Four days ago, Sunday morning, when they were counting up the elephants at the Wild Animal Park they came up one extra.
A tiny baby elephant had been born the night before.
Those visitors (to what has sadly been renamed the San Diego Zoo's Safari Park) present that morning were treated to the sight of a fuzzy-legged little pachyderm standing below his mother's breast.
Standing.
He was standing on his first morning of life. Standing and walking.
When's the last time anyone saw a human baby standing up, even within the first week?
This reminds me of another thing I don't like about babies.
They're lazy.
Of course someone tells me that this is by design, and the only reason baby elephants choose to stand right away is that their mommies don't have arms with which to pick up and hold their babies.
That's their opinion.
[Human] babies are lazy.
Thursday, December 30, 2010
Monday, November 22, 2010
Only Six Pounds
Generally speaking, I don't care for babies.
They leak. They squeak. They can suddenly smell bad. They're selfish.
True, I was once a baby. However I gave it up as soon as possible.
I don't like babies.
Now I do like people. Grown people. Two people who are friends (I'll call them "Eric" and "Suzanne" since those are their real names) recently experienced a nine-month pregnancy which resulted in the birth of a baby.
Wesley Ericson Harris was born around 4:00am in the morning on Friday November 19, 2010.
The next evening, on Saturday the 20th, Wendy and I went for a visit at Sharp's Mary Birch Hospital for Women.
It was nice to see our friends, and though they both looked quite tired, they were also radiating obvious inner joy.
When Suzanne offered to let Wendy hold the infant, now a day and three quarters old, I thought it was cute and snapped a few photographs.
After I handed him back over to his father Eric, my arms suddenly began to ache, since I'd been holding him so long.
They leak. They squeak. They can suddenly smell bad. They're selfish.
True, I was once a baby. However I gave it up as soon as possible.
I don't like babies.
Now I do like people. Grown people. Two people who are friends (I'll call them "Eric" and "Suzanne" since those are their real names) recently experienced a nine-month pregnancy which resulted in the birth of a baby.
Wesley Ericson Harris was born around 4:00am in the morning on Friday November 19, 2010.
The next evening, on Saturday the 20th, Wendy and I went for a visit at Sharp's Mary Birch Hospital for Women.
It was nice to see our friends, and though they both looked quite tired, they were also radiating obvious inner joy.
When Suzanne offered to let Wendy hold the infant, now a day and three quarters old, I thought it was cute and snapped a few photographs.
Then Wendy asked if I wanted to hold Wesley.
Now I haven't held a baby for as long as I can remember. Logic tells me that I probably held my baby sister when I was about about 5 years old. However, I don't remember it, and any other babies held were quickly returned so that the awkwardness would end.
Of course I said yes. I said out loud that it had been a long time, and I wasn't all that skilled at "baby holding".
"I know I'm supposed to support the head", I offered.
Suzanne, the mother, simply said "yes, support the head, and just don't drop him".
Wendy handed me Wesley in a slow motion exchange, our arms momentarily enmeshed.
The first thought I had: he's so light! Compared to the last living thing I cradled in my arms, a full grown cat, this little tiny human was nearly weightless! (Later Wendy told me that he weighs only 6 pounds).
Wesley's eyes were closed as he slept soundly, but from time to time I could see them rolling about beneath his eyelids. His face changed expression every few minutes. A couple of times his entire body jumped like people sometimes do when they're falling asleep.
My heart began to melt onto the floor.
You know... as I type this blog entry, I realize that what I'm about to type has been said again and again throughout history. People hold babies... their hearts melt all over the floor. I guess I'm just saying that it happened to me.
After I handed him back over to his father Eric, my arms suddenly began to ache, since I'd been holding him so long.
That Saturday night was one of the most unforgettable in my life. It was a privilege (thanks Mom Suzanne and Dad Eric for letting me hold Son Wesley) and a very moving experience.
I love babies!
ps:
Holding a cat is nice, too,
but nice in a substantially
different way than holding
a human baby is nice
Saturday, October 23, 2010
Dear Mister President
Dear President Obama,
After only two months of working in an office, I have come to recognize a threat to our economy and wanted to alert you as soon as possible.
We are wasting millions of gallons of ink, toner and electricity by needlessly including the following phrase in our emails and printed correspondence:
Please let me know if you have any questions.
Sometimes this sentence appears in a slightly different form:
If you have any questions, please don't hesitate to contact me.
Mister President, can you please enact legislation to annihilate this saying in all its variations from the English language?
Not only will this save the country billions of dollars in resources, it will also serve to remove one more source of annoyance as I go about my work day.
Your citizen,
Steve
ps. For the benefit of some of the more dimwitted members of Congress, you might point out that these words, though unspoken, are always implied. If ever there is an exception, then the following phrase could be used freely:
Don't ask me any questions about this.
or
No further questions at this time.
Thank you.
After only two months of working in an office, I have come to recognize a threat to our economy and wanted to alert you as soon as possible.
We are wasting millions of gallons of ink, toner and electricity by needlessly including the following phrase in our emails and printed correspondence:
Please let me know if you have any questions.
Sometimes this sentence appears in a slightly different form:
If you have any questions, please don't hesitate to contact me.
Mister President, can you please enact legislation to annihilate this saying in all its variations from the English language?
Not only will this save the country billions of dollars in resources, it will also serve to remove one more source of annoyance as I go about my work day.
Your citizen,
Steve
ps. For the benefit of some of the more dimwitted members of Congress, you might point out that these words, though unspoken, are always implied. If ever there is an exception, then the following phrase could be used freely:
Don't ask me any questions about this.
or
No further questions at this time.
Thank you.
Sunday, October 17, 2010
Why He Loves the Ministry
Actually, he very much dislikes the ministry.
This morning, when the radio began to play its random wake up song, he hit the snooze button. He would have loved to keep on sleeping.
When he was single, more often than not that's what he would do. He's lucky now, because he's married, and his wife is getting up for the ministry, so that helps him to rise as well.
When he lived at home, sharing a room with his brother, they'd often make plans the night before to work together. Which was invariably a guarantee that they'd both sleep in, waiting for the other to rouse them out of bed, which neither would do.
It became a joke. "Wanna work together in service tomorrow?" "Sure!" "Guaranteed sleep-in".
He doesn't like bothering people, knocking, uninvited at the doors of strangers.
A love for people, he does not have.
Of course he goes because he loves his God who asked him to do this. He really does love the people he preaches to, I suppose. He wouldn't want them to lose out on what's being offered.
There's pleasure, too, when people listen. Or when people express their own appreciation about God and the Bible. And when they're friendly and not rude.
Mostly, though, he'd rather not be there.
Today, however, he met Chief Easton.
Chief Easton made his day.
Now he realizes why he loves the ministry. Because, as it turns out, he really does love people.
Along with his partner, he approached the door. A bumper sticker on the back of the truck parked in the driveway looked familiar:
USS Liberty - ship torpedoed 1967 by Israeli forces
He remembered talking to this gentleman, who was a survivor of the Liberty tragedy. It had probably been a couple of years. Maybe three. So when the door opened, he used it on the woman who answered.
"He's right here," she said, and went off to get him.
There was the sound of voices and grumbling from inside.
Then he came. The retired Navy man.
Our brother mentioned that they'd spoken years ago, and that he remembered the bumper sticker.
Then he made his offer, the Awake! on "Who Can You Trust?"
The householder wasn't having any of it. Not interested in religion. His body language said "thanks but no thanks" and he began to turn away.
So the Witness abandoned the magazine and turned back to the bumper sticker.
"What happened again, on the Liberty?"
Long story condensed: The USS Liberty was not a battle ship, but basically a spy ship. The Israelis torpedoed it and many lives were lost. President Johnson, in 1967, seemed behind the cover up in the media. It was hushed up by the government.
The man seemed to enjoy describing this major, unforgettable event in his life. The brother definitely enjoyed listening because to him it was a fascinating story.
"What's your name?"
"Al" said the man, as he shook hands with Brother Hates People and his partner.
"What did they call you in the Navy?"
He laughed, and said "Most people called me Chief Easton".
And the conversation went on. Chief Easton volunteered that after the Navy he worked as a "saturation diver".
That's when divers compress and spend a week or more in deep water, living in a pressurized underwater capsule. He described being about 900 feet down and pressurized to 400 LBS per square inch.
"You could wave your hand in front of you and feel the air, thick just like water," he said.
