Midnight in Paris (DVD)

A soothing curative for someone like me, who suffers from Golden Age Thinking

Zero Tolerance for Distracted Driving This Weekend

They let me off early for good behavior today.

There was an unusual sight pretty deep into the parking area for our business campus: a CHP motorcycle officer was standing next to a car, his motorcycle on its kickstand nearby.

What?

Then when I saw two other police cars parked outside Costco, although it’s probably not related, it did remind me of something I’d heard on KNX 1070 AM radio this morning:

The CHP is doing a zero-tolerance crackdown on distracted driving this weekend!

My first thought when I heard that was wondering whether to warn my co-workers or not.

Then I thought “no” I won’t warn anyone.

Why not?

Because distracted driving is extremely dangerous. Those mentally agonizing months we spent after Wendy’s Honda James was rear-ended all started with some joker rear-ending us on the freeway. Likely texting, though I have no proof.

If I warn people who are offenders, and they’re careful for this one weekend, what good does that do for either them or me?

So no warnings.

Except for you, since you’re reading this!

Pea Eye

If P.C. stands for "politically correct", then P.I. stands for "politically incorrect".

Today I felt quite P.I.

Sitting in a frozen yogurt shop in San Luis Obispo this afternoon, watching all the people pass by, I suddenly realized something.

"You know, Dad, I think you and I are the only ones in town wearing leather jackets".

Wendy and I love SLO and we always go there when visiting my parents.  It's the kind of town where a store called The Hemp Shack does a thriving business.  (In fact that's where I always buy my wallets, having done so for the past several years now).

It's not the kind of town where people wear leather.  At least on the street as casual wear.

Later in the afternoon, on the other side of town, we were shopping in the San Luis Obispo Costco, and



**** This is an unfinished draft from March 10, 2010 ****  I'll just wrap it up now... *****

So bottom line was, we were in San Luis Obispo Costco, and a guy struck up a conversation with me, asking if we were visiting.  I told him my parents lived in Paso Robles, and my wife and I were visiting from San Diego.  So he said something about "I thought so" and then I made a crack about "leather jackets in SLO" and he seemed to agree.

Whatever... I don't care about being politically incorrect!  In fact, I'm as green as the next guy, since I was wearing a recycled jacket!  Yes, my brother owned that 80's-era padded-shoulder sucka... and when it went out of fashion, he gave it to me.

In Time

What I liked about In Time, the 2011 motion picture starring Amanda Seyfried and Justin Timberlake:

• The concept that everyone in the film, even the 85-year-olds and the 67-year-olds all look like they're 25 years old.  Everyone in the film looks 25, except the kids under 25.  It's like a preview of the New World.
  
  
• The automobiles.  There were three basic styles, based upon, I dunno, something like a Kennedy-era Daddy Wagon Lincoln, maybe a 70's Dodge Charger, and a 70's era Bob-tail Caddy.   They're nearly all painted flat black and hum with their futuristic electric motors.
  
  
• The performance by Vincent Kartheiser as the 85-year-old Phillipe Weis was good.  It was Wendy who pointed out that, though he looked 25, he acted 85.
  
  
• The basic idea that the currency of the future is time, which can easily be passed from hand to hand (wrist to wrist) between people.
  
  
• Oh yeah... Olivia Wilde, briefly.
  
  
  

What I didn't like about In Time, the 2011 motion picture co-starring Cillian Murphy:

1. The juvenile dialogue, which seemed written by a 15-year-old.
   
   
2. There was a chase through a restaurant kitchen and a bowl of tossed salad got knocked up into the air and salad went everywhere.   Please...
   
   
3. The two-bit thug villain had a stupid stereotypical English cockney accent, a la Firefly.  Please...
   
   
4. The atrocious special effects crime of having an expensive sports car careen off the edge, then cutting to an obvious plastic model, blurred and in slow motion, crashing down a dirt embankment.
   

My feeling is that this B movie (maybe it's a B+) will come and go with scarcely a stir, and then later on perhaps become sort of a minor cult favorite.  After all, the concept is pretty original.

