Scene: The Boardroom. Seated at the table are DONALD (The Hair); GEORGE and CAROLYN, DONALD'S advisors; a group of employees who are loyal to the company (LAURA, RENEE, CHRISTINA, KAREN & KATHY) but are at their wits' end due to having to put up with the insufferable, annoying, smelly, self-righteous and very stupid JACKIE; and JACKIE.
Fade up from black
DONALD: Jackie, I cannot see one redeemable quality about you. You are the worst manager I've ever seen. How you ever managed to rise from lowly dock receiving clerk to over-paid, over-rated Director is astounding to me. You don't know how to lead a team, you have absolutely no business accumen, you are socially retarded with the most disgusting breath in the world! Your employees can't stand you. You prevent others from doing work, even after demanding that they do your work for you. Among those methods used to slow down employees, you consistently block network printers because you don't check the queues when your worthless color presentations are hogging all the memory. You think colored charts are the only way to run a business, but you have no understanding or concept of the systems you're asked to manage! Jackie, you leave me with no choice. You're fired.
*end fantasy dream sequence.
*extended footage sequence*
The Hair: [looks to CAROLYN and GEORGE for confirmation] Well, that was a tough decision.
GEORGE: [lifts a bushy eyebrow] Not really. It's been a long time coming.
CAROLYN: What took you so long? She should have been gone years ago before even being promoted to senior business systems analyst, let alone director! I can't believe she had the nerve to call herself a manager! What a worthless excuse for a project leader. She makes me ashamed to be categorized as a business woman with her. She's a disgrace to my gender. No, scratch that. She's a disgrace to the American white-collar work force. That wasn't a hard decision at all! Way to go, Mr. Trump.
*end extended footage*
*New extra scene*
Location: outside Boardroom by elevators. JACKIE is waiting for the down elevator. The "up" elevator arrives. CHRISTINA, KATHY, RENEE, KAREN and LAURA ignore it. They wait with JACKIE for the down elevator.
The down elevator finally arrives.
WIth an unspoken communication borne of years enduring persecution together, CHRISTINA, KATHY, RENEE, KAREN and LAURA shove JACKIE as one into the elevator. They throw their own suitcases at and on her, spit, and poke her eyes. Someone starts to throw a punch, but is pulled back by the others as the elevator doors begin to close.
They wave cheerily. As the elevator descends, faint strains of "Ding Dong, the Witch is FIRED" carry down the shaft, accompanying JACKIE on her lonely ride.
A taxi cab sporting a large add for this season's sponsor, "Hot Jobs" arrives. JACKIE is helped in by the doorman, seemingly in a trance.
In the cab, JACKIE blearily blinks.
Why, it looks like she's...been, sleeping? Is that possible? She was ASLEEP during the most important meeting of her life!
JACKIE: Wha? What happened?
*fade to black*
Friday, March 11, 2005
Monday, March 7, 2005
Third Base Coaches, Listening and Perspective
I had some time to kill on Saturday while waiting for a friend of mine, so I found a local community park where a Little League practice game was in session. The boys looked to be between 8 and 11 years old. The fathers/coaches, were of course, more competitive and demanding than the children themselves were; nevertheless, it was a friendly game. It was clear to see that many of the boys knew each other from school or other activities.
All of the sounds were just as familiar to me as if I was one of the players on the field. In fact, if I closed my eyes and listened, it could have just has easily been me on the field ready for the next ball, praying I didn't miss it when it was hit to me, or settling myself into my stance in the batter's box hoping to at least connect with the next pitch. The banter of the coaches to the boys, parents cheering and teammates encouraging each other -- all these sounds brought me back to my own days of playing softball in high school.
The most confusing part of the game for the boys seemed to be running the bases. As a bystander, it was easy to chuckle at some of their rookie mistakes and know that with time and practice, that part would come easier to them. I listened to what the coaches were telling the boys, and I wondered if it really made any sense to them. They are, after all, only young boys. Can they see through the inanities of things such as, "Focus!" "Don't hesitate!" "Listen to me!" "Watch the ball!" "Way to be there, Johnny!" to understand what the coaches were really trying to tell them? I guessed not.
About the time I had the thought, though, that the boys just needed more practice instead of useless phrases hollered at them, I remembered again what it was like to be a base runner. It can be confusing, which as a spectator, you wouldn't think it should be, but it is. It's easy to hesitate, not because you're dumb and don't see what's going on, but because you don't want to make any mistakes. You want to be sure that the ball has gone bast the outfielder before making a clean break for third base. You want the ball to go past the catcher before taking the full leap towards stealing second.
Nothing can make you doubt yourself more in baseball than being a base runner. Sure, running towards first after hitting is easy, plus you've got a coach right there telling you to "Run it out!" That part becomes instinctual in no time at all. And even running towards second is pretty easy. After all, you've still got the first base coach there to tell you when to tag up, when to hold up, and when to make a break for it.
But somewhere between first and second you hit no-man's land. "Should I slide? Where's the ball? Head first or feet first? Did the catcher throw it?" These and a thousand other thoughts go through your mind as your legs pump and you think about the timing to slide under the tag. Sure, the coaches are probably hollering either "Stay up!" or "SLIDE!!!!!" but you may not be able to hear them because you're farther away from them than you were before and there's a lot of other noises, both of the other team shouting and your own internal monologue.
So now you're on second base, adrenaline pumping, smiling a little because you were safe, and the stress starts all over again. Even though you've got coaches at either end 60 feet away, they're far enough away to really not be easily heard. Now is when you really feel like you're on your own. Now is when the self-doubt really settles in. I watched it happen with the boys on Saturday. Before they took off for third, either on an in-play ball or to steal third, there was always a hesitation about whether or not it was totally safe to go. And that hesitation would be just enough to make it not safe to go. The coaches would be yelling, "GO! GO!" and it didn't make any difference. By the time the boys decided to run, it was too late and the coach had to quickly say, "Go back!"
The boy would look a little abashed that he hadn't gone, always with a determined, "I'll do it next time" expression, while the coach invariably yelled, "Johnny! Don't hesitate! You've got to just GO!" And the boy would nod obediently, but just underneath the determined look was also a little bit of fear.
As I was remembering those feelings of being a base runner and feeling all alone and not knowing what to do next, I started thinking about how much like life that is. It's easy to make it to a certain half-way destination with a little bit of encouragement. But once you get there, it's just as easy to wonder how you got there and what should you do next. It seems like you're on your own with no one to offer encouragement and only the derisive voices of the other team hoping that you fail -- that they can get you out next time.
It's at that time of feeling hesitant and doubtful that you need to listen to your third base coach. He doesn't have the same stresses you do of needing to concentrate all your energy on getting the perfect jump and running as fast as you can with excellent timing. He can just survey the playing field, where the ball is being played, and the opposing team all at the same time and is in a perfect position to tell you what to do next and when to do it.
You have two jobs at this point. The first one is to know how to tune out the other voices and concentrate just on that one. That means you need to have been at practice to know what the coach sounds like.
Your second responsibility is to trust what the coach tells you to say, even if you don't believe you're capable of what he's telling you to do right then. If he tells you to run, you run like the dickens. And if he tells you to slide, you hit the ground as low as you can go. And if he tells you to keep going, you round the corner with as much speed and as little space as possible, put your head down, pump your arms, and run for home.
Isn't that just like life? You have to know which voice is the right one to listen to and you have to trust it even if you don't trust yourself. The right voice will never tell you to do something you shouldn't.
Got your cleats on? Get ready to run, then, 'cause the third base coach wants you to get home safely.
All of the sounds were just as familiar to me as if I was one of the players on the field. In fact, if I closed my eyes and listened, it could have just has easily been me on the field ready for the next ball, praying I didn't miss it when it was hit to me, or settling myself into my stance in the batter's box hoping to at least connect with the next pitch. The banter of the coaches to the boys, parents cheering and teammates encouraging each other -- all these sounds brought me back to my own days of playing softball in high school.
The most confusing part of the game for the boys seemed to be running the bases. As a bystander, it was easy to chuckle at some of their rookie mistakes and know that with time and practice, that part would come easier to them. I listened to what the coaches were telling the boys, and I wondered if it really made any sense to them. They are, after all, only young boys. Can they see through the inanities of things such as, "Focus!" "Don't hesitate!" "Listen to me!" "Watch the ball!" "Way to be there, Johnny!" to understand what the coaches were really trying to tell them? I guessed not.
About the time I had the thought, though, that the boys just needed more practice instead of useless phrases hollered at them, I remembered again what it was like to be a base runner. It can be confusing, which as a spectator, you wouldn't think it should be, but it is. It's easy to hesitate, not because you're dumb and don't see what's going on, but because you don't want to make any mistakes. You want to be sure that the ball has gone bast the outfielder before making a clean break for third base. You want the ball to go past the catcher before taking the full leap towards stealing second.
Nothing can make you doubt yourself more in baseball than being a base runner. Sure, running towards first after hitting is easy, plus you've got a coach right there telling you to "Run it out!" That part becomes instinctual in no time at all. And even running towards second is pretty easy. After all, you've still got the first base coach there to tell you when to tag up, when to hold up, and when to make a break for it.