It took him and his fellow divers a week to gradually decompress and resurface.
"It gave me new respect for those who are incarcerated in prison," Chief Easton said, "especially those who don't belong there."
The brother mentioned the miners in Chile who were just rescued, and Chief Easton agreed.
"They're all being pretty tight-lipped about what happened down there," Al said. "I suspect they all may be in it together to try and get a book deal or a movie deal."
"One of them was one of Jehovah's Witnesses, so I hope he might tell his story to the Awake! magazine," said the brother.
They once again shook hands and parted ways.
Yes, he hates getting up and going out, but meeting people like Chief Easton makes it all seem worthwhile.
This morning, when the radio began to play its random wake up song, he hit the snooze button. He would have loved to keep on sleeping.
When he was single, more often than not that's what he would do. He's lucky now, because he's married, and his wife is getting up for the ministry, so that helps him to rise as well.
When he lived at home, sharing a room with his brother, they'd often make plans the night before to work together. Which was invariably a guarantee that they'd both sleep in, waiting for the other to rouse them out of bed, which neither would do.
It became a joke. "Wanna work together in service tomorrow?" "Sure!" "Guaranteed sleep-in".
He doesn't like bothering people, knocking, uninvited at the doors of strangers.
A love for people, he does not have.
Of course he goes because he loves his God who asked him to do this. He really does love the people he preaches to, I suppose. He wouldn't want them to lose out on what's being offered.
There's pleasure, too, when people listen. Or when people express their own appreciation about God and the Bible. And when they're friendly and not rude.
Mostly, though, he'd rather not be there.
Today, however, he met Chief Easton.
Chief Easton made his day.
Now he realizes why he loves the ministry. Because, as it turns out, he really does love people.
Along with his partner, he approached the door. A bumper sticker on the back of the truck parked in the driveway looked familiar:
USS Liberty - ship torpedoed 1967 by Israeli forces
He remembered talking to this gentleman, who was a survivor of the Liberty tragedy. It had probably been a couple of years. Maybe three. So when the door opened, he used it on the woman who answered.
"He's right here," she said, and went off to get him.
There was the sound of voices and grumbling from inside.
Then he came. The retired Navy man.
Our brother mentioned that they'd spoken years ago, and that he remembered the bumper sticker.
Then he made his offer, the Awake! on "Who Can You Trust?"
The householder wasn't having any of it. Not interested in religion. His body language said "thanks but no thanks" and he began to turn away.
So the Witness abandoned the magazine and turned back to the bumper sticker.
"What happened again, on the Liberty?"
Long story condensed: The USS Liberty was not a battle ship, but basically a spy ship. The Israelis torpedoed it and many lives were lost. President Johnson, in 1967, seemed behind the cover up in the media. It was hushed up by the government.
The man seemed to enjoy describing this major, unforgettable event in his life. The brother definitely enjoyed listening because to him it was a fascinating story.
"What's your name?"
"Al" said the man, as he shook hands with Brother Hates People and his partner.
"What did they call you in the Navy?"
He laughed, and said "Most people called me Chief Easton".
And the conversation went on. Chief Easton volunteered that after the Navy he worked as a "saturation diver".
That's when divers compress and spend a week or more in deep water, living in a pressurized underwater capsule. He described being about 900 feet down and pressurized to 400 LBS per square inch.
"You could wave your hand in front of you and feel the air, thick just like water," he said.
It took him and his fellow divers a week to gradually decompress and resurface.
"It gave me new respect for those who are incarcerated in prison," Chief Easton said, "especially those who don't belong there."
The brother mentioned the miners in Chile who were just rescued, and Chief Easton agreed.
"They're all being pretty tight-lipped about what happened down there," Al said. "I suspect they all may be in it together to try and get a book deal or a movie deal."
"One of them was one of Jehovah's Witnesses, so I hope he might tell his story to the Awake! magazine," said the brother.
They once again shook hands and parted ways.
Yes, he hates getting up and going out, but meeting people like Chief Easton makes it all seem worthwhile.
Tuesday, October 5, 2010
Murphy's
This post is dedicated to Murphy's stout.
I don't often drink the vile watery sludge known as Guinness.
That is because there's a tasty alternative, now widely available.
~
Or perhaps instead I should say:
I don't often drink the poisonous effluent known as Guinness, but when I do, please roundhouse kick it out of my hand and offer me a Murphy's instead.
~
Really, though, to be positive, which is the goal of this blog, I should rather simply say:
Try a Murphy's... it will be delicious!
Wednesday, September 1, 2010
Bless Me Not
Dear Everyone in the World:
Please stop saying "bless you" every time I sneeze.
First of all, I'm embarrassed that I sneezed. Then you have to go and emphasize it.
Secondly, why are you saying it? Simply because you'd heard others say it? Was the name of your childhood doctor Pavlov?
To "bless me" after I sneeze is completely illogical.
The first time you said it, it was sort of interesting.
"Why say," I thought to myself, "that person is using a quaint medieval expression!"
However, after that, it just got to be incredibly annoying. It continues to be annoying.
Please stop it.
Of course there is one exception.
If ever I hear you or anyone else commit audible flatulance, I will respond with "bless you".
Simply for comic effect.
Sincerely,
Yours Truly
Please stop saying "bless you" every time I sneeze.
First of all, I'm embarrassed that I sneezed. Then you have to go and emphasize it.
Secondly, why are you saying it? Simply because you'd heard others say it? Was the name of your childhood doctor Pavlov?
To "bless me" after I sneeze is completely illogical.
The first time you said it, it was sort of interesting.
"Why say," I thought to myself, "that person is using a quaint medieval expression!"
However, after that, it just got to be incredibly annoying. It continues to be annoying.
Please stop it.
Of course there is one exception.
If ever I hear you or anyone else commit audible flatulance, I will respond with "bless you".
Simply for comic effect.
Sincerely,
Yours Truly
Tuesday, August 17, 2010
Winged Princess
The car had needed washing for several days, so tonight, despite feeling tired and exhausted, I decided to just go for it.
The rinsing and washing part never takes long. It's the towel drying that's time-consuming. Or rather, the "diaper-drying".
The evening had fallen and it was getting a little too dark for proper spot-free drying. At least it was better than attempting to wash this big black boy in the blazing sun.
Suddenly I saw a faint "X" shape on the side of the car. My swirling diaper stopped short of wiping out the shape... which had a little wiggling three-dimensional "something" at the center. Something like an insect's body.
It was some sort of winged creature who had suffered the misfortune of somehow landing upside down on the wet surface of our automobile. Each of the four wings was stuck as if with wet plaster to the black surface.
In my heart I felt something. Compassion. Pity with a desire to help. It was literally a physical feeling. Something like a tingle in the upper center of my abdomen.
This little lady was wiggling her body and pedaling her feet like mad in at attempt to free herself. The futility of her efforts was clear to me. Surface tension, for the tiny, can be a [censored].
Was she doomed? What to do?
I dropped my towels over the back of a chair and ran into the house. In the kitchen I saw a long sharp bread knife. That should do... I grabbed it, and ran back outside to the car.
Once again facing my little struggling beauty, I gently moved the blade beneath one of her wet, stuck wings. Once released from the molecular bond of the water against the paint of the car, it quickly popped up. Then another wing. Now her body was at more of a 45-degree angle. She continued to wiggle and flail her legs.
The knife worked its way under her final two wings. As it did so, she found the edge of the blade with her reach, and suddenly she grabbed it. There! She was now free from the car, and standing on the edge of the blade. Her wings flapped with a blur, drying in preparation for what was hoped to be her restored freedom of flight.
Walking quickly into the light of a nearby outdoor lamp, I took a closer look.
What??? I suddenly recognized "what" she was. A termite. A winged termite.
I hate termites! These destructive creatures once ate Popeye the Sailor's house right down to the ground!
Normally I kill any termites I see near our apartment, either inside or out. At our old apartment house in La Mesa, we once had to spend a night at a motel while our abode was tented to be rid of these vile villains. Damn them. Damn them all!
A tree in our back yard has been infiltrated by termites, and nearly eaten out hollow. Death to all termites!
Yet, here she was, my little winged princess, flapping her wings at the edge of my knife. How I'd felt for her a few moments ago, fearing that whoever she was, her days of winged freedom might permanently be over with.
And now...
The emotions of compassion and appreciation for life, no matter how small, won out.
