October 20th was my "half birthday", which was a thing I never knew existed until I met my wife. Her lust for life and love of all things party mean that she seldom misses a reason to celebrate… something. Anything! Even a concept as cockamamy as a half birthday.
This is clearly a milestone that never meant much to me. Until this past Sunday, I realized that Monday, I would be halfway to 40.
Really, I was halfway to 40 nearly 20 years ago, but the beauty, (and great frustration), of youth prevents us from thinking that way. Even if it has been a long time coming, from a psychological perspective, Monday started the final countdown to the big four-oh.
I know 40 isn't old and I don't fear 40. I struggle to put 40 in a context as I still regard myself as 19. I get jostled each and every morning when I splash some water in my face and see...
I haven't aged. But my reflection sure has been through the wringer. I feel badly for my reflection. It looks weathered. It looks tired. Sometimes, if I dare to look long enough, it looks a little sad. What has my reflection been doing wrong? I've been having a great time!
So, here we are at (nearly) 40, my reflection and me. One of us, young and spritely, spirited and immutable, the other bedraggled, frayed and worn. Both part of the same whole, fighting for supremacy. I think I have the upper hand for now, but my ever-aging reflection will inevitably win. I already prefer to eat dinner by five-thirty and be in bed by ten-o'clock. Can curmudgionism be far behind?
I do feel a twinge of rage from deep within me each time my George Carlin looking, pith helmet wearing mailman treads through my lawn to deliver bills, coupons for erectile medications and AARP applications. Can screaming "Get off my lawn, hippie!", be far behind?
My mother is fond of saying, "Bill, people don't get any nicer as they get older." I suppose she's right, as proven by the 90-ish year old man weaving about traffic completely oblivious to the chaos he was causing to those behind and abeam of him, who responded with an angry fist out the window to the several toots of the horn he received in return.
He may have been shouting "Get off my road, hippies!"
If I had the mentality of a 20 something, these inexorable eventualities would seem to be a long way off. But, based on my experience, it will be here before I know it, assuming I survive that long.
Isn't that the difference between time in your 20s and time as you age? Time accelerates exponentially with the acquisition of wisdom and experience. Perhaps someone who actually knows something about math could express this as an equation, like;
Velocity of time x function of acceleration (and them some superscript number) = Body aches *
Widsom + (Skinned knees + car accidents + Divorces)
Depth of wrinkles * # of times quitting smoking/Broken hearts
# of kids/ #of pets =Perception of Passage of Time
The answer is, I failed algebra. There are a whole host of teachers who tried so hard with me who just read that mess and laid their iPods down and closed their eyes, hoping to never open them again. For you, I am truly sorry. It's me, not you. I know you tried.
Humanity has achieved so much of what it has because it has learned to control its environment. We were hungry, so we hunted. We were cold, so we used the pelts of our kills to cloth and shelter us. We were bored so we had sex and made more people. We got tired of moving these big families all the time, ("No, Og, we are not there yet!"), and living under mammoth skins, so we built the first subdivisions, planted crops and started even bigger families, ("Thag, quit touching your brother!"). Then we decided to branch out and we built careers. Some became blacksmiths, winemakers, teachers and entertainers. Others became politicians, prostitutes and preachers. After awhile, we got tired of walking, so we made wheeled conveyances culminating in the car. And we loved the car, so we made drive through windows. We got fat, and we could no longer move. So we made TV to entertain us in our ever bigger and more complex homes, very few of which include anything like a mammoth pelt roof!
All this grooming and control of our world. We have tamed the unruly. Clothed the naked. Sheltered the weak. Made convenient the toil of daily existence.
Yet, we cannot stop time. We cannot stop getting older.
That reflection in the mirror is me, like it or not. And I'm not the 19 year-old that has squatters' rights in my head. I ache. I am tired. I get disillusioned and wish I had taken the time to accomplish more…
Looked at another way, my reflection is more than the aged reality of the ideal me. It shows me what I have accomplished. A successful marriage, a home, more friends than I can count. I have learned, loved and lost. I have shared great joy. I have been the cause of and the cure for great pain in myself and others. Occasionally, I write and plink a little song on the ukulele.
I have come to a peace and understanding with the universe in which I occupy centered around the fact that I don't have to understand how or why something is, but I have the ability to adapt and float along. I don't always have to know the answer or be right, but I can teach and develop others as they do the same for me.
Time speeds up just as I am slowing down. Not in a physical sense, though that is happening, too, but in a metaphysical sense. I'm not ready to adopt the "Be Calm, And Carry On" mantra just yet, but I'm dealing. Sometimes, that's the most you can hope for and the best you can do.
Somewhere, I think my reflection just smiled at me.
Friday, October 24, 2014
Thursday, September 25, 2014
The Falling Leaves
Another fall is upon us. I hate it. It's that simple. No flowery phrases needed. I hate fall.
"But, Bill," you ask, "what about all the pretty colors?"
That's death! You sadistic, twisted monster! Stuff is dying. You should be sitting shiva, and instead you weirdos are out there taking special drives in the country to ogle at death!
"Oh, Louis, look at the colors!" you say.
But if you spoke tree, you'd here them screaming and crying, "We're dying and all you do is stare at us! Help us!"
"But the air is so crisp!"
Yes, the Arctic Express and Alberta Clipper have a tendency to make what was a perfectly wonderful period of temperate weather seem particularly brisk. Give it a month. You'll be cashing in frequent flyer miles for as far south as you can go. Lexington, perhaps. Or, if you don't have a good program, Toledo.
I don't like fall. Not for what it is, but for what it portends. The whole season is an omen for the disastrous period coming on its heels. Fall is screaming at us, "When all that is living, and the very earth itself are preparing to go into stasis, It's a good time to get out!"
But, like every stupid family at the beginning of every horror movie, we stay. "Let's just splash some paint on the walls and smudge some sage, the place will be like new!"
Nomadic tribes never put a person on the moon, didn't have HBO, and literally kicked people out of the tribe by lighting their house on fire, (hence being 'fired'). Yet they were savvy enough that they would head back down the hill when things started going downhill.
Maybe that's why we call it fall after all. It isn't because the leaves are falling, it's because the whole thing is about to collapse. Falling is bad. Always. Never once in the history of mankind has falling been a good thing.
Rome fell. That poor lady on the TV fell 25 years ago and still can't get up. Stars, athletes and religious wonks fall from grace. A person's smile falls into a frown. When the bough broke, the cradle fell - with baby and all!
For you intellectuals who might counter that the Berlin Wall fell and the Third Reich fell, and those were good things, I would say to you that the Berlin Wall falling and putting Germany back together may not prove to be so good. Germans, are the same people that brought you the "war to end all wars", lost it, and then brought you it's sequel! You think we've heard the last of them? When they're the quietest… that's when you need to pay most attention.
"But love, Bill. People fall in love!"