But somewhere between first and second you hit no-man's land. "Should I slide? Where's the ball? Head first or feet first? Did the catcher throw it?" These and a thousand other thoughts go through your mind as your legs pump and you think about the timing to slide under the tag. Sure, the coaches are probably hollering either "Stay up!" or "SLIDE!!!!!" but you may not be able to hear them because you're farther away from them than you were before and there's a lot of other noises, both of the other team shouting and your own internal monologue.
So now you're on second base, adrenaline pumping, smiling a little because you were safe, and the stress starts all over again. Even though you've got coaches at either end 60 feet away, they're far enough away to really not be easily heard. Now is when you really feel like you're on your own. Now is when the self-doubt really settles in. I watched it happen with the boys on Saturday. Before they took off for third, either on an in-play ball or to steal third, there was always a hesitation about whether or not it was totally safe to go. And that hesitation would be just enough to make it not safe to go. The coaches would be yelling, "GO! GO!" and it didn't make any difference. By the time the boys decided to run, it was too late and the coach had to quickly say, "Go back!"
The boy would look a little abashed that he hadn't gone, always with a determined, "I'll do it next time" expression, while the coach invariably yelled, "Johnny! Don't hesitate! You've got to just GO!" And the boy would nod obediently, but just underneath the determined look was also a little bit of fear.
As I was remembering those feelings of being a base runner and feeling all alone and not knowing what to do next, I started thinking about how much like life that is. It's easy to make it to a certain half-way destination with a little bit of encouragement. But once you get there, it's just as easy to wonder how you got there and what should you do next. It seems like you're on your own with no one to offer encouragement and only the derisive voices of the other team hoping that you fail -- that they can get you out next time.
It's at that time of feeling hesitant and doubtful that you need to listen to your third base coach. He doesn't have the same stresses you do of needing to concentrate all your energy on getting the perfect jump and running as fast as you can with excellent timing. He can just survey the playing field, where the ball is being played, and the opposing team all at the same time and is in a perfect position to tell you what to do next and when to do it.
You have two jobs at this point. The first one is to know how to tune out the other voices and concentrate just on that one. That means you need to have been at practice to know what the coach sounds like.
Your second responsibility is to trust what the coach tells you to say, even if you don't believe you're capable of what he's telling you to do right then. If he tells you to run, you run like the dickens. And if he tells you to slide, you hit the ground as low as you can go. And if he tells you to keep going, you round the corner with as much speed and as little space as possible, put your head down, pump your arms, and run for home.
Isn't that just like life? You have to know which voice is the right one to listen to and you have to trust it even if you don't trust yourself. The right voice will never tell you to do something you shouldn't.
Got your cleats on? Get ready to run, then, 'cause the third base coach wants you to get home safely.
Monday, February 14, 2005
Love Is In the Air....Or Something Like That
Happy Valentine's Day! My friendly radio voice-over gal for our local grocery store Pavillion's informs us that back in the days of Roman emperor Claudius I (I think -- don't quote me on that), he refused to let young men get married believing that it would create better soldiers. A young priest, Valentine, began secretly to marry young lovers. Of course, once the nasty Roman emperor dude found out what was going on, he had Father Valentine thrown in prison in readiness to be executed. In the last letter to his own loved one, the good father signed it, "From your Valentine." Thus, St. Valentine's Day was born.
Now go and buy a nice bottle of wine, encourages voice-over Pavillion's lady.
Some people are bitter that such a "holiday" exists. If we were better Catholics, I imagine that we'd acknowledge every day as being some saint's day. Today just happens to be Valentine's saint day. I don't begrudge him the day. I also don't begrudge people in love the opportunity to reaffirm their love to each other, although I am of the very firm opinion that they'd better not just be doing it once a year. I don't really see a lot of people kicking up a lot of fuss about St. Patrick's day. I guess because that gives them a good excuse to go drink themselves into oblivion after breaking up with someone after Valentine's Day. Or something like that.
I am Irish but not Catholic; nevertheless, neither day really holds any particular significance to me as I don't drink either.
I can only remember one Valentine's day that I had a boyfriend. And that's using the term rather loosely. That year, Valentine's Day happened to fall on a Sunday. I wasn't quite sure what, if anything, to get him, as he had been rather weird about the whole gift-exchanging thing at Christmas time. A musical he was in had just opened the weekend before, and I had gotten him an opening-night gift, a rather expensive one at that, and figured I was off the hook for Valentine's Day.
He invited me to his house after church that day. He often did that, so that wasn't anything special. I could usually only hang out for an hour or so before having to leave to go to work anyway, so it really wasn't anything special, nor was I really expecting anything. I was, perhaps, hoping for something special, but I certainly wasn't getting my hopes up.
He put me in the family room and I watched TV while he took "care of some things." I could hear him upstairs going from room to room, opening and closing drawers, whistling and singing. He came back about 10 minutes later with a lovely little gift bag full of Valentine's candy. I thought at the time, that it was quite thoughtful of him. As I mentioned earlier, he really was quite weird about gift giving, so I waited until I got him to open the whole thing in detail to see what I got.
As expected, it was the usual range of generic heart-shaped chocolates. There was, however, one box of conversation sweethearts. You know the ones -- nasty chalky candy with little stalker-ish sayings writting on them. "Be mine." "First kiss." Mad 4 You." There's a place on the outside of the box to personalize it -- "To" and "From." This particular little gem said, "To our friends at Pac Bell. From your favorite vendor."
I got a good chuckle out of that one. Thoughtful of the doofus to remember it was Valentine's Day and he was supposed to acknowledge my presence as his then-girlfriend in some way. Not so smart of him to figure out that the stuff he'd gotten at work on Friday might somehow be marked.
So Valentine's Day has never really held any special place in my heart. In fact, any memories of grade-school Valentine's Days I have are all slightly terror-filled, as I knew it was just a competition for the cute future cheerleaders to brag about how many Valentines they received from Scott or Todd or Philip -- the cute boys in the class, and to rub it in that while you may have gotten one from them, it was the generic Fred Flintstone "yabba-dabba-doo"ing a dorky Valentine's greeting at you, and not the large, glittery, red construction paper heart messily glued on a doiley. So there.
Good times.
But I really have no malice for it one way or another. To me, it's just Monday. Next year, it will be Tuesday. One of my friends calls it "Forced Affection Day." Her email said, "Just wanted to wish you all a wonderful day of forced affection!
"With forced love and admiration,
"Your friend, "
Nice to get an email from a friend telling me to have a happy day, but I'm honestly not thrilled with the fact that she feels she has to do it out of some Hallmark-induced sense of obligation.
Some of my other friends are calling it "Singles' Awareness Day." I don't really need that either, as a day doesn't go by that I'm not (sometimes painfully) aware of how very single I am.
To you I merely wish a Happy Valentine's Day. Go celebrate it however you want, just be safe and happy, and maybe no matter how we view today -- be it as an incentive to purchase wine (thanks, voice-over lady!), or buy a Gold Crown Hallmark card, or be reminded that you are (still) single -- we can all remember that it really is about love and friendship. Go tell someone you love that you love him! (I mean that pronoun in the generic gender sense. Obviously, if you love a girl, go tell HER you love her. Sheesh! Leave me alone, wouldja?)
Oh, and to my friend Carmel: Happy Birthday!
Now go and buy a nice bottle of wine, encourages voice-over Pavillion's lady.
Some people are bitter that such a "holiday" exists. If we were better Catholics, I imagine that we'd acknowledge every day as being some saint's day. Today just happens to be Valentine's saint day. I don't begrudge him the day. I also don't begrudge people in love the opportunity to reaffirm their love to each other, although I am of the very firm opinion that they'd better not just be doing it once a year. I don't really see a lot of people kicking up a lot of fuss about St. Patrick's day. I guess because that gives them a good excuse to go drink themselves into oblivion after breaking up with someone after Valentine's Day. Or something like that.
I am Irish but not Catholic; nevertheless, neither day really holds any particular significance to me as I don't drink either.
I can only remember one Valentine's day that I had a boyfriend. And that's using the term rather loosely. That year, Valentine's Day happened to fall on a Sunday. I wasn't quite sure what, if anything, to get him, as he had been rather weird about the whole gift-exchanging thing at Christmas time. A musical he was in had just opened the weekend before, and I had gotten him an opening-night gift, a rather expensive one at that, and figured I was off the hook for Valentine's Day.
He invited me to his house after church that day. He often did that, so that wasn't anything special. I could usually only hang out for an hour or so before having to leave to go to work anyway, so it really wasn't anything special, nor was I really expecting anything. I was, perhaps, hoping for something special, but I certainly wasn't getting my hopes up.
He put me in the family room and I watched TV while he took "care of some things." I could hear him upstairs going from room to room, opening and closing drawers, whistling and singing. He came back about 10 minutes later with a lovely little gift bag full of Valentine's candy. I thought at the time, that it was quite thoughtful of him. As I mentioned earlier, he really was quite weird about gift giving, so I waited until I got him to open the whole thing in detail to see what I got.
As expected, it was the usual range of generic heart-shaped chocolates. There was, however, one box of conversation sweethearts. You know the ones -- nasty chalky candy with little stalker-ish sayings writting on them. "Be mine." "First kiss." Mad 4 You." There's a place on the outside of the box to personalize it -- "To" and "From." This particular little gem said, "To our friends at Pac Bell. From your favorite vendor."
I got a good chuckle out of that one. Thoughtful of the doofus to remember it was Valentine's Day and he was supposed to acknowledge my presence as his then-girlfriend in some way. Not so smart of him to figure out that the stuff he'd gotten at work on Friday might somehow be marked.
