...and if you have to book an airline ticket soon, keep this in mind

My 83 year-old mother has been in town for about a week over the Christmas holiday, but on Thursday it was time to take her to the airport for her flight back to Los Angeles. She was on a United flight that was scheduled to leave at 8:35am, but in typical fashion we arrived at the airport well-before 6am to ensure all would go OK. I dropped her off on the departure level of and made sure she made it the 50 or so yards over to a chair by the window. I then rushed back to the car, drove around and re-entered the terminal eventually parking in the hourly area. I grabbed her bag and when up to the ticketing area where mom was comfortably seated. I used my preferred status to go into the shorter Premium level ticketing line and walked up to the counter and paid $25.00 for her bag while retrieving her boarding pass. We alerted the ticketing agent that my mother needed a wheelchair, and within five or so minutes they came for her.  After I gave her a hug and said goodbye, they whisked her away to the security line.

I arrived at my office in downtown DC about 6:45am or so, and while sitting there sifting through holiday related mail and such, I received an email from United saying the flight had been delayed due to mechanical problems and was now scheduled to take off 2 1/2 hours later at 11am. My mom amazingly navigated her old-school cell phone and called me noting her flight had been delayed. She seemed fine though, and being the trooper she is stated that she’d be OK. About 10:45 United sent an email saying the flight was delayed another ½ hour and would now take off at 11:30. Shortly before 11:30, they sent another email saying the flight was pushed back another half hour to 12:00 noon. Sometime after noon, as I sat and enjoyed lunch with my boss at a downtown restaurant, United sent another email saying the flight was delayed another hour to 1pm. Not long before 1pm, they sent another message saying the flight was now delayed until 6pm, this time due to “Aircraft Change.”

By now my elderly mom had been sitting in the at the gate in a wheelchair for over 7 hours. She called again (two cell calls in a day is equivalent to a trip to the moon for her) in good spirits a little after 1pm, saying she was planning to wait it out. I offered to come get her, but I guess when you’ve lived through a Depression and a world war, airport delays don’t seem like that big of a deal. My boss being the mensch that she is suggested I go to the airport to see what I could do, so I schlepped the 30 plus miles back out to Dulles about 1:30 and arrived there shortly after 2pm.

The unfriendly ticket supervisor, who appeared to have done most of her undergraduate customer service training at McDonalds or some other high-caloric establishment, reluctantly provided me a security entrance pass so I could go see if my mother might need anything after her now eight hour airport stay. I found her in the gate area slumped in a chair with her head down sleeping, sitting along-side some other older passengers who seemed among the few to be waiting out what would be a scheduled 10 hour delay in the gate area. I fetched a cart driver and had him drive my mom and I over to the Red Carpet lounge on the other end of the D Terminal. It was a treat for my mom to enter the secret world of airport lounges, and as we sat kibitzing over complimentary screw-top wine and individually wrapped processed cheeses, I couldn’t get over the fact that she was in such good spirits. I asked her about it, and she simply replied “what are you going to do?...some things you just have to deal with and it’s not going to get any better by getting mad.” Well, that could be true, but when the next email arrived about 5pm stating the flight had been delayed again (now due to crew) until 6:45pm, my blood started to boil.

Shortly before 6pm we received another email saying the flight had been delayed until 7:30pm (again due to crew)…so I walked up to the ticket agent in the lounge and calmly explained that my mom had been there for 12 hours and that she was fading. I politely asked if we could re-book to a different day, and was matter-of-factly told that they could not rebook without a fee unless the delay was weather related. Determine to prove my mom’s theory about not getting mad wrong, I hit the ticket agent in the face with my clinched fist. I’d never hit anybody that hard before…especially directly in the face. When my fist sank deeply into his facial flesh…there  was a certain momentary satisfaction that is hard to…OK wait…that’s not really what happened…that’s only what I wanted to do. Instead, I politely re-explained that my 83 year-old mother had been sitting in the terminal for over 12 hours, and that it would be nice if United could find their way to booking on another day. I then suggested that even if they could not, it would be smart for the agent to pretend that he gave a rat’s ass and at least go through the charade of looking as if he was searching for availability before apologetically telling me he’d tried valiantly, but that it just wasn’t possible.

A nearby agent overheard the conversation and graciously offered to help. She politely and professionally rebooked my mom for Saturday, called to have her bag retrieved, and arranged for a wheelchair porter to take my mom back to baggage claim to get her bag. When we arrived in the United baggage claim area, there was no bag, but after the rigmarole to end all rigmaroles, the bag amazingly showed. An hour later we were back in DC sitting fireside, recounting the drama over a glass of corked wine as additional emails from United kept coming, announcing the flight was delayed until 8pm and then again ‘til 8:15pm, and then 8:30pm. Shortly after 8:30pm, United sent out an email notifying us that the 8:30am flight, now delayed a full 12 hours, had been canceled. In some ways it was validation that we’d made the right call, and I went to bed feeling good about the decision to rebook to Saturday.

