Today in the paper there is an obituary for 89 year old Robert Sheilds who spent 4 hrs a day writing in a diary about the last 20 hrs. Pretty interesting life, you assume, but how interesting can it be when you waste 4 precious hours detailing bodily functions and mundane events?
The piece says his diary contains more than 37 million words, which may be a record-setter for pure verbosity. Not only that, he compiled a chronofile scrapbook where he pasted letters, copies of bills and even a clipping of his nose hairs.
The Obit says that "he had three dozen ways, none obscene, to describe his urinations, all recorded." I cannot come up with more than a few ways to describe urination and most of them are obscene.
Whatever complaints you may have with my journal, you may be thankful that I have not pasted any nosehairs. (Oops nature is calling - excuse me while I take a number 7)
While on that subject, I wonder if there been any scientific inquiry into one aspect of aging, where the hair on your head starts growing thinner, but you start sprouting hair from your ears? What gives with that? Note to self: New product Idea: lazer ear hair remover. Great chiristmas gift for the geezer on your list!
10/30/2007
Bobby Who?
It is one of those times when I play my collection of CD's instead of listening to live radio or TV. For some reason, the media programming geniuses have decided that everyone in New England is giddy with the World Series win over the Rockies in a 4 game sweep. Those who see themselves as part of "Red Sox Nation" yell "We won!"
We Did? I don't know who the We is, since I did nothing more than drink beer and sit on my lard ass on the sofa , doing my bills, organizing my socks and playing video poker during the volumes of repeated commercials. Occasionally, I would look up during those rare moments of drama when somebody actually hit a ball far enough that they could run to a base.
Ok I'm exaggerating. I did watch the most of the games, because I generally enjoy a good athletic contest, and the playoffs are the only time when the players seem to really care about the outcome. Although most of the drama and hype is concocted by media whores whose lively hood relies on an aroused audience.
I must be getting old and cranky, but when I saw the tub of Champagne that the winners were going to squirt at each other, I thought: What a collossal waste of fermented grapes. I just hope it was cheap crap. I'd hate to think that premium sparkling wine was being wasted for the entertainment of the viewing public. I shut the TV off just as the last out was called. I don't need to watch a bunch of overpaid jocks acting like schoolyard kids. They won; since I personally had little to celebrate about, and had already consumed my allowed quota of bubbly - 2 Bud Lites - I went to bed.
Now, I am waiting patiently for the Media-generated hooh-hah to settle down. Everywhere I go, people are remarking about the series. "How about dem sox!" they say (guy at the donut shop). "Are you going to the parade?" (clerk at the convenience store where I buy my scratch tickets) "We clean Red Sox jacket 20% off. You bring today." (Chinese lady at the laundry. I didn't bother to assure her that I have no Logoed clothing whatsoever.) "Did you see that kid hit that home run? First Pitch. Out of the Park. You want the Tingling or Warming?" (Guy at the drug store, referring to the eighth inning, game winning Home run hit by Bobby Kielty, and also to my price inquiry on a tube of KY Jelly.) "Yeh, I had tickets to game 6. Ok, hold still a second. Hmmn. Does it hurt when I do this? Yeh, right behind home plate. Ok we're done." (My proctologist.)
Apparently, these people thinking that everyone gives a sweet crap that the Red Sox won the world series. I say BFD. It's nice for them - the baseball employees - because they earn more money; but how do the fair weather fans benefit?
I guess they think just because I look like a retired guy, I probably have nothing better to do than talk about baseball games. I feel like a growling old dog in a pen full of spunky puppies. I've already expressed my feelings towards the bunch of guys who work at Fenway Park Who is this kid Bobby Kielty anyhow?
We Did? I don't know who the We is, since I did nothing more than drink beer and sit on my lard ass on the sofa , doing my bills, organizing my socks and playing video poker during the volumes of repeated commercials. Occasionally, I would look up during those rare moments of drama when somebody actually hit a ball far enough that they could run to a base.
Ok I'm exaggerating. I did watch the most of the games, because I generally enjoy a good athletic contest, and the playoffs are the only time when the players seem to really care about the outcome. Although most of the drama and hype is concocted by media whores whose lively hood relies on an aroused audience.