So Valentine's Day has never really held any special place in my heart. In fact, any memories of grade-school Valentine's Days I have are all slightly terror-filled, as I knew it was just a competition for the cute future cheerleaders to brag about how many Valentines they received from Scott or Todd or Philip -- the cute boys in the class, and to rub it in that while you may have gotten one from them, it was the generic Fred Flintstone "yabba-dabba-doo"ing a dorky Valentine's greeting at you, and not the large, glittery, red construction paper heart messily glued on a doiley. So there.
Good times.
But I really have no malice for it one way or another. To me, it's just Monday. Next year, it will be Tuesday. One of my friends calls it "Forced Affection Day." Her email said, "Just wanted to wish you all a wonderful day of forced affection!
"With forced love and admiration,
"Your friend, "
Nice to get an email from a friend telling me to have a happy day, but I'm honestly not thrilled with the fact that she feels she has to do it out of some Hallmark-induced sense of obligation.
Some of my other friends are calling it "Singles' Awareness Day." I don't really need that either, as a day doesn't go by that I'm not (sometimes painfully) aware of how very single I am.
To you I merely wish a Happy Valentine's Day. Go celebrate it however you want, just be safe and happy, and maybe no matter how we view today -- be it as an incentive to purchase wine (thanks, voice-over lady!), or buy a Gold Crown Hallmark card, or be reminded that you are (still) single -- we can all remember that it really is about love and friendship. Go tell someone you love that you love him! (I mean that pronoun in the generic gender sense. Obviously, if you love a girl, go tell HER you love her. Sheesh! Leave me alone, wouldja?)
Oh, and to my friend Carmel: Happy Birthday!
Thursday, December 23, 2004
What Saint Nick and I Have In Common
I love Santa Claus. Especially ones who are realistic. I encountered one the other day at the Burbank Media Center who was truly the best -- twinkly blue eyes, real beard, soft British accent, and didn't care that I'm a 38-year old woman who wanted to get her picture taken with him.
He invited me to sit on his lap, but being more than a bit cognizant of the fact that I'm not a small child, I was perching in an attempt to not put all of my (considerable) weight on his knee. He, however, assured me that Mrs. Claus weighs 350 pounds and sits on his lap all the time, so it really shouldn't be an issue. I didn't want to test that theory though, so that's why the actual snapshot is of me kneeling by his side -- I didn't want to break his knees. After all, he's got a busy night coming up! I thought that would be it -- take the photo with Santa and then go on my merry way, but he wouldn't let me go -- he wanted to know what I wanted for Christmas, and I got to have a lovely little chat with him. No, I'm not telling you what I told him, but we did talk about his busy upcoming night, and I learned some fun facts about how he gets around the world. He doesn't use reindeer in Australia, for instance; he uses white kangaroos.
Here are some other interesting things I've learned about Santa Claus.
The basis for the Christian Era Santa Claus is Bishop Nicholas. The Orthodox Church raised St. Nicholas to a position of great esteem. The Roman Catholic Church honoured Nicholas as one who helped children and the poor. St. Nicholas' feast day is December 6 (my birthday! another fun fact I learned from my mall Santa) and was commemorated with an annual feast which eventually marked the beginning of the Medieval Christmas.
St. Nicholas was legendary for his kindness and generosity and was a champion of children and the needy. Through his benevolence we find the two basic principles of the holiday spirit - giving to others and helping the less fortunate - as well as the tradition of hanging stockings by the chimney. According to one legend, there were three Italian maidens whose father had lost his fortune. The three maidens were to wed, but their father couls not afford the dowries that were necessary. When St, Nicholas heard of this, he went to their home late one night and tossed three bags of gold down the chimney. The bags miracously landed in each of the sisters stockings, that were hung by the fire to dry. A variation of this story, is that as each girl was to wed, he anonymously tossed a bag into an open window. This may have been used as a way of explaining how Santa Claus delivers gifts to homes that have no chimney.
After the Protestant Reformation of the sixteenth century, the veneration of Catholic saints was banned. But people did not want to give up their annual visits from the gift-giving saint, and they did not want to forget the purpose of the holiday. In some countries the festivities of St. Nicholas Day were merged with Christmas celebrations. St. Nicholas underwent a transformation into a new, non-religious form, but he retained his generous spirit.
In parts of Europe such as Germany, Nicholas the gift-giver had been superseded by a representation of the infant Jesus (the Christ child, or "Christkindlein"). The Christkindlein accompanied Nicholas-like figures with other names (such as "Père Nöel" in France, or he travelled with a dwarf-like helper (known in some places as "Pelznickel," or Nicholas with furs). Belsnickle (as Pelznickel was known in the German-American dialect of Pennsylvania was represented by adults who dressed in furry disguises (including false whiskers), visited while children were still awake, and put on a scary performance. Gifts found by children the next morning were credited to Christkindlein, who had come while everyone was asleep. Over time, the non-visible Christkindlein (whose name mutated into "Kriss Kringle") was overshadowed by the visible Belsnickle, and both of them became confused with St. Nicholas and the emerging figure of Santa Claus.
The Dutch-American Santa Claus achieved full Americanization in 1823 in a poem 'A Visit from St. Nick' (The Night Before Christmas) by Clement C. Moore. His poem gave an Arctic flavor to Santa Claus's image. He substituted eight tiny reindeer and a sleigh for the horse and wagon. He included such details as Santa's wink, nod, laugh and the myth by which the 'jolly old elf' returns up the chimney. It is Moore's description that we think of today: "He had a broad face, and a little round belly, that shook when he laughed, like a bowl full of jelly."
There's a lot of talk about the commercialization of Christmas. I for one noticed that Christmas decorations competed with Halloween goodies in the stores this year. It does seem that retailers want more from us earlier each year. This causes some disgruntlement for some people, which I can understand.
As a Christian, I wholeheartedly support the idea that Christmas should remain a celebration of the Christ Child's earthly birth. There are many ways that I personally try to retain that in my mind even while shopping amidst the hustle and bustle of stores and malls. But there is something about this image of Santa Claus that I love and that strikes a very tender chord in my heart. I love the idea that in this era of money-grubbing, getting-ahead-at-all-costs, think-about-yourself-first-others-later attitude that seems so prevalent in our current society, there is a figure of a gift-giving, selfless individual who has an entire army of helpers at his disposal to help bring joy and happines to children and the child-like one day a year.
You may call him commercial, but I call him a visible reminder of what I need to be not just at Christmas time, but all year round -- happy, selfless, a good listener, able to discern between right and wrong, and actively engaged in good causes always.
I hope your Christmas wishes come true.
May you enjoy a peaceful and joyous holiday.
Merry Christmas, everyone!
He invited me to sit on his lap, but being more than a bit cognizant of the fact that I'm not a small child, I was perching in an attempt to not put all of my (considerable) weight on his knee. He, however, assured me that Mrs. Claus weighs 350 pounds and sits on his lap all the time, so it really shouldn't be an issue. I didn't want to test that theory though, so that's why the actual snapshot is of me kneeling by his side -- I didn't want to break his knees. After all, he's got a busy night coming up! I thought that would be it -- take the photo with Santa and then go on my merry way, but he wouldn't let me go -- he wanted to know what I wanted for Christmas, and I got to have a lovely little chat with him. No, I'm not telling you what I told him, but we did talk about his busy upcoming night, and I learned some fun facts about how he gets around the world. He doesn't use reindeer in Australia, for instance; he uses white kangaroos.
Here are some other interesting things I've learned about Santa Claus.
The basis for the Christian Era Santa Claus is Bishop Nicholas. The Orthodox Church raised St. Nicholas to a position of great esteem. The Roman Catholic Church honoured Nicholas as one who helped children and the poor. St. Nicholas' feast day is December 6 (my birthday! another fun fact I learned from my mall Santa) and was commemorated with an annual feast which eventually marked the beginning of the Medieval Christmas.
St. Nicholas was legendary for his kindness and generosity and was a champion of children and the needy. Through his benevolence we find the two basic principles of the holiday spirit - giving to others and helping the less fortunate - as well as the tradition of hanging stockings by the chimney. According to one legend, there were three Italian maidens whose father had lost his fortune. The three maidens were to wed, but their father couls not afford the dowries that were necessary. When St, Nicholas heard of this, he went to their home late one night and tossed three bags of gold down the chimney. The bags miracously landed in each of the sisters stockings, that were hung by the fire to dry. A variation of this story, is that as each girl was to wed, he anonymously tossed a bag into an open window. This may have been used as a way of explaining how Santa Claus delivers gifts to homes that have no chimney.
After the Protestant Reformation of the sixteenth century, the veneration of Catholic saints was banned. But people did not want to give up their annual visits from the gift-giving saint, and they did not want to forget the purpose of the holiday. In some countries the festivities of St. Nicholas Day were merged with Christmas celebrations. St. Nicholas underwent a transformation into a new, non-religious form, but he retained his generous spirit.
