So maybe it's not so far off the subject after all. Today's topic is a tired one, much discussed among people who vow to wear purple dresses and red hats, etc., but I wanted to mention it within the context of business travel and the workaday world in general. I'll start with a quote from Shakespeare:
"Time flies like an arrow. Fruit flies like a banana."
Really makes you think, doesn't it? And here's one posted on the wall of my 4th grade classroom by Mrs. Phipps, our Spanish teacher:
"En voca cerrada, no entran moscas."
Words to live by, my friends. But what does this have to do with flying across the country to write documents about Shipping and Transportation, you ask? Ah, there's the rub, as our previously quoted Bard might say. (Even though I think he really meant "problem" instead of "rub". Nobody in tech support ever says "Sorry, but there's a 'rub' with the network," or "I'd be glad to help you if you could just describe your rub." Sometimes, you just want to slap ol Shakey upside the head and say "Speak gooder English, why doncha, ya dead Limey twit!")
Hey, what do you call a poet serving time in jail? A barred bard. And what do you say about a poet who moonlights as a computer programmer? "His bard's worse than his byte."
OK, where was I? Ah yes, the fleeting nature of Time. As the Universe collapses toward an all-consuming cosmic black hole, each of us is forced to deal with his own mortality and listen to the ticking of his own individual countdown clock. And this makes us ponder how to invest our precious free time so as to obtain maximum life value from each day we spend walking about upon the face of this Earth.
What do you mean, "the Universe is expanding, not collapsing"? Geez. Who cares? I mean, Dude, I can pretty much guarantee you that anyone who would stoop to read this lowbrow blog would have no idea who Stephen Hawking was if he hadn't appeared on "The Simpsons". And even then, they only know him as "that funny-talking robot guy with the boxing glove thingy on his flying wheelchair", and would have no clue regarding theories involving light cones, singularities, and event horizons. So just drop it, OK? The point is that time flies like an arrow, which I believe I have already pointed out. So there.
(Which popular cartoon character is also a sophisticated poet? Bard Simpson! Which lanky white NBA star was also a master of iambic pentameter? Larry Bard!)
Man, I crack myself up!
So let's get on with it, shall we? What I'm trying to say here is that as a business traveler with a free weekend coming up, I am faced with a decision-making process that pits convenience against depth -- effort against enrichment. I have the entire San Francisco Bay area to examine, and feel that I am obligated to enculturate myself by exploring the wonders of this unfamiliar land, and to absorb the sights, sounds, and smells of the area so that I may become a more sophisticated and educated person. I could then share these new and glorious experiences with the brotherhood of blogdom, thus spreading my enlightenment to a broader audience. I mean, how many other chances will I get to explore this part of the country, and to drink in the richness of its climate, soul, and history?
On the other hand, performing this exploration would require driving my crummy little rental car on crowded and unfamiliar streets...wearing glasses with which I have trouble reading street signs. Sigh. Many attractions cost large sums of money, and the streets are filled with scary people who don't speak with the same accent I do, and who have bizarre personal habits like eating fish and admiring Barry Bonds. I'd have to climb WAY out of my comfort zone.
Who wants to take risks like that? I could just as easily order Domino's and sit in the hotel room flipping between ESPN and Comedy Central all weekend. This would not impact the Cosmological Entropic Constant in any way, and I'd be able to take a nap whenever I wanted to. I must admit that this particular Option B does have its appeal. (Especially the "pizza in bed" part.)
But nay, I say, NAY! I shall not succumb to the siren song of Best Western couch-potato-hood. I intend to blast out of here at the crack o' dawn on Saturday morning and lock myself into "World Traveler" mode. I'll be cruising the highways, sampling exotic cuisines, and learning about local history that goes way beyond the career of Joe Montana. I might visit Alcatraz, the Golden Gate Bridge, Monterey Bay, or even San Simeon.
(What did Shakespeare name his favorite childhood sled? Rosebard! Ar ar.)
Wish me luck in my adventures, friends. I promise I'll tell you all about them. Until then, try to look upon the world with the eyes of an explorer. And have a great day!
I have been described as many things, but "Sophisticated International Traveler" has never been among them. Oh sure, I enjoy visiting other places and being a wide-eyed, camera-slinging tourist on occasion...but I don't seem to possess the wanderlust and fascination with variety that afflicts so many other people.