I must be getting old and cranky, but when I saw the tub of Champagne that the winners were going to squirt at each other, I thought: What a collossal waste of fermented grapes. I just hope it was cheap crap. I'd hate to think that premium sparkling wine was being wasted for the entertainment of the viewing public. I shut the TV off just as the last out was called. I don't need to watch a bunch of overpaid jocks acting like schoolyard kids. They won; since I personally had little to celebrate about, and had already consumed my allowed quota of bubbly - 2 Bud Lites - I went to bed.
Now, I am waiting patiently for the Media-generated hooh-hah to settle down. Everywhere I go, people are remarking about the series. "How about dem sox!" they say (guy at the donut shop). "Are you going to the parade?" (clerk at the convenience store where I buy my scratch tickets) "We clean Red Sox jacket 20% off. You bring today." (Chinese lady at the laundry. I didn't bother to assure her that I have no Logoed clothing whatsoever.) "Did you see that kid hit that home run? First Pitch. Out of the Park. You want the Tingling or Warming?" (Guy at the drug store, referring to the eighth inning, game winning Home run hit by Bobby Kielty, and also to my price inquiry on a tube of KY Jelly.) "Yeh, I had tickets to game 6. Ok, hold still a second. Hmmn. Does it hurt when I do this? Yeh, right behind home plate. Ok we're done." (My proctologist.)
Apparently, these people thinking that everyone gives a sweet crap that the Red Sox won the world series. I say BFD. It's nice for them - the baseball employees - because they earn more money; but how do the fair weather fans benefit?
I guess they think just because I look like a retired guy, I probably have nothing better to do than talk about baseball games. I feel like a growling old dog in a pen full of spunky puppies. I've already expressed my feelings towards the bunch of guys who work at Fenway Park Who is this kid Bobby Kielty anyhow?
10/25/2007
Fan Fatigue
I am tres fatigue this morning. I started falling asleep on the sofa around midnight watching the red Sox pummel the Rockies 13-1 in the 8th inning. I figured the lead was enough to win, so I finally went up to bed.
I hate to be a crank, but it is fairly evident that sitting by yourself on the sofa watching an entire baseball game on TV is just a colossal waste of time. If you are with a crowd at a sports bar or actually at the baseball park, you have some distractions from the zillions of TV commercials and fast-cut filler video clips that they show between pitches.
It’s almost like being on the internet for cripes sake – Not Free! You are paying for the content that you want by letting them bombard you with popup ads, crawling messages, cute and clever sound effects, teasing taglines and unwanted eye trash[1].
If you sorted out all the hype and promo, you would get maybe 90 minutes of Game - Instead of 4 and a half hours of Lame. How can they expect fans who have to go to school/work the next morning to be able to stay up to watch a game that doesn’t end until 1AM or later?
Die-hard followers of baseball call me a “Fair weather fan.” This does not bother me. It is a fact that I have not watched a complete baseball game during the regular season. I have proudly not paid for a ticket to a professional sporting event since the baseball strike of 1981. [2]
I don’t see how you can be a devoted fan of a team when they trade away your favorite players every year? If you were a fan of the rock band, Boston, during the 80’s you might be more than aggravated if they had traded the smooth harmonic vocals of Brad Delph for Aerosmith’s screamer - Steve Tyler.
Music fans expect the same guys to show up at every appearance. Sports teams should do likewise. The Red Sox have let some of their greatest players like Roger Clemens, Nomar, Pedro, (to name just a few) slide through their contractural fingers - and then come back to beat us – I mean them.
> ===========================================<
I hate to be a crank, but it is fairly evident that sitting by yourself on the sofa watching an entire baseball game on TV is just a colossal waste of time. If you are with a crowd at a sports bar or actually at the baseball park, you have some distractions from the zillions of TV commercials and fast-cut filler video clips that they show between pitches.
It’s almost like being on the internet for cripes sake – Not Free! You are paying for the content that you want by letting them bombard you with popup ads, crawling messages, cute and clever sound effects, teasing taglines and unwanted eye trash[1].
If you sorted out all the hype and promo, you would get maybe 90 minutes of Game - Instead of 4 and a half hours of Lame. How can they expect fans who have to go to school/work the next morning to be able to stay up to watch a game that doesn’t end until 1AM or later?
Die-hard followers of baseball call me a “Fair weather fan.” This does not bother me. It is a fact that I have not watched a complete baseball game during the regular season. I have proudly not paid for a ticket to a professional sporting event since the baseball strike of 1981. [2]
I don’t see how you can be a devoted fan of a team when they trade away your favorite players every year? If you were a fan of the rock band, Boston, during the 80’s you might be more than aggravated if they had traded the smooth harmonic vocals of Brad Delph for Aerosmith’s screamer - Steve Tyler.
