THE ARRIVAL OF HENRY, DON'T CALL ME HANK, LAZARUS
I just remembered one of the good things that I thought when I hit rock bottom, or rather when the elevator hit P2... One of my greatest friends in the whole wide world and his lovely wife, who has also become a true friend, had their first child yesterday. A happy and healthy Henry Samuel Lazarus was born in New York City at 12:10 am on September 5th, weighing 5 pounds 19 ounces. I got some really cute pictures via email, but I'm a piker and I don't know how to put them on this site.
It is absolutely impossible for me to express the overwhelming joy I feel for David and Meg. I can only congratulate them on mating successfully and tell them I love them. And though I will not be flying cross-country to attend the briss, and thus cannot officially be named Godfather, I want little Henry to know that I now love him too and will always be there for him in any way he may need me.
Friday, September 06, 2002
THE CURSE OF THE PINK PIKER
As if things weren't going downhill fast enough for Piker, an avalanche of bad luck has come cascading down the proverbial mountain. The first sign that it was going to be one of those days appeared this morning when I showed up here at Piker headquarters to find that the lock had been jimmied and the door was unlocked. The only piece of furniture remaining in the office space before the break-in was my crappy faux-wood desk. Now there is nothing. Why someone would want to steal my desk is beyond me, but it happened, and I had to deal with the reality. The only thing of any debatable value in the desk was the Piker Files. They too are now gone. Thank God for the Piker archives.
Feeling victimized and at the end of my proverbial rope, which was the only thing keeping me on the proverbial mountain, I thought I was headed for a complete meltdown. But once I stopped hyperventilating and bawling, I was just happy to have my breath back. Standing in the middle of the desolate office, I decided right there and then that I was going to take advantage of the fact that I could still breathe by meditating my ass off. I sat down on the floor and attempted to get into the lotus position until I came to the painful realization that the surgically reconstructed ACL in my right knee was not going to cooperate. So I sat Indian style and concentrated on my breathing, tuning out the world until I successfully reached the Alpha state. My mind, body, and spirit were at peace. No longer did I feel stress over the monumental collapse of my prized publication. No longer did I feel violated by the vicious vandals who ripped me off. I had found serenity. Just then, a small boulder came flying through one of the large Piker windows and shattered the glass into thousands of pieces. Somehow, namely the heightened spiritual state I was in at the time, I found myself unharmed. It was as if the Universe had placed a protective forcefield around me. I picked up the large stone and read the words "Piker Go Home" in black magic marker. Another sign.
As we all know, good things and bad things, mainly bad things, come in threes. Although I didn't need yet another sign to motivate me to get the hell out of the Piker offices and never return, I got one anyway. After reading those haunting words on that rock for the hundred thousandth time, I had an urge to check the Piker bank balance. I used my cell phone to call the fine automated folks at Washington Mutual and after punching in a complex set of account numbers, passwords, and the last four digits of my social security number, I got the proverbial straw that broke the proverbial camel's proverbial back -- Piker was out of money. The account wasn't even in the negative; the balance was simply zero dollars and zero cents.
Now, the handful of you that are reading this are probably thinking that this is the end of Piker. I can assure you it is not. I am going to use these heinous events as motivation to take this blog to new heights. I know I keep saying that, but really, I am. As I was sobbing in the elevator on the way down to the parking garage, before I remembered that I don't have a car, I had one of those revelatory moments that reminded me of all the good things in my life. I can't recall what they are at the moment, but trust me, they're good. And they gave me the fortitude to carry on. So despite the best efforts of some unseen cabal hell-bent on annhilating me and everything I stand for, Piker lives on! Long live Piker! Long live Piker!
As if things weren't going downhill fast enough for Piker, an avalanche of bad luck has come cascading down the proverbial mountain. The first sign that it was going to be one of those days appeared this morning when I showed up here at Piker headquarters to find that the lock had been jimmied and the door was unlocked. The only piece of furniture remaining in the office space before the break-in was my crappy faux-wood desk. Now there is nothing. Why someone would want to steal my desk is beyond me, but it happened, and I had to deal with the reality. The only thing of any debatable value in the desk was the Piker Files. They too are now gone. Thank God for the Piker archives.
Feeling victimized and at the end of my proverbial rope, which was the only thing keeping me on the proverbial mountain, I thought I was headed for a complete meltdown. But once I stopped hyperventilating and bawling, I was just happy to have my breath back. Standing in the middle of the desolate office, I decided right there and then that I was going to take advantage of the fact that I could still breathe by meditating my ass off. I sat down on the floor and attempted to get into the lotus position until I came to the painful realization that the surgically reconstructed ACL in my right knee was not going to cooperate. So I sat Indian style and concentrated on my breathing, tuning out the world until I successfully reached the Alpha state. My mind, body, and spirit were at peace. No longer did I feel stress over the monumental collapse of my prized publication. No longer did I feel violated by the vicious vandals who ripped me off. I had found serenity. Just then, a small boulder came flying through one of the large Piker windows and shattered the glass into thousands of pieces. Somehow, namely the heightened spiritual state I was in at the time, I found myself unharmed. It was as if the Universe had placed a protective forcefield around me. I picked up the large stone and read the words "Piker Go Home" in black magic marker. Another sign.
As we all know, good things and bad things, mainly bad things, come in threes. Although I didn't need yet another sign to motivate me to get the hell out of the Piker offices and never return, I got one anyway. After reading those haunting words on that rock for the hundred thousandth time, I had an urge to check the Piker bank balance. I used my cell phone to call the fine automated folks at Washington Mutual and after punching in a complex set of account numbers, passwords, and the last four digits of my social security number, I got the proverbial straw that broke the proverbial camel's proverbial back -- Piker was out of money. The account wasn't even in the negative; the balance was simply zero dollars and zero cents.
Now, the handful of you that are reading this are probably thinking that this is the end of Piker. I can assure you it is not. I am going to use these heinous events as motivation to take this blog to new heights. I know I keep saying that, but really, I am. As I was sobbing in the elevator on the way down to the parking garage, before I remembered that I don't have a car, I had one of those revelatory moments that reminded me of all the good things in my life. I can't recall what they are at the moment, but trust me, they're good. And they gave me the fortitude to carry on. So despite the best efforts of some unseen cabal hell-bent on annhilating me and everything I stand for, Piker lives on! Long live Piker! Long live Piker!
Wednesday, September 04, 2002
DOG DAY DISILLUSIONMENT
It's been a sweltering week here in Los Angeles. Call it a late summer heat wave. I sit here alone in the barren Piker offices, stripped down to my Bart Simpson boxers, unable to turn on the high-powered air conditioning unit because the revised budget won't allow for frivolous utilities like electric and phone.
The extreme temperature has me in a pensive mood, reflecting on the past week. Before the weekend started, I had a solid couple days of disillusionment. First, it was the past. Nearly a month after I started reading, I finally completed James Ellroy's "The Cold Six Thousand." The novel is the middle installment of an ambitious trilogy, the first of which I did not read and the last of which, to the best of my knowledge, has not been written yet. The story spans a roughly five year period from late 1963 to 1968 and follows the lives of three underworld figures, all of whom, directly or indirectly, play roles in the assassinations of JFK, RFK, and MLK. The Cold Six is a hard brew to swallow, in part because you can't fathom that our country, even in one of its darkest hours, could possibly operate in such a way, and in part because you know it did. There is simply too much detail in the book to even begin to dissect the intricacies of the characters and plot, but suffice it to say that moments after I read the last word, I fell into a fairly deep funk. I don't think I actually enjoyed reading it, and I'm not sure you're supposed to, but I know I couldn't get it out of my mind. It plagued me. And then I watched the Video Music Awards.
After suffering through three plus hours of pop culture torture, my fairly deep funk devolved into flat out depression. Now, I haven't watched MTV in quite some time, and I suppose I'm old, but apparently drunk and stupid is in. I may be overly nostalgiac for the musical era including the mid-sixties to the early nineties, but I remember my rock stars being drunk and stoned, yet witty and irreverant. The audience got a taste of that when Diamond Dave and Sammy Hagar presented an award and bantered for a bit, but they didn't seem to like the flavor, as nobody so much as chuckled. I'm astounded to report that the true highlight of the show was Justin Timberlake's debut solo performance. That kid can dance and the moment actually felt like something, which was more than I can say for the rest of the show. It was a whole lot of nothing. There were many lowlights, but I'll just mention a couple. Pink accepting her award and declaring that she was so drunk was one thing, but Michelle Branch, a sort of goody-goody in this crowd, accepting her award and claiming to be more drunk than Pink was like a kick in the stomach. Branch proceeded to soberly thank everyone from her record company to her entourage to her family and seemed genuine in doing so. Why did she have to say she was fucked up? She clearly wasn't and it felt like a desperate attempt for the good girl to fit in with the cool crowd, when she could have nobly distanced herself from the idiocy surrouding her. Painful. As was the far-from-triumphant return of Guns-n-Roses. Axl Rose is fat and can't sing anymore and the band sounded like shit. They were the closing act.
Luckily, that night, I only took one pain killer and not the entire bottle, because I wound up having a fantastic weekend hanging out with a variety of phenomenal people at several Labor Day events and it helped restore all of my illusions to their proper levels.
It's been a sweltering week here in Los Angeles. Call it a late summer heat wave. I sit here alone in the barren Piker offices, stripped down to my Bart Simpson boxers, unable to turn on the high-powered air conditioning unit because the revised budget won't allow for frivolous utilities like electric and phone.
The extreme temperature has me in a pensive mood, reflecting on the past week. Before the weekend started, I had a solid couple days of disillusionment. First, it was the past. Nearly a month after I started reading, I finally completed James Ellroy's "The Cold Six Thousand." The novel is the middle installment of an ambitious trilogy, the first of which I did not read and the last of which, to the best of my knowledge, has not been written yet. The story spans a roughly five year period from late 1963 to 1968 and follows the lives of three underworld figures, all of whom, directly or indirectly, play roles in the assassinations of JFK, RFK, and MLK. The Cold Six is a hard brew to swallow, in part because you can't fathom that our country, even in one of its darkest hours, could possibly operate in such a way, and in part because you know it did. There is simply too much detail in the book to even begin to dissect the intricacies of the characters and plot, but suffice it to say that moments after I read the last word, I fell into a fairly deep funk. I don't think I actually enjoyed reading it, and I'm not sure you're supposed to, but I know I couldn't get it out of my mind. It plagued me. And then I watched the Video Music Awards.