Sure they do. Like Syd and Nancy- with great toxicity and eventually, death. Paul and Heather, too. Ask Paul if sleeping with a cute-ish blonde amputee was worth the $275M it cost him. Britney and Kevin were in love long enough to make a baby. Two babies, even. By my math, they were in love for as long as 30 seconds! There are any number of other tragic couplings. Ask the minions of divorcees how they feel about that!
I might add, people fall out of love just the same. The saddest song there ever was is "When Autumn Leaves Start to Fall." Oh. My. God! That proves it…your argument is invalid.
Fall is bad. We should run, people. Not walk. Burlington can't make enough coats. Bridgestone can't produce enough snow tires. My deep freezer is cannot hold enough Girl Scout cookies, bourbon and fatty meats to get me through the winter.
Those same trees you all ooh and ahh about will be chopped to smithereens and sacrificed to the use of my chilled bones as I huddle afore the hearth, staring intently at the warm, dancing flames, wondering, "should I jump in?"
I'm not monied, so I can't 'winter' anywhere. I'm stuck. Que lastima! I will have to hunker in, bear down, grit my teeth, gird my loins and stiffen my upper lip. All of which will be hard to do while I'm in the fetal position, facing the corner, rocking and crying softly to myself. Weeping salty tears, which before too long, will freeze to my face holding its contorted look of anguish in suspension until that day comes on the other side when the sun shines warmly again upon my face and the rain falls softly upon my field.
Until we meet again… wish me luck. I'm gonna need it.
"But, Bill," you ask, "what about all the pretty colors?"
That's death! You sadistic, twisted monster! Stuff is dying. You should be sitting shiva, and instead you weirdos are out there taking special drives in the country to ogle at death!
"Oh, Louis, look at the colors!" you say.
But if you spoke tree, you'd here them screaming and crying, "We're dying and all you do is stare at us! Help us!"
"But the air is so crisp!"
Yes, the Arctic Express and Alberta Clipper have a tendency to make what was a perfectly wonderful period of temperate weather seem particularly brisk. Give it a month. You'll be cashing in frequent flyer miles for as far south as you can go. Lexington, perhaps. Or, if you don't have a good program, Toledo.
I don't like fall. Not for what it is, but for what it portends. The whole season is an omen for the disastrous period coming on its heels. Fall is screaming at us, "When all that is living, and the very earth itself are preparing to go into stasis, It's a good time to get out!"
But, like every stupid family at the beginning of every horror movie, we stay. "Let's just splash some paint on the walls and smudge some sage, the place will be like new!"
Nomadic tribes never put a person on the moon, didn't have HBO, and literally kicked people out of the tribe by lighting their house on fire, (hence being 'fired'). Yet they were savvy enough that they would head back down the hill when things started going downhill.
Maybe that's why we call it fall after all. It isn't because the leaves are falling, it's because the whole thing is about to collapse. Falling is bad. Always. Never once in the history of mankind has falling been a good thing.
Rome fell. That poor lady on the TV fell 25 years ago and still can't get up. Stars, athletes and religious wonks fall from grace. A person's smile falls into a frown. When the bough broke, the cradle fell - with baby and all!
For you intellectuals who might counter that the Berlin Wall fell and the Third Reich fell, and those were good things, I would say to you that the Berlin Wall falling and putting Germany back together may not prove to be so good. Germans, are the same people that brought you the "war to end all wars", lost it, and then brought you it's sequel! You think we've heard the last of them? When they're the quietest… that's when you need to pay most attention.
"But love, Bill. People fall in love!"
Sure they do. Like Syd and Nancy- with great toxicity and eventually, death. Paul and Heather, too. Ask Paul if sleeping with a cute-ish blonde amputee was worth the $275M it cost him. Britney and Kevin were in love long enough to make a baby. Two babies, even. By my math, they were in love for as long as 30 seconds! There are any number of other tragic couplings. Ask the minions of divorcees how they feel about that!
I might add, people fall out of love just the same. The saddest song there ever was is "When Autumn Leaves Start to Fall." Oh. My. God! That proves it…your argument is invalid.
Fall is bad. We should run, people. Not walk. Burlington can't make enough coats. Bridgestone can't produce enough snow tires. My deep freezer is cannot hold enough Girl Scout cookies, bourbon and fatty meats to get me through the winter.
Those same trees you all ooh and ahh about will be chopped to smithereens and sacrificed to the use of my chilled bones as I huddle afore the hearth, staring intently at the warm, dancing flames, wondering, "should I jump in?"
I'm not monied, so I can't 'winter' anywhere. I'm stuck. Que lastima! I will have to hunker in, bear down, grit my teeth, gird my loins and stiffen my upper lip. All of which will be hard to do while I'm in the fetal position, facing the corner, rocking and crying softly to myself. Weeping salty tears, which before too long, will freeze to my face holding its contorted look of anguish in suspension until that day comes on the other side when the sun shines warmly again upon my face and the rain falls softly upon my field.
Until we meet again… wish me luck. I'm gonna need it.
Thursday, August 28, 2014
Death by Meeting
I spend a lot of time in meetings. A lot. There are several general behaviors that are predictable and occasionally even hilarious.
Repetition of favorite phrases:
I can't tell you how often I use the term "manage by exception." Basically, this is a more professional and self-important way to say, "I don't have the first clue of what the consequence of this decision is going to be, so let's just do it and see what happens." Or, even more succinctly, "Let's wing it."
I'm not the only one. There are myriad examples. I have a colleague who likes to say, in his drawl, "I'll sit here and say…" He sits and says all the time. In fact, he seldom speaks without sitting here, apparently. I for one am glad to hear he is sitting there and saying, because if he was suddenly standing behind me and saying, I'd be alarmed. Sometimes it's good to know the whereabouts of your coworkers.
The same co-worker likes to use the word "spot" like the Smurfs use the word "surf." Its an omni-word. He might be heard to say, "I'm gonna sit here and say that we need to put that spot into that spot right there…" Well said.
There is one guy who likes to say "pursuant to." Everything is pursuant to something else. "Pursuant to the last statement, I'd like to indicate my agreement to that statement." Brilliant.
Yet one more doesn't know the difference between 'agreement' and 'aggreance'. If you're racing to look up the word aggreance, I'll save you the hassle… it doesn't exist. Except to this person, who also likes to use it in its totally made-up plural form. "Bill, I'm in a hundred-percent aggreances with you…"
I am so glad. I was worried that you weren't.
Varying levels of involvement:
I often put conference calls on hold and leave for minutes at a time. On occasion, I come back and throw in a "harumph" a "huzzah" or some such thing. This makes it seem like I've been there the whole time.
Even if I'm not leaving, I seldom don't multitask. I'm on a video conference right now. Writing this. While others can see my video feed. So I have to look and act interested while really doing my own thing. This is quite a feat. It takes a lot of energy to do all that. And I'm typing in "super-quiet mode" so that they can't hear the clacking of the keys.
Oops, here's a part I need to do. I'll be right back.