After all, one reason we went to see it is that it's somehow related to a movie many people loved: Gattaca.

Powerless

Thursday September 8, 2011, approximately 3:40pm:

At my desk at work, frantically working on a spreadsheet to see if the formulas were perhaps outdated, thus explaining why it didn't match the documents I'd pulled from Innovation.

Suddenly the desk fan to my left sped up with the higher-pitched whine of an electrical device being force-fed a surge of additional power.  One second.  Two seconds....  then it died, simultaneously along with my computer screen and all the other humming electronic "creatures" on the floor.

~

The parking structure was jammed with cars.  Everyone had suddenly thought... "power's out... computer's down... time to go home".  Of course the traffic lights were all out too, outside the campus, and so the surrounding streets were filled with polite, one-at-a-time creeping drivers.

Wearying of the conversation with my co-workers who had stayed behind to wait out the traffic storm, I took a walk along Northside Drive.

Suddenly I saw the yellow and black flash of a beautiful butterfly, a very large thing that reminded me of a tiger.

As it floated down to a blossom, and then seemingly "pumped" up the nectar by fanning its wings, I thought:

"His power is on!"

~

Sitting outside with Wendy, a wind-up radio sitting on the concrete with the news on, we enjoyed the darkening sky.  Up above, the moon seemed to get brighter as everything else dimmed.  Suddenly it seemed very bright indeed.

"The moon is 'back' on!" I uttered, nonsensically.

~  

We'd heard that Target stores were open during the power outtage.  Curious, we grabbed a flashlight and ventured down the road to see.

The parking lot was dark.  However, the faintly visible large number of automobiles glimmering in the luna light betrayed the yet-beating heart of our favorite neighborhood "big box" store.

Bless Target.

Three Tapes

You know how it is.

What it's like.

You're in your private office, surrounded by tall metal filing cabinets of various colors, some bright, some faded.

As you stand at one, casually flipping through the folder tabs, suddenly you'll feel a little earthquake and hear one of the dusty old grey cabinets in the back corner shaking about. You notice that a drawer has slid out, and a folder popped up a few inches.

So taking a few steps, you reach and pull that file out and peruse.

You had forgotten all about this one!

~

This happened to me tonight.

Wendy came home not feeling all that great. Stressed out from work and just generally in need of some TLC. She verbally warned me, too, which was great, because that way I was able to snatch my off my Jerk Cap and put on the Loving Husband Hat without the usual delay that it takes me to realize that she needs TLC and she needs it now.

Later she mentioned how she'd wished there was gas in her car, so as she took a shower, I snuck out to go fill up her vehicle.

Driving out, I punched the radio to my pre-sets, and Rock 105.3 wasn't playing a song that was very appealing, so I punched another button. Jack FM I guess, but the song was pretty blah. Punch. Country music. Okay I'll give this a try.

It felt kind of warm in the car, because though it was evening now, it had been rather hot today, and so I rolled down the window.

As soon as the balmy evening air hit me, combined with the country music song, I was suddenly transported back in time with very clear memories of an adventure I'd once had.

Kind of cool how the brain is made to do that, isn't it? Sometimes it's a smell that will shake open a dusty memory. Or a sound.

So that was a pretty pleasant excursion out tonight to go get Wendy's car filled with petrol. Even though the first station I went to, Valero, was orange-coned off with all pumps "out of order". That sucked. It was okay, though, because I was pleasantly reliving the memory of my long ago adventure.

~

The adventure that I'd recalled?

A friend in the congregation, Ralph (pronounced Rayfe) Wojciechowska (spelling?) told me that he was going to drive to Phoenix, Arizona, and would I like to accompany him.

At the time I lived in the East Bay part of the San Francisco Bay Area, Hayward to be precise. At the time that Ralph asked, I know I was still living at home with my parents, and I was probably on a year-long period of unemployment, or else it was simply summer vacation from school.

There were a few catches to the offer, which gave me pause, and so I took a couple days to decide.

First, it was evident that I was not simply company for the trip, but also a means to pay half the fuel costs. He drove something like an old (a very old) 1969 Plymouth Roadrunner, a big old rattly muscle car in primer grey.