I flicked the knife to knock her off the blade, and watched her flutter away. Toward our apartment.
To continue on whatever life path she chose to follow from then on.
I know she probably has no appreciation for what I did for her. No capacity for gratitude.
Yet she and I have something in common.
We both possess a gift which we neither asked for nor could ever provide for ourselves.
Life.
Winged princess, let us enjoy life as we have been given it.
The rinsing and washing part never takes long. It's the towel drying that's time-consuming. Or rather, the "diaper-drying".
The evening had fallen and it was getting a little too dark for proper spot-free drying. At least it was better than attempting to wash this big black boy in the blazing sun.
Suddenly I saw a faint "X" shape on the side of the car. My swirling diaper stopped short of wiping out the shape... which had a little wiggling three-dimensional "something" at the center. Something like an insect's body.
It was some sort of winged creature who had suffered the misfortune of somehow landing upside down on the wet surface of our automobile. Each of the four wings was stuck as if with wet plaster to the black surface.
In my heart I felt something. Compassion. Pity with a desire to help. It was literally a physical feeling. Something like a tingle in the upper center of my abdomen.
This little lady was wiggling her body and pedaling her feet like mad in at attempt to free herself. The futility of her efforts was clear to me. Surface tension, for the tiny, can be a [censored].
Was she doomed? What to do?
I dropped my towels over the back of a chair and ran into the house. In the kitchen I saw a long sharp bread knife. That should do... I grabbed it, and ran back outside to the car.
Once again facing my little struggling beauty, I gently moved the blade beneath one of her wet, stuck wings. Once released from the molecular bond of the water against the paint of the car, it quickly popped up. Then another wing. Now her body was at more of a 45-degree angle. She continued to wiggle and flail her legs.
The knife worked its way under her final two wings. As it did so, she found the edge of the blade with her reach, and suddenly she grabbed it. There! She was now free from the car, and standing on the edge of the blade. Her wings flapped with a blur, drying in preparation for what was hoped to be her restored freedom of flight.
Walking quickly into the light of a nearby outdoor lamp, I took a closer look.
What??? I suddenly recognized "what" she was. A termite. A winged termite.
I hate termites! These destructive creatures once ate Popeye the Sailor's house right down to the ground!
Normally I kill any termites I see near our apartment, either inside or out. At our old apartment house in La Mesa, we once had to spend a night at a motel while our abode was tented to be rid of these vile villains. Damn them. Damn them all!
A tree in our back yard has been infiltrated by termites, and nearly eaten out hollow. Death to all termites!
Yet, here she was, my little winged princess, flapping her wings at the edge of my knife. How I'd felt for her a few moments ago, fearing that whoever she was, her days of winged freedom might permanently be over with.
And now...
The emotions of compassion and appreciation for life, no matter how small, won out.
I flicked the knife to knock her off the blade, and watched her flutter away. Toward our apartment.
To continue on whatever life path she chose to follow from then on.
I know she probably has no appreciation for what I did for her. No capacity for gratitude.
Yet she and I have something in common.
We both possess a gift which we neither asked for nor could ever provide for ourselves.
Life.
Winged princess, let us enjoy life as we have been given it.
Wednesday, July 21, 2010
C-Span
All my life I would have always said that the most boring television viewing possible would be watching congress on C-Span.
Until today.
Today I watched C-Span with the same rapt attention and interest as if I were watching a race at the Del Mar track on which I had a heavy bet riding. (Figure of speech... we never wager when we go to Del Mar.)
The Senate voted on a bill that would extend unemployment benefits.
Until today.
Today I watched C-Span with the same rapt attention and interest as if I were watching a race at the Del Mar track on which I had a heavy bet riding. (Figure of speech... we never wager when we go to Del Mar.)
The Senate voted on a bill that would extend unemployment benefits.
Watching the live electronic voting, it seemed at first to be an easy "win" (for the unemployed whose benefits have run out recently):
Then the evil Republicans raced past for the lead:
Come on, Democrats! Come on!!!!
The race is tied:
Finally the democrats come on in the last few minutes and score the victory:
Yay!!!! Okay, now the bill goes before the House of Representatives.
~ ~ ~
I've never learned so much about government as I did today.
Earlier, before I snapped the television on, they reportedly passed a bill that would allow law enforcement to investigate the manufacture of counterfeit Native American arts and crafts (!).
Then after the Unemployment Extension bill, they voted on whether to make it illegal to distribute "animal cruelty videos".
Now that one was a no-brainer:
Overwhelming win by the Yea's!
Thursday, July 15, 2010
Sinema Cadness
In this week's San Diego Reader, movie reviewer Duncan Shepherd announces that the Three Penny Cinema is "dead on arrival".
Curses!!!!
Why didn't I get a taste before it up and died? It's only a couple weeks old.
The idea was wacky and weird, but I like wacky and weird!
What was the Three Penny Cinema?
Well, as I understand it, the offices of the San Diego Reader on India Street in San Diego opened up a conference room where they projected DVD movies onto a screen. The first ten people in line paid only $0.03 (three pennies) and the rest paid only $3.00.
Anyone paying to see a film could also go through the Reader's collection of promotional movie stills and buy them for just $1.00 each. I would have looked for Pee Wee's Big Adventure.
Why did I not act and go for it last weekend, when they were showing some sweet sixties french films? I guess Wendy and I were sick, that's why. Otherwise, I was gonna try and go for it this weekend. Only it's too late.
The Three Penny Cinema is dead.
This kind of disappointment is not new to me, though fortunately, it only happens once in a while.
Years ago in the wayback time I remember seeing a crazy little event item in the Reader for a thing call "Garden Caberet". They were showing free movies in someone's back yard (?... or so it seemed, in reality it was the space behind and between a beauty shop and a BBQ restaurant) and you could buy coffee and pastries to eat while you watched.
Though I was always curious about that, I never went. Not until years later when they were charging and it was popular. Sure, it was enjoyable, and continues to be so, but I'll always kick myself for not going back when it was new and free of charge and fresh and... and new.
So what lesson has been learned here?
In life, you have to go for it. Don't wait. "...walk in the ways of your heart and in the things seen by your eyes..."
Unless you're sick. Not much you can do about it then.
Curses!!!!
Why didn't I get a taste before it up and died? It's only a couple weeks old.
The idea was wacky and weird, but I like wacky and weird!
What was the Three Penny Cinema?
Well, as I understand it, the offices of the San Diego Reader on India Street in San Diego opened up a conference room where they projected DVD movies onto a screen. The first ten people in line paid only $0.03 (three pennies) and the rest paid only $3.00.
Anyone paying to see a film could also go through the Reader's collection of promotional movie stills and buy them for just $1.00 each. I would have looked for Pee Wee's Big Adventure.
Why did I not act and go for it last weekend, when they were showing some sweet sixties french films? I guess Wendy and I were sick, that's why. Otherwise, I was gonna try and go for it this weekend. Only it's too late.
The Three Penny Cinema is dead.
This kind of disappointment is not new to me, though fortunately, it only happens once in a while.
Years ago in the wayback time I remember seeing a crazy little event item in the Reader for a thing call "Garden Caberet". They were showing free movies in someone's back yard (?... or so it seemed, in reality it was the space behind and between a beauty shop and a BBQ restaurant) and you could buy coffee and pastries to eat while you watched.
Though I was always curious about that, I never went. Not until years later when they were charging and it was popular. Sure, it was enjoyable, and continues to be so, but I'll always kick myself for not going back when it was new and free of charge and fresh and... and new.
So what lesson has been learned here?
In life, you have to go for it. Don't wait. "...walk in the ways of your heart and in the things seen by your eyes..."
Unless you're sick. Not much you can do about it then.
Tuesday, July 13, 2010
Must have ten-speed bike...
Enjoyed this Craigslist job posting because of the bicycle reference:
Source: http://sandiego.craigslist.org/esd/ofc/1839076263.html
Source: http://sandiego.craigslist.org/esd/ofc/1839076263.html
Sunday, July 11, 2010
In Demand
With being unemployed for a year, and my unemployment insurance payments having ceased, you'd likely think me worried.
Not at all!
For since July 9th I have had 24 e-mails from several different Hiring Managers seeking my services.
Yes, indeed, twenty-four. Count 'em. In fact, here are their names:
Well, where do I sign up? I guess I should just pick one of the e-mails and respond to it and give them all my personal details so that I can start getting paid the big bucks!
