it wasn’t called “Revenge of the Fallen Leader,” because it could have been more accurately abbreviated Transformers: ROTFL. Sadly, this film will no doubt be the biggest moneymaker of the year, having already passed the 300 million dollar mark in less than 15 days in theaters. The filmmakers are laughing all the way to the bank.
I have seen three movies this week, which I don’t think I’ve done since college, and the lingering celluloid images flashing through my mind has definitely helped me survive the lengthy days sitting in boring meetings. Fortunately, not much was required of me this week other than attending, because my thoughts were on giant robots, subway trains and tommy guns.
I started the week with Transformers: Revenge of the Fallen, sequel to a movie I didn’t think I would enjoy but did very much. The new movie has some spectacular action sequences, increasing the number of robots from the first movie and making the battles more epic in scale. Most of the original human cast returns, led by Shia LeBeouf and Megan Fox, who represent one of those “geeky guy/stunningly beautiful girl” couples that is marketed to the primary audience for this kind of film.
My biggest problem with this film is that it seemed to have lost its identity. It started as a kids show, which was designed to sell toys…to KIDS. Yet the movie is full of bad language, sexual innuendo, sexy girls in revealing outfits, anatomically correct robots, and two dogs who act like they are on their honeymoon. This didn’t seem to bother most of the attendee’s at the crowded theater where I watched the movie. Families with ages ranging from toddlers to teens chomped on popcorn and laughed as the dogs humped and one male character dropped his pants for a loving close-up of his thong wearing hairy rear-end. This ain’t Disney.
Even worse was the offensive racial characters created for two smaller robots who help the heroes along the way. Talking in exaggerated street/rap slang and sporting a gold tooth, these obnoxious bots should inspire protests, not laughs or cheers. How this idea made it past a late night, drunken first draft script session, I’ll never know.
Another thing that drove me crazy was the completely illogical inclusion of a robot who can transform into a human. I know that arguing “logic” when discussing a “giant robot movie” seems ridiculous, but any film, even a fantasy film, should develop its own rules and logic. If the bad robots have the ability to transform into humans, then why don’t they do that all the time, replacing humans at high levels of government? This could come in very handy. Not in this movie, however. This device is only used once and then we move on. Dumb.
I walked out of Transformers: Revenge of the Fallen thinking that it’s a shame that it wasn’t called “Revenge of the Fallen Leader,” because it could have been more accurately abbreviated Transformers: ROTFL. Sadly, this film will no doubt be the biggest moneymaker of the year, having already passed the 300 million dollar mark in less than 15 days in theaters. The filmmakers are laughing all the way to the bank.
Wednesday, July 8, 2009
Action!
When I was younger, I loved going to movies on opening night, gaining that prestigious title of being among the “first” to see a new film. I would target the “sneak previews” too, and I remember the pride I held in having seen “Top Gun” three times before it even opened. In high school I was sure that this fascination with movies would lead me into film-making, eventually becoming the next Steven Spielberg. Dreams die hard in the multiplex. Anything is possible when it’s projected on the big screen.
But once the credits rolled and the lights came up, reality started creeping in and eventually wrapped itself around me as I walked to the car. By the time I unlocked the door and sank into the worn cloth of my 1979 Chevy Caprice, the popcorn smell was gone and my eyes adjusted to the real time monotony of my life. No fast edits…no sweeping crane shots…just the slow drive down Bardstown Road and the dangerous Kentucky version of the Autobahn called the Waterson Expressway.
I had lots of ideas for movies of my own. Most were related to things I knew in my life, which made them interesting to me, but probably not to anyone else. I imagined a film where my high school was taken over by foreign mercenaries, holding the entire student population hostage. The takeover would happen during a pep rally, while all the students and faculty are gathered in the gymnasium. A ragtag group of students would escape, leading to exciting chase scenes on foot, motorcycles and even horses through the corn and tobacco fields surrounding the rural school. Not all of the student escapees would make it, which would increase the tension for the audience. One would hide in a church, and after a protracted game of cat and mouse, he would eventually spear one of the mercenaries with the pointed end of an American flag pole (I envisioned this to be quite patriotic, probably receiving applause or even a standing ovation in theaters across the USA).
