oh, and there's this...
Aoccdrnig to a rscheearch at an Elingsh uinervtisy, it deosn't mttaer in waht oredr the ltteers in a wrod are, the olny iprmoetnt tihng is taht frist and lsat ltteer is at the rghit pclae. The rset can be a toatl mses and you can sitll raed it wouthit porbelm. Tihs is bcuseae we do not raed ervey lteter by it slef but the wrod as a wlohe.
Tuesday, September 16, 2003
Jamie made me like football.
I didn't watch football as a kid. Anything not involving magic swords or light-cycles was kind of off my radar scope, and my folks never expressed much interest in the wide world of sports. My dad worked something like 80 hours a week the entire time I was growing up, and would occasionally watch the University of Florida play, or maybe the Miami Dolphins. When this occured, Dad went silent for the length of the game, eating popcorn and encouraging us to play with Legos on the floor so we would remain pre-occupied. Anything louder than a low whisper would result in expulsion from the TV room.
In 7th grade all of my friends went out for football, and, being an absolutely ridiculously large kid, I was happily recruited by the coaches. I played left tackle. And here's where things get weird... Dad's "be quiet and play with Legos" policy backfired. I had not absorbed one thing during a single football game. I played football for a season without ever understanding what a "down" was. Not a clue. I knew I was on offense. I knew that when certain plays were called out, I had certain actions to perform, but I wandered around without the slightest idea as to what I was doing or what was happening.
When my string went in, I ran onto the field behind them. Whistles blew, I got screamed at a lot, and I sweated profusely. But I didn't even know why you kicked for an extra point versus a field goal. But unless you count the little magnetic games where you line up players and they run in circles, I'd never watched a game of football.
I have no idea how, between 7th and 8th grade, that I came to understand the rules of football. 8th grade went much better, and I even made an interception that year and had some success as a 1st stringer. I also took to watching the sport. Particularly the Tampa Bay Buccaneers, who really, really sucked back then. But they sucked so bad they were charming, and I made a habit of following them for a few seasons, at least reading up on them in the paper.
When high school loomed ahead, I decided I was going to be a basketball guy. When approached by the football coaches in the hallway at school that first year (standing a full 6'3" and weighing in around 190 lbs.) I declined, stating I didn't believe in bleeding on Friday nights. The coach didn't think i was funny, either.
But I made a decision at age 15 or so that I was no jock. I was a drama guy! I wasn't going to be a walking stereotype seeking a letter jacket and a flat-top (which was actually popular at the time with the team). I decided to be a jerk about the whole thing and make a bad-80's movie out of guys I'd been friends with just the year before. Jocks were stupid jerks... not smart guys like, say, me...
Then in the mid-90's, I started dating Jamie. And Jamie loves the Cowboys. It made me nervous... my high school girlfriend was as bad off as I had been that confusing 7th grade season... and I was comfortable with that. It was something we could mutually agree not to be interested in. I don't even remember discussing the issue with other girls I dated... But Jamie... Jamie loved her Cowboys. No fair-weather fan is she.
And so Sundays and Monday Nights in the Fall have received a new significance. It is football time, and nothing is to come between Jamie and her Cowboys. It was fun in the mid-90's. Emmitt, Irvin, Aikman... didn't matter which Coach... and all was fun and well. But we all know what happened to the Cowboys. Under Dave Campo, Jamie's beloved team fell apart, but still, every Sunday, we watched the damn Cowboys clown their way up and down the field.
Enter Coach Parcells, and last night's victory at the Meadowlands. What the hell was that? 21 points from the kicker? Who cares! Cowboys win, 35-32 on a Monday Night game. The game was, for lack of a better term, a complete clown-show. 21 points by the kicker? Quincy Carter having a career high for yardage? Not that I foresee great things this season, but...
I still like things with light cycles and magic swords. But I've made room for football, too. The truth is, the sport is still a complete mystery to me. I have not a clue what a "West Coast Offense" is, nor do I understand half of what is coming out of Al Michaels' mouth. But I don't really care. What I do like is that I can watch the game with Jamie, and she's more enthusiastic than me. She gets Sundays and Mondays for football, and I have no reason to complain. That, and it gives me some leverage when I want to watch my Superman DVD for the 80th time.
I didn't watch football as a kid. Anything not involving magic swords or light-cycles was kind of off my radar scope, and my folks never expressed much interest in the wide world of sports. My dad worked something like 80 hours a week the entire time I was growing up, and would occasionally watch the University of Florida play, or maybe the Miami Dolphins. When this occured, Dad went silent for the length of the game, eating popcorn and encouraging us to play with Legos on the floor so we would remain pre-occupied. Anything louder than a low whisper would result in expulsion from the TV room.