Music fans expect the same guys to show up at every appearance. Sports teams should do likewise. The Red Sox have let some of their greatest players like Roger Clemens, Nomar, Pedro, (to name just a few) slide through their contractural fingers - and then come back to beat us – I mean them.
> ===========================================<
[1] I wonder what will happen to the economy when the advertisers and sponsors finally realize that we have developed countermeasures to totally ignore their messages.
[2] That’s when I realized that these guys see themselves as “workers” not “players” or even “entertainers.” Why should I pay money to watch someone work? Watching college or even High School teams is actually more exciting because the players are not in it for the money.
10/23/2007
Flatland Thoughts
We are back from the mountains. The “high” you get from being in altitude is more than thin-air lightheadedness. More likely, the fresh air lends some clarity to the thinking. Maybe it is rooted the difference in air pressure or even gravity. Something physical happens when you are in high country that releases some pleasant substance that seems to lubricate one’s brain and mood.
Almost very problem seems petty when you are in the mountains. You cannot be in the presence of those rugged peaks and canyons and valleys without being aware of perspectives – of space and time. Your perceived problems are revealed as the insignificant moment of bother that they are. I have never met anyone out West who displayed symptoms of depression.
You feel like the message from the mountains is: “Life is short; get on with it. “
=============================================================
I am almost feeling too mellow to write an angry letter to the Hampton Inn management to complain about our “lost” room. When we arrived in Louisville, Colorado (in the valley 15 miles east of the front range of the Rockies, near Boulder) on Friday night, we had a hotel booking confirmation # in hand. The desk clerk at the Hampton Inn informed us that we were not in his computer and there was “no room at the Inn.”
It was “family Weekend” for University of Colorado at Boulder so we had to scramble around to find another hotel with a vacant room. It was a one star place called Comfort Inn. They were friendly and helpful, and they gave us the AAA 5% discount. The fan in the room was loud, the walls were thin (reminiscent of a Paul Simon song called “Lincoln Duncan” - if you know what I mean.) There was a lot of low-budget partying going on in the halls and adjacent rooms. The smallish bed was uncomfortable.
So I got on Priceline the next morning and looked for available rooms in the area.
Guess who had rooms. Yep, the Hampton Inn. So I booked Sat and Sun nights
At the Priceline special rate. Which was cheaper than our original booked rate.
So, I figure the Hampton Inn owes us at least one peaceful night’s rest. Yet for some reason, I cannot summon my usual level of outrage to compose a nasty complaint letter that would result in heartfelt apologies and a generous voucher to compensate us for our troubles – and disappointment.
A few more days in the flatlands, and I'll be my old self again. Not to worry.
Almost very problem seems petty when you are in the mountains. You cannot be in the presence of those rugged peaks and canyons and valleys without being aware of perspectives – of space and time. Your perceived problems are revealed as the insignificant moment of bother that they are. I have never met anyone out West who displayed symptoms of depression.
You feel like the message from the mountains is: “Life is short; get on with it. “
=============================================================
I am almost feeling too mellow to write an angry letter to the Hampton Inn management to complain about our “lost” room. When we arrived in Louisville, Colorado (in the valley 15 miles east of the front range of the Rockies, near Boulder) on Friday night, we had a hotel booking confirmation # in hand. The desk clerk at the Hampton Inn informed us that we were not in his computer and there was “no room at the Inn.”
It was “family Weekend” for University of Colorado at Boulder so we had to scramble around to find another hotel with a vacant room. It was a one star place called Comfort Inn. They were friendly and helpful, and they gave us the AAA 5% discount. The fan in the room was loud, the walls were thin (reminiscent of a Paul Simon song called “Lincoln Duncan” - if you know what I mean.) There was a lot of low-budget partying going on in the halls and adjacent rooms. The smallish bed was uncomfortable.
So I got on Priceline the next morning and looked for available rooms in the area.
Guess who had rooms. Yep, the Hampton Inn. So I booked Sat and Sun nights
At the Priceline special rate. Which was cheaper than our original booked rate.
So, I figure the Hampton Inn owes us at least one peaceful night’s rest. Yet for some reason, I cannot summon my usual level of outrage to compose a nasty complaint letter that would result in heartfelt apologies and a generous voucher to compensate us for our troubles – and disappointment.
A few more days in the flatlands, and I'll be my old self again. Not to worry.