I was recently talking to a friend who mentioned an intention to travel to France; my initial thought was "Hey, I'd like to see the Eiffel Tower and the Louvre, etc."...but that idea was quickly followed by the more sobering thoughts of "But ewwww, that country is full of stripey-shirted mimes, Leroy Neiman mustaches, and people who add unpronounced and unneeded letters to words like "Loove" and "Dee-po".
And I have no desire to fill my home with gift-store merchandise imprinted with some town's name and picture of their local attraction.
On the other hand, I suppose it does embiggen one's soul to absorb and disgest the richness of other places and other cultures. And sharing travel experiences with loved ones is a source of enduring memories to be cherished always. Heck, I would gladly travel to France or Spain or Siam or something if I had a gorgeous and sophisticated international-traveling babe to accompany me.
Not to Oklahoma, though. You've got to draw the line somewhere.
Anyway, the appeal of exotic lands and the poetic genius of Weird Al aside, the point of this piece is to discuss a few of the mysteries encountered by the ordinary domestic business traveler. In the interest of brevity, I'll present my latest trip-related observations in the form of questions, and save further discussion for another time.
How many customers does United Airlines lose each day because of their idiotic overbooking policy and egregiously inefficient system of dealing with their self-inflicted problems at the airport gate?
Why do hotels put SO many pillows on the bed? (I guess it's kinda cool that there's so many you could build a fort out of them or something, but it still seems like an odd waste of goose down. And for the tired business traveler who just wants to hit the sack after a long day of repressing the urge to strangle incompetent and indifferent airline employees, having to dig through a half-dozen pillows to get to the sheets just seems like an unneccesary burden.)
OK, let's be real -- What kind of pretentious moron complains about an overabundance of pillows on the bed? Geez.
Is it just me, or does the term "Gourmet" seem out of place when talking about something you'd microwave in a hotel room?
Does anyone actually use the ironing boards they find in a hotel room? Is that a chick thing, or are there really dudes who go to their meetings with sharp creases in their shirtsleeves? (I'm guessing that's something unique to salespeople -- guys on procedure-writing assignments can probably get away with an uncorrected wrinkle or two.)
Why on earth do they fold the end of the toilet paper into a little point? I mean seriously, who came up with this idea? Am I supposed to walk into the bathroom and say "Wow, this must be a really nice place because the toilet paper is pointy and there's a paper band stuck to the lid of the loo!"? I don't get it. If you want to impress me with your establishment's class and sophistication, then at least upgrade your breakfast bar to include some dadgum Cocoa Puffs along with the Froot Loops and Raisin Bran. If there's not something chocolatey, you might as well hang out a sign that says "People with taste should stay somewhere else!"
Why do hotel wall lamps all seem to have those tiny little metal knobs that are incredibly difficult to twist on and off? What's wrong with a good ol' toggle switch?
Why do hotel bathrooms have the stupid vent fan hardwired into the light switch, so that every time you turn on the light, you're treated to the rough equivalent of a jet engine at point-blank range? There are times where you might want to enter that particular room without waking up every occupant of the building...and besides, I suspect that despite their high-decibel noticability, those fans don't really have a great impact on ventilation anyway.
My latest hotel room also featured a shower spigot that was hooked up wrong, giving hot water on the "cold" setting and vice versa...but that's more of an anomaly rather than a questionable practice of the hospitality industry. Once you figure it out, it's fairly simple to operate the shower effectively. And otherwise, it was a very comfortable room, with a decent TV and a decadently cushy bed; so I have no complaints. Other than bewilderment over what to do with the huge stack of extra pillows, I was pretty comfortable. And so far, I haven't seen a single mime on the trip...so life is good.
I'll try to share other travel-related thoughts over the next week or two. In the meantime, have a great day!
Some people enjoy stress. I am not one of those people. If "Type A" people are the highly-driven folks who thrive on living in a high-tension mode, and "Type B" folks are those whose existence more closely resembles a Jimmy Buffet album cover...I am a "Type C". My middle name is "Mellow".
...OK, that's not true. It's really "Alan". I'm not sure where the name came from; it was probably a compromised (and intentionally dull) agreement reached between my parents after each had argued for using a Grandfather's name. Since one of my granddad's was named "Hubert" and the other "Clancy", I shall be eternally grateful for their bland decision.