After suffering through three plus hours of pop culture torture, my fairly deep funk devolved into flat out depression. Now, I haven't watched MTV in quite some time, and I suppose I'm old, but apparently drunk and stupid is in. I may be overly nostalgiac for the musical era including the mid-sixties to the early nineties, but I remember my rock stars being drunk and stoned, yet witty and irreverant. The audience got a taste of that when Diamond Dave and Sammy Hagar presented an award and bantered for a bit, but they didn't seem to like the flavor, as nobody so much as chuckled. I'm astounded to report that the true highlight of the show was Justin Timberlake's debut solo performance. That kid can dance and the moment actually felt like something, which was more than I can say for the rest of the show. It was a whole lot of nothing. There were many lowlights, but I'll just mention a couple. Pink accepting her award and declaring that she was so drunk was one thing, but Michelle Branch, a sort of goody-goody in this crowd, accepting her award and claiming to be more drunk than Pink was like a kick in the stomach. Branch proceeded to soberly thank everyone from her record company to her entourage to her family and seemed genuine in doing so. Why did she have to say she was fucked up? She clearly wasn't and it felt like a desperate attempt for the good girl to fit in with the cool crowd, when she could have nobly distanced herself from the idiocy surrouding her. Painful. As was the far-from-triumphant return of Guns-n-Roses. Axl Rose is fat and can't sing anymore and the band sounded like shit. They were the closing act.
Luckily, that night, I only took one pain killer and not the entire bottle, because I wound up having a fantastic weekend hanging out with a variety of phenomenal people at several Labor Day events and it helped restore all of my illusions to their proper levels.
Tuesday, September 03, 2002
THE DAWN OF A NEW ERROR
Today was a tough day. Got back to the Piker offices after the long holiday weekend and was all alone. No one to share my stories with. No one to shoot the shit with around the water cooler. As a matter of fact, the water cooler was one of the few remaining items left here in the office and Arrowhead sent a guy to retrieve it today. So I talked to him for a few minutes as he was hauling away the equipment, but you can’t really count that as water cooler talk, per se.
This morning, I came into work pretty gung ho. I woke up at a decent hour, ran five miles, and had a solid breakfast. After all, this was to be the first day of a new era for Piker. But, it’s extremely difficult to generate ideas for new directions and new elements without a staff. I couldn’t have any meetings – no creative meetings, no budget meetings, no sexual harassment seminars. And I really wanted to have some damn meetings. Even if, at the very least, the purpose of the meetings was to shoot down everyone else’s crappy ideas and railroad my own. So, in lieu of meetings, you’d think I would hit the phones. That would be the case, if I had phones. Apparently, someone in operations didn’t pay the bill. I suppose after I fired everyone, or everyone quit when I went AWOL, whatever, I then became the new operations person. Fine. I screwed up. No phones. No people. No meetings. No business.
So I went home and did some laundry while watching a pretty good day of U.S. Open tennis. Last night was an amazing night of tennis, a confluence of the world’s best players playing on the same night due to almost two full days of rain. There was Pistol Pete Sampras winning a tough five-setter against that Canadian/Brit confused accent sore loser Greg Rusedski; the indefatigable 32 year-old Andre Agassi dominating the much younger American Jan-Michael Gambill in straight sets; Tommy Haas, the current most controversial player on the men’s tour, outlasting the pesky Swede Thomas Enqvist in five sets. And then, you had the most exciting thing to happen to tennis in a long time, Andy Roddick, outdueling Spanish veteran Alex Corretja, the sleek and adorable Daniela Hantuchova upsetting Justin Henin, plus victories by Jennifer Capriati, Lindsey Davenport, and world number one Lleyton Hewitt. I’ve always loved the U.S. Open -- night matches under the lights with that rowdy New York crowd… I can’t get enough.
Andy Roddick just defeated Juan Ignacio Chela in four sets to move through to the quarterfinals. At one point in the match, Roddick appeared to have a bad foot injury. Chela tried to take advantage of it by running him around the court, which opened the door for the just-turned-20 years old Roddick to produce some of the most exciting points of the tournament and get the crowd into it. As a matter of fact, after Roddick won the best point of the match, he got into the crowd, high-fiving a bunch of people in the expensive seats. Now the grizzled Pistol Pete is trying to take down the hot-shot Haas to set up an All-American quarterfinal against young Roddick. I’ve got to go watch.
Following tennis tonight, I will most definitely be watching the finale of American Idol. I honestly don’t care who wins between Justin Guarini and Kelly Clarkson. I think they should both do musical theater after this whole circus ends. The real pop star in this competition, Tamyra Gray, was unceremoniously booted out by the idiotic American public, who thought Nikki McKibbin actually had more star quality. I’ll tell you what she had more of… stretch marks! Now, I don’t think having stretch marks should prevent the girl from winning, I’m not that crass. But wearing a shirt that bared her midriff with full knowledge of said stretch marks should have disqualified her instantly. One other more-deserving performer, Christina Christian, was voted out when Nikki should have been, and it really caused me to dislike the girl. I know it really wasn’t her fault that a viewing audience of complete morons kept voted her through, but I blamed her and tuned in each week hoping against hope that she’d finally get what was coming to her. Now she’s gone and we’re left with Justin and Kelly as the final two, and I’m stuck having nothing to root for and nothing to root against. So, in order for me to get satisfaction out of the conclusion of this prolonged “talent” show, my dream finale must include a diatribe by Simon Cowell, the acerbic judge who is easily the best thing to come out of the show, putting the no-talent co-host monkeys Ryan Seacrest and Brian Dunkleman in their places once and for all. Odds are that I won’t get my wish. But, despite my previously-stated aversion to gambling, you can bet the farm that I’ll be watching tonight and tomorrow night as this addictive train wreck of a show comes to an end.
Tomorrow will be the beginning of a new era in Piker history. I’m determined to make something of this blog and make something of my life. First, I’m going to go make myself a sandwich.
Today was a tough day. Got back to the Piker offices after the long holiday weekend and was all alone. No one to share my stories with. No one to shoot the shit with around the water cooler. As a matter of fact, the water cooler was one of the few remaining items left here in the office and Arrowhead sent a guy to retrieve it today. So I talked to him for a few minutes as he was hauling away the equipment, but you can’t really count that as water cooler talk, per se.
This morning, I came into work pretty gung ho. I woke up at a decent hour, ran five miles, and had a solid breakfast. After all, this was to be the first day of a new era for Piker. But, it’s extremely difficult to generate ideas for new directions and new elements without a staff. I couldn’t have any meetings – no creative meetings, no budget meetings, no sexual harassment seminars. And I really wanted to have some damn meetings. Even if, at the very least, the purpose of the meetings was to shoot down everyone else’s crappy ideas and railroad my own. So, in lieu of meetings, you’d think I would hit the phones. That would be the case, if I had phones. Apparently, someone in operations didn’t pay the bill. I suppose after I fired everyone, or everyone quit when I went AWOL, whatever, I then became the new operations person. Fine. I screwed up. No phones. No people. No meetings. No business.
So I went home and did some laundry while watching a pretty good day of U.S. Open tennis. Last night was an amazing night of tennis, a confluence of the world’s best players playing on the same night due to almost two full days of rain. There was Pistol Pete Sampras winning a tough five-setter against that Canadian/Brit confused accent sore loser Greg Rusedski; the indefatigable 32 year-old Andre Agassi dominating the much younger American Jan-Michael Gambill in straight sets; Tommy Haas, the current most controversial player on the men’s tour, outlasting the pesky Swede Thomas Enqvist in five sets. And then, you had the most exciting thing to happen to tennis in a long time, Andy Roddick, outdueling Spanish veteran Alex Corretja, the sleek and adorable Daniela Hantuchova upsetting Justin Henin, plus victories by Jennifer Capriati, Lindsey Davenport, and world number one Lleyton Hewitt. I’ve always loved the U.S. Open -- night matches under the lights with that rowdy New York crowd… I can’t get enough.
Andy Roddick just defeated Juan Ignacio Chela in four sets to move through to the quarterfinals. At one point in the match, Roddick appeared to have a bad foot injury. Chela tried to take advantage of it by running him around the court, which opened the door for the just-turned-20 years old Roddick to produce some of the most exciting points of the tournament and get the crowd into it. As a matter of fact, after Roddick won the best point of the match, he got into the crowd, high-fiving a bunch of people in the expensive seats. Now the grizzled Pistol Pete is trying to take down the hot-shot Haas to set up an All-American quarterfinal against young Roddick. I’ve got to go watch.
Following tennis tonight, I will most definitely be watching the finale of American Idol. I honestly don’t care who wins between Justin Guarini and Kelly Clarkson. I think they should both do musical theater after this whole circus ends. The real pop star in this competition, Tamyra Gray, was unceremoniously booted out by the idiotic American public, who thought Nikki McKibbin actually had more star quality. I’ll tell you what she had more of… stretch marks! Now, I don’t think having stretch marks should prevent the girl from winning, I’m not that crass. But wearing a shirt that bared her midriff with full knowledge of said stretch marks should have disqualified her instantly. One other more-deserving performer, Christina Christian, was voted out when Nikki should have been, and it really caused me to dislike the girl. I know it really wasn’t her fault that a viewing audience of complete morons kept voted her through, but I blamed her and tuned in each week hoping against hope that she’d finally get what was coming to her. Now she’s gone and we’re left with Justin and Kelly as the final two, and I’m stuck having nothing to root for and nothing to root against. So, in order for me to get satisfaction out of the conclusion of this prolonged “talent” show, my dream finale must include a diatribe by Simon Cowell, the acerbic judge who is easily the best thing to come out of the show, putting the no-talent co-host monkeys Ryan Seacrest and Brian Dunkleman in their places once and for all. Odds are that I won’t get my wish. But, despite my previously-stated aversion to gambling, you can bet the farm that I’ll be watching tonight and tomorrow night as this addictive train wreck of a show comes to an end.
Tomorrow will be the beginning of a new era in Piker history. I’m determined to make something of this blog and make something of my life. First, I’m going to go make myself a sandwich.
Thursday, August 29, 2002
LOOSE SLOTS AND PARTING SHOTS
Following my relaxing, game-playing, whale-watching week on Cape Cod, My Girl and I hopped back in the rental car and drove to Uncasville, Connecticut. Now, besides going to the movies and watching TV, there isn't a lot to do in Uncasville, except go to this gigantic Vegas-like casino called Mohegan Sun. We drove our Toyota Corolla through some nasty Providence, Rhode Island traffic and connected to a couple of other non-descript freeways, and then all of the sudden this black glass hotel tower rises out of the ground and instantly conjures up a Vegas flashback. Upon entering the hotel lobby and taking in the Native American-themed version of the Bellagio, I suddenly remembered that I hate casinos. But, we were meeting up with two groups of family, one carload from the Cape Cod house (including my mother, grandmother, and aunt) and one from New York, and I was going to have a good time regardless of my disdain for gambling institutions. We went out to a couple of extremely good dinners and continued to celebrate my mother's birthday and spent some real quality time with my cousins and great aunt from New York, that is, when they weren't pouring money into those evil slot machines. My favorite spot in the entire place was in front of a giant acquarium in one of the casino mall stores called OdySea. They had one big shark and lots of little sharks and a bunch of sting ray. That was where I found peace amidst the chaos. In evaluating Mohegan Sun, I must say that the area that needs the most improvement is service. I spent a great deal of time on the casino floor watching the machines mesmerize My Girl and My Family, on Saturday and Sunday mind you, and I don't recall seeing even a single cocktail waitress. The chip/coin redemption stations seemed to be placed well throughout the massive casino, but whenever we went to cash out we had trouble finding the one that we needed -- be it chip or coin -- or one that was open. I was frustrated and I wasn't even gambling! The best thing that came out of the Mohegan Sun portion of the vacation was my mother's admission of her gambling addiction. As of today, she has sworn it off. Not that she gambles that often, but when she does, she has absolutely no self-control. My mother and I have a very strong connection and the only times in my life I can remember feeling alienated from her, even for a moment, occurred while she was gambling. She gets this wild look in her eyes and can't tear her attention away from those dizzying devils. I hope she stays true to her word and I hope to never see that look in her eyes again.
