For the last couple weeks, I've dropped my younger daughter off at summer camp every morning, and this has me taking a different route to work in the mornings. The area of San Diego that I live in is fairly old...several of my neighbors have lived in their houses for fifty years or more...but the neighborhood I drove through on my way to work is somewhat older, with narrower streets that were never meant to accomodate two-way traffic with cars parked on both sides of the street. Sure, the city could widen the streets, but the houses are so close to the street as it is now, that on one street alone, you'd have to eliminate a mile or more of houses to make room for the wider street. Not gonna happen.
Besides, this neighborhood is a beach community, and despite the wall-to-wall cars, a good portion of the population there don't drive...they surf. It is not unusual to see an adult on a skateboard, carrying a sack or two of groceries. Seriously, this neighborhood is not really part of the same United States you and I grew up in.
On our way to the camp, I had to slow (from 25 mph) to avoid a collision with an oncoming car at a narrow spot in the street...not because of the street's design, but because the owner of a very large, circa-1970 Buick had parked his car with its left rear fender hanging a couple feet out into the traffic lane on my side of the street.
Now, I am not so highly evolved yet that I don't momentarily think, "asshole!" when I see something like this, but it does invariably make me wonder what's going through someone's mind when they act in a way that inconveniences other people. Sure, it was a momentary inconvenience...I slowed for a moment to let the other car pass, I turned my wheel left a little, then right a little, then left again to get back in the center of my own lane...but lately, it seems that there are a lot of little inconveniences like that.
Yesterday, for example, I followed a guy in an SUV into the parking lot at work. There were two adjacent spots up ahead, and we headed for them with him in the lead. He pulled in and parked...with two wheels on the line between the two spots. Had I followed him in and parked far enough away from the car on the other side of me that I could get out, he would have been trapped in his truck. There was a good five feet between him and the car to his right, so he had no reason not to center his truck in the spot. Because I wanted to avoid inconveniencing him, I drove on and found another spot. As we walked towards the building where my office and his classroom is, I said (dripping sarcasm), "Nice parking job." He looked back at his truck, but otherwise ignored me.
We've probably all experienced those kindly souls who will drive to the head of a line of cars backed up onto the freeway from an exit ramp, and menace their way in, contributing to the delay for everyone else.
The list could go on, but my point is that I've observed that people seem less concerned about taking other people into consideration lately. It's as though the vast majority has decided that their own convenience makes it okay to be inconsiderate of others. What's more, this same majority can't stand being inconvenienced in the least little bit, as though their objectives for the day are more important than yours or mine. Ours has become a culture of entitlement.
What has happened to manners, these days? I love movies, used to love going to the movies and everything about movie theatres, but you can't see a film in a multiplex without someone kicking the back of your chair, bumping you with their elbow or their ass when they get up to leave in the middle of (or arrive late for) the movie, and answer their phone.
The irony is that as the world gets more crowded, manners become more important. Manners are what keep people sane as their personal space decreases. Politeness smooths the unpleasant ripples in our day that tend to build on each other and become whitecaps before a storm. Ever see the Michael Douglas movie, "Falling Down"? The main character finds himself heading inexorably toward disaster because a convenience store clerk wouldn't break a dollar so he could make a phone call after his car broke down. Sure, it's fiction, but we hear about stories like this all the time: road rage, office shootings, school shootings. In the aftermath of such tragedies, we inevitably learn that the perpetrator was an "outsider" or a "loner" and that they felt angry about being excluded somehow.
Manners and politeness are more than just a means of letting others have their way to avoid immediate conflict, they send a message to the person we're being polite to: "You matter. You're important enough for me to accept a moment of inconvenience." People tend not to feel excluded if they're often shown they matter to those around them.
I'll open the door for someone (even another man), if I get there a second or two quicker. (If I'm walking up to the door at the same time as a woman, I'll make sure I get to the door quicker.) "After you," I'll say. About half the time, they'll respond, "No, after you," and almost always will say, "Thanks."
There. Was that so hard?
Thursday, June 30, 2005
Wednesday, June 29, 2005
Settling
Yesterday, Ramblin' Girl posted some questions about online dating, and today expressed some more (very thoughtful) remarks about dating in general, and (as she often does) she got me to thinking.
This very wise, self-aware, articulate woman concludes with "...maybe I'm being too picky. but I don't want to settle." Single friends of mine always seem to say that: "I don't want to settle."
What does this mean, exactly? Dictionary.com lists no less than 18 definitions for "settle", but the two that I think are most appropriate are:
1. To put into order; arrange or fix definitely as desired.
-and-
7. To establish on a permanent basis; stabilize.
Isn't that what we want, when we're seeking a long term relationship? Something permanent, fixed and stable? If that's true, then it's contradictory to say, "I don't want to settle," when that's exactly what we're actively seeking. It sends a mixed message to the Universe (if you're spiritual) and to the people you date (even if you're not spiritual).
Taken literally, "I don't want to settle," means, "I don't want to establish anything permanent."
Of course, what's left unsaid is often as meaningful as what's said. Perhaps what's unsaid is, "...for less than I feel I deserve." Speaking only for myself, I don't want to settle for less than I feel I deserve, because I really don't want to be in another dysfunctional relationship. I want someone I can be happy with.
For a long time, I had a laundry list of desires that pretty closely described the woman I want to spend my life with. After I'd been solitary for a while, I started pulling that list apart, and realized that what I was looking for was an amalgam of all the women I've ever loved, minus the qualities that drove them away from me or me away from them (depending on your point of view). It struck me that I hadn't made any allowances for my perfect girl to be imperfect.
I read somewhere (and I think it was Harville Hendrix's Keeping the Love You Find) that while laundry lists are okay when searching for a mate, strict adherence to them is not. The author made the very good point that if you find someone with 70% of the qualities and characteristics you seek, you should consider yourself pretty lucky. Compromise is going to be a given throughout your life together, so it makes sense that you'll have to compromise a bit from the git-go.
Last year, as my sister's wedding approached, my brother-in-law and I got to talking about how he'd come to realize that my sister was indeed the woman he wanted to spend his life with. He said, "I threw away all my preconceived ideas of what I wanted and settled on four qualities: smart, funny, beautiful and sane. Your sister has all those things in spades."
It was a sartorial moment for me. Smart, funny, beautiful and sane. Finding the woman I want means being more open, not more specific.
I took a year off from dating after that, to reassess my priorities, and I've even shortened Joe's list. Here's what I'm looking for:
Funny. Laughter is a big part of my makeup, it was part and parcel of my family life when I was growing up and still is. If you're going to fit in with my family, and with me, you need to be able to take an idea and run with it. You gotta riff. One important element of humor is intelligence; without the ability to outsmart everyone around him, Charlie Chaplin's "Little Tramp" would just be another tiresome, clumsy idiot. So, funny is a two-fer.
Beautiful. I'm not necessarily talking about what she looks like. Lazarus Long said, "A man does not insist on physical beauty in a woman who builds up his morale. After a while he realizes that she is beautiful--he just hadn't noticed it at first."
Sane. This one is apparently the most elusive. Most of my attempts to quantify it begin with the words, "She doesn't". She doesn't call me at work just so she can kvetch. She doesn't insist on being right after I've won an argument. She doesn't ask questions that put me on the spot, then blame me when she doesn't like the answer. Of course, there are the "she does" variety. She does accept compliments well. She does value my opinion. She does understand my silences and respect my occasional need for solitude.
I've only just started dating again, so I can't tell you yet how this is working out. But, if the lessons I've been learning in other areas of my life can be applied, then simpler is better. I'm not so picky any more. I'm dating with optimism...every woman I meet could be the girl I spend my life with, and I look forward to the time spent finding out.
Three items on my list.
I'll settle for that.
This very wise, self-aware, articulate woman concludes with "...maybe I'm being too picky. but I don't want to settle." Single friends of mine always seem to say that: "I don't want to settle."
What does this mean, exactly? Dictionary.com lists no less than 18 definitions for "settle", but the two that I think are most appropriate are:
1. To put into order; arrange or fix definitely as desired.
-and-
7. To establish on a permanent basis; stabilize.
Isn't that what we want, when we're seeking a long term relationship? Something permanent, fixed and stable? If that's true, then it's contradictory to say, "I don't want to settle," when that's exactly what we're actively seeking. It sends a mixed message to the Universe (if you're spiritual) and to the people you date (even if you're not spiritual).
Taken literally, "I don't want to settle," means, "I don't want to establish anything permanent."
Of course, what's left unsaid is often as meaningful as what's said. Perhaps what's unsaid is, "...for less than I feel I deserve." Speaking only for myself, I don't want to settle for less than I feel I deserve, because I really don't want to be in another dysfunctional relationship. I want someone I can be happy with.
For a long time, I had a laundry list of desires that pretty closely described the woman I want to spend my life with. After I'd been solitary for a while, I started pulling that list apart, and realized that what I was looking for was an amalgam of all the women I've ever loved, minus the qualities that drove them away from me or me away from them (depending on your point of view). It struck me that I hadn't made any allowances for my perfect girl to be imperfect.
I read somewhere (and I think it was Harville Hendrix's Keeping the Love You Find) that while laundry lists are okay when searching for a mate, strict adherence to them is not. The author made the very good point that if you find someone with 70% of the qualities and characteristics you seek, you should consider yourself pretty lucky. Compromise is going to be a given throughout your life together, so it makes sense that you'll have to compromise a bit from the git-go.
Last year, as my sister's wedding approached, my brother-in-law and I got to talking about how he'd come to realize that my sister was indeed the woman he wanted to spend his life with. He said, "I threw away all my preconceived ideas of what I wanted and settled on four qualities: smart, funny, beautiful and sane. Your sister has all those things in spades."
It was a sartorial moment for me. Smart, funny, beautiful and sane. Finding the woman I want means being more open, not more specific.
I took a year off from dating after that, to reassess my priorities, and I've even shortened Joe's list. Here's what I'm looking for:
Funny. Laughter is a big part of my makeup, it was part and parcel of my family life when I was growing up and still is. If you're going to fit in with my family, and with me, you need to be able to take an idea and run with it. You gotta riff. One important element of humor is intelligence; without the ability to outsmart everyone around him, Charlie Chaplin's "Little Tramp" would just be another tiresome, clumsy idiot. So, funny is a two-fer.
Beautiful. I'm not necessarily talking about what she looks like. Lazarus Long said, "A man does not insist on physical beauty in a woman who builds up his morale. After a while he realizes that she is beautiful--he just hadn't noticed it at first."
Sane. This one is apparently the most elusive. Most of my attempts to quantify it begin with the words, "She doesn't". She doesn't call me at work just so she can kvetch. She doesn't insist on being right after I've won an argument. She doesn't ask questions that put me on the spot, then blame me when she doesn't like the answer. Of course, there are the "she does" variety. She does accept compliments well. She does value my opinion. She does understand my silences and respect my occasional need for solitude.
I've only just started dating again, so I can't tell you yet how this is working out. But, if the lessons I've been learning in other areas of my life can be applied, then simpler is better. I'm not so picky any more. I'm dating with optimism...every woman I meet could be the girl I spend my life with, and I look forward to the time spent finding out.
Three items on my list.
I'll settle for that.
Tuesday, June 28, 2005
A Little Disconcerting
I apologize to those of you who depend on me to give you a little food for thought to dunk in your coffee on Monday mornings, but I've been doing some thinking. My last post garnered a comment from someone who closed by saying "you know me" and I have to admit that I was a bit freaked out. Somehow, in the wide world of the world wide web, this person found my blog and recognized me.
Now, I've never made my identity a secret here, and that was a conscious choice. Having my name on the page keeps me honest, keeps me from adding to the anonymous negativity that's out there. With due respect to the high drama of George Lucas' space opera, for the vast majority of us, that is the Dark Side. Instead of an amendment banning flag burning, we need to add another bullet to the Bill of Rights: "Every person, irrespective of their Right to Free Speech as outlined in Amendment I to this document, shall, in the absence of thoughts of a positive nature, have the right to keep their shit to themselves."
My last post was a rant, no bones about it, and as I wrote it, I knew that I was treading on the bounds of what I might appropriately say...and then I followed it up by sending a link to a friend who recently left the field of education. Not to that particular post, but nonetheless, I'd crossed the Rubicon and let someone I know in on My Secret.
So, I had no right to be surprised when someone left a comment indicating that they knew me. But I was.
Let's face it, I do a lot of things I have no right to do.