But the point is that I prefer to operate in a constant state of relaxation. Rather than running with the bulls in Spain, I'm more likely to be found floating in an inner tube, slathered in sunscreen and sipping on a warm Dr. Pepper. I'm far more Barry White than Sam Kinnison; more Ben Stein than Ben Hur. Even "crunchy" peanut butter seems like an unneccesary complication—I prefer the smooth and creamy lifestyle.
[Note: For those of you who are no doubt saying, "But Terry, you are always yelling at swimmers, demanding high-stress workouts, and going all ballistic over missed two-hand touches and poorly executed underwater pulls! And what about those martial arts classes you took...and all of the times you've brutally crushed your son in tennis, racquetball, and Trivial Pursuit? Well, my friends, I'm glad you asked. You see, those situations don't represent stress at all: That's "competition", which is an entirely different thing. Are we clear? Good.]
As you might deduce, those of us afflicted by chronic mellowness do NOT like being late for plane flights. It's stressful to think that if you don't make it to the airport on time, the plane will take off without you, leaving you stranded in a city where you can't find a Chipotle and have no more clean underwear. On my recent trip to California, I woke up at 2:30am on flight day, figuring that I'd have enough time to pack, work out at the gym, and get to the airport at least 90 minutes before my scheduled departure. I had a pretty decent map of the city, and it appeared the the gym was on the direct route to the airport, and traffic would be minimal at that hour. Should be no problem, right?
Have I ever mentioned that I had radial keratotomy (RK) surgery a couple of decades ago? It's pretty much like Lasik, except that instead of computer-controlled lasers making precision adjustments, your doctor uses a hand-held X-Acto knife to carve some notches on your eyeball. The procedure improved my vision dramatically, but had the unfortunate side effect of making my eyesight fluctuate wildly during the day. Ergo, my optometrist has been unable to fit me with glasses that correct my vision consistently. I may be able to see just fine at one point in the day, but 12 hours later I could be in full Magoo mode...and there's nothing I can do about it other than squint and check out "Big Print" library books.
This fluctuating vision is not a problem at the gym. I see well enough to find the handles on the weight machines, and to pick up the dumbbells. I may not be able to read all the screen details on those fancy-pants exerbike display screens, but who cares? I can still push the UP and DOWN buttons until I find a resistance level that will give me a good workout. So I began my morning with no worries, and saw no problems with my plan until after I had lifted, showered, and had an Egg McMuffin. But shortly after I left McDonalds, I realized that there might be some stress in my short-term future.
Two issues contributed to this anxiety. The first is that I was unable to find any interior light within the rental car. For all I know, there are bulbs a-plenty scattered about the inside of the Nissan Versa, but as I drove in the general direction of the airport, I was unable to find either the lighting fixtures or the switches to get them to reveal themselves. (Yes, I know that you're supposed to read the owners manual in its entirety before even driving the car out of the Avis parking lot, but I was hungry when I picked up the car, and skipped that step in the effort to procure immediate sustenance. Oops.) So...if I wanted to review the map, I had to pull over under a streetlight somewhere. This behavior would be very annoying to other drivers, but since it was still a couple of hours before sunrise there wasn't anyone else on the road -- no harm done. It slowed me down a bit, but with this light-puddle hopping behavior, I was able to read off the names of the streets I needed to find.
Unfortunately, the streetlights seemed to be conveniently missing whenever I came to a street sign I needed to read. With 20/20 eyeballs I would've been fine, but as Squinty McMoleman, I must've missed my turn. I was kindof expecting some big "TURN HERE FOR THE AIRPORT, PINHEAD!" signage, but apparently the San Jose city fathers do not feel they're necessary. Anyway, the street I was on curved off in a direction that didn't match anything on my map, and before I knew it, I found myself downtown...which is NOT where I wanted to be.
I had no fear at all that I'd be able to eventually find the airport; the airport is about half the size of the entire city. My panic began when I started thinking about the fact that I hadn't flown out of this airport before -- and had no idea how the rental car return system worked, how frequently the Avis shuttles ran to the terminal, how long of a line there would be at Security, etc etc. My stress level began to rise.