Ok, false alarm. The guy running the meeting apparently knows my part better than I do. No sweat. This is another example of a trend I notice.
There's always one guy who knows everything - as long as you knew it first:
I may be the one that's supposed to present on something, but there's some guy who always knows more than I do… even if he only is presenting "facts" after I have presented them. That happens a lot with a couple of my coworkers that like to take what I just said and make it their own, often to much ballyhoo and backslapping. I've actually said great things that were then repeated by a coworker and the coworker was told, "great job!"
Indeed.
The dipsy-doodle:
Just yesterday, another senior manager called a conference call, including people in three offices on both sides of our operating footprint. No agenda, just a meeting request. So we call in and the manager says, "Ok, Bill, why don't you get started…"
I knew the general topic of the meeting, but did not know why the meeting was called, what the meeting was to accomplish and by what means those enigmas were supposed to be communicated.
I fumbled through, though the people on my end knew precisely that "we" had no idea why "we" called a meeting. Nothing worse than a group of busy people shooting eye daggers at you because they know you are wasting their time.
I called said co-worker after the fact and said in no uncertain terms, "Don't ever, ever do that again. You call the meeting, you run the meeting. Do it again and I will throw you under the bus so fast you won't know your mama's name."
Hang on… I might need to go for real this time.
I said, "Ok." That's my biggest contribution to the meeting so far. Which brings me to my final point.
The unnecessarily large meeting:
In my world, meetings are attended by approximately 300% more people than need to be there. It is almost like every meeting is treated as though a dying tribal elder is assembling the village to tell his last epic story for the last time. There are scribes, there are people I didn't even know worked for us, there are managers nodding reverently and others looking at the rest of us wondering just what the hell to do.
This makes what could be a 10 minute phone confab between two or three people an hour-long ordeal at the end of which everyone in the room is made to state their unconditional commitment to the cause and their specific take-away.
Incidentally, this is the act of repeating in different words what the first person said, since there was only one thing you could possibly take away from the meeting that is proper to share in a corporate meeting setting.
So, for thirty minutes, twenty-two people in three states are playing the, "I can make what you just said sound better and more important" game. Priceless.
One hour, 10 minutes into this meeting, I have now said, "OK" and "Yes". I wrote a blog post, laughed when appropriate, did my harrumphs and huzzahs, caught up on Twitter, peed, and texted one of my managers, which incidentally, actually accomplished something.
Overall, an above average meeting.
Repetition of favorite phrases:
I can't tell you how often I use the term "manage by exception." Basically, this is a more professional and self-important way to say, "I don't have the first clue of what the consequence of this decision is going to be, so let's just do it and see what happens." Or, even more succinctly, "Let's wing it."
I'm not the only one. There are myriad examples. I have a colleague who likes to say, in his drawl, "I'll sit here and say…" He sits and says all the time. In fact, he seldom speaks without sitting here, apparently. I for one am glad to hear he is sitting there and saying, because if he was suddenly standing behind me and saying, I'd be alarmed. Sometimes it's good to know the whereabouts of your coworkers.
The same co-worker likes to use the word "spot" like the Smurfs use the word "surf." Its an omni-word. He might be heard to say, "I'm gonna sit here and say that we need to put that spot into that spot right there…" Well said.
There is one guy who likes to say "pursuant to." Everything is pursuant to something else. "Pursuant to the last statement, I'd like to indicate my agreement to that statement." Brilliant.
Yet one more doesn't know the difference between 'agreement' and 'aggreance'. If you're racing to look up the word aggreance, I'll save you the hassle… it doesn't exist. Except to this person, who also likes to use it in its totally made-up plural form. "Bill, I'm in a hundred-percent aggreances with you…"
I am so glad. I was worried that you weren't.
Varying levels of involvement:
I often put conference calls on hold and leave for minutes at a time. On occasion, I come back and throw in a "harumph" a "huzzah" or some such thing. This makes it seem like I've been there the whole time.
Even if I'm not leaving, I seldom don't multitask. I'm on a video conference right now. Writing this. While others can see my video feed. So I have to look and act interested while really doing my own thing. This is quite a feat. It takes a lot of energy to do all that. And I'm typing in "super-quiet mode" so that they can't hear the clacking of the keys.
Oops, here's a part I need to do. I'll be right back.
Ok, false alarm. The guy running the meeting apparently knows my part better than I do. No sweat. This is another example of a trend I notice.
There's always one guy who knows everything - as long as you knew it first:
I may be the one that's supposed to present on something, but there's some guy who always knows more than I do… even if he only is presenting "facts" after I have presented them. That happens a lot with a couple of my coworkers that like to take what I just said and make it their own, often to much ballyhoo and backslapping. I've actually said great things that were then repeated by a coworker and the coworker was told, "great job!"
Indeed.
The dipsy-doodle:
Just yesterday, another senior manager called a conference call, including people in three offices on both sides of our operating footprint. No agenda, just a meeting request. So we call in and the manager says, "Ok, Bill, why don't you get started…"
I knew the general topic of the meeting, but did not know why the meeting was called, what the meeting was to accomplish and by what means those enigmas were supposed to be communicated.
I fumbled through, though the people on my end knew precisely that "we" had no idea why "we" called a meeting. Nothing worse than a group of busy people shooting eye daggers at you because they know you are wasting their time.
I called said co-worker after the fact and said in no uncertain terms, "Don't ever, ever do that again. You call the meeting, you run the meeting. Do it again and I will throw you under the bus so fast you won't know your mama's name."
Hang on… I might need to go for real this time.
I said, "Ok." That's my biggest contribution to the meeting so far. Which brings me to my final point.
The unnecessarily large meeting:
In my world, meetings are attended by approximately 300% more people than need to be there. It is almost like every meeting is treated as though a dying tribal elder is assembling the village to tell his last epic story for the last time. There are scribes, there are people I didn't even know worked for us, there are managers nodding reverently and others looking at the rest of us wondering just what the hell to do.
This makes what could be a 10 minute phone confab between two or three people an hour-long ordeal at the end of which everyone in the room is made to state their unconditional commitment to the cause and their specific take-away.
Incidentally, this is the act of repeating in different words what the first person said, since there was only one thing you could possibly take away from the meeting that is proper to share in a corporate meeting setting.
So, for thirty minutes, twenty-two people in three states are playing the, "I can make what you just said sound better and more important" game. Priceless.
One hour, 10 minutes into this meeting, I have now said, "OK" and "Yes". I wrote a blog post, laughed when appropriate, did my harrumphs and huzzahs, caught up on Twitter, peed, and texted one of my managers, which incidentally, actually accomplished something.
Overall, an above average meeting.
Tuesday, August 26, 2014
Strumming
It's been a long, long time since I have seated myself in front of the computer with the express intention of writing a blog post. Even now, I'm doing it only because my meeting, supposed to be going at 8:00 this morning, is still not going at 8:39.
I hate waiting. Why do they make me wait?
