Thursday, June 28, 2012
Sunday, June 24, 2012
On Getting Those Damn Kids Off My Lawn!
I have to start by saying that I don't think I will ever run out of things to write about as my neighborhood seems to continually provide me with more material.
Wednesday nights at the LeMaire house are gaming nights and this past Wednesday was no exception. We had a full house that evening with my sister and her husband, a friend from work and his girlfriend, and the person that I would consider my best friend (well, the one I do not have sex with). The driveways were full of cars and we were all gathered around the table playing/socializing (sometimes it is hard to differentiate) and having a good time. We had been playing for about an hour when there was a knock on the door, and on my porch was one of the neighborhood rapscallions.
"Can we use your basketball hoop?" he asked me, in a sweet innocent cherubic voice. I responded with a "Yeah, sure." We have a cheap basketball hoop that has a base full of water for weight and wheels on the front so you can easily move it around. I have it set up on the paved driveway and tucked to the side so we can still park. I have let the kids use it in the past, though they don't do it often, less so now that I keep the ball in on the porch. Two balls have disappeared and as W used to say, "Fool me once shame on me, no, wait, fool me twice shame on.... err, never mind." He looked at me and said "Can you help me move it?" It suddenly dawned on me that my sister's car was parked in front of the hoop and they would not be able to use the basketball hoop without damaging her vehicle. I said to the little scamp, "I'm sorry, I can't. You will just have to find something else to do." He said "Okay," and left. I went back to the game.
It cracked me up that he would ask me to help move it, especially when there were people at the house. I wasn't that upset; kids are generally pretty clueless about stuff like this. I think it goes back to that belief most kids have, that they are the centers of the universe. Most children do not seem to have the capacity to take into account other peoples' feelings or concerns. They are focused only on their wants and needs. I am not going to say that this is wrong, or that most children even have control over this, but to coin the phrase, it is what it is. I am not a child behavioral specialist and will never claim to be one (in life or on TV).
I have had some dealings with the neighborhood kids before. One time this girl knocked on my door and asked if I would come out and use my ladder to get a toy off of somebody's roof. When I said no, she asked if they could borrow the ladder. She gave me such a dirty look and huffed away when I said no. I almost laughed out loud. This kid was absolutely clueless. Did she really expect me to let a band of kids all under the age of twelve run around the neighborhood with a ten foot ladder? (Well maybe I would have let them if I could follow them around with a video camera.)
The kids on my block seem not to be aware of yard boundaries or the meaning of private property. I will be in the kitchen and see kids running through our back yard, even though there is a fence on one side. In fact, there always seems to be kids running around our house and through our yard. One day my wife noticed there were kids hiding behind our cars. Apparently they were playing hide and seek and our yard was in-bounds. We are also constantly confronted with kid droppings. Well, what I mean by this is that there are always toys lying on our side of the fence, which I end up tossing back over when I am leaving for work in the morning. Also there are wrappers and bottles and other garbage that ends up in our yard. My wife and I do not eat a lot of freezer pops or drink from those cheap juice boxes that have the tin foil lids. We even found some garbage stuffed in our mailbox one day. While I am mentioning mailboxes, for some reason, someone keeps leaving the door open to our mailbox, which I find increasingly annoying. These kids are getting me to the point where I just want to yell, "Hey you kids, get the hell out of my yard!" I am turning into the old curmudgeon on the block.
I grew up in a house in the woods with no immediate neighbors, and have not really lived in "the city" (well, it is a city considering my hometown of origin had more cows than people) and have to ask, is this normal child behavior? If I grew up in a more highly populated area, would I have acted the same way? Would I have felt that it would be all right to go wherever I wanted, no matters whose property it was? I even had to start locking my garage because I let the kid next door play ping pong with me and my kids once, and next thing I knew, he was letting himself and his friends in whenever he wanted. Well, until all of the balls disappeared, then they stopped going in. What would have happened if I had an endless supply of ping pong balls like Captain Kangaroo?
I guess all I am saying is that I believe wholeheartedly that my parents would have kicked my ass if I did anything like that. I would have been required to ask the owners of the house if it was okay to use their stuff or to cut across their property. I am not saying I would have been required to ask permission to walk through someone's yard, but if I was going to play games in their yard or use their stuff, I would have been required to knock on the door and ask. It is called being respectful, and is something my parents drilled into me at an early age. I was taught not to ask for things and if offered something like cookies or a delicious beverage, I should either politely refuse or just take one. I'm not saying I was perfect, or that I expect this sort of behavior from all kids, but at least a little effort would be appreciated.
To be honest with myself, I probably did a lot of the same things these kids do but I think the older you get the more delusional you get about your childhood. Times were better, all children listened to their parents, they respected their elders, worked harder and were more responsible. We live in a completely different age and things have changed a lot over the years, but I think kids stay pretty much the same. I think it is us parents that have changed. I know I am having a lot of issues with my kids, especially since I only see them two weekends a month, and I see them doing a lot of things that I am complaining about the neighborhood kids doing.
This is my fault (well, to be fair, let's not leave my ex out of this). I have not even come close to teaching them what my parents taught me. I am working on it, and they are coming around slowly, but it is hard. Society seems to reinforce that kids are entitled to everything which doesn't make it any easier. (It may be a broad generalization, but this is just my feeling and not supported by any facts that I know of.)
I think it would help if I knew the neighborhood kids' parents, but I have been here about two years and have only talked to my one neighbor (the one whose child runs amuck) about twice. I don't even know their names. Maybe if I explained what their child was doing that I objected to, they would talk to their child and try to improve his behavior. Or, they may just tell me to go f___ myself.
I guess I will try to accept that these children are just being children and that I would have done the same kind of things when I was younger (well, some of the things), and try to only concern myself when they really get out of line. Maybe I will try to get to know their parents better and maybe bring up some of my concerns subtly when I do. But until then I will keep my eyes open, keep the garage locked and whenever they are doing something that I consider "crossing the line," I will get my wife to go out and yell at them. Hey, I don't want to be the old cranky guy that yells at the neighborhood kids!
Wednesday nights at the LeMaire house are gaming nights and this past Wednesday was no exception. We had a full house that evening with my sister and her husband, a friend from work and his girlfriend, and the person that I would consider my best friend (well, the one I do not have sex with). The driveways were full of cars and we were all gathered around the table playing/socializing (sometimes it is hard to differentiate) and having a good time. We had been playing for about an hour when there was a knock on the door, and on my porch was one of the neighborhood rapscallions.
"Can we use your basketball hoop?" he asked me, in a sweet innocent cherubic voice. I responded with a "Yeah, sure." We have a cheap basketball hoop that has a base full of water for weight and wheels on the front so you can easily move it around. I have it set up on the paved driveway and tucked to the side so we can still park. I have let the kids use it in the past, though they don't do it often, less so now that I keep the ball in on the porch. Two balls have disappeared and as W used to say, "Fool me once shame on me, no, wait, fool me twice shame on.... err, never mind." He looked at me and said "Can you help me move it?" It suddenly dawned on me that my sister's car was parked in front of the hoop and they would not be able to use the basketball hoop without damaging her vehicle. I said to the little scamp, "I'm sorry, I can't. You will just have to find something else to do." He said "Okay," and left. I went back to the game.
It cracked me up that he would ask me to help move it, especially when there were people at the house. I wasn't that upset; kids are generally pretty clueless about stuff like this. I think it goes back to that belief most kids have, that they are the centers of the universe. Most children do not seem to have the capacity to take into account other peoples' feelings or concerns. They are focused only on their wants and needs. I am not going to say that this is wrong, or that most children even have control over this, but to coin the phrase, it is what it is. I am not a child behavioral specialist and will never claim to be one (in life or on TV).
I have had some dealings with the neighborhood kids before. One time this girl knocked on my door and asked if I would come out and use my ladder to get a toy off of somebody's roof. When I said no, she asked if they could borrow the ladder. She gave me such a dirty look and huffed away when I said no. I almost laughed out loud. This kid was absolutely clueless. Did she really expect me to let a band of kids all under the age of twelve run around the neighborhood with a ten foot ladder? (Well maybe I would have let them if I could follow them around with a video camera.)
The kids on my block seem not to be aware of yard boundaries or the meaning of private property. I will be in the kitchen and see kids running through our back yard, even though there is a fence on one side. In fact, there always seems to be kids running around our house and through our yard. One day my wife noticed there were kids hiding behind our cars. Apparently they were playing hide and seek and our yard was in-bounds. We are also constantly confronted with kid droppings. Well, what I mean by this is that there are always toys lying on our side of the fence, which I end up tossing back over when I am leaving for work in the morning. Also there are wrappers and bottles and other garbage that ends up in our yard. My wife and I do not eat a lot of freezer pops or drink from those cheap juice boxes that have the tin foil lids. We even found some garbage stuffed in our mailbox one day. While I am mentioning mailboxes, for some reason, someone keeps leaving the door open to our mailbox, which I find increasingly annoying. These kids are getting me to the point where I just want to yell, "Hey you kids, get the hell out of my yard!" I am turning into the old curmudgeon on the block.
I grew up in a house in the woods with no immediate neighbors, and have not really lived in "the city" (well, it is a city considering my hometown of origin had more cows than people) and have to ask, is this normal child behavior? If I grew up in a more highly populated area, would I have acted the same way? Would I have felt that it would be all right to go wherever I wanted, no matters whose property it was? I even had to start locking my garage because I let the kid next door play ping pong with me and my kids once, and next thing I knew, he was letting himself and his friends in whenever he wanted. Well, until all of the balls disappeared, then they stopped going in. What would have happened if I had an endless supply of ping pong balls like Captain Kangaroo?