My primary plan was to ask a pedestrian to point in the general direction of the Airport. This wasn't Pennsylvania, after all -- most of the streets tend to continue in one direction for a while...so if I headed in the right direction, I figured I'd eventually find it. Unfortunately, it was still too early in the morning for the citizenry to be out and about, and they apparently don't have many homeless people in downtown San Jose. There were no signs of life at all.
Plan B? Turn around and drive back to the last point where I was certain I was on the correct route. After that, turn around again and take a different turn than I did before. And see what happens.
Why yes, you're right -- I AM a master navigational strategist.
Or not.
Fortunately, this time I DID see a sign pointing toward the airport just as I was entering the intersection. Pulling a "Smokey and the Bandit"-type turn, I was finally heading in the right direction. On this road, there were plenty of Airport signs, so I had no other problems finding the rental car return. I won't bore you with my further anxieties that arose when I couldn't find the rental shuttle, nor about when I walked into the wrong terminal building and was told that I had to walk another half mile or more to check my bag. The bottom line good news is that I still had a half-hour to spare by the time I arrived at the departure gate. Now there was nothing to worry about other than whether I'd have to sit next to somebody who smelled.
As is my custom when I have spare time prior to departure, I began to walk the concourse. I do this for a couple of reasons: One is that it helps me burn off the Cinnamon Melt that I probably shouldn't have had for breakfast, and the other is that I enjoy watching the people. It's fun to see the different types. Here are a few I seem to see on every trip:
Blackberry Businessman: "I need to talk loud and use cool business catchphrases so everyone will know how important I am."
Tired Family: The kids still have some energy after the vacation, but Mom and Dad really wish they'd just sit still for a bit.
Novel-reading Hippie: Regardless of the weather, there will always be one young woman wearing a shapeless burlap dress and sandals, intently reading a mystery about cats, or something written by Al Gore.
Hip Rebel: Scandalous t-shirt, baseball cap in whatever mode is favored by current rap artists, and a permanently defiant sneer that hides a deep anxiety over whether his ultra-cool tattoos and nose-rings will keep him permanently unemployed.
Douchebag Swim Coach: The guy who walks up and down the concourse, making superficial judgments about other folks and lumping them into convenient categories for his own personal amusement.
Anyway, as I was happily strolling down the concourse, I happened to pass a woman who was headed in the same direction. Since she and I were the only ones in that particular area at the moment, she took the opportunity to speak to me. "Why don't they have those powered walkways like they do in other airports?", she asked. I hadn't even noticed, but she was correct; if you wanted to get anywhere in this airport, you had to use your own leg power. "I have no idea," I replied.
"Well, they should have 'em. This is too far to expect anyone to walk."
I smiled at that remark -- after all, I was walking away from where I needed to be, and was doing it precisely because it was a nice long walk. "You're right", I agreed, then wished her luck and continued down the concourse while she stopped to rest. I'd guess she was about my age, and it made me take a moment to think about how people view the world in such different ways. Some people look at walking as a pleasant method of moderate exercise -- others look at it as a horrible burden. And some of my favorite people look at walking as just a stupidly slow and inadequate substitute for the joy of running.
It's all about attitude. You can look at flying as a hideous imposition on your time and personal comfort, or you can look at it as an opportunity to catch up on your reading and to savor the exotic aromas of humanity that make each day such a rich sensory experience.
It may not be all that much fun, but with the right attitude, I believe you can get some sort of enjoyment and/or learning experience out of each flight you take. And since I'll be traveling more over the next couple of months, you can look forward to upcoming discussions of baggage claim psychology, airport restaurant etiquette, and why I think Alan Roach is the only logical successor to Don LaFontaine. In the meantime, have a great day!
And by the way...Happy Birthday to Mickey Canaday!
The first type will read the subject line of this post and immediately assume "OK, here we go -- he's going to talk about giant software companies, and will probably go into a rant about how CorelDraw is vastly superior to Illustrator, or some such geekoid nonsense." The other type will assume that I'm applying the "Bob Dylan extra syllable trick" to the word "Dobie" because I want to continue last month's discussion about Maynard G. Krebs and intend to somehow relate it to 1960s folk music...and just don't spell very well.
And then there's the third type: the ones who don't know me personally—who somehow stumbled onto this blog and read it only so they'll know what sorts of thought processes they'll be up against when the world goes all "Thunderdome", and guys like me will be riding uni-copters or flinging razor boomerangs. These are the "normal" folks—the ones who don't spend a lot of time worrying debating software or black n' white TV shows. I have no idea how to deal with those people.