Strangely, each and every e-mail was tagged as "spam" by g-mail.
And they added a band of yellow at the top of each message with the following text: "This message was likely forged and did not originate from your account."
Why would they say that? Oh... upon close examination, each e-mail seems to have been sent from me (my e-mail address) to me. What? Oh well...
Oh, gmail, you spoil-sport! You non-believer! You'll soon see you were wrong...
I'll send you a postcard from the French Riviera not long after I begin collecting my $31.28 per hour for working at home!
Not at all!
For since July 9th I have had 24 e-mails from several different Hiring Managers seeking my services.
Yes, indeed, twenty-four. Count 'em. In fact, here are their names:
Elba Calanche, Carl Arino, Jesse Euresti, Jordan Viego, Bobby Bobele, Aaron Batine, Lessie Porras, Bertie Galceran, Mari Alpuche, Paul Bada, Audra Rambonga, Luella Bonillas, Barbra Pajaro, Elba Ballagas, Timothy Oroz, Roy Vizcaino, Greta Togores, Mathew Lanuza, Alan Pedroche, Annmarie Baluja, Carlos Carcana, Derek Umpierre, Tommie Flandez, Tony Zetino, Nita Allala, Jannie Santisteban, Dale Luna.They are all "Hiring Managers with the International Student Exchange Center (EPSEC)" and in each e-mail along with the job description (which I can do from home), they state that "The starting salary is $31.28 per hour".
Well, where do I sign up? I guess I should just pick one of the e-mails and respond to it and give them all my personal details so that I can start getting paid the big bucks!
Strangely, each and every e-mail was tagged as "spam" by g-mail.
And they added a band of yellow at the top of each message with the following text: "This message was likely forged and did not originate from your account."
Why would they say that? Oh... upon close examination, each e-mail seems to have been sent from me (my e-mail address) to me. What? Oh well...
Oh, gmail, you spoil-sport! You non-believer! You'll soon see you were wrong...
I'll send you a postcard from the French Riviera not long after I begin collecting my $31.28 per hour for working at home!
Friday, July 9, 2010
The Littlest Guys Ever
What's more fun than a summer cold? Anything is more fun.
However, my having a summer cold facilitated my introduction to two tiny new "friends".
Having heard it was a good idea to sunbathe for 20 minutes between 10:00am and 2:00pm to get a free fix of the amazing anti-viral Vitamin D, I was laying face down on a towel on some one's back patio.
Concrete looks really interesting from just a few inches away. It's got lots of tiny rocks embedded in it. Grains of sand, I guess is what they are.
Suddenly a little dot moved across the cement. A burnt-orange little creature. I mean this guy was tiny! His entire body was about the size of an ant's head.
Then another dot appeared suddenly on the white towel near my head. Uh-oh... this one jumped. A flea? I found him again, and no... this was no flea. A jumping creature, yes, but his jumps were only an inch in distance, and he didn't look like a flea. He was too round, and I could see his tiny legs. This guy was black in color. As tiny as the first one... perhaps even smaller than the head of a common Argentinian ant.
Watching these two little guys reminded me of a poem that I remember my Dad reading to us kids when we were very small. Over the years he'd share it again and again on various occasions.
Since I'd heard it so often and when so young it never really had much meaning to me.
Until now.
However, my having a summer cold facilitated my introduction to two tiny new "friends".
Having heard it was a good idea to sunbathe for 20 minutes between 10:00am and 2:00pm to get a free fix of the amazing anti-viral Vitamin D, I was laying face down on a towel on some one's back patio.
Concrete looks really interesting from just a few inches away. It's got lots of tiny rocks embedded in it. Grains of sand, I guess is what they are.
Suddenly a little dot moved across the cement. A burnt-orange little creature. I mean this guy was tiny! His entire body was about the size of an ant's head.
Then another dot appeared suddenly on the white towel near my head. Uh-oh... this one jumped. A flea? I found him again, and no... this was no flea. A jumping creature, yes, but his jumps were only an inch in distance, and he didn't look like a flea. He was too round, and I could see his tiny legs. This guy was black in color. As tiny as the first one... perhaps even smaller than the head of a common Argentinian ant.
Watching these two little guys reminded me of a poem that I remember my Dad reading to us kids when we were very small. Over the years he'd share it again and again on various occasions.
Since I'd heard it so often and when so young it never really had much meaning to me.
Until now.
A Considerable Speck
Robert Frost (1874-1963)
A speck that would have been beneath my sight
On any but a paper sheet so white
Set off across what I had written there.
And I had idly poised my pen in air
To stop it with a period of ink
When something strange about it made me think.
This was no dust speck by my breathing blown,
But unmistakably a living mite
With inclinations it could call its own.
It paused as with suspicion of my pen,
And then came racing wildly on again
To where my manuscript was not yet dry;
Then paused again and either drank or smelt –
With loathing, for again it turned to fly.
Plainly with an intelligence I dealt.
It seemed too tiny to have room for feet,
Yet must have had a set of them complete
To express how much it didn't want to die.
It ran with terror and with cunning crept.
It faltered; I could see it hesitate;
Then in the middle of the open sheet
Cower down in desperation to accept
Whatever I accorded it of fate.
I have none of the tenderer-than-thou
Collectivistic regimenting love
With which the modern world is being swept.
But this poor microscopic item now!
Since it was nothing I knew evil of
I let it lie there till I hope it slept.
I have a mind myself and recognize
Mind when I meet with it in any guise.
No one can know how glad I am to find
On any sheet the least display of mind.
Monday, June 28, 2010
Thursday, June 17, 2010
Shea from Tennessee
The first time I met Shea was Thursday June 17, 2010, around 9:45pm or 9:50pm.
That's tonight, actually.
Shea made such an impression that I have a feeling that Shea will cross my path again and again in the next few months.
Shea (pronounced "shay") is a pretty unforgettable person.
I will tell the story of Shea soon...
That's tonight, actually.
Shea made such an impression that I have a feeling that Shea will cross my path again and again in the next few months.
Shea (pronounced "shay") is a pretty unforgettable person.
I will tell the story of Shea soon...
Tuesday, June 8, 2010
Man someone took my phone u hav the wrong number
My assignment was to collect the missing reports at the end of the month, so today I was working on it. Begging via e-mail, telephone, and text message.
One sister responded to me with an unusually terse answer.
6/8/10 5:27 PM 106 minutes ago
Me: Hello, Xochitl, may I have your FS report? --Steve 4:54 PM
(619) 555-0436: Sure 4:54 PM
"She just says 'Sure'...", I thought. "That's it?"
Usually people will respond with their figures.
So I replied with some encouragement to go ahead and give me her report.
Me: Thanks, can you text it to me or e-mail me? Or leave it as a voice mail? --Steve 4:58 PM
(619) 555-0436: Im not quite sure, i just got run over la jolla and im bleedin internally on the sidewalk so if im alive tomorrow il send it on k! 5:00 PM
Okay, now I'm in panic mode with adrenaline in my blood. Think, think...
The original reply of "sure" was strange. Perhaps Xochitl doesn't have that phone number any more and it belongs to someone else?
Yet in my mind I was visualizing my dear sister laying on the sidewalk, bleeding. What should I do?
The first thing I did was call what I knew to be her home number, her land line.
Busy! Of course. Her husband is probably just getting the news. I have to help, somehow. Must notify others so we can support her. We'll be visiting her at the hospital tonight. Hopefully.
Yet there's an element of doubt. I should call her to make sure. Yet perhaps the paramedics are working on her now, and won't appreciate having her cell phone ring and interrupt them. I had better text her, first.
Me: can I call you right now? 5:08 PM
Still in panic mode, I only waited about 20 seconds until I made the decision to just ring the number and see if she answered.
Ringing... someone picked up!
It was the sound of a man groaning in pain, terrible pain. Well, at least I now knew that it wasn't Xochitl. Definitely not her voice. A man's voice. Groaning in agony.
"How are you?" I said loudly into the phone, making sure I was overheard by the man laying on the sidewalk in torment from his injuries. He groaned on... then the sound of the phone hitting heavily against garments... had the emergency people taken the phone away from him?
Silence now. Waiting to hear...
"Are you okay?" I said.
Silence.
Then, in the distance, laughter. More laughter. And a voice, straining against his own laughter,
"He's still on the phone!"
Silence... and then a disconnect.