Second catch: There was no air conditioning in this vehicle. We would be driving to Phoenix. Arizona. Yeah, that Phoenix.

Third catch: Well, this wasn't a catch, but rather a "revelation" that occurred pretty early in the trip. (I did end up accepting the offer). His radio didn't work and he only had three cassette tapes to play. All country. Country music. And yes, that was quite a revelation.

Digressing slightly, I made the decision to go because it sounded like an adventure.

Ralph was taking his vacation week to visit his old friends from his old Diesel Mechanics school in Phoenix, from which he'd graduated a few years previously. I'd never been on at trip that far before (Bay Area to Los Angeles, then a left turn without stopping clear over to Phoenix.)

We drove without stopping to rest through the day and then through the night so that we arrived in Phoenix' hot desert surroundings while the sun was just beginning to rise.

Now it's time to get to the point.

At the time I did not care for country music. I was into what we called "Soul" which today I guess you'd call R & B.

To me, country music was white cracker "lynching music" that smacked of bigotry and hatred. That assessment was probably not accurate, but I was not long out of high school and at that age and at that time it was considered appropriate to hate something. Country music was my hated thing of choice.

Well we can FF this to the end and note that after several days and countless hours and many long miles, I came away with a real love for country music.

Three tapes. George Strait. Rosanne Cash. And another Rosanne Cash tape.

Over and over and over again.

So that was a lesson learned!

~

I applied that lesson later on when some guys in the congregation invited me to my first rock concert at an arena.

The Who.

So having learned the value of indoctrination, I borrowed some of their record albums and began to condition my brain to enjoy the music and lyrics.

~

One more story that's part of the memory that came back to me tonight.

Ralph was loving his visit with these people, worldly people, a young couple and their little crying toddler.

They were nice, actually.  That Toddler knew the value of manipulation through noisy wailing and tears, though.  He ruled.

Well, we were hanging out in the garage during the day in a Phoenix neighborhood.  I was hoping we could go see the sights of Phoenix.  Maybe hit the mall.  Drive downtown.  See some architecture.  The zoo, maybe!

Alas, no.

All they wanted to do was drink beer.

Ralph's younger brother came over.  He was going to that same Diesel Mechanics school that Ralph had attended.

Some other guy from the neighborhood was over.

They're all sitting in lawn chairs in the garage, in the shade, drinking beer.

Budweiser beer.

There was a slight stir of adventure when we went on a "beer run".

Drove down to the store, got another 12-pack of Bud.

So boring. So incredibly boring.

I was no beer drinker, and I don't think I liked Budweiser even if I was a beer drinker.

So I called my brother Paul back in the Bay Area and begged him for Brandon's phone number.  Brandon was a friend of Paul's and an acquaintance of mine who had moved to Phoenix.

On the phone Brandon listened to my suggestion, which was basically "come pick me up and take me away from here and let's go see stuff".

He wasn't really interested.

So now I was really stuck.  Stuck sitting around with a bunch of guys who wanted to do nothing else but sit around and drink beer.

Well, you know what happened?

I found a solution.

Now I know, and have known since that fateful trip, that fateful day, the answer to the following philosophical question:

What do you do when you have no vehicle and you're with a bunch of people who just want to sit around and drink beer?

The answer:

Drink some of the beer.

Problem was solved and I had a great day.

~

About Ralph Wojciechowska:  that's not his real name.  It's pretty close, but I changed it enough so that no one could google his last name and look this stuff up.

That little toddler of his friends' is no doubt all grown up now and either a member of an organized crime syndicate (the mafia is in Phoenix, right?) or else an upstanding pillar of Phoenix society.  Either way, I don't want them to know that I strongly implied that the little toddler ruled that household.

Aww... Sugar, Sugar

Dear Mom,
If you're reading this, please don't feel bad again like you did when I told you in person.
Remember, it wasn't your fault.  It was Betty Crocker's.
Steve

---------------------------------------------------

Growing up as a child I believe we ate the same thing for breakfast that everyone else in America did.  Boxed cereal.  Pancakes on the weekends.  During the week, though, breakfast cereal.