I guess all I am saying is that I believe wholeheartedly that my parents would have kicked my ass if I did anything like that. I would have been required to ask the owners of the house if it was okay to use their stuff or to cut across their property. I am not saying I would have been required to ask permission to walk through someone's yard, but if I was going to play games in their yard or use their stuff, I would have been required to knock on the door and ask. It is called being respectful, and is something my parents drilled into me at an early age. I was taught not to ask for things and if offered something like cookies or a delicious beverage, I should either politely refuse or just take one. I'm not saying I was perfect, or that I expect this sort of behavior from all kids, but at least a little effort would be appreciated.
To be honest with myself, I probably did a lot of the same things these kids do but I think the older you get the more delusional you get about your childhood. Times were better, all children listened to their parents, they respected their elders, worked harder and were more responsible. We live in a completely different age and things have changed a lot over the years, but I think kids stay pretty much the same. I think it is us parents that have changed. I know I am having a lot of issues with my kids, especially since I only see them two weekends a month, and I see them doing a lot of things that I am complaining about the neighborhood kids doing.
This is my fault (well, to be fair, let's not leave my ex out of this). I have not even come close to teaching them what my parents taught me. I am working on it, and they are coming around slowly, but it is hard. Society seems to reinforce that kids are entitled to everything which doesn't make it any easier. (It may be a broad generalization, but this is just my feeling and not supported by any facts that I know of.)
I think it would help if I knew the neighborhood kids' parents, but I have been here about two years and have only talked to my one neighbor (the one whose child runs amuck) about twice. I don't even know their names. Maybe if I explained what their child was doing that I objected to, they would talk to their child and try to improve his behavior. Or, they may just tell me to go f___ myself.
I guess I will try to accept that these children are just being children and that I would have done the same kind of things when I was younger (well, some of the things), and try to only concern myself when they really get out of line. Maybe I will try to get to know their parents better and maybe bring up some of my concerns subtly when I do. But until then I will keep my eyes open, keep the garage locked and whenever they are doing something that I consider "crossing the line," I will get my wife to go out and yell at them. Hey, I don't want to be the old cranky guy that yells at the neighborhood kids!
Wednesday, June 20, 2012
On How I Got the Beetus, Pt. 1
For anyone who has known me for any amount of time, it will probably come as no shock that I have Type 2 Diabetes, or the Beetus, as I like to call it (Thanks Mr. Brimley!). Even though I am young, 41 years old last March, my diet has never been very healthy. I have always had a sweet tooth (well actually 32 sweet teeth, but who's counting). I had poured near endless amounts of carbonated sugar water down my throat and Little Debbie and I had always been close friends. Cookies, candy (in particular jelly beans), donuts, cereal, candy (Did I mention candy? Well it's worth repeating!) all have been consumed with much love and enjoyment. The thing that I love the most, however is cake.
I looooove cake. Anyway you want to serve it to me, any cake to frosting combination you choose will be devoured happily. I am weird in that I am less a fan of frosting as I am of cake, and have even been known to scrape off some of the frosting if I feel there is too much. I love cake so much that on one occasion at work, I actually picked up a piece of cake that I dropped and still ate it, even though it landed frosting side down. To this day people will say to me "Remember that time you ate the cake off the floor?" I do, and I feel no shame. With cake, the 10 second rule is extended to a full minute and a half.
Now even though I love all cake, I do have my favorites. One of my favorites has always been my friend's mother's 9 Serving Chocolate Pudding cake. Oh My God! I even refuse to use the popular acronym that all the kids are using in their tweets and text messaging these days. The cake is divine. We always referred to it as the 9 Serving Cake because that was how many it supposedly contained according to the recipe. Well it may have been 9 servings for your average person,but for me, it was 4, if that. Once, on a dare, I polished off all 9 servings all by myself. I'm not going to say that I was ready to do the Safety Dance after that, but I was in a state of chocolate-induced nirvana. The cake itself was made in the microwave and it was delicious chocolate cake on the outside, and a molten pudding like substance on the inside. And where the two layers met, it was orgasmic! Now one of the items required to make it was paper towels. They were required to keep the cake from splattering all over the microwave, I believe, although I never asked. I never cared. It was all about the cake!
One night, I was sitting at home when I received a call from my friend. He said that his mother had all the ingredients to make the cake, except the paper towels. If I had the towels and could bring them over by 9 pm, she would make the cake for me. I don't even know if I even answered him, or just ran straight to the cupboard to grab some paper towels. I don't even remember if I hung up the phone or if I left it dangling from its cord (or maybe I hung it up with my mind?) Yes kids, our phones still had cords back in those days.
Let me take one second to explain my friend's family and my relationship with them. When I got my license and a car, I spent a good deal of my time at their house. This was primarily because it was kind of the opposite of my house. That is not to say that I in anyway did not love or want to be around my parents, but at my house my parents were... well, my parents. I did not swear and certainly kept my raunchy and inappropriate sense of humor to myself. At my friend's house, however, his parents were more like my friends and I could act more like myself. I said and did things there that I would never say in front of my parents. (If blogging had been around back then, I would have happily let my friend's parents read my posts, and would have been horrified if my parents had read them.)
I told my mother I was heading over, jumped in my car and quickly drove over to their house. They lived about 10 minutes away, normally, but I pushed my little Plymouth Champ for all it was worth (about $3.57). The clock was ticking! After driving like a maniac, I pulled up in front of the house. I usually parked the car on their front lawn next to the road (where I still park when I stop by for a visit, which is not nearly often enough). I leaped out of the car and dashed for the door. To be honest, I don't even remember if I shut my door or even turned the headlights off. I grabbed the paper towels like a football and charged towards the door. Now the truth of the matter was that I was probably there with plenty of time to spare. I was also aware that my friend's mother would have cooked me the cake even if I was 20 minutes late, but I do like to make an entrance!
As I came up to the house, I saw one of my friend's brothers was holding the door open, cheering me on. Well, being the idiot that I was and a complete and utter ham, I dove head first right on through. Now, their front door opens directly into their kitchen, which is linoleumed. I hit that linoleum and kept right on sliding. I felt like Frosty the Snowman belly-whopping down the hill. I can even hear Jimmy Durante saying that "Because John was a chubby little guy, he was the best linoleum-whopper, in the world." I almost smashed my head and took out their lower cabinets. But, it got a big laugh, which I was hoping for. Well, as per the deal, I arrived on time and was rewarded with one of the greatest cakes ever created. This proved to me that the road to the Beetus is sometimes paved with good intentions and linoleum.
I looooove cake. Anyway you want to serve it to me, any cake to frosting combination you choose will be devoured happily. I am weird in that I am less a fan of frosting as I am of cake, and have even been known to scrape off some of the frosting if I feel there is too much. I love cake so much that on one occasion at work, I actually picked up a piece of cake that I dropped and still ate it, even though it landed frosting side down. To this day people will say to me "Remember that time you ate the cake off the floor?" I do, and I feel no shame. With cake, the 10 second rule is extended to a full minute and a half.
Now even though I love all cake, I do have my favorites. One of my favorites has always been my friend's mother's 9 Serving Chocolate Pudding cake. Oh My God! I even refuse to use the popular acronym that all the kids are using in their tweets and text messaging these days. The cake is divine. We always referred to it as the 9 Serving Cake because that was how many it supposedly contained according to the recipe. Well it may have been 9 servings for your average person,but for me, it was 4, if that. Once, on a dare, I polished off all 9 servings all by myself. I'm not going to say that I was ready to do the Safety Dance after that, but I was in a state of chocolate-induced nirvana. The cake itself was made in the microwave and it was delicious chocolate cake on the outside, and a molten pudding like substance on the inside. And where the two layers met, it was orgasmic! Now one of the items required to make it was paper towels. They were required to keep the cake from splattering all over the microwave, I believe, although I never asked. I never cared. It was all about the cake!
One night, I was sitting at home when I received a call from my friend. He said that his mother had all the ingredients to make the cake, except the paper towels. If I had the towels and could bring them over by 9 pm, she would make the cake for me. I don't even know if I even answered him, or just ran straight to the cupboard to grab some paper towels. I don't even remember if I hung up the phone or if I left it dangling from its cord (or maybe I hung it up with my mind?) Yes kids, our phones still had cords back in those days.
Let me take one second to explain my friend's family and my relationship with them. When I got my license and a car, I spent a good deal of my time at their house. This was primarily because it was kind of the opposite of my house. That is not to say that I in anyway did not love or want to be around my parents, but at my house my parents were... well, my parents. I did not swear and certainly kept my raunchy and inappropriate sense of humor to myself. At my friend's house, however, his parents were more like my friends and I could act more like myself. I said and did things there that I would never say in front of my parents. (If blogging had been around back then, I would have happily let my friend's parents read my posts, and would have been horrified if my parents had read them.)
I told my mother I was heading over, jumped in my car and quickly drove over to their house. They lived about 10 minutes away, normally, but I pushed my little Plymouth Champ for all it was worth (about $3.57). The clock was ticking! After driving like a maniac, I pulled up in front of the house. I usually parked the car on their front lawn next to the road (where I still park when I stop by for a visit, which is not nearly often enough). I leaped out of the car and dashed for the door. To be honest, I don't even remember if I shut my door or even turned the headlights off. I grabbed the paper towels like a football and charged towards the door. Now the truth of the matter was that I was probably there with plenty of time to spare. I was also aware that my friend's mother would have cooked me the cake even if I was 20 minutes late, but I do like to make an entrance!
As I came up to the house, I saw one of my friend's brothers was holding the door open, cheering me on. Well, being the idiot that I was and a complete and utter ham, I dove head first right on through. Now, their front door opens directly into their kitchen, which is linoleumed. I hit that linoleum and kept right on sliding. I felt like Frosty the Snowman belly-whopping down the hill. I can even hear Jimmy Durante saying that "Because John was a chubby little guy, he was the best linoleum-whopper, in the world." I almost smashed my head and took out their lower cabinets. But, it got a big laugh, which I was hoping for. Well, as per the deal, I arrived on time and was rewarded with one of the greatest cakes ever created. This proved to me that the road to the Beetus is sometimes paved with good intentions and linoleum.