Walking back over to the computer screen where my Google voice text conversation was taking place, I saw that I'd had a response to my request to call.
(619) 555-0436: I don't care. [expletive] my life 5:11 PM
Now that I knew it was all a theatrical production, I decided to join right in on the fun and exercise my rarely-used improvisational skills.
What follows is the remainder of the text conversation, complete with time stamps.
Me: Please stay calm. I've just called 911 and although they can't track you directly, I gave them your phone number and they're calling the service provider 5:16 PM
Me: who will be able to get to you. Just stay calm. Can you dial 911 yourself? That will speed the process... in any event, help is on its way. 5:17 PM
(619) 555-0436: U got the wrong numb 5:18 PM
Me: Just please keep your phone on. Is the battery strong? Even with the phone off the phone will emit a weak signal, if you're in La Jolla the police should be 5:18 PM
Me: I'm on with 911 right now and they are attempting to ring you too. Please pick up unless you've aleady called them. WAIT hang tight they say they have a fix 5:19 PM
Me: on your location. Hit and run I 5:19 PM
(619) 555-0436: Man someone took my phone u hav the wrong number 5:26 PM
(619) 555-0436: 5:27 PM
NOTE: Other than my modifying the actual phone number and removing a foul word, the above text conversation is copied exactly as it appears in my Google voice text record.
Saturday, June 5, 2010
Failure is Fun
Oh, how sweet the smell of failure in the morning.
As I struggled through the exam, I remembered the time during the online course that I watched a simulation of some feature of Access 2007, the database portion of the Microsoft Office 2007 Suite, and laughed out loud.
"What?" I had thought, as the demonstration played out onscreen. It was funny because it was all gobbledygook to me, and I wondered "who can understand this stuff?"
Yeah, funny at the time, but now as I floundered during the timed 50-minute online test, it dawned on me that those who hope to get a job using Access 2007 probably can understand "this stuff", or at least they'd better.
Mercifully the fifty minutes of sweating went by fast, and soon the truth was at hand, visible for me and Shane, the CertiPort test administrator, to see:
As I struggled through the exam, I remembered the time during the online course that I watched a simulation of some feature of Access 2007, the database portion of the Microsoft Office 2007 Suite, and laughed out loud.
"What?" I had thought, as the demonstration played out onscreen. It was funny because it was all gobbledygook to me, and I wondered "who can understand this stuff?"
Yeah, funny at the time, but now as I floundered during the timed 50-minute online test, it dawned on me that those who hope to get a job using Access 2007 probably can understand "this stuff", or at least they'd better.
Mercifully the fifty minutes of sweating went by fast, and soon the truth was at hand, visible for me and Shane, the CertiPort test administrator, to see:
It felt strangely good. It smelled good. The smell of failure in the morning. The sweet smell of failure.
Why? Because all my life, fearing failure, I usually avoid anything that I suspect will result in failure.
"Hey, let's do this certain thing! Where's Steve?"
Hear the screech of my tires and see my rapidly diminishing taillights.
So failure is rare for me since I never attempt anything too difficult.
This failure made me feel a certain pride. I tried something that I had no real chance of succeeding at. Study and study and more study gave me an overconfident feeling based simply on the time I'd "spent" on it. Yes, it was hilarious to see all the "mumbo jumbo" in the lessons. Sort of a shock to find that they don't give you a passing grade just for showing up. This paragraph is all messed up and confused. What I'm trying to say is that I'm happy to have a Failure because it means I had a Try.
Failure is fun!
Sunday, May 30, 2010
Owl Be Back
Thursday night/Friday morning, Sean and I did a shift of night security at the stadium, from Midnight to 3:00am.
Normally, no one in their right mind would really want to do such an assignment, not if they were planning to attend the District Convention that very Friday morning.
However, as we roved the darkened stadium with our flashlights, I was reminded of what a privilege such an assignment truly is.
The sky was lighted by the full moon which made the fluffy night clouds glow brightly as they slid past as if on an invisible overhead glass table.
Still and quiet ruled. The nearby freeway was mostly vacant. The trolleys were all sleeping afar off in their yard by the ballpark. The only other people in the stadium were those brothers watching the equipment in both sound tents, the ones assigned to stay in the two administration offices, the two trucking rovers, and of course perhaps two or three stadium security people who watched camera monitors in their office near Gate A.
We roamed from the pitch black tunnel circling the field seating to the main walkway of the uppermost section, the View level.
Standing on that high walkway, under the massive 45-degree overhang of the highest seating level, Sean and I watched the moon as it shone down through a gap between two fast-moving clouds. Waiting for it to disappear behind a cloud, it was a strange sight to see the cloud seemingly pass by behind the moon. I'm not sure how or why the moon continued to look so crisp and clear as it shone through the cloud, providing such an illusion.
Then we noticed a black shape flapping up from the darkened trolley station, flying up underneath the stair-stepped seating structure. It seemed to disappear into a crack or opening just out of our vision. There was no sound of flight, and so we both came to the same conclusion at once:
"Owl!"
Then immediately we heard the sound of what must have been owl chicks excitedly welcoming mom back to the nest.
I had never heard baby owls before. It seemed a mixture of both high squeaks and low chirps, mixed together much as delicious ketchup blends the tastes of sweet and salty.
After a moment, the silent dark shape swooped back down from the concrete structure and glided back down to the vicinity of the trolley station.
Sean and I and walked quietly over to where the sounds of the chicks were coming from so that we might get a better glimpse of Mommy Owl when she returned.
Looking up we could now see some pretty big openings where the View Level sat upon its reinforced stair-stepped support. Probably expansion joints to allow the concrete to acknowledge the difference between the heat of the day and the cool of the night.
Was it five minutes we waited? Then suddenly she came back, flying up from the train station. This time, however, she must have seen us, for instead of a direct route to the nest, she flow a wide figure-eight across the edge of the stadium. How beautiful! Though she was still to us just a dark silhouette against the bright white clouds, it was obvious that she carried in her talons a pretty good-sized rodent. (Poor innocent rat!)
She flew up into one of the expansion joints, and the chicks started up again with their squeaky chirping. She flew out after just a few seconds, and into a nearly adjacent opening. Then a second later she came out and occupied an opening several steps up and away from that of her nest.
This time she came out to the edge and just stared down at us, watching us intently as she rocked slightly from side to side.
After we stared back awestruck for a couple of minutes, knowing that the magic had to end eventually, Sean risked shining a strong beam of light from his Mag-Lite torch upon her face.
She looked like a monkey! A vertically oval face, white framed by brown, intent dark eyes watching us-- I had to remind myself that she'd flown up there, and that her silent flight had quite early on betrayed her owl-ness to us.
Realizing her concern over who the heck we were, we spoke softly to her, admiring her beauty and wishing her a pleasant night, and then quietly walked away.
Glancing at my watch I noted the time, 2:15am.
Normally, no one in their right mind would really want to do such an assignment, not if they were planning to attend the District Convention that very Friday morning.
However, as we roved the darkened stadium with our flashlights, I was reminded of what a privilege such an assignment truly is.
The sky was lighted by the full moon which made the fluffy night clouds glow brightly as they slid past as if on an invisible overhead glass table.
Still and quiet ruled. The nearby freeway was mostly vacant. The trolleys were all sleeping afar off in their yard by the ballpark. The only other people in the stadium were those brothers watching the equipment in both sound tents, the ones assigned to stay in the two administration offices, the two trucking rovers, and of course perhaps two or three stadium security people who watched camera monitors in their office near Gate A.
We roamed from the pitch black tunnel circling the field seating to the main walkway of the uppermost section, the View level.
Standing on that high walkway, under the massive 45-degree overhang of the highest seating level, Sean and I watched the moon as it shone down through a gap between two fast-moving clouds. Waiting for it to disappear behind a cloud, it was a strange sight to see the cloud seemingly pass by behind the moon. I'm not sure how or why the moon continued to look so crisp and clear as it shone through the cloud, providing such an illusion.
Then we noticed a black shape flapping up from the darkened trolley station, flying up underneath the stair-stepped seating structure. It seemed to disappear into a crack or opening just out of our vision. There was no sound of flight, and so we both came to the same conclusion at once:
"Owl!"
Then immediately we heard the sound of what must have been owl chicks excitedly welcoming mom back to the nest.
I had never heard baby owls before. It seemed a mixture of both high squeaks and low chirps, mixed together much as delicious ketchup blends the tastes of sweet and salty.