Now, I've never made my identity a secret here, and that was a conscious choice. Having my name on the page keeps me honest, keeps me from adding to the anonymous negativity that's out there. With due respect to the high drama of George Lucas' space opera, for the vast majority of us, that is the Dark Side. Instead of an amendment banning flag burning, we need to add another bullet to the Bill of Rights: "Every person, irrespective of their Right to Free Speech as outlined in Amendment I to this document, shall, in the absence of thoughts of a positive nature, have the right to keep their shit to themselves."
My last post was a rant, no bones about it, and as I wrote it, I knew that I was treading on the bounds of what I might appropriately say...and then I followed it up by sending a link to a friend who recently left the field of education. Not to that particular post, but nonetheless, I'd crossed the Rubicon and let someone I know in on My Secret.
So, I had no right to be surprised when someone left a comment indicating that they knew me. But I was.
Let's face it, I do a lot of things I have no right to do.
Friday, June 24, 2005
This Ain't Harper Valley, Part II
As I wrote in my previous post on this topic, "Reality ain't nothin' like a country song."
No, it's more like a middle school production of a Wagnerian opera...loud, long, uber-dramatic and full of unintentionally funny moments.
The proverbial solid waste has indeed struck the rotary cooling device at my daughter's school. The parents are collectively freaked out and want to know what's going on. The administration hasn't been notified of anything officially, and doesn't want to make any statements regarding what are (for the most part) rumors. The teachers don't want to talk about any of this with anyone except the students, who are universally supportive of the principal.
Now, one of the PTSA's responsibilities when stuff like this happens is to provide opportunities to foster public understanding.* So, I set about that task with gusto...I spent about four hours a night for three and a half weeks** trying to piece together what was going on and pass it along to the parents. Because of this, I fell behind on a project at work and got to see my boss angry for the first time in the fifteen years I've known him, and I got actual hate mail from a teacher.
Here's what I learned:
1) Some teachers are apparently fond of anonymous letters. Actually, to be more precise, these teachers are fond of badly written anonymous letters.
2) Taking great care to remain neutral and unbiased does not go unnoticed nor unappreciated.
3) Taking great care to remain neutral and unbiased does not go unpunished.
4) All of this drama, and I am still not getting laid.
Now that this thing is on hiatus***, I can sort out some lessons -- some "take away" ideas. I don't think that our society supports educators enough. I'm not talking about financial compensation, though that could use a huge boost. ($50,000 a year in San Diego is shitty pay, even if we don't require them to fund 90% of their classroom supplies out of their own pocket.) I'm talking about classroom support...teacher's aides, qualified readers for AP classes, decent electronic support, effective administrative support.
Last year, our governor asked for (and got) a 7% cut in every school's budget. For our school, that amounted to a $420,000 cut...teacher salaries were not affected, but the cuts were so deep among the support staff that the PTSA sold t-shirts to help offset the cost of keeping one staff member on. Some of our teachers have 36 students in a single class...and no teacher's aides?
I know money is tight everywhere, but I think it's time for some outside-the-box thinking. I'm no longer willing to accept a Board of Education decision to reduce a school's budget. If the money isn't there from all the sources of regular revenue, get corporate partners. I'm not talking about changing the name of the school to Qualcomm High (or the infinitely funnier "iPay High"), because the quid pro quo for the corporate dollars invested in our children's education shouldn't come in the form of advertising, it should come in the form of young adults who can speak and write fluently, effectively and persuasively...young adults who can add and subtract well enough that it doesn't take a manager's assistance for them to figure out that if the tab comes to $13.76 and you give them $14.01, then your change is a fucking quarter. The simple pitch is this: if you want employees who are capable of helping you make money, you will help finance their educations.
I also think that our classrooms are woefully behind the times, technology-wise. I'm told that the state of California paid to make every classroom in my daughter's school a WiFi hot spot...that is, wireless broadband Internet access exists everywhere on campus. For free. Where are the computers, then? Why are our kids carrying forty-plus pounds of books home from school every afternoon...and lugging them back every morning...when they could have a five pound laptop computer that does the same thing? Why not leverage off technology to simplify a teacher's life, to reduce his workload? Let the computer check grammar and spelling...the teacher can read for content and guide her students toward writing more compelling essays and term papers.
It's called working smarter, and the possibilities are as endless as the human imagination. No, I do not think that teachers should be left to decide what technology they will use in their individual classrooms. As Henry Ford wrote, "If I had asked people what they wanted, they would have said faster horses." How many of us had any idea what a computer or a cell phone or a PDA could do for us until we had it in our hands and understood its functions?
Sorry...I set out to write something funny. I raised a lot of questions and I haven't offered many solutions.
I'm still thinking about it, though.
*Translation: opportunities for people to express strong opinions on subjects they know very little about.
** Roughly 43.478 times the amount of time I spend planning an elaborate date.
*** No, it is not over.
No, it's more like a middle school production of a Wagnerian opera...loud, long, uber-dramatic and full of unintentionally funny moments.
The proverbial solid waste has indeed struck the rotary cooling device at my daughter's school. The parents are collectively freaked out and want to know what's going on. The administration hasn't been notified of anything officially, and doesn't want to make any statements regarding what are (for the most part) rumors. The teachers don't want to talk about any of this with anyone except the students, who are universally supportive of the principal.
Now, one of the PTSA's responsibilities when stuff like this happens is to provide opportunities to foster public understanding.* So, I set about that task with gusto...I spent about four hours a night for three and a half weeks** trying to piece together what was going on and pass it along to the parents. Because of this, I fell behind on a project at work and got to see my boss angry for the first time in the fifteen years I've known him, and I got actual hate mail from a teacher.
Here's what I learned:
1) Some teachers are apparently fond of anonymous letters. Actually, to be more precise, these teachers are fond of badly written anonymous letters.
2) Taking great care to remain neutral and unbiased does not go unnoticed nor unappreciated.
3) Taking great care to remain neutral and unbiased does not go unpunished.
4) All of this drama, and I am still not getting laid.
Now that this thing is on hiatus***, I can sort out some lessons -- some "take away" ideas. I don't think that our society supports educators enough. I'm not talking about financial compensation, though that could use a huge boost. ($50,000 a year in San Diego is shitty pay, even if we don't require them to fund 90% of their classroom supplies out of their own pocket.) I'm talking about classroom support...teacher's aides, qualified readers for AP classes, decent electronic support, effective administrative support.
Last year, our governor asked for (and got) a 7% cut in every school's budget. For our school, that amounted to a $420,000 cut...teacher salaries were not affected, but the cuts were so deep among the support staff that the PTSA sold t-shirts to help offset the cost of keeping one staff member on. Some of our teachers have 36 students in a single class...and no teacher's aides?
I know money is tight everywhere, but I think it's time for some outside-the-box thinking. I'm no longer willing to accept a Board of Education decision to reduce a school's budget. If the money isn't there from all the sources of regular revenue, get corporate partners. I'm not talking about changing the name of the school to Qualcomm High (or the infinitely funnier "iPay High"), because the quid pro quo for the corporate dollars invested in our children's education shouldn't come in the form of advertising, it should come in the form of young adults who can speak and write fluently, effectively and persuasively...young adults who can add and subtract well enough that it doesn't take a manager's assistance for them to figure out that if the tab comes to $13.76 and you give them $14.01, then your change is a fucking quarter. The simple pitch is this: if you want employees who are capable of helping you make money, you will help finance their educations.
I also think that our classrooms are woefully behind the times, technology-wise. I'm told that the state of California paid to make every classroom in my daughter's school a WiFi hot spot...that is, wireless broadband Internet access exists everywhere on campus. For free. Where are the computers, then? Why are our kids carrying forty-plus pounds of books home from school every afternoon...and lugging them back every morning...when they could have a five pound laptop computer that does the same thing? Why not leverage off technology to simplify a teacher's life, to reduce his workload? Let the computer check grammar and spelling...the teacher can read for content and guide her students toward writing more compelling essays and term papers.
It's called working smarter, and the possibilities are as endless as the human imagination. No, I do not think that teachers should be left to decide what technology they will use in their individual classrooms. As Henry Ford wrote, "If I had asked people what they wanted, they would have said faster horses." How many of us had any idea what a computer or a cell phone or a PDA could do for us until we had it in our hands and understood its functions?
Sorry...I set out to write something funny. I raised a lot of questions and I haven't offered many solutions.
I'm still thinking about it, though.
*Translation: opportunities for people to express strong opinions on subjects they know very little about.
** Roughly 43.478 times the amount of time I spend planning an elaborate date.
*** No, it is not over.
Wednesday, June 22, 2005
Haggling With The Heyjoes In Phuket
I mentioned yesterday that I have a baby elephant story, and this is it. The title line isn't long enough, or this post would be entitled, "Haggling With The Heyjoes In Phuket -- Or, How I Came To Be Chased Down The Street By A Man With An Elephant On A Leash." And no, I am not making any of this up.
For those of you who don't know, Phuket is pronounced "poo-kett" with the emphasis on the second syllable. Phuket is a beach town in Thailand, and perhaps one of the most beautiful places on Earth. I visited there twelve years ago, when I was stationed aboard USS COWPENS, a guided missile cruiser that was then homeported in San Diego.
We were on our way home after what was then thought of as a particularly difficult deployment to the Middle East. The rest of the ships in our battle group had spent most of their time off Somalia performing a humanitarian mission, while we (the sole surface ship with Tomahawk missiles) had gone on to the Persian Gulf to stand watch over the airspace in Southern Iraq and make sure that Saddam's air force didn't resume their airstrikes on Iraqi Kurds. We'd had just three days off in four months, and Christmas was not one of them. We were at sea for Christmas...a regular working day.
When we dropped anchor near Phuket, I was physically exhausted. I hadn't slept more than 3 hours in any single 24 hour period in five months, and I'd just gotten a letter from my wife excitedly detailing her plans to spend a weekend in Mexico going horseback riding on the beach with "a friend." A male friend. All I wanted was a full night of uninterrupted sleep.
Phuket's beauty overwhelmed me. The bay was clear and emerald blue, and the surrounding hills rose sharply from the water, covered with vibrantly green jungle. Phuket was so green the color was alive. Environmentally-conscious Oregonians could learn a lot about green from Thailand. I guarantee they'd go home with green envy.
So, I was intriged. I watched my shipmates go ashore with mixed emotions...do I join them and explore this beautiful country, or do I take advantage of the quiet to catch up on my sleep? I opted for sleep that first night, particularly when I saw how much trouble it was to get ashore.
Normally, when a Navy ship pulls into a liberty port, we go ashore by one of two methods. The first (and infinitely preferable) method is to tie up to a pier and walk ashore. The other is to drop anchor a ways off shore and use boats to get to a dock, then walk ashore from there.
In Phuket, there is neither pier nor dock.
In Phuket, one got ashore by a slightly more complex process. Step one: step off the ship onto a 25-foot speed boat along with 25 or so of your buddies and sit down quickly because when everyone is aboard, the guy driving the boat is going to go to full throttle. Three-quarters of a mile later, step two: transfer to a 50-foot long, 3-foot wide canoe and immediately begin removing your shoes and socks. (The canoe is called a "bonka boat" because of the "bonka-bonka-bonka-bonka" sound made by their outboard motors.) The guy driving the bonka boat will stop and let everybody out when his bow is in about two feet of water, so step three is to wade ashore and put your shoes and socks back on.
Reverse the process to get back aboard the ship.
Now imagine reversing that process while drunk.
Now imagine reversing that process while in the company of twenty drunken sailors who are also reversing that process.
Now imagine reversing that process while you are sober and in the company of twenty drunk sailors...you get the idea.
As we came ashore, an attractive blonde woman walked up to us and said, "Well, MacArthur didn't look as good returning to the Philippines." It turned out she was from Los Angeles, a photojournalist on assignment, and anxious for some American company. My buddy and I were only too happy to oblige, but since I was married and he was not, the two of them got very much more chummy than I was comfortable being around, and I ended up exploring the city of Phuket on my own.
Now, since my first deployment, the thing I've enjoyed most is shopping in the little shops and stalls near the areas that we sailors tend to frequent. What you buy in these places is not as important as how you buy it...the haggling is the thing. (Think of Eric Idle as "Harry the Haggler" in "Monty Python's Life of Brian" and you get the idea.) Every single one of the shop owners is a Master of the Hard Sell, and they all greet you with, "Hey, Joe, you come see my shop?" We used to call this kind of shopping, "Haggling with the Heyjoes". Almost invariably, you'd go see his "shop" and it would turn out to be a refrigerator box filled with the same stuff you can get at Pier 1, but for 5% of the price. Not that there were prices marked on anything...you'd ask, the heyjoe would unhesitatingly give a price far lower than Pier 1's, and you'd either make a counter offer or put the item down and move on.