Monday, June 18, 2012
On Auto Fill-in-the-Blank
Well, once again, I thought I'd take the plunge, and go back to the toilet humor (plunge... a pun.... hahaha I am soooo witty.) Today I thought I would talk about the way automatic appliances/fixtures have taken over my bathroom at work.
The building where I work is brand new. Well, brand new when we moved into it 3-4 years ago (I honestly can't remember when it was). That means all of the appliances/fixtures in the restrooms are also brand new and state of the art. We have auto flush toilets, auto faucets and auto paper towel dispensers. They must have run out of money on all the other stuff because they skimped on the auto soap dispensers.
Now I am of mixed minds about the whole auto fill-in-the-blank technology in the rest room. I am sure it is designed to do two things: one is to prevent waste and the other is to help prevent the spread of germs. I would like to say I cared about our company saving money, but I have a strong feeling that even if they did, the savings would not be passed down to us employees. We will never get an e-mail saying that we are getting a 5% raise because we used less water for the year. And when it comes to germs, I am not afraid of them, bring 'em on! If someone comes on the news and says that the Bubonic Plague is going around and that people are contracting it from toilet handles, maybe I would be more excited that I did not have to handle anything on the toilet (well, there are some things I will always have to handle, but I will leave it at that). I believe that we need to be exposed to as many germs as possible in order to strengthen our immunities. Besides, until they put automatic doors on the restrooms, aren't all the precautions we are taking to avoid germs cancelled out after we use the handles to leave?
Let me analyze each of the items that we have in the restroom at work.
First there is the auto flush toilet. Now, for the sake of laziness, there is no finer device. We come in, we sit down, we take care of business and it's off to wash up (obviously there are more steps, but I am trying to keep it simple). No more turning around and pulling that pesky lever. I wonder if the person who invented the toilet (I actually looked this up real quick on Wikipedia and they said it was really not one person but gave a list of contributors dating back to 31 BC. See, my blog just became educational! Maybe I can get a grant!) ever dreamed of a day when the toilets would flush themselves. I would totally rip into this more saying how pathetic it is that someone actually felt it was necessary to make us exert even less energy on the toilet (though I must confess I have had a few exhausting struggles on the can, so that saved energy can be useful on occasion) and then I remembered kids.
Not nice, well behaved children, but the evil, destructive little bastards who shove a whole roll of toilet paper down the toilet and flush it until it overflows. This happens more commonly in big stores and the occasional fast food restaurant. I am sure auto flush helps reduce this activity a little bit as the button is much less convenient to press than yanking that lever over and over again. Also, in the past I have gone to drop the kids off at the pool and found that the pool was already in use by someone else's kids. Another positive for the auto flush. As a rule, I'm not a big fan of seeing other people's waste products. Though I do have a nice picture from a friend of mine who photographed her poop when it came out in the shape of a smiley face, but that is a rare exception, and one hell of a way to start the day!
But the auto flush toilet is also a bit of a pain for me. First of all, there are the false alarm flushes. That is when the toilet just randomly flushes while you're sitting on it. I used to have a light grey t-shirt that I would wear to work, and whenever I was on the throne it always seemed to set the toilet to flushing when I moved. Maybe because the walls were silver? I'm not sure. I also wonder if I am the only one who feels like I am going to get sucked in like some cartoon character when it flushes and I am on it? Me, slowly spinning round and round before being sucked down the drain with a popping sound. And let us not forget the fact that sometimes there is a little splash of water as it goes down the drain and that water is not always very "clean." I find this very disconcerting.
The little button is also not as easy to reach for the cover flush. I don't know about you, but I get a little embarrassed when I am having some "issues" and it sounds like I am strangling a seal in my stall. (Maybe strangling a seal is the wrong phrase, it sounds more like a euphemism for masturbation.) If I am having some "issues" and there are other people about, I will often push the button and launch the first sortie of my fecal assault in unison. (Sometimes I can use someone else's flush to disguise my sounds, and save me having to flush, but the conditions and timing have to be perfect.) I have also been known to give a mid-deed flush when the level of smell gets to the point where even I am offended. It usually helps a little, at least that is what I say to myself. But really only a can of Lysol (or some napalm) can eliminate the odor.
And on a side note, does anyone actually use the paper toilet seat covers? And are you supposed to flush them when you are done? I have stared at the box and can see no posted directions. I always thought that, if ever there came a time when there was no TP to be found, I could wipe with one of these. So far, it has never happened, but I think of it as my little parachute! (Actually my wife just informed that she does use them. Maybe I'm the weirdo?)
My biggest complaint with the auto toilet is its non-flushing fake out that I always seem to fall for. It is that moment where I finish, pull everything back up to its appropriate place and head out to the sinks. I stop because the toilet did not flush, and I think that something has gone wrong. I am going to have to go back and manually flush it. Then, as I turn around and make my first step to do this, it flushes in a rather mocking tone. Aaargh! Auto flush toilet, you task me! Or have you ever gone to the bathroom, got up and headed to the sink and then realized that the toilet wasn't actually an auto flush toilet? Then comes the walk of shame back to pull the lever (at least you get to say one last farewell to your post digested friends.)
Next we have the auto faucet, and I really don't have a lot to say about these. They do make me feel a bit like a surgeon scrubbing up for a big operation. I often hold my arms up, covered in soap waiting for someone to glove me. (Wait, that could be taken the wrong way.) The thing I get the most frustrated with is when they can't seem to register your hands as you wave them frantically under the sensor to make the water come out. You start to wonder if is it broken? Is there something wrong with my hands? Does this faucet hate me? Then, just when you give up and are pulling your hand away it kicks on. For a second, and then kicks right off and you repeat the process.
The thing I hate most about the auto faucets, and this is similar to what I said about the toilets, only I have done it a hundred times more with the sink, is this. When I put my hand under the faucet and wait, and wait, and no water comes out. I wave my hand and still nothing. I start thinking very unfriendly thoughts about this sink and get very annoyed by yet more failed technology. Then I realize that it is not an auto-faucet. Then I feel like an idiot.
Next, in logical order, is the auto towel dispenser. This is the item that I dislike the most in the bathroom, primarily because it is the thing that seems to give me the most trouble. You wave your hands in front of it and nothing happens. You wave again, Nothing happens. You wave a third time, then hit the sensor and if you're lucky, it spits out a couple of inches of paper. The thing jams more often than the printers we use out on the floor. The difference being that the printers have little doors that you can open to unjam the paper. In the towel dispenser you are forced to try to stick your fingers into that tiny space where the jagged metal strip (the one you use to tear the paper) is. You try to catch a bit of paper with enough of your finger tips to be able to pull some out or get it back on track. I have been tempted on many occasions to just go all incredible hulk on the thing and rip it from the wall. But then I remember, I can just do what I always do and just wipe the left over water on my pants/shirt.
In general, technology is here to make our lives easier and help some people save money. Whether this is true of all the contraptions we have in the bathroom, I cannot say. They certainly free me up to devote more of my time to thinking of these strange ramblings and not having to worry about... oh I can't even finish the sentence. The mere seconds these devices save me, seems hardly worth it to me. Therefore the company must be saving money. Yay for them! (I am looking for the font Sarcasm Times Bold, but failing.) In fact, I feel like I have lost control of something that should be as inalienable as my right to bear arms and to free speech. I should feel empowered when I step into the bathroom, but now I feel emasculated. OK, that may be an exaggeration. In general it has made life a little bit easier, and you have to admit the germophobes have got to be happy!
But where do we go from here? I say seats that shoot jets of air and let us hover an inch above the seat. That way we don't have to touch the seats at all. How about auto wipe technology? (Actually, Europe already has these, they are called the bidets.)What ever it is, someone is out there working on it and our kids will look at us like we are from mars when we say, "When we were young we had to actually go in, sit down, go to the bathroom, wipe, flush, pump a soap dispenser, turn a faucet knob, rub our hands together to lather them up, rinse our hands, turn a knob to get some paper, dry are hands, throw the towel in the garbage and push open the door when we were done." Wow, when you type it out, it does sound exhausting!
The building where I work is brand new. Well, brand new when we moved into it 3-4 years ago (I honestly can't remember when it was). That means all of the appliances/fixtures in the restrooms are also brand new and state of the art. We have auto flush toilets, auto faucets and auto paper towel dispensers. They must have run out of money on all the other stuff because they skimped on the auto soap dispensers.
Now I am of mixed minds about the whole auto fill-in-the-blank technology in the rest room. I am sure it is designed to do two things: one is to prevent waste and the other is to help prevent the spread of germs. I would like to say I cared about our company saving money, but I have a strong feeling that even if they did, the savings would not be passed down to us employees. We will never get an e-mail saying that we are getting a 5% raise because we used less water for the year. And when it comes to germs, I am not afraid of them, bring 'em on! If someone comes on the news and says that the Bubonic Plague is going around and that people are contracting it from toilet handles, maybe I would be more excited that I did not have to handle anything on the toilet (well, there are some things I will always have to handle, but I will leave it at that). I believe that we need to be exposed to as many germs as possible in order to strengthen our immunities. Besides, until they put automatic doors on the restrooms, aren't all the precautions we are taking to avoid germs cancelled out after we use the handles to leave?
Let me analyze each of the items that we have in the restroom at work.
