When she was just a baby, I used to look out over the rice fields from my perch on Crowley's Ridge and pray that she would grow up knowing that there was a whole world out there full of challenge and excitement. I wanted her to know that Paris was the city of lights in Europe, but Beirut was it's counterpart in the Middle East. I wanted her to know that while Memphis dry rub was the way to do ribs, the Carolina's really have pulled pork down right. I wanted her to sing the songs of Hank Jr., Elvis, the Boss, and Lynyrd Skynyrd with equal passion. It was important to me that she know the difference between Kentucky Bourbon and Tennessee Whiskey.
At 13, she transitioned from a tiny school in a tiny town in Arkansas to a pointy headed private school in New Jersey. She didn't know a soul here except for Landi, Catfish, Buckwheat and me. She had never lived through a 'jersey winter', but she had survived many an Arkansas summer. She had never even seen a soccer game played when she went out for the soccer team at school. Four years later, the pointey headed private school awarded her the Wigdon Cup which recognized the Most Athletic girl.
The first week of August her first year of college brought good news and bad news. The good news was that she had 'made the soccer team' at college. The bad news was that Katrina was coming in, and that New Orleans was evacuating. She wound up never playing college soccer, but she graduated with Honors from Tulane, and got a full ride scholarship to UMASS for her Masters.
She has her Masters degree, and she'll be 24 years old in September. She has a job lined up in Indianapolis, and will move there next month. It's just now soaking in that 'Indianapolis' will be 'home' for her. It's not like the time in college, when she's gone, but 'here' is still 'home'. 'Home' will be 'there', in Indianapolis. Mapquest claims it's 11 hours and 35 minutes away. That's a long way.
I'd like to visit the spot on Crowley's Ridge where I used to stand and look out over the rice fields. This time of year, you can see the farmers working the fields. From up on the ridge, it looks like nothing has changed in the last 24 years, but so much has changed. She has seen the lights of Paris and grandeur that was Rome. She has shopped the bustling, dusty markets of a North African town. She's stood on Times Square to welcome the New Year. She'll holler 'Hotty Toddy' or 'Go Yankees' with equal vigor. She can speak to you in English, French or Arabic. She's all grown up now, and I am so very proud, but she'll always be my little girl.
Saturday, May 21, 2011
Tuesday, May 17, 2011
A Public Service Message
One of the hazards of being sentenced to lose weight is that you have to modify your lifestyle. In addition to giving up Bourbon until I hit the proscribed weight, I have taken up using our treadmill. Unlike in the past when I tried jogging on the damn thing, this time I am adopting a more sane approach. I set a minimum time, and a minimum distance and I do at least that time and distance each day. Some days I go further, and others I just do the minimum. On all days, while walking on the treadmill, there is ample time for thought.
An idle mind is a dangerous thing. An idle mind trapped in a wheezing fat man's body sweating gravy on a treadmill is a very dangerous thing. Today, for example, rather than dwelling on whether or not my heart rate was actually 188 as reported by my treadmill monitor, my mind wandered back to a recent dispute with the good people at Travelocity. There was a problem with a ticket I had purchased, and I had to call Travelocity customer service. The customer service organization at Travelocity is not designed to solve your problem. It is designed to beat you. This posting is a tutorial on how to 'win' when dealing with a customer service organization designed to 'beat you'.
The first thing to know is that you will no be speaking with the company you thought you were calling bu that you will be talking to a call center company and the agent you speak with will be compensated based on his/her ability to close calls. That means they want you to hang up. The more calls they close in an hour, the better they get 'bonused'. The longer you keep them on the phone, the more 'bonus' money they lose. So, start the call by carefully, completely and politely explaining the problem to them. Keep in mind that nearly every call is recorded, so be nice, and make notes about the persons responses to your questions. If the agent will not resolve the issue, ask for the supervisor. The agent may not want to pass you to the supervisor, but be persistent. The agent may tell you the supervisor isn't available. Remember, their goal is to get you to hang up. The agent may offer to have the supervisor call you. Tell the agent you will hold, and be prepared to wait about ten minutes.
Eventually the supervisor will come on the line. The supervisor's bonus package will be a factor of their ability to motivate their people to close calls, and their ability to close 'troublesome' calls. Time is a factor, so you will want to start from the beginning and again completely, honestly and politely explain the problem and the first agent's efforts. Refer to your notes if you need to. In my case, I had caught the original agent in a lie, and I told the supervisor that I had. Stay polite, accurate, and persistent. At the supervisor level, their motivation is still to get you off the phone, so no matter what, stay on 'message' and do not let them get you off the phone. When it becomes apparent that they are not going 'solve' your problem, as to be passed on to the supervisor's management. They are not going to want to do this, so you may have to apply additional pressure. I was able to figure out when they had hit the end of their script, so I told them we were in a 'loop' and to pass me up the chain of command.