At 4am on Friday I awoke to let the cat out and start my workout. When checking my emails I noticed an early morning email from United stating my mom had been re-booked on a 7am Friday flight…not the Saturday flight we had arranged in the lounge (and I had a ticketed receipt for). I could tell you about my next call to the airline, but that wouldn’t really serve any purpose. What’s the point of all this? Well, unlike most of the drivel that appears here the point to me seems to be to fly U.S. Airways or some other competent carrier. However what is amazing to me is that for the most part the United employees seemed to be trying, but the company just couldn’t seem to get it right. Seems to me when you’ve been in business as long as United, you should just be better at this whole flying game. I mean, I’ve been playing golf for over 40 years. I still shoot far from par…but I’ve gotten better and no longer shoot in the 120s. If I did, I’d just quit. To me, United just seems like they’re not getting any better, and for the sake of the airline industry, I really wish the company would try.

What’s the real point of all this? Hug your mother…however taxing on your nerves. The people that matter to you won’t be around forever (nor will you), so take some time this weekend and devote it to the people and pets that matter the most in your life. Have a good weekend…and start is with a little good music.

 

Happy New Year

 

BTW...Sorry for all the mispellings and typos. Didn't have time to proof this even once today. Spent the morning on the phone with the airline.

...and I need to find some good gifts soon

For more than a few years now, my mom has run a small antique business in the Scandinavian themed city of Solvang, California. The quaint town which was the area that served as much of the setting for the wine movie Sideways, sits inland on California’s famed Highway 101 about 60 miles north of the seaside hamlet of Santa Barbara. Specializing in antique smalls (jewelry, cut glass, china and such), Helen’s Precious Things in the Solvang Antique Center has been a fairly successful small business endeavor. Sure…it’s certainly not Fortune 500 material, but from its modest hobby origins the recreational business had turned into a pretty nice side income. More importantly, the antiques hobby has provided thousands of hours of enjoyment for my mom who at 83, still thoroughly enjoys scouring antique shops, thrift sales and just about any other venue searching for bargain treasures to add to her inventory.

About 15 years ago, when she move her antiques operation from Ojai, California to Solvang, I got the brainstorm that some nifty ink-pens marketing the name of her business (“Helen’s Precious Things”) would make a cool Christmas gift. I was actually referred to a woman named Janie that lived in my area that had just such a business, so when given her number by a colleague I contacted her and placed the order. I remember being somewhat alarmed because Janice seemed a little dense when I gave her the information. I wanted the pens to have the name of the business (Helen’s Precious Things) and the telephone number and address of the Solvang Antique Center. As I recall I ordered about 300 pens…and if I remember correctly the cost of this purchase at the time was somewhere in the neighborhood of $150.00.

At that point in my early 30s, it was more than a little out-of-character for me to be that prepared and to have it together enough to order the pens with enough lead time to arrive ahead of the holiday. I eagerly anticipated receiving the pens knowing my mother would probably be thrilled to have something promoting her business. The package was delivered to my home well-ahead of the specified time, and I remember thinking that Janice was obviously better than I’d initially assessed. I opened the box to look at the forest green and white pens and immediately knew I’d hit a gift home run. They were pretty cool looking, and as I scrutinized them more closely I noticed that Solvang was spelled Solvant…and just to put me further in the holiday spirit, Janice the monumental moron had also managed to muck up the address.

Thankfully, my time going through an electrical apprenticeship and coaching inner-city high school football in rough-n-tumble Los Angeles meant I was fully fluent in both Building and Construction Trades language and general male locker room exchanges. Though I knew the calendar meant there was no time to correct Janice’s galactic blunder in time to save the Christmas gift, I looked forward to calling the idiot and unloading with both barrels. The pen idea had been a rare show of creativity for me, and to have such uncommon gift genius (what does it mean that I had to spellcheck genius?) undone by an idiot that theoretically worked in the pen providing business…well…let’s just say I was looking forward to verbally tearing her a new one.

Well, given that you’re already bored with the story, I won’t make it worse by giving you the profane details of the call. But after her unenthusiastic husband answered the phone and transferred me to Janice (who almost sounded drunk), I clearly conveyed my displeasure with her piss-poor performance. She was profusely apologetic, but I was unrelenting, and because she’d essentially ruined a good gift plan, I really did skewer her. She made some feeble attempt to make it right, but I remember knowing it wouldn’t make much difference and pretty much hung up in disgust. Her mistake had been inexcusable, and her sorry attempt to remedy her unforgivable faux pas was all the more unsatisfying. It was yet another experience that vividly revealed that despite God’s omnipotent power, he (or she) really does see fit to routinely literally waste humane flesh.