My Mom knew enough about good health that she avoided the ones with sugar-coating, like Kellogg's Frosted Flakes.

Ahh but oh those Fruit Loops!  Captain Crunch!  And of course the boring Cheerios (no sugar on the outside and no color).

Yummy!

-----------------

As I grew older and into my teens... or maybe it was my 20's... I noticed that if I didn't eat a good substantial breakfast of some kind of protein, that I felt pretty crappy and just generally "down" by mid-morning.

A friend named Gary once told me the same thing.  He needed to eat protein in the morning.

So eggs every morning.  Scrambled eggs.  With salsa.

-----------------

By this time I've moved out on my own.  Eggs in the morning.

No eggs... feeling crappy and low and down.

Eggs... feeling good!

-----------------

And I got married and continued the eggs in the morning, most mornings.

Then one day I finally decided to get my cholesterol checked, because a loving husband who loves his wife will have some life insurance as a gift of love for her should he ever suddenly leave the land of the living.

Ooops!  High cholesterol!  The guy giving me the test was "in the know" and told me that although my "bad" cholesterol was high, my "good" cholesterol was high, too.  He wasn't worried, but he admitted that it was a good idea to get it all lowered because the insurance companies just go by "high cholesterol".

(Never mind for now that "cholesterol levels" are a joke... it's not cholesterol that hurts your arteries, it's the inflammatory artificial grease that we eat...)

-----------------

So suddenly I'm eating oatmeal every morning instead of eggs.  My cholesterol levels drop.  Now I can get some insurance.

Meanwhile, however, it dawns on me...

Hey!  I don't need to eat protein in the morning.  This oatmeal is suiting me just fine.  What the...?

OF COURSE.

It wasn't "lack of protein" all those years that caused my mid-morning drop, my foul moods in the morning, my general just... just... crappy feeling.

It was something else.  Something white and evil and awful that was in all that breakfast cereal.  Even the ones that weren't blatantly frosted.  Like the innocent-looking Cheerios.

-----------------

Flash back a few years.  Yes, this is all out of order, because I'm generally a slow learner, and so I hadn't put two and two together yet.

My mother sends me a book called "Sugar Blues".  Okay Mom, thanks.  I put it on the shelf.

"Did you read that book yet?" she asked.  "I think it'll really help you."

After a year of not reading it, I finally picked it up.

The references to a 1930's movie starlet intrigued me immediately. The writing style kept my interest.  And I kept reading and reading over the next few weeks...

-----------------

Okay, so now I know that the history of refined sugar use and the incidence of schizophrenia climb the charts nearly neck and neck. And a whole bunch of other stuff.

Heroin.  Opium.  Morphine.  Refined sugar.  What's the difference?

Yeah well now I know.

Do I still use sugar?  Oh yes, of course, but it's a conscious choice.

In the mornings, though, on my oatmeal or in my tea, sugar is no longer allowed to throw it's skinny white arms around my neck for a choke-hold.

Stevia extract powder.  Or Xylitol crystals.  Or honey.

And I'm very happy.

Very clement.

-----------------

Epilogue...  that book was such a pleasant, entertaining life-changer for me that I ordered several used paperback copies online so I could always have a copy to loan to any friend who was interested.
Ask me and I'll mail you one of the copies!

Blind Date

Post Summary

Little boy sees TV movie where a guy spends a day blind-folded.

He longs to do something similar.

One day he does.

After doing so, he realizes that being blind isn't all it's cracked up to be.

-----------------

The little boy sat in the front seat of the Ford LTD station wagon, staring at the unusual-looking pedestrian crossing the street in front of the car.

"Mommy, why is that man tapping a stick?"

"He's blind, honey," his mother answered.  "He's a blind man."

"What's 'blind'?"

"Well, he can't see," she said.  "Do you know what it's like when the lights are turned out in your room at night?  That's what it's like for him."

"I feel sad for the man."

"Yes," she continued, "but blind people have their other senses heightened."

Little Mark wore a puzzled look.

"He can hear better than we can.  To make up for the blindness."