In parts of Europe such as Germany, Nicholas the gift-giver had been superseded by a representation of the infant Jesus (the Christ child, or "Christkindlein"). The Christkindlein accompanied Nicholas-like figures with other names (such as "Père Nöel" in France, or he travelled with a dwarf-like helper (known in some places as "Pelznickel," or Nicholas with furs). Belsnickle (as Pelznickel was known in the German-American dialect of Pennsylvania was represented by adults who dressed in furry disguises (including false whiskers), visited while children were still awake, and put on a scary performance. Gifts found by children the next morning were credited to Christkindlein, who had come while everyone was asleep. Over time, the non-visible Christkindlein (whose name mutated into "Kriss Kringle") was overshadowed by the visible Belsnickle, and both of them became confused with St. Nicholas and the emerging figure of Santa Claus.
The Dutch-American Santa Claus achieved full Americanization in 1823 in a poem 'A Visit from St. Nick' (The Night Before Christmas) by Clement C. Moore. His poem gave an Arctic flavor to Santa Claus's image. He substituted eight tiny reindeer and a sleigh for the horse and wagon. He included such details as Santa's wink, nod, laugh and the myth by which the 'jolly old elf' returns up the chimney. It is Moore's description that we think of today: "He had a broad face, and a little round belly, that shook when he laughed, like a bowl full of jelly."
There's a lot of talk about the commercialization of Christmas. I for one noticed that Christmas decorations competed with Halloween goodies in the stores this year. It does seem that retailers want more from us earlier each year. This causes some disgruntlement for some people, which I can understand.
As a Christian, I wholeheartedly support the idea that Christmas should remain a celebration of the Christ Child's earthly birth. There are many ways that I personally try to retain that in my mind even while shopping amidst the hustle and bustle of stores and malls. But there is something about this image of Santa Claus that I love and that strikes a very tender chord in my heart. I love the idea that in this era of money-grubbing, getting-ahead-at-all-costs, think-about-yourself-first-others-later attitude that seems so prevalent in our current society, there is a figure of a gift-giving, selfless individual who has an entire army of helpers at his disposal to help bring joy and happines to children and the child-like one day a year.
You may call him commercial, but I call him a visible reminder of what I need to be not just at Christmas time, but all year round -- happy, selfless, a good listener, able to discern between right and wrong, and actively engaged in good causes always.
I hope your Christmas wishes come true.
May you enjoy a peaceful and joyous holiday.
Merry Christmas, everyone!
Friday, October 22, 2004
Short Stories
I love rain. I love the way it smells, looks, feels and sounds. I know I'm leaving off the fifth sense, but I still live in Los Angeles and am not willing to get some weird disease by tasting it. When it started raining on Saturday night, I first knew by the change in noise of the nearby freeway traffic. I flung open the front door and immediately started inhaling that freshly damp dirt and street smell that's so unique to a first rainfall. I love the sound it makes on my car roof, and on my hood or umbrella when I'm walking in it. And I get an exhilirating feeling when I am driving on the semi-flooded streets and find a particularly deep puddle that I can sploosh through, sending a mini-tidal wave up in the air. I love sitting in my office chair watching raindrops trickle down the window pane, combining themselves with other droplets and racing each other to the bottom.
However, I know that not everyone is as excited about this as I am. Living in southern California, I am definitely in the minority. In fact, some people get downright panicky when it starts raining here. Still others don't function very well emotionally during bad weather or winter months.
With that in mind, I will simply share a few things with you that have struck my funny bone today. If you're already in a good mood, hopefully it can get better. And if you're feeling as gray and gloomy as the cloudy skies, maybe this will help you too.
***********************************
A friend of mine owes the IRS some money. Never a fun way to start off a story, I know, but it gets better. I heard this joke about a guy who owed the IRS $3,407. He packaged up his payment and included this letter to the IRS:
"Dear IRS:
"Enclosed is my 1997 Tax Return & payment. Please take note of the attached article from USA Today. In the article, you will see that the Pentagon is paying $171.50 for hammers and NASA has paid $600.00 for a toilet seat.
"Please find enclosed four toilet seats (value $2400) and six hammers (value $1029).
"This brings my total payment to $3429.00. Please note the overpayment of $22.00 and apply it to the Presidential Election Fund, as noted on my return. Might I suggest you the send the above mentioned fund a '1.5 inch screw'. (See attached article - HUD paid $22.00 for a 1.5 inch Phillips Head Screw.)
"It has been a pleasure to pay my tax bill this year, and I look forward to paying it again next year. I just saw an article about the Pentagon and 'screwdrivers'.
"Sincerely,"
So I sent this to my friend and copied my accountant friend on it, asking if this was a good idea. Her response?
"You're totally good to go. Please take note of C's new future email address, marthasroommate@virginafederalpenn.org."
***************************************
Speaking of Martha Stewart's potential roommates and people who try to get something for nothing, we have this fellow to thank for nearly singlehandedly bringing about the demise of The Disney Store, Inc. Not only did he ruin Structure (part of the Limited family) prior to going to TDS, then he picked his away through the ashes and ruins of Disney and went to Wet Seal.
Guess what? He and his cronies are being investigated by the SEC. It's only too bad it took this long for his karma to catch up with him.
Yes, I know that none of that is funny, but my friend's Anna's reaction to the story was, "Now all I can picture is Peter as Martha's new prison b****. Help! I need to rinse my eyes with bleach to get rid of the image!"
***************************************
One of my former workmates has a cubicle neighbor, Mary, whose new responsibilities, by necessity, attract people down that aisle who wouldn't normally be there, nor are they wanted there. It's not bad enough that Kathy has to put up with those annoyances, but Mary also exhibits certain personal habits that fall into the "annoying" category.
I got this riddle from Kathy today:
Q: What's this?
murmurmurmurmurmurzkdlvjlslkdj; dkfj; murmurqerpoiuadfl;kjweowowodk; murmurmurmur asd;lkasdowekdsd;fl murmurmurmur murmurmurmurmurmuralskdjflasljlsjlmurmurlasdflmurmurlkajsdlfmurm erlajdfsljldjfjmurmur.
A: Mary typing an email.
*************************************
This is from my sister who is taking a physics class. After I read this account of her very dim-witted lab partner, I've decided that when this person grows up, she'll be in upper management. Probably one of my managers someday. "Do a perfect job, even though I don't know what you're doing. And if I don't like it, you'll do it over until I do. Even though I don't know what I want."
Lab # 2: Velocity and Acceleration, Gravity
My sister and her lab partner are running the paper tape through the measuring device to discover for ourselves that velocity isn't the same as acceleration and to find some number that represents the acceleration of gravity. The partner is upset because the little dots on the paper tape aren't spaced perfectly so their time vs. velocity graph doesn't look perfect and they're not coming up with exactly -9.8 m/s^2.
My Sister: "It's probably the way we fed the tape through, or the way we dropped the weight, some friction or something, right? It's the first time we ever did this, so we probably did it wrong. So let's just run another tape through, because they told us it usually takes a few tries anyway."
Future Manager: "I've got to get to my job. I don't have time to do all this
stuff over again. Let's just cut out the dots we don't like."
MS: "Um, you mean, don't put them on the graph?"
FM: "Yeah, just leave them out. They said we only need 14 data points, and we ran it longer, we got 23, so we can cut out the ones we don't like."
MS: "But then it wouldn't be physics."
FM: "It's just physics 101 lab, it's not real physics."
MS: "So when we leave out the stuff we don't like, and we have these huge gaps in between the stuff we do like, what do we call that? I mean, that isn't the way you do science. We might as well just make up new dots to give us whatever results we want..."
FM: "Tchk! I'm going to ask the T.A."
T.A.: [sound of jaw dropping to floor] [spends next 10 minutes trying to explain to her why we can't leave out the points we don't like]
FM: [she comes back, discouraged] "Your husband's supposedly, like, some kind of scientist, isn't he? Well, why don't you ask him."
MS: "I've vowed never to talk to him about this class."
FM: "Huh? Why would you do that?"
MS: "Same reason I took this long to get around to taking a physics class. Long boring story, gotta learn stuff myself, or else I don't get it. Anyway, it doesn't matter."
[later, my sister broke her "vow" and told her husband this story...]
Husband: [sound of incredulous laughter]
****************************************
This one isn't so funny as much as interesting. My dad is radioactive.
Yes, you read that right. If I had a Geiger counter and held it up to him, I would get a reading of 48.6 millicurries of radioactivity from him.
My dad was diagnosed some time ago with prostate cancer. He had originally decided to let it go untreated. He's had so many surgeries lately, for skin cancer, hip replacement and other weird cancer-like things, that I think he was probably just tired of dealing with it all.
But then his doctor advised him of this new treatment that wouldn't involve any of the usual cancer treatments such as chemotherapy or (traditional) radiation therapy. When he first explained it to me, all I got out of it was that there would be crystals loaded with something that would be lethal to the nasty cancer cells. Those crystals would be placed in the prostate to fight the cancer. I of course, could not get the image out of my head of little new-agey crystals surgically implanted in my dad's body making little woo-woo noises while they meditated and chanted at the cancer cells.
I was just slightly wrong. It's a treatment called "brachytheraphy," meaning radiation really close up; not directed through a beam like traditional cancer radiation treatment. They are little crystalic seeds that are filled with radioactive material. They are injected into the prostate giving lethal doses of cancer-fighting stuff to the nasty cancer cells. They will stay in him for the rest of his life. More or less.
Pretty cool, huh? No more cancer. The downside is no holding any great-grandchildren on his lap for awhile, but then he doesn't have to be the first one to discover the baby's diaper needs changing. So, not all bad.