About a week and a half later, on about the 23^rd I called Janice back to get some idea of when my next shipment of screwed up pens might show. Her nitwit husband again picked up the phone with the enthusiasm and clarity of someone undergoing a root canal and when I asked to speak to his wife, his voice kind of cracked and he said she had passed away about a week ago. She had been very sick for a long time, but that now “she’s finally done suffering.” I said that is all well and good, but that I had a pen order and needed to check the status of my delivery. Actually, I capable of some amazingly stupid behavior, but that’s not really what I said. I feebly offered my condolences and hurried to get off the uncomfortable call as quickly as possible.

Thankfully I don’t remember thinking much about being out $150 clams and having 300 useless pens (actually, they still provided a useful writing utensil). I remember being horrified by the way I treated this woman, and haunted by the fact that her medical condition surely contributed to the incorrect order. I remember feeling horrible about the awful things I said to her…just days before she passed away. I remembered too that she never fired back, took the high road, apologized and never complained about her illness or cited it as an excuse for the mix up.

Sometime in the forenoon on Christmas Eve, there was a knock on the door from a UPS man. He handed me a small rush package and inside the box were 600 (a double order) perfectly stenciled pens with Helen’s Precious Things and the correct address and phone number. There was also a check for a full refund made out to me for the first order and a handwritten note of apology from Janice for the mistake and any inconvenience caused me. Putting the time-lime together, she appeared to have taking care of all of this the day before she passed away.

You never know what somebody is going through or how long they’ll be around. You might just want to treat them a little better…or at least think about doing so.

Hope you have a tremendous holiday weekend. Remember to do something relaxing and fun, and to hug the people and pets that you love…and maybe even a few that you don’t.   

 

Sorry for all the typos, misspellings, bad writing and poor grammar.

 

...comfort and joy

...and some stranger needs to buy me a drink

A work valued colleague and one of my best friends in the world has this remarkable ability to get a variety of stuff provided to her for free. Oddly, it usually happens on Fridays…and often takes the form of some stranger buying her lunch or perhaps an adult beverage. Sometimes, if she’s dinning out when her better-half is on the road, she even gets a complimentary dinner. As a matter of fact, having an unfamiliar person or random bartender provide something gratis has become such a common occurrence for her, she’s taking to referring to the last day of the work week as “free Fridays.” She was bragging to a fellow male coworker and me this past Wednesday about her special skill, when the sheer inequity of her talent for receiving complimentary food and drink really started to get under my skin.

You see, here’s the deal. One of this individual’s most admirable characteristics is that I’m convinced she’s incapable of telling a lie. Much to my dismay…she doesn’t use profanity and always refrains from saying even the slightest mean-spirited thing about any fellow human being (even when she has the luxury of doing it behind someone’s back…I so don’t get that). So…it’s not like she’s embellishing her ability to have people buy her stuff…it just seems to happen and she’s just telling it like it is. As a matter of fact, just last Friday…the bartender at a swanky local restaurant picked up her lunch…and I believe a couple or beverages to boot.  

So…you’re probably asking yourself…what’s the problem? Well, it’s really pretty simple. You see, I just turned 51 and I typically eat out a minimum of about 7 or 8 times a week (5 lunches and two weekend dinners). I’m guessing I’ve dined out with basically this same frequency since the time when I transitioned from my construction electrician’s job to a largely office gig about 15 years ago. So…while I’m not real great at math, it seems to me that’s 7 meals a week times 52 weeks a year makes for about 364 restaurant meals a year. If you multiply that over the last 15 years (15 x 364), that comes to roughly 5,460 restaurant experiences since the late 90s alone. Prior to that, from the time I was 18 years old to the age of about 36 while I worked as an electrician, a very conservative estimate was that I ate out at least 5 times a week (usually more dinners). If you multiply the 5 times 52 weeks a years, I think that comes to approximately 260 times a year. Multiply that by the 18-year span from 18 to 36 (or however many freaking years that is), and you’ve got another 4,680 meals to add to the 5,460 modern era dinning visits. If you add those two totals together, it’s clear I’ve dined out well over 10,000 times from the time I was 18 years old. To be honest I’m quite certain the number is considerably higher…but for the sake of argument…let’s stick with the 10,000 figure.

So, over the last 33 years, I’ve been in restaurants a minimum of 10,000 times. Now, while I’m never confused for Brad Pitt or Denzel Washington (actually not true…but that’s another Friday story) or Aston Kutcher in manpris, I’