"That's good", concluded the little boy.

>O<

After walking home from school, 10-year-old Mark came through the front door, took a right into his bedroom just far enough to toss his backpack onto the bed, and then returned to the living room where he snapped on the television.

He listened as he ran into the kitchen to grab something to snack on.

"The ABC Afterschool Special presents: Blind Sunday" said the television.

This episode was one that he would never forget.

A high schooler meets a pretty girl at the swimming pool.

She's blind.

He's intrigued by her independent ways, and they become friends.

Wanting to know what her world is like, he agrees to her suggestion that they go on a date in which she'll show him around their town.

He will be blind himself, his eyes bandaged shut and covered by dark sunglasses.

During the day he sees firsthand the prejudice and discrimination that she faces constantly.  At a carnival, the operator of a ferris wheel refuses them admission.  "Safety issues", he says.

They walk, they take the bus, they have lunch.

He's like a fish out of water, suddenly in the dark, but she confidently guides him about, and they have a really good day together.

In the late afternoon, they sit in a park on grassy slope.  She invites him to remove the bandages.

His eyes open for the first time in hours, he gushes out loud about the beauty of the park, the colors, the brightness, the--

Suddenly he catches himself and stops.  He apologizes to his friend, who he realizes cannot and will not ever see what he's seeing.

She smiles and says it's okay.  To break the awkward silence, she asks him to describe a wildflower that she's touching with her fingers.

He describes the flower, a daffodil, as being "beautiful", just as she is.

Mark thought that it would be so much fun to have a Blind Sunday of his own.  Mainly so that he could experience the same new-found appreciation for sight as did the boy in the television show.

>O<

As the years passed, through middle school and on through high school, he thought about being temporarily blind on occasion.

Walking home from Hayward High he found that the 30 minutes seemed like just 5 if he "walked blind".

This odd technique involved walking down a straight sidewalk with the eyes closed, and then only "blinking" them open for an instant every 4 or 5 steps.  Then with eyes closed again, one simply walks along the "after image" of the sidewalk, still imprinted, seemingly on the back of the eyelids.

Of course, this was really nothing like the television program that moved him so much.

>O<

Who could accompany him on a day of blindness?

He'd rather it not be another guy, since he reckoned on having to touch and clutch his guide throughout the day.

He was really awkward with girls, but a girl would be a logical choice.

What girl could he get to take him?

Years passed...

>O<

They were already dating. 

Her name was Anne.

He trusted her.

She was willing.

"Blind Day", as they called it, was on.

She picked him up by taking the bus and trolley from Pacific Beach to his apartment in La Mesa.

He answered the door wearing sunglasses over the white gauze pads he had taped over his eyes early in the morning.

Vision was now absent for Mark.

Holding his hand, she guided him down the steps and out to the sidewalk.

Not that he needed much guidance, since he should have had those steps memorized by now after years of ascending and descending them.

Walking down the sidewalk toward the trolley he asked her to let go for a moment, to see if he could keep a straight line.

He could not.

Without his sight, Mark continually veered off toward the left.

Down at the La Mesa Depot trolley station, she purchased their tickets from the machine, and they commenced to waiting.

Attracted by the sound of the nearby fountain, he headed in that direction.  He asked that she tell him when he was just at the edge, but no further.

She agreed, but with a smile that he was unable to detect in her voice.

The sound of water and a wet feeling at the toe of his canvas shoe alerted him to the fact that he'd been duped.  She laughed out loud, good-naturedly, and apologized.  Then laughed again.

Then she called him over, and he slowly walked towards her voice.  She guided him, with "a little to the left" and "okay, go straight" and then when his face made contact with the specific lamp post that she'd had in mind, she laughed again.

It was harmless since he'd been traveling at a slow speed, and the impact was minor.

Thus ended her mischevious experimentation with "misleading the blind".

They took the trolley downtown and he listened to the familiar sounds that the trolley makes.

A bus then took them up Park to the zoo, and there they enjoyed the animals.  She by sight and sound.  He by sound and smell and descriptive words from his partner Anne.