So I'll ignore them. In fact, I'll ignore all normal things, which is what I do pretty much all the time...so if you think about it, such ignorifying behavior could be considered my "normal" mode of operation; and that train of thought just makes me confused.
So where was I?
Oh yeah, a-Dobie. (I think "Dobie" is a swell name, by the way. I'd rather be a Dobie than a Maynard any day. Or "Wez" for that matter. But I digress.) The point is that California has a lot of mud 'n straw architecture, with those cool redish ceramic half-pipe shingles on the roof. The adobe buildings, along with the abundance of green viney plants everywhere, really gives a traveler the impression that he's deep in the heart of Zorro country. (The 80 bazillion automobiles rather detract from the idyllic impression, but go with me here for a minute.) The buildings along nearly every street evoke images of aristocratic comforts of yore, warmly glowing fires upon the hearth, and a simpler and nobler time. There are no large obnoxious signs on the streets, and plenty of tall palm trees and decorative vegetation to obscure any signs of crass commercialism. It's really quite lovely.
The problem is that all the streets look alike, and the buildings have very little individuality. It's aesthetically pleasing, but consider the effect on a fellow from out of state who's tired from an exhausting day in an unfamiliar office, driving around trying to find a nice place to eat dinner; he cannot distinguish restaurants from gas stations, nor grocery stores from apartment buildings. With another person in the vehicle for navigation, it probably wouldn't be so difficult...but having to watch traffic at the same time you're scanning the buildings for signs that they serve food, well, it's tough.
I had been told that there are many excellent restaurants in the area, and with a generous corporate expense account, I can afford to go for quality. But because of the navigational vertigo caused by the ubiquitous adobe architecture, I ultimately ended up at a Safeway, buying a soggy prewrapped turkey sandwich, a suspicious-looking tub of 'tater salad, a bag of Lays, and a Twix bar to eat by myself in the hotel room. Sigh.
I'm just not too good at this whole "world traveler" gig, am I? Oh well, I'm not starving, and the hotel bed is comfortable...so I'm going to go to bed and try to swim with a local team in the morning. The workout starts at 5am, so traffic shouldn't be a problem getting there. I wonder if the architecture will have the same mission-esque feel at an hour before sunrise? I guess I'll find out, and will try to report the results tomorrow. In the meantime, may your destinations be visible and your meals free of plastic wrap and botulism. Have a great day!
Traveling points out many interesting things about human-machine interfaces, doesn't it?
It starts when you load your luggage in the car for the trip to the airport. Your suitcase may roll sweetly as you trundle across the living room, but when you heft that puppy up into the vehicle's cargo bay, you instantly learn whether the designers did a good job with handle placement. You also get a lesson in center-of-gravity physics.
Carrying a laptop bag through miles of airport corridors tells you whether the shoulder strap is well designed. And airport toilet stalls that don't anticipate your need to keep your carry-on off the sticky floor...well, let's just not talk about those.
Then there's the airplane itself. (You know where I'm going with this, don't you? I know it's obvious and overdone, but I'm still saying it.) The seats are designed for Karen Carpenter, but you're more likely to sit next to Mama Cass. Gah. I do understand the need to sardine-pack the aircraft to ensure a profit, what with Dick Chaney raising the cost of jet fuel by causing gulf oil spills and hurricanes and stuff...but couldn't they figure out a system where you'd get to sit next to, say, one Emo Phillips for every Orson Welles? And maybe have an obnoxiousness quota, too -- one Silent Bob as a reward for every Gilbert Gottfried?
OK, I know that I'm a lot like Francis Sawyer, in that I prefer my personal space and privacy. (Please note, though: I prefer the term "introvert" to "psycho".) Perhaps the vast majority of people enjoy meeting Texans who can talk for two hours non-stop about plasticware and medical marijuana...but I'd rather stare out the window and imagine cloud animals.
I guess I learned something, though. I had no idea who made the trays that Holiday Inn Express uses for their delicious cinnamon rolls; and now I do. I also know the difference between "compostable" and "biodegradable"...as well as the difference between "I have pain" and "I wanna get high, man". And though he never came up for air, I have to admit that the fellow was pleasant enough, didn't have B.O. or anything, and had a certain country charm that reminded me of Dennis Weaver.