The finale would find our hero returning to the school to save the girl he loved (although she didn’t know it), precariously climbing across the rafters of the gym to disable a bomb that would kill all the hostages. Of course, he would have to survive gunfire and hand to hand combat before stopping the bomb at the last minute. In my mind, it was spectacular.
I tried writing it, but could not get my vision to conform to words. The hero, of course, was not a jock or the typical handsome, muscled leading man, but just an average high school student, probably involved in chorus and maybe a chess player. He might have worked at the library, and definitely didn’t do well with girls. He was a bookworm (which is how he learned to disarm a bomb at such a young age, I guess). He was a bit of a loner. I envisioned him as a younger, quieter, smarter, chubbier James Bond. Ultimately, the failure of my script lay in my lack of understanding for this character.
Later, in college, I decided to set my sights lower. Instead of a large scale action film, I realized that the best way to get my foot in the door of Hollywood was to make a low budget horror film. As an avid reader of Fangoria magazine I learned how young filmmakers with no experience or money were making films with nothing more than a passion for film, a camera and some of the their friends. I had the passion, all I needed was a camera and some friends and I would be a filmmaker.
At a midnight showing of Evil Dead in Louisville’s Uptown Theater in 1983, I grew more inspired. I had read about this film and how writer/director Sam Raimi had filmed it for practically no money in the woods of East Tennessee and his parent’s basement in Michigan. I learned that he couldn’t afford to rent a “steady-cam” unit to film smooth flowing shots through the woods, so he and his friends invented the “shaky-cam,” which involved mounting his camera on a “two by four” and having two people grab the ends and run. The visuals they created, as the camera rushed along the ground, leapt over stumps and swooped around trees, was dizzying but amazing. Out of their empty pockets, they created a new language for film.
I decided that my horror film would be more atmospheric than explicit in its gore. Unlike Raimi, I was not surrounded by movie geeks, so I couldn’t draw inspiration or assistance from anyone else. I had to keep it simple. A group of teens, lost in the woods, stalked by a silent, crazy, probably supernaturally resilient killer. Horror movies didn’t need to make a lot of sense. They just had to be scary.
I thought about the movie while I worked. I thought about while I was in class. I thought about it while driving. I thought about it for most of my waking hours and dreamed about it often while sleeping. I played out scenes in my mind, tweaking them for maximum impact. The finale would take place in an old abandoned barn, where the surviving teens take shelter as the killer taunts them from outside. It would be terrifying.
The death of my horror film was slow and based on a number of factors. If the high definition video technology of today had been available then, I would like to think I might have forged ahead. The lack of quality video option in 1983-84 required the use of actual film cameras, and since I have always been brutally aware of my own limitations, I started searching for a “cinematographer” to actually do the filming for me.
I spoke on the phone with a young man from North Carolina for over an hour, explaining what I wanted and offering him the chance to jump on the dream train. He listened, sometimes excited and always polite. He understood the process of filmmaking much better than I did. He explained that since the entire film was to take place at night, we would require very careful lighting. My vision of frantic chases in the woods, preferably using Raimi’s “shaky-cam” technique for long, uninterrupted shots would be very difficult. It would be impossible or at least prohibitively expensive to light large areas of the forest. He pointed out that most of those shots in Evil Dead were filmed in daylight for that very reason. The majority of that film had been done in a basement, where lighting could be controlled and movement limited.
I listened quietly as this film tech gave me a practical lesson in guerilla filmmaking. His education went farther than sitting in a dark movie theater or reading some fan magazines. He asked a lot of questions, most of which I didn’t have an answer to or hadn’t even thought about. Who would edit the film? Who would do the sound? What type of film stock would I use? Where did I plan to rent the cameras and lights?
As the air slowly seeped out of my balloon, I realized that I was severely unprepared to make a movie. Most successful filmmakers (and I classify that as anyone who has made ANY film that has been shown in a movie theater…no matter how bad the movie might be) had been making movies since they were kids. Spielberg filmed elaborate war films with his family’s old Super 8 camera. Real directors immersed themselves in the process, attended film school, and hung out with other filmmakers. I had not just missed the boat, I had not been aware that a boat existed.