First there is the auto flush toilet. Now, for the sake of laziness, there is no finer device. We come in, we sit down, we take care of business and it's off to wash up (obviously there are more steps, but I am trying to keep it simple). No more turning around and pulling that pesky lever. I wonder if the person who invented the toilet (I actually looked this up real quick on Wikipedia and they said it was really not one person but gave a list of contributors dating back to 31 BC. See, my blog just became educational! Maybe I can get a grant!) ever dreamed of a day when the toilets would flush themselves. I would totally rip into this more saying how pathetic it is that someone actually felt it was necessary to make us exert even less energy on the toilet (though I must confess I have had a few exhausting struggles on the can, so that saved energy can be useful on occasion) and then I remembered kids.
Not nice, well behaved children, but the evil, destructive little bastards who shove a whole roll of toilet paper down the toilet and flush it until it overflows. This happens more commonly in big stores and the occasional fast food restaurant. I am sure auto flush helps reduce this activity a little bit as the button is much less convenient to press than yanking that lever over and over again. Also, in the past I have gone to drop the kids off at the pool and found that the pool was already in use by someone else's kids. Another positive for the auto flush. As a rule, I'm not a big fan of seeing other people's waste products. Though I do have a nice picture from a friend of mine who photographed her poop when it came out in the shape of a smiley face, but that is a rare exception, and one hell of a way to start the day!
But the auto flush toilet is also a bit of a pain for me. First of all, there are the false alarm flushes. That is when the toilet just randomly flushes while you're sitting on it. I used to have a light grey t-shirt that I would wear to work, and whenever I was on the throne it always seemed to set the toilet to flushing when I moved. Maybe because the walls were silver? I'm not sure. I also wonder if I am the only one who feels like I am going to get sucked in like some cartoon character when it flushes and I am on it? Me, slowly spinning round and round before being sucked down the drain with a popping sound. And let us not forget the fact that sometimes there is a little splash of water as it goes down the drain and that water is not always very "clean." I find this very disconcerting.
The little button is also not as easy to reach for the cover flush. I don't know about you, but I get a little embarrassed when I am having some "issues" and it sounds like I am strangling a seal in my stall. (Maybe strangling a seal is the wrong phrase, it sounds more like a euphemism for masturbation.) If I am having some "issues" and there are other people about, I will often push the button and launch the first sortie of my fecal assault in unison. (Sometimes I can use someone else's flush to disguise my sounds, and save me having to flush, but the conditions and timing have to be perfect.) I have also been known to give a mid-deed flush when the level of smell gets to the point where even I am offended. It usually helps a little, at least that is what I say to myself. But really only a can of Lysol (or some napalm) can eliminate the odor.
And on a side note, does anyone actually use the paper toilet seat covers? And are you supposed to flush them when you are done? I have stared at the box and can see no posted directions. I always thought that, if ever there came a time when there was no TP to be found, I could wipe with one of these. So far, it has never happened, but I think of it as my little parachute! (Actually my wife just informed that she does use them. Maybe I'm the weirdo?)
My biggest complaint with the auto toilet is its non-flushing fake out that I always seem to fall for. It is that moment where I finish, pull everything back up to its appropriate place and head out to the sinks. I stop because the toilet did not flush, and I think that something has gone wrong. I am going to have to go back and manually flush it. Then, as I turn around and make my first step to do this, it flushes in a rather mocking tone. Aaargh! Auto flush toilet, you task me! Or have you ever gone to the bathroom, got up and headed to the sink and then realized that the toilet wasn't actually an auto flush toilet? Then comes the walk of shame back to pull the lever (at least you get to say one last farewell to your post digested friends.)
Next we have the auto faucet, and I really don't have a lot to say about these. They do make me feel a bit like a surgeon scrubbing up for a big operation. I often hold my arms up, covered in soap waiting for someone to glove me. (Wait, that could be taken the wrong way.) The thing I get the most frustrated with is when they can't seem to register your hands as you wave them frantically under the sensor to make the water come out. You start to wonder if is it broken? Is there something wrong with my hands? Does this faucet hate me? Then, just when you give up and are pulling your hand away it kicks on. For a second, and then kicks right off and you repeat the process.
The thing I hate most about the auto faucets, and this is similar to what I said about the toilets, only I have done it a hundred times more with the sink, is this. When I put my hand under the faucet and wait, and wait, and no water comes out. I wave my hand and still nothing. I start thinking very unfriendly thoughts about this sink and get very annoyed by yet more failed technology. Then I realize that it is not an auto-faucet. Then I feel like an idiot.
Next, in logical order, is the auto towel dispenser. This is the item that I dislike the most in the bathroom, primarily because it is the thing that seems to give me the most trouble. You wave your hands in front of it and nothing happens. You wave again, Nothing happens. You wave a third time, then hit the sensor and if you're lucky, it spits out a couple of inches of paper. The thing jams more often than the printers we use out on the floor. The difference being that the printers have little doors that you can open to unjam the paper. In the towel dispenser you are forced to try to stick your fingers into that tiny space where the jagged metal strip (the one you use to tear the paper) is. You try to catch a bit of paper with enough of your finger tips to be able to pull some out or get it back on track. I have been tempted on many occasions to just go all incredible hulk on the thing and rip it from the wall. But then I remember, I can just do what I always do and just wipe the left over water on my pants/shirt.
In general, technology is here to make our lives easier and help some people save money. Whether this is true of all the contraptions we have in the bathroom, I cannot say. They certainly free me up to devote more of my time to thinking of these strange ramblings and not having to worry about... oh I can't even finish the sentence. The mere seconds these devices save me, seems hardly worth it to me. Therefore the company must be saving money. Yay for them! (I am looking for the font Sarcasm Times Bold, but failing.) In fact, I feel like I have lost control of something that should be as inalienable as my right to bear arms and to free speech. I should feel empowered when I step into the bathroom, but now I feel emasculated. OK, that may be an exaggeration. In general it has made life a little bit easier, and you have to admit the germophobes have got to be happy!
But where do we go from here? I say seats that shoot jets of air and let us hover an inch above the seat. That way we don't have to touch the seats at all. How about auto wipe technology? (Actually, Europe already has these, they are called the bidets.)What ever it is, someone is out there working on it and our kids will look at us like we are from mars when we say, "When we were young we had to actually go in, sit down, go to the bathroom, wipe, flush, pump a soap dispenser, turn a faucet knob, rub our hands together to lather them up, rinse our hands, turn a knob to get some paper, dry are hands, throw the towel in the garbage and push open the door when we were done." Wow, when you type it out, it does sound exhausting!
Friday, June 15, 2012
On Parents and Pedistals
With fathers day coming up I started thinking about my father. Shortly after that I started thinking about fathers in general. This thought finally got me to thinking about both parents. Where am I going with this? Well let's start here. My father is dead. He died in 1994 at the age of 45. I was in Memphis, Tennessee when I got the call and I will have to say that it was the saddest moment of my life. The only thing that has come close in my life, so far, is the moment I realized that, because I was diagnosed with type 2 diabetes, I could not eat endless amounts of cake and candy. Thanks Wilford Brimley and your damn diabeetus. (or I think I will just call it the beetus for now on)
I was in Memphis because I had gotten accepted into the Memphis College of Arts Masters program and moved down there to further my education (or maybe it was to avoid real life for another 2-3 years). Right before I was to leave for grad school, my girlfriend at the time, somehow convinced me that we should sneak off and get married. (I am still convinced she used a Jedi mind trick on me, maybe she was a Sith Lord!) We did elope, and I really hurt my parents (and myself as it turned out) in the process. The way we broke the news to them was also very crappy. I will probably write about this another time so I won't get into too much detail at this point.
I took a plane down, got settled in my apartment and started school. Things were going fine and then my wife decided that she wanted to come down as well, even though we had agreed that this wasn't a good idea. I needed to focus on school and that had been part of the conditions when we got married. After she arrived it did not take me long to come to the conclusion that something had to give. I had a job, was trying to go to school and trying to give my new wife the attention she expected. So I decided to drop out of school. (and now have an extra $9,000 in debt and nothing to show for it.) I'm not saying it was my ex-wife's fault I left school, I'm just saying she did not help me stay there.
My ex-wife and I had decided that we should move back to New York for a tactical retreat. It seemed the best option as I was no longer going to school and was working a crappy job testing circuit boards and for some reason she could not get a job a full time job, but I am not judging (well, maybe a little). It was about a week before we were planning on moving back when I got the call. Actually, we had shut the phone off already and I received a note from someone in the apartments office saying there had been a death in the family. As I walked to the laundry mat to use the pay phone, I was, I am a little ashamed to say, mentally running through the list of possible family members and how I would react to each of them. I figured it was my grandmother or one of my older family members. Never in a million years did I think I was going to hear my mother say "It was your father." I was devastated and I broke down right there in the laundry mat. This will be one of the few kind words I will say about my ex, but she insisted on coming with me to make the call and helped me get through that terrible moment. (and let me tell you, it was hard to even give her even this much credit, but it is only fair.)
But anyway, now that I have thoroughly depressed anyone who is still reading, as I look back, I have to say my feelings are pretty divided on my father's passing. I am not saying that I am in any way happy he is gone. I would give almost anything for him to still be here with us today, for him to be an active part of his grandchildren's lives, but his early passing has left him on that pedestal we all put our parents on when we are younger.
What is this pedestal of which I speak? Let me explain. My father will always be just my father. He will be just my dad. I never got to know him as Bob. The wonderful flawed human being that he was. He will remain, locked into this fictitious image of the father and husband who could do no wrong. Now my mother and I have gotten closer since I left my ex-wife. We lived together briefly and I really got to know her as a person. She is now someone I can swear in front of (though, I still tone it down quite a bit, some habits die hard), tell a raunchy joke or two and basically treat her as both my friend and my mother. She is not completely off the pedestal, and I think most parents will and should remain on one, but she is definitely down a tier or two from the perfect mother I always envisioned.