Following my relaxing, game-playing, whale-watching week on Cape Cod, My Girl and I hopped back in the rental car and drove to Uncasville, Connecticut. Now, besides going to the movies and watching TV, there isn't a lot to do in Uncasville, except go to this gigantic Vegas-like casino called Mohegan Sun. We drove our Toyota Corolla through some nasty Providence, Rhode Island traffic and connected to a couple of other non-descript freeways, and then all of the sudden this black glass hotel tower rises out of the ground and instantly conjures up a Vegas flashback. Upon entering the hotel lobby and taking in the Native American-themed version of the Bellagio, I suddenly remembered that I hate casinos. But, we were meeting up with two groups of family, one carload from the Cape Cod house (including my mother, grandmother, and aunt) and one from New York, and I was going to have a good time regardless of my disdain for gambling institutions. We went out to a couple of extremely good dinners and continued to celebrate my mother's birthday and spent some real quality time with my cousins and great aunt from New York, that is, when they weren't pouring money into those evil slot machines. My favorite spot in the entire place was in front of a giant acquarium in one of the casino mall stores called OdySea. They had one big shark and lots of little sharks and a bunch of sting ray. That was where I found peace amidst the chaos. In evaluating Mohegan Sun, I must say that the area that needs the most improvement is service. I spent a great deal of time on the casino floor watching the machines mesmerize My Girl and My Family, on Saturday and Sunday mind you, and I don't recall seeing even a single cocktail waitress. The chip/coin redemption stations seemed to be placed well throughout the massive casino, but whenever we went to cash out we had trouble finding the one that we needed -- be it chip or coin -- or one that was open. I was frustrated and I wasn't even gambling! The best thing that came out of the Mohegan Sun portion of the vacation was my mother's admission of her gambling addiction. As of today, she has sworn it off. Not that she gambles that often, but when she does, she has absolutely no self-control. My mother and I have a very strong connection and the only times in my life I can remember feeling alienated from her, even for a moment, occurred while she was gambling. She gets this wild look in her eyes and can't tear her attention away from those dizzying devils. I hope she stays true to her word and I hope to never see that look in her eyes again.
Tuesday, August 27, 2002
PIKER RETURNS TO LITTLE FANFARE
I am back on the tainted soil of Los Angeles and happy to be here. I think I may finally be vacationed out. Although, I'm considering taking a trip down to Mexico for the upcoming Labor Day weekend. You'd venture I would go just to squeeze one last drop out of this whirlwind summer, but I'm actually starting to think like a rational adult. I believe it's time to stay in one place and attack my personal challenges head on -- namely acquiring a vehicle, obtaining a job, receiving health benefits, consolidating my debt, reinstating my subscription to The New Yorker, going off the dole, and work my way back into a life that includes disposable income.
My recent journey East included an amazing week on Cape Cod with most of my immediate family and My Girl. We rented this great house close to Skaket Beach in Orleans, where we played tons of games -- Dominoes, Rummikub, Phase 10 -- completed and shallacked a very difficult puzzle, and spent lots of time at the beach. Skaket Beach is unique. You can only swim at high tide because at low tide, the water recedes about a mile away from the beach, creating sandbars in its wake. Even when you walk the mile out to the water, it's too shallow to swim, you can only wade in it and try to avoid stepping on crabs. We also took a day and drove to the very tip of Cape Cod in Provincetown and went on a whale watch. The boat found a young humpback whale just outside the harbor and followed it for three hours or so as it breached, or leapt out of the water, over and over again. The highlight came as the whale, clearly aware of our presence, swam up to the boat just under where we were standing on deck, rolled over onto its back, gave us a close-up view of its belly and fins, then swam under the boat and came out the other side. I was tres mellow from the dramamine, but enjoyed the touristy three-hour tour much more than I thought I would.
Travelogue to resume later, as I must go tend to my neglected LA piker social life.
I am back on the tainted soil of Los Angeles and happy to be here. I think I may finally be vacationed out. Although, I'm considering taking a trip down to Mexico for the upcoming Labor Day weekend. You'd venture I would go just to squeeze one last drop out of this whirlwind summer, but I'm actually starting to think like a rational adult. I believe it's time to stay in one place and attack my personal challenges head on -- namely acquiring a vehicle, obtaining a job, receiving health benefits, consolidating my debt, reinstating my subscription to The New Yorker, going off the dole, and work my way back into a life that includes disposable income.
My recent journey East included an amazing week on Cape Cod with most of my immediate family and My Girl. We rented this great house close to Skaket Beach in Orleans, where we played tons of games -- Dominoes, Rummikub, Phase 10 -- completed and shallacked a very difficult puzzle, and spent lots of time at the beach. Skaket Beach is unique. You can only swim at high tide because at low tide, the water recedes about a mile away from the beach, creating sandbars in its wake. Even when you walk the mile out to the water, it's too shallow to swim, you can only wade in it and try to avoid stepping on crabs. We also took a day and drove to the very tip of Cape Cod in Provincetown and went on a whale watch. The boat found a young humpback whale just outside the harbor and followed it for three hours or so as it breached, or leapt out of the water, over and over again. The highlight came as the whale, clearly aware of our presence, swam up to the boat just under where we were standing on deck, rolled over onto its back, gave us a close-up view of its belly and fins, then swam under the boat and came out the other side. I was tres mellow from the dramamine, but enjoyed the touristy three-hour tour much more than I thought I would.
Travelogue to resume later, as I must go tend to my neglected LA piker social life.
Friday, August 16, 2002
THE END OF AN ERA BUT AN ENDLESS SUMMER
Pounding my head on the desk in an attempt to gain some insight into my current dilemma is apparently not working. These are serious issues I'm confronting -- "What is the future of Piker?" "How the hell am I going to get a car without any money?" "What kind of job can I get that won't make me feel like a drone?" "How am I going to get to work if I actually manage to find a job?" "How can I realistically expect the Dolphins to make it past the first round of the playoffs with Jay Fiedler as the quarterback?"
It's too much. I'm not going to figure it out while sitting in this empty office at a quarter to six on Friday afternoon. To hell with it! I'm closing down the office and going grassroots. Before I get too deep though, I think I'm going to have to take one last summer vacation. I'm off to Cape Cod.
Birthday shout-outs to Babs and Norms!
Pounding my head on the desk in an attempt to gain some insight into my current dilemma is apparently not working. These are serious issues I'm confronting -- "What is the future of Piker?" "How the hell am I going to get a car without any money?" "What kind of job can I get that won't make me feel like a drone?" "How am I going to get to work if I actually manage to find a job?" "How can I realistically expect the Dolphins to make it past the first round of the playoffs with Jay Fiedler as the quarterback?"
It's too much. I'm not going to figure it out while sitting in this empty office at a quarter to six on Friday afternoon. To hell with it! I'm closing down the office and going grassroots. Before I get too deep though, I think I'm going to have to take one last summer vacation. I'm off to Cape Cod.
Birthday shout-outs to Babs and Norms!
Thursday, August 15, 2002
AMERICAN IDOLIZER
So both of you who’ve been reading this fledgling blog are probably asking yourselves the same questions I’m asking myself, “Hey piker, what’s next for Piker?” Obviously, Piker sits at a crossroads. With no staff and no deconstructed post-post-post-modern office space, I once again have the opportunity to seize total control. Finally, I can return to the implementation of my initial vision. It’s a blessing, really. In a sense, I fired the whole company because they were doing shoddy work and displaying a subpar attitude. Accounting – gone. Publicity – gone. Marketing – sayonara. Design – seeyalata. Now it’s just me again. The way it was meant to be.
So I revamped the look of the site and I set out to read that shortlist of blogs that you hear about most often and you see mentioned in any article written about blogging. And you know what? They’re good. These people can write. I found most of them extremely informative, if not overwhelming, mainly because I don’t read the newspaper. In fact, I don’t pay a whole lot of attention to the news in general. Call me ignorant. Color me a coward. I’ve tried for years to get into world news and politics, and now fear that I may be chronically apathetic. The local news either depresses me or creeps me out. When I do get a hold of a newspaper, I go for the Sports section first, then the Entertainment Section, then the crossword, then I’m out. But these warbloggers and others who pay attention to what’s going on in the world and have strong opinions about it may finally be the key to unlocking my political potential. The blogs I gravitate to naturally are the ones that are most original and the ones that make me laugh. My first move as head of marketing was to link to the blogs that I enjoy the most. I only hope that as a tiny one-man outfit I can be as prolific as some of the these blogs that clearly have tremendous writing staffs and large-scale operations.
So both of you who’ve been reading this fledgling blog are probably asking yourselves the same questions I’m asking myself, “Hey piker, what’s next for Piker?” Obviously, Piker sits at a crossroads. With no staff and no deconstructed post-post-post-modern office space, I once again have the opportunity to seize total control. Finally, I can return to the implementation of my initial vision. It’s a blessing, really. In a sense, I fired the whole company because they were doing shoddy work and displaying a subpar attitude. Accounting – gone. Publicity – gone. Marketing – sayonara. Design – seeyalata. Now it’s just me again. The way it was meant to be.
So I revamped the look of the site and I set out to read that shortlist of blogs that you hear about most often and you see mentioned in any article written about blogging. And you know what? They’re good. These people can write. I found most of them extremely informative, if not overwhelming, mainly because I don’t read the newspaper. In fact, I don’t pay a whole lot of attention to the news in general. Call me ignorant. Color me a coward. I’ve tried for years to get into world news and politics, and now fear that I may be chronically apathetic. The local news either depresses me or creeps me out. When I do get a hold of a newspaper, I go for the Sports section first, then the Entertainment Section, then the crossword, then I’m out. But these warbloggers and others who pay attention to what’s going on in the world and have strong opinions about it may finally be the key to unlocking my political potential. The blogs I gravitate to naturally are the ones that are most original and the ones that make me laugh. My first move as head of marketing was to link to the blogs that I enjoy the most. I only hope that as a tiny one-man outfit I can be as prolific as some of the these blogs that clearly have tremendous writing staffs and large-scale operations.