The fellow on the other side of me was playing some sort of golf game on his iPad. I wondered if his choice of a Lara Croft-ish avatar had any psychological significance, but what interested me more was that he had the Jimi Hendrix double-jointed thumbs thing going on. It made me a little queasy to watch; a person's hands just aren't supposed to bend like that. Ew. I found myself speculating that this gentleman's genetic anomalies made him a very poor golfer on a "real" outdoor course, but gave him an distinct advantage in cybersports.
After catching my connection in Phoenix, I sat next to a guy who claimed he was from San Jose, but didn't know enough local geography to recognize that the ocean wasn't going to be visible out the plane's right side windows at all on this trip, much less while we were over the Rocky Mountains. But he was relatively small and kept his opinions on plasticware to himself, so I have no complaints.
Anyway, the point of all this is that I now have an abrasion on my left elbow, which is what made me decide to write about ergonomics. There are many more machine-interface observations I could make, from adjusting the mirrors in the rental car to wondering how anyone could possibly have short enough legs to set the quad machine that way at the gym...but I'll spare you those. They didn't cause me any physical damage.
I got the elbow wound at my temporary desk at the office. I didn't notice it at the time, but apparently the computer desk was at the exact height to cause my elbow to constantly rub on the desk surface as I typed. I didn't notice, of course, because I become so deeply immersed in my work that I can't take time to notice things like mere loss of blood (or dehydration, or the passage of time, etc.) This intense concentration is what makes me the outstanding employee that I am, and gets me those consistent "Satisfactory" job performance ratings year after year. But it always startles me when I hop into the car after a long day's labor and suddenly notice that I have somehow become damaged.
Sigh. A lesser man would take a day off, or perhaps call a lawyer to bring a worker's compensation suit against the company. But I shall take a deep breath, slap a bandaid upon it, and stoically return to the site where the injury occured, throwing myself headlong into another day of frenzied typing, ergonomics be damned. The offending desk surface shall get no satisfaction from watching me retreat, no sir.
As for other ergonomic challenges encountered during travel, well, there's the hotel pillow designed for Andre the giant in the same room where the showerhead is designed for Billy Barty. There's the lamp knob that cannot be turned without locking pliers, and the fact that the only usable electrical outlet requires moving multiple pieces of furniture. And the mysterious operation of the hotel's Froot Loops dispenser, as well as the various toasters, waffle irons, etc. that are just begging for you to use them to burn yourself. It's a dangerous world when you're away from home.
But the job must be done, and I shall continue to brave these challenges...and will continue to document them here, as a warning to other potential travelers. Wish me luck, my friends, and have a great day!
Well, sort of, anyway. There was a chill in the air before swim practice, and it smacked me in the face with the realization that summertime is nearing its end. Sigh.
Yes, I know that the weekend temperature is supposed to be back near 100°, but the sun is rising later, and it's cooler outside than inside. That means the seasons, they are a-changing.
[Side question: Does Bob Dylan get royalties for every time somebody adds an "a" to the front of a word? How does it happen that we end up with permanent cliché phrases, just because some hack harmonica player needed an extra syllable in a song and was too lazy to rewrite the verse to fit the music? Geez.]
Speaking of poets, this particular time of year always reminds me of a poem I heard for the first time in grade school:
Spring has sprung, Fall has fell, Summer is here, and it's hotter than...usual.
And that reminds me of Muhammad Ali's poetic prognostication:
After I whup Joe Frazier And he don't hear the bell. I'm gonna hop over the rope And whup Howard Cosell.
What does this have to do with anything, you ask? Well, nothing, I'm afraid. But as the literary scholar I am, I take great pleasure in passing along my passion for poetry (as well as my fondness for groundbreaking sportscasters and people who taunt them in rhyme.)
Anyway, the onset of Autumn begets several annual rituals that are worthy of comment. One is the changing of the aspens, but we'll talk about that later when, well...when they actually change. Another is the back-to-school wave of new people threatening to join the swim team. All health clubs seem to have a surge in attendance when the kids return to Academia, and our group is no exception. Over the last week, I've received a half-dozen calls from people wanting info on the team. They each say they'll attend practice in the following week, but we rarely see even one out of three. And of those who do show up once, 80% will bail out and never be seen again. We've never done a serious study of the reasons, but most people blame the dropout rate on my abrasive personality and lack of social skills...which of course is ridiculous.