There were several bronze gorilla sculptures, two of which were by the entrance, which he enjoyed touching and feeling.

Using the restroom was not the major problem that he'd expected it to be.

Planning ahead, he'd vowed that he'd simply ask another man to point out where the urinals were.  It didn't prove to be necessary, however.  Using his hands and knees he was able to find the sinks and then a urinal.

After a morning at the zoo, they were ready to see more.  Mark especially.

>O<

Lunch at a fast food restaurant was delicious.  Juicy hamburger and fries.  The smell and taste - the important features of such things - were present and fully satisfying.

>O<

The afternoon found them at Mission Bay's Belmont Park and the Giant Dipper rollercoaster.

Without the thrill of being able to see how high and steep the car had climbed, the ride was slightly lacking.  Kind of fun the way it dropped and tickled the tummy, but also very annoying in the way that it unpredictably jarred and shook him from side to side.

Walking from the great white wooden rollercoaster, Anne led Mark to the edge of the beach, and they strolled for while.

Suddenly she stopped.

"Oh!  There are some dolphin out there!"

She described to him five or six dolphin, jumping out of the water as they made their way north, just several hundred yards offshore.

"At first I saw these people on the beach pointing, and then I saw them," Anne continued.

"Woah, cool," said Mark.  "I've never seen dolphin in the wild before."

"Do you want to take the bandages off?"

"Mmmm.... no.  I'll keep them on."

"Are you sure?  It's late in the day now.  Wanna see?"

"No," he said.

He had a picture in his mind, rendered from memories of photographs and seeing the dolphins at Sea World.  It was enough.  In fact, it was a "scene" he'd never forget in the years to come.  He saw it in his mind very vividly, though slightly colorless and gray and damp and cold.

Having that mental image was a privilege and advantage over anyone who had been born blind, and would never be able to conjure such.

>O<

It was very late in the afternoon when she dropped Mark off at his apartment.  She didn't stay of course, but got back on the trolley to head home to Pacific Beach.

He'd chosen not to try and recreate the ending to the ABC After School Special "Blind Sunday".

No sitting on a grass slope and then gushing about how beautiful it was to see things.

He left the bandages on and listened to his CDs and the radio and ate something from the cupboard.

When it was time to retire he got in bed and pulled the bandages away from his eyes.

The room, though dark, was seemingly full of light, that of the streetlamps outside streaming past the edges of the curtains.

It had been a tiring day and he looked forward to enjoying his full vision again in the morning.

>O<

Many years later he heard that the myth of blind people having "heightened senses" other than vision was now being debunked.

When you're singing a song in the bathroom, and then walk into the closet, you may scarcely notice the sudden absense of echo.  If you were blind, however, it would be more glaring.

Being blind is really something to be avoided if at all possible.

And the restoration of sight to a blind person...  priceless.



Strange Saturday

Yesterday was Saturday and it was a strange day in field service.  Strange in a good way, I think.


Meeting for Field Service

The brother conducting the meeting, while waiting for 9:00am to strike, sat there in his chair with a slight smirk on his face, holding up his 2011 Examining the Scriptures book, open, as if he was going to consider it.

Those attending the meeting, probably about just 6 or 7, were sort of chuckling, and smiling.  Turns out he was just "messing around", making a reference to the item in the February 2011 KM instructing us to no longer use the "daily text" in the meetings for FS.

In the Territory

Two of the brothers encountered a home that seemed inaccessible, with fencing and a locked gate with a chain and padlock.  Then they spied someone walking from the back of the house to behind their detached garage.  Walking up as close as they could, they called out and made contact with the two homeowners, a woman who spoke with a heavy accent (probably Japanese) and her husband or boyfriend, who seemed like a total Californian native.

She was opposed to us being there, identifying herself as a "Christian", and upset about something her father-in-law had told her.

"If I'm dying, he cannot give me his blood.  He says I just have to die," she said.

The brothers asked "Why would he say something like that?"

They didn't know.

So the Bible was opened to Acts 15:20 ("abstain from... blood") as a likely reason for his statement, and then they said,

"But the good news is that many hospitals don't even use blood anymore, like Sharp Hospital in Chula Vista.  In fact, do you know Kobey's Swap Meet?  Well, Mister Kobey the founder received a blood transfusion, and he got HIV and died."