****************************************
Lastly, here's a real joke that still has me chuckling, even though it's been several hours since I first heard it. There may be some advice here on how I can catch me a man!
A man is dining in a fancy restaurant and there is a gorgeous redhead sitting at the next table. He has been checking her out since he sat down, but lacks the nerve to talk with her.
Suddenly she sneezes, and her glass eye comes flying out of its socket towards the man.
He reflexively reaches out, grabs it out of the air, and hands it back.
"Oh my, I am so sorry," the woman says as she pops her eye back in place. "Let me buy your dinner to make it up to you," she says.
They enjoy a wonderful dinner together, and afterwards they go to the theater followed by drinks. They talk, they laugh, she shares her deepest dreams and he shares his. She listens.
After paying for everything, she asks him if he would like to come to her place for a nightcap and stay for breakfast. They had a wonderful, wonderful time.
The next morning, she cooks a gourmet meal with all the trimmings. The guy is amazed! Everything had been SO incredible!!!!
"You know," he said, "you are the perfect woman. Are you this nice to every guy you meet?"
"No," she replies. . . . . . . "
Wait for it.
It's coming.
The suspense is killing you, isn't it?
-top-alt: auto; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto">
"You just happened to catch my eye."
***************************************
Enjoy your day, be safe and find something to laugh at. Er, about.
***************************************
Reading: "The Idiot Girls' Action-Adventure Club," by Laurie Notaro.
Excited About: ... On second thought, this should really be "Scared to Death About in a Tingly, Halloween-y Kind of Way: Spooky House Haunted Hotel tomorrow night. Ack!
However, I know that not everyone is as excited about this as I am. Living in southern California, I am definitely in the minority. In fact, some people get downright panicky when it starts raining here. Still others don't function very well emotionally during bad weather or winter months.
With that in mind, I will simply share a few things with you that have struck my funny bone today. If you're already in a good mood, hopefully it can get better. And if you're feeling as gray and gloomy as the cloudy skies, maybe this will help you too.
***********************************
A friend of mine owes the IRS some money. Never a fun way to start off a story, I know, but it gets better. I heard this joke about a guy who owed the IRS $3,407. He packaged up his payment and included this letter to the IRS:
"Dear IRS:
"Enclosed is my 1997 Tax Return & payment. Please take note of the attached article from USA Today. In the article, you will see that the Pentagon is paying $171.50 for hammers and NASA has paid $600.00 for a toilet seat.
"Please find enclosed four toilet seats (value $2400) and six hammers (value $1029).
"This brings my total payment to $3429.00. Please note the overpayment of $22.00 and apply it to the Presidential Election Fund, as noted on my return. Might I suggest you the send the above mentioned fund a '1.5 inch screw'. (See attached article - HUD paid $22.00 for a 1.5 inch Phillips Head Screw.)
"It has been a pleasure to pay my tax bill this year, and I look forward to paying it again next year. I just saw an article about the Pentagon and 'screwdrivers'.
"Sincerely,"
So I sent this to my friend and copied my accountant friend on it, asking if this was a good idea. Her response?
"You're totally good to go. Please take note of C's new future email address, marthasroommate@virginafederalpenn.org."
***************************************
Speaking of Martha Stewart's potential roommates and people who try to get something for nothing, we have this fellow to thank for nearly singlehandedly bringing about the demise of The Disney Store, Inc. Not only did he ruin Structure (part of the Limited family) prior to going to TDS, then he picked his away through the ashes and ruins of Disney and went to Wet Seal.
Guess what? He and his cronies are being investigated by the SEC. It's only too bad it took this long for his karma to catch up with him.
Yes, I know that none of that is funny, but my friend's Anna's reaction to the story was, "Now all I can picture is Peter as Martha's new prison b****. Help! I need to rinse my eyes with bleach to get rid of the image!"
***************************************
One of my former workmates has a cubicle neighbor, Mary, whose new responsibilities, by necessity, attract people down that aisle who wouldn't normally be there, nor are they wanted there. It's not bad enough that Kathy has to put up with those annoyances, but Mary also exhibits certain personal habits that fall into the "annoying" category.
I got this riddle from Kathy today:
Q: What's this?
murmurmurmurmurmurzkdlvjlslkdj; dkfj; murmurqerpoiuadfl;kjweowowodk; murmurmurmur asd;lkasdowekdsd;fl murmurmurmur murmurmurmurmurmuralskdjflasljlsjlmurmurlasdflmurmurlkajsdlfmurm erlajdfsljldjfjmurmur.
A: Mary typing an email.
*************************************
This is from my sister who is taking a physics class. After I read this account of her very dim-witted lab partner, I've decided that when this person grows up, she'll be in upper management. Probably one of my managers someday. "Do a perfect job, even though I don't know what you're doing. And if I don't like it, you'll do it over until I do. Even though I don't know what I want."
Lab # 2: Velocity and Acceleration, Gravity
My sister and her lab partner are running the paper tape through the measuring device to discover for ourselves that velocity isn't the same as acceleration and to find some number that represents the acceleration of gravity. The partner is upset because the little dots on the paper tape aren't spaced perfectly so their time vs. velocity graph doesn't look perfect and they're not coming up with exactly -9.8 m/s^2.
My Sister: "It's probably the way we fed the tape through, or the way we dropped the weight, some friction or something, right? It's the first time we ever did this, so we probably did it wrong. So let's just run another tape through, because they told us it usually takes a few tries anyway."
Future Manager: "I've got to get to my job. I don't have time to do all this
stuff over again. Let's just cut out the dots we don't like."
MS: "Um, you mean, don't put them on the graph?"
FM: "Yeah, just leave them out. They said we only need 14 data points, and we ran it longer, we got 23, so we can cut out the ones we don't like."
MS: "But then it wouldn't be physics."
FM: "It's just physics 101 lab, it's not real physics."
MS: "So when we leave out the stuff we don't like, and we have these huge gaps in between the stuff we do like, what do we call that? I mean, that isn't the way you do science. We might as well just make up new dots to give us whatever results we want..."
FM: "Tchk! I'm going to ask the T.A."
T.A.: [sound of jaw dropping to floor] [spends next 10 minutes trying to explain to her why we can't leave out the points we don't like]
FM: [she comes back, discouraged] "Your husband's supposedly, like, some kind of scientist, isn't he? Well, why don't you ask him."
MS: "I've vowed never to talk to him about this class."
FM: "Huh? Why would you do that?"
MS: "Same reason I took this long to get around to taking a physics class. Long boring story, gotta learn stuff myself, or else I don't get it. Anyway, it doesn't matter."
[later, my sister broke her "vow" and told her husband this story...]
Husband: [sound of incredulous laughter]
****************************************
This one isn't so funny as much as interesting. My dad is radioactive.
Yes, you read that right. If I had a Geiger counter and held it up to him, I would get a reading of 48.6 millicurries of radioactivity from him.
My dad was diagnosed some time ago with prostate cancer. He had originally decided to let it go untreated. He's had so many surgeries lately, for skin cancer, hip replacement and other weird cancer-like things, that I think he was probably just tired of dealing with it all.
But then his doctor advised him of this new treatment that wouldn't involve any of the usual cancer treatments such as chemotherapy or (traditional) radiation therapy. When he first explained it to me, all I got out of it was that there would be crystals loaded with something that would be lethal to the nasty cancer cells. Those crystals would be placed in the prostate to fight the cancer. I of course, could not get the image out of my head of little new-agey crystals surgically implanted in my dad's body making little woo-woo noises while they meditated and chanted at the cancer cells.
I was just slightly wrong. It's a treatment called "brachytheraphy," meaning radiation really close up; not directed through a beam like traditional cancer radiation treatment. They are little crystalic seeds that are filled with radioactive material. They are injected into the prostate giving lethal doses of cancer-fighting stuff to the nasty cancer cells. They will stay in him for the rest of his life. More or less.
Pretty cool, huh? No more cancer. The downside is no holding any great-grandchildren on his lap for awhile, but then he doesn't have to be the first one to discover the baby's diaper needs changing. So, not all bad.
****************************************
Lastly, here's a real joke that still has me chuckling, even though it's been several hours since I first heard it. There may be some advice here on how I can catch me a man!
A man is dining in a fancy restaurant and there is a gorgeous redhead sitting at the next table. He has been checking her out since he sat down, but lacks the nerve to talk with her.
Suddenly she sneezes, and her glass eye comes flying out of its socket towards the man.
He reflexively reaches out, grabs it out of the air, and hands it back.
"Oh my, I am so sorry," the woman says as she pops her eye back in place. "Let me buy your dinner to make it up to you," she says.
They enjoy a wonderful dinner together, and afterwards they go to the theater followed by drinks. They talk, they laugh, she shares her deepest dreams and he shares his. She listens.
After paying for everything, she asks him if he would like to come to her place for a nightcap and stay for breakfast. They had a wonderful, wonderful time.
The next morning, she cooks a gourmet meal with all the trimmings. The guy is amazed! Everything had been SO incredible!!!!
"You know," he said, "you are the perfect woman. Are you this nice to every guy you meet?"
"No," she replies. . . . . . . "
Wait for it.
It's coming.
The suspense is killing you, isn't it?
-top-alt: auto; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto">
"You just happened to catch my eye."
***************************************
Enjoy your day, be safe and find something to laugh at. Er, about.
***************************************
Reading: "The Idiot Girls' Action-Adventure Club," by Laurie Notaro.