It's helpful to know that usually the supervisor will not actually have the authority to solve your problem, and solving your problem will not be his goal. His goal is to get you off the phone. You have to get to the supervisor's management, and to do this you 'play' to the recording. Trouble calls will be played back by management, and sometimes even reviewed by the 'real' company you thought you were calling. Put your self in the shoes of the call center company, and think about what they would not want their client hearing. I told the supervisor that at some point I was going to encounter someone who actually cared if I ever bought another ticket using Travelocity. I got passed up the chain of command. Again, don't let them call you back, stay on the phone, and be prepared to wait another ten minutes.
Continue this exercise until you get someone who is actually in the United States. Only at that point will you have transitioned from the call center people to people who actually work for the company you thought you called. You will notice a definite difference. If necessary to verify that you are actually speaking to someone in the US, ask them where they are. When they answer, simply ask how the weather is today. Simple question, unless you aren't actually where you say you are. You can verify weather conditions anywhere using weather.com. When you get to the US side of things, your problem can and will be solved.
I would argue that it is your responsibility to use this technique at every opportunity because if you 'beat' them, at some point even the corporate ivy league pinhead bastards who thought that outsourcing customer service into a country whose culture is to 'game' the system will realize that this just isn't working. Whether it's HP Technical Support, Travelocity Customer Service, Dell Customer Support, you can get your problem solved. Just don't hang up.
In the interest of full disclosure, I used to work for the world's 3rd largest Call Center operations company. That's how I know how 'they' work. Now you know how 'they' work. So ,next time you have to call customer support or service, get a note pad, a nice big glass of tea, and be prepared to spend an hour or two. Be nice, polite, accurate and persistent. If it's not worth and hour or two of your time, then don't bother to call because you won't win.
The preceding has been a public service message brought to you by the Leady Meat Company. For meat you can't beat, it's Leady Meat.
If you hang up, the terrorists win.
An idle mind is a dangerous thing. An idle mind trapped in a wheezing fat man's body sweating gravy on a treadmill is a very dangerous thing. Today, for example, rather than dwelling on whether or not my heart rate was actually 188 as reported by my treadmill monitor, my mind wandered back to a recent dispute with the good people at Travelocity. There was a problem with a ticket I had purchased, and I had to call Travelocity customer service. The customer service organization at Travelocity is not designed to solve your problem. It is designed to beat you. This posting is a tutorial on how to 'win' when dealing with a customer service organization designed to 'beat you'.
The first thing to know is that you will no be speaking with the company you thought you were calling bu that you will be talking to a call center company and the agent you speak with will be compensated based on his/her ability to close calls. That means they want you to hang up. The more calls they close in an hour, the better they get 'bonused'. The longer you keep them on the phone, the more 'bonus' money they lose. So, start the call by carefully, completely and politely explaining the problem to them. Keep in mind that nearly every call is recorded, so be nice, and make notes about the persons responses to your questions. If the agent will not resolve the issue, ask for the supervisor. The agent may not want to pass you to the supervisor, but be persistent. The agent may tell you the supervisor isn't available. Remember, their goal is to get you to hang up. The agent may offer to have the supervisor call you. Tell the agent you will hold, and be prepared to wait about ten minutes.
Eventually the supervisor will come on the line. The supervisor's bonus package will be a factor of their ability to motivate their people to close calls, and their ability to close 'troublesome' calls. Time is a factor, so you will want to start from the beginning and again completely, honestly and politely explain the problem and the first agent's efforts. Refer to your notes if you need to. In my case, I had caught the original agent in a lie, and I told the supervisor that I had. Stay polite, accurate, and persistent. At the supervisor level, their motivation is still to get you off the phone, so no matter what, stay on 'message' and do not let them get you off the phone. When it becomes apparent that they are not going 'solve' your problem, as to be passed on to the supervisor's management. They are not going to want to do this, so you may have to apply additional pressure. I was able to figure out when they had hit the end of their script, so I told them we were in a 'loop' and to pass me up the chain of command.
It's helpful to know that usually the supervisor will not actually have the authority to solve your problem, and solving your problem will not be his goal. His goal is to get you off the phone. You have to get to the supervisor's management, and to do this you 'play' to the recording. Trouble calls will be played back by management, and sometimes even reviewed by the 'real' company you thought you were calling. Put your self in the shoes of the call center company, and think about what they would not want their client hearing. I told the supervisor that at some point I was going to encounter someone who actually cared if I ever bought another ticket using Travelocity. I got passed up the chain of command. Again, don't let them call you back, stay on the phone, and be prepared to wait another ten minutes.
Continue this exercise until you get someone who is actually in the United States. Only at that point will you have transitioned from the call center people to people who actually work for the company you thought you called. You will notice a definite difference. If necessary to verify that you are actually speaking to someone in the US, ask them where they are. When they answer, simply ask how the weather is today. Simple question, unless you aren't actually where you say you are. You can verify weather conditions anywhere using weather.com. When you get to the US side of things, your problem can and will be solved.