Standing on the shore as my filmmaking aspirations sailed away from me, I could have dove into the water and swam after it. I could have increased my determination and made an effort to gain the knowledge and skills I needed to accomplish my goal. I could have…and on rare days of particularly bitter introspection I insist that I should have…but I knew the truth then as clearly as I know now. It was not mine to have.
That was a long time ago.
Last month, I stood on a street corner in DuPont Circle of Washington, DC…the closest I had ever been to a real movie set. Across the street a swarm of people were moving equipment, setting up screens and lights and cameras. There were at least 15 people whose job appeared to be primarily crowd control. Trucks, vans and RV’s with their Teamster drivers hovered nearby. I lost count of the people milling around on the set, some looking relaxed, others hurriedly responding to some urgent request.
The crowd of spectators broke into applause at the site of Jack Nicholson emerging from his trailer, and we all felt a chill when he flashed a quick “Jack” smile. Moments later there was a bit of swooning when Paul Rudd nonchalantly drifted into view, and I was afraid I would have to stop the two young women standing next to me from jumping into traffic to try and reach him.
We were all caught up in the bedazzling glamour of celebrity, but I am pretty sure that I alone recognized Director James L. Brooks when he stepped out of a tent in the corner of the set. Looking calm and assured, he spoke to the camera operator and someone holding what appeared to be a script. Even with “Jack” on the set, he was the center of attention as far as the crew was concerned.
I watched intently as he guided this massive operation toward what would be just a few seconds in the finished film. The crew hushed and remained still at his command. I watched and tried to imagine standing in his place, creating something visual out of the thoughts and words he’d put on paper. For a few brief moments, I sifted through the stack of “what if’s?” that I had hidden pretty well in the back corner of my dusty brain, and then for several nights afterward, I questioned why I didn’t have what it took to follow through.
Eventually, I remembered a great book by Ken Grimwood called “Replay.” The story follows a 43 year old man who dies and wakes up as his 18 year old self, but with all the knowledge of the next twenty-five years still in his mind. He decides to fix mistakes he believed he made the first time, starting with getting wealthy from bets and investments based on his knowledge of future events. When he tries to reconnect with his wife, however, he is now a different person; rich, slightly cocky, and much more knowledgeable. She wants nothing to do with him and his life moves in a totally different direction, without her.
He “replays” multiple times in the book, all of them ending with his death at 43 and his return to his youth. Each new life he lives follows a different path based on the choices he makes, some good, some bad…and all shedding a clearer light on the phrase, “if I could do it all over again.”
Looking back on what was such a vivid dream of mine, which at the time seemed like the only possible choice for my life, it strikes me once more, as it did during that phone call so long ago, that it was not mine to have. I realized that if I actually could do it all again, I would not risk losing what is so much more precious to me now for the opportunity of something I probably wouldn’t have been good at anyway.
Whatever person I was back then, with whatever creative limitations and personal lack of ambition I may have been burdened with, I still achieved some manner of greatness beyond anything I could have imagined. Somehow, despite myself, I married the superstar girl of my dreams. I fathered three great little rascals. Together, they light up the movie screen of my life. They are my epic.
But once the credits rolled and the lights came up, reality started creeping in and eventually wrapped itself around me as I walked to the car. By the time I unlocked the door and sank into the worn cloth of my 1979 Chevy Caprice, the popcorn smell was gone and my eyes adjusted to the real time monotony of my life. No fast edits…no sweeping crane shots…just the slow drive down Bardstown Road and the dangerous Kentucky version of the Autobahn called the Waterson Expressway.
I had lots of ideas for movies of my own. Most were related to things I knew in my life, which made them interesting to me, but probably not to anyone else. I imagined a film where my high school was taken over by foreign mercenaries, holding the entire student population hostage. The takeover would happen during a pep rally, while all the students and faculty are gathered in the gymnasium. A ragtag group of students would escape, leading to exciting chase scenes on foot, motorcycles and even horses through the corn and tobacco fields surrounding the rural school. Not all of the student escapees would make it, which would increase the tension for the audience. One would hide in a church, and after a protracted game of cat and mouse, he would eventually spear one of the mercenaries with the pointed end of an American flag pole (I envisioned this to be quite patriotic, probably receiving applause or even a standing ovation in theaters across the USA).