Excited About: ... On second thought, this should really be "Scared to Death About in a Tingly, Halloween-y Kind of Way: Spooky House Haunted Hotel tomorrow night. Ack!
Monday, October 4, 2004
Scores You Don't See On the Sports Page
I grew up, as you already know, in a suburb about 30 miles east of San Francisco. NOT "Frisco," as so many of you insist on calling it. Please. Don't. Not in front of me, at least. To any true Bay Area-ite, that term makes us cringe.
Oh, fine. Go ahead. Get it out of your system. I know you just want to bug me.
Okay. Done? Good. Moving on, then.
“The City” is what we called it. Because that's what it was. The. City. Always capitalized, because it was the only big city around. Well, maybe not the only one, but the only important one. Going there was an adventure, always begun on BART and other modes of public transportation. We rarely actually drove there, unless we knew the exact destination and that it wouldn't be easily accessible otherwise.
The City has a charm to it that other big cities don't have. I didn't realize until I visited Los Angeles, downtown Los Angeles, for the first time, that the reason for that is that San Francisco is not big. It sure did seem like it back then to a kid from the suburbs. The beggars, homeless or otherwise, are always creative about getting money out of tourists. They don't just stick their hands out and demand as is so typical elsewhere. They perform -- acting as robots that only move when an appropriate amount is placed in the appropriate canister. They shake bushes at unsuspecting passers-by while others eagerly anticipate the element of surprise of a bush suddenly walking and moving and talking. They even, heaven forbid, ask politely, as exhibited tonight by the woman who confronted me in the Jack-in-the-Box. She held out her grubby hand holding fifty-three cents or so and asked for a quarter. I dug in my pocket for my change, so she immediately saw I had about eighty-three cents. She had asked for one quarter, so I told he`r, handing her two, that I would save the rest of the change for the guy I had seen outside in the wheelchair. She was distracted though by the amount I wasn't giving her and asked for more. " But then there wouldn't be anything for the guy outside. I gotta spread it around -- can't give it all to one person, ya know?" I explained. She demurred that would be the right thing to do, and went to politely ask someone else for some money, "Hon."
But driving here at night, from the airport, when I haven't had a chance during the day to let the atmosphere of the city charm me as it usually does, I felt a little cold. Not atmospherically so, but charm that I’m used to was not on display, leaving me cold. It's another dirty, grungy, cement-filled, over-crowded city, made confusing by countless one-way streets and near-impossible to find hotel parking entrances.
Real estate is at such a premium here on a peninsula that can only grow up, not out, that even hotel guests are charged the astronomic price of $44 per day for parking. Forty-four. Dollars. Per day. To park my car that I will hardly ever drive anyway. I kept asking the valet guy about self-parking, and he said there's a garage across the street that only charges $30 / day with in/out privileges. While I would like to save the company $14 a day, the thought of getting back into that car and driving another 3 miles just to move the car across the street (remember the one-way streets?) was too exhausting to think about.
The guy at corporate travel was very excited for me to stay at this hotel. But when push comes to shove, a hotel room is a hotel room is a hotel room. Some are cleaner than others, and the cleanliness of this one is something to appreciate, but it has a bed. And a desk. And a phone. And a TV on a bureau, a closet and a bathroom with a toilet, sink, tub and shower. For this, my company pays $155 a night plus applicable taxes and surcharges for me to sleep. Oh, and the $44 / day parking charge. Sheesh. The most distinctive feature that separates this hotel from others in which I have stayed is probably the scent. Or odor, depending on your opinion. It's a Japanese hotel, and I was a little disappointed that there wasn't more ethnicity or culture or whatever to set it apart from other hotels. The smell does. It all has a faint odor of that dried seaweed stuff. Which is okay, I guess, if you like that, but . . . it's not really floating my boat right now.
I hope that my naive enthusiasm for being here can be restored in the morning. I plan on walking the half mile to my training class, so that my help. Some of my dampened attitude may simply be due to the fact I'm still recovering from this stupid sinus infection. I hope it's not just because I'm a jaded adult now who's been traveling for about two weeks too long to really enjoy this latest experience, when all I really want is to be home, with my own comfy bed, my fat, drooling cats, my friends, my own comforts. Wow, I sound old, don't I? But I shall try to enjoy this. After all, I'm not footing this hefty bill! (Why do I feel guilt about it then?)
face="Verdana">***************************************
San Francisco in Broad Daylight
Retrospectively, October 6, 2004
A decent night's sleep in a bed, that for a hotel, was almost as comfortable as the one I left at home, left me feeling a little bit better about my status as a guest in The City, as opposed to day visitor.
Walking to my training class, about six blocks away, was an infinitely easier prospect than driving, for the simple fact that it would probably only take about 10 minutes to walk a straight line, rather than 20 estimated minutes to drive a convulated route.
Even in the morning with very little traffic, pedestrian or otherwise, the city streets had a depressing pall about them. Maybe it's because there are more homeless people than I remember there being here before. And they don't all exhibit the charm that I'm used to from San Francisco beggars. most of them are just that -- beggars.
The day was warmer than most San Francisco days, draining even more of the charm that I'd come to expect from my previous day visits. In fact, not only was the near omni-present fog not present, the heat added to the increased amount of homeless people presented a sum of smells that assaulted my senses, and not in a pleasant way. There were pockets of urine smells, unwashed bodies on every side it seemed, and scents of just dirty city streets.
The highlight of my day was having an entire half (oxymoronic, I know) of my Quizno's sandwich left over from lunch to be able to wrap and give to a homeless person on the street who seemed genuinely pleased to receive it.
Lest I get any nasty notes from any San Francisco Bureau of Tourism people, let me hasten to add that as the week progressed and the weather returned to San Francisconormal, the charm of the city returned. I'm sure that still being significantly ill was not helping my initial attitude much.
Instead of letting silly things like a sinus infection and urine smells dictate my experience, I took matters into my own hands. I did not want to spend three days in a city that I've previously loved only to return home with a bad taste for it. Enjoying some simple pleasures made all the difference in the world in restoring my attitude. Using my company's dinner allowance, I took a friend who's attending USF from Burbank out to dinner and enjoyed her delightful company. I enjoyed a solo dinner, indulging in rich English-style food in an Irish pub down the street from my hotel. I visited a Rasputin music store and browsed as quickly as possible in the half hour allotted me before closing time, their three stories of used CDs.
Overall I remembered, that we're only as happy with a situation as we allow ourselves to be. If I had chosen to allow my initial frustration at navigating an obnoxious rental car through annoying, non-sensical city streets, or the disgusting citified smells dictate my overall experience, I'd be, well, frustrated and disgusted.
As with any situation that presents itself to us, regardless of our current environment or circumstance, how we perceive that situation makes or breaks us. We can choose to accept it at face value, potentially turning us into miserable human beings, or we can adjust our own attitude to accept it graciously, trying to find the humor and joy in each situation. Regardless of how obnoxious or smelly it is, there is good to be had everywhere.
I just realized that sounded a little soap-boxy, and for that I apologize. But sitting here some weeks after the fact, reading what I wrote that first night and trying to capture the timbre of those few days, I am glad that for as upset as I was that first night, I can look back on that time and say that I truly enjoyed it.
Happiness is always a choice.
***************************************
Reading
: "Insatiable," by Marne Davis Kellogg
Oh, fine. Go ahead. Get it out of your system. I know you just want to bug me.
Okay. Done? Good. Moving on, then.
“The City” is what we called it. Because that's what it was. The. City. Always capitalized, because it was the only big city around. Well, maybe not the only one, but the only important one. Going there was an adventure, always begun on BART and other modes of public transportation. We rarely actually drove there, unless we knew the exact destination and that it wouldn't be easily accessible otherwise.
The City has a charm to it that other big cities don't have. I didn't realize until I visited Los Angeles, downtown Los Angeles, for the first time, that the reason for that is that San Francisco is not big. It sure did seem like it back then to a kid from the suburbs. The beggars, homeless or otherwise, are always creative about getting money out of tourists. They don't just stick their hands out and demand as is so typical elsewhere. They perform -- acting as robots that only move when an appropriate amount is placed in the appropriate canister. They shake bushes at unsuspecting passers-by while others eagerly anticipate the element of surprise of a bush suddenly walking and moving and talking. They even, heaven forbid, ask politely, as exhibited tonight by the woman who confronted me in the Jack-in-the-Box. She held out her grubby hand holding fifty-three cents or so and asked for a quarter. I dug in my pocket for my change, so she immediately saw I had about eighty-three cents. She had asked for one quarter, so I told he`r, handing her two, that I would save the rest of the change for the guy I had seen outside in the wheelchair. She was distracted though by the amount I wasn't giving her and asked for more. " But then there wouldn't be anything for the guy outside. I gotta spread it around -- can't give it all to one person, ya know?" I explained. She demurred that would be the right thing to do, and went to politely ask someone else for some money, "Hon."
But driving here at night, from the airport, when I haven't had a chance during the day to let the atmosphere of the city charm me as it usually does, I felt a little cold. Not atmospherically so, but charm that I’m used to was not on display, leaving me cold. It's another dirty, grungy, cement-filled, over-crowded city, made confusing by countless one-way streets and near-impossible to find hotel parking entrances.