She has told me stories of my father when he was young, marital problems they had and even the fact that she threatened leave him if he didn't stop smoking the marijuana at one point in their relationship. The father on my pedestal didn't do things like that. Couldn't do things like that. My father never did drugs or got drunk. He was my little league coach. He helped teach me to drive. He worked hard to make sure our family had everything we needed. He was that superhero that was there when I needed him. The man that was so proud of me when I graduated college. Someone who always made me feel loved. It is hard to picture him being anything but perfect but I never got to really know him.
A good friend of mine lost his father recently and it also made me think. He had more time with his father than I did but they did not have a good relationship. His father did not approve of his life style and a lot of his life choices, or so I gathered by things my friend has said. Would that have happened to me? Would I like the person my father was? Would he like the person I'd become? Is quantity of time spent with someone better than quality? We always got along growing up, I was never a child who got in my parents' face and went toe to toe with them. I remember a few times that my father was not happy with me. I even remember him calling me up at college one year to remind me to wish my mother a happy mother's day. He sounded annoyed that I hadn't done it already. I never told him that it was a little before noon and I hadn't even gotten out of bed yet (aaah the life of a college student!). I had not forgotten. I was very lazy as a kid (Me lazy? I don't believe it!) and I am sure that drove my father nuts on many occasions. But overall we had a good relationship.
I know he wasn't a big fan of my music. The only band that he would let me play when he rode in my car was the Ramones. He did not seem to enjoy GWAR. Really? With such classic songs as Maggots, I Want to Kill You and Preschool Prostitute? There is no accounting for taste. I am not saying he was a big fan of Joey and the boys, but they did a cover of Palisades Park (he told me that was one of his favorite songs) that he found acceptable and the Ramones do have a 50's surf rock feel in many of their songs which he was all right with. It was something I felt and still feel a connection with my father for and think of him every time I play Palisades Park.
Whether it is better to have a parent remain on their pedestal forever or risk the possibility of them falling from grace and becoming someone we can not look up to is something I can not say. Part of me loves him up there in the Superdad pose, hands on his hip and cape flapping in the breeze. The other part wanted to hear all about his mistakes first hand. To find out what he would have done differently in his life as man and as a father. To have a conversation, adult to adult (as loathe as I am to admit that I am one), or should I say a father to father would have been priceless. But our time together was way too short and that conversation will never be. (unless their are any mediums in the audience? Whoopi from Ghost? Crossing Over guy? Patricia Arquette?)
A child needs to know that their parents have made mistakes in their lives and done things that they regretted. They also need to know that their parents were able to learn from them and be old enough to appreciate the wisdom that their parents received. I could tell my thirteen year old about the time I got the rental van up to 110 mph on the move from Tennessee to New York, and all he'd probably think was "I bet I could get it to 111." He would probably not say "Gee dad, that was reckless. You could have killed yourself or another driver."
I hope to be on a pedestal myself someday, maybe I already am. (though I wonder how much of a fall I took when I left their mother and, probably in their hearts and minds, them as well) If I am, I hope I will have the opportunity to step down and tell them the many tales of my stupidity. Tell them the countless mistakes I have made over the years. Let them know that when it all comes down to it, I am just a man, like my father, wonderfully flawed. I also hope to sit down with my kids when they have grown and say I love you and am proud of you, just like I am sure my dad would have done, if he were alive today.
I love you dad. Happy fathers day!
I was in Memphis because I had gotten accepted into the Memphis College of Arts Masters program and moved down there to further my education (or maybe it was to avoid real life for another 2-3 years). Right before I was to leave for grad school, my girlfriend at the time, somehow convinced me that we should sneak off and get married. (I am still convinced she used a Jedi mind trick on me, maybe she was a Sith Lord!) We did elope, and I really hurt my parents (and myself as it turned out) in the process. The way we broke the news to them was also very crappy. I will probably write about this another time so I won't get into too much detail at this point.
I took a plane down, got settled in my apartment and started school. Things were going fine and then my wife decided that she wanted to come down as well, even though we had agreed that this wasn't a good idea. I needed to focus on school and that had been part of the conditions when we got married. After she arrived it did not take me long to come to the conclusion that something had to give. I had a job, was trying to go to school and trying to give my new wife the attention she expected. So I decided to drop out of school. (and now have an extra $9,000 in debt and nothing to show for it.) I'm not saying it was my ex-wife's fault I left school, I'm just saying she did not help me stay there.
My ex-wife and I had decided that we should move back to New York for a tactical retreat. It seemed the best option as I was no longer going to school and was working a crappy job testing circuit boards and for some reason she could not get a job a full time job, but I am not judging (well, maybe a little). It was about a week before we were planning on moving back when I got the call. Actually, we had shut the phone off already and I received a note from someone in the apartments office saying there had been a death in the family. As I walked to the laundry mat to use the pay phone, I was, I am a little ashamed to say, mentally running through the list of possible family members and how I would react to each of them. I figured it was my grandmother or one of my older family members. Never in a million years did I think I was going to hear my mother say "It was your father." I was devastated and I broke down right there in the laundry mat. This will be one of the few kind words I will say about my ex, but she insisted on coming with me to make the call and helped me get through that terrible moment. (and let me tell you, it was hard to even give her even this much credit, but it is only fair.)
But anyway, now that I have thoroughly depressed anyone who is still reading, as I look back, I have to say my feelings are pretty divided on my father's passing. I am not saying that I am in any way happy he is gone. I would give almost anything for him to still be here with us today, for him to be an active part of his grandchildren's lives, but his early passing has left him on that pedestal we all put our parents on when we are younger.
What is this pedestal of which I speak? Let me explain. My father will always be just my father. He will be just my dad. I never got to know him as Bob. The wonderful flawed human being that he was. He will remain, locked into this fictitious image of the father and husband who could do no wrong. Now my mother and I have gotten closer since I left my ex-wife. We lived together briefly and I really got to know her as a person. She is now someone I can swear in front of (though, I still tone it down quite a bit, some habits die hard), tell a raunchy joke or two and basically treat her as both my friend and my mother. She is not completely off the pedestal, and I think most parents will and should remain on one, but she is definitely down a tier or two from the perfect mother I always envisioned.
She has told me stories of my father when he was young, marital problems they had and even the fact that she threatened leave him if he didn't stop smoking the marijuana at one point in their relationship. The father on my pedestal didn't do things like that. Couldn't do things like that. My father never did drugs or got drunk. He was my little league coach. He helped teach me to drive. He worked hard to make sure our family had everything we needed. He was that superhero that was there when I needed him. The man that was so proud of me when I graduated college. Someone who always made me feel loved. It is hard to picture him being anything but perfect but I never got to really know him.
A good friend of mine lost his father recently and it also made me think. He had more time with his father than I did but they did not have a good relationship. His father did not approve of his life style and a lot of his life choices, or so I gathered by things my friend has said. Would that have happened to me? Would I like the person my father was? Would he like the person I'd become? Is quantity of time spent with someone better than quality? We always got along growing up, I was never a child who got in my parents' face and went toe to toe with them. I remember a few times that my father was not happy with me. I even remember him calling me up at college one year to remind me to wish my mother a happy mother's day. He sounded annoyed that I hadn't done it already. I never told him that it was a little before noon and I hadn't even gotten out of bed yet (aaah the life of a college student!). I had not forgotten. I was very lazy as a kid (Me lazy? I don't believe it!) and I am sure that drove my father nuts on many occasions. But overall we had a good relationship.
I know he wasn't a big fan of my music. The only band that he would let me play when he rode in my car was the Ramones. He did not seem to enjoy GWAR. Really? With such classic songs as Maggots, I Want to Kill You and Preschool Prostitute? There is no accounting for taste. I am not saying he was a big fan of Joey and the boys, but they did a cover of Palisades Park (he told me that was one of his favorite songs) that he found acceptable and the Ramones do have a 50's surf rock feel in many of their songs which he was all right with. It was something I felt and still feel a connection with my father for and think of him every time I play Palisades Park.
Whether it is better to have a parent remain on their pedestal forever or risk the possibility of them falling from grace and becoming someone we can not look up to is something I can not say. Part of me loves him up there in the Superdad pose, hands on his hip and cape flapping in the breeze. The other part wanted to hear all about his mistakes first hand. To find out what he would have done differently in his life as man and as a father. To have a conversation, adult to adult (as loathe as I am to admit that I am one), or should I say a father to father would have been priceless. But our time together was way too short and that conversation will never be. (unless their are any mediums in the audience? Whoopi from Ghost? Crossing Over guy? Patricia Arquette?)
A child needs to know that their parents have made mistakes in their lives and done things that they regretted. They also need to know that their parents were able to learn from them and be old enough to appreciate the wisdom that their parents received. I could tell my thirteen year old about the time I got the rental van up to 110 mph on the move from Tennessee to New York, and all he'd probably think was "I bet I could get it to 111." He would probably not say "Gee dad, that was reckless. You could have killed yourself or another driver."
I hope to be on a pedestal myself someday, maybe I already am. (though I wonder how much of a fall I took when I left their mother and, probably in their hearts and minds, them as well) If I am, I hope I will have the opportunity to step down and tell them the many tales of my stupidity. Tell them the countless mistakes I have made over the years. Let them know that when it all comes down to it, I am just a man, like my father, wonderfully flawed. I also hope to sit down with my kids when they have grown and say I love you and am proud of you, just like I am sure my dad would have done, if he were alive today.
I love you dad. Happy fathers day!