In 7th grade all of my friends went out for football, and, being an absolutely ridiculously large kid, I was happily recruited by the coaches. I played left tackle. And here's where things get weird... Dad's "be quiet and play with Legos" policy backfired. I had not absorbed one thing during a single football game. I played football for a season without ever understanding what a "down" was. Not a clue. I knew I was on offense. I knew that when certain plays were called out, I had certain actions to perform, but I wandered around without the slightest idea as to what I was doing or what was happening.
When my string went in, I ran onto the field behind them. Whistles blew, I got screamed at a lot, and I sweated profusely. But I didn't even know why you kicked for an extra point versus a field goal. But unless you count the little magnetic games where you line up players and they run in circles, I'd never watched a game of football.
I have no idea how, between 7th and 8th grade, that I came to understand the rules of football. 8th grade went much better, and I even made an interception that year and had some success as a 1st stringer. I also took to watching the sport. Particularly the Tampa Bay Buccaneers, who really, really sucked back then. But they sucked so bad they were charming, and I made a habit of following them for a few seasons, at least reading up on them in the paper.
When high school loomed ahead, I decided I was going to be a basketball guy. When approached by the football coaches in the hallway at school that first year (standing a full 6'3" and weighing in around 190 lbs.) I declined, stating I didn't believe in bleeding on Friday nights. The coach didn't think i was funny, either.
But I made a decision at age 15 or so that I was no jock. I was a drama guy! I wasn't going to be a walking stereotype seeking a letter jacket and a flat-top (which was actually popular at the time with the team). I decided to be a jerk about the whole thing and make a bad-80's movie out of guys I'd been friends with just the year before. Jocks were stupid jerks... not smart guys like, say, me...
Then in the mid-90's, I started dating Jamie. And Jamie loves the Cowboys. It made me nervous... my high school girlfriend was as bad off as I had been that confusing 7th grade season... and I was comfortable with that. It was something we could mutually agree not to be interested in. I don't even remember discussing the issue with other girls I dated... But Jamie... Jamie loved her Cowboys. No fair-weather fan is she.
And so Sundays and Monday Nights in the Fall have received a new significance. It is football time, and nothing is to come between Jamie and her Cowboys. It was fun in the mid-90's. Emmitt, Irvin, Aikman... didn't matter which Coach... and all was fun and well. But we all know what happened to the Cowboys. Under Dave Campo, Jamie's beloved team fell apart, but still, every Sunday, we watched the damn Cowboys clown their way up and down the field.
Enter Coach Parcells, and last night's victory at the Meadowlands. What the hell was that? 21 points from the kicker? Who cares! Cowboys win, 35-32 on a Monday Night game. The game was, for lack of a better term, a complete clown-show. 21 points by the kicker? Quincy Carter having a career high for yardage? Not that I foresee great things this season, but...
I still like things with light cycles and magic swords. But I've made room for football, too. The truth is, the sport is still a complete mystery to me. I have not a clue what a "West Coast Offense" is, nor do I understand half of what is coming out of Al Michaels' mouth. But I don't really care. What I do like is that I can watch the game with Jamie, and she's more enthusiastic than me. She gets Sundays and Mondays for football, and I have no reason to complain. That, and it gives me some leverage when I want to watch my Superman DVD for the 80th time.
Monday, September 15, 2003
One of the things which is entailed in moving far from family and friends is the cost inherent in travelling. I'm no Jack Kerouac. I've no illusions of roadside fun or white line fever. It's more of an endless procession of switching out albums and staring into expanses of nothingness between what I recognize as civiliation. And a lot of feeling awful whenever I linger in towns with populations under 10,000.
Flying isn't much better, but it's generally faster. The adventures of overnight stays in far-off places, the delays and hang-ups one comes to expect are not something which fill me with a rush of adrenalin. THe seats are cramped, the food presently non-existent, and the manners of others on planes has such a "me first" ring to it, that it's a miracle fist-fights don't break out every day.
I've gotten to the point where, due to my frequent bad experiences, I always carry a backpack which i don't have to place in the over head bin. In the backpack I carry a fresh pair of underwear, contact solution and case, glasses, a clean t-shirt, toothpaste, toothbrush and two books. Being stranded overnight just once has taught me the value of having these thigns onhand. The backpack is absolutely necessary as anything in the overhead bin is fair game and can and will be crushed by the little wheeled suitcases experienced travellers now carry so as to avoid waiting for their luggage to come off a plane. Somehow these little suitcases have been designed to be just small enough to make it past the flight attendants, and just large enough to not fit properly in overhead storage. Hence, you get the pleasure of watching a perfect stranger grapple and crush your own luggage as they struggle to fit their suddenly enormous bag into the tiny overhead bin.