There are two reasons why you should never haggle with the heyjoes* alone. First, you and your buddy shop in different stalls, but when one of you starts negotiating a price, the other goes and casually shops within earshot of the haggling, and at just the right time, says, "Dude, this guy over here has the same thing for way less." The heyjoe you're buying from will almost always beat the lower price, knowing full well that your buddy made it up, and just like that, you've gotten a souvenir for a lower price.
The second reason you should never haggle with the heyjoes alone is that once in a while, you will encounter a heyjoe who takes the concept of hard sell directly into the darkest regions of psychosis.
While my liberty buddy and his photojournalist were making like bunnies in her hotel room, I was facing this second situation.
I am casually looking at...stuff...in one of the beachfront stalls, when I hear a voice say, "You buy, Joe?"
I turn around. There stands a deeply tanned Thai man in his mid-thirties. He is maybe 5' 4" tall, and holding out a monkey for me to examine. He has an entourage of perhaps six or eight other Thai men, none of whom are taller than 5'6", and each has a different animal on a leash.
Uh...no, thanks. They'd never let me have it on the ship.
He turns and hands the money to a cohort, takes control of a large bird. "You buy hawk, Joe?"
Pretty cool. But, no thank you.
I begin to edge away, focusing my attention on souvenirs that can be more easily explained to the customs officials when we return to San Diego.
"Then you buy my elephant, Joe!"
I turn back, and he is now holding the end of a rope leash, which is attached to the collar on a four foot tall baby elephant. An image pops into my head: trying to coax a panicked several-hundred-pound animal off a speed boat onto the accommodation ladder by which we get aboard the ship.
No, I say firmly. I look out to the bay, and there is the COWPENS. I point to her and explain that there is my ship. I cannot buy the baby elephant because I will not be able to get it home. (Forget that I'm not addressing the issue of what to do with it once I get it home. "Hi, Honey! This is Norma. Yes, I named her after your mother...isn't that sweet? She can stay on the balcony, can't she?")
AnimalSalesGuy tries to hand me the leash.
I am now beginning to look for escape routes. The hawk ignores me. He's probably seen this before.
"Come on, Joe, you buy! Such pretty elephant baby. You got kids? Elephant good with kids!"
What? Half laughing, half panicked, I turn and walk away. AnimalSalesGuy follows me. The elephant follows him.
I break into a trot. AnimalSalesGuy breaks into a trot. The baby elephant, probably thinking this is a strange game these humans are playing, also breaks into a trot.
"You buy elephant, Joe! You buy!"
No! I shout over my shoulder. I will not buy an elephant!
And that is how I came to be chased down the street by a man with an elephant on a leash.
I still think the hawk would have been cool, though.
*I'd like to make it clear here that the term "heyjoe" is not in any way derogatory, just as they're not being disrespectful in calling all male Americans "Joe."
For those of you who don't know, Phuket is pronounced "poo-kett" with the emphasis on the second syllable. Phuket is a beach town in Thailand, and perhaps one of the most beautiful places on Earth. I visited there twelve years ago, when I was stationed aboard USS COWPENS, a guided missile cruiser that was then homeported in San Diego.
We were on our way home after what was then thought of as a particularly difficult deployment to the Middle East. The rest of the ships in our battle group had spent most of their time off Somalia performing a humanitarian mission, while we (the sole surface ship with Tomahawk missiles) had gone on to the Persian Gulf to stand watch over the airspace in Southern Iraq and make sure that Saddam's air force didn't resume their airstrikes on Iraqi Kurds. We'd had just three days off in four months, and Christmas was not one of them. We were at sea for Christmas...a regular working day.
When we dropped anchor near Phuket, I was physically exhausted. I hadn't slept more than 3 hours in any single 24 hour period in five months, and I'd just gotten a letter from my wife excitedly detailing her plans to spend a weekend in Mexico going horseback riding on the beach with "a friend." A male friend. All I wanted was a full night of uninterrupted sleep.
Phuket's beauty overwhelmed me. The bay was clear and emerald blue, and the surrounding hills rose sharply from the water, covered with vibrantly green jungle. Phuket was so green the color was alive. Environmentally-conscious Oregonians could learn a lot about green from Thailand. I guarantee they'd go home with green envy.
So, I was intriged. I watched my shipmates go ashore with mixed emotions...do I join them and explore this beautiful country, or do I take advantage of the quiet to catch up on my sleep? I opted for sleep that first night, particularly when I saw how much trouble it was to get ashore.
Normally, when a Navy ship pulls into a liberty port, we go ashore by one of two methods. The first (and infinitely preferable) method is to tie up to a pier and walk ashore. The other is to drop anchor a ways off shore and use boats to get to a dock, then walk ashore from there.
In Phuket, there is neither pier nor dock.
In Phuket, one got ashore by a slightly more complex process. Step one: step off the ship onto a 25-foot speed boat along with 25 or so of your buddies and sit down quickly because when everyone is aboard, the guy driving the boat is going to go to full throttle. Three-quarters of a mile later, step two: transfer to a 50-foot long, 3-foot wide canoe and immediately begin removing your shoes and socks. (The canoe is called a "bonka boat" because of the "bonka-bonka-bonka-bonka" sound made by their outboard motors.) The guy driving the bonka boat will stop and let everybody out when his bow is in about two feet of water, so step three is to wade ashore and put your shoes and socks back on.
Reverse the process to get back aboard the ship.
Now imagine reversing that process while drunk.
Now imagine reversing that process while in the company of twenty drunken sailors who are also reversing that process.
Now imagine reversing that process while you are sober and in the company of twenty drunk sailors...you get the idea.
As we came ashore, an attractive blonde woman walked up to us and said, "Well, MacArthur didn't look as good returning to the Philippines." It turned out she was from Los Angeles, a photojournalist on assignment, and anxious for some American company. My buddy and I were only too happy to oblige, but since I was married and he was not, the two of them got very much more chummy than I was comfortable being around, and I ended up exploring the city of Phuket on my own.
Now, since my first deployment, the thing I've enjoyed most is shopping in the little shops and stalls near the areas that we sailors tend to frequent. What you buy in these places is not as important as how you buy it...the haggling is the thing. (Think of Eric Idle as "Harry the Haggler" in "Monty Python's Life of Brian" and you get the idea.) Every single one of the shop owners is a Master of the Hard Sell, and they all greet you with, "Hey, Joe, you come see my shop?" We used to call this kind of shopping, "Haggling with the Heyjoes". Almost invariably, you'd go see his "shop" and it would turn out to be a refrigerator box filled with the same stuff you can get at Pier 1, but for 5% of the price. Not that there were prices marked on anything...you'd ask, the heyjoe would unhesitatingly give a price far lower than Pier 1's, and you'd either make a counter offer or put the item down and move on.
There are two reasons why you should never haggle with the heyjoes* alone. First, you and your buddy shop in different stalls, but when one of you starts negotiating a price, the other goes and casually shops within earshot of the haggling, and at just the right time, says, "Dude, this guy over here has the same thing for way less." The heyjoe you're buying from will almost always beat the lower price, knowing full well that your buddy made it up, and just like that, you've gotten a souvenir for a lower price.
The second reason you should never haggle with the heyjoes alone is that once in a while, you will encounter a heyjoe who takes the concept of hard sell directly into the darkest regions of psychosis.
While my liberty buddy and his photojournalist were making like bunnies in her hotel room, I was facing this second situation.
I am casually looking at...stuff...in one of the beachfront stalls, when I hear a voice say, "You buy, Joe?"
I turn around. There stands a deeply tanned Thai man in his mid-thirties. He is maybe 5' 4" tall, and holding out a monkey for me to examine. He has an entourage of perhaps six or eight other Thai men, none of whom are taller than 5'6", and each has a different animal on a leash.
Uh...no, thanks. They'd never let me have it on the ship.
He turns and hands the money to a cohort, takes control of a large bird. "You buy hawk, Joe?"
Pretty cool. But, no thank you.
I begin to edge away, focusing my attention on souvenirs that can be more easily explained to the customs officials when we return to San Diego.
"Then you buy my elephant, Joe!"
I turn back, and he is now holding the end of a rope leash, which is attached to the collar on a four foot tall baby elephant. An image pops into my head: trying to coax a panicked several-hundred-pound animal off a speed boat onto the accommodation ladder by which we get aboard the ship.
No, I say firmly. I look out to the bay, and there is the COWPENS. I point to her and explain that there is my ship. I cannot buy the baby elephant because I will not be able to get it home. (Forget that I'm not addressing the issue of what to do with it once I get it home. "Hi, Honey! This is Norma. Yes, I named her after your mother...isn't that sweet? She can stay on the balcony, can't she?")
AnimalSalesGuy tries to hand me the leash.
I am now beginning to look for escape routes. The hawk ignores me. He's probably seen this before.
"Come on, Joe, you buy! Such pretty elephant baby. You got kids? Elephant good with kids!"
What? Half laughing, half panicked, I turn and walk away. AnimalSalesGuy follows me. The elephant follows him.
I break into a trot. AnimalSalesGuy breaks into a trot. The baby elephant, probably thinking this is a strange game these humans are playing, also breaks into a trot.
"You buy elephant, Joe! You buy!"
No! I shout over my shoulder. I will not buy an elephant!
And that is how I came to be chased down the street by a man with an elephant on a leash.
I still think the hawk would have been cool, though.
*I'd like to make it clear here that the term "heyjoe" is not in any way derogatory, just as they're not being disrespectful in calling all male Americans "Joe."
Tuesday, June 21, 2005
Sometimes, I Am An Idiot
Do you ever find yourself wondering about past choices you've made that took you down a disappointing path? You know, choosing what's behind Door Number 2 and finding out it's a baby elephant.*
I've been thinking about one such choice I made a couple years ago in my neighborhood post office. Concluding my business and turning away from the service counter, a feminine voice said, "Do you think this needs two stamps?"
I glanced in the direction of the voice and stopped; the woman was speaking to me. Our eyes met. Hers were warm and friendly. Mine were probably alot like those of a deer facing a train.
I looked around the lobby, wondering why she was asking me, when I was leaving and there was a fairly large group of customers in line with her. (There always is in my neighborhood post office.) Why is she asking me? I thought.
I'm often shy, but always friendly. "How heavy is it?" I asked.
She handed me the envelope, and I weighed it in the palm of my hand as though that would somehow help me determine if its bulk exceeded one and a half ounces.
I looked earnestly at her...she was a pretty brunette, short hair, perhaps 5' 4", a slender but curvy figure. On the bench behind her sat a girl of about 9 or 10 who might have been her daughter.
I could think of nothing to say, except, "I have no idea. They'll weigh it for you at the counter, though." Even as I said it, in spite of my apologetically helpful tone, I knew, knew I was missing something important. In the moment, I could not, for the life of me, think of what it was.
Walking home, it dawned on me: The woman was hitting on me! She wanted to strike up a conversation with me and see where it led us...and I was too stupid to recognize it.
Over the years, I've come up with some good responses to her question:
"I bet ya 37 cents it won't be more than one stamp."
Or even waiting in the outer lobby for her to finish and asking, "So was it one or two? Feel like a cup of coffee?"
I wonder how many times people have looked at me and didn't have the courage to ask even as lame a question as "one stamp or two", and couldn't think of anything better, so they simply put their head down and chastised themselves for it later. I know I've lost count of the number of times it's happened to me. I can think of five or six in the last week.
Life, unlike "Let's Make a Deal!", never shows you what's really behind the Unchosen Door. Sometimes, you get a glimpse of what it might have been, but most times you don't, and you're left to fill in the details with your own imagination. But the truth is that no one can imagine anything as rich and full and vivid as reality.
Maybe that's what's been missing in my life...why I'm not meeting anyone. I haven't shown the courage to ask a dumb question.
I gotta work on that.
*I actually have a baby elephant story. More on that another time.
I've been thinking about one such choice I made a couple years ago in my neighborhood post office. Concluding my business and turning away from the service counter, a feminine voice said, "Do you think this needs two stamps?"
I glanced in the direction of the voice and stopped; the woman was speaking to me. Our eyes met. Hers were warm and friendly. Mine were probably alot like those of a deer facing a train.