Monday, June 11, 2012
On Hon, Honey and Sweetie
The other day I was driving through the drive thru at a popular coffee place, I don't want to give free advertising so we will just say that it was called Splunkin Splonuts. I ordered, or maybe my wife ordered by speaking over me, as I am a big coward sometimes. I would rather her place the order than try and "telephone game" her order to the faceless box. I always screw it up, no matter how simple and then end up stammering and stuttering and feeling very foolish. But anyway, no matter how it was done coffee was successfully ordered. We drove around and the debit card was handed to the young woman manning (or womaning) the window. I have to admit, that I do like to have my wife order over me. It is a little payback for all the times that the voice over the box has been a guy's and then I drove around to the pick up window and there was a woman there. Or vice versa. Or the times that the voice changes gender in mid-order. Does it really take two people to place an order? And every time I make the same stupid joke about puberty hitting.
But now I am veering off topic, lets get back on track, where was I, yes... The debit card was given, and that is another thing I hate. I feel like an idiot putting a $2 dollar charge on my debit card. To think of all the technology involved, satellite signals, data streaming, electronic devices linking up, account information verifications, for an item I could probably pay for if I looked under the seats of the car and gathered all the change. But then again, would there be any change? I never carry cash anymore. Everything goes on the debit card, from bills, to groceries. They could probably change all the color of our money to neon green and it would be months before I even noticed.
The people I feel who must have taken the greatest hit from this new technology are those organizations who collect money at bucket drops. I feel kind of sad for those people standing in the middle of the road with their organization's sign and a bucket, begging for your change. But now, we as a society, have little change. How much revenue has been lost by little leagues, EMTs, softball teams, fire stations, cheerleaders, etc. And I also feel like a big jerk driving by with my window closed, pretending like they are not there. It is even worse when you have to stop at a light and they are right there, staring at you, judging you. And you stare forward, trying to will the light to change. All because they don't accept VISA.
But anyway, what was I talking about? Oh yes, debit card was given, money deducted from my account and card returned. Then, delicious coffee was handed through the window. Now, I don't drink coffee. I love the smell of coffee, I enjoy coffee ice cream, but I refuse to drink the stuff. I believe it stems from the fact that my parents always told me that coffee was a beverage that was reserved for adults. (Well, they didn't phrase it like that, it was probably more like me saying "Can I have some coffee?" and them saying "No, it's for grown ups.") I think that has stuck with me all these years. If I start drinking coffee I am going to have to admit I'm a grown up. I am 41 now and it is too late to start acting like a grown up. Maybe next year!
But anyway, back to the original story... As the girl handed me the coffee, she said "Here you go hon." I said "Thank you," passed the coffee to my wife and drove away. Then my wife had to listen to me go on for the next half hour about one of my many irrational pet peeves. The girl called me hon. Now I don't mind when a convenient store clerk, a waitress, a fast food worker, basically anyone in the service or retail industry calls me hon, or honey or sweetie or any other little terms of endearment. I only have one condition that they have to meet to make it acceptable. They have to be older than me!
Like I said it is irrational but it drives me crazy with a capital K when some girl (for some reason guys never call me hon) who looks like she is 18 years old starts whipping around the hons. I just want to look at them and say "Gramma, is that you?" Don't call me hon. I will call my wife hon and she can call me hon. I guess that would be the only person younger than me that I will take that kind of language from. Call me sir. I'll take a sir. I'd appreciate a sir. It may sound a bit snooty but dammit I'm old enough to be your father. Call me daddy! Ok, that just got weird. Don't call me daddy. How about Mister? Mister would work too. If you use an English accent I could call you Tiny Tim or Oliver Twist. What in God's name am I talking about? I guess all I am trying to say is that hon, honey and sweetie should be reserved for those who have earned the right to use it.
On a side note, as I was thinking about feeling guilty about not throwing change in the bucket it made me think about grocery shopping. I always feel like an ass when I am checking out and the register worker (the registereer?) asks if I would like to donate a dollar to whatever cause they are collecting for and I say no. I can't even look them in the eye when I say it. I have actually gotten to the point where I make a little joke every time I say no. Basically I say "I always feel guilty when I say no." They try to make me feel better, though and say it is all right, but their eyes say, "You just bought four 2 liter bottles of my favorite carbonated caramel colored beverage, you can't swing a dollar to help find a cure for fill in the blank? You cheap bastard." Well, maybe I just need more lessons in reading eyes.
But now I am veering off topic, lets get back on track, where was I, yes... The debit card was given, and that is another thing I hate. I feel like an idiot putting a $2 dollar charge on my debit card. To think of all the technology involved, satellite signals, data streaming, electronic devices linking up, account information verifications, for an item I could probably pay for if I looked under the seats of the car and gathered all the change. But then again, would there be any change? I never carry cash anymore. Everything goes on the debit card, from bills, to groceries. They could probably change all the color of our money to neon green and it would be months before I even noticed.
The people I feel who must have taken the greatest hit from this new technology are those organizations who collect money at bucket drops. I feel kind of sad for those people standing in the middle of the road with their organization's sign and a bucket, begging for your change. But now, we as a society, have little change. How much revenue has been lost by little leagues, EMTs, softball teams, fire stations, cheerleaders, etc. And I also feel like a big jerk driving by with my window closed, pretending like they are not there. It is even worse when you have to stop at a light and they are right there, staring at you, judging you. And you stare forward, trying to will the light to change. All because they don't accept VISA.
But anyway, what was I talking about? Oh yes, debit card was given, money deducted from my account and card returned. Then, delicious coffee was handed through the window. Now, I don't drink coffee. I love the smell of coffee, I enjoy coffee ice cream, but I refuse to drink the stuff. I believe it stems from the fact that my parents always told me that coffee was a beverage that was reserved for adults. (Well, they didn't phrase it like that, it was probably more like me saying "Can I have some coffee?" and them saying "No, it's for grown ups.") I think that has stuck with me all these years. If I start drinking coffee I am going to have to admit I'm a grown up. I am 41 now and it is too late to start acting like a grown up. Maybe next year!
But anyway, back to the original story... As the girl handed me the coffee, she said "Here you go hon." I said "Thank you," passed the coffee to my wife and drove away. Then my wife had to listen to me go on for the next half hour about one of my many irrational pet peeves. The girl called me hon. Now I don't mind when a convenient store clerk, a waitress, a fast food worker, basically anyone in the service or retail industry calls me hon, or honey or sweetie or any other little terms of endearment. I only have one condition that they have to meet to make it acceptable. They have to be older than me!
Like I said it is irrational but it drives me crazy with a capital K when some girl (for some reason guys never call me hon) who looks like she is 18 years old starts whipping around the hons. I just want to look at them and say "Gramma, is that you?" Don't call me hon. I will call my wife hon and she can call me hon. I guess that would be the only person younger than me that I will take that kind of language from. Call me sir. I'll take a sir. I'd appreciate a sir. It may sound a bit snooty but dammit I'm old enough to be your father. Call me daddy! Ok, that just got weird. Don't call me daddy. How about Mister? Mister would work too. If you use an English accent I could call you Tiny Tim or Oliver Twist. What in God's name am I talking about? I guess all I am trying to say is that hon, honey and sweetie should be reserved for those who have earned the right to use it.
On a side note, as I was thinking about feeling guilty about not throwing change in the bucket it made me think about grocery shopping. I always feel like an ass when I am checking out and the register worker (the registereer?) asks if I would like to donate a dollar to whatever cause they are collecting for and I say no. I can't even look them in the eye when I say it. I have actually gotten to the point where I make a little joke every time I say no. Basically I say "I always feel guilty when I say no." They try to make me feel better, though and say it is all right, but their eyes say, "You just bought four 2 liter bottles of my favorite carbonated caramel colored beverage, you can't swing a dollar to help find a cure for fill in the blank? You cheap bastard." Well, maybe I just need more lessons in reading eyes.
Saturday, June 9, 2012
On Mind Over Matter
Now when I think of the phrase "Mind Over Matter" a couple of different images pop into my mind. First is people walking on burning coals. (I almost typed barefoot, but then realized that should be obvious. Even I could walk on coals in a pair of boots, as long as they didn't catch fire. And if they did, it would be a case of "fire over foot" and would end in a trip to the hospital.) The guy (or woman, let's not be sexist) lying on the bed of nails is another image that pops into my head. Anyone who can ignore large amounts of pain is one half of my "Mind Over Matter" equation .
The other half of this equation are those people, who under stress, force of will, or any other outside influence seem to be able to perform some incredible feat. An example of this would be a mother lifting a school bus to save her trapped child. Well maybe a bus is a bit of an exaggeration, but you get the idea. Maybe even someone manifesting some special power, well maybe not like little Drew Barrymore in "Firestarter" but definitely tapping into the unused portions of our minds to do something extraordinary.
I thought I would share my two stories of "Mind Over Matter." One tale for each side of the equation.
I can't remember how old I was, being either home on summer break from college or just another day in my latter years of high school. The age is semi-important, as I was definitely old enough to have handled this situation better. It was early morning (well, early morning for a responsibility free teenager is not what I would call early as an adult with a job and bills to pay.) and I was lying in bed half awake. It was a day like any other and I could have never guessed, in my wildest dreams, of what fate had in store for me. I lay there, debating whether to get up or just continue to lie in bed for a while, trying to wring out every bit of sleep I could get. (I believe the second option was winning out, as it usually did.)
Well in my morning haze I felt the sudden urge to pass gas. Anyone who knows me will not be surprised by this. I have come to believe that it is the very oxygen I breathe that makes me fart. Well, I did what any normal person in this situation would do, I rolled onto my side, aimed my ass away from me and let it go. Much to my horror (and surprise) it wasn't air that came out. My eyes shot open, and I was fully awake in an instant. To compound the problem, and at the risk of sharing too much information, I was sleeping al fresco. I blinked and found my self standing up. In a moment of panic (perhaps shame?) I tapped into something and gained the ability to levitate. Just for that brief moment.