Rather than blogging, my creative outlet over the last several months has been music. Not just the listening to, as that is always a favorite pastime of my, but the making of. The making of is new. Well, not new, latent. Not latent, reborn. Yes, reborn.
And while one of my esteemed high school youth said it best when she said of the ukulele, "It's not that big a deal… it's like the recorder of stringed instruments…", I have been teaching myself to play. I've never played a stringed instrument before, unless you count my fifth grade foray into the cello. I assure you, you should not count my fifth grade foray into the cello. As soon as we started using that pesky bow, I was out. I loved plucking the thing, though.
Perhaps Mrs. Legree failed to notice my potential as a stand-up bassist. I could be hooked on drugs playing for tips in a jazz band today, if only she had nurtured me.
Oh, lost opportunity!
I think part of my desire to learn the ukulele is that it is simple. But really it's because of my cracked sense of humor and incessant self-deprication. There is something weird and creepy and funny about a big fat guy that looks like a biker, (the words of another of my blatantly honest high school students), playing a little stringed instrument.
Like a caricature, it is funny because it is obtuse. A little off. Just like me.
Of course, I don't play Hawaiian happy-go-lucky music on it either. The first song I learned was "Mother", by Pink Floyd; A treatise on an overbearing, overprotective mother who stifles her young boy into insanity.
Such serious pretense played on such a "happy" instrument. That, my friends is a funny juxtaposition.
Surprisingly, I have really taken to playing. I enjoy it immensely and play as often as possible. It is the only activity that can take me out of my day and put me into a place of relaxation. I will, given the chance, play for a couple hours in a sit.
I don't like playing in front of other people. I'm frequently frustrated by my inability to play and sing some more complex songs at the same time. It seems to be one or the other right now.
But I am getting better and I am still enjoying myself and I am glad that Emily bought me the instrument as a birthday present. Since I am on the mailing list for guitar center now, I see they have a sale on a mandolin. That would be fun. I figure the uke is a gateway drug to the guitar, at least. Or perhaps even the stand-up bass.
Now that's growth.
I hate waiting. Why do they make me wait?
Rather than blogging, my creative outlet over the last several months has been music. Not just the listening to, as that is always a favorite pastime of my, but the making of. The making of is new. Well, not new, latent. Not latent, reborn. Yes, reborn.
And while one of my esteemed high school youth said it best when she said of the ukulele, "It's not that big a deal… it's like the recorder of stringed instruments…", I have been teaching myself to play. I've never played a stringed instrument before, unless you count my fifth grade foray into the cello. I assure you, you should not count my fifth grade foray into the cello. As soon as we started using that pesky bow, I was out. I loved plucking the thing, though.
Perhaps Mrs. Legree failed to notice my potential as a stand-up bassist. I could be hooked on drugs playing for tips in a jazz band today, if only she had nurtured me.
Oh, lost opportunity!
I think part of my desire to learn the ukulele is that it is simple. But really it's because of my cracked sense of humor and incessant self-deprication. There is something weird and creepy and funny about a big fat guy that looks like a biker, (the words of another of my blatantly honest high school students), playing a little stringed instrument.
Like a caricature, it is funny because it is obtuse. A little off. Just like me.
Of course, I don't play Hawaiian happy-go-lucky music on it either. The first song I learned was "Mother", by Pink Floyd; A treatise on an overbearing, overprotective mother who stifles her young boy into insanity.
Such serious pretense played on such a "happy" instrument. That, my friends is a funny juxtaposition.
Surprisingly, I have really taken to playing. I enjoy it immensely and play as often as possible. It is the only activity that can take me out of my day and put me into a place of relaxation. I will, given the chance, play for a couple hours in a sit.
I don't like playing in front of other people. I'm frequently frustrated by my inability to play and sing some more complex songs at the same time. It seems to be one or the other right now.
But I am getting better and I am still enjoying myself and I am glad that Emily bought me the instrument as a birthday present. Since I am on the mailing list for guitar center now, I see they have a sale on a mandolin. That would be fun. I figure the uke is a gateway drug to the guitar, at least. Or perhaps even the stand-up bass.
Now that's growth.
Wednesday, April 30, 2014
The Perfect Roast Beef Sandwich That Wasn't
I was hungry yesterday. I had skipped breakfast because… well, I skipped breakfast. By 11:00 I was properly hungry. My co-worker kindly let me know he had sandwich fixins, and that I was free to leech off of him.
Super.
I made a roast beef sandwich. A simple sandwich with regular bread and roast beef from "Farms" that probably don't look anything like the idyllic picture on the pink plastic lid. Add a little mayo and some mustard and, bam! Hunger gone.
But it made me pine for a real roast beef sandwich.
Off to the store after work to pick out the perfect, medium rare roast beef, French bread, artisan cheese, tomato, lettuce, spicy mustard and mayo.
A word about mayo. Mayo is mayo and nothing else is mayo. Why merchants continue to perpetrate the fraud of putting "Miracle Whip" and other "spreads" with actual mayo is beyond me, but they do. Since I'm not into the hackneyed premise of creating mystery, I'll come out with it. I bought Hellmann's, (my preferred brand) Real Whipped Tangy, which I thought was mayonnaise, but was really just Hellmann's sell-out version of Miracle Whip.
To be fair, nothing on the label says "mayonnaise", but the word "real" does appear. Unfortunately, the word "bad" isn't on the label, either, because it's real bad.
Home now, I cut my bread, slice my tomato, spread my mustard and Hellmann's on the bread, warm up the oven, etc., etc.
The perfect roast beef sandwich is only 10 minutes away. I licked my fingers a little and realized the mayo didn't taste right, which is when I realized my mistake.
I knew my sandwich, and probably my life, were ruined.
I added dill and garlic powder. I added salt and pepper. I added paprika and hot sauce.
Nothing I added could disguise the fact that this stuff was nasty-ass off-brand Miracle Whip.
I only ate half the sandwich. The rest is sitting in the fridge. Now the perfect roast beef sandwich, the very thing that was supposed to deliver me from hunger and usher in the baseball game, sits unloved, unwanted; taunting me every time I open the fridge.
Mr. grocer! Please, create a separate section for non-mayonaisse spreads. Somewhere out in the parking lot or in the receiving room or something. Deliver the rest of us from this pretender to the throne of food lubrication perfection. I have suffered much, but if I can save just one more person from being disappointed, maybe I can take solace in that.
_______________________________________
I got an ukulele (editor's note, it sounds wrong, but is, by rule correct to say "an ukelele") for my birthday, a gift from Emily. It's a good stringed instrument to start with. Small, unintimidating, (four strings instead of 6 or 12), and relatively cheap.
I got it Saturday night and it's now Wednesday morning. I haven't been able to put it down.
I suck, but I have never enjoyed something that I am so bad at. I am spurred on by friends younger than I as well as contemporaries of mine who are self-taught instrumentalists. I typically eschew anything I'm not immediately good at.
I bear no specific aptitude for playing music, but...