I looked around the lobby, wondering why she was asking me, when I was leaving and there was a fairly large group of customers in line with her. (There always is in my neighborhood post office.) Why is she asking me? I thought.
I'm often shy, but always friendly. "How heavy is it?" I asked.
She handed me the envelope, and I weighed it in the palm of my hand as though that would somehow help me determine if its bulk exceeded one and a half ounces.
I looked earnestly at her...she was a pretty brunette, short hair, perhaps 5' 4", a slender but curvy figure. On the bench behind her sat a girl of about 9 or 10 who might have been her daughter.
I could think of nothing to say, except, "I have no idea. They'll weigh it for you at the counter, though." Even as I said it, in spite of my apologetically helpful tone, I knew, knew I was missing something important. In the moment, I could not, for the life of me, think of what it was.
Walking home, it dawned on me: The woman was hitting on me! She wanted to strike up a conversation with me and see where it led us...and I was too stupid to recognize it.
Over the years, I've come up with some good responses to her question:
"I bet ya 37 cents it won't be more than one stamp."
Or even waiting in the outer lobby for her to finish and asking, "So was it one or two? Feel like a cup of coffee?"
I wonder how many times people have looked at me and didn't have the courage to ask even as lame a question as "one stamp or two", and couldn't think of anything better, so they simply put their head down and chastised themselves for it later. I know I've lost count of the number of times it's happened to me. I can think of five or six in the last week.
Life, unlike "Let's Make a Deal!", never shows you what's really behind the Unchosen Door. Sometimes, you get a glimpse of what it might have been, but most times you don't, and you're left to fill in the details with your own imagination. But the truth is that no one can imagine anything as rich and full and vivid as reality.
Maybe that's what's been missing in my life...why I'm not meeting anyone. I haven't shown the courage to ask a dumb question.
I gotta work on that.
*I actually have a baby elephant story. More on that another time.
Sunday, June 19, 2005
Why I Love The Internet
This morning, I found myself needing a Latin phrase translated, and I did what any savvy technogeek who failed to go to college and didn't take Latin in high school (yes, it was offered, and it counted as a foregn language credit, but even I was not that much of a dweeb in high school): I went to the Internet.
Yahoo! search keywords: translation Latin
Just below two commercial translation sites, Yahoo! listed a site named "Baby Got Back".
Now, you're probably wondering what possible electronic confusion might lead my two keywords to put a reference to the song by Sir Mixalot near the top of the list of references. I certainly was.
So, I went there. And I have been giggling ever since. It's not just that the song itself is funny, or that the notion that anyone would attempt to translate it into a dead language is completely proposterous, it's that the translator then translates the song back into English for those of us who don't speak Latin. The footnotes are particularly funny.
So here it is: http://www.livejournal.com/users/quislibet/164084.html
And as if that's not funny enough...there's a second translation of the same song right here.
Domina mea exstat a tergo!
Yahoo! search keywords: translation Latin
Just below two commercial translation sites, Yahoo! listed a site named "Baby Got Back".
Now, you're probably wondering what possible electronic confusion might lead my two keywords to put a reference to the song by Sir Mixalot near the top of the list of references. I certainly was.
So, I went there. And I have been giggling ever since. It's not just that the song itself is funny, or that the notion that anyone would attempt to translate it into a dead language is completely proposterous, it's that the translator then translates the song back into English for those of us who don't speak Latin. The footnotes are particularly funny.
So here it is: http://www.livejournal.com/users/quislibet/164084.html
And as if that's not funny enough...there's a second translation of the same song right here.
Domina mea exstat a tergo!
Saturday, June 18, 2005
Valedictory
Once in a while, for no reason, the Universe treats you to something special. It happened to me yesterday afternoon.
Apparently, it is traditional for the PTSA President to sit with the distinguished guests on the dais during the school's graduation ceremony. Not only did the school send me a letter of invitation, they also called me to let me know the letter would be coming. Yesterday morning, at work, the school secretary called to tell me there'd be parking for me, and sure enough, there it was...rock star parking with my name on it.
Before the ceremony, I and the other distinguished guests met with the principal to review the order of events during the ceremony. Surely, I thought, they will have something for me to do during the ceremony. Shake a hand, present a plaque. (I've got hand shaking skills, plaque presenting skills, numchuck skills...JEEZ!)
No.
Apparently, I was just there to be eye candy.
Because I had time to just observe, I was able to reminisce about the last time I attended a high school graduation...you guessed it, my own, in East Hartford, Connecticut. I remember being as excited and happy as the Class of 2005 clearly was, waiting in the gym for the march onto the football field. Some things have changed (the colors of the gowns, the hair styles, the sobriety of the graduates) and some things have not (everything else).
With ten minutes left before the ceremony, and all in readiness, the grads got restless...and they (like my classmates and I did 26 years ago) began the rhythm beat from Queen's "We Will Rock You": Stomp-stomp-CLAP--Stomp-stomp-CLAP. In my head, I sang..."Buddy, you're a young man hard man shoutin' in the street gonna take on the world someday..."
And suddenly, I wished I was back at my own graduation. I was dating my first real love, Annette, and she was (at that moment, 26 years ago), sitting proudly with my parents. She and I had plans for a graduation dinner date, a special dinner for a happy seventeen year old man and his beautiful fifteen year old love.
Later that night, two buddies and I hopped into a '75 Honda Civic and drove ten hours to Hamilton, Ontario...my first time out of the country...to the International Warbirds Association Fly-In and Airshow. We planned to set up camp at one of the campgrounds near the airfield, but as it turned out, all the camp grounds were full. One of my buddies lived next door to a guy who owned a vintage Navy fighter plane, so we sought him out to ask for advice. The guy simply smiled and said, "Come with me." When he found the air show security officer, he introduced us all by name and said, "These guys are my ground crew, and they've driven up from Connecticut. I need three more flight line passes and permission for them to pitch their tent under the wing of my plane." It was that simple. We had the run of the place, and would be allowed to watch the airshows on Saturday and Sunday from the flight line...for the price of simply watching the tip of this gentleman's wing as he taxied in and out of his spot. Better still for three guys obsessed with historic airplanes, there were dozens of them there. And we were allowed to walk among them, to touch them, to breathe in their oily smells...it was Heaven. On Sunday morning, we awoke to the sound of a 1,500 horsepower Rolls Royce engine as it lifted a vintage fighter plane aloft...before my eyes were open, I might as well have been in England in 1944.
Knowing I couldn't go back and do it all again, I just wished as good a graduation weekend on these amazing kids.* (I'd call them young people, but that would be to admit that I am not young any longer, which of course isn't true.)
The valedictorian gave possibly the best speech I have ever heard, and I truly wish I could post the text of it here. Sadly, I cannot even summarize, since I was simultaneously laughing too hard and trying to swallow the lump in my throat. The layering of his memories on top of my own was a bit tough to handle. He chided other valedictorians for quoting the obvious Maya Angelou and the still more obvious John F. Kennedy, and concluded his brilliant valedictory with a quote from Alice Cooper (whom he referred to as an "eminent philosopher"): "School's out for summer. School's out forever."
That was actually the only point he made that I disagree with. So many times, we focus on the goal as an end, when in reality it should merely be a milepost. I studied martial arts for several years with a 6th degree black belt. He and I are of an age, and he'd often invite me into his office for conversation...times that were philosophical lessons for me and as important to my study of martial arts as the kata. He said to me one day, "When you get right down to it, I really don't know very much. The more you learn, the more you know; the more you know, the more you realize you have more to learn."
School is most definitely not out forever, whether you go on to Harvard (as this young man will), or go on down the hill to McDonald's. I never went to college, but you'd probably never know it. Once in a while, I'm asked where I got my political science degree, and I answer, "Off the coast of Lebanon." What you learn and where you learn it is nowhere near as important as continuing to learn. The moment you stop learning is the moment you get old.
My wish for the Class of 2005? May they never grow old.
* And I am not being loose with the term "amazing"; one of them has already won an Emmy award.
Apparently, it is traditional for the PTSA President to sit with the distinguished guests on the dais during the school's graduation ceremony. Not only did the school send me a letter of invitation, they also called me to let me know the letter would be coming. Yesterday morning, at work, the school secretary called to tell me there'd be parking for me, and sure enough, there it was...rock star parking with my name on it.
Before the ceremony, I and the other distinguished guests met with the principal to review the order of events during the ceremony. Surely, I thought, they will have something for me to do during the ceremony. Shake a hand, present a plaque. (I've got hand shaking skills, plaque presenting skills, numchuck skills...JEEZ!)
No.
Apparently, I was just there to be eye candy.
Because I had time to just observe, I was able to reminisce about the last time I attended a high school graduation...you guessed it, my own, in East Hartford, Connecticut. I remember being as excited and happy as the Class of 2005 clearly was, waiting in the gym for the march onto the football field. Some things have changed (the colors of the gowns, the hair styles, the sobriety of the graduates) and some things have not (everything else).
With ten minutes left before the ceremony, and all in readiness, the grads got restless...and they (like my classmates and I did 26 years ago) began the rhythm beat from Queen's "We Will Rock You": Stomp-stomp-CLAP--Stomp-stomp-CLAP. In my head, I sang..."Buddy, you're a young man hard man shoutin' in the street gonna take on the world someday..."
And suddenly, I wished I was back at my own graduation. I was dating my first real love, Annette, and she was (at that moment, 26 years ago), sitting proudly with my parents. She and I had plans for a graduation dinner date, a special dinner for a happy seventeen year old man and his beautiful fifteen year old love.
Later that night, two buddies and I hopped into a '75 Honda Civic and drove ten hours to Hamilton, Ontario...my first time out of the country...to the International Warbirds Association Fly-In and Airshow. We planned to set up camp at one of the campgrounds near the airfield, but as it turned out, all the camp grounds were full. One of my buddies lived next door to a guy who owned a vintage Navy fighter plane, so we sought him out to ask for advice. The guy simply smiled and said, "Come with me." When he found the air show security officer, he introduced us all by name and said, "These guys are my ground crew, and they've driven up from Connecticut. I need three more flight line passes and permission for them to pitch their tent under the wing of my plane." It was that simple. We had the run of the place, and would be allowed to watch the airshows on Saturday and Sunday from the flight line...for the price of simply watching the tip of this gentleman's wing as he taxied in and out of his spot. Better still for three guys obsessed with historic airplanes, there were dozens of them there. And we were allowed to walk among them, to touch them, to breathe in their oily smells...it was Heaven. On Sunday morning, we awoke to the sound of a 1,500 horsepower Rolls Royce engine as it lifted a vintage fighter plane aloft...before my eyes were open, I might as well have been in England in 1944.
Knowing I couldn't go back and do it all again, I just wished as good a graduation weekend on these amazing kids.* (I'd call them young people, but that would be to admit that I am not young any longer, which of course isn't true.)
The valedictorian gave possibly the best speech I have ever heard, and I truly wish I could post the text of it here. Sadly, I cannot even summarize, since I was simultaneously laughing too hard and trying to swallow the lump in my throat. The layering of his memories on top of my own was a bit tough to handle. He chided other valedictorians for quoting the obvious Maya Angelou and the still more obvious John F. Kennedy, and concluded his brilliant valedictory with a quote from Alice Cooper (whom he referred to as an "eminent philosopher"): "School's out for summer. School's out forever."
That was actually the only point he made that I disagree with. So many times, we focus on the goal as an end, when in reality it should merely be a milepost. I studied martial arts for several years with a 6th degree black belt. He and I are of an age, and he'd often invite me into his office for conversation...times that were philosophical lessons for me and as important to my study of martial arts as the kata. He said to me one day, "When you get right down to it, I really don't know very much. The more you learn, the more you know; the more you know, the more you realize you have more to learn."
School is most definitely not out forever, whether you go on to Harvard (as this young man will), or go on down the hill to McDonald's. I never went to college, but you'd probably never know it. Once in a while, I'm asked where I got my political science degree, and I answer, "Off the coast of Lebanon." What you learn and where you learn it is nowhere near as important as continuing to learn. The moment you stop learning is the moment you get old.
My wish for the Class of 2005? May they never grow old.
* And I am not being loose with the term "amazing"; one of them has already won an Emmy award.
Thursday, June 16, 2005
Dreams
About half an hour ago, I awoke from an astonishingly vivid dream.
It wasn't particularly realistic, as it involved me levitating across a conference table; it was the emotions I felt during the dream that were so stunning.