After a moment, the silent dark shape swooped back down from the concrete structure and glided back down to the vicinity of the trolley station.
Sean and I and walked quietly over to where the sounds of the chicks were coming from so that we might get a better glimpse of Mommy Owl when she returned.
Looking up we could now see some pretty big openings where the View Level sat upon its reinforced stair-stepped support. Probably expansion joints to allow the concrete to acknowledge the difference between the heat of the day and the cool of the night.
Was it five minutes we waited? Then suddenly she came back, flying up from the train station. This time, however, she must have seen us, for instead of a direct route to the nest, she flow a wide figure-eight across the edge of the stadium. How beautiful! Though she was still to us just a dark silhouette against the bright white clouds, it was obvious that she carried in her talons a pretty good-sized rodent. (Poor innocent rat!)
She flew up into one of the expansion joints, and the chicks started up again with their squeaky chirping. She flew out after just a few seconds, and into a nearly adjacent opening. Then a second later she came out and occupied an opening several steps up and away from that of her nest.
This time she came out to the edge and just stared down at us, watching us intently as she rocked slightly from side to side.
After we stared back awestruck for a couple of minutes, knowing that the magic had to end eventually, Sean risked shining a strong beam of light from his Mag-Lite torch upon her face.
She looked like a monkey! A vertically oval face, white framed by brown, intent dark eyes watching us-- I had to remind myself that she'd flown up there, and that her silent flight had quite early on betrayed her owl-ness to us.
Realizing her concern over who the heck we were, we spoke softly to her, admiring her beauty and wishing her a pleasant night, and then quietly walked away.
Glancing at my watch I noted the time, 2:15am.
Wednesday, May 26, 2010
Book Review: The Giving Tree by Shel Silverstein
This morning I finally finished reading The Giving Tree by Shel Silverstein.
It's not a long book, in fact it only took me two days to read it.
Yeah, it's good, but my question is this:
Why did the publishers choose the particular photograph of the author that appears on the back of the dust jacket?
He looks like an angry, crazed mass murderer.
It's not a long book, in fact it only took me two days to read it.
Yeah, it's good, but my question is this:
Why did the publishers choose the particular photograph of the author that appears on the back of the dust jacket?
He looks like an angry, crazed mass murderer.
Friday, May 21, 2010
Cracker
Early this morning on the bus from Rancho San Diego into El Cajon, there were three passengers, a man and two women, all sitting up near the front by the driver, engaged in a spirited conversation.
From my seat at the very back, I couldn't make out what they were saying, however based upon what happened later I surmised they were discussing convicted sex offender Leonard Earl Scroggins, who was recently captured in National City.
It bears mentioning that all three of the passengers would easily qualify as "Caucasian", and the bus driver herself was a white woman.
After several minutes of the conversation, which I wasn't paying attention too, suddenly the loud voice of the driver was clearly heard, as she interjected her own strong opinion.
"It's how they're raised," she said, waving her finger back and forth in admonishment, "it has nothing to do with the color of their skin."
The male passenger continued talking, and I think I heard him say "Yeah, it's how they're raised, and..."
The bus driver lady cut him off and waved her finger more emphatically at him in her mirror.
"It has nothing to with the color of their skin," she repeated. "Look at John Gardner. He's white!"
The guy responded with something that I just couldn't make out, but the driver was not satisfied. As she pulled up to the next stop, she continued:
"It has NOTHING to do with the color of their skin. It's how they're raised! I have three mixed boys and they'd never do anything like that, I'll guarantee you. It has nothing to do with the color of their skin!"
A black passenger got on, a man, and walked through the ongoing conversation seemingly oblivious to the subject. He sat in the middle of the bus. The next passenger to board was Hispanic, and he sat down in the front. He was listening, and evidently got the gist of what was going on.
The white male responded to the bus driver by saying, "It's how their raised, yes, it's how their raised," in sort of an acquiescent acknowledgement of the driver's strong words. As he spoke, the Hispanic man was looking at him.
"You're a racist?", he said, with sort of a chuckle as if it was hard to believe that racists still existed in Southern California.
The white man simply repeated the words of surrender, "It's how they're raised", and looked out the window, hoping the conversation would end.
Which it did.
From my seat at the very back, I couldn't make out what they were saying, however based upon what happened later I surmised they were discussing convicted sex offender Leonard Earl Scroggins, who was recently captured in National City.
It bears mentioning that all three of the passengers would easily qualify as "Caucasian", and the bus driver herself was a white woman.
After several minutes of the conversation, which I wasn't paying attention too, suddenly the loud voice of the driver was clearly heard, as she interjected her own strong opinion.
"It's how they're raised," she said, waving her finger back and forth in admonishment, "it has nothing to do with the color of their skin."
The male passenger continued talking, and I think I heard him say "Yeah, it's how they're raised, and..."
The bus driver lady cut him off and waved her finger more emphatically at him in her mirror.
"It has nothing to with the color of their skin," she repeated. "Look at John Gardner. He's white!"
The guy responded with something that I just couldn't make out, but the driver was not satisfied. As she pulled up to the next stop, she continued:
"It has NOTHING to do with the color of their skin. It's how they're raised! I have three mixed boys and they'd never do anything like that, I'll guarantee you. It has nothing to do with the color of their skin!"
A black passenger got on, a man, and walked through the ongoing conversation seemingly oblivious to the subject. He sat in the middle of the bus. The next passenger to board was Hispanic, and he sat down in the front. He was listening, and evidently got the gist of what was going on.
The white male responded to the bus driver by saying, "It's how their raised, yes, it's how their raised," in sort of an acquiescent acknowledgement of the driver's strong words. As he spoke, the Hispanic man was looking at him.
"You're a racist?", he said, with sort of a chuckle as if it was hard to believe that racists still existed in Southern California.
The white man simply repeated the words of surrender, "It's how they're raised", and looked out the window, hoping the conversation would end.
Which it did.
Thursday, May 13, 2010
Kurtosis
Today, just moments ago, I learned that Excel 2007 has an Analysis ToolPak that can be activated.
This allows you to analyze a table in a spreadsheet and determine several things, including something called "Kurtosis".
This really aroused my interest for two reasons: (1) I have a good friend named Kurt. He let me ride his off-road Segway. The word reminds me of Kurt because it has the letters "kurt" in it, and (2) I've never heard of such a thing as "Kurtosis". What is it? I am really curious.
Here's the definition I found on wikipedia:
I'm going back to my Excel 2007 lesson now.
This allows you to analyze a table in a spreadsheet and determine several things, including something called "Kurtosis".
This really aroused my interest for two reasons: (1) I have a good friend named Kurt. He let me ride his off-road Segway. The word reminds me of Kurt because it has the letters "kurt" in it, and (2) I've never heard of such a thing as "Kurtosis". What is it? I am really curious.
Here's the definition I found on wikipedia:
In probability theory and statistics, kurtosis (from the Greek word κυρτός, kyrtos or kurtos, meaning bulging) is a measure of the "peakedness" of the probability distribution of a real-valued random variable. Higher kurtosis means more of the variance is the result of infrequent extreme deviations, as opposed to frequent modestly sized deviations.What????? My curiosity is slowly evaporating in the heat of this "over my head" feeling that's coming over me.
I'm going back to my Excel 2007 lesson now.
Wednesday, May 12, 2010
All the Souls
What do animals really think and feel?
Much has been written on the subject.
I don't have anything to add.
Yet I do wonder.
Much has been written on the subject.
I don't have anything to add.
Yet I do wonder.
Tuesday, April 13, 2010
Roots of a Weed
"I would like to be a model in a science textbook."
Thus said the weed, just after I'd pulled it out of a planter pot, where it had been growing right against the inside surface of the earthenware container.
"Well, I don't really have access to any science textbooks," I replied. "However, I can post your picture in my blog."
Though the weed didn't reply audibly, through body language, specifically its flat, diagrammatic appearance, it seemed to agree that this would be better than nothing.
In an attempt to do justice to this weed's aspirations to be the star of a science textbook, I did look up the following information:
** TWO HOURS LATER ** ahhhrrkgghk! I can't find anything online that positively identifies the above weed. So frustrating. Ah well, I must give up for now, but I'll dream that perhaps this is a new weed and I'll receive the Nobel Peace Prize for discovering a new plant.
Thus said the weed, just after I'd pulled it out of a planter pot, where it had been growing right against the inside surface of the earthenware container.