I am convinced that it was levitation, or maybe a minor bit of flight because I did not bend any part of my body. My butt cheeks were pinched tight and the sphincter was in total lock down, in the fear that more non-air would come out. Bending at the waist would have risked voiding (This is a term I learned from having a baby. The doctors are very fixated on the baby poo.) so I know I did not bend there, and there is no way I could have got up as quickly without bending. Levitation is the only way that I could have got to my feet so quickly. "Mind Over Matter"
Well, to end the story, I waddled quickly to the bathroom, let the rest of my movement go in its proper place, wiped thoroughly and returned to my room. (Stealthily, I might add, as I was still in my birthday suit.) There I pulled the sheets off the bed, brought them into the laundry room, crumpled them up and stuffed them into the dirty laundry basket. Did I give my mother any warning about my little surprise? Of course not. I was a teenager! I returned to my room, flipped the mattress over, inspected my blanket for any residue, found it clean and went back to bed. Overcoming the Laws of Gravity with the power of my mind is exhausting!
The second story is an example of the other side of the equation and it happened while I was baking cookies. Now, when I say I was baking cookies, I should say that all the credit should go to Ms. (or is it a Mrs.?) Crocker and whoever was responsible for putting the directions on the side of the box. I was merely a stirring, making-little-balls and shifting-a-sheet-pan-in-and-out-of-the-oven-at-the-appropriate-time facilitator. Well anyway, the oven was set for 350 degrees, and they had been in for the required 20 minutes or so. Looking in, I saw the batch was done and looked for an oven mitt. No good. I could not find one so I grabbed a little towel to take out the pan.
As I was pulling the pan out I saw that the towel I was using had caught on fire! I immediately grabbed the tray with my opposite hand, threw the towel in the sink, turned the knob to get the water flowing and splashed the water onto the towel until the flames were extinguished. I sighed a quick sigh of relief and then as if it were some Looney Tunes cartoon, I looked at my left hand and realized I was still holding the tray of cookies. In my hand, with no cloth or oven mitt, was a metal pan that had just been baking in the oven for over twenty minutes.
If this was a cartoon I would have had enough time to take a look at the camera, get a bemused expression on my face and then screamed something like YEEEEEEEEOOOOOOOOOOWWWW! Or maybe I would have been standing there while smoke started to rise from my left hand. This would be accompanied by the sound of sizzling meat. I would probably start sniffing loudly as someone else walked into the room and say to them something like "Do you smell something burning?" Then I would look at my hand, my eyes would bulge, I would howl and send cookies flying. But what I did do was shout an expletive (can't remember which one, but I have a few guesses), toss the pan on the counter and immediately stick my hand in the cool water that was still running on the towel.
I am happy to say, the cookies survived (and were delicious!). My hand was fine as well, a little red, but no griddle marks or degrees of burns of any kind. While my mind was focused on putting out the fire my brain shut down all of those sensors and everything. I truly realized what people meant when they use the phrase "Mind Over Matter." Now if only I could do this voluntarily, it would be my first step in becoming a super hero!
On a side note, re-read this post. This time, imagine the voice of Leonard Nimoy narrating this on "In Search Of." Consider your minds blown!
The other half of this equation are those people, who under stress, force of will, or any other outside influence seem to be able to perform some incredible feat. An example of this would be a mother lifting a school bus to save her trapped child. Well maybe a bus is a bit of an exaggeration, but you get the idea. Maybe even someone manifesting some special power, well maybe not like little Drew Barrymore in "Firestarter" but definitely tapping into the unused portions of our minds to do something extraordinary.
I thought I would share my two stories of "Mind Over Matter." One tale for each side of the equation.
I can't remember how old I was, being either home on summer break from college or just another day in my latter years of high school. The age is semi-important, as I was definitely old enough to have handled this situation better. It was early morning (well, early morning for a responsibility free teenager is not what I would call early as an adult with a job and bills to pay.) and I was lying in bed half awake. It was a day like any other and I could have never guessed, in my wildest dreams, of what fate had in store for me. I lay there, debating whether to get up or just continue to lie in bed for a while, trying to wring out every bit of sleep I could get. (I believe the second option was winning out, as it usually did.)
Well in my morning haze I felt the sudden urge to pass gas. Anyone who knows me will not be surprised by this. I have come to believe that it is the very oxygen I breathe that makes me fart. Well, I did what any normal person in this situation would do, I rolled onto my side, aimed my ass away from me and let it go. Much to my horror (and surprise) it wasn't air that came out. My eyes shot open, and I was fully awake in an instant. To compound the problem, and at the risk of sharing too much information, I was sleeping al fresco. I blinked and found my self standing up. In a moment of panic (perhaps shame?) I tapped into something and gained the ability to levitate. Just for that brief moment.
I am convinced that it was levitation, or maybe a minor bit of flight because I did not bend any part of my body. My butt cheeks were pinched tight and the sphincter was in total lock down, in the fear that more non-air would come out. Bending at the waist would have risked voiding (This is a term I learned from having a baby. The doctors are very fixated on the baby poo.) so I know I did not bend there, and there is no way I could have got up as quickly without bending. Levitation is the only way that I could have got to my feet so quickly. "Mind Over Matter"
Well, to end the story, I waddled quickly to the bathroom, let the rest of my movement go in its proper place, wiped thoroughly and returned to my room. (Stealthily, I might add, as I was still in my birthday suit.) There I pulled the sheets off the bed, brought them into the laundry room, crumpled them up and stuffed them into the dirty laundry basket. Did I give my mother any warning about my little surprise? Of course not. I was a teenager! I returned to my room, flipped the mattress over, inspected my blanket for any residue, found it clean and went back to bed. Overcoming the Laws of Gravity with the power of my mind is exhausting!
The second story is an example of the other side of the equation and it happened while I was baking cookies. Now, when I say I was baking cookies, I should say that all the credit should go to Ms. (or is it a Mrs.?) Crocker and whoever was responsible for putting the directions on the side of the box. I was merely a stirring, making-little-balls and shifting-a-sheet-pan-in-and-out-of-the-oven-at-the-appropriate-time facilitator. Well anyway, the oven was set for 350 degrees, and they had been in for the required 20 minutes or so. Looking in, I saw the batch was done and looked for an oven mitt. No good. I could not find one so I grabbed a little towel to take out the pan.
As I was pulling the pan out I saw that the towel I was using had caught on fire! I immediately grabbed the tray with my opposite hand, threw the towel in the sink, turned the knob to get the water flowing and splashed the water onto the towel until the flames were extinguished. I sighed a quick sigh of relief and then as if it were some Looney Tunes cartoon, I looked at my left hand and realized I was still holding the tray of cookies. In my hand, with no cloth or oven mitt, was a metal pan that had just been baking in the oven for over twenty minutes.
If this was a cartoon I would have had enough time to take a look at the camera, get a bemused expression on my face and then screamed something like YEEEEEEEEOOOOOOOOOOWWWW! Or maybe I would have been standing there while smoke started to rise from my left hand. This would be accompanied by the sound of sizzling meat. I would probably start sniffing loudly as someone else walked into the room and say to them something like "Do you smell something burning?" Then I would look at my hand, my eyes would bulge, I would howl and send cookies flying. But what I did do was shout an expletive (can't remember which one, but I have a few guesses), toss the pan on the counter and immediately stick my hand in the cool water that was still running on the towel.
I am happy to say, the cookies survived (and were delicious!). My hand was fine as well, a little red, but no griddle marks or degrees of burns of any kind. While my mind was focused on putting out the fire my brain shut down all of those sensors and everything. I truly realized what people meant when they use the phrase "Mind Over Matter." Now if only I could do this voluntarily, it would be my first step in becoming a super hero!
On a side note, re-read this post. This time, imagine the voice of Leonard Nimoy narrating this on "In Search Of." Consider your minds blown!
Wednesday, June 6, 2012
On Friends and Regrets
I must apologize in advance for this post, as it is a little more serious than my previous entries and a bit on the depressing side.
This past weekend was my college class reunion (well I graduated in 1993, so technically it should have been next year, but the school likes to lump three different class years together, so it was this year). It got me thinking about a good friend of mine who passed away unexpectedly last December. His name was Jalal and he drowned in a snorkeling accident while on vaction in Thailand.
I don't know how it happened but when I went to St. Lawrence I somehow ended up in a section called International House, which contained most of the foreign students who were lured to the college with scholarships and shiny brochures. I-House (as it was known) was not only a cultural melting pot, but it also contained students from all different years (and kick ass rooms!!). Now just imagine me, a heavy metal lovin' nerd from a small town in upstate New York, where there were more cows than people (my graduating class was like 43 people), leaving home for the first time and ending up in this diverse, multicultural environment. Talk about a fish out of water. My freshman roomate was from India and about as opposite of me as possible. My half of the room was covered in movie and Iron Maiden posters, while his contained a large Indian flag.
Jalal was from Bangladesh (a country I would have had trouble finding on a map) and ended up being one of the first friends I made at college. Jalal was very down to earth and seemed to enjoy my stupid/quirky sense of humor. We joined the campus radio station together and had our own radio show for the first year. The Big J and J Show, it was called. I still have a couple of tapes that I have wanted to convert to MP3s, but I have no idea whether they still work. Besides that, I couldn't even tell you when I last owned a functioning tape player. I was looking over the music list from the shows and boy, the music doesn't exactly flow very well, but we had a lot of fun, and that is all that counts. In the years that followed I ended up getting my own show, The Mr. Excitement Show, which was terrible. Every other word out of my mouth was Uuum, and I was trying to do a whole Steven Wright, monotone thing. (I did get better... eventually.) It was on Saturday nights and I played songs from such classic groups as Poison, Warrant, Guns and Roses, Extreme, etc. (Though I did discover The Ramones, The Descendents and the Dead Kennedy's while there as well.) My big hair band phase turned to Punk. And you can also see what a party animal I was, seeming I had nothing better to do on a Saturday night than sit in the basement and spin records (yes, we were still using records) for practically no audience. But anyways, I am getting side tracked.