I was in a tent, on location with director Sydney Pollack, attending a script meeting. I am not sure why I was there, but there were a dozen or so of us around the table, and I felt thoroughly out of place. After a few minutes of discussion, Mr. Pollack pointed out a small scene he had a question about...a scene I had written and added to the script without really having permission. I nervously levitated across the table to hover next to him as I pitched the scene idea, and he pointed to the title of the film and asked, "How does this relate to being Singled Out?" As I stammered an answer to the question, he put his thumb on the title page where the screenwriters' names were listed, held it up for me to see, and said, "I like it. It's in. Write it up." I floated back to my seat. Turning to look at a high school friend who's in the Industry, I gave him one of those exaggerated jaw-drop expressions. I was more elated than Pinocchio after the Blue Fairy's final visit. I'm a real writer!
Not a particularly remarkable dream. I'd spent my evening cleaning up a script for a TV producer friend (on spec, but the first time that anyone in the Industry has asked me to do any writing), and had gone to bed thinking about Daisy's compliments about my writing...so let's face it, writing was on my mind.
What was remarkable about this dream was that I remember it at all.
For most of my life, starting in my early teens, I have suffered from hellacious nightmares. For many years, I would wake up screaming, sometimes more than once in a night. They seemed to run in cycles; I would go for weeks or months without them, and then for reasons I could not identify, they would return, and I would be in their grip for days, weeks, months. It was always the same dream...a monstrous creature chasing me. Over the years, I learned (without conscious intent) not to remember these dreams. I simply phased them out of my awareness, and by the time I got married, I could have a bout of night terrors without realizing it. Apparently, I could wake up screaming like a teenage Jaime Lee Curtis and go back to sleep without knowing it.
My ex-wife went to war on my sleep habits, determined to do something about them, with or without my help. She began screaming when I'd scream, and I started waking up to her screaming. Once I was awake, she'd insist that I tell her about the dream I'd been having...and I couldn't. I never remembered a thing. Instantaneous data dump. In fact, I never remembered any of my dreams, ever.
At her insistance, I underwent a psychological evaluation, and based on family history (my grandfather had them, too), they concluded that the cause was chemical and suggested that since I'd learned to cope with them, that my then-wife either learn the same techniques for coping or sleep in a separate room. She was not happy.
After some months in therapy after my ex-wife and I separated, I connected my nightmares to the summer I turned thirteen, and the night my cousin raped me. Once I dealt with the emotions that stemmed from that incident, my nightmares stopped. The great hairy beast that had terrorized me for so long simply ceased his visits. So much for chemical causes.
For years, nothing took his place. When I awoke, I'd have no recollection of any dreams. While I was in therapy, I learned that the dream state is but one phase of sleep that is essential to getting a good night's rest. I felt that since I awoke each morning feeling rested, my sleep was effective, and I must be dreaming...I just had no memory of it.
This bothered me. Carl Jung and Joseph Campbell both wrote about the power of dreams to unlock the subconcious, and I felt that without any connection to my dreams, I could never really know myself.
I found a book about lucid dreaming, and hit upon the idea that I might be able to use some of the techniques to access my regular dreams. Each night before bed, I'd remind myself that I'd be dreaming, and I'd concentrate for a few moments on remembering. I have no idea if this helped or if I simply healed enough emotionally to begin remembering my dreams as part of the natural course of things, but after about six years, I began remembering an occasional dream.
These days, dreams are an integral part of my creative process. In the last few months, I've gotten to know some of the characters in the novel I am writing because they've visited me in the middle of the night with answers to questions I've had of them. (And if you've ever had someone wake you up at 2 am, sit on the foot of your bed and carry on a quiet conversation with you, you know exactly what I've experienced with my characters.) (By the way, Rita Mae Brown says that when this happens, you're on the right track as a writer.)
I've been rambling on about this for long enough, and I should get back to bed. To sleep, perchance to dream...
It wasn't particularly realistic, as it involved me levitating across a conference table; it was the emotions I felt during the dream that were so stunning.
I was in a tent, on location with director Sydney Pollack, attending a script meeting. I am not sure why I was there, but there were a dozen or so of us around the table, and I felt thoroughly out of place. After a few minutes of discussion, Mr. Pollack pointed out a small scene he had a question about...a scene I had written and added to the script without really having permission. I nervously levitated across the table to hover next to him as I pitched the scene idea, and he pointed to the title of the film and asked, "How does this relate to being Singled Out?" As I stammered an answer to the question, he put his thumb on the title page where the screenwriters' names were listed, held it up for me to see, and said, "I like it. It's in. Write it up." I floated back to my seat. Turning to look at a high school friend who's in the Industry, I gave him one of those exaggerated jaw-drop expressions. I was more elated than Pinocchio after the Blue Fairy's final visit. I'm a real writer!
Not a particularly remarkable dream. I'd spent my evening cleaning up a script for a TV producer friend (on spec, but the first time that anyone in the Industry has asked me to do any writing), and had gone to bed thinking about Daisy's compliments about my writing...so let's face it, writing was on my mind.
What was remarkable about this dream was that I remember it at all.
For most of my life, starting in my early teens, I have suffered from hellacious nightmares. For many years, I would wake up screaming, sometimes more than once in a night. They seemed to run in cycles; I would go for weeks or months without them, and then for reasons I could not identify, they would return, and I would be in their grip for days, weeks, months. It was always the same dream...a monstrous creature chasing me. Over the years, I learned (without conscious intent) not to remember these dreams. I simply phased them out of my awareness, and by the time I got married, I could have a bout of night terrors without realizing it. Apparently, I could wake up screaming like a teenage Jaime Lee Curtis and go back to sleep without knowing it.
My ex-wife went to war on my sleep habits, determined to do something about them, with or without my help. She began screaming when I'd scream, and I started waking up to her screaming. Once I was awake, she'd insist that I tell her about the dream I'd been having...and I couldn't. I never remembered a thing. Instantaneous data dump. In fact, I never remembered any of my dreams, ever.
At her insistance, I underwent a psychological evaluation, and based on family history (my grandfather had them, too), they concluded that the cause was chemical and suggested that since I'd learned to cope with them, that my then-wife either learn the same techniques for coping or sleep in a separate room. She was not happy.
After some months in therapy after my ex-wife and I separated, I connected my nightmares to the summer I turned thirteen, and the night my cousin raped me. Once I dealt with the emotions that stemmed from that incident, my nightmares stopped. The great hairy beast that had terrorized me for so long simply ceased his visits. So much for chemical causes.
For years, nothing took his place. When I awoke, I'd have no recollection of any dreams. While I was in therapy, I learned that the dream state is but one phase of sleep that is essential to getting a good night's rest. I felt that since I awoke each morning feeling rested, my sleep was effective, and I must be dreaming...I just had no memory of it.
This bothered me. Carl Jung and Joseph Campbell both wrote about the power of dreams to unlock the subconcious, and I felt that without any connection to my dreams, I could never really know myself.
I found a book about lucid dreaming, and hit upon the idea that I might be able to use some of the techniques to access my regular dreams. Each night before bed, I'd remind myself that I'd be dreaming, and I'd concentrate for a few moments on remembering. I have no idea if this helped or if I simply healed enough emotionally to begin remembering my dreams as part of the natural course of things, but after about six years, I began remembering an occasional dream.
These days, dreams are an integral part of my creative process. In the last few months, I've gotten to know some of the characters in the novel I am writing because they've visited me in the middle of the night with answers to questions I've had of them. (And if you've ever had someone wake you up at 2 am, sit on the foot of your bed and carry on a quiet conversation with you, you know exactly what I've experienced with my characters.) (By the way, Rita Mae Brown says that when this happens, you're on the right track as a writer.)
I've been rambling on about this for long enough, and I should get back to bed. To sleep, perchance to dream...
Wednesday, June 15, 2005
Sigh.
I am at a bit of a loss for words at the moment, having just learned of a website entitled Forsake The Troops. I'm saddened by the choices made and opinions expressed by the author, Mr. Michael Crook, who apparently hasn't thought his position through very well. As a military veteran, I disagree with his views, but of course, I have spent my entire adult life working to ensure he has the right to express them.
I joined the Navy in 1979, just four years after the end of the Vietnam War. Most of my high school friends thought I was crazy. Shortly after graduating from boot camp, a group of friends and I went to the local mall, and as we walked out of a Christian book store, a patron in a surplus Army jacket walking in muttered, "Baby killers." Three weeks later, while I was home on Christmas leave, I was accosted by a grocery store manager who thought I was shoplifting...his rationale was that I was wearing a parka (in Connecticut, in December, go figure) and had short hair. He simply cornered me, demanded I open my coat and squeezed my pockets; finding them empty, he insisted that I leave the premises. At the time, I took these incidents a little personally, but now with twenty-five years of hindsight, I can see that those two men were simply ignorant and probably a little afraid. It had been less than ten years since Kent State, after all.
I saw public opinion change dramatically during my twenty-three years of service. By the time I retired from active service, a year and two days after 9/11, every member of the uniformed services was considered a hero.
Did I consider myself a hero? No. I've known more than a few, served in the company of many. The closest I ever felt to being a hero came during the ABC Evening News one night, as Peter Jennings delivered a story about Pakistan's nuclear arsenal. He ticked off a list of nations known to have or be developing nuclear weapons, and then wrapped up the list by saying, "...and one country no longer has the ability to produce nuclear weapons: Iraq." I thought, "Hey, cool. Peter Jennings is talking about me."*
Now, whether or not that particular act can be considered "supporting and defending the Constitution of the United States" is debatable. It was certainly "obeying the orders of the President of the United States." And by extension...you. (Assuming that you live here in the United States, that is.)
That's one of the parts of Democracy that gets forgotten in the wonderful, constant debate that makes this country great. Who bears the ultimate responsibility for the actions of our President? Who is he accountable to? Simple: he's accountable to all of us. Whether you voted for him or not (and I served as faithfully under a President I did not vote for as I did under Presidents for whom I did), you participated in the process of Democracy, and since he's accountable to you, you're responsible for his actions. You didn't vote at all? Shame on you, but you're still responsible. If you live here and you've ever shared your opinion, you are part of the process.
I love that. I love that you and I are part of something so vast and meaningful. I love that the principles of Democracy are universal, that they're accessible to anyone, and that they are most definitely not compulsory. Sometimes we forget that last part.
Don't believe me on the compulsory part? If you voted, was it because armed men came to your house and forced you to? If you voted, did anyone give you a ballot that was already filled out, or offer to fill it out for you? Tell you who to vote for? (Not who you should vote for, but who to vote for.) If you didn't vote, was it because you chose not to?
I love that we have the freedom to debate in this country. If you think that watching C-Span can give you an idea of how this country is run, you need to get out more. You need to hang out in the break room of pretty much any office in the country. Go anyplace where you can find people talking, and you'll see and hear what really makes this country run: discussion.
That's why I think guys like Michael Crook should feel free to do what they do. It doesn't matter that my personal opinion of Michael Crook is that he's an ill-informed, inarticulate, hateful little dweeb who's incapable of making a credible argument. He's a low-rent Michael Moore. His opinions on military service and military pay are so wildly opposed to my own that there's no hope he'll ever convince me that the sky is blue...but he's out there actively contributing to the process and if I don't give him props for that, then my entire professional life has meant nothing.
And speaking of Michael Moore, I'm gonna give him props, too. I think he's a borderline narcissist who was born seventy years too late to fulfill his true calling, which would be to work as Stalin's chief propagandist. But agree or disagree, the man is a raving bloody genius, and he does get people talking about issues with greater substance than Janet Jackson's nipple flower. And that's a good thing: it's Democracy In Action.
Perhaps the best example I've ever seen of stridence and Democracy in opposition is here. Notice how Sean Hannity uses personal attacks and overwhelms the Mr. Crook, preventing him from answering...stridence. Contrast that with the way that Alan Colmes' line of questioning moves along and gives the guy a chance to present his ideas. That's Democracy.
Several years ago, I dated a woman who had vastly different political views than I do. Debate was a regular part of foreplay for us, not because we were fighting, but because conversations that challenge beliefs are incredibly stimulating (and Good God is that sexy!). One night, she asked me if I would carry out an assignment I disagreed with, and when I responded that I'd already sworn an oath to do so, she called me a goose-stepping Nazi. (Ouch. So, how did you know when the honeymoon was over?) Stridence is not so sexy, by the way.