I would argue that it is your responsibility to use this technique at every opportunity because if you 'beat' them, at some point even the corporate ivy league pinhead bastards who thought that outsourcing customer service into a country whose culture is to 'game' the system will realize that this just isn't working. Whether it's HP Technical Support, Travelocity Customer Service, Dell Customer Support, you can get your problem solved. Just don't hang up.
In the interest of full disclosure, I used to work for the world's 3rd largest Call Center operations company. That's how I know how 'they' work. Now you know how 'they' work. So ,next time you have to call customer support or service, get a note pad, a nice big glass of tea, and be prepared to spend an hour or two. Be nice, polite, accurate and persistent. If it's not worth and hour or two of your time, then don't bother to call because you won't win.
The preceding has been a public service message brought to you by the Leady Meat Company. For meat you can't beat, it's Leady Meat.
If you hang up, the terrorists win.
Monday, May 9, 2011
I'm Fat.
There must be a class in Medical School where they teach young doctors to give that 'look'. It's a serious look...with the brow sort of crunched just a little. It's an eye ball to eye ball look. No kidding around, looking away, or mumbling. When you get that 'look', you just know the doc is about to tell you something horrible. I guess in Med School they teach them to 'just spit it out'; "just say it'.
And so he did. Dr. Frankenstein, standing there in a white jacket with his name on it, looked me right square in the eye, and in a solemn and measured voice, delivered the words everyone my age dreads hearing: "Bill, the problem is that your are just too damn fat."
Somewhat take aback, I replied testily "So what? You're ugly. What's your point?"
"Seriously", Doctor Frankenstein continued, "You need to lose about 15 or 20 lbs. before I can do the surgery."
"You'll still be ugly.", I thought to my self.
Having been down the surgery 'road' before, I did not fall for his misdirection. Hell, Stevie Wonder can tell I'm fat. Here's the deal...when they want to cut you open and root around with your insides, they want to give you something else to think about rather than how much pain you are going to experience as a result of their 'fix' of what ever you have wrong with you.
Case in point. A few years ago, when I blew out my ACL, tore my meniscus, and broke my tibia, it took a lot of effort to get the knee fixed. First, the doctors said I was too old, that people my age don't really 'need' and ACL. To me, an ACL isn't optional equipment. I play soccer. I ski. I run to the bathroom. So, I told the good doctor I wanted the damn thing fixed anyway. So we scheduled the surgery. I was in the ready room when the gass-passer hit's the 'stop button'. The anesthesiologist didn't like my blood pressure or my thyroid. It took two months to get the blood pressure and thyroid issues resolved. During this two month period, because I had a great deal of difficulty walking, and was in a fair amount of pain, I was focused on getting the blood pressure and thyroid in line for the day of the surgery. I wasn't thinking about the 'day after surgery'. I was so focused on getting the surgery done that I didn't ask the most important question. I just wanted the damn surgery done.
Note to self: Think about the day after surgery. That's a very important day because the hospital pain meds will be worn off, and you be using Percocets. Think about that day. Never let some doc fussing about your age, or your blood pressure or your thyroid distract your attention away from one critically important question: "How much is this going to hurt?"
Beware! "We'll give you pain meds." is not an answer. It's part of a grand strategy for an ambush.
Here's how it works. Following surgery, you are in more pain that can be described using the English language. They have cut open the front of you knee, and using power tools or explosives, they have removed the center third of the petalar tendon. They break out the ole Black and Decker drill and, usually using a worn out wood bit, they bore a hole through your femur and one through your tibia. Next they take a coat hanger or something, and they poke the sliver of tendon through both of these holes to create a new ACL for you. You wake up, with your knee immobilized in a big ass brace that has two hinges right at knee level. Take special note of how to lock and unlock the hinges. If you fail to lock the hinges, movement of even .01 degree in the knee will bring you to new heights of unimaginable pain.
They give you "Pain Meds". Percocets, they are, and they have two distinct effects. One is to relive pain, and the other is to shut your guts down. I ate them like popcorn. The pain relief is marginal at best, but the cessation of the colo-rectal function is complete and absolute. Everything in your digestive tract stops moving just prior to its 'leaving the building' so to speak. You still get hungry. You still eat, but Elvis isn't leaving the building, if you know what I mean. Because you are looped on Percs, you don't notice for 3 or 4 days that you've apparently and miraculously been impregnated, and that what ever you are going to give birth to is going to be big. Anyone who has given birth to a large piece of firewood will never take percocets again, and the medical theory is that you'll remember the pain of childbirth instead of the pain from the surgery. It's an evil strategy.
So, now Dr. Frankenstein wants to open me up like a butterflied pork chop and rearrange my innards. He's doing that doctor 'look'. He's very serious. He's offering to gut me, for a price of course, and I suspect there is a lot of pain involved in this.
"How much is this going to hurt?", I ask, trying not to sound scared.
"We'll give you pain meds, but you've got to lose 15lbs.", Dr. Frankenstein replies.
"How much is this going to hurt?", I repeat, not falling for the misdirection.