Freshman year, when I heard that Jalal and my roomate Aranya had no where to go for Thanksgiving I invited them down to share the holiday with my family. My dad had come and picked us up and the ride, which usually took about three hours took even longer due to traffic and some really crappy weather.
It was a great visit and I enjoyed myself, though I often wonder what he thought of the tour of Argyle, NY and our little house in the woods. I had met up with some friends and we played some football. Jalal and Aranya did not join in, but instead wandered up to downtown, I believe. (Downtown consisted of a bank, gas station, hardware store and a grocery store.) I think Jalal would have played, but Aranya did not seem very interested, and I don't think he wanted to leave him out. But this is just speculation.
Jalal and I were also on the I-House intermural soccer team, which was not the best team in the league, but I don't think there was a team that had more fun than we did. I also remember a certain talent show that we had for I-House one year, where Jalal and I decided to sing Judas Priest's Ram it Down, a cappella. I don't even think we rehearsed it at all, just stood up and read the lyrics off of the tape's jacket. Now I must confess, I cannot sing to save my life, but love to do it. I have several Rock Band games for the Wii and love to rock the mic, but good lord, I pity anyone in earshot! If you believe in reincarnation, I must have been a great singer in a past life, but treated people like crap, because I can not imagine how someone can love to sing as much as I do and be so bad at it.
Another Jalal story I remember is from a time we went up to Canada for a field trip. Here is a picture and let me explain it.
First off, with the sweater I am wearing, it is probably pretty understandable why I didn't get my first girlfriend until Junior year of college. I say this because this was me "dressing up" for the trip. Jalal and I were posing for this picture when the guy on the left started to cut in front of the picture. I, being the idiot that I am, insisted he get in on the photo with us. Then, right before the picture was taken, I put my arms around him. Thus the guys reaction.
I remember many trips with Jalal and my I-House friends. Though I must admit, they probably saw my ass on way too many occasions. At the time, I thought mooning was the pinnacle of comedic expression and dropped my pants with the least provocation. I have many fine memories of Jalal and the time we shared at SLU, although we did find different groups of people to hang around with as the the years progressed.
Graduation came and we all went in different directions. I ended up keeping in touch with a few people, but for the most part, I lost touch with most of my old college friends. It didn't help that I ended up marrying a controlling evil bitch who didn't seem to want me to have anything to do with anybody but her, including my own family. Not that I am in any way blaming her for not calling, writing or e-mailing people, but my life was not going the direction I wanted, and I, like a lot of people, was wrapped up in my life.
But then came something that really changed everything, in terms of communicating with the friends that I had lost touch with: Facebook. Some people hate it, and refuse to join for various reasons. I, however, love it. Like most people, when I first joined I was a slave to FB. Between the time management games such as Mafia Wars, and the constant updating of my status (I was sure everyone really wanted to know that I was at home eating a roast beef sandwhich). I befriended a lot of my old college friends. I found out what some of them had been up to and sent some of them brief messages to catch up. With Jalal, unfortunately, I never did this. I would comment on a post of his every now and then, and I found out some of what was going on in his life. I saw he became an associate professor at University of Massachussetts Boston, got married and was doing some amazing things with his life (he even had a Wikipedia page about himself). But I never sent a message to reconnect.
That is the thing I think that upsets me the most, when I think back upon it. I kept saying to myself, "I'll send him a note one of these days." All in needed to do was just click on <create a new message> and type his name and then add a message like "Hey, I have thought of you often over the years, and was wondering how your life was going." That was it, and I never did it. And now he is gone and I will never get the opportunity. It is and will always be a big regret of mine. And regrets, I've had a few, but then again, too few to mention. Sorry, went all Frank there for a minute. But it would have been such a simple thing to shoot out an email and I let the opportunity pass me by. So if there is any point to my ramblings here in this post, it is simply to beseach you not put things like this off. Life is way too short and too unpredictable. And Jalal, wherever you are, here is one more chorus for you...
Thousands of cars and a million guitars
Screaming with power in the air
We¹ve found the place where the decibels race
This army of rock will be there
To ram it down, ram it down
Straight through the heart of this town
Ram it down, ram it down
Razing the place to the ground
Ram it down.
This past weekend was my college class reunion (well I graduated in 1993, so technically it should have been next year, but the school likes to lump three different class years together, so it was this year). It got me thinking about a good friend of mine who passed away unexpectedly last December. His name was Jalal and he drowned in a snorkeling accident while on vaction in Thailand.
I don't know how it happened but when I went to St. Lawrence I somehow ended up in a section called International House, which contained most of the foreign students who were lured to the college with scholarships and shiny brochures. I-House (as it was known) was not only a cultural melting pot, but it also contained students from all different years (and kick ass rooms!!). Now just imagine me, a heavy metal lovin' nerd from a small town in upstate New York, where there were more cows than people (my graduating class was like 43 people), leaving home for the first time and ending up in this diverse, multicultural environment. Talk about a fish out of water. My freshman roomate was from India and about as opposite of me as possible. My half of the room was covered in movie and Iron Maiden posters, while his contained a large Indian flag.
Jalal was from Bangladesh (a country I would have had trouble finding on a map) and ended up being one of the first friends I made at college. Jalal was very down to earth and seemed to enjoy my stupid/quirky sense of humor. We joined the campus radio station together and had our own radio show for the first year. The Big J and J Show, it was called. I still have a couple of tapes that I have wanted to convert to MP3s, but I have no idea whether they still work. Besides that, I couldn't even tell you when I last owned a functioning tape player. I was looking over the music list from the shows and boy, the music doesn't exactly flow very well, but we had a lot of fun, and that is all that counts. In the years that followed I ended up getting my own show, The Mr. Excitement Show, which was terrible. Every other word out of my mouth was Uuum, and I was trying to do a whole Steven Wright, monotone thing. (I did get better... eventually.) It was on Saturday nights and I played songs from such classic groups as Poison, Warrant, Guns and Roses, Extreme, etc. (Though I did discover The Ramones, The Descendents and the Dead Kennedy's while there as well.) My big hair band phase turned to Punk. And you can also see what a party animal I was, seeming I had nothing better to do on a Saturday night than sit in the basement and spin records (yes, we were still using records) for practically no audience. But anyways, I am getting side tracked.
Freshman year, when I heard that Jalal and my roomate Aranya had no where to go for Thanksgiving I invited them down to share the holiday with my family. My dad had come and picked us up and the ride, which usually took about three hours took even longer due to traffic and some really crappy weather.
Jalal and I were also on the I-House intermural soccer team, which was not the best team in the league, but I don't think there was a team that had more fun than we did. I also remember a certain talent show that we had for I-House one year, where Jalal and I decided to sing Judas Priest's Ram it Down, a cappella. I don't even think we rehearsed it at all, just stood up and read the lyrics off of the tape's jacket. Now I must confess, I cannot sing to save my life, but love to do it. I have several Rock Band games for the Wii and love to rock the mic, but good lord, I pity anyone in earshot! If you believe in reincarnation, I must have been a great singer in a past life, but treated people like crap, because I can not imagine how someone can love to sing as much as I do and be so bad at it.
Another Jalal story I remember is from a time we went up to Canada for a field trip. Here is a picture and let me explain it.
I remember many trips with Jalal and my I-House friends. Though I must admit, they probably saw my ass on way too many occasions. At the time, I thought mooning was the pinnacle of comedic expression and dropped my pants with the least provocation. I have many fine memories of Jalal and the time we shared at SLU, although we did find different groups of people to hang around with as the the years progressed.
Graduation came and we all went in different directions. I ended up keeping in touch with a few people, but for the most part, I lost touch with most of my old college friends. It didn't help that I ended up marrying a controlling evil bitch who didn't seem to want me to have anything to do with anybody but her, including my own family. Not that I am in any way blaming her for not calling, writing or e-mailing people, but my life was not going the direction I wanted, and I, like a lot of people, was wrapped up in my life.
But then came something that really changed everything, in terms of communicating with the friends that I had lost touch with: Facebook. Some people hate it, and refuse to join for various reasons. I, however, love it. Like most people, when I first joined I was a slave to FB. Between the time management games such as Mafia Wars, and the constant updating of my status (I was sure everyone really wanted to know that I was at home eating a roast beef sandwhich). I befriended a lot of my old college friends. I found out what some of them had been up to and sent some of them brief messages to catch up. With Jalal, unfortunately, I never did this. I would comment on a post of his every now and then, and I found out some of what was going on in his life. I saw he became an associate professor at University of Massachussetts Boston, got married and was doing some amazing things with his life (he even had a Wikipedia page about himself). But I never sent a message to reconnect.
That is the thing I think that upsets me the most, when I think back upon it. I kept saying to myself, "I'll send him a note one of these days." All in needed to do was just click on <create a new message> and type his name and then add a message like "Hey, I have thought of you often over the years, and was wondering how your life was going." That was it, and I never did it. And now he is gone and I will never get the opportunity. It is and will always be a big regret of mine. And regrets, I've had a few, but then again, too few to mention. Sorry, went all Frank there for a minute. But it would have been such a simple thing to shoot out an email and I let the opportunity pass me by. So if there is any point to my ramblings here in this post, it is simply to beseach you not put things like this off. Life is way too short and too unpredictable. And Jalal, wherever you are, here is one more chorus for you...
Thousands of cars and a million guitars
Screaming with power in the air
We¹ve found the place where the decibels race
This army of rock will be there
To ram it down, ram it down
Straight through the heart of this town
Ram it down, ram it down
Razing the place to the ground
Ram it down.
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