Isn't it?
Hmmm. Anyway, speaking of personal assessments, the final insult that accompanies the Fall season is the dreaded "Performance Evaluation". I'm not sure who thought up this abomination, but almost every company subjects their employees to the humiliation of spending hours filling out a list of accomplishments, only to be rated as "average" to meet the quotas of the faceless automatons behind the HR curtain.
Performance appraisal is a relatively painless process for my job with the swim team, and we've jumped through all the hoops already. But at my other job, they'll stretch it out over months, and involve dozens of people in a multitude of activities with the goal of thoroughly and unquestionably determining that I'll get the same rating and raise as I have the last 5 years. It's all very silly. And since I write about silly stuff in this column, chances are good that you'll hear more about it over the next couple of months. How's that for a teaser, eh?
For the immediate future, though, stay tuned for a synopsis of my next business trip. I'm going to California for a few days, and will share some of those experiences with you. In the meantime, enjoy the last gasps of summer, and have a great day!
The term "Senior Moment" has become very popular for describing those small lapses in memory or cognitive function that seem to become more common as one ages. On occasion, I've been known to use the term to describe some bonehead thing I've done, since its meaning seems to be well understood by most people around whom I'm likely to exhibit boneheadedness.
But I don't think it applies. For one thing, I'm not old; I'm in the prime of life! I know that there are established definitions of "Senior", but those are based on age, and since there is a vast difference in health and fitness among people of the same chronological age, I reject such definitions...unless they get me a discount at IHOP.
Besides, mental lapses can occur at any age. I remember my brother having one when he was barely two years old: He stuck my mom's car keys into an electrical outlet. Pretty stupid, all right, but you can't blame it on old age. And I was only in high school when I threw out my collection of baseball cards (with FOUR Mickey Mantles and a couple of Koufaxes). And worst of all, I once paid good money for a movie ticket to see "Out of Africa".
The point is that my latest little brain lock is not due to advanced age, senility, or any other time-based decline in intellectual faculties. It was just the normal inattention to detail that happens when I'm busy with multiple projects and focused on diverse topics. I apologize.
But I can't promise that it won't happen again. The "hiatus-Hiyata" thing is just too cute to avoid. I know I'd used it in a blog before, but...
Wait a minute. I'm not sure how long ago that was. Perhaps you've all forgotten, too, and I didn't need to embarrass myself with an admission of my human frailty. Let me check. While I'm doing that, please enjoy the following moment of classic cinema:
Hmmm. I searched back about a year and didn't find it. But I just know I've embedded an Ultraman video before. Does anybody remember this? Or am I really and truly losing it? (Hey, feel free to search the blog archives and review some of those other oh-so-special Meryl Streep-bashing moments of past posts. Could be fun.)
[By the way, I looked on YouTube for the clip from "Zorro the Gay Blade" where he says "I am the perfhect ezhample of a Spanish nobleman een heez prime" to accompany my own assertion of prime-ness...but I couldn't find that clip. The duck/bear/pig sequence is a good one, though. I hope you enjoyed it. I also like this clip. Oh, and in addition to answering my question about previous Ultraman references, I'll give 5 bonus points to anyone who can identify the photo at the top of the column.]
OK, that's all for today. I hope to avoid such editorial duplications-of-effort in the future. As always, thanks for your patronage -- and have a great day!
Every day during the last two weeks, at least 1 billion people have come up to me on the streets and asked, "Pray tell, Terry my man, why have you been on such an extended hiatus?" My reaction, of course, is to laugh at the word "hiatus"...because it reminds me of Hiyata, the nerdy scientist who uses the Beta Capsule to turn into Ultraman whenever the world is in danger from giant rubber monsters.
But despite their use of a funny word and my completely inappropriate side trip into a reverie about the TV shows that kept my college GPA low and thus prevented me from finding that high-paying job my high-school counselors promised, I eventually return to the question, and realize that I probably should answer it.