I can't put it down. I have spent hours and hours and hours practicing. I have gone from knowing nothing, (literally zero chord fingerings or how to strum), to memorizing several (maybe a dozen) chords. I even can grind through some songs and came up with the beginnings of a little ditty of my own.
Funny thing - I can't sing and play at the same time. I've been singing my entire life. Ask anyone I know. They'll tell you I sing even at the most inappropriate times. But I can't sing and strum.
I followed along to a recording of the song I was working out last night, (Mother by Pink Floyd), and while I know every word, inflection and phoneme of that recording, I just can't get the words to come out while I am playing.
I guess I'll learn eventually. The point is I am having a good time trying.
Wednesday, January 22, 2014
Why I Don't Write Recipes
Emily is a great cook. She studies cooking and collects recipes like some people collect tchotchkes. I cook, too, but I don't use recipes. Mostly, I don't use recipes because, I reckon, I am a little Dyslexic. I have a hard time following directions from a written form. Always have.
But still, I cook. Usually from taste. I deconstruct what must be in a given dish and then reconstruct it my way. Some food doesn't need a recipe. It is what it is.
Like chili.
I love to make chili. I have made chili since I can remember, always refining and changing things until I get what I want. Well, that's one story anyway, but it's apocryphal. The real reason is it changes from time to time is that I forget what I did in the past.
That ends now, because I just made my second batch of a chili I really like. I want to be able to repeat it in the future. So, I'm going to write a recipe. Why not share it with you, the masses. I mean, it's not like it's the some super secret… it's chili.
Chill Billy's Willy Chili
Ingredients:
2 lbs. ground beef (the cheaper the better)
1 lb. ground pork (I like mild, because there is plenty of flavor here, but go with hot if you can deal
with the burning ring of fire… you know what I'm talking about)
(Note: If you're the type of person who would have gone to Woodstock wearing a Brooks Brothers suit, you can substitute ground turkey or chicken, but I want you to know that this is a sin against humanity and if you want to each chili without the hearty meats, I suggest having some bullion, instead.)
3 28 oz. cans of petite diced tomatoes
1 12 oz. can of tomato paste
1 15.5 oz. can of light red kidney beans
1 15.5 oz. can of dark red kidney beans
1 15.5 oz. can of cannellini beans
(You can use black beans if you like the scatology that comes along with them)
7-8 cerano peppers
2-3 banana peppers
7-8 large cloves of garlic
1 medium yellow onion (substitute white onion for a more acidity if you are divorced or recently
spurned)
1 medium red onion
(You know what? Use any kind of onion you want, see if I care. I mean, it's MY recipe, but if you want to screw it all up and muddle your onions because you think you know better than me, what do I care?)
1 12 oz. bottle of dark ale (or preferred) beer
1 bottle dry red wine (cabernet or dry red table wine with minimal residual sugar - Merlot and Shiraz
are unacceptable)
2 cups brewed coffee (substitute 1 tsp. prepared coffee to 2 cups water, or don't put coffee in at all if
you are some sort of Juan Valdez hating jerk)
1 Tsp. red pepper flake
2 Tsp. chili powder
2 Tsp. Paprika
4 Tsp. garlic powder
2 Tsp. onion powder
2 Tsp. cumin
2 Tsp. dill weed
2 Tsp. ground mustard
2 Tsp. salt
4 Tsp. black pepper
2 Tsp. chicken soup base
1 dash of ground cinnamon
Got any other dry spices around? Throw some in.
Method:
Open the bottle of wine. You don't need it for the dish for awhile, but it's nice to have a glass of wine at the beginning of a journey… so long as it's not a driving journey. Sip the wine while you pull out all the assorted accoutrement necessary, like a Dutch oven, cutting boards, knives, a vegetable chopper a small frying pan, etc. It's best to plan your work spaces, move the trash can if you need to… get everything just so. This process will take as long as it takes to drink a glass of wine.
Set oven to 375 degrees (Fahrenheit, d'uh)
Once you have everything just so, refresh your glass of wine. Place it near you where it can comfort you and be available to your service, but not in your way.
Mix dry spices in an oven safe sauté pan and place in oven to toast a bit. How long? Until you remove it will suffice… this isn't baking. It's cooking. Cooking is an art. I think you need a sip of wine. You worry too much.
Cut peppers in half down the length and place skin side up on a baking sheet covered with parchment paper.
Peel garlic cloves and place them on the baking sheet with the peppers.
Drizzle the whole lot with a little olive oil and place into the hot oven to roast a bit. I don't know how long… a bit.
Place the meats into the Dutch oven and chop and stir while they brown completely.
Keep working at the meat with a wooden spoon or paddle. This is hard work and requires you to stop every here and there to tipple some wine.
Drain the excess grease from the meat. I didn't used to do this, but since my fortieth birthday is around the corner, I'd like to be there to celebrate it.
Place the drained, browned meat back in the Dutch oven. Remove the sauté pan of dry seasoning and sprinkle it over the meat while stirring. try to get an even coating. This will form the base of your chili. If you do this wrong, you just wasted about $15.00 worth of food and a half or more bottle of wine.
Finely chop the onion. I use a veggie chopper like a Slap Chop, but not a Slap Chop, because I don't live in a trailer. If you live in a trailer, and/or have a Slap Chop, use it. Mine is by a company that doesn't pay me, but I will say they rhyme with Campered Phef.
Put the raw onion in with the cooked meat. Stir.
Whew… there's a lot going on here. Take a sip of wine. Wait! is there at least 2 cups left? No? Ok, grab the beer you opened earlier. Yeh, that's nice.
Dump a cup or so of the beer into the mix. Go ahead and dump in the 2 cups of wine in, too. The rest is for you and if you're doing it right, it will all be gone by the time you're done.
Oh, crap! the peppers! Pull those out. Set them aside and let them cool.
Open all the beans and drain them and rinse them. Place them into the Dutch oven.
Open the tomatoes and throw them in.
Are you stirring? No? Why? Because I didn't tell you to? Well, do you need to be told to wear pants before you leave for work? Wait, you are wearing pants, aren't you?
OK, stir.
Use your Slap Chop to chop up the roasted peppers and garlic. They won't chop so much as they will mush into a tapenade. That's good… I'm too old for chili that has full bites of peppers.
Mix it all in and stir it up.
Add a little of the liquid coffee. Trust me. It's good. And it's better than adding water… water has no flavor and every time you add water into a recipe, Jesus cries.
Add the soup base now, too. Mostly because I forgot to tell you to do it earlier and you've shown a propensity to be a bit of a lamb. I mean you could have added it any time you wanted to, but since you waited until now, that's fine.
Stir the chili and make sure it's the consistency you like. Chili is supposed to be pretty hefty, so don't over thin it. You could always add a little tomato juice to get it the way you want it. But if you need to, add a little water. It's OK now. It wasn't OK then. Don't ask, just follow the recipe!