The doctor isn't playing around. He goes for my jugular. "The easiest way for someone your age to lose weight is to cut down on your drinking.", he says without blinking. He expects this to shake me, for my love of bourbon is legend, but I don't take the bait.
"How much is this going to hurt?" I press on.
"Hurt? Not much.", he finally replies.
"Really?" I exclaim, with obvious relief.
"No...not really.", he smiled, "I can give you some pain meds."
And so he did. Dr. Frankenstein, standing there in a white jacket with his name on it, looked me right square in the eye, and in a solemn and measured voice, delivered the words everyone my age dreads hearing: "Bill, the problem is that your are just too damn fat."
Somewhat take aback, I replied testily "So what? You're ugly. What's your point?"
"Seriously", Doctor Frankenstein continued, "You need to lose about 15 or 20 lbs. before I can do the surgery."
"You'll still be ugly.", I thought to my self.
Having been down the surgery 'road' before, I did not fall for his misdirection. Hell, Stevie Wonder can tell I'm fat. Here's the deal...when they want to cut you open and root around with your insides, they want to give you something else to think about rather than how much pain you are going to experience as a result of their 'fix' of what ever you have wrong with you.
Case in point. A few years ago, when I blew out my ACL, tore my meniscus, and broke my tibia, it took a lot of effort to get the knee fixed. First, the doctors said I was too old, that people my age don't really 'need' and ACL. To me, an ACL isn't optional equipment. I play soccer. I ski. I run to the bathroom. So, I told the good doctor I wanted the damn thing fixed anyway. So we scheduled the surgery. I was in the ready room when the gass-passer hit's the 'stop button'. The anesthesiologist didn't like my blood pressure or my thyroid. It took two months to get the blood pressure and thyroid issues resolved. During this two month period, because I had a great deal of difficulty walking, and was in a fair amount of pain, I was focused on getting the blood pressure and thyroid in line for the day of the surgery. I wasn't thinking about the 'day after surgery'. I was so focused on getting the surgery done that I didn't ask the most important question. I just wanted the damn surgery done.
Note to self: Think about the day after surgery. That's a very important day because the hospital pain meds will be worn off, and you be using Percocets. Think about that day. Never let some doc fussing about your age, or your blood pressure or your thyroid distract your attention away from one critically important question: "How much is this going to hurt?"
Beware! "We'll give you pain meds." is not an answer. It's part of a grand strategy for an ambush.
Here's how it works. Following surgery, you are in more pain that can be described using the English language. They have cut open the front of you knee, and using power tools or explosives, they have removed the center third of the petalar tendon. They break out the ole Black and Decker drill and, usually using a worn out wood bit, they bore a hole through your femur and one through your tibia. Next they take a coat hanger or something, and they poke the sliver of tendon through both of these holes to create a new ACL for you. You wake up, with your knee immobilized in a big ass brace that has two hinges right at knee level. Take special note of how to lock and unlock the hinges. If you fail to lock the hinges, movement of even .01 degree in the knee will bring you to new heights of unimaginable pain.
They give you "Pain Meds". Percocets, they are, and they have two distinct effects. One is to relive pain, and the other is to shut your guts down. I ate them like popcorn. The pain relief is marginal at best, but the cessation of the colo-rectal function is complete and absolute. Everything in your digestive tract stops moving just prior to its 'leaving the building' so to speak. You still get hungry. You still eat, but Elvis isn't leaving the building, if you know what I mean. Because you are looped on Percs, you don't notice for 3 or 4 days that you've apparently and miraculously been impregnated, and that what ever you are going to give birth to is going to be big. Anyone who has given birth to a large piece of firewood will never take percocets again, and the medical theory is that you'll remember the pain of childbirth instead of the pain from the surgery. It's an evil strategy.
So, now Dr. Frankenstein wants to open me up like a butterflied pork chop and rearrange my innards. He's doing that doctor 'look'. He's very serious. He's offering to gut me, for a price of course, and I suspect there is a lot of pain involved in this.
"How much is this going to hurt?", I ask, trying not to sound scared.
"We'll give you pain meds, but you've got to lose 15lbs.", Dr. Frankenstein replies.
"How much is this going to hurt?", I repeat, not falling for the misdirection.
The doctor isn't playing around. He goes for my jugular. "The easiest way for someone your age to lose weight is to cut down on your drinking.", he says without blinking. He expects this to shake me, for my love of bourbon is legend, but I don't take the bait.
"How much is this going to hurt?" I press on.
"Hurt? Not much.", he finally replies.
"Really?" I exclaim, with obvious relief.
"No...not really.", he smiled, "I can give you some pain meds."
Thursday, April 28, 2011
Surprise!