The woman's tune immediately changed and she said "I don't want to get a disease!"

Then she actually asked about learning more, with discussions from someone who could come by her house, during the day on either a Wednesday or a Thursday.

Turns out an elderly brother used to call on her, bring her "books", and then he died, and she misses him.

One of the brothers is coming back Thursday during the day with his wife to start a Bible study.

Speaking of tunes...

During Return Visits

Toward the end of the morning there were 6 left in the group, snuggled into a Honda Odyssey, making calls.  One of the sisters in the van who evidently really knows a lot about music made some comments about the new song book which I found really, really fascinating.

First, she said that the recorded music for our new song book is obviously a computer playing.  The notes are too perfect.  When a human plays, it doesn't sound that way.

This I thought was cool, because long, long ago in a place far, far away, I found a 1970's vinyl LP record album called "unplayed by human hands".

It contained the music of a computer playing a pipe organ.

At the time I was pretty excited, because I was really intrigued by movies where computers eventually take over the world, and so I loaned the album to a respected musician (I'll call him "Ray" since that's what most people called him).

"Ray" was not impressed.  (hmmm... since "Ray" is his real name I think I should get rid of the quotes).  Anyway, yeah, Ray was not impressed.  He explained to me why:

"It's too perfect.  When a master plays, there are subtle variations in distance between the notes, you know, when he hits the keys.  He adds his own flavor to the piece."

Okay, so that burst my bubble about computers taking over the world.  Until the Terminator movies, that is.

Hey, what's that way over there in the distance?  Oh yeah... it's my original point.  Let me get back to it now.

So anyway I had no idea that we were listening to computer-generated piano music at the Kingdom Hall all this time!  If she's correct, that is, and I don't have any valid reason to doubt it, especially with what she next mentioned, which is the 2nd interesting thing she said.

"There were four different people who played the music for the old songbook."

(There was then some discussion in the car about which songbook, and yes, she means the brown songbook we just ceased using, not the old pink songbook from the 70's.)

She continued,

"Yes, a friend and I narrowed it down one time, to four different humans, four different playing styles.  That's what we came up with, anyway."




I like strange Saturdays.

Employee of the Quarter -- It's in the Bag

SUMMARY

Pure brilliance in cost-savings

------------------------

Every three months they choose an Employee of the Quarter and several runners-up.

Nominees are chosen for their showing of initiative and suggesting cost-saving techniques.

This quarter... the prize will be mine!

Here's my idea, which I trust you as the reader will not steal from me (especially if you also work at Miller-Brasser Insurance Brokers alongside me) and thus steal the championship from me.

The problem:  We're almost out of yellow file folders.

Notice that we only had three yellow folders left when this photo was taken

Why this is a problem:  We use colored folders to identify the class of the insurance being quoted.  We use blue, yellow, green, and plain old manilla.

The issue:  Our budget is tight, and to buy another box of yellow folders would be expensive.

My brilliant idea:  Convert plain old manilla folders into yellow using a highlighter pen.  It took me about 15 minutes and about a pen and a half to convert one folder this morning.

Using the last original yellow folder as a guide, I carefully convert a plain folder to yellow

Criticism of my idea:  Yeah, I already confided in a co-worker, and here's the objection he raised:  "It's gonna cost more in labor and highlighter pens to create the folders than it would be buy them."

My response:  "You're an idiot, Wayne.  No it won't cost more... try using your brain for once.  The yellow folders, if purchased new, cost money.  The highlighters are free!  Meaning there's a bunch of them in the supply cabinet.  I saw at least one box of twelve."

Please keep my brilliant idea confidential until I bag the Employee of the Quarter award, which is in about 3 weeks.

Thank you.

Clemency presents new feature: Summaries

To my thousands of blog readers nationwide:

Clemency is primarily for me. It’s nice to have a creative outlet and a means of self expression.

However I realize that for other readers, it can be disappointing to plow through a long entry only to find out that nothing really happens. Or there’s no punch line. Or it’s just bunch of dribbly blah blah blah.