The finale would find our hero returning to the school to save the girl he loved (although she didn’t know it), precariously climbing across the rafters of the gym to disable a bomb that would kill all the hostages. Of course, he would have to survive gunfire and hand to hand combat before stopping the bomb at the last minute. In my mind, it was spectacular.
I tried writing it, but could not get my vision to conform to words. The hero, of course, was not a jock or the typical handsome, muscled leading man, but just an average high school student, probably involved in chorus and maybe a chess player. He might have worked at the library, and definitely didn’t do well with girls. He was a bookworm (which is how he learned to disarm a bomb at such a young age, I guess). He was a bit of a loner. I envisioned him as a younger, quieter, smarter, chubbier James Bond. Ultimately, the failure of my script lay in my lack of understanding for this character.
Later, in college, I decided to set my sights lower. Instead of a large scale action film, I realized that the best way to get my foot in the door of Hollywood was to make a low budget horror film. As an avid reader of Fangoria magazine I learned how young filmmakers with no experience or money were making films with nothing more than a passion for film, a camera and some of the their friends. I had the passion, all I needed was a camera and some friends and I would be a filmmaker.
At a midnight showing of Evil Dead in Louisville’s Uptown Theater in 1983, I grew more inspired. I had read about this film and how writer/director Sam Raimi had filmed it for practically no money in the woods of East Tennessee and his parent’s basement in Michigan. I learned that he couldn’t afford to rent a “steady-cam” unit to film smooth flowing shots through the woods, so he and his friends invented the “shaky-cam,” which involved mounting his camera on a “two by four” and having two people grab the ends and run. The visuals they created, as the camera rushed along the ground, leapt over stumps and swooped around trees, was dizzying but amazing. Out of their empty pockets, they created a new language for film.
I decided that my horror film would be more atmospheric than explicit in its gore. Unlike Raimi, I was not surrounded by movie geeks, so I couldn’t draw inspiration or assistance from anyone else. I had to keep it simple. A group of teens, lost in the woods, stalked by a silent, crazy, probably supernaturally resilient killer. Horror movies didn’t need to make a lot of sense. They just had to be scary.
I thought about the movie while I worked. I thought about while I was in class. I thought about it while driving. I thought about it for most of my waking hours and dreamed about it often while sleeping. I played out scenes in my mind, tweaking them for maximum impact. The finale would take place in an old abandoned barn, where the surviving teens take shelter as the killer taunts them from outside. It would be terrifying.
The death of my horror film was slow and based on a number of factors. If the high definition video technology of today had been available then, I would like to think I might have forged ahead. The lack of quality video option in 1983-84 required the use of actual film cameras, and since I have always been brutally aware of my own limitations, I started searching for a “cinematographer” to actually do the filming for me.
I spoke on the phone with a young man from North Carolina for over an hour, explaining what I wanted and offering him the chance to jump on the dream train. He listened, sometimes excited and always polite. He understood the process of filmmaking much better than I did. He explained that since the entire film was to take place at night, we would require very careful lighting. My vision of frantic chases in the woods, preferably using Raimi’s “shaky-cam” technique for long, uninterrupted shots would be very difficult. It would be impossible or at least prohibitively expensive to light large areas of the forest. He pointed out that most of those shots in Evil Dead were filmed in daylight for that very reason. The majority of that film had been done in a basement, where lighting could be controlled and movement limited.
I listened quietly as this film tech gave me a practical lesson in guerilla filmmaking. His education went farther than sitting in a dark movie theater or reading some fan magazines. He asked a lot of questions, most of which I didn’t have an answer to or hadn’t even thought about. Who would edit the film? Who would do the sound? What type of film stock would I use? Where did I plan to rent the cameras and lights?