Surprises come in all flavors. Some are good. Some are bad. I remember several years ago on my 40th birthday, Mom and Dad had sneaked into New Jersey for a visit. That was a good surprise. I enjoyed that a lot. Back in 2004, when we were in New Orleans to watch Jordan play soccer for Loyola, we had to cross the Mississippi River via the Huey P. Long Bridge. The Huey P. Long Bridge has two lanes with no apparent means of support, floating in mid-air on either side of train tracks which ran down the center of the bridge structure. It is about 1000 ft above the river and the guard rails that should prevent you from driving off the bridge are about 12 inches high. Hell, I've driven over curbs that were taller. When you are driving in a conversion van, or an SUV, you can not see the guard rail. This was a bad surprise, a very damn bad surprise.
I closed one eye, repented of all my sins, and drove 15 miles an hour right down the center of the two lanes heading west. Traffic quickly backed up behind me, and the people right behind me were honking and flipping me the bird, but I didn't care. With everyone behind me honking, flashing lights, and flipping me the bird, I imagined that it must look like we were leading a parade across the bridge. We survived and I'll never, ever cross that bridge again.
Last week on our return trip from Florida, we were hopeful of avoiding an unpleasantness in terms of breakdowns, bridges or surprises. The Beast (pet name for the Ford Expedition) had performed flawlessly. On the trip down, we got almost 20 miles per gallon, and we figured out how to use the satellite radio. The DVD worked well, and Jordan and Catfish watched movies and studied. The only giant bridge encountered on the way down was skillfully avoided on the return route. The return trip was going alarmingly well. Too well.
On the first day coming home, we drove 540 miles, and got a room at a Marriott hotel in Knoxville, Tennessee. We were exhausted, hungry and thirsty. Landi, Catfish and Jordan went directly to the room with the Bell Hop, while I parked the Beast. When I walked into the lobby of the hotel, I noticed that there were about 200 tables set with beautiful white table clothes, and formal china in readiness for Easter Brunch. I wearily stepped onto the elevator thinking about how nice it would be in the morning if we could be out of here before all that got going. I punch '9' on the controls, and the elevator began to rise. I turned around, and HOLYSHIT YOU CAN SEE OUT OF THIS THING. IT'S ONE OF THOSE GLASS ELEVATORS!!! I was in a glass elevator rising like a rocket toward the 9th floor.
That was ugly surprise number one. As one who has an increasingly profound respect for heights, I was stunned. I was in a glass elevator shooting up at an uncivilized rate of climb heading toward the alpine region of this towering building. My fear turned to absolute panic as we neared the ceiling and I noticed that we were not slowing down and clearly we were going to hit the damn ceiling really hard. I grabbed hold of the hand rails tightly and braced for the collision. I wondered if the doors would open following the impact, or if the elevator would just break away from the elevator 'track' and plummet to the hard tile floor of the hotel lobby. I had visions of all manner of movie scenes where some poor bastard gets dropped from a really high place. Wiley Coyote and Road Runner came to mind, but I had no illusions as to my ability to survive a fall like the coyote.I closed my eyes, and again, repented of my sins.
The collision never came, but ugly surprise number two did. The elevator flew threw the ceiling and emerged into blinding sunlight on the outside wall of the damn hotel and continued slimbing upward like a squirrel on crack.
At this point, I was nearing incontinence. This had been a bad ride. I just wanted off the damn elevator. It was bad enough riding in an elevator inside the building, but this damn thing was now outside the building. Who the hell thought that was a good idea? If I survived this ride, I'd never ride another elevator. Finally, Saints be praised and to the sound of trumpets, the doors of the elevator opened, and I exited the jaws of death. It took a minute to regain my composure and dignity.
I found the hotel room, and went in. I must have looked a little shaken up, because Catfish and Jordan both thought my experience was exceedingly humorous. Funny my ass! I fixed a bourbon. No ice. No water. Just bourbon....a very strong bourbon. I was safe and in the room. I was out of danger.
Landi came out of the rest room, and cheerfully said, "Ok, Let's go down for supper."
I'm gonna need more bourbon.
I closed one eye, repented of all my sins, and drove 15 miles an hour right down the center of the two lanes heading west. Traffic quickly backed up behind me, and the people right behind me were honking and flipping me the bird, but I didn't care. With everyone behind me honking, flashing lights, and flipping me the bird, I imagined that it must look like we were leading a parade across the bridge. We survived and I'll never, ever cross that bridge again.
Last week on our return trip from Florida, we were hopeful of avoiding an unpleasantness in terms of breakdowns, bridges or surprises. The Beast (pet name for the Ford Expedition) had performed flawlessly. On the trip down, we got almost 20 miles per gallon, and we figured out how to use the satellite radio. The DVD worked well, and Jordan and Catfish watched movies and studied. The only giant bridge encountered on the way down was skillfully avoided on the return route. The return trip was going alarmingly well. Too well.
On the first day coming home, we drove 540 miles, and got a room at a Marriott hotel in Knoxville, Tennessee. We were exhausted, hungry and thirsty. Landi, Catfish and Jordan went directly to the room with the Bell Hop, while I parked the Beast. When I walked into the lobby of the hotel, I noticed that there were about 200 tables set with beautiful white table clothes, and formal china in readiness for Easter Brunch. I wearily stepped onto the elevator thinking about how nice it would be in the morning if we could be out of here before all that got going. I punch '9' on the controls, and the elevator began to rise. I turned around, and HOLYSHIT YOU CAN SEE OUT OF THIS THING. IT'S ONE OF THOSE GLASS ELEVATORS!!! I was in a glass elevator rising like a rocket toward the 9th floor.