Real estate is at such a premium here on a peninsula that can only grow up, not out, that even hotel guests are charged the astronomic price of $44 per day for parking. Forty-four. Dollars. Per day. To park my car that I will hardly ever drive anyway. I kept asking the valet guy about self-parking, and he said there's a garage across the street that only charges $30 / day with in/out privileges. While I would like to save the company $14 a day, the thought of getting back into that car and driving another 3 miles just to move the car across the street (remember the one-way streets?) was too exhausting to think about.
The guy at corporate travel was very excited for me to stay at this hotel. But when push comes to shove, a hotel room is a hotel room is a hotel room. Some are cleaner than others, and the cleanliness of this one is something to appreciate, but it has a bed. And a desk. And a phone. And a TV on a bureau, a closet and a bathroom with a toilet, sink, tub and shower. For this, my company pays $155 a night plus applicable taxes and surcharges for me to sleep. Oh, and the $44 / day parking charge. Sheesh. The most distinctive feature that separates this hotel from others in which I have stayed is probably the scent. Or odor, depending on your opinion. It's a Japanese hotel, and I was a little disappointed that there wasn't more ethnicity or culture or whatever to set it apart from other hotels. The smell does. It all has a faint odor of that dried seaweed stuff. Which is okay, I guess, if you like that, but . . . it's not really floating my boat right now.
I hope that my naive enthusiasm for being here can be restored in the morning. I plan on walking the half mile to my training class, so that my help. Some of my dampened attitude may simply be due to the fact I'm still recovering from this stupid sinus infection. I hope it's not just because I'm a jaded adult now who's been traveling for about two weeks too long to really enjoy this latest experience, when all I really want is to be home, with my own comfy bed, my fat, drooling cats, my friends, my own comforts. Wow, I sound old, don't I? But I shall try to enjoy this. After all, I'm not footing this hefty bill! (Why do I feel guilt about it then?)
face="Verdana">***************************************
San Francisco in Broad Daylight
Retrospectively, October 6, 2004
A decent night's sleep in a bed, that for a hotel, was almost as comfortable as the one I left at home, left me feeling a little bit better about my status as a guest in The City, as opposed to day visitor.
Walking to my training class, about six blocks away, was an infinitely easier prospect than driving, for the simple fact that it would probably only take about 10 minutes to walk a straight line, rather than 20 estimated minutes to drive a convulated route.
Even in the morning with very little traffic, pedestrian or otherwise, the city streets had a depressing pall about them. Maybe it's because there are more homeless people than I remember there being here before. And they don't all exhibit the charm that I'm used to from San Francisco beggars. most of them are just that -- beggars.
The day was warmer than most San Francisco days, draining even more of the charm that I'd come to expect from my previous day visits. In fact, not only was the near omni-present fog not present, the heat added to the increased amount of homeless people presented a sum of smells that assaulted my senses, and not in a pleasant way. There were pockets of urine smells, unwashed bodies on every side it seemed, and scents of just dirty city streets.
The highlight of my day was having an entire half (oxymoronic, I know) of my Quizno's sandwich left over from lunch to be able to wrap and give to a homeless person on the street who seemed genuinely pleased to receive it.
Lest I get any nasty notes from any San Francisco Bureau of Tourism people, let me hasten to add that as the week progressed and the weather returned to San Francisconormal, the charm of the city returned. I'm sure that still being significantly ill was not helping my initial attitude much.
Instead of letting silly things like a sinus infection and urine smells dictate my experience, I took matters into my own hands. I did not want to spend three days in a city that I've previously loved only to return home with a bad taste for it. Enjoying some simple pleasures made all the difference in the world in restoring my attitude. Using my company's dinner allowance, I took a friend who's attending USF from Burbank out to dinner and enjoyed her delightful company. I enjoyed a solo dinner, indulging in rich English-style food in an Irish pub down the street from my hotel. I visited a Rasputin music store and browsed as quickly as possible in the half hour allotted me before closing time, their three stories of used CDs.
Overall I remembered, that we're only as happy with a situation as we allow ourselves to be. If I had chosen to allow my initial frustration at navigating an obnoxious rental car through annoying, non-sensical city streets, or the disgusting citified smells dictate my overall experience, I'd be, well, frustrated and disgusted.
As with any situation that presents itself to us, regardless of our current environment or circumstance, how we perceive that situation makes or breaks us. We can choose to accept it at face value, potentially turning us into miserable human beings, or we can adjust our own attitude to accept it graciously, trying to find the humor and joy in each situation. Regardless of how obnoxious or smelly it is, there is good to be had everywhere.
I just realized that sounded a little soap-boxy, and for that I apologize. But sitting here some weeks after the fact, reading what I wrote that first night and trying to capture the timbre of those few days, I am glad that for as upset as I was that first night, I can look back on that time and say that I truly enjoyed it.
Happiness is always a choice.
***************************************
Reading
: "Insatiable," by Marne Davis Kellogg
Tuesday, September 7, 2004
San Francisco, Night One
I grew up, as you already know, in a suburb about 30 miles east of San Francisco. NOT "Frisco," as so many of you insist on calling it. Please. Don't. Not in front of me, at least. To any true Bay Area-ite, that term makes us cringe.
Oh, fine. Go ahead. Get it out of your system. I know you just want to bug me.
Okay. Done? Good. Moving on, then.
“The City” is what we called it. Because that's what it was. The. City. Always capitalized, because it was the only big city around. Well, maybe not the only one, but the only important one. Going there was an adventure, always begun on BART and other modes of public transportation. We rarely actually drove there, unless we knew the exact destination and that it wouldn't be easily accessible otherwise.
The City has a charm to it that other big cities don't have. I didn't realize until I visited Los Angeles, downtown Los Angeles, for the first time, that the reason for that is that San Francisco is not big. It sure did seem like it back then to a kid from the suburbs. The beggars, homeless or otherwise, are always creative about getting money out of tourists. They don't just stick their hands out and demand as is so typical elsewhere. They perform -- acting as robots that only move when an appropriate amount is placed in the appropriate canister. They shake bushes at unsuspecting passers-by while others eagerly anticipate the element of surprise of a bush suddenly walking and moving and talking. They even, heaven forbid, ask politely, as exhibited tonight by the woman who confronted me in the Jack-in-the-Box. She held out her grubby hand holding fifty-three cents or so and asked for a quarter. I dug in my pocket for my change, so she immediately saw I had about eighty-three cents. She had asked for one quarter, so I told he`r, handing her two, that I would save the rest of the change for the guy I had seen outside in the wheelchair. She was distracted though by the amount I wasn't giving her and asked for more. " But then there wouldn't be anything for the guy outside. I gotta spread it around -- can't give it all to one person, ya know?" I explained. She demurred that would be the right thing to do, and went to politely ask someone else for some money, "Hon."
But driving here at night, from the airport, when I haven't had a chance during the day to let the atmosphere of the city charm me as it usually does, I felt a little cold. Not atmospherically so, but charm that I’m used to was not on display, leaving me cold. It's another dirty, grungy, cement-filled, over-crowded city, made confusing by countless one-way streets and near-impossible to find hotel parking entrances.
Real estate is at such a premium here on a peninsula that can only grow up, not out, that even hotel guests are charged the astronomic price of $44 per day for parking. Forty-four. Dollars. Per day. To park my car that I will hardly ever drive anyway. I kept asking the valet guy about self-parking, and he said there's a garage across the street that only charges $30 / day with in/out privileges. While I would like to save the company $14 a day, the thought of getting back into that car and driving another 3 miles just to move the car across the street (remember the one-way streets?) was too exhausting to think about.
The guy at corporate travel was very excited for me to stay at this hotel. But when push comes to shove, a hotel room is a hotel room is a hotel room. Some are cleaner than others, and the cleanliness of this one is something to appreciate, but it has a bed. And a desk. And a phone. And a TV on a bureau, a closet and a bathroom with a toilet, sink, tub and shower. For this, my company pays $155 a night plus applicable taxes and surcharges for me to sleep. Oh, and the $44 / day parking charge. Sheesh. The most distinctive feature that separates this hotel from others in which I have stayed is probably the scent. Or odor, depending on your opinion. It's a Japanese hotel, and I was a little disappointed that there wasn't more ethnicity or culture or whatever to set it apart from other hotels. The smell does. It all has a faint odor of that dried seaweed stuff. Which is okay, I guess, if you like that, but . . . it's not really floating my boat right now.
I hope that my naive enthusiasm for being here can be restored in the morning. I plan on walking the half mile to my training class, so that my help. Some of my dampened attitude may simply be due to the fact I'm still recovering from this stupid sinus infection. I hope it's not just because I'm a jaded adult now who's been traveling for about two weeks too long to really enjoy this latest experience, when all I really want is to be home, with my own comfy bed, my fat, drooling cats, my friends, my own comforts. Wow, I sound old, don't I? But I shall try to enjoy this. After all, I'm not footing this hefty bill! (Why do I feel guilt about it then?)
face="Verdana">***************************************
San Francisco in Broad Daylight
Retrospectively, October 6, 2004
A decent night's sleep in a bed, that for a hotel, was almost as comfortable as the one I left at home, left me feeling a little bit better about my status as a guest in The City, as opposed to day visitor.
Walking to my training class, about six blocks away, was an infinitely easier prospect than driving, for the simple fact that it would probably only take about 10 minutes to walk a straight line, rather than 20 estimated minutes to drive a convulated route.