THE BOTTOM RUNG
Sometimes I suspect there’s a Practical Joke Crew on the clock, working their asses off to make sure that a plethora of obstacles prevents me from making any forward progress.
I had writer's block all day long. Late in the afternoon, I finally broke through and went to post what I had written, only to find a roadblock Blogger message: "Sorry, publishing is temporarily unavailable."
Of course, if I wasn't such a piker, I would've paid the twelve bucks to remove the ad and summarily end my association with the lowest form of bloggers.
Sometimes I suspect there’s a Practical Joke Crew on the clock, working their asses off to make sure that a plethora of obstacles prevents me from making any forward progress.
I had writer's block all day long. Late in the afternoon, I finally broke through and went to post what I had written, only to find a roadblock Blogger message: "Sorry, publishing is temporarily unavailable."
Of course, if I wasn't such a piker, I would've paid the twelve bucks to remove the ad and summarily end my association with the lowest form of bloggers.
Tuesday, August 13, 2002
I THINK I CAN, I THINK I CAN, I -- I’M REALLY NOT SURE I CAN
“And then... depression set in.” Bill Murray’s prophetic words from the comedy classic “Stripes” vividly capture my current state of mind. I sit here at my desk, which now has a giant hole burned through the center, in what used to be my office until three of the walls were unceremoniously blown out. It’s quiet. Too quiet. The phones aren’t ringing, the fax machines aren’t beeping. No longer is there a buzz in the office air. No commotion. No palpable sense that we all just might be on the ground floor of something that could be really great someday. In fact, there’s nothing left at all, save for the remnants of what must have been The Party of the New Millennium. I sit amongst the ruins, alone.
I suppose it’s back to the proverbial drawing board for me, even though I can’t draw a lick. Back to square one. Most likely that square will closely resemble a claustrophobic cubicle in some non-descript office at some lame company that I could give two shits about.
I’m sulking. Really I have no one to blame but myself. I was the one who decided to go on vacation, even when I wasn’t absolutely sure I had earned one. I knew it was a risk. But I did it anyway and I don’t regret it. I created this thing in the first place. It was my energy that fed the great Piker machine. I did it once and I can do it again. I alone am responsible for the ultimate fate of Piker.
I know it’s steep, but I’m headed back up that mountain. Climb on. I’ll take you to the top.
“And then... depression set in.” Bill Murray’s prophetic words from the comedy classic “Stripes” vividly capture my current state of mind. I sit here at my desk, which now has a giant hole burned through the center, in what used to be my office until three of the walls were unceremoniously blown out. It’s quiet. Too quiet. The phones aren’t ringing, the fax machines aren’t beeping. No longer is there a buzz in the office air. No commotion. No palpable sense that we all just might be on the ground floor of something that could be really great someday. In fact, there’s nothing left at all, save for the remnants of what must have been The Party of the New Millennium. I sit amongst the ruins, alone.
I suppose it’s back to the proverbial drawing board for me, even though I can’t draw a lick. Back to square one. Most likely that square will closely resemble a claustrophobic cubicle in some non-descript office at some lame company that I could give two shits about.
I’m sulking. Really I have no one to blame but myself. I was the one who decided to go on vacation, even when I wasn’t absolutely sure I had earned one. I knew it was a risk. But I did it anyway and I don’t regret it. I created this thing in the first place. It was my energy that fed the great Piker machine. I did it once and I can do it again. I alone am responsible for the ultimate fate of Piker.
I know it’s steep, but I’m headed back up that mountain. Climb on. I’ll take you to the top.
Thursday, August 08, 2002
WHAT THE...
Well... I suppose this is what you get for taking a summer vacation and leaving the keys to the candy store in the hands of true pikers. I just returned from five wonderful weeks on the East Coast to find the Piker headquarters in shambles. The place smells like the basement of a fraternity house. Actually, it's much worse. I just gagged and swallowed back some throw up after getting a whiff of stale beer mixed with stale vomit and what I think is either curry or cumin. God only knows how long "Copacabana" has been spinning on the record player, stuck in a warped groove, repeating "and do the cha-cha" over and over again. How the hell did they get enough sand in here to make a beach volleyball court?
Everything I built before I left is gone. Readership had climbed into the high seventies, low eighties pre-summer sojourn. Now I'm damn lucky if I get twenty visitors a day. I am depressed. I poured at least a fraction of my heart and soul into Piker and this is what I get? Couldn't someone at least have tipped me off to what was going on? Some friggin' courtesy, please! Oh great... I just stepped on the Rubik's Cube that was sitting on my desk before I took off. I almost had two sides. Could it get any worse?
I'm not going to stick around to find out. I do want to detail my travels to the Sweltering South, but I'm afraid I'm going to be sick if I sit here for any length of time longer than one minute. I want all twelve of you loyal readers to know that I will not give up on Piker. I intend to see this thing through. To finish what I started. To return Piker to it's previous glory! Ugh-oogh-brrrp... Right after I ralph.
Well... I suppose this is what you get for taking a summer vacation and leaving the keys to the candy store in the hands of true pikers. I just returned from five wonderful weeks on the East Coast to find the Piker headquarters in shambles. The place smells like the basement of a fraternity house. Actually, it's much worse. I just gagged and swallowed back some throw up after getting a whiff of stale beer mixed with stale vomit and what I think is either curry or cumin. God only knows how long "Copacabana" has been spinning on the record player, stuck in a warped groove, repeating "and do the cha-cha" over and over again. How the hell did they get enough sand in here to make a beach volleyball court?
Everything I built before I left is gone. Readership had climbed into the high seventies, low eighties pre-summer sojourn. Now I'm damn lucky if I get twenty visitors a day. I am depressed. I poured at least a fraction of my heart and soul into Piker and this is what I get? Couldn't someone at least have tipped me off to what was going on? Some friggin' courtesy, please! Oh great... I just stepped on the Rubik's Cube that was sitting on my desk before I took off. I almost had two sides. Could it get any worse?
I'm not going to stick around to find out. I do want to detail my travels to the Sweltering South, but I'm afraid I'm going to be sick if I sit here for any length of time longer than one minute. I want all twelve of you loyal readers to know that I will not give up on Piker. I intend to see this thing through. To finish what I started. To return Piker to it's previous glory! Ugh-oogh-brrrp... Right after I ralph.
Saturday, July 20, 2002
COUP D'ETAT
We haven't heard from The Boss in quite a while now. The inmates have most definitely taken over the asylum. I am crouching under my desk typing this report as the Piker offices are in a state of utter chaos. Most of the cubicles have been connected together to form a sort of net in the middle of a makeshift office volleyball court. I'm not sure, but I think the Budweiser Girls are playing the Swedish Bikini Team. Don't ask me what the score is, as I'm afraid to poke my head above the desk line. Some crappy song by The Tubes or Wang Chung is playing on a continuous loop and it's driving me mad. We think that The Boss is still somewhere in South Florida, but apparently he is stranded with no cell phone service and some sort of antiquated dial-up connection. I just got hit in the head by a frisbee with a picture of Eddie Munster on it. I want to be loyal to The Boss, but I don't how much more I can take. I'm going to make one more attempt to re-establish contact with him before -- Oh no! Something just exploded. I smell smoke. That's it, I'm out of here. I'm making a run for it. I just pray I can make it to the door...
We haven't heard from The Boss in quite a while now. The inmates have most definitely taken over the asylum. I am crouching under my desk typing this report as the Piker offices are in a state of utter chaos. Most of the cubicles have been connected together to form a sort of net in the middle of a makeshift office volleyball court. I'm not sure, but I think the Budweiser Girls are playing the Swedish Bikini Team. Don't ask me what the score is, as I'm afraid to poke my head above the desk line. Some crappy song by The Tubes or Wang Chung is playing on a continuous loop and it's driving me mad. We think that The Boss is still somewhere in South Florida, but apparently he is stranded with no cell phone service and some sort of antiquated dial-up connection. I just got hit in the head by a frisbee with a picture of Eddie Munster on it. I want to be loyal to The Boss, but I don't how much more I can take. I'm going to make one more attempt to re-establish contact with him before -- Oh no! Something just exploded. I smell smoke. That's it, I'm out of here. I'm making a run for it. I just pray I can make it to the door...
Friday, July 12, 2002
HOT ENOUGH FOR YA?
The Piker's Piker here, reporting from the field. Things move rather slowly down here in South Florida. I think it's the humidity. Here we are in the dog days of summer and it's hot everywhere, but the humidity is what makes it difficult to breathe, especially while exercising outdoors. This past weekend, in a fit of selflessness, I woke up at seven in the morning, on Sunday mind you, to drive my brother to work. My plan was to return home and go right back to sleep, but on the way home I realized it was too late, the damage had been done. I was up for the day. So I decided I'd take advantage of greeting the day about four hours before I normally do and go on a run. My temporary headquarters is about two miles from I595. Wearing my fancy brand spanking new running shoes, I set out to reach the highway. I was feeling light and springy with my now-cushioned soles and I set a torrid pace. The road was quiet, the sun was boiling, and sweat was dripping off my body as if I had just stepped out of the shower, but I managed to reached the stoplight at the entrance to the 595 and headed back. I usually don't run along a straight path, but I was on this day, and it made things very clear cut. I tried to pace myself so I could reach what I thought was the traffic light before headquarters. But, I miscalculated and started my sprint too early. I wound up at a different ligth, seven-tenths short of my goal. However, it was for the best, as I was dangerously close to enterting a state heat exhaustion. After fighting it for a few moments, I leaned over and gagged, resigned to tossing my cookies. But there were no cookies to toss. I hadn't eaten anything since I woke up, so there was nothing in my system to regurgitate. I walked on and tried to regain my composure, gagging a few times on the way, but I never threw up. Seven-tenths of a mile later, I was back at headquarters, exhausted, thirsty, and very very wet. I replenished my fluids by drinking some delicious and nutritious Orange Ice Gatorade, ate a little something, and made sure not to sit on anything. Eventually, I stopped sweating and took a shower. But, as soon as I stepped out of the shower, I starting sweating again. I think it was the humidity.