Let the chili steep for an hour at low simmer before you even try it. Chili needs to sit and mature. The flavors need to marry and divorce and go through a mid-life crisis and find Jesus and settle down with a nice flavor that respects it for what it is and doesn't expect it to be something it's not. This takes time.
After a minimum of an hour, taste it and add more spices as required to bring it to where you want it. You could splash some Tobasco Sauce, or if you live in that trailer and use a Slap Chop, you could use Frank's Red Hot.
Wait another hour or even two. Like I said, chili doesn't come into it's own right away. It needs to be nurtured. You should stir it every once in awhile. It's not necessary, but food that has been doted upon always tastes better.
Notes:
And that's my chili recipe. Enjoy in good health!
But still, I cook. Usually from taste. I deconstruct what must be in a given dish and then reconstruct it my way. Some food doesn't need a recipe. It is what it is.
Like chili.
I love to make chili. I have made chili since I can remember, always refining and changing things until I get what I want. Well, that's one story anyway, but it's apocryphal. The real reason is it changes from time to time is that I forget what I did in the past.
That ends now, because I just made my second batch of a chili I really like. I want to be able to repeat it in the future. So, I'm going to write a recipe. Why not share it with you, the masses. I mean, it's not like it's the some super secret… it's chili.
Chill Billy's Willy Chili
Ingredients:
2 lbs. ground beef (the cheaper the better)
1 lb. ground pork (I like mild, because there is plenty of flavor here, but go with hot if you can deal
with the burning ring of fire… you know what I'm talking about)
(Note: If you're the type of person who would have gone to Woodstock wearing a Brooks Brothers suit, you can substitute ground turkey or chicken, but I want you to know that this is a sin against humanity and if you want to each chili without the hearty meats, I suggest having some bullion, instead.)
3 28 oz. cans of petite diced tomatoes
1 12 oz. can of tomato paste
1 15.5 oz. can of light red kidney beans
1 15.5 oz. can of dark red kidney beans
1 15.5 oz. can of cannellini beans
(You can use black beans if you like the scatology that comes along with them)
7-8 cerano peppers
2-3 banana peppers
7-8 large cloves of garlic
1 medium yellow onion (substitute white onion for a more acidity if you are divorced or recently
spurned)
1 medium red onion
(You know what? Use any kind of onion you want, see if I care. I mean, it's MY recipe, but if you want to screw it all up and muddle your onions because you think you know better than me, what do I care?)
1 12 oz. bottle of dark ale (or preferred) beer
1 bottle dry red wine (cabernet or dry red table wine with minimal residual sugar - Merlot and Shiraz
are unacceptable)
2 cups brewed coffee (substitute 1 tsp. prepared coffee to 2 cups water, or don't put coffee in at all if
you are some sort of Juan Valdez hating jerk)
1 Tsp. red pepper flake
2 Tsp. chili powder
2 Tsp. Paprika
4 Tsp. garlic powder
2 Tsp. onion powder
2 Tsp. cumin
2 Tsp. dill weed
2 Tsp. ground mustard
2 Tsp. salt
4 Tsp. black pepper
2 Tsp. chicken soup base
1 dash of ground cinnamon
Got any other dry spices around? Throw some in.
Method:
Open the bottle of wine. You don't need it for the dish for awhile, but it's nice to have a glass of wine at the beginning of a journey… so long as it's not a driving journey. Sip the wine while you pull out all the assorted accoutrement necessary, like a Dutch oven, cutting boards, knives, a vegetable chopper a small frying pan, etc. It's best to plan your work spaces, move the trash can if you need to… get everything just so. This process will take as long as it takes to drink a glass of wine.
Set oven to 375 degrees (Fahrenheit, d'uh)
Once you have everything just so, refresh your glass of wine. Place it near you where it can comfort you and be available to your service, but not in your way.
Mix dry spices in an oven safe sauté pan and place in oven to toast a bit. How long? Until you remove it will suffice… this isn't baking. It's cooking. Cooking is an art. I think you need a sip of wine. You worry too much.
Cut peppers in half down the length and place skin side up on a baking sheet covered with parchment paper.
Peel garlic cloves and place them on the baking sheet with the peppers.
Drizzle the whole lot with a little olive oil and place into the hot oven to roast a bit. I don't know how long… a bit.
Place the meats into the Dutch oven and chop and stir while they brown completely.
Keep working at the meat with a wooden spoon or paddle. This is hard work and requires you to stop every here and there to tipple some wine.
Drain the excess grease from the meat. I didn't used to do this, but since my fortieth birthday is around the corner, I'd like to be there to celebrate it.
Place the drained, browned meat back in the Dutch oven. Remove the sauté pan of dry seasoning and sprinkle it over the meat while stirring. try to get an even coating. This will form the base of your chili. If you do this wrong, you just wasted about $15.00 worth of food and a half or more bottle of wine.
Finely chop the onion. I use a veggie chopper like a Slap Chop, but not a Slap Chop, because I don't live in a trailer. If you live in a trailer, and/or have a Slap Chop, use it. Mine is by a company that doesn't pay me, but I will say they rhyme with Campered Phef.
Put the raw onion in with the cooked meat. Stir.
Whew… there's a lot going on here. Take a sip of wine. Wait! is there at least 2 cups left? No? Ok, grab the beer you opened earlier. Yeh, that's nice.
Dump a cup or so of the beer into the mix. Go ahead and dump in the 2 cups of wine in, too. The rest is for you and if you're doing it right, it will all be gone by the time you're done.
Oh, crap! the peppers! Pull those out. Set them aside and let them cool.
Open all the beans and drain them and rinse them. Place them into the Dutch oven.
Open the tomatoes and throw them in.
Are you stirring? No? Why? Because I didn't tell you to? Well, do you need to be told to wear pants before you leave for work? Wait, you are wearing pants, aren't you?
OK, stir.
Use your Slap Chop to chop up the roasted peppers and garlic. They won't chop so much as they will mush into a tapenade. That's good… I'm too old for chili that has full bites of peppers.
Mix it all in and stir it up.
Add a little of the liquid coffee. Trust me. It's good. And it's better than adding water… water has no flavor and every time you add water into a recipe, Jesus cries.
Add the soup base now, too. Mostly because I forgot to tell you to do it earlier and you've shown a propensity to be a bit of a lamb. I mean you could have added it any time you wanted to, but since you waited until now, that's fine.
Stir the chili and make sure it's the consistency you like. Chili is supposed to be pretty hefty, so don't over thin it. You could always add a little tomato juice to get it the way you want it. But if you need to, add a little water. It's OK now. It wasn't OK then. Don't ask, just follow the recipe!
Let the chili steep for an hour at low simmer before you even try it. Chili needs to sit and mature. The flavors need to marry and divorce and go through a mid-life crisis and find Jesus and settle down with a nice flavor that respects it for what it is and doesn't expect it to be something it's not. This takes time.
After a minimum of an hour, taste it and add more spices as required to bring it to where you want it. You could splash some Tobasco Sauce, or if you live in that trailer and use a Slap Chop, you could use Frank's Red Hot.