That was ugly surprise number one. As one who has an increasingly profound respect for heights, I was stunned. I was in a glass elevator shooting up at an uncivilized rate of climb heading toward the alpine region of this towering building. My fear turned to absolute panic as we neared the ceiling and I noticed that we were not slowing down and clearly we were going to hit the damn ceiling really hard. I grabbed hold of the hand rails tightly and braced for the collision. I wondered if the doors would open following the impact, or if the elevator would just break away from the elevator 'track' and plummet to the hard tile floor of the hotel lobby. I had visions of all manner of movie scenes where some poor bastard gets dropped from a really high place. Wiley Coyote and Road Runner came to mind, but I had no illusions as to my ability to survive a fall like the coyote.I closed my eyes, and again, repented of my sins.
The collision never came, but ugly surprise number two did. The elevator flew threw the ceiling and emerged into blinding sunlight on the outside wall of the damn hotel and continued slimbing upward like a squirrel on crack.
At this point, I was nearing incontinence. This had been a bad ride. I just wanted off the damn elevator. It was bad enough riding in an elevator inside the building, but this damn thing was now outside the building. Who the hell thought that was a good idea? If I survived this ride, I'd never ride another elevator. Finally, Saints be praised and to the sound of trumpets, the doors of the elevator opened, and I exited the jaws of death. It took a minute to regain my composure and dignity.
I found the hotel room, and went in. I must have looked a little shaken up, because Catfish and Jordan both thought my experience was exceedingly humorous. Funny my ass! I fixed a bourbon. No ice. No water. Just bourbon....a very strong bourbon. I was safe and in the room. I was out of danger.
Landi came out of the rest room, and cheerfully said, "Ok, Let's go down for supper."
I'm gonna need more bourbon.
Friday, April 15, 2011
Third Time's a Charm
I feel a little like Charlie Brown charging up to the football as Lucy holds it. Just like Charlie, I just know it's going to work out ok this time. Nothing bad is going to happen. Everything is as it should be. Here goes...We leave for Florida this morning.
It's pre-dawn here. Ninty nine years ago today, in the dark of the night the Titanic struck an ice burg the size of a city block and sank. Last Februrary, our van lost oil pressure 78 miles into our trip to Jonesboro. In December, the Van's fuel line froze in the middle of an ice storm in southern Virginia. We sold the van.
Today, we prepare to leave in "The Beast". Cars should have names, and this one's name is 'The Beast'. It's a 2008 Black and silver Ford Expedition with 2 1/2 years warranty left on it. The tires are good. The oil is new. The windshield washer reservoir is full. The Port-a-bar is stocked with bourbon and Vodka, and we have wine and Bloodymary mix. We have snacks, and movies, and music. We are ready for a 1200 mile trek to Destin, on the banks of the sea of Wahoo, where there are never any troubles, or at least very few.
Though I'm a blind optimist, I know something is going to happen. No way Charlie kicks the damn ball. As daylight sneaks up on us here in New Jersey and our departure grows near, I know there is an iceberg lurking out there somewhere, but you know what? From my perspective an iceberg is simply free range ice cubes, and I have plenty of bourbon.
Lucy looks up at Charlie and smiles.
It's pre-dawn here. Ninty nine years ago today, in the dark of the night the Titanic struck an ice burg the size of a city block and sank. Last Februrary, our van lost oil pressure 78 miles into our trip to Jonesboro. In December, the Van's fuel line froze in the middle of an ice storm in southern Virginia. We sold the van.
Today, we prepare to leave in "The Beast". Cars should have names, and this one's name is 'The Beast'. It's a 2008 Black and silver Ford Expedition with 2 1/2 years warranty left on it. The tires are good. The oil is new. The windshield washer reservoir is full. The Port-a-bar is stocked with bourbon and Vodka, and we have wine and Bloodymary mix. We have snacks, and movies, and music. We are ready for a 1200 mile trek to Destin, on the banks of the sea of Wahoo, where there are never any troubles, or at least very few.
Though I'm a blind optimist, I know something is going to happen. No way Charlie kicks the damn ball. As daylight sneaks up on us here in New Jersey and our departure grows near, I know there is an iceberg lurking out there somewhere, but you know what? From my perspective an iceberg is simply free range ice cubes, and I have plenty of bourbon.
Lucy looks up at Charlie and smiles.