For those of you who aren't familiar with the Oath of Enlistment, I'll share it with you now:
"I (state your name) do solemnly swear (or affirm) that I will support and defend the Constitution of the United States against all enemies, foreign and domestic; that I will bear true faith and allegiance to the same; and that I will obey the Orders of the President of the United States and the orders of the officers appointed over me, according to regulations and the Uniform Code of Military Justice. So help me God."
The reasons why it's right to support our service members are all right there. They...we...swore to support and defend the concepts that provide you with your way of life. It's not something we take lightly, and since they were first put on paper 218 years ago, hundreds of thousands of us have died for those concepts. For your way of life, just how it is now, today.
Think that trust is being violated? That our military is being misused? There's another election coming in 2008, so we've got plenty of time to talk about it.
* We blew up Saddam's nuclear weapons facility in 1993, and UN weapons inspectors had been present in Iraq for a solid two years, having identified about 250 WMD sites by actually visiting them and finding weapons present.
I joined the Navy in 1979, just four years after the end of the Vietnam War. Most of my high school friends thought I was crazy. Shortly after graduating from boot camp, a group of friends and I went to the local mall, and as we walked out of a Christian book store, a patron in a surplus Army jacket walking in muttered, "Baby killers." Three weeks later, while I was home on Christmas leave, I was accosted by a grocery store manager who thought I was shoplifting...his rationale was that I was wearing a parka (in Connecticut, in December, go figure) and had short hair. He simply cornered me, demanded I open my coat and squeezed my pockets; finding them empty, he insisted that I leave the premises. At the time, I took these incidents a little personally, but now with twenty-five years of hindsight, I can see that those two men were simply ignorant and probably a little afraid. It had been less than ten years since Kent State, after all.
I saw public opinion change dramatically during my twenty-three years of service. By the time I retired from active service, a year and two days after 9/11, every member of the uniformed services was considered a hero.
Did I consider myself a hero? No. I've known more than a few, served in the company of many. The closest I ever felt to being a hero came during the ABC Evening News one night, as Peter Jennings delivered a story about Pakistan's nuclear arsenal. He ticked off a list of nations known to have or be developing nuclear weapons, and then wrapped up the list by saying, "...and one country no longer has the ability to produce nuclear weapons: Iraq." I thought, "Hey, cool. Peter Jennings is talking about me."*
Now, whether or not that particular act can be considered "supporting and defending the Constitution of the United States" is debatable. It was certainly "obeying the orders of the President of the United States." And by extension...you. (Assuming that you live here in the United States, that is.)
That's one of the parts of Democracy that gets forgotten in the wonderful, constant debate that makes this country great. Who bears the ultimate responsibility for the actions of our President? Who is he accountable to? Simple: he's accountable to all of us. Whether you voted for him or not (and I served as faithfully under a President I did not vote for as I did under Presidents for whom I did), you participated in the process of Democracy, and since he's accountable to you, you're responsible for his actions. You didn't vote at all? Shame on you, but you're still responsible. If you live here and you've ever shared your opinion, you are part of the process.
I love that. I love that you and I are part of something so vast and meaningful. I love that the principles of Democracy are universal, that they're accessible to anyone, and that they are most definitely not compulsory. Sometimes we forget that last part.
Don't believe me on the compulsory part? If you voted, was it because armed men came to your house and forced you to? If you voted, did anyone give you a ballot that was already filled out, or offer to fill it out for you? Tell you who to vote for? (Not who you should vote for, but who to vote for.) If you didn't vote, was it because you chose not to?
I love that we have the freedom to debate in this country. If you think that watching C-Span can give you an idea of how this country is run, you need to get out more. You need to hang out in the break room of pretty much any office in the country. Go anyplace where you can find people talking, and you'll see and hear what really makes this country run: discussion.
That's why I think guys like Michael Crook should feel free to do what they do. It doesn't matter that my personal opinion of Michael Crook is that he's an ill-informed, inarticulate, hateful little dweeb who's incapable of making a credible argument. He's a low-rent Michael Moore. His opinions on military service and military pay are so wildly opposed to my own that there's no hope he'll ever convince me that the sky is blue...but he's out there actively contributing to the process and if I don't give him props for that, then my entire professional life has meant nothing.
And speaking of Michael Moore, I'm gonna give him props, too. I think he's a borderline narcissist who was born seventy years too late to fulfill his true calling, which would be to work as Stalin's chief propagandist. But agree or disagree, the man is a raving bloody genius, and he does get people talking about issues with greater substance than Janet Jackson's nipple flower. And that's a good thing: it's Democracy In Action.
Perhaps the best example I've ever seen of stridence and Democracy in opposition is here. Notice how Sean Hannity uses personal attacks and overwhelms the Mr. Crook, preventing him from answering...stridence. Contrast that with the way that Alan Colmes' line of questioning moves along and gives the guy a chance to present his ideas. That's Democracy.
Several years ago, I dated a woman who had vastly different political views than I do. Debate was a regular part of foreplay for us, not because we were fighting, but because conversations that challenge beliefs are incredibly stimulating (and Good God is that sexy!). One night, she asked me if I would carry out an assignment I disagreed with, and when I responded that I'd already sworn an oath to do so, she called me a goose-stepping Nazi. (Ouch. So, how did you know when the honeymoon was over?) Stridence is not so sexy, by the way.
For those of you who aren't familiar with the Oath of Enlistment, I'll share it with you now:
"I (state your name) do solemnly swear (or affirm) that I will support and defend the Constitution of the United States against all enemies, foreign and domestic; that I will bear true faith and allegiance to the same; and that I will obey the Orders of the President of the United States and the orders of the officers appointed over me, according to regulations and the Uniform Code of Military Justice. So help me God."
The reasons why it's right to support our service members are all right there. They...we...swore to support and defend the concepts that provide you with your way of life. It's not something we take lightly, and since they were first put on paper 218 years ago, hundreds of thousands of us have died for those concepts. For your way of life, just how it is now, today.
Think that trust is being violated? That our military is being misused? There's another election coming in 2008, so we've got plenty of time to talk about it.
* We blew up Saddam's nuclear weapons facility in 1993, and UN weapons inspectors had been present in Iraq for a solid two years, having identified about 250 WMD sites by actually visiting them and finding weapons present.
Saturday, June 11, 2005
Do Re MeMe Fa Sol La Ti Do!
Rambin' Girl, it is an honor to be thought of...most folks hate these things, but I'm choosing to take it like a man.
Here's how it works:Pick 5 of the following questions and then complete the sentences. Then pass it on to 3 more of your blog friends! (No tag backs allowed.)
If I could be a scientist?
If I could be a farmer?
If I could be a musician?
If I could be a doctor?
If I could be a painter?
If I could be a gardener?
If I could be a missionary?
If I could be a chef?
If I could be an architect?
If I could be a linguist?
If I could be a psychologist?
If I could be a librarian?
If I could be an athlete?
If I could be a lawyer?
If I could be an inn-keeper?
If I could be a professor?
If I could be a writer?
If I could be a llama-rider?
If I could be a bonnie pirate?
If I could be an astronaut?
If I could be a world famous blogger?
If I could be a justice on any one court in the world?
If I could be married to any current famous political figure?
Here are my choices:
If I could be a painter...I would present my subjects in stunning detail. The recurring theme through all my works would be illumination and enlightenment and connection. In my paintings, light would play in darkness, in and on water, through glass and trees, across hot concrete. My subjects would be simple moments, visual haiku, capturing an instant that leaves the viewer to imagine what happens next.
If I could be a linguist...naaah, that joke is too easy.
If I could be a professor...I would try to share my sense of wonder with my students, to impart the same desire to question and to learn. I would try to convey the idea that all my students are capable of great things, and help them understand that great and big are not always the same thing.
If I could be a writer...I'd publish a novel that changed someone's life. (I'm working on it.)
If I could be a bonnie pirate...arrr, I'd be known as the scourge of the seven seas, I would. Me mother would be a saint, and me father, a son of a gun. Me Jolly Roger'd strike fear in the hearts of brave men and boys alike! And after I'd had me fill of plunder...I'd retire and live like a king in Patagonia.
If I could be a justice on any one court in the world...I'd be the lunatic fringe on the Supreme Court of the United States. I'd sit on the bench wearing Hunter S. Thompson glasses and a sombrero, and sometimes bring a ventriloquist dummy. I would relish being more than a foot taller than Ruth Bader Ginsberg, and when my opinion differed from hers, I'd say that our height difference was the reason. I'd bring Clarence Thomas a Coke after lunch every day, along with an affidavit certifying the can to be hair-free. My approach to the cases we'd hear would be absolutely dead serious, my questions common sensical. Except when the case is silly. Anyone presenting a frivolous case before the court would be required to answer all my questions in Iambic Pentameter.
I'm going to tag:
Sherri
Betty
and...
AmyVegas
Have fun!
Here's how it works:Pick 5 of the following questions and then complete the sentences. Then pass it on to 3 more of your blog friends! (No tag backs allowed.)
If I could be a scientist?
If I could be a farmer?
If I could be a musician?
If I could be a doctor?
If I could be a painter?
If I could be a gardener?
If I could be a missionary?
If I could be a chef?
If I could be an architect?
If I could be a linguist?
If I could be a psychologist?
If I could be a librarian?
If I could be an athlete?
If I could be a lawyer?
If I could be an inn-keeper?
If I could be a professor?
If I could be a writer?
If I could be a llama-rider?
If I could be a bonnie pirate?
If I could be an astronaut?
If I could be a world famous blogger?
If I could be a justice on any one court in the world?
If I could be married to any current famous political figure?
Here are my choices:
If I could be a painter...I would present my subjects in stunning detail. The recurring theme through all my works would be illumination and enlightenment and connection. In my paintings, light would play in darkness, in and on water, through glass and trees, across hot concrete. My subjects would be simple moments, visual haiku, capturing an instant that leaves the viewer to imagine what happens next.
If I could be a linguist...naaah, that joke is too easy.
If I could be a professor...I would try to share my sense of wonder with my students, to impart the same desire to question and to learn. I would try to convey the idea that all my students are capable of great things, and help them understand that great and big are not always the same thing.
If I could be a writer...I'd publish a novel that changed someone's life. (I'm working on it.)
If I could be a bonnie pirate...arrr, I'd be known as the scourge of the seven seas, I would. Me mother would be a saint, and me father, a son of a gun. Me Jolly Roger'd strike fear in the hearts of brave men and boys alike! And after I'd had me fill of plunder...I'd retire and live like a king in Patagonia.
If I could be a justice on any one court in the world...I'd be the lunatic fringe on the Supreme Court of the United States. I'd sit on the bench wearing Hunter S. Thompson glasses and a sombrero, and sometimes bring a ventriloquist dummy. I would relish being more than a foot taller than Ruth Bader Ginsberg, and when my opinion differed from hers, I'd say that our height difference was the reason. I'd bring Clarence Thomas a Coke after lunch every day, along with an affidavit certifying the can to be hair-free. My approach to the cases we'd hear would be absolutely dead serious, my questions common sensical. Except when the case is silly. Anyone presenting a frivolous case before the court would be required to answer all my questions in Iambic Pentameter.
I'm going to tag:
Sherri
Betty
and...
AmyVegas
Have fun!
Friday, June 10, 2005
On Being A Guy Friend
Over the last few days, I've read a couple blog entries dealing with the subject of guy friends from the feminine perspective. (If you'd like to read them, climb Inside Betty's Head, then read Ramblin' Girl's thoughts on the subject. I recommend both. In fact, go ahead and check them out now. I'll be here when you get back.)
RadiantSmile and I have been buddies for almost nine years. We met in an AOL chat room, and began by flirting pretty shamelessly with each other. Though we lived close to each other, we didn't meet in person for almost two years. Initially, I was in the midst of my divorce, and I think we both just wanted to have someone constant-but-uncomplicated in our lives. By means of e-mail and chat, we helped each other through two years of Dating Hell. She is smart, sweet, sensitive and sensual, and before I even laid eyes on her, I was in deep smit.
The story of how we met face-to-face is a good one, but for later. The short version is that our friendship has deepened over the years partly because we just get each other, and partly because we don't let each other get away with anything. We trust each other.
Betty says, "...my trust...had grown so deep that I was no longer willing to risk involving my body in the equation." I'm sure that it wasn't that simple for RadiantSmile, but the "I don't want to risk our friendship" conversation did eventually happen. It had to. I'd let her know how I felt, and she simply wasn't comfortable with it.
For the sake of this wonderful friendship, I've accepted those boundaries. I think it's made our friendship deeper in some ways. RadiantSmile has made some bad choices (and had some bad choices made for her) when it comes to men, and I know that she needs a man in her life who isn't a bad choice. It occurred to me about a year and a half ago that loving her means being that for her unconditionally.