Why have I been absent from these pages for the past weeks? Well, the fact is there have been major events in my life that deserve deeply thoughtful bloggery, and I got wrapped up in wanting to do those topics justice. I started to write, but didn't have time to finish the posts with the reverence they deserved...and therefore got stalled out, lost momentum, and unintentionally allowed the electronic inkwell to run dry. I apologize, dear readers, for you deserve to hear those stories. Unfortunately, I still don't have time to do them justice, so I'll just give you the capsule summaries and promise to revisit the topics when I win Lotto and can afford to hire the maids, cooks, and toilet repair technicians that would free up my time for getting my writing done.
Important item number one: One of my high school buddies passed away. He was one of the four from my class at Wichita West High School who swam with the Wichita Swim Club, and was therefore an integral part of my life for several years. I was not as close to Rick as I was with the other guys, but I still spent a boatload of time in cars, pools, and hotel rooms with the dude, and knew him fairly well. When I learned he had died, I started to write a blog that would stand as a loving tribute to a lost comrade, complete with thoughtful insights into the fleeting nature of life and the associated journeys into contemplation of my own mortality.
But I got stuck. For one thing, I realized that other folks are far better at the sentimental "Tuesdays with Morrie" kind of stuff. And I hadn't seen Ricky for a million years and truly had no idea if he had become a Unibomber wannabe, a PhD fuel cell engineer, or one of those Ultimate Fighter guys with a nickname like "Sledgehammer" or something. (Turns out he was a flight attendant, upon which I shall make no comment at all.) And for another thing, he was our relay's breaststroker, and, well...you just learn to avoid breaststrokers if you know what's good for you.
It's weird what you remember about people from high school. I'll just share two small memories, and will leave the serious eulogizing to others. (Perhaps I'll have more to say later. We'll see.)
As we were waiting for transportation after one of our high school swim practices, Rick decided to write an obscenity on the wall outside the pool. I don't remember if he was proud enough to sign it himself, or if someone else affixed his name to it, but the crude statement ended up with Ricky's bold signature. After a moment's reflection, he realized that such an autograph wouldn't enhance his chances for graduation without demerits in his permanent record, so he gamely tried to erase the writing. It didn't work. So by adding letters and reworking words, he eventually managed to turn it into a meaningless phrase (something about eating a sandwich, if I remember correctly) followed by a name no one would recognize.
I suspect he felt guilty about that graffiti until the very end.
The other memory I closely associate with Rick is the fact that I got my first speeding ticket on a night he was having a Christmas party at his house. That was a traumatic night for multiple reasons; not only was I scared to death by the dangerously rednecked trooper who pulled me over, but when I finally arrived at Rick's house, I discovered that there was mistletoe strung about, and Deann Wills was in a kissing mood.
Don't get me wrong, Deann was a nice girl and I'm sure a fabulous kisser...but after having just been threatened with jail and wondering where I was going to get the money to pay the fine, well, I just wasn't in the mood for misteltoe makeoutery with anyone who wasn't Robin Messner. I don't think I actually ran screaming from the party, but I'm sure my negative reaction didn't do much for Deann's adolescent sense of self-esteem.
And to bring it all full circle, I heard that Glen Nyberg attended Rick's funeral. Glen was the one who caused the speeding ticket; I was driving my dad's Camaro and was bragging about how cool I was for driving a hot car when Glen said "Aw, I bet this piece of crap can't even go 100."
I was going 124 mph when I passed the trooper. Oops.
Anyway, the point is that I temporarily stopped blogging because I wanted to write something nice about my buddy Rick, but just didn't have the skills to do it properly. And after that, the Second Important Item was that I attended the Leadville Trail 100 running race, and got stuck trying to write about that, too. (I may still expound on it, but the short summary is that it was one of the most awesome and memorable weekends I've ever had. My friend Katie ran 100 freakin' miles, and I was moved to tears on multiple occasions while watching this phenomenal event. But when it came time to write about it in blog form, I couldn't find the block of time to do it justice. Sigh.)
So what I've learned is this: Trying to express my deepest thoughts about important subjects in my early-morning blogging hours is a futile effort. If I want to post anything at all, I cannot afford to strive for profound philosophical perfection (or even meditational mediocrity); I just need to write a few inane paragraphs about random oddities, throw in a link or two about Japanese television, and then head off to the pool.
But I will say this about those two big topics: Congratulations Katie! And R.I.P. Rick.