The Piker's Piker here, reporting from the field. Things move rather slowly down here in South Florida. I think it's the humidity. Here we are in the dog days of summer and it's hot everywhere, but the humidity is what makes it difficult to breathe, especially while exercising outdoors. This past weekend, in a fit of selflessness, I woke up at seven in the morning, on Sunday mind you, to drive my brother to work. My plan was to return home and go right back to sleep, but on the way home I realized it was too late, the damage had been done. I was up for the day. So I decided I'd take advantage of greeting the day about four hours before I normally do and go on a run. My temporary headquarters is about two miles from I595. Wearing my fancy brand spanking new running shoes, I set out to reach the highway. I was feeling light and springy with my now-cushioned soles and I set a torrid pace. The road was quiet, the sun was boiling, and sweat was dripping off my body as if I had just stepped out of the shower, but I managed to reached the stoplight at the entrance to the 595 and headed back. I usually don't run along a straight path, but I was on this day, and it made things very clear cut. I tried to pace myself so I could reach what I thought was the traffic light before headquarters. But, I miscalculated and started my sprint too early. I wound up at a different ligth, seven-tenths short of my goal. However, it was for the best, as I was dangerously close to enterting a state heat exhaustion. After fighting it for a few moments, I leaned over and gagged, resigned to tossing my cookies. But there were no cookies to toss. I hadn't eaten anything since I woke up, so there was nothing in my system to regurgitate. I walked on and tried to regain my composure, gagging a few times on the way, but I never threw up. Seven-tenths of a mile later, I was back at headquarters, exhausted, thirsty, and very very wet. I replenished my fluids by drinking some delicious and nutritious Orange Ice Gatorade, ate a little something, and made sure not to sit on anything. Eventually, I stopped sweating and took a shower. But, as soon as I stepped out of the shower, I starting sweating again. I think it was the humidity.
Saturday, July 06, 2002
SUMMER HOLIDAY
Ever since The Boss left town on summer holiday, the staff of pikers here at Piker has been scrambling to prepare the next installment of Piker. Information has been extremely difficult to come by, as The Boss has cut off his normal lines of communication with the outside world. From what we could gather, The Boss is visiting family and relaxing somewhere in South Florida. One of our resourceful staff writers, using The Weather Channel website, has learned that the weather down there is an extreme mix of sunshine and thunderstorms, which appears to be par for the course. According to one source, The Boss was spotted at The Oasis section of the Sawgrass Mills mall, taking in a matinee with his father, his father's girlfriend, and My Girl! When reached for comment, The Boss replied that Men in Black II contained some solid laughs but didn't add up to much. To celebrate the 4th of July, The Boss' mother hosted evening festivites at her new home. The Boss shared in the cooking duties on a scrumptious meal of salad, salmon, and scallops, topped off with good old fashioned apple pie a la mode. Strangely, upon tasting the scallops without sauce, The Boss' maternal grandmother requested leftover pizza. After dinner and several intense games of Rummy-Q, the family ventured out of the development and enjoyed a brilliant display of fireworks emanating from the park across the street. Other than that, The Boss has reportedly been dining out frequently, most notably at La Spada's Sub Shop and a hibachi meal at the Japan Inn. The Boss also acquired some much-needed running shoes at a local specialty store and tested them out on a relatively short job around the neighborhood. The Boss plans to do some bookstore browsing in the coming days, as he just completed the Alan Glynn book "The Dark Fields." The Boss raves about the work of fiction centering on a mysterious smart drug called MDT-48 and said it was a must-read for any self-respecting Gen Xer. By all accounts, The Boss' family has welcomed My Girl with open arms and the power couple has apparently been spending a great deal of time with The Boss' eccentric and entertaining brother. The Boss did sound concerned, however, that his mother has passed on her addiction to several computer games to My Girl.
Ever since The Boss left town on summer holiday, the staff of pikers here at Piker has been scrambling to prepare the next installment of Piker. Information has been extremely difficult to come by, as The Boss has cut off his normal lines of communication with the outside world. From what we could gather, The Boss is visiting family and relaxing somewhere in South Florida. One of our resourceful staff writers, using The Weather Channel website, has learned that the weather down there is an extreme mix of sunshine and thunderstorms, which appears to be par for the course. According to one source, The Boss was spotted at The Oasis section of the Sawgrass Mills mall, taking in a matinee with his father, his father's girlfriend, and My Girl! When reached for comment, The Boss replied that Men in Black II contained some solid laughs but didn't add up to much. To celebrate the 4th of July, The Boss' mother hosted evening festivites at her new home. The Boss shared in the cooking duties on a scrumptious meal of salad, salmon, and scallops, topped off with good old fashioned apple pie a la mode. Strangely, upon tasting the scallops without sauce, The Boss' maternal grandmother requested leftover pizza. After dinner and several intense games of Rummy-Q, the family ventured out of the development and enjoyed a brilliant display of fireworks emanating from the park across the street. Other than that, The Boss has reportedly been dining out frequently, most notably at La Spada's Sub Shop and a hibachi meal at the Japan Inn. The Boss also acquired some much-needed running shoes at a local specialty store and tested them out on a relatively short job around the neighborhood. The Boss plans to do some bookstore browsing in the coming days, as he just completed the Alan Glynn book "The Dark Fields." The Boss raves about the work of fiction centering on a mysterious smart drug called MDT-48 and said it was a must-read for any self-respecting Gen Xer. By all accounts, The Boss' family has welcomed My Girl with open arms and the power couple has apparently been spending a great deal of time with The Boss' eccentric and entertaining brother. The Boss did sound concerned, however, that his mother has passed on her addiction to several computer games to My Girl.
Monday, July 01, 2002
THE GOOD, THE BAD, THE YOUNG AND THE RESTLESS
First the good. They very very very good. I saw “Space Station” last night at the IMAX in 3-D. If the movie was just a short film, composed only of the opening credits, I’d still recommend it strongly. But it was so much more than that. For forty-five blissful minutes, “Space Station” takes you behind the scenes at NASA, places you next to the launch pad for takeoff, rockets you up into space, shows you how the International Space Station is built module by module, and then lets you hang out at while the astronauts live there… in space. And let me tell you, these astronauts are impressive individuals with tremendous coordination, composure, and skill. Unfortunately, watching them operating to their fullest potential and risking their lives every day left me with the distinct feeling that I’m not doing anything worthwhile with my life. Viewing the movie projected in three-dimensions on the immense IMAX screen was enough of a challenge for me. Many times, I had to crane my neck to take in the infinite detail of the film. Whether it was scanning up and down the length of the space station or pivoting side to side to look down on the surface of the Earth, the giant movie forced me to stay alert and continue to interact with it. I heard one astronaut who saw the movie said “Space Station” comes the closest to simulating what it actually feels like to be in space. Now, I can’t vouch for that because I haven’t actually been to space yet, but I can say that the movie is extremely visceral and it feels like you’re up there with these amazing astronauts, looking down on our beautiful blue planet. For anybody who has ever dreamed of becoming an astronaut when they grow up, this is the movie for you.
Now for the bad. The very very very bad. “American Idol” may be the worst show I’ve ever seen on television. Every moment is excruciating and it gets worse and worse as it goes along. It's so FOX. It all starts with the co-hosts – Ryan Seacrest and Brian Dunkleman. There’s a palpable irony present while watching this show – two talentless individuals hosting a talent contest. They pander to the audience, the contestants, the judges, and anybody else unlucky enough to be associated with this dreadful show. They’re slow-witted, unfunny, and entirely unaware of how bad they really are. The contestants are all super skinny and remind of those people you see on Melrose Avenue who seem like they never leave the ultra-hip strip. The production design appears to be influenced by horrid 80s office spaces, the product placement by Coca-Cola and Ford Focus is obnoxiously obvious, and Paula Abdul doesn't belong on TV. The best portions of these shows, now that they’ve reached “The Finals,” is the “reaching into the vault” segment. This is where we get to see what we’re really tuning in to see, which is the world’s worst performers embarrassing themselves on national television. If only this was the premise of the show… The only redeeming quality of the show is Simon Cowell, one of the judges. He’s British and mean and doesn’t pull a single punch in telling these wannabees what he thinks of them. He is the only element of the show that is genuinely entertaining. The rest of it is a train wreck and I can’t look away.
As for the young and restless… I’m leaving on a jet plane this evening. Taking the red eye to my hometown of Fort Lauderdale, Florida. And My Girl’s coming with me. She’ll be meeting the folks and My Brotha for the first time and I’m sure everyone will get along swimmingly. I’ll be spending an additional couple of weeks in SoFla before venturing up to NC to celebrate a very special event in My Girl’s family. I can’t reveal specifics because My Girl will have me tarred and feathered. At least, that’s what I think the standard punishment is in that part of the country. I’m leaving my zone of safety and I’m not going to lie, posting to this blog consistently will be a tall order. But, by golly, I’ll find a way to keep this thing going by hook or by crook. At least, that’s how I think they get online in those parts.
First the good. They very very very good. I saw “Space Station” last night at the IMAX in 3-D. If the movie was just a short film, composed only of the opening credits, I’d still recommend it strongly. But it was so much more than that. For forty-five blissful minutes, “Space Station” takes you behind the scenes at NASA, places you next to the launch pad for takeoff, rockets you up into space, shows you how the International Space Station is built module by module, and then lets you hang out at while the astronauts live there… in space. And let me tell you, these astronauts are impressive individuals with tremendous coordination, composure, and skill. Unfortunately, watching them operating to their fullest potential and risking their lives every day left me with the distinct feeling that I’m not doing anything worthwhile with my life. Viewing the movie projected in three-dimensions on the immense IMAX screen was enough of a challenge for me. Many times, I had to crane my neck to take in the infinite detail of the film. Whether it was scanning up and down the length of the space station or pivoting side to side to look down on the surface of the Earth, the giant movie forced me to stay alert and continue to interact with it. I heard one astronaut who saw the movie said “Space Station” comes the closest to simulating what it actually feels like to be in space. Now, I can’t vouch for that because I haven’t actually been to space yet, but I can say that the movie is extremely visceral and it feels like you’re up there with these amazing astronauts, looking down on our beautiful blue planet. For anybody who has ever dreamed of becoming an astronaut when they grow up, this is the movie for you.
Now for the bad. The very very very bad. “American Idol” may be the worst show I’ve ever seen on television. Every moment is excruciating and it gets worse and worse as it goes along. It's so FOX. It all starts with the co-hosts – Ryan Seacrest and Brian Dunkleman. There’s a palpable irony present while watching this show – two talentless individuals hosting a talent contest. They pander to the audience, the contestants, the judges, and anybody else unlucky enough to be associated with this dreadful show. They’re slow-witted, unfunny, and entirely unaware of how bad they really are. The contestants are all super skinny and remind of those people you see on Melrose Avenue who seem like they never leave the ultra-hip strip. The production design appears to be influenced by horrid 80s office spaces, the product placement by Coca-Cola and Ford Focus is obnoxiously obvious, and Paula Abdul doesn't belong on TV. The best portions of these shows, now that they’ve reached “The Finals,” is the “reaching into the vault” segment. This is where we get to see what we’re really tuning in to see, which is the world’s worst performers embarrassing themselves on national television. If only this was the premise of the show… The only redeeming quality of the show is Simon Cowell, one of the judges. He’s British and mean and doesn’t pull a single punch in telling these wannabees what he thinks of them. He is the only element of the show that is genuinely entertaining. The rest of it is a train wreck and I can’t look away.