That doesn't stop me from checking out her ass every chance I get. She's got a great ass.
I'm still a little saddened by her choice. My parents have been together for 47 years, and they'll tell you that the secret to success in marriage is not romance, passion and great sex...it's friendship. My parents are still together because they're best friends. They've dealt with things that tear most couples apart...financial trouble, oppressive job stress, the death of a child. What held them together was their friendship. That's what I learned from; I know it's rare.
Ramblin' Girl commented on another blog that most people seem to believe that the best way to not break things is to not play with them, and she finds this very sad. Like her, I believe that the best way to not break things is to play with them with care; I believe that a far deeper romance is possible when people begin with friendship and trust.
So, I am simply RadiantSmile's friend, because I trust her to know what she wants and needs, and because if I chose not to trust her that way, I'd lose her incredible insight. I'd lose the one woman friend I've ever had who knows me so well she can spot when I'm being dishonest with myself.
Being disappointed by her choice doesn't mean I'm pining for her, and I think knowing that reassures her that we can be friends. It's a fine line, I suppose.
With the right woman, it's well worth it.
RadiantSmile and I have been buddies for almost nine years. We met in an AOL chat room, and began by flirting pretty shamelessly with each other. Though we lived close to each other, we didn't meet in person for almost two years. Initially, I was in the midst of my divorce, and I think we both just wanted to have someone constant-but-uncomplicated in our lives. By means of e-mail and chat, we helped each other through two years of Dating Hell. She is smart, sweet, sensitive and sensual, and before I even laid eyes on her, I was in deep smit.
The story of how we met face-to-face is a good one, but for later. The short version is that our friendship has deepened over the years partly because we just get each other, and partly because we don't let each other get away with anything. We trust each other.
Betty says, "...my trust...had grown so deep that I was no longer willing to risk involving my body in the equation." I'm sure that it wasn't that simple for RadiantSmile, but the "I don't want to risk our friendship" conversation did eventually happen. It had to. I'd let her know how I felt, and she simply wasn't comfortable with it.
For the sake of this wonderful friendship, I've accepted those boundaries. I think it's made our friendship deeper in some ways. RadiantSmile has made some bad choices (and had some bad choices made for her) when it comes to men, and I know that she needs a man in her life who isn't a bad choice. It occurred to me about a year and a half ago that loving her means being that for her unconditionally.
That doesn't stop me from checking out her ass every chance I get. She's got a great ass.
I'm still a little saddened by her choice. My parents have been together for 47 years, and they'll tell you that the secret to success in marriage is not romance, passion and great sex...it's friendship. My parents are still together because they're best friends. They've dealt with things that tear most couples apart...financial trouble, oppressive job stress, the death of a child. What held them together was their friendship. That's what I learned from; I know it's rare.
Ramblin' Girl commented on another blog that most people seem to believe that the best way to not break things is to not play with them, and she finds this very sad. Like her, I believe that the best way to not break things is to play with them with care; I believe that a far deeper romance is possible when people begin with friendship and trust.
So, I am simply RadiantSmile's friend, because I trust her to know what she wants and needs, and because if I chose not to trust her that way, I'd lose her incredible insight. I'd lose the one woman friend I've ever had who knows me so well she can spot when I'm being dishonest with myself.
Being disappointed by her choice doesn't mean I'm pining for her, and I think knowing that reassures her that we can be friends. It's a fine line, I suppose.
With the right woman, it's well worth it.
My Car Thinks I Need A Wife
Way back somewhere I mentioned that I just got a 2005 BMW 525i. Yes, it's a lease. Shut up.
The list of features on this car is so long that three months after I took delivery, I'm still discovering things about it. This morning, I discovered yet another feature, one that makes it seem as though the car wants me to be married.
No, this is not Herbie, Das Uberinsekt. I will explain: The car comes with two "master" keys. Each of these keys has an integrated controller for the door locks, trunk, and alarm system, as well as having a built-in encryption device that provides the only means for starting the engine. Power for this little Hyperkey comes from a battery that recharges automatically through the ignition switch as you drive the car. (You gotta love the elegance of German engineering.)
Now, when I was married, it was a frequent, if minor annoyance to adjust the car seat whenever I drove her car (or whenever I got my car back from her). I'd usually just slide her driver's seat all the way back, but the car I had at the time had seats that adjusted up and down, forward and back, seat back angle, and lumbar support. Getting the car back from her required ten minutes of tweaking to get the seat back to where I liked it.
The Germans have thought of all that. The 525i comes with 24-way adjustable seats that have two memories...press a button and your seat goes to the way you like it. A lot of cars have that, and the Germans have taken it a step further: When the doors are unlocked with the master key remote, the seat automatically moves to where it was the last time that key was used. It also adjusts the side mirrors and steering wheel tilt.
I knew all this as Owner's Manual Theory and had never tried it out because, hey, I'm one guy, and I only need one key on my key ring. But the manual says to recharge each key at least once every three months. So this morning, on my way to work, I used the OTHER key.
And I discovered that not only does the key make the seat, side mirrors and steering wheel move, it also sets the stereo (including the stations set in memory) and climate control (along with about two dozen convenience settings I didn't have time to discover during my three mile drive to work). It was exactly the way I left it the day I drove home from the dealership and hung that key on the rack in the kitchen.
There you have it...my car has already made accomodations for my future wife.
Apparently, the key to my heart has a BMW emblem on it.
The list of features on this car is so long that three months after I took delivery, I'm still discovering things about it. This morning, I discovered yet another feature, one that makes it seem as though the car wants me to be married.
No, this is not Herbie, Das Uberinsekt. I will explain: The car comes with two "master" keys. Each of these keys has an integrated controller for the door locks, trunk, and alarm system, as well as having a built-in encryption device that provides the only means for starting the engine. Power for this little Hyperkey comes from a battery that recharges automatically through the ignition switch as you drive the car. (You gotta love the elegance of German engineering.)
Now, when I was married, it was a frequent, if minor annoyance to adjust the car seat whenever I drove her car (or whenever I got my car back from her). I'd usually just slide her driver's seat all the way back, but the car I had at the time had seats that adjusted up and down, forward and back, seat back angle, and lumbar support. Getting the car back from her required ten minutes of tweaking to get the seat back to where I liked it.
The Germans have thought of all that. The 525i comes with 24-way adjustable seats that have two memories...press a button and your seat goes to the way you like it. A lot of cars have that, and the Germans have taken it a step further: When the doors are unlocked with the master key remote, the seat automatically moves to where it was the last time that key was used. It also adjusts the side mirrors and steering wheel tilt.
I knew all this as Owner's Manual Theory and had never tried it out because, hey, I'm one guy, and I only need one key on my key ring. But the manual says to recharge each key at least once every three months. So this morning, on my way to work, I used the OTHER key.
And I discovered that not only does the key make the seat, side mirrors and steering wheel move, it also sets the stereo (including the stations set in memory) and climate control (along with about two dozen convenience settings I didn't have time to discover during my three mile drive to work). It was exactly the way I left it the day I drove home from the dealership and hung that key on the rack in the kitchen.
There you have it...my car has already made accomodations for my future wife.
Apparently, the key to my heart has a BMW emblem on it.
Wednesday, June 08, 2005
Quality Time With My Ten Year Old
My ten year old daughter is here for the first half of the summer. I've never been a Disneyland Dad, partly because it's expensive and partly because whenever I go to Disneyland without a date, there's plenty of what we, in my Navy days, used to call "eyeball liberty". And being 43, I feel a lot like a pervert with all that eyeball liberty running around.
So, I look for times when I can do little things that make it clear to my daughter that she's as special to me as her sister (who lives with me most of the time). Doesn't have to be much, as long as we get to do it together, and it's just us.
Today, I took off from work early and surprised her with a walk down to the drug store to buy a couple postcards. I explained the gig to my daughter as we walked, and she was up for it, so we bought two postcards and went to the post office to fill them out and mail them.
I wrote: "Happy 150th Birthday, Nevada! You don't look a day over 149!" She wrote, "Happy 150th Birthday, Nevada! Make a WISH!" My kid is cool like that.
Then, we stood in line for a while. And for a while longer. The computer kept giving one of the cashiers a hard time. My ten year old got bored, and I began to see my cool little father-daughter outing becoming a chore. I bought a book of 23-cent stamps from the machine, had my daughter drop the cards in the box and we headed home.
Me: "Well, that was pretty cool, huh?"
Her: "Uh, yeah, SURE." At this point, cars are swerving to avoid huge chunks of ten-year-old sarcasm.
Me: "Okay, it was pretty lame, wasn't it."
Her: (Sagely) "Yeah, it kinda was...but it was a good idea, though!"
She's very sweet and generous, my daughter.
Someday, maybe when she has kids of her own, she'll realize that it never was about the postcards to a town we only ever heard of today.
It was always about taking a walk together and making each other laugh.
So, I look for times when I can do little things that make it clear to my daughter that she's as special to me as her sister (who lives with me most of the time). Doesn't have to be much, as long as we get to do it together, and it's just us.
Today, I took off from work early and surprised her with a walk down to the drug store to buy a couple postcards. I explained the gig to my daughter as we walked, and she was up for it, so we bought two postcards and went to the post office to fill them out and mail them.
I wrote: "Happy 150th Birthday, Nevada! You don't look a day over 149!" She wrote, "Happy 150th Birthday, Nevada! Make a WISH!" My kid is cool like that.
Then, we stood in line for a while. And for a while longer. The computer kept giving one of the cashiers a hard time. My ten year old got bored, and I began to see my cool little father-daughter outing becoming a chore. I bought a book of 23-cent stamps from the machine, had my daughter drop the cards in the box and we headed home.
Me: "Well, that was pretty cool, huh?"
Her: "Uh, yeah, SURE." At this point, cars are swerving to avoid huge chunks of ten-year-old sarcasm.
Me: "Okay, it was pretty lame, wasn't it."
Her: (Sagely) "Yeah, it kinda was...but it was a good idea, though!"
She's very sweet and generous, my daughter.
Someday, maybe when she has kids of her own, she'll realize that it never was about the postcards to a town we only ever heard of today.
It was always about taking a walk together and making each other laugh.
It Seems To Be About Waiting Today
The June gloom has settled in today.
Yesterday morning, there was some blue between the clouds as I made my way to work, but today it is all about gray. The ocean outside my window is a darker gray than the sky, like stucco before it's been painted to look warm and invitingly Mediterranean. The horizon is soft, barely perceptible.
I wish that I could say that I am centered today...collected and calm. I am not; there is a fuzzy thread of impatience running across the middle of my wait.
I have not heard from my date. I'm a veteran of many such dates in the last ten years, so I'm not taking it personally, but it rankles, nonetheless.
Fellow cubizen B interrupted my thoughts on the subject to share what he's waiting for: His wife's death certificate. It's been five months since she passed away unexpectedly in her sleep, and B has yet to learn the cause of her death.
Sort of puts what I'm waiting for into perspective. It's hard to stay impatient in the presence of that.
The more that I think about it, the more I come to realize that I should simply be grateful for the lessons I came away with last week. I miss the companionship of a steady relationship, but companionship is not what defines me. What defines me is my understanding of the world...and I gained a little ground there.
Probably gained a little ground this morning, too.
Yesterday morning, there was some blue between the clouds as I made my way to work, but today it is all about gray. The ocean outside my window is a darker gray than the sky, like stucco before it's been painted to look warm and invitingly Mediterranean. The horizon is soft, barely perceptible.
I wish that I could say that I am centered today...collected and calm. I am not; there is a fuzzy thread of impatience running across the middle of my wait.
I have not heard from my date. I'm a veteran of many such dates in the last ten years, so I'm not taking it personally, but it rankles, nonetheless.
Fellow cubizen B interrupted my thoughts on the subject to share what he's waiting for: His wife's death certificate. It's been five months since she passed away unexpectedly in her sleep, and B has yet to learn the cause of her death.
Sort of puts what I'm waiting for into perspective. It's hard to stay impatient in the presence of that.
The more that I think about it, the more I come to realize that I should simply be grateful for the lessons I came away with last week. I miss the companionship of a steady relationship, but companionship is not what defines me. What defines me is my understanding of the world...and I gained a little ground there.
Probably gained a little ground this morning, too.