Suitcases are lost, flights changed, delayed, overbooked. Clerks have bulletproof shells which are invulnerable to your harshest criticism. Once in the air, there's no escape. Being booted from a flight from Dallas to Oklahoma is almost funny to them (not so much to my wife). Service from in-flight personnel has gone the way of the do-do, and everything from "ticketless travel" to the necessities of baggage x-rays has made just getting to your gate a nightmare.
But still, I'm now more than a thousand miles from my folks' house, and the idea of driving home for the upcoming holidays is too mindbending to endure. As such, we are flying.
Due to the above mentioned misadventures of the past year, Jamie and I had accumulated $566 in travel vouchers, which I put toward our flight home for the Holidays. But purchasing tickets online doesn't show any clear way to apply vouchers, and so I decided to call the American Airlines reservation line in order to apply my vouchers toward the cost of our flight.
I waited thru a few minutes of chirpy airline spokesperson voice telling me junk I already knew before an operator was able to take my call. The woman on the other end sounded down, even as she greeted me.
Online, I had already found my selected flights and was able to simply relate times and flights to her. When i mentioned the vouchers, she grew short with me, somewhat snippy as suddenly she knew the call would be extended as we walked through how all of this was going to work.
At long last, we worked through all of the paperwork, confirmation numbers, addresses, etc...
I don't remember what was said immediately before, but suddenly she threw in: "Sorry if I sound a little hasty."
"Uh..." I kind of let it hang. She had sounded hasty, and it annoyed me. Bad customer service is something one expects, especially over the phone. She'd been cranky at every turn, sounded vaguely distracted, and had kind of berated me for failing to correctly identify the proper code she'd been looking for of the dozen or so codes on the voucher stub.
"Yeah, well," she said, cancelling out the short and un-prepared speech I was about to deliver. "Sorry. You're my last call."
"Oh, end of the day." It was 4:30 my time, PST. I guessed she was Central or Eastern time. Sunday night dinner was probably ahead, no weekend to speak of behind her. Probably a weekend of getting yelled at by geeks like me.
"No, after this call, I'm done. They're shutting down the St. Louis call center."
"Oh."
"Yeah."
"I'm your last call?"
"Yeah, this is it..."
I was quiet for a moment. Should I extend the call, push her job that much longer? Get her another 15 minutes on the clock? Or was she salaried... was she done and out the door to spend Sunday night, god knows where in a St. Louis apartment, knowing that tomorrow, she was out of a job, out of money...? Were there kids? A husband or partner? Anything...?
"Oh, God. I'm really sorry."
"Yeah."
"Is there..." anything I can do? I started to say. "Hey, well, good luck." I was picturing a bar, some poorly strung Christmas lights and a half-empty bottle of booze in this woman's immediate future.
"Thanks. Is there anything else I can do for you?"
"No. I guess not."
"Well then, thank you, sir," she said too quickly. "And thanks for choosing American Airlines."
And before I said anything, she'd hung up.
I'm not looking forward to this flight. If this is any indication fo things to come, I'll surely be stuck in Dallas overnight and into Christmas Eve. And I know I'm going to be spending my time on this flight wondering if this woman has found work yet in order to have herself a merry little Christmas.
Flying isn't much better, but it's generally faster. The adventures of overnight stays in far-off places, the delays and hang-ups one comes to expect are not something which fill me with a rush of adrenalin. THe seats are cramped, the food presently non-existent, and the manners of others on planes has such a "me first" ring to it, that it's a miracle fist-fights don't break out every day.
I've gotten to the point where, due to my frequent bad experiences, I always carry a backpack which i don't have to place in the over head bin. In the backpack I carry a fresh pair of underwear, contact solution and case, glasses, a clean t-shirt, toothpaste, toothbrush and two books. Being stranded overnight just once has taught me the value of having these thigns onhand. The backpack is absolutely necessary as anything in the overhead bin is fair game and can and will be crushed by the little wheeled suitcases experienced travellers now carry so as to avoid waiting for their luggage to come off a plane. Somehow these little suitcases have been designed to be just small enough to make it past the flight attendants, and just large enough to not fit properly in overhead storage. Hence, you get the pleasure of watching a perfect stranger grapple and crush your own luggage as they struggle to fit their suddenly enormous bag into the tiny overhead bin.