10/15/2007
Temperate Thoughts
We are headed to Boulder for a weekend visit with the in-law cousins to celebrate a 60th birthday. Ah, to be 60 again…with a lifetime of hopes and dreams ahead of you… It was snowing there yesterday…I hope global warming kicks-in before we arrive.
Due to the fact that no one has yet invented a working version of Transporter[1], we will be forced to travel by conventional means, which unfortunately means we will be again the voluntary prisoners of the Sadistic Airways. Thus, it seems time for another of my periodic anti-airline rants.
In the WSJ today, there is an article reporting that the European company Airbus has, after years of problems – cost overruns, etc , delivered the first A380 – billed as the world’s largest passenger jet. The customer is Singapore Airlines. Note to self: do not travel on Singapore Airlines for a few years.
I’m not predicting doom or anything, but one cannot be too careful when one considers that the A380 Project required cooperation between German and French engineers and the senior management of the company seemed more interested in backdating their stock options than meeting production schedules.
I have been on too many similar projects during my working days. I often say that I miss the money, the actual work and other social aspects of a job, but I am daily reminded that it is truly a blessing to be free from the politics of employment: No status reports, no self-absorbed egomaniacs[2], no meetings, no performance reviews.
Another article in the paper observed that as they rise in the corporate hierarchy, executives lose touch with the reality of their operations. They never get to talk candidly with anyone, because no one dares to be the messenger who tells the Emperor that his ideas and plans are crap.
Speaking of global warming, guess who got the Nobel Peace Prize for being a monomaniac with a mission? I am still not sure how Al Gore’s PowerPoint presentation has advanced world peace, but then I did not understand some of the previous award winners, either. Just a few examples: Yasser Arafat, whose minions regularly carried out terrorist bombings of Israeli civilians. Then there was the corrupt UN Secretary General, Kofi Annan, who presided over (and reportedly skimmed millions from) the now embarrassing Iraq oil-for-food program. If these recipients had not already made a mockery out of the award, I might feel more perplexed.
There was another story in WSJ about how climate changes in Western Canada are encouraging a nascent wine industry. It seems that the farmers there have observed that the local temperature has indeed registered a few degrees warmer over the past decade or so. This means a later killing frost date, which has enabled some of the less risk averse to plant more tender European grape vines.
After a few more years of warming, assuming the arctic melt doesn’t make the Pacific ocean rise and flood the West coast, Sonoma wine country will just become an extension of Death Valley. We will all be living in Iceland and getting our Chardonnay from Calgary Vineyards. Time to invest in future beachfront property?
=============================
[1] I don’t know much about quantum physics or electronics, you would think we could figure out how to cut-and-paste a steaming hot Pizza from Papa Gino’s to your house - at the very least. Cripes! How hard can it be?
[2] Well...except for the resident Blogster.
Due to the fact that no one has yet invented a working version of Transporter[1], we will be forced to travel by conventional means, which unfortunately means we will be again the voluntary prisoners of the Sadistic Airways. Thus, it seems time for another of my periodic anti-airline rants.
In the WSJ today, there is an article reporting that the European company Airbus has, after years of problems – cost overruns, etc , delivered the first A380 – billed as the world’s largest passenger jet. The customer is Singapore Airlines. Note to self: do not travel on Singapore Airlines for a few years.
I’m not predicting doom or anything, but one cannot be too careful when one considers that the A380 Project required cooperation between German and French engineers and the senior management of the company seemed more interested in backdating their stock options than meeting production schedules.
I have been on too many similar projects during my working days. I often say that I miss the money, the actual work and other social aspects of a job, but I am daily reminded that it is truly a blessing to be free from the politics of employment: No status reports, no self-absorbed egomaniacs[2], no meetings, no performance reviews.
Another article in the paper observed that as they rise in the corporate hierarchy, executives lose touch with the reality of their operations. They never get to talk candidly with anyone, because no one dares to be the messenger who tells the Emperor that his ideas and plans are crap.
Speaking of global warming, guess who got the Nobel Peace Prize for being a monomaniac with a mission? I am still not sure how Al Gore’s PowerPoint presentation has advanced world peace, but then I did not understand some of the previous award winners, either. Just a few examples: Yasser Arafat, whose minions regularly carried out terrorist bombings of Israeli civilians. Then there was the corrupt UN Secretary General, Kofi Annan, who presided over (and reportedly skimmed millions from) the now embarrassing Iraq oil-for-food program. If these recipients had not already made a mockery out of the award, I might feel more perplexed.