"Well, I don't really have access to any science textbooks," I replied. "However, I can post your picture in my blog."
Though the weed didn't reply audibly, through body language, specifically its flat, diagrammatic appearance, it seemed to agree that this would be better than nothing.
** TWO HOURS LATER ** ahhhrrkgghk! I can't find anything online that positively identifies the above weed. So frustrating. Ah well, I must give up for now, but I'll dream that perhaps this is a new weed and I'll receive the Nobel Peace Prize for discovering a new plant.
Monday, April 12, 2010
Hey! Where are you going?
It was their logo that first caught my eye and lured me into the Blind Lady Ale House on February 14, 2009, just two weeks after they'd opened.
The man was riding his bicycle into the ale house, and I simply followed him inside.
Later, however, I began to notice that the ads they were placing in CityBeat were irking me for some reason.
Where are you going, turn-of-the-century bicycle man? You're riding away from the AleSmith Weekend!
Why did I feel so strongly about this? Not sure. I cannot recall exactly where I heard of this concept. Certainly I didn't make it up. Vaguely I remember reading somewhere that newspaper photographs are sometimes reversed, or "mirrored", to make the subject appear to be looking toward the center of the page rather than away.
So on June 28, 2009, I wrote a letter to the Blind Lady Ale House, specifically to co-owner Jeff Motch, the award-winning professional graphic designer who had created the logo. Citing enclosed examples similar to the images above, I suggested that he design a new, complimentary logo, with the cyclist riding to the right, or toward the subject of any future advertisements.
There was no reply. Which was kind of disappointing, though not unexpected. Perhaps successful designer Motch thought "who the heck do you think you are? Who is the professional graphic artist around here, anyway?" Or then again, people good with art are often not so comfortable with words, so writing a letter in response might be quite a task. Additionally, how many times do I respond to stuff I see online, much less by written word? How often do I think "I'm gonna send them a ThankYou card", but then never do? Often.
The main reason that I had no response, I figured, was that my idea was lacking in merit. Does it really matter which way the guy is facing in the logo? Evidently not.
Flash forward nine months to March 24, 2010. Sitting in my PowerPoint 2007 class, the lesson asked me to include the following graphic on the left edge of my presentation:
"Next, to keep the viewer’s eye from traveling off the slide to the left, click the Rotate button and choose Flip Horizontal. "
Cool!
The man was riding his bicycle into the ale house, and I simply followed him inside.
Where are you going, turn-of-the-century bicycle man? You're riding away from the AleSmith Weekend!
Why did I feel so strongly about this? Not sure. I cannot recall exactly where I heard of this concept. Certainly I didn't make it up. Vaguely I remember reading somewhere that newspaper photographs are sometimes reversed, or "mirrored", to make the subject appear to be looking toward the center of the page rather than away.
So on June 28, 2009, I wrote a letter to the Blind Lady Ale House, specifically to co-owner Jeff Motch, the award-winning professional graphic designer who had created the logo. Citing enclosed examples similar to the images above, I suggested that he design a new, complimentary logo, with the cyclist riding to the right, or toward the subject of any future advertisements.
There was no reply. Which was kind of disappointing, though not unexpected. Perhaps successful designer Motch thought "who the heck do you think you are? Who is the professional graphic artist around here, anyway?" Or then again, people good with art are often not so comfortable with words, so writing a letter in response might be quite a task. Additionally, how many times do I respond to stuff I see online, much less by written word? How often do I think "I'm gonna send them a ThankYou card", but then never do? Often.
The main reason that I had no response, I figured, was that my idea was lacking in merit. Does it really matter which way the guy is facing in the logo? Evidently not.
Flash forward nine months to March 24, 2010. Sitting in my PowerPoint 2007 class, the lesson asked me to include the following graphic on the left edge of my presentation:
"Next, to keep the viewer’s eye from traveling off the slide to the left, click the Rotate button and choose Flip Horizontal. "Maybe my idea is not so crazy after all!
So right away, out of curiousity, I went to the Blind Lady Ale House BLAHG to look at one of their recent CityBeat ads.
Friday, March 26, 2010
Coming Undone
I am most certainly not a Korn fan, but must admit that I really like their video for Coming Undone conceptually.
Monday, March 15, 2010
On a Busy Street
On Amtrak this morning two men got on at San Luis Obispo.
These guys were exuberant, friendly, and full of life.
It took me several hours to piece together the clues that these guys had just been released from the San Luis Obispo Men's Colony.
Clues: (1) the fact they split up on the bus, not sitting together, (2) the guy behind me chatting up this girl across the aisle, (3) that both of them carried manilla envelopes with numbers written on the upper right corner (evidently personal effects), (4) the guy behind me telling the girl that he's sick of talking to guys all the time, (5) his also describing a situation where "he was there when the cops came" but was evidently innocent, so he claims, and (6) the other guy later at the Santa Barbara train station shouted out, "I been cooped up so long -- I don't mind the noise!"
Anyway, in the afternoon I was sitting for a while in the same car southbound on the Pacific Surfliner. There are two things, gems, that I overheard which I would like to share, because I found them very interesting.
The first is a simple phrase.
One guy was ragging the other guy for his "bald head" (pronounced "bodd haid"). The bald guy responded with:
There's a Chinese technique where they shake your hand, and by pressing certain veins in your hand, it gives you a blood clot in the head.
The teller of the story illustrated it well with gestures, pointing to the veins in his hand as he shook it in the air, and then at the side of his head as if it had a blood clot. The listener seemed to have some difficulty believing it, so the teller said "It's what I just said," and repeated the information. Then he elaborated:
These guys were exuberant, friendly, and full of life.
It took me several hours to piece together the clues that these guys had just been released from the San Luis Obispo Men's Colony.
Clues: (1) the fact they split up on the bus, not sitting together, (2) the guy behind me chatting up this girl across the aisle, (3) that both of them carried manilla envelopes with numbers written on the upper right corner (evidently personal effects), (4) the guy behind me telling the girl that he's sick of talking to guys all the time, (5) his also describing a situation where "he was there when the cops came" but was evidently innocent, so he claims, and (6) the other guy later at the Santa Barbara train station shouted out, "I been cooped up so long -- I don't mind the noise!"
Anyway, in the afternoon I was sitting for a while in the same car southbound on the Pacific Surfliner. There are two things, gems, that I overheard which I would like to share, because I found them very interesting.
The first is a simple phrase.
One guy was ragging the other guy for his "bald head" (pronounced "bodd haid"). The bald guy responded with:
"Grass don't grow on a busy street!"The second is a piece of street knowledge, or urban legend, or as the teller no doubt believes it, "just plain facts":
There's a Chinese technique where they shake your hand, and by pressing certain veins in your hand, it gives you a blood clot in the head.
The teller of the story illustrated it well with gestures, pointing to the veins in his hand as he shook it in the air, and then at the side of his head as if it had a blood clot. The listener seemed to have some difficulty believing it, so the teller said "It's what I just said," and repeated the information. Then he elaborated:
Remember Bruce Lee, that old guy, was doing Kung Fu? Well his grandfather told him, "you're distorting the traditional Kung Fu." Because it's like a religion to them! But he kept on with his style of fighting. So they shook his hand, and they pressed a vein in his hand, and it gave him a blood clot in the head. They say it was, what, an aneurysm? Nah... they shook his hand, and they pressed a vein in his hand, and he got a blood clot in the brain.The teller was completely serious, and told the tale with such conviction that I was nearly convinced as I eavesdropped upon the conversation from about 5 rows away.
Friday, February 5, 2010
Catnapper
Kidnapping, whether by force or persuasion, is still basically the same.
Catnapping, too.
Wendy and I have invited neighborhood cats into our place several times over the years. We've had such distinguished guests as Sarge, Bear, Butch, Vanilla, and M&M. We hope to invite the new kittie Black Dynamite over as soon as we get to meet him in person.
During these rainy winter weeks, however, there's been a shortage of cats. They're staying inside because of the weather, I suppose.
In our housing complex, we're pretty fortunate because our unit is set back from the driveway, so that if anyone was suddenly standing outside our front window, we'd be alarmed. Others are not so fortunate, such as the unit where M&M, Vanilla, and Black Dynamite live. There's a walking path that goes right past their front windows.
Wendy and I were walking on this path the other night, and noticed that their window blinds were open. The lights in their living room were ablaze. I was walking ahead, and tried to peer in by slanting my eyeballs to the right. Didn't see anyone, human or feline.