Even in the morning with very little traffic, pedestrian or otherwise, the city streets had a depressing pall about them. Maybe it's because there are more homeless people than I remember there being here before. And they don't all exhibit the charm that I'm used to from San Francisco beggars. most of them are just that -- beggars.
The day was warmer than most San Francisco days, draining even more of the charm that I'd come to expect from my previous day visits. In fact, not only was the near omni-present fog not present, the heat added to the increased amount of homeless people presented a sum of smells that assaulted my senses, and not in a pleasant way. There were pockets of urine smells, unwashed bodies on every side it seemed, and scents of just dirty city streets.
The highlight of my day was having an entire half (oxymoronic, I know) of my Quizno's sandwich left over from lunch to be able to wrap and give to a homeless person on the street who seemed genuinely pleased to receive it.
Lest I get any nasty notes from any San Francisco Bureau of Tourism people, let me hasten to add that as the week progressed and the weather returned to San Francisconormal, the charm of the city returned. I'm sure that still being significantly ill was not helping my initial attitude much.
Instead of letting silly things like a sinus infection and urine smells dictate my experience, I took matters into my own hands. I did not want to spend three days in a city that I've previously loved only to return home with a bad taste for it. Enjoying some simple pleasures made all the difference in the world in restoring my attitude. Using my company's dinner allowance, I took a friend who's attending USF from Burbank out to dinner and enjoyed her delightful company. I enjoyed a solo dinner, indulging in rich English-style food in an Irish pub down the street from my hotel. I visited a Rasputin music store and browsed as quickly as possible in the half hour allotted me before closing time, their three stories of used CDs.
Overall I remembered, that we're only as happy with a situation as we allow ourselves to be. If I had chosen to allow my initial frustration at navigating an obnoxious rental car through annoying, non-sensical city streets, or the disgusting citified smells dictate my overall experience, I'd be, well, frustrated and disgusted.
As with any situation that presents itself to us, regardless of our current environment or circumstance, how we perceive that situation makes or breaks us. We can choose to accept it at face value, potentially turning us into miserable human beings, or we can adjust our own attitude to accept it graciously, trying to find the humor and joy in each situation. Regardless of how obnoxious or smelly it is, there is good to be had everywhere.
I just realized that sounded a little soap-boxy, and for that I apologize. But sitting here some weeks after the fact, reading what I wrote that first night and trying to capture the timbre of those few days, I am glad that for as upset as I was that first night, I can look back on that time and say that I truly enjoyed it.
Happiness is always a choice.
***************************************
Reading
: "Insatiable," by Marne Davis Kellogg
Oh, fine. Go ahead. Get it out of your system. I know you just want to bug me.
Okay. Done? Good. Moving on, then.
“The City” is what we called it. Because that's what it was. The. City. Always capitalized, because it was the only big city around. Well, maybe not the only one, but the only important one. Going there was an adventure, always begun on BART and other modes of public transportation. We rarely actually drove there, unless we knew the exact destination and that it wouldn't be easily accessible otherwise.
The City has a charm to it that other big cities don't have. I didn't realize until I visited Los Angeles, downtown Los Angeles, for the first time, that the reason for that is that San Francisco is not big. It sure did seem like it back then to a kid from the suburbs. The beggars, homeless or otherwise, are always creative about getting money out of tourists. They don't just stick their hands out and demand as is so typical elsewhere. They perform -- acting as robots that only move when an appropriate amount is placed in the appropriate canister. They shake bushes at unsuspecting passers-by while others eagerly anticipate the element of surprise of a bush suddenly walking and moving and talking. They even, heaven forbid, ask politely, as exhibited tonight by the woman who confronted me in the Jack-in-the-Box. She held out her grubby hand holding fifty-three cents or so and asked for a quarter. I dug in my pocket for my change, so she immediately saw I had about eighty-three cents. She had asked for one quarter, so I told he`r, handing her two, that I would save the rest of the change for the guy I had seen outside in the wheelchair. She was distracted though by the amount I wasn't giving her and asked for more. " But then there wouldn't be anything for the guy outside. I gotta spread it around -- can't give it all to one person, ya know?" I explained. She demurred that would be the right thing to do, and went to politely ask someone else for some money, "Hon."
But driving here at night, from the airport, when I haven't had a chance during the day to let the atmosphere of the city charm me as it usually does, I felt a little cold. Not atmospherically so, but charm that I’m used to was not on display, leaving me cold. It's another dirty, grungy, cement-filled, over-crowded city, made confusing by countless one-way streets and near-impossible to find hotel parking entrances.
Real estate is at such a premium here on a peninsula that can only grow up, not out, that even hotel guests are charged the astronomic price of $44 per day for parking. Forty-four. Dollars. Per day. To park my car that I will hardly ever drive anyway. I kept asking the valet guy about self-parking, and he said there's a garage across the street that only charges $30 / day with in/out privileges. While I would like to save the company $14 a day, the thought of getting back into that car and driving another 3 miles just to move the car across the street (remember the one-way streets?) was too exhausting to think about.
The guy at corporate travel was very excited for me to stay at this hotel. But when push comes to shove, a hotel room is a hotel room is a hotel room. Some are cleaner than others, and the cleanliness of this one is something to appreciate, but it has a bed. And a desk. And a phone. And a TV on a bureau, a closet and a bathroom with a toilet, sink, tub and shower. For this, my company pays $155 a night plus applicable taxes and surcharges for me to sleep. Oh, and the $44 / day parking charge. Sheesh. The most distinctive feature that separates this hotel from others in which I have stayed is probably the scent. Or odor, depending on your opinion. It's a Japanese hotel, and I was a little disappointed that there wasn't more ethnicity or culture or whatever to set it apart from other hotels. The smell does. It all has a faint odor of that dried seaweed stuff. Which is okay, I guess, if you like that, but . . . it's not really floating my boat right now.
I hope that my naive enthusiasm for being here can be restored in the morning. I plan on walking the half mile to my training class, so that my help. Some of my dampened attitude may simply be due to the fact I'm still recovering from this stupid sinus infection. I hope it's not just because I'm a jaded adult now who's been traveling for about two weeks too long to really enjoy this latest experience, when all I really want is to be home, with my own comfy bed, my fat, drooling cats, my friends, my own comforts. Wow, I sound old, don't I? But I shall try to enjoy this. After all, I'm not footing this hefty bill! (Why do I feel guilt about it then?)
face="Verdana">***************************************
San Francisco in Broad Daylight
Retrospectively, October 6, 2004
A decent night's sleep in a bed, that for a hotel, was almost as comfortable as the one I left at home, left me feeling a little bit better about my status as a guest in The City, as opposed to day visitor.
Walking to my training class, about six blocks away, was an infinitely easier prospect than driving, for the simple fact that it would probably only take about 10 minutes to walk a straight line, rather than 20 estimated minutes to drive a convulated route.
Even in the morning with very little traffic, pedestrian or otherwise, the city streets had a depressing pall about them. Maybe it's because there are more homeless people than I remember there being here before. And they don't all exhibit the charm that I'm used to from San Francisco beggars. most of them are just that -- beggars.
The day was warmer than most San Francisco days, draining even more of the charm that I'd come to expect from my previous day visits. In fact, not only was the near omni-present fog not present, the heat added to the increased amount of homeless people presented a sum of smells that assaulted my senses, and not in a pleasant way. There were pockets of urine smells, unwashed bodies on every side it seemed, and scents of just dirty city streets.
The highlight of my day was having an entire half (oxymoronic, I know) of my Quizno's sandwich left over from lunch to be able to wrap and give to a homeless person on the street who seemed genuinely pleased to receive it.
Lest I get any nasty notes from any San Francisco Bureau of Tourism people, let me hasten to add that as the week progressed and the weather returned to San Francisconormal, the charm of the city returned. I'm sure that still being significantly ill was not helping my initial attitude much.
Instead of letting silly things like a sinus infection and urine smells dictate my experience, I took matters into my own hands. I did not want to spend three days in a city that I've previously loved only to return home with a bad taste for it. Enjoying some simple pleasures made all the difference in the world in restoring my attitude. Using my company's dinner allowance, I took a friend who's attending USF from Burbank out to dinner and enjoyed her delightful company. I enjoyed a solo dinner, indulging in rich English-style food in an Irish pub down the street from my hotel. I visited a Rasputin music store and browsed as quickly as possible in the half hour allotted me before closing time, their three stories of used CDs.
Overall I remembered, that we're only as happy with a situation as we allow ourselves to be. If I had chosen to allow my initial frustration at navigating an obnoxious rental car through annoying, non-sensical city streets, or the disgusting citified smells dictate my overall experience, I'd be, well, frustrated and disgusted.
As with any situation that presents itself to us, regardless of our current environment or circumstance, how we perceive that situation makes or breaks us. We can choose to accept it at face value, potentially turning us into miserable human beings, or we can adjust our own attitude to accept it graciously, trying to find the humor and joy in each situation. Regardless of how obnoxious or smelly it is, there is good to be had everywhere.
I just realized that sounded a little soap-boxy, and for that I apologize. But sitting here some weeks after the fact, reading what I wrote that first night and trying to capture the timbre of those few days, I am glad that for as upset as I was that first night, I can look back on that time and say that I truly enjoyed it.
Happiness is always a choice.
***************************************
Reading
: "Insatiable," by Marne Davis Kellogg
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