Tuesday, March 29, 2011
The Good Stuff
All the grandchildren say the house is haunted, and they just may be right. Fifty years of Christmas Eve Quail dinners linger in the kitchen. That just doesnt' fade away very quickly. On the patio where thousands of cocktails were consumed and countless steaks were cooked on a gas grill beneath the spreading branches of the old 'acorn' tree, the ghost of Daddy Doc smiles back at me in a reflection off of the French Doors. In the Den, the footstools are gone, but it's a sure thing that my brother still can't fly. In the tile, Mom's reflection still glares at me, and she's still pissed. Somehow, it's my fault that Matt can't fly. Miss Dot sits in the lounger in the Den, sipping a cocktail and telling us all 'one damn thing'. Don't blink, you'll miss her. Yeah, this house is haunted.
Today, to the casual observer, the house appears mostly empty. The silver and jewlery were carried off some time back. Last weekend, we removed furniture. As we went from room to room sorting out memories and wading though smiles and tears, it became clear to me that this house would never be empty. Though Mom and Dad no longer lived there, and despite being stripped of it's contents, this house would always be full of history. Just stepping through the door brings back floods of memories and emotions. Though the pictures have been taken down from the walls, the memories still hover in the air.
In emptying the house, we are closing a chapter. We each come away from our home with things to remind us of Mom and Dad. Mom will always smile back at me from her secretary. I'll see her every time I use the corn bread stick mold. In looking at the swords, I'll remember her Antique Store. Dad will forever be sitting on the couch, cigarette and cocktail in hand, explaining things to me. He had a certain clarity of thought. On this, the last weekend in the house, the old grump, smiling and sitting on the couch, explained to me what the 'good stuff' is. I understand.
Today, to the casual observer, the house appears mostly empty. The silver and jewlery were carried off some time back. Last weekend, we removed furniture. As we went from room to room sorting out memories and wading though smiles and tears, it became clear to me that this house would never be empty. Though Mom and Dad no longer lived there, and despite being stripped of it's contents, this house would always be full of history. Just stepping through the door brings back floods of memories and emotions. Though the pictures have been taken down from the walls, the memories still hover in the air.
In emptying the house, we are closing a chapter. We each come away from our home with things to remind us of Mom and Dad. Mom will always smile back at me from her secretary. I'll see her every time I use the corn bread stick mold. In looking at the swords, I'll remember her Antique Store. Dad will forever be sitting on the couch, cigarette and cocktail in hand, explaining things to me. He had a certain clarity of thought. On this, the last weekend in the house, the old grump, smiling and sitting on the couch, explained to me what the 'good stuff' is. I understand.
Monday, February 21, 2011
It Happened Out There
In one of my favorite scenes in the movie 'Captain Ron', the one-eyed captain gazes out over the blue green waters of the Caribbean Sea, and says 'What ever is going to happen is going to happen out there.' I love that line. Of course, at this point in the movie, Captain Ron has yet to be revealed as a complete lunatic.
In a similar fashion, we set out last Thursday for Arkansas. As a result of having suffered various forms of vehicular failure on most of the last few trips down south, we have recently acquired a 'new' van. It will be recalled that a year ago last December, we made a Christmas run to Arkansas that was inturrupted only 60 miles into the journey. After being rescued by my Father-in-Law, and slamming my hand in the car door, we continued on to Arkansas for a successful trip. Our next excursion was Florida for spring break. Unfortunately, on the day we left Florida we discovered that our fuel system was still compromised, and water was still able to penetrate the tank. The final debacle was this past December when we were stranded in a rest area near Marion, Virginia in a horrible ice storm. It was certainly time to retire the old Ford Van.
Our new van is a Dodge. It has a few miles on it, but it is pristine, and we bought it through a reputible dealership. It's about 3 feet shorter than the old Ford, but we don't need all that room anymore. I was anticipating much better gas milage because it has a six cylindar engine rather than the huge eight cylindar that was in the Ford. We looked at the van and drove it on a Saturday, and returned to the dealership on Monday and bought it.
On Wednesday, the dealership filed for bankruptcy protection. Uh oh.
Did we have the title in our hands? Nope. Did we have tags for the van? Nope. Did we have the registration? Nope. But, apparantly the Fates were in our favor because all three materialized over the next week or so, and I thought out troubles might be over. I was wrong.
Having secured tags, title and registration, I drove the van one day to have lunch with some of my old work pals. It's a 24 mile commute up over the Watchung Mountains. I drove it almost daily for 3 years. I was 10 miles into the journey when I noticed that the alternator was not charging. Damn. I turned around and took the van to our local garage. There was a little voice in the back of my mind snickering. The rational moron who apparantly co-habitates with the little voice in the the back of my mind suggested that 'Hey, it's not that bad. Alternator's go out. It's a maintenance thing.' That's 'reasonable', I thought, but the snickering still bothered me.
While in the shop, I decided to have the van checked for other potential problems because in a few short weeks, we would be making a trip to Arkansas in it. $2700 later, with a new water pump, a mostly rebuilt front end as well as new brakes, our 'new' van was fit to make the journey to Arkansas. Having picked the van up from the garage, we decided to drive it when we went out for dinner and a movie.
The restaurant and theater are only about 5 miles from our home. Before we even got half way, the van was surrounded by clouds of steam. Back to the garage. The little voice in the back of my head snickered again. The rational moron in me said "This sort of stuff just happens sometimes."