As the air slowly seeped out of my balloon, I realized that I was severely unprepared to make a movie. Most successful filmmakers (and I classify that as anyone who has made ANY film that has been shown in a movie theater…no matter how bad the movie might be) had been making movies since they were kids. Spielberg filmed elaborate war films with his family’s old Super 8 camera. Real directors immersed themselves in the process, attended film school, and hung out with other filmmakers. I had not just missed the boat, I had not been aware that a boat existed.
Standing on the shore as my filmmaking aspirations sailed away from me, I could have dove into the water and swam after it. I could have increased my determination and made an effort to gain the knowledge and skills I needed to accomplish my goal. I could have…and on rare days of particularly bitter introspection I insist that I should have…but I knew the truth then as clearly as I know now. It was not mine to have.
That was a long time ago.
Last month, I stood on a street corner in DuPont Circle of Washington, DC…the closest I had ever been to a real movie set. Across the street a swarm of people were moving equipment, setting up screens and lights and cameras. There were at least 15 people whose job appeared to be primarily crowd control. Trucks, vans and RV’s with their Teamster drivers hovered nearby. I lost count of the people milling around on the set, some looking relaxed, others hurriedly responding to some urgent request.
The crowd of spectators broke into applause at the site of Jack Nicholson emerging from his trailer, and we all felt a chill when he flashed a quick “Jack” smile. Moments later there was a bit of swooning when Paul Rudd nonchalantly drifted into view, and I was afraid I would have to stop the two young women standing next to me from jumping into traffic to try and reach him.
We were all caught up in the bedazzling glamour of celebrity, but I am pretty sure that I alone recognized Director James L. Brooks when he stepped out of a tent in the corner of the set. Looking calm and assured, he spoke to the camera operator and someone holding what appeared to be a script. Even with “Jack” on the set, he was the center of attention as far as the crew was concerned.
I watched intently as he guided this massive operation toward what would be just a few seconds in the finished film. The crew hushed and remained still at his command. I watched and tried to imagine standing in his place, creating something visual out of the thoughts and words he’d put on paper. For a few brief moments, I sifted through the stack of “what if’s?” that I had hidden pretty well in the back corner of my dusty brain, and then for several nights afterward, I questioned why I didn’t have what it took to follow through.
Eventually, I remembered a great book by Ken Grimwood called “Replay.” The story follows a 43 year old man who dies and wakes up as his 18 year old self, but with all the knowledge of the next twenty-five years still in his mind. He decides to fix mistakes he believed he made the first time, starting with getting wealthy from bets and investments based on his knowledge of future events. When he tries to reconnect with his wife, however, he is now a different person; rich, slightly cocky, and much more knowledgeable. She wants nothing to do with him and his life moves in a totally different direction, without her.
He “replays” multiple times in the book, all of them ending with his death at 43 and his return to his youth. Each new life he lives follows a different path based on the choices he makes, some good, some bad…and all shedding a clearer light on the phrase, “if I could do it all over again.”
Looking back on what was such a vivid dream of mine, which at the time seemed like the only possible choice for my life, it strikes me once more, as it did during that phone call so long ago, that it was not mine to have. I realized that if I actually could do it all again, I would not risk losing what is so much more precious to me now for the opportunity of something I probably wouldn’t have been good at anyway.
Whatever person I was back then, with whatever creative limitations and personal lack of ambition I may have been burdened with, I still achieved some manner of greatness beyond anything I could have imagined. Somehow, despite myself, I married the superstar girl of my dreams. I fathered three great little rascals. Together, they light up the movie screen of my life. They are my epic.
Thursday, July 2, 2009
Dialing for Dummies
I don’t like feeling like an idiot, although I’m obviously pretty good at it. Things that must be obvious to others, sometimes take a while to drill through my thick skull and find a place in my addled mind. I can make excuses, like “it’s Monday,” or “I’m tired,” or “I’m distracted by the floundering economy.” But the truth is, I’m pretty dumb on most any day, and even well rested I can trip over my own mental clumsiness.
This morning I was stymied by the attempt to make a simple phone call. First, I dialed the number with a “1” and the area code. After one ring I hear a stern female voice telling me that a “1” or “0” is not necessary for this call. This is a message I have heard before, and I always think the same thing, “If this phone voice is smart enough to know that the “1” or “0” is not needed for that call, couldn’t she just connect me anyway?” Am I in phone school? Am I being graded on my detailed knowledge of dialing etiquette?