As for the young and restless… I’m leaving on a jet plane this evening. Taking the red eye to my hometown of Fort Lauderdale, Florida. And My Girl’s coming with me. She’ll be meeting the folks and My Brotha for the first time and I’m sure everyone will get along swimmingly. I’ll be spending an additional couple of weeks in SoFla before venturing up to NC to celebrate a very special event in My Girl’s family. I can’t reveal specifics because My Girl will have me tarred and feathered. At least, that’s what I think the standard punishment is in that part of the country. I’m leaving my zone of safety and I’m not going to lie, posting to this blog consistently will be a tall order. But, by golly, I’ll find a way to keep this thing going by hook or by crook. At least, that’s how I think they get online in those parts.
Wednesday, June 26, 2002
FIVE, er, TEN GREASY PIECES
1. Roscoe's
2. Zankou
3. Versailles
4. Reel Inn
5. Bay Cities
6. Phillipe's The Original
7. Yang Chow
8. Hot Wings
9. Fatburger
10. Poquito Mas
This is the previously promised list of my favorite non-fancy LA restaurants. I encourage all Los Angelenos who disagree with my choices or dispute the order they're in to show me the error of my ways. I'm always willing to try new places, and if I think you're right, I'll revise the list accordingly. If anybody else anywhere in the world wants to send me their city's ten greasy pieces list, I'll read it, but I can't get too excited 'cause I don't live there.
Bon appetit.
1. Roscoe's
2. Zankou
3. Versailles
4. Reel Inn
5. Bay Cities
6. Phillipe's The Original
7. Yang Chow
8. Hot Wings
9. Fatburger
10. Poquito Mas
This is the previously promised list of my favorite non-fancy LA restaurants. I encourage all Los Angelenos who disagree with my choices or dispute the order they're in to show me the error of my ways. I'm always willing to try new places, and if I think you're right, I'll revise the list accordingly. If anybody else anywhere in the world wants to send me their city's ten greasy pieces list, I'll read it, but I can't get too excited 'cause I don't live there.
Bon appetit.
Tuesday, June 25, 2002
SCATTERSHOT
It's five in the morning. What am I doing up watching soccer? The United States is out of the tournament, I don't particularly care for either of these teams, and I'm exhausted. I am also addicted. I can't get enough World Cup. There are a total of four games left, one of them being a consolation game for third place, and I don't want to miss any of them. Besides, it'll be another four years until I have to set the alarm to wake up in the middle of the night so as not to miss a match. Incidentally, it's halftime, with the Germans and South Koreans locked in a scoreless tie.
I don't have much in the way of consistent thoughts right now. I have that unsettled feeling in my stomach that I always associate with waking up at five in the morning to get ready for school trips to DisneyWorld. It's as if your stomach is speaking for your whole body when it says, "What the hell are we doing up?" My head is cloudy in that "neither here nor there" kind of way. I'm not sleeping, but I'm not really up. Sometimes, in this condition, you can slip into a state of heightened clarity and inspiration. Now is not one of those times. To quote REM, "My mind is racing, as it always will. My hand is tired, my heart aches. I'm half a world away." However, that's no excuse, so I'm going to attempt to scatter my thoughts on the page as they are in my mind.
I saw "Minority Report" on opening day, which was Friday, the first day of summer, my birthday. Before I get into the actual film, I must urge all those who have not seen a movie at the Cinerama Dome to do so immediately. This was the third blockbuster ("Lord of the Rings" and "Spiderman") I've seen at the newly-revamped Dome, now part of the Arclight theater complex, which now boasts 14 additional theaters, a lobby that resembles a futuristic airport and includes a gift shop and cafe, and the best concession stand in movie theater history. I am now convinced you have to see big movies there. The theater requires an event film to best utilize its tremendous accoutrements. "Minority Report" is an ideal movie to see at the Dome, a visual feast that makes use of every inch of the massive curved screen and takes advantage of the phenomenal sound system to showcase its superior sound design. "Minority Report" can be described as a futuristic Hitchcockian version of "The Fugitive", and a worthy cousin of "Blade Runner." If you are anywhere near Los Angeles, I highly recommend paying a visit to The Dome, grabbing a gourmet sausage, some caramel popcorn, and a mango smoothie from the snack bar, and taking in the gripping sensation that is "Minority Report."
Germany just scored a goal to take a one-nil lead on South Korea. Michael Ballack, the goal-scorer in the game against the United States, sent home a rebound off the Korean keeper, just moments after he picked up his second yellow card of the knockout round. If Germany advances to the Final, Ballack will not be able to play.
My Girl and I went downtown twice this weekend for some eats. It was her first time dining at Phillipe's The Original, and she was not disappointed by the scrumptious meal of beef dip sandwiches, a bowl of chili, a side of cole slaw, and a towering slice of apple pie for dessert. It was also her first time experiencing the deliciousness that is Yang Chow in Chinatown. The two great meals have compelled me to compile a list of my favorite LA restaurants that don't cost you an arm, a leg, and your dignity. However, I need more data before I publish the list. Check back for details.
The semifinal game just ended, and so did the dream run of co-host South Korea. Germany wins 1-0 and moves on to the Final. South Korea will play in the consolation game in Korea this weekend. I am numb... Not because I am stunned at the result of the game, but due to extreme exhaustion. I'm going back to bed.
It's five in the morning. What am I doing up watching soccer? The United States is out of the tournament, I don't particularly care for either of these teams, and I'm exhausted. I am also addicted. I can't get enough World Cup. There are a total of four games left, one of them being a consolation game for third place, and I don't want to miss any of them. Besides, it'll be another four years until I have to set the alarm to wake up in the middle of the night so as not to miss a match. Incidentally, it's halftime, with the Germans and South Koreans locked in a scoreless tie.
I don't have much in the way of consistent thoughts right now. I have that unsettled feeling in my stomach that I always associate with waking up at five in the morning to get ready for school trips to DisneyWorld. It's as if your stomach is speaking for your whole body when it says, "What the hell are we doing up?" My head is cloudy in that "neither here nor there" kind of way. I'm not sleeping, but I'm not really up. Sometimes, in this condition, you can slip into a state of heightened clarity and inspiration. Now is not one of those times. To quote REM, "My mind is racing, as it always will. My hand is tired, my heart aches. I'm half a world away." However, that's no excuse, so I'm going to attempt to scatter my thoughts on the page as they are in my mind.
I saw "Minority Report" on opening day, which was Friday, the first day of summer, my birthday. Before I get into the actual film, I must urge all those who have not seen a movie at the Cinerama Dome to do so immediately. This was the third blockbuster ("Lord of the Rings" and "Spiderman") I've seen at the newly-revamped Dome, now part of the Arclight theater complex, which now boasts 14 additional theaters, a lobby that resembles a futuristic airport and includes a gift shop and cafe, and the best concession stand in movie theater history. I am now convinced you have to see big movies there. The theater requires an event film to best utilize its tremendous accoutrements. "Minority Report" is an ideal movie to see at the Dome, a visual feast that makes use of every inch of the massive curved screen and takes advantage of the phenomenal sound system to showcase its superior sound design. "Minority Report" can be described as a futuristic Hitchcockian version of "The Fugitive", and a worthy cousin of "Blade Runner." If you are anywhere near Los Angeles, I highly recommend paying a visit to The Dome, grabbing a gourmet sausage, some caramel popcorn, and a mango smoothie from the snack bar, and taking in the gripping sensation that is "Minority Report."
Germany just scored a goal to take a one-nil lead on South Korea. Michael Ballack, the goal-scorer in the game against the United States, sent home a rebound off the Korean keeper, just moments after he picked up his second yellow card of the knockout round. If Germany advances to the Final, Ballack will not be able to play.
My Girl and I went downtown twice this weekend for some eats. It was her first time dining at Phillipe's The Original, and she was not disappointed by the scrumptious meal of beef dip sandwiches, a bowl of chili, a side of cole slaw, and a towering slice of apple pie for dessert. It was also her first time experiencing the deliciousness that is Yang Chow in Chinatown. The two great meals have compelled me to compile a list of my favorite LA restaurants that don't cost you an arm, a leg, and your dignity. However, I need more data before I publish the list. Check back for details.
The semifinal game just ended, and so did the dream run of co-host South Korea. Germany wins 1-0 and moves on to the Final. South Korea will play in the consolation game in Korea this weekend. I am numb... Not because I am stunned at the result of the game, but due to extreme exhaustion. I'm going back to bed.
Friday, June 21, 2002
BIRTH DAY
Today is the summer solstice. The sun shines longer today than any other day of the year. Today is also my birthday.
I have already completed the first activity of the day, which entailed waking up at 4:30am PST to watch the United States battle Germany in the World Cup quarterfinal. My Girl, being the little trooper she is, woke up and watched with me. Truthfully, the alarm didn't go off and I sprung awake of my own volition at 4:45, thereby missing the first fifteen minutes of the game. Luckily, they were scoreless minutes. The first half was exciting, yet frustrating, as the United States played valiantly, controlling the ball and creating a handful of legitimate scoring chances while standing up to the bigger German team. Brian McBride embodied the underdog American spirit all tournament long, and did so again in this game, winning balls in the air from taller players and exhausting himself in the process. Oliver Kahn, the German goalkeeper, was sensational, making one great save after another and keeping his team in the game. After the Americans were whistled for yet another foul in their own end, Germany put together a terrific set piece to net a header from close range and take a 1-0 lead. A lead they would never relinquish. The second half was more of the same, with the Americans winning the time of possession battle, but failing to beat the keeper. Again, there were plenty of chances -- Landon Donovan earning a bunch of corner kicks with his blazing speed,Greg Berhalter volleying a ball that nearly crossed the line before hitting a German defender's hand which was in the goal, and finally, nearing the end of the match Tony Sanneh heading the ball just wide into the side of the net, -- but an equalizer could not be found.
Although the United States didn't earn a victory in this hard-fought game in the Round of 8, they gained the respect of the soccer world. They played their hearts out, outplaying the Germans in the process. I'll never forget the victories over Portugal and Mexico, or even the draw with South Korea, and I'm confident that their performance in this tournament will lay the groundwork for future World Cup success. I am firmly on the bandwagon and I feel no shame in saying so. I could not be more proud of the effort the U.S. Team put forth in Korea. They displayed true soccer skill and acted as worthy ambassadors of America. Despite the disappointing loss to the favored Germans, their outstanding World Cup run is to be celebrated. The United States has finally landed on the map of the most popular sport in the world. A new soccer power has been born.
Today is the summer solstice. The sun shines longer today than any other day of the year. Today is also my birthday.