Finally, the day for the trip to Arkansas arrived. My bride and I both were a little apprehensive because this was the 30th day we had owned the van, and it had been in the garage for 18 of those days. The little voice in my head was placing bets with the rational moron in me as to whether or not we'd even make it out of Jersey.
Never the less, as we loaded the van with luggage and assorted crap, my mind wandered back to Captain Ron's words. The van's engine was tight, and pulled well. The tires were good. The belts were good, and the radiator was topped up. There was plenty of windschield washer fluid. Landi, Jordan, Catfish and I got in the van and pulled out. Weather reports indicated that we could expect good weather for the entire trip. Everything was wonderful as we crossed the river from Jersey to Pennslyvania. We switched the radio to the rock station that broadcasts from Allentown. Jordan was studying in the back of the van. Catfish was listening to his Ipod. Landi was knitting, and I was listening to the clatter of the lifters.......
Clatter of the lifters? WTF? The little voice in my head and the rational moron in me were laughing their asses off.
A quick glance revealed that we had no oil pressure. None. Ziltch. I switched off the engine and steered the van onto the shoulder of the road. We had gone 78 miles, and suffered a catastrophic engine failure.
Captain Ron was right. It did happen out there.
In a similar fashion, we set out last Thursday for Arkansas. As a result of having suffered various forms of vehicular failure on most of the last few trips down south, we have recently acquired a 'new' van. It will be recalled that a year ago last December, we made a Christmas run to Arkansas that was inturrupted only 60 miles into the journey. After being rescued by my Father-in-Law, and slamming my hand in the car door, we continued on to Arkansas for a successful trip. Our next excursion was Florida for spring break. Unfortunately, on the day we left Florida we discovered that our fuel system was still compromised, and water was still able to penetrate the tank. The final debacle was this past December when we were stranded in a rest area near Marion, Virginia in a horrible ice storm. It was certainly time to retire the old Ford Van.
Our new van is a Dodge. It has a few miles on it, but it is pristine, and we bought it through a reputible dealership. It's about 3 feet shorter than the old Ford, but we don't need all that room anymore. I was anticipating much better gas milage because it has a six cylindar engine rather than the huge eight cylindar that was in the Ford. We looked at the van and drove it on a Saturday, and returned to the dealership on Monday and bought it.
On Wednesday, the dealership filed for bankruptcy protection. Uh oh.
Did we have the title in our hands? Nope. Did we have tags for the van? Nope. Did we have the registration? Nope. But, apparantly the Fates were in our favor because all three materialized over the next week or so, and I thought out troubles might be over. I was wrong.
Having secured tags, title and registration, I drove the van one day to have lunch with some of my old work pals. It's a 24 mile commute up over the Watchung Mountains. I drove it almost daily for 3 years. I was 10 miles into the journey when I noticed that the alternator was not charging. Damn. I turned around and took the van to our local garage. There was a little voice in the back of my mind snickering. The rational moron who apparantly co-habitates with the little voice in the the back of my mind suggested that 'Hey, it's not that bad. Alternator's go out. It's a maintenance thing.' That's 'reasonable', I thought, but the snickering still bothered me.
While in the shop, I decided to have the van checked for other potential problems because in a few short weeks, we would be making a trip to Arkansas in it. $2700 later, with a new water pump, a mostly rebuilt front end as well as new brakes, our 'new' van was fit to make the journey to Arkansas. Having picked the van up from the garage, we decided to drive it when we went out for dinner and a movie.
The restaurant and theater are only about 5 miles from our home. Before we even got half way, the van was surrounded by clouds of steam. Back to the garage. The little voice in the back of my head snickered again. The rational moron in me said "This sort of stuff just happens sometimes."
Finally, the day for the trip to Arkansas arrived. My bride and I both were a little apprehensive because this was the 30th day we had owned the van, and it had been in the garage for 18 of those days. The little voice in my head was placing bets with the rational moron in me as to whether or not we'd even make it out of Jersey.
Never the less, as we loaded the van with luggage and assorted crap, my mind wandered back to Captain Ron's words. The van's engine was tight, and pulled well. The tires were good. The belts were good, and the radiator was topped up. There was plenty of windschield washer fluid. Landi, Jordan, Catfish and I got in the van and pulled out. Weather reports indicated that we could expect good weather for the entire trip. Everything was wonderful as we crossed the river from Jersey to Pennslyvania. We switched the radio to the rock station that broadcasts from Allentown. Jordan was studying in the back of the van. Catfish was listening to his Ipod. Landi was knitting, and I was listening to the clatter of the lifters.......
Clatter of the lifters? WTF? The little voice in my head and the rational moron in me were laughing their asses off.
A quick glance revealed that we had no oil pressure. None. Ziltch. I switched off the engine and steered the van onto the shoulder of the road. We had gone 78 miles, and suffered a catastrophic engine failure.
Captain Ron was right. It did happen out there.
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