Wait another hour or even two. Like I said, chili doesn't come into it's own right away. It needs to be nurtured. You should stir it every once in awhile. It's not necessary, but food that has been doted upon always tastes better.
Notes:
- If you don't drink, or don't want to put alcohol in your dish, replace with like volume of tomato juice. It's not as fun, but, whatever.
- If you don't like your chili to have a bite, I suggest making another dish. Like milquetoast, or something tofu based. You can buy those things at the store that has special parking for electric cars and women who gave birth by midwife.
And that's my chili recipe. Enjoy in good health!
Friday, January 17, 2014
The Thousand Dollar Club Soda
I am not to to the point of being able to laugh about it, yet. But I also know it's not the end of the world… or even the end of the day. I recently flew to see me parents out west after my Mother had some surgery.
Mom is doing well, and whatever else is happening in my life right now, that is the most important and wonderful thing. The rest, as they say, is pops and buzzes. I would like to say what happened is of no consequence, except just because something is benign in the grand scheme, the immediacy of consequence makes them a bit harder to swallow.
The average seat on a commercial airliner is approximately 3 scintilla larger than my ass. By the time you get to my shoulders, I am spilling into my neighbor's territory. Thusly crammed into the plane on the return flight, I was unable to work, as I literally could not type. It was futile. I tried all sorts of positions and exotic movements to work within the confines of my circumstance.
I probably looked like a Tyrannosaurus Rex trying to roll sushi… if the Tyrannosaur was sticking his tongue out in an attempt to tap into that last nth of whatever effort it is I think I can extract from doing so. If my Dad had a dollar for every time he told me to "put your tongue in your mouth", he'd have exactly half the number of dollars he would if he got paid for each time he said "get your hands out of your pants".
Either way, he would be wealthy.
Next to me was a rather sick looking man in his late twenties. Though from the looks of him, he fancied himself a younger person… a warrior, perhaps. He was smashed when he got on the plane. I didn't catch his name, but he repeated "double scotch on the rocks and a Coke Zero," enough times that I took to calling him Johnny Walker in my head.
Johnny walker was watching an episode of Law and Order over my shoulder. That's a nice way of saying that I was watching the episode on my computer with my headphones on. Since I had only enough room to sit and stare, I selected the only hour-long show available to me in an effort to pass the time. It was free.
I ordered a club soda as Johnny Walker ordered another of his concoctions.
I stress, this was only club soda. No booze. No flavor. It could have come from a can called "Puritans' Choice" for all I know, though the merry, dancing bubbles of club soda may have overwhelmed our Puritan forefathers… to say nothing of our Puritan foremothers!
The only thing hard about this club soda was the lime they put in it… which I hadn't asked for. In today's flying environment, that's tantamount to first class customer service. \
I was enjoying my free Law and Order and free club soda with lime. I wasn't enjoying Johnny Walker's breath, but that sort of thing is de rigeur flying back from Vegas. The party never ends, right up to the time you land back in Poughkeepsie or Menneola, or whatever plebeian jerkwater you come from.
The air was smooth.
No one coming down the aisle bumped me.
I was in no way interfered with.
So how did the cup of free club soda and lime, just do a bank shot on the screen of my open computer and land a seat away on the ogling Mr. Walker?
I looked at my hand, once holding a cup, now empty.
It was there just a second ago. Now, it was gone.
I sat, sort of blankly contemplating this as the insidious bubbly beverage was seeping its way into my computer.
A brief moment passed before I sprang into action. The first thing I did was the first thing any reasonable person would do.
I said, "shit!"
Not just shit - but a lurid, long, lascivious "sssshhhhiiiiit". The kind of shit where before the ssssshhhhh part is done, everyone in the vicinity already knows the end.
As quickly as I could, I turned to computer upside down and leaned on the power button to do an emergency shut-off. In keeping with the theme, I politely asked the flight attendant for "a shit load" of napkins, "please". People all around were handing me their tiny cocktail napkins that are useful for exactly what, I am not sure. But the thought was nice and I tried to be gracious in my thanks.
To her credit the attendant came back swiftly with what I would call a metric shit load of c-fold towels. Good ones. Collectively, everyone in aisles 30-32 was helping us mop up.
I did the best I could to remove as much water as I could from my computer.
Johnny Walker lamented, "I guess we're done watching Law and Order," which was odd, because he couldn't hear any of it. "That show is addictive," he finished.
He pointed to the computer and said knowingly, "That sucks."
I shrugged nonchalantly. However, I think I was sweating on the inside of my skin. What was done was done, but that didn't stop me from obsessing about it internally.
Deep in thought, and out of nerves I suppose, I began to pick at a stray hair on my forehead… well, what's now my forehead, but what used to be my hairline. This hair is tenacious, a fighter. A stubborn gladiator. The lone survivor of a battlefield once populated by seemingly infinite number of soldiers, all of which turned out to be weak recalcitrants excelling in retreat.
I did this until it hurt. Actually, I am quite sure it hurt for awhile and I didn't stop until it really hurt.
The flight attendant came by and Johnny Walker ordered another double scotch. I pulled out my credit card and said I would like to buy it for him. It wasn't necessary, he indicated, but I insisted. The flight attendant brought it, and one for me, too… "If you want it." There was a certain twinge of pity in her voice as she looked thoughtfully at the man who just spilled water all over his computer, his row of people, and who now had a fissure in his forehead.
I gladly accepted it and she never charged me for either drink, which considering the free club soda with lime, Law and Order and shit-load of towels was a veritable embarrassment of free customer service. All for no charge to me.
My parents bought a new car in 1986 that came with a matched set of leather luggage. Later that year, at the Eddie Bauer store, Mom saw the same luggage and remarked about the fact it cost a few hundred dollars and she got hers for free. My 11 year-old self responded, "actually, you paid $16,000 for yours."
As we descended into the complex southwest to northeast landing pattern over Detroit, Johnny Walker looked at me and said, a little breathlessly, "we made it."Suddenly, the six scotches started to make sense. He didn't like flying.
Right now, I didn't either.
My free club soda with lime, episode of Law and Order, shit-load of towels and double scotch cost me $1,000. Actually more, but for some reason, titling this post The Twelve Hundred Dollar Club Soda was less impactful to my finely honed literary sensibility.
My computer works, but it won't charge. It will only run off both the battery and A/C, but with no means to charge the battery, I am tethered. I have an exceptionally light, compact, expensive computer can't go more than six feet in any direction of a power outlet. A paradox unknown prior to our 21st century.
Also, I think the way its circuitry is, it starts off battery power, which is winding down. 85% at the time of the dousing… 77% now and going nowhere but down. I figure I have a month before I can't use the computer at all.
I don't have a grand to spend on a computer. I don't want to spend a grand on a computer. In the short-term, it's a little bit of a pain.