I have already completed the first activity of the day, which entailed waking up at 4:30am PST to watch the United States battle Germany in the World Cup quarterfinal. My Girl, being the little trooper she is, woke up and watched with me. Truthfully, the alarm didn't go off and I sprung awake of my own volition at 4:45, thereby missing the first fifteen minutes of the game. Luckily, they were scoreless minutes. The first half was exciting, yet frustrating, as the United States played valiantly, controlling the ball and creating a handful of legitimate scoring chances while standing up to the bigger German team. Brian McBride embodied the underdog American spirit all tournament long, and did so again in this game, winning balls in the air from taller players and exhausting himself in the process. Oliver Kahn, the German goalkeeper, was sensational, making one great save after another and keeping his team in the game. After the Americans were whistled for yet another foul in their own end, Germany put together a terrific set piece to net a header from close range and take a 1-0 lead. A lead they would never relinquish. The second half was more of the same, with the Americans winning the time of possession battle, but failing to beat the keeper. Again, there were plenty of chances -- Landon Donovan earning a bunch of corner kicks with his blazing speed,Greg Berhalter volleying a ball that nearly crossed the line before hitting a German defender's hand which was in the goal, and finally, nearing the end of the match Tony Sanneh heading the ball just wide into the side of the net, -- but an equalizer could not be found.
Although the United States didn't earn a victory in this hard-fought game in the Round of 8, they gained the respect of the soccer world. They played their hearts out, outplaying the Germans in the process. I'll never forget the victories over Portugal and Mexico, or even the draw with South Korea, and I'm confident that their performance in this tournament will lay the groundwork for future World Cup success. I am firmly on the bandwagon and I feel no shame in saying so. I could not be more proud of the effort the U.S. Team put forth in Korea. They displayed true soccer skill and acted as worthy ambassadors of America. Despite the disappointing loss to the favored Germans, their outstanding World Cup run is to be celebrated. The United States has finally landed on the map of the most popular sport in the world. A new soccer power has been born.
Thursday, June 20, 2002
BASEBALL BONDS
I weep like a lost child every time I watch the scene from “Field of Dreams” with Kevin Costner playing catch with his deceased father. This may read incredibly cliché, but baseball has forged the single strongest bond between my father and I. At age 5, he taught me how to read the box scores in the sports section of the Ft. Lauderdale Sun-Sentinel. I remember anxiously going outside to get the paper on those mornings when my Dad didn’t do it, aching to find out what my favorite players had done the night before. The day couldn’t properly start without reading the sports while I ate breakfast.
I attended my first Yankee game in 1977, the first of two consecutive championship seasons. At that age, there did not exist a more awe-inspiring structure than Yankee Stadium; the history of the building, the dominance of the ’77 team, and the electricity of the New York crowd… I was The Golden Child. I remember getting very upset that the crowd was booing Lou Pinella, but my mother and grandmother explained they weren’t booing, they were yelling “Lou… Lou…” And of course the Yankees won. I still lived in New York for the first half of my kindergarten year, and in my individual picture, although I’m looking a little femme, I’m wearing the classic navy blue Yankee hat.
My father was an assistant coach of mine during several little league seasons. Back then, I don’t think he had the free time or the energy to devote to the head coaching position, but I know he wanted it. He took great interest in my development as a ball player, helping me constantly, but not pushing me too hard. The results were mixed, as I eventually had the talent to make a very competitive high school team, but ultimately wasn’t good enough to start at my position. My father made a career change that seemed to coincide with me moving out of little league and into high school. From then on, he was the head coach of every single one of my brother’s teams. And he took it very seriously. He was the type of father who would substitute my brother if wasn’t one of the best players on the team. Other fathers didn’t do that. He would yell at his kids to motivate them, but he could also take them aside and talk to them individually in soft tones if necessary. He was well-prepared for tryouts and the draft, even trying to select players he liked over and over again. He argued with umpires, he threw his hat, and he gave inspired pep talks in the dugout between innings, all clear-cut evidence of how much he cared. At the end of one season, during the team party, the parents of the kids presented my Dad with a scroll full of sayings he had quoted or coined over the course of the season, called “Ira’s Idioms.” Some of the more memorable ones included “Always use two hands,” “You gotta think out there,” “Hustle in, hustle out,” and “When you stink, you stink, but tonight you were great.” The man loved coaching so much, he was the head coach of our family friend Michael’s team after my brother stopped playing. And he was so devoted to the PAL (Plantation Athletic League) he became Commissioner of divisions he wasn’t coaching in. That’s how much he loves baseball.
My father’s association with PAL ended with him not getting the recognition he deserved for his commitment to the organization. He lost a close race for Commissioner of the entire league, to a guy who campaigned for the job a great deal more than my Dad did. Since that time, my father has been playing Rotisserie Baseball with the same group of guys for thirteen or fourteen years. The league has been its share of personnel changes, but the core group remains. And you can just imagine, my father takes his fantasy baseball pretty seriously. He watches as many games as he can, he makes certain not to miss Baseball Tonight, and he roots for the players on his team even if they are facing the Yankees. It’s a way for him to stay connected to the game and it’s one of the few social things he does with a group. I’ve had to make a conscious decision in my early adult life to attempt to watch less sports. Therefore, I have not participated in a fantasy baseball league for over ten years. But this year, I decided to get back into the game. I co-own a team with one of my lifelong friends -- we’ll call him Yoz – who has been in this particular league for a bunch of years. In the past, he has co-owned a team with a third lifelong friend -- let’s call him Laz -- and he has owned teams on his own, always competing against my father. And now I’m competing against my father too. In fact, my father just emailed me the other day, proposing a trade. We talk baseball more now than in previous years and it seems like old times. A recent anecdote from my personal journal illustrates my point:
I weep like a lost child every time I watch the scene from “Field of Dreams” with Kevin Costner playing catch with his deceased father. This may read incredibly cliché, but baseball has forged the single strongest bond between my father and I. At age 5, he taught me how to read the box scores in the sports section of the Ft. Lauderdale Sun-Sentinel. I remember anxiously going outside to get the paper on those mornings when my Dad didn’t do it, aching to find out what my favorite players had done the night before. The day couldn’t properly start without reading the sports while I ate breakfast.
I attended my first Yankee game in 1977, the first of two consecutive championship seasons. At that age, there did not exist a more awe-inspiring structure than Yankee Stadium; the history of the building, the dominance of the ’77 team, and the electricity of the New York crowd… I was The Golden Child. I remember getting very upset that the crowd was booing Lou Pinella, but my mother and grandmother explained they weren’t booing, they were yelling “Lou… Lou…” And of course the Yankees won. I still lived in New York for the first half of my kindergarten year, and in my individual picture, although I’m looking a little femme, I’m wearing the classic navy blue Yankee hat.
My father was an assistant coach of mine during several little league seasons. Back then, I don’t think he had the free time or the energy to devote to the head coaching position, but I know he wanted it. He took great interest in my development as a ball player, helping me constantly, but not pushing me too hard. The results were mixed, as I eventually had the talent to make a very competitive high school team, but ultimately wasn’t good enough to start at my position. My father made a career change that seemed to coincide with me moving out of little league and into high school. From then on, he was the head coach of every single one of my brother’s teams. And he took it very seriously. He was the type of father who would substitute my brother if wasn’t one of the best players on the team. Other fathers didn’t do that. He would yell at his kids to motivate them, but he could also take them aside and talk to them individually in soft tones if necessary. He was well-prepared for tryouts and the draft, even trying to select players he liked over and over again. He argued with umpires, he threw his hat, and he gave inspired pep talks in the dugout between innings, all clear-cut evidence of how much he cared. At the end of one season, during the team party, the parents of the kids presented my Dad with a scroll full of sayings he had quoted or coined over the course of the season, called “Ira’s Idioms.” Some of the more memorable ones included “Always use two hands,” “You gotta think out there,” “Hustle in, hustle out,” and “When you stink, you stink, but tonight you were great.” The man loved coaching so much, he was the head coach of our family friend Michael’s team after my brother stopped playing. And he was so devoted to the PAL (Plantation Athletic League) he became Commissioner of divisions he wasn’t coaching in. That’s how much he loves baseball.
My father’s association with PAL ended with him not getting the recognition he deserved for his commitment to the organization. He lost a close race for Commissioner of the entire league, to a guy who campaigned for the job a great deal more than my Dad did. Since that time, my father has been playing Rotisserie Baseball with the same group of guys for thirteen or fourteen years. The league has been its share of personnel changes, but the core group remains. And you can just imagine, my father takes his fantasy baseball pretty seriously. He watches as many games as he can, he makes certain not to miss Baseball Tonight, and he roots for the players on his team even if they are facing the Yankees. It’s a way for him to stay connected to the game and it’s one of the few social things he does with a group. I’ve had to make a conscious decision in my early adult life to attempt to watch less sports. Therefore, I have not participated in a fantasy baseball league for over ten years. But this year, I decided to get back into the game. I co-own a team with one of my lifelong friends -- we’ll call him Yoz – who has been in this particular league for a bunch of years. In the past, he has co-owned a team with a third lifelong friend -- let’s call him Laz -- and he has owned teams on his own, always competing against my father. And now I’m competing against my father too. In fact, my father just emailed me the other day, proposing a trade. We talk baseball more now than in previous years and it seems like old times. A recent anecdote from my personal journal illustrates my point:
Today's running storyline featured a fantasy baseball league controversy. Last night, Laz was in town on business and called Yoz from my apartment after realizing that our two teams were the only ones who didn't get to participate in the first round of voluntary moves. In all honesty, I have been wrapped up in My Girl and My Writing lately and haven't been paying that much attention to baseball. However, the key issue centered on whether or not everyone in the league had been notified that the voluntary move period was beginning. The Commissioner of the league should have sent out an email newsletter to at least one member of each team thereby ensuring there would be no miscommunication. But, The Commissioner assumed that everyone would read the newsletter on the website that tracks our statistics. I haven't visited the website in weeks, Yoz missed it, and Laz missed it. Laz’s Dad, a league member who doesn't even use a computer, failed to notice the newsletter on the stat sheets he receives via fax. So, the first round of moves went by with Laz’s team and our team as the only ones not to make any moves. Laz and I seemed to have similar reactions, both feeling slighted and agreeing that what transpired was certainly not fair, but neither one of us was truly angry. Yoz and Laz’s Dad reacted more violently. Laz’s Dad apparently called The Commissioner this morning and let him have it in no uncertain terms. As I don't have a transcript of the conversation, I can't be sure exactly what was said, but I know Laz’s Dad was livid. This inspired The Commissioner to call my cell phone at 8:30 am this morning Pacific time. Barely awake, I'm listening to The Commissioner, already in the middle of his East Coast day, prattle on about the controversy and quote previous phone conversations with me, when suddenly I achieved clarity… I don't really care that much about fantasy baseball. But I heard The Commissioner out and got my two cents in and figured I'd email Yoz about it and see what he was planning to do. Later on in the day, before I talked to Yoz, my father calls to see if I've read Yoz's email to The Commissioner. I hadn't checked my email yet, so I had La Ira Bonita read it to me. In the letter, Yoz made some valid arguments citing the miscommunication, but ended it by taking an unfair stab at The Commissioner, implying that The Commissioner may have done this on purpose. My father commented that he didn't think that was a very nice thing to say and I agreed. We talked about the issue for awhile and then caught up on other things and then right before we hung up, unsolicited, my father said "I Love You." I said it back and he told me to give my best to My Girl and we hung up. A shocking breakthrough. Many times, we'll talk on the phone and I'll say "I Love You" and he'll just say goodbye, even though I know that he loves me back. I don't even really need him to say it. But this was initiated by him. Baseball has always been our bond and once again baseball brought us closer together. It's insane to think this fantasy baseball league controversy was a trigger for my father and I to further our relationship, but it was. That's the single greatest thing that could possibly have come out of playing this game.