So I try it without the “1” and I get another message, which is the same voice who has changed her mind and insists that now I must “first dial a “1” or a “0” to access that number.” I stared at the phone for a while after that. Maybe this phone lady is just another female in a long line of females in my life who enjoy confusing me. There might be a club. I am fairly certain that they all meet for mixers once a month and have a guest speaker. (Refreshments are served, usually by handsome Latin waiters).
Finally I try the number without the area code, which is the same as my own, and the call goes through. Although this makes perfect sense to me, because if it’s in the same area code, I shouldn’t have to dial the extra numbers, I was operating under “world” logic, not mine. When I travel, I find that no matter what number I dial, even if it’s next door, I have to dial the area code. In fact, I was pretty sure that I had to dial the full ten digits anytime it was outside my local calling area (which does not include all of my area code). Confused? (Maybe we should start our own club).
Anyway, what’s frustrating is the idea that the rules keep modifying. I am pretty sure that the last time I tried to call a similar number in my area code; I was run around by messages demanding that I NEEDED to dial the extra numbers. Do they think I have the time or the brainpower to keep up with these radical telecommunication changes? Honestly, I don’t think they consider my feelings about this at all.
Of course, one could wonder if any of this matters anyway. We’ve got wars and rumors of wars, recessions and dead celebrities. We’ve got children planning for college or in nations thousands of miles away. These are much more important things than phone calls with ones or zeros.
Maybe my dumb old mind grasps for meaning in the meaningless so I don’t have to face the lack of control I have on the big stuff. That seems pretty accurate, and no doubt a kind of defense mechanism to maintain some semblance of sanity. Although in this day and age, when computerized voices have to explain to us how to dial a telephone, you have question what is “sane” and what is a world that has become a little bit too complicated.
This morning I was stymied by the attempt to make a simple phone call. First, I dialed the number with a “1” and the area code. After one ring I hear a stern female voice telling me that a “1” or “0” is not necessary for this call. This is a message I have heard before, and I always think the same thing, “If this phone voice is smart enough to know that the “1” or “0” is not needed for that call, couldn’t she just connect me anyway?” Am I in phone school? Am I being graded on my detailed knowledge of dialing etiquette?
So I try it without the “1” and I get another message, which is the same voice who has changed her mind and insists that now I must “first dial a “1” or a “0” to access that number.” I stared at the phone for a while after that. Maybe this phone lady is just another female in a long line of females in my life who enjoy confusing me. There might be a club. I am fairly certain that they all meet for mixers once a month and have a guest speaker. (Refreshments are served, usually by handsome Latin waiters).
Finally I try the number without the area code, which is the same as my own, and the call goes through. Although this makes perfect sense to me, because if it’s in the same area code, I shouldn’t have to dial the extra numbers, I was operating under “world” logic, not mine. When I travel, I find that no matter what number I dial, even if it’s next door, I have to dial the area code. In fact, I was pretty sure that I had to dial the full ten digits anytime it was outside my local calling area (which does not include all of my area code). Confused? (Maybe we should start our own club).
Anyway, what’s frustrating is the idea that the rules keep modifying. I am pretty sure that the last time I tried to call a similar number in my area code; I was run around by messages demanding that I NEEDED to dial the extra numbers. Do they think I have the time or the brainpower to keep up with these radical telecommunication changes? Honestly, I don’t think they consider my feelings about this at all.
Of course, one could wonder if any of this matters anyway. We’ve got wars and rumors of wars, recessions and dead celebrities. We’ve got children planning for college or in nations thousands of miles away. These are much more important things than phone calls with ones or zeros.
Maybe my dumb old mind grasps for meaning in the meaningless so I don’t have to face the lack of control I have on the big stuff. That seems pretty accurate, and no doubt a kind of defense mechanism to maintain some semblance of sanity. Although in this day and age, when computerized voices have to explain to us how to dial a telephone, you have question what is “sane” and what is a world that has become a little bit too complicated.
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