Thus, starting with tomorrow’s post, I proudly present a new feature of Clemency:

Post Summaries

Each new post will be preceded by a short summary. That way, you can just read the summary and thus save time should you choose not to read the long boring text that follows.

Cathartic Pathos

Blubbery men.  I cannot abide blubbery men.

Men who cry in public.

Not that I'm opposed to a little male emotion.  A dude getting a bit teary-eyed now and again is normal.

But those guys who lose it during a public discourse... brother, please.  We're trying to have a meeting here!

Recently there was a politician who broke down in tears during a televised speech.  His wife went up to the lecturn to comfort him.  Drag that guy out to the back alley and leave him alone to dry out!

Look, guys...  getting a little choked up is understandable at times, but save your blubbering for private.

Please.

~o~

Her co-worker in the adjacent cubicle seemed to be blowing his nose a lot.

"Are you getting sick?" Stephanie asked.

"No," replied Michael, "probably just allergies."

A lie.

~o~

Earlier the other day Stephanie and her supervisor Roberta were talking about Steph's daughter and how she had lost her Guinea Pig the day before.

It was a light-hearted conversation.  What to do?  Put the body in the dumpster or dig a hole?  The daughter wanted a proper burial, but Mom hadn't had the time to do it yet.

"You don't wanna know where he is right now," said Stephanie to her boss.

"In the freezer?" proffered Roberta.

Michael stood up into view and motioned toward the break room, implying perhaps he was in the freezer here at work.

Then he recalled a YouTube clip from an old Saturday Night Live featuring the "Yard-a-pult".  Yard clippings, raked leaves, dead pets... just load them in the Yard-a-pult and pull the trigger.  Shalllinggggg... over the fence and away they sail!"  He shared that basic concept with them, and at least Roberta laughed.

That was yesterday.

~o~

This morning Michael overheard Steph and Roberta catching up, again talking about the dead guinea pig.  Was it buried yet?  No.  Daughter still upset?  Yes...

Michael slowed down...  remembering the freezer... and an old memory flew through the window to haunt him once again.

He had once euthanized a beloved pet of his own.

This memory, very vivid, involving an especially traumatic scene, occupied his mind for a few moments, then expanded and pushed its way down into his heart.

The sunny and warm weather inside him turned grey and rainy.  Drops began to leak through the windows and down his face.  The storm, quietly gentle but shivering cold and growing darker, continued on for a couple of hours.

He had to go find privacy a few times...

~o~

"What is with you?" he asked.

"This happens every few years--" began Michael.

"Can I do you a favor," he interrupted, "and help you to change past history?"

"Is that possible?"

"Here's my idea:  write a story about what happened, but change the outcome.  Rewrite history.  Machine-gun that ghost right out of the sky.  Stop the haunting."

"I'm too...  I can't...  it may..." stammered Michael.

"I'll write it for you".

"Well, if you do, I'll read it when you're finished," said Michael.

"Then it's a deal," he said, offering his hand to seal the arrangement.

Michael's fingers nearly touched the mirror before he reached up and instead wiped his eyes.

Back Again

Is there someone you know

You're loving them so

But taking them all for granted?

You may lose them one day

Someone takes them away

And they don't hear

The words you long to say

Those lyrics are from what could easily appear to be one of the seventies' great romantic love songs.

David Gates actually wrote "Everything I Own" to express his feelings toward his late father.

My own Dad will die one day and be taken away and it's something that I hope will never happen.  Yet I know it must happen.

Countless times people have sung or spoken their regrets over not telling a loved one how much they cared, only to find that it was one day too late.  The object of their affection could no longer hear.

When I listen to "Everything" it often makes me want to weep over my father, even though he is still living.

After losing someone, is there a way to could go back in time and tell them "one more time", how much they love them?

The only way I know is to imagine the day when they will eventually pass away.  To cry and sorrow inside.  To play back the music and photographs of their memory.  To realize that yes, you do care very deeply.

And that for now, they are still alive.

Then to go and tell them now, before it's too late.