Suitcases are lost, flights changed, delayed, overbooked. Clerks have bulletproof shells which are invulnerable to your harshest criticism. Once in the air, there's no escape. Being booted from a flight from Dallas to Oklahoma is almost funny to them (not so much to my wife). Service from in-flight personnel has gone the way of the do-do, and everything from "ticketless travel" to the necessities of baggage x-rays has made just getting to your gate a nightmare.
But still, I'm now more than a thousand miles from my folks' house, and the idea of driving home for the upcoming holidays is too mindbending to endure. As such, we are flying.
Due to the above mentioned misadventures of the past year, Jamie and I had accumulated $566 in travel vouchers, which I put toward our flight home for the Holidays. But purchasing tickets online doesn't show any clear way to apply vouchers, and so I decided to call the American Airlines reservation line in order to apply my vouchers toward the cost of our flight.
I waited thru a few minutes of chirpy airline spokesperson voice telling me junk I already knew before an operator was able to take my call. The woman on the other end sounded down, even as she greeted me.
Online, I had already found my selected flights and was able to simply relate times and flights to her. When i mentioned the vouchers, she grew short with me, somewhat snippy as suddenly she knew the call would be extended as we walked through how all of this was going to work.
At long last, we worked through all of the paperwork, confirmation numbers, addresses, etc...
I don't remember what was said immediately before, but suddenly she threw in: "Sorry if I sound a little hasty."
"Uh..." I kind of let it hang. She had sounded hasty, and it annoyed me. Bad customer service is something one expects, especially over the phone. She'd been cranky at every turn, sounded vaguely distracted, and had kind of berated me for failing to correctly identify the proper code she'd been looking for of the dozen or so codes on the voucher stub.
"Yeah, well," she said, cancelling out the short and un-prepared speech I was about to deliver. "Sorry. You're my last call."
"Oh, end of the day." It was 4:30 my time, PST. I guessed she was Central or Eastern time. Sunday night dinner was probably ahead, no weekend to speak of behind her. Probably a weekend of getting yelled at by geeks like me.
"No, after this call, I'm done. They're shutting down the St. Louis call center."
"Oh."
"Yeah."
"I'm your last call?"
"Yeah, this is it..."
I was quiet for a moment. Should I extend the call, push her job that much longer? Get her another 15 minutes on the clock? Or was she salaried... was she done and out the door to spend Sunday night, god knows where in a St. Louis apartment, knowing that tomorrow, she was out of a job, out of money...? Were there kids? A husband or partner? Anything...?
"Oh, God. I'm really sorry."
"Yeah."
"Is there..." anything I can do? I started to say. "Hey, well, good luck." I was picturing a bar, some poorly strung Christmas lights and a half-empty bottle of booze in this woman's immediate future.
"Thanks. Is there anything else I can do for you?"
"No. I guess not."
"Well then, thank you, sir," she said too quickly. "And thanks for choosing American Airlines."
And before I said anything, she'd hung up.
I'm not looking forward to this flight. If this is any indication fo things to come, I'll surely be stuck in Dallas overnight and into Christmas Eve. And I know I'm going to be spending my time on this flight wondering if this woman has found work yet in order to have herself a merry little Christmas.
Saturday, September 13, 2003
Friday, September 12, 2003
And now.... BEARS ON TRAMPOLINES!!!!!
this bear was cornered in a suburban neighborhood. Before shooting it with a tranquilizer dart, they placed a trampoline beneathe the bear to insure it would land safely. Apparently the cops don't understand the difference between a trampoline and a net. The bear bounced clean off the trampoline and landed on the ground. Don't worry, it was out like a light the whole time and slept it off under the watchful eyes of a vet.
this bear was cornered in a suburban neighborhood. Before shooting it with a tranquilizer dart, they placed a trampoline beneathe the bear to insure it would land safely. Apparently the cops don't understand the difference between a trampoline and a net. The bear bounced clean off the trampoline and landed on the ground. Don't worry, it was out like a light the whole time and slept it off under the watchful eyes of a vet.
I can't tell you I know exactly what this means, but it looks like UT's RTF department is opening a production studio on campus to make indie films using free student labor. Actually, since students pay tuition, they will probably pay to get credit for working on these films. It sounds cool, but if I know anything about UT, the movies which are produced will probably be really, really boring.
Oh, well. After years of waiting for someone else to bring productions to Austin, somebody at UT finally got their act together to give students a chance to actually do something other than scramble for one of five jobs a year which open up in Central Texas in the the world of film.
Oh, well. After years of waiting for someone else to bring productions to Austin, somebody at UT finally got their act together to give students a chance to actually do something other than scramble for one of five jobs a year which open up in Central Texas in the the world of film.