Tuesday, June 18, 2002
A TOUCH OF CLASS
There is nothing better in this world than love. But the one thing that might be able to challenge it is… free stuff. Mind you, not all free stuff will be up to the daunting task of competing against mighty love. But free stuff that you actually want is currently the number one contender to Cupid’s title.
Last night, My Girl and I were flying back to Los Angeles from a short vacation in lovely Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania. We returned the rental car and arrived at the airport several hours early, so as not to unnerve My Girl by cutting too close, as I am prone to do. As we were walking to the gate, she casually threw out a pointed question: “So, what's our threshold for getting bumped?” My first instinct was $400 worth of travel and My Girl seemed to think that was reasonable. So I approached the counter and asked if they were overbooked, found out they were, and immediately put our names on the volunteer list. They said there were a few people on the list ahead of us and they may not need us, so I didn’t get my hopes up too high. But, they did tell us not to board with the other passengers, so My Girl and I sat in the terminal and speculated on what our travel booty might be if we indeed got bumped from our flight. After everyone had boarded the plane, we felt it was time to ask the attendants at the counter what our status was. The attendent at the counter said they were definitely enlisting our help as volunteers and using our seats. Hooray! Naturally, our next question was: “How much is the voucher good for?” Much to our surprise, we were generously presented with travel vouchers good for one round-trip ticket anywhere U.S. Airways flies in the continental United States and Canada. No dollar amount specified. Plus, we were put on a nonstop flight leaving about three hours later. Unfortunately, they were close to being overbooked for the next flight and didn’t have any seats left in coach, so they had to put us in First Class. Hooray again! And finally, they gave us vouchers for up to $30 worth of food anywhere at the many airport dining establishments. While they were doing the paperwork, one of the attendants went to retrieve yet another passenger who had volunteered. When the young black woman got to the counter and was told that she was being bumped, she said, with attitude: “Oh yeah? And what are you going to give me for it?"” After hearing the words “free flight anywhere in the U.S. or Canada,” she quickly changed her tune and cheerily queried: “Really?!”
Luckily, Pittsburgh Airport contains a mall that proudly declares that the prices are regular mall prices, not airport mall prices. There's Victoria’s Secret, Bath and Body Works, Sunglass Hut, and of course, The Gap. My Girl and I browsed the shops, then spent a very long while in a store that sold nothing but baseball caps, trying on hats before finally buying a few. Then we settled in at T.G.I. Friday’s to relax and allow U.S. Airways to buy us dinner. We started with some Fried Mozzarella, I ate some Chicken Fingers, she had some crappy soup and beer, and by the time we looked at the clock, we had killed a couple of hours. We left the restaurant and headed to our new gate to see if we could turn the trick one more time. At the counter, we asked if they were overbooked, which they were, and volunteered once again. This time, they said they had a list of names and would find us if they needed us. In the meantime, we had ten more voucher dollars to spend. Completely full, I still could not stand to see the potential for free stuff go to waste, so I steered us in the direction of Ben & Jerry’s. My Girl was so full she wasn’t going to order anything, which led me to suggest that we buy ice cream for some other people. As I salivated over which flavor to get, My Girl looked next door and noticed the candy store. Within seconds, I had ditched the ice cream idea and we were scooper-deep in candy bins. Ten dollars worth of candy is a lot. We repeatedly went to the front counter to weigh our Hefty-bag-sized haul until we hit the magic number. Armed with more free stuff, we rushed back to the gate to find that just about everyone had boarded. We asked the ticket-taker if they still needed volunteers, but she got distracted in the middle of her response and mindlessly handed us back our stubs.
We made our way down the jetway and into our luxurious seats in the first row of First Class. There we were treated like very important people with boatloads of money for the length of our five hour flight home. I saw the young black woman from earlier one row over and across from us. She offered to let us watch Buffy The Vampire Slayer DVD’s on her laptop, but then realized her battery was dead. My Girl noticed that she had about five or six Kahlua and Creams and then passed out. Apparently, she liked First Class as much as we did. My Girl and I enjoyed a few ice cold Heinekens served in real glasses and shared a dish of cold shrimp with pasta even though neither one of us was anywhere near hungry. We watched some of the Academy Award-winning “A Beautiful Mind” before My Girl picked up "The Dark Fields," the book I had brought with me intending to read. And then I did something that I find extremely difficult to do on airplanes… I slept. Comfortably. Peacefully. Soundly. I must’ve slept for a good three, three and a half hours. Those First Class seats are just so big and comfy and delicious. And the service is top notch. The male flight attendant was so pleasant and attentive that I wondered whether he was going to ask My Girl and I if we needed to be pleasured orally. After we landed, he remarked to our section that we were the lowest-maintenance First Class group he’s ever had. My theory was that most of the people were bumped from the other flight and were just so happy to be sitting in First Class, they didn’t want to make a fuss and jeopardize their stay in Mile High Paradise. Personally, I wasn’t very demanding because I was fast asleep most of the flight and when I was awake, I didn’t want anyone to think I didn’t belong. Because I did belong. All good people belong in First Class. I told My Girl to get used to it.
There is nothing better in this world than love. But the one thing that might be able to challenge it is… free stuff. Mind you, not all free stuff will be up to the daunting task of competing against mighty love. But free stuff that you actually want is currently the number one contender to Cupid’s title.
Last night, My Girl and I were flying back to Los Angeles from a short vacation in lovely Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania. We returned the rental car and arrived at the airport several hours early, so as not to unnerve My Girl by cutting too close, as I am prone to do. As we were walking to the gate, she casually threw out a pointed question: “So, what's our threshold for getting bumped?” My first instinct was $400 worth of travel and My Girl seemed to think that was reasonable. So I approached the counter and asked if they were overbooked, found out they were, and immediately put our names on the volunteer list. They said there were a few people on the list ahead of us and they may not need us, so I didn’t get my hopes up too high. But, they did tell us not to board with the other passengers, so My Girl and I sat in the terminal and speculated on what our travel booty might be if we indeed got bumped from our flight. After everyone had boarded the plane, we felt it was time to ask the attendants at the counter what our status was. The attendent at the counter said they were definitely enlisting our help as volunteers and using our seats. Hooray! Naturally, our next question was: “How much is the voucher good for?” Much to our surprise, we were generously presented with travel vouchers good for one round-trip ticket anywhere U.S. Airways flies in the continental United States and Canada. No dollar amount specified. Plus, we were put on a nonstop flight leaving about three hours later. Unfortunately, they were close to being overbooked for the next flight and didn’t have any seats left in coach, so they had to put us in First Class. Hooray again! And finally, they gave us vouchers for up to $30 worth of food anywhere at the many airport dining establishments. While they were doing the paperwork, one of the attendants went to retrieve yet another passenger who had volunteered. When the young black woman got to the counter and was told that she was being bumped, she said, with attitude: “Oh yeah? And what are you going to give me for it?"” After hearing the words “free flight anywhere in the U.S. or Canada,” she quickly changed her tune and cheerily queried: “Really?!”
Luckily, Pittsburgh Airport contains a mall that proudly declares that the prices are regular mall prices, not airport mall prices. There's Victoria’s Secret, Bath and Body Works, Sunglass Hut, and of course, The Gap. My Girl and I browsed the shops, then spent a very long while in a store that sold nothing but baseball caps, trying on hats before finally buying a few. Then we settled in at T.G.I. Friday’s to relax and allow U.S. Airways to buy us dinner. We started with some Fried Mozzarella, I ate some Chicken Fingers, she had some crappy soup and beer, and by the time we looked at the clock, we had killed a couple of hours. We left the restaurant and headed to our new gate to see if we could turn the trick one more time. At the counter, we asked if they were overbooked, which they were, and volunteered once again. This time, they said they had a list of names and would find us if they needed us. In the meantime, we had ten more voucher dollars to spend. Completely full, I still could not stand to see the potential for free stuff go to waste, so I steered us in the direction of Ben & Jerry’s. My Girl was so full she wasn’t going to order anything, which led me to suggest that we buy ice cream for some other people. As I salivated over which flavor to get, My Girl looked next door and noticed the candy store. Within seconds, I had ditched the ice cream idea and we were scooper-deep in candy bins. Ten dollars worth of candy is a lot. We repeatedly went to the front counter to weigh our Hefty-bag-sized haul until we hit the magic number. Armed with more free stuff, we rushed back to the gate to find that just about everyone had boarded. We asked the ticket-taker if they still needed volunteers, but she got distracted in the middle of her response and mindlessly handed us back our stubs.
We made our way down the jetway and into our luxurious seats in the first row of First Class. There we were treated like very important people with boatloads of money for the length of our five hour flight home. I saw the young black woman from earlier one row over and across from us. She offered to let us watch Buffy The Vampire Slayer DVD’s on her laptop, but then realized her battery was dead. My Girl noticed that she had about five or six Kahlua and Creams and then passed out. Apparently, she liked First Class as much as we did. My Girl and I enjoyed a few ice cold Heinekens served in real glasses and shared a dish of cold shrimp with pasta even though neither one of us was anywhere near hungry. We watched some of the Academy Award-winning “A Beautiful Mind” before My Girl picked up "The Dark Fields," the book I had brought with me intending to read. And then I did something that I find extremely difficult to do on airplanes… I slept. Comfortably. Peacefully. Soundly. I must’ve slept for a good three, three and a half hours. Those First Class seats are just so big and comfy and delicious. And the service is top notch. The male flight attendant was so pleasant and attentive that I wondered whether he was going to ask My Girl and I if we needed to be pleasured orally. After we landed, he remarked to our section that we were the lowest-maintenance First Class group he’s ever had. My theory was that most of the people were bumped from the other flight and were just so happy to be sitting in First Class, they didn’t want to make a fuss and jeopardize their stay in Mile High Paradise. Personally, I wasn’t very demanding because I was fast asleep most of the flight and when I was awake, I didn’t want anyone to think I didn’t belong. Because I did belong. All good people belong in First Class. I told My Girl to get used to it.