The sharper eyes of Wendy, however, saw something. She called me back, "Look!"
"You can't be looking in people's houses!" I objected.
"There's no one in there. Look!" Wendy replied.
So I looked through the window and sure enough, there was Vanilla, settling down for a nap on a soft white cotton towel placed on the back of the sofa for her convenience.
That was cool enough, but then what happened next sort of embarrassed me. No humans appeared to "catch us", but still...
Wendy did her "kitty chirping", and suddenly Vanilla looked up and was staring back at us through the window. I started heading back to our place, afraid that the owners would suddenly appear.
The next thing I heard, just seconds later, was the jingling sound that betrayed Vanilla's actions: she'd jumped down off the sofa, bolted through her cat door, jumped the fence, and was now being petted by Wendy.
I turned back and got a few strokes of greeting in there, and then headed back toward our front door.
Jingle jingle... as was her custom, Vanilla was now following behind me, heading over for a visit.
We (or at least I) always feel a twinge of guilt when we play with our neighbors' cats. They pay for food, shelter, and medical attention, while we just enjoy their company.
This night, however, takes the cake. If I may blame the main perpetrator, Wendy: she basically plucked that kitty right out of her own home!
Ah well, catnapping has its rewards... as long no one gets caught.
Catnapping, too.
Wendy and I have invited neighborhood cats into our place several times over the years. We've had such distinguished guests as Sarge, Bear, Butch, Vanilla, and M&M. We hope to invite the new kittie Black Dynamite over as soon as we get to meet him in person.
During these rainy winter weeks, however, there's been a shortage of cats. They're staying inside because of the weather, I suppose.
In our housing complex, we're pretty fortunate because our unit is set back from the driveway, so that if anyone was suddenly standing outside our front window, we'd be alarmed. Others are not so fortunate, such as the unit where M&M, Vanilla, and Black Dynamite live. There's a walking path that goes right past their front windows.
Wendy and I were walking on this path the other night, and noticed that their window blinds were open. The lights in their living room were ablaze. I was walking ahead, and tried to peer in by slanting my eyeballs to the right. Didn't see anyone, human or feline.
The sharper eyes of Wendy, however, saw something. She called me back, "Look!"
"You can't be looking in people's houses!" I objected.
"There's no one in there. Look!" Wendy replied.
So I looked through the window and sure enough, there was Vanilla, settling down for a nap on a soft white cotton towel placed on the back of the sofa for her convenience.
That was cool enough, but then what happened next sort of embarrassed me. No humans appeared to "catch us", but still...
Wendy did her "kitty chirping", and suddenly Vanilla looked up and was staring back at us through the window. I started heading back to our place, afraid that the owners would suddenly appear.
The next thing I heard, just seconds later, was the jingling sound that betrayed Vanilla's actions: she'd jumped down off the sofa, bolted through her cat door, jumped the fence, and was now being petted by Wendy.
I turned back and got a few strokes of greeting in there, and then headed back toward our front door.
Jingle jingle... as was her custom, Vanilla was now following behind me, heading over for a visit.
We (or at least I) always feel a twinge of guilt when we play with our neighbors' cats. They pay for food, shelter, and medical attention, while we just enjoy their company.
This night, however, takes the cake. If I may blame the main perpetrator, Wendy: she basically plucked that kitty right out of her own home!
Ah well, catnapping has its rewards... as long no one gets caught.
Thursday, February 4, 2010
Fun with Time and Excel
This morning in Excel 2007 class I discovered a fun thing to do with a spreadsheet.
- In the middle of the screen type the date of your birth. In the cell to the right enter a zero.
- In the cell below, type the date of your first birthday, and in the cell to the right, the number one.
- Select all four cells and drag the fill handle down, using AutoFill to fill in future dates.
- Select all four cells and drag the fill handle up to fill in past dates.
In this example the dates are only extended 10 years into the future and 10 years into the past. However, there's no limit to how far back or how far forward you can go. On the spreadsheet for my actual birthdate I went as far back as my Dad's birth year and discovered that I was "negative thirty" (-30) years old when my father was born.
This is the first time I've ever thought of being a negative age.
Of course this exercise can be a tad bit depressing, too, if you go far enough into the future, bypassing the natural life expectancy of imperfect humans. I see my parents dying... and I don't like it.
The positive thing, though, is this: How many times do we hear people longing to "go back into the past" when things were nicer and they were much younger? Well, with this method of "time travel via spreadsheet", you can spend a bit of time imagining old age, and then as you utter the above-mentioned lament, your wish can now come true! You can "go back", so to speak, and tell your parents and others how much you love them.
I think I'll take the train and go visit my parents again, since I'm still unemployed and we've still got "rail miles" on our Amtrak credit card.
So that I can tell them something.
Wednesday, January 20, 2010
Little Rivers
Walking down Sweetwater Springs Boulevard just as Tuesday's storm was spitting its final and another thing!s, I encountered this stream of rainwater runoff cutting a "little river" through the gravelly dirt.
My mind flashed back to the joys I experienced as a little boy in the backyard of my parents house in Lobert Street in Castro Valley. One of my favorite things to do was to run the garden hose and make "little rivers" in the dirt.
Watching water is something most people find fascinating, I venture to say. It's pretty and it makes a nice sound when it's running fast enough to "gurgle" or "babble".
When I became a teenager, my parents allowed me to get a pump and pipe water from the bottom of a fishtank to the top of a long section of plastic raingutter that I had bolted to my bedroom wall at a slight angle. The water ran through rocks and gravel and the roots of spider plants I had placed there, and by the time it poured back into the top of the fishtank at the other end, it was clean.
Everyone was happy. The fish looked healthy and well oxygenated, the spider plants thrived in the form of a beautiful green jungle overhanging the sides of the gutter, and I was pleased because I had a natural filter that kept the water clear. Of course I was also satisfied because, as Jesus said, and man has come to know from experience, "there is more happiness in giving", even if the recipients are mere green plants and freshwater fish.
Reflecting on this helps me more deeply appreciate why Jehovah is "the happy God" (1 Timothy 1:11) because of everything on this beautiful earth that he has given us.
My mind flashed back to the joys I experienced as a little boy in the backyard of my parents house in Lobert Street in Castro Valley. One of my favorite things to do was to run the garden hose and make "little rivers" in the dirt.There is a certain fractal beauty in how the water carves out a little channel, cutting while at the same time slowly filling it in with sediment.
After turning on the garden hose, the little river would be brown and muddy, but just a few moments later, crystal clear. Someone had told me that water only need travel a certain number of yards before it has become purified, and that "fact" was something that I really marveled at. The Creator has made his earth self-cleaning... a magnificent feat.
When my parents caught me running the garden hose just to "play", they chastised me. It was a waste of water, something that I didn't fully comprehend at the time, even though I had been told that we were in something they called a "drought".
Watching water is something most people find fascinating, I venture to say. It's pretty and it makes a nice sound when it's running fast enough to "gurgle" or "babble".If just a little boy can be fascinated by watching such a tiny little river, no doubt Jah the Creator enjoyed seeing the mighty rivers and streams of his earthly creation, and perhaps one can detect this particular facet of his feelings when he says that he "saw that [it was] good" (Genesis 1:9).
When I became a teenager, my parents allowed me to get a pump and pipe water from the bottom of a fishtank to the top of a long section of plastic raingutter that I had bolted to my bedroom wall at a slight angle. The water ran through rocks and gravel and the roots of spider plants I had placed there, and by the time it poured back into the top of the fishtank at the other end, it was clean.
Everyone was happy. The fish looked healthy and well oxygenated, the spider plants thrived in the form of a beautiful green jungle overhanging the sides of the gutter, and I was pleased because I had a natural filter that kept the water clear. Of course I was also satisfied because, as Jesus said, and man has come to know from experience, "there is more happiness in giving", even if the recipients are mere green plants and freshwater fish.
Reflecting on this helps me more deeply appreciate why Jehovah is "the happy God" (1 Timothy 1:11) because of everything on this beautiful earth that he has given us.
Monday, January 4, 2010
young Manhattan Mandarin singers
(from a January 2, 2010 gathering at the 90 Sands building in Brooklyn: the young ones from the Manhattan Mandarin congregation sing "Jehovah's Warm Appeal: Be Wise, My Son" from the new songbook.)
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