One of these days and it won't be long.
I'll rejoin them in a song.
I'm gonna join the family circle at the Throne.
No, the circle won't be broken.
By and by, Lord, by and by.
Johnny Cash, 1932-2003
Despite the fact I lived in Texas for 20+ years, I've still had trouble adjusting to the heat of the Arizona summer. Keep in mind that the Arizona summer begins in mid-April and continues into early October. But already, here in mid-September, the mornings are beginning to cool.
The afternoons are insanely hot, so much so that the brain doesn't seem to actually function on any level but the reptilian survival mode if you spend anything more than a few scant minutes in the sunlight. Any myths about the desert cooling at night don't really apply in July and August. But the past week, it's actually been cool in the morning, and, as a result, my mood is much, much better upon arriving at the office.
Soon the proper weather will begin, marked by the return of the retirees from northern states. That's fine. I can appreciate the insane driving if I can crack my windows and just enjoy the cooler weather once again. HURRAH.
But yesterday, at 4:45am or so, Jamie poked me in the shoulder to wake me up.
"The fire alarm is chirping. The battery must be dying."
"Ehhh?"
"The fire alarm is chirping."
"uggggghhhhhh..."
"THe fire alarm---"
"ugggggghhhhh...."
So I went out to check, and yes, one of our smoke detectors was chirping. THe one twelve feet overhead on the vaulted ceiling. At 4:45 in the morning in the living room.
"uggghhhh...."
I wandered back toward the bedroom to tell Jamie what the story was. And I looked into the guest bathroom on my way past, and Mel was standing in the tub.
"What are you doing in the tub?" I said.
"I am a-scared," he said.
"Of the chirping?" I said.
"If that's what you want to call it," he replied.
"But you weigh 116 pounds! You can take down a grown man in a heartbeat!"
"Look," he sighed. "I am a-scared, and I'd like some help."
"I'll see what I can do," I nodded.
So at 5:00am, my beautiful wife was standing atop the decorative ledge running around our living room, helping me to get down the damn fire alarm.
My dog is such a pansy, but was he ever happy we stopped that chirping. I just have a scenario in mind now, should our house ever be robbed. THese men will come into the house to find Mel standing in the tub and looking alarmed. I don't really want to be ashamed of him in front of robbers. Oh, well.
I'll rejoin them in a song.
I'm gonna join the family circle at the Throne.
No, the circle won't be broken.
By and by, Lord, by and by.
Johnny Cash, 1932-2003
Despite the fact I lived in Texas for 20+ years, I've still had trouble adjusting to the heat of the Arizona summer. Keep in mind that the Arizona summer begins in mid-April and continues into early October. But already, here in mid-September, the mornings are beginning to cool.
The afternoons are insanely hot, so much so that the brain doesn't seem to actually function on any level but the reptilian survival mode if you spend anything more than a few scant minutes in the sunlight. Any myths about the desert cooling at night don't really apply in July and August. But the past week, it's actually been cool in the morning, and, as a result, my mood is much, much better upon arriving at the office.
Soon the proper weather will begin, marked by the return of the retirees from northern states. That's fine. I can appreciate the insane driving if I can crack my windows and just enjoy the cooler weather once again. HURRAH.
But yesterday, at 4:45am or so, Jamie poked me in the shoulder to wake me up.
"The fire alarm is chirping. The battery must be dying."
"Ehhh?"
"The fire alarm is chirping."
"uggggghhhhhh..."
"THe fire alarm---"
"ugggggghhhhh...."
So I went out to check, and yes, one of our smoke detectors was chirping. THe one twelve feet overhead on the vaulted ceiling. At 4:45 in the morning in the living room.
"uggghhhh...."
I wandered back toward the bedroom to tell Jamie what the story was. And I looked into the guest bathroom on my way past, and Mel was standing in the tub.
"What are you doing in the tub?" I said.
"I am a-scared," he said.
"Of the chirping?" I said.
"If that's what you want to call it," he replied.
"But you weigh 116 pounds! You can take down a grown man in a heartbeat!"
"Look," he sighed. "I am a-scared, and I'd like some help."
"I'll see what I can do," I nodded.
So at 5:00am, my beautiful wife was standing atop the decorative ledge running around our living room, helping me to get down the damn fire alarm.
My dog is such a pansy, but was he ever happy we stopped that chirping. I just have a scenario in mind now, should our house ever be robbed. THese men will come into the house to find Mel standing in the tub and looking alarmed. I don't really want to be ashamed of him in front of robbers. Oh, well.
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