Tuesday, June 07, 2005
Another Goodbye
I started this out to be an update to a precious post, but as I was looking for a link to a website, I saw the headline: Anne Bancroft has died.
I was six when she earned her Oscar for "The Graduate", but I do remember her from "The Turning Point" and many other films since. She always struck me as tough but deeply caring and funny. When I learned that she was married to Mel Brooks, I said, "That makes sense." She was the perfect counterpoint to Mel's lunacy.
I would like to have known her.
Her passing makes me think about getting older. So many celebrities I thought highly of have passed recently, and it makes me wonder if this is one way life prepares us for the gradual passing of our family and friends. Not that I was ever one to idolize a movie star (except maybe when I was 13 and the star was Carrie Fisher, in that white dress she wore in Star Wars, Episode IV), but these are people we look up to and care about to a degree. We miss them when they're gone.
So, in a way, maybe this is practice for when my friends and I reach our fifties, sixties and if we're lucky, seventies, and the group starts to get a little thin.
I should probably appreciate my friends and family more.
I was six when she earned her Oscar for "The Graduate", but I do remember her from "The Turning Point" and many other films since. She always struck me as tough but deeply caring and funny. When I learned that she was married to Mel Brooks, I said, "That makes sense." She was the perfect counterpoint to Mel's lunacy.
I would like to have known her.
Her passing makes me think about getting older. So many celebrities I thought highly of have passed recently, and it makes me wonder if this is one way life prepares us for the gradual passing of our family and friends. Not that I was ever one to idolize a movie star (except maybe when I was 13 and the star was Carrie Fisher, in that white dress she wore in Star Wars, Episode IV), but these are people we look up to and care about to a degree. We miss them when they're gone.
So, in a way, maybe this is practice for when my friends and I reach our fifties, sixties and if we're lucky, seventies, and the group starts to get a little thin.
I should probably appreciate my friends and family more.
Obsessive Compulsive, Statistically Speaking
Several weeks ago, I discovered Stat Counter, while reading Waiter Rant. Nifty idea, I thought, tracking the places from which people come to visit my little collection of thoughts.
I linked to another blog, and she was so grateful she linked back to mine...and for a time, became the main source of visitors. This is nice, I thought. I am connecting with people who seem to be interested in my thoughts.
And then, inexplicably, she replaced my link with another, and the stream of visitors to my blog became a trickle...sometimes, days pass without anyone coming. Was it something I said? Did I somehow fail to be funny or interesting? Writing a note to ask, "Hey, did you delete my link by mistake?" seemed a little needy.*
Frigging counter. If I had never known how many people were visiting, I could have gone on like the truest exhibitionist, exposing myself for the pure joy of it, completely unconcerned about who sees me. Stat Counter has turned me into an attention whore.
Maybe if I start being funnier...
*Come to think of it, this post seems a little needy, too.
I linked to another blog, and she was so grateful she linked back to mine...and for a time, became the main source of visitors. This is nice, I thought. I am connecting with people who seem to be interested in my thoughts.
And then, inexplicably, she replaced my link with another, and the stream of visitors to my blog became a trickle...sometimes, days pass without anyone coming. Was it something I said? Did I somehow fail to be funny or interesting? Writing a note to ask, "Hey, did you delete my link by mistake?" seemed a little needy.*
Frigging counter. If I had never known how many people were visiting, I could have gone on like the truest exhibitionist, exposing myself for the pure joy of it, completely unconcerned about who sees me. Stat Counter has turned me into an attention whore.
Maybe if I start being funnier...
*Come to think of it, this post seems a little needy, too.
Wednesday, June 01, 2005
Coulda Been Polite -- Coulda Been Chemistry
Driving home from a date this evening, I pondered the nature of human attraction. She'd no doubt be horrified to read this, but I was not immediately attracted to my date this evening. She is tall, blonde, slender and conventionally attractive, but on first sight, I did not find her terribly appealing in the sense that makes me turn my head.
Now, go ahead, Imaginary Internet Women, think about bashing me...but wait to do so until I've finished.
My date was very easy to talk to, but that didn't stop us both from being a little nervous. I had met her outside her place of business, and we decided to walk the two blocks to a restaurant she had been wanting to try. It turned out to be a great choice for a casual first date, not too crowded and noisy, good service and really outstanding burgers.*
She asked about my blue rubber wristband, and I told her about my Make-a-Wish experience.
The conversation turned to her recent trip cross country, and it turned out that one of the places she'd visited was Wyoming. My parents now live in Wyoming, so we talked about what we like and dislike about it, and how beautiful it is in the Grand Tetons and around Jackson Hole. At some point, she mentioned that her main reason for visiting Wyoming was to see her neice, who lives in a little town she was sure I'd never heard of named Pinedale.
I actually have heard of Pinedale. I know people who live there. It's a long story, but the people I know there are the same people in my Make-a-Wish tale. Dear Imaginary Reader, Pinedale Wyoming is such a small town, there is absolutely no question that my date's neice knows my Make-a-Wish family.
Over the course of our dinner and the two-hour conversation that followed, a strange thing happened: I discovered that my date was beautiful. I don't mean that I slowly discovered that she's got the kind of personality that makes you forget physical faults, I mean that I realized that hey, she really is tall, blonde, blue-eyed, slender and yes, conventionally attractive...AND she's fun and funny and warm.
So on my way home, I pondered the nature of attraction. For years, I've been disappointed to hear those fateful and vague words from women I've dated: "No chemistry." Until tonight, I'd never understood what that meant...but I think I get it now. It's about connections. It's more than merely having things in common, chemistry transcends tastes and beliefs and common experiences. Chemistry is laughter and honesty and feeling no pressure at all. Chemistry is the discovery that the guy you've just met once helped make a wish come true for a seriously ill child, and then finding that the child lives in the same small town as your favorite neice.
Now, I have no idea if she felt Chemistry, but she felt comfortable enough to accept my offer of a ride home, she asked about the neighborhood I live in and if I thought we'd see each other again, and as she was walking toward her door, mouthed, "see you soon." Coulda been polite...coulda been Chemistry.
Do I want to see her again?
Of course. She's beautiful.
* I would have chosen a nice Italian restaurant I knew of close by, but she was jonesin' for a burger.
Now, go ahead, Imaginary Internet Women, think about bashing me...but wait to do so until I've finished.
My date was very easy to talk to, but that didn't stop us both from being a little nervous. I had met her outside her place of business, and we decided to walk the two blocks to a restaurant she had been wanting to try. It turned out to be a great choice for a casual first date, not too crowded and noisy, good service and really outstanding burgers.*
She asked about my blue rubber wristband, and I told her about my Make-a-Wish experience.
The conversation turned to her recent trip cross country, and it turned out that one of the places she'd visited was Wyoming. My parents now live in Wyoming, so we talked about what we like and dislike about it, and how beautiful it is in the Grand Tetons and around Jackson Hole. At some point, she mentioned that her main reason for visiting Wyoming was to see her neice, who lives in a little town she was sure I'd never heard of named Pinedale.
I actually have heard of Pinedale. I know people who live there. It's a long story, but the people I know there are the same people in my Make-a-Wish tale. Dear Imaginary Reader, Pinedale Wyoming is such a small town, there is absolutely no question that my date's neice knows my Make-a-Wish family.
Over the course of our dinner and the two-hour conversation that followed, a strange thing happened: I discovered that my date was beautiful. I don't mean that I slowly discovered that she's got the kind of personality that makes you forget physical faults, I mean that I realized that hey, she really is tall, blonde, blue-eyed, slender and yes, conventionally attractive...AND she's fun and funny and warm.
So on my way home, I pondered the nature of attraction. For years, I've been disappointed to hear those fateful and vague words from women I've dated: "No chemistry." Until tonight, I'd never understood what that meant...but I think I get it now. It's about connections. It's more than merely having things in common, chemistry transcends tastes and beliefs and common experiences. Chemistry is laughter and honesty and feeling no pressure at all. Chemistry is the discovery that the guy you've just met once helped make a wish come true for a seriously ill child, and then finding that the child lives in the same small town as your favorite neice.
Now, I have no idea if she felt Chemistry, but she felt comfortable enough to accept my offer of a ride home, she asked about the neighborhood I live in and if I thought we'd see each other again, and as she was walking toward her door, mouthed, "see you soon." Coulda been polite...coulda been Chemistry.
Do I want to see her again?
Of course. She's beautiful.
* I would have chosen a nice Italian restaurant I knew of close by, but she was jonesin' for a burger.
Midnight At The Blue Light Lounge
I ran into an old shipmate last week...he called me out of the blue. Unintentionally. Seems he has a voice-activated cell phone that, while expensive, can't differentiate between the commands, "Call Kurt," and "Call Curt." So, Matt called me with a pretty detailed question about how to fix a commercial refrigeration unit he was working on.
I told him I'd do everything I could to help, but since I don't know anything about refrigeration, my advice might not be so helpful. He was quiet for a moment, then said, "Well, maybe we should just forget about the ice maker, then, and go get a cup of coffee."
Matt's not easily fazed.
So over coffee, we got to reminiscing about our time aboard USS COWPENS, and had quite a few laughs about some of the stuff we had to deal with there.
One of the other chiefs had nicknamed our Combat Information Center the "Blue Light Lounge", because it was lit with blue lights when we were underway, and generally, when you went inside, you'd find a bunch of guys slumped in their seats like Nicholas Cage about to get kicked out of his last bar in "Leaving Las Vegas." (No one was drunk, of course, but for the most part, we were bored.)
I should make it clear that boredom in the Blue Light Lounge was a desirable thing. When we weren't bored there, it meant someone was in serious danger.
We often went to great lengths to overcome the boredom. On one particular midwatch, one of our young sailors turned to his shipmate at the console next to him and said (over the intercom, for nearly everyone to hear), "I bet you wouldn't dare me to get naked."
"When?"
"Now."
It's important to recognize that sailors will rise to any challenge, no matter how stupid. "I bet you wouldn't," us the usual start for a stupid challenge.
"Oh, yeah? I bet you wouldn't get naked in here, right now!"
So, the intrepid young sailor threw off his clothes, and sat back down at his console, dressed only in his boots and socks. He proceeded to immerse himself in the duties of his watch, as though he were, well, actually clothed. (I should note that the temperature in the Blue Light Lounge was kept in the low 60s, and most of us wore jackets for our 5 or 7 hour watches.)
Some time, perhaps fifteen or twenty minutes went by, and the Watch Officer, the only one among us not on the intercom, happened to walk by and notice that something was amiss. He stood slack-jawed for a moment, then boomed, "Awww, Christ! Put your clothes back on, Petty Officer Heine!"
I've been chuckling about that for thirteen years.
I told him I'd do everything I could to help, but since I don't know anything about refrigeration, my advice might not be so helpful. He was quiet for a moment, then said, "Well, maybe we should just forget about the ice maker, then, and go get a cup of coffee."
Matt's not easily fazed.
So over coffee, we got to reminiscing about our time aboard USS COWPENS, and had quite a few laughs about some of the stuff we had to deal with there.
One of the other chiefs had nicknamed our Combat Information Center the "Blue Light Lounge", because it was lit with blue lights when we were underway, and generally, when you went inside, you'd find a bunch of guys slumped in their seats like Nicholas Cage about to get kicked out of his last bar in "Leaving Las Vegas." (No one was drunk, of course, but for the most part, we were bored.)
I should make it clear that boredom in the Blue Light Lounge was a desirable thing. When we weren't bored there, it meant someone was in serious danger.
We often went to great lengths to overcome the boredom. On one particular midwatch, one of our young sailors turned to his shipmate at the console next to him and said (over the intercom, for nearly everyone to hear), "I bet you wouldn't dare me to get naked."
"When?"
"Now."
It's important to recognize that sailors will rise to any challenge, no matter how stupid. "I bet you wouldn't," us the usual start for a stupid challenge.
"Oh, yeah? I bet you wouldn't get naked in here, right now!"
So, the intrepid young sailor threw off his clothes, and sat back down at his console, dressed only in his boots and socks. He proceeded to immerse himself in the duties of his watch, as though he were, well, actually clothed. (I should note that the temperature in the Blue Light Lounge was kept in the low 60s, and most of us wore jackets for our 5 or 7 hour watches.)
Some time, perhaps fifteen or twenty minutes went by, and the Watch Officer, the only one among us not on the intercom, happened to walk by and notice that something was amiss. He stood slack-jawed for a moment, then boomed, "Awww, Christ! Put your clothes back on, Petty Officer Heine!"
I've been chuckling about that for thirteen years.
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