But, my Mom is healthy. I got to spend time with my family. And, while my clairvoyance is a little rusty, I think I will be blessed with being able to spend time with them into the future, which a couple weeks ago was not at all certain.
Long story short, I would steamroll a whole Apple Store worth of slender, lightweight, expensive laptops and toss my credit card on the pile while walking away nonchalantly for the ability to see my family, happy, healthy for years to come.
Here is to successful surgery, packed discount airlines, club soda and unsecured, revolving consumer debt. Life. Goes. On.
Mom is doing well, and whatever else is happening in my life right now, that is the most important and wonderful thing. The rest, as they say, is pops and buzzes. I would like to say what happened is of no consequence, except just because something is benign in the grand scheme, the immediacy of consequence makes them a bit harder to swallow.
The average seat on a commercial airliner is approximately 3 scintilla larger than my ass. By the time you get to my shoulders, I am spilling into my neighbor's territory. Thusly crammed into the plane on the return flight, I was unable to work, as I literally could not type. It was futile. I tried all sorts of positions and exotic movements to work within the confines of my circumstance.
I probably looked like a Tyrannosaurus Rex trying to roll sushi… if the Tyrannosaur was sticking his tongue out in an attempt to tap into that last nth of whatever effort it is I think I can extract from doing so. If my Dad had a dollar for every time he told me to "put your tongue in your mouth", he'd have exactly half the number of dollars he would if he got paid for each time he said "get your hands out of your pants".
Either way, he would be wealthy.
Next to me was a rather sick looking man in his late twenties. Though from the looks of him, he fancied himself a younger person… a warrior, perhaps. He was smashed when he got on the plane. I didn't catch his name, but he repeated "double scotch on the rocks and a Coke Zero," enough times that I took to calling him Johnny Walker in my head.
Johnny walker was watching an episode of Law and Order over my shoulder. That's a nice way of saying that I was watching the episode on my computer with my headphones on. Since I had only enough room to sit and stare, I selected the only hour-long show available to me in an effort to pass the time. It was free.
I ordered a club soda as Johnny Walker ordered another of his concoctions.
I stress, this was only club soda. No booze. No flavor. It could have come from a can called "Puritans' Choice" for all I know, though the merry, dancing bubbles of club soda may have overwhelmed our Puritan forefathers… to say nothing of our Puritan foremothers!
The only thing hard about this club soda was the lime they put in it… which I hadn't asked for. In today's flying environment, that's tantamount to first class customer service. \
I was enjoying my free Law and Order and free club soda with lime. I wasn't enjoying Johnny Walker's breath, but that sort of thing is de rigeur flying back from Vegas. The party never ends, right up to the time you land back in Poughkeepsie or Menneola, or whatever plebeian jerkwater you come from.
The air was smooth.
No one coming down the aisle bumped me.
I was in no way interfered with.
So how did the cup of free club soda and lime, just do a bank shot on the screen of my open computer and land a seat away on the ogling Mr. Walker?
I looked at my hand, once holding a cup, now empty.
It was there just a second ago. Now, it was gone.
I sat, sort of blankly contemplating this as the insidious bubbly beverage was seeping its way into my computer.
A brief moment passed before I sprang into action. The first thing I did was the first thing any reasonable person would do.
I said, "shit!"
Not just shit - but a lurid, long, lascivious "sssshhhhiiiiit". The kind of shit where before the ssssshhhhh part is done, everyone in the vicinity already knows the end.
As quickly as I could, I turned to computer upside down and leaned on the power button to do an emergency shut-off. In keeping with the theme, I politely asked the flight attendant for "a shit load" of napkins, "please". People all around were handing me their tiny cocktail napkins that are useful for exactly what, I am not sure. But the thought was nice and I tried to be gracious in my thanks.
To her credit the attendant came back swiftly with what I would call a metric shit load of c-fold towels. Good ones. Collectively, everyone in aisles 30-32 was helping us mop up.
I did the best I could to remove as much water as I could from my computer.
Johnny Walker lamented, "I guess we're done watching Law and Order," which was odd, because he couldn't hear any of it. "That show is addictive," he finished.
He pointed to the computer and said knowingly, "That sucks."
I shrugged nonchalantly. However, I think I was sweating on the inside of my skin. What was done was done, but that didn't stop me from obsessing about it internally.
Deep in thought, and out of nerves I suppose, I began to pick at a stray hair on my forehead… well, what's now my forehead, but what used to be my hairline. This hair is tenacious, a fighter. A stubborn gladiator. The lone survivor of a battlefield once populated by seemingly infinite number of soldiers, all of which turned out to be weak recalcitrants excelling in retreat.
I did this until it hurt. Actually, I am quite sure it hurt for awhile and I didn't stop until it really hurt.
The flight attendant came by and Johnny Walker ordered another double scotch. I pulled out my credit card and said I would like to buy it for him. It wasn't necessary, he indicated, but I insisted. The flight attendant brought it, and one for me, too… "If you want it." There was a certain twinge of pity in her voice as she looked thoughtfully at the man who just spilled water all over his computer, his row of people, and who now had a fissure in his forehead.
I gladly accepted it and she never charged me for either drink, which considering the free club soda with lime, Law and Order and shit-load of towels was a veritable embarrassment of free customer service. All for no charge to me.
My parents bought a new car in 1986 that came with a matched set of leather luggage. Later that year, at the Eddie Bauer store, Mom saw the same luggage and remarked about the fact it cost a few hundred dollars and she got hers for free. My 11 year-old self responded, "actually, you paid $16,000 for yours."
As we descended into the complex southwest to northeast landing pattern over Detroit, Johnny Walker looked at me and said, a little breathlessly, "we made it."Suddenly, the six scotches started to make sense. He didn't like flying.
Right now, I didn't either.
My free club soda with lime, episode of Law and Order, shit-load of towels and double scotch cost me $1,000. Actually more, but for some reason, titling this post The Twelve Hundred Dollar Club Soda was less impactful to my finely honed literary sensibility.
My computer works, but it won't charge. It will only run off both the battery and A/C, but with no means to charge the battery, I am tethered. I have an exceptionally light, compact, expensive computer can't go more than six feet in any direction of a power outlet. A paradox unknown prior to our 21st century.
Also, I think the way its circuitry is, it starts off battery power, which is winding down. 85% at the time of the dousing… 77% now and going nowhere but down. I figure I have a month before I can't use the computer at all.
I don't have a grand to spend on a computer. I don't want to spend a grand on a computer. In the short-term, it's a little bit of a pain.
But, my Mom is healthy. I got to spend time with my family. And, while my clairvoyance is a little rusty, I think I will be blessed with being able to spend time with them into the future, which a couple weeks ago was not at all certain.
Long story short, I would steamroll a whole Apple Store worth of slender, lightweight, expensive laptops and toss my credit card on the pile while walking away nonchalantly for the ability to see my family, happy, healthy for years to come.
Here is to successful surgery, packed discount airlines, club soda and unsecured, revolving consumer debt. Life. Goes. On.
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