There was another story in WSJ about how climate changes in Western Canada are encouraging a nascent wine industry. It seems that the farmers there have observed that the local temperature has indeed registered a few degrees warmer over the past decade or so. This means a later killing frost date, which has enabled some of the less risk averse to plant more tender European grape vines.
After a few more years of warming, assuming the arctic melt doesn’t make the Pacific ocean rise and flood the West coast, Sonoma wine country will just become an extension of Death Valley. We will all be living in Iceland and getting our Chardonnay from Calgary Vineyards. Time to invest in future beachfront property?
=============================
[1] I don’t know much about quantum physics or electronics, you would think we could figure out how to cut-and-paste a steaming hot Pizza from Papa Gino’s to your house - at the very least. Cripes! How hard can it be?
[2] Well...except for the resident Blogster.
10/04/2007
Ten Four
On a two-way radio 10-4 means "OK I heard and understand your message." So I have always thought of October Fourth as my personal day to celebrate communication.
Without the 10-4 there is only a one way channel of information. Someone speaks or writes. Yet, without the verification that someone has listened or read the message there is no way of knowing whether communication has occurred.
There is an ad currently running for one of the major cell phone companies that highlights this issue in a humorous way. In the ads, the call is "dropped" just at the critical point in the conversation, when silence would be disastrous. The caller, hearing nothing, thinks that the respondent is speechless, and therefore assumes totally the wrong meaning.
In the classic Paul Newman movie, Cool Hand Luke, when Strother Martin speaks the line "What we have here is a failure to communicate" (just after he has brutally whacked Luke with his riding crop), he is talking about Luke's listening skills, not about his ability to send a clear message.
This is why it is so frustrating to watch politicians being interviewed or participating in those awful debate spectacles. The moderator asks a tough question and the respondent says whatever is on their mind, as if we wouldn't notice that they failed to answer the question. If the question was stupid, the respondent should say "That is a dumb question, I will not dignify it with an answer."
At my age, having a great conversation is near the top of the list when it comes to satisfying experiences. It is all too rare to find people who speak your language, have something interesting to say, are interested in listening to your perspectives, and who share a sense of humor.
=======================
There are rare moments in life that we have a special sense of time and place that stick in our minds.
On October 4 1957, when Sputnik was launched, I was 15 years old. I can recall being with my brother and our buddies having cokes and fries at Doran's - our long since disappeared hangout.
One of the guys came in with a newspaper and we all read about the satellite that had been put into space by the Reds. Satellite? Orbit? We were mostly interested in cars and girls and baseball. But, we knew instantly that something in our lives would be changed from that day foreword.
None of us thought we would still be alive 50 years later.
Without the 10-4 there is only a one way channel of information. Someone speaks or writes. Yet, without the verification that someone has listened or read the message there is no way of knowing whether communication has occurred.
There is an ad currently running for one of the major cell phone companies that highlights this issue in a humorous way. In the ads, the call is "dropped" just at the critical point in the conversation, when silence would be disastrous. The caller, hearing nothing, thinks that the respondent is speechless, and therefore assumes totally the wrong meaning.
In the classic Paul Newman movie, Cool Hand Luke, when Strother Martin speaks the line "What we have here is a failure to communicate" (just after he has brutally whacked Luke with his riding crop), he is talking about Luke's listening skills, not about his ability to send a clear message.
This is why it is so frustrating to watch politicians being interviewed or participating in those awful debate spectacles. The moderator asks a tough question and the respondent says whatever is on their mind, as if we wouldn't notice that they failed to answer the question. If the question was stupid, the respondent should say "That is a dumb question, I will not dignify it with an answer."
At my age, having a great conversation is near the top of the list when it comes to satisfying experiences. It is all too rare to find people who speak your language, have something interesting to say, are interested in listening to your perspectives, and who share a sense of humor.
=======================
There are rare moments in life that we have a special sense of time and place that stick in our minds.
On October 4 1957, when Sputnik was launched, I was 15 years old. I can recall being with my brother and our buddies having cokes and fries at Doran's - our long since disappeared hangout.
One of the guys came in with a newspaper and we all read about the satellite that had been put into space by the Reds. Satellite? Orbit? We were mostly interested in cars and girls and baseball. But, we knew instantly that something in our lives would be changed from that day foreword.
None of us thought we would still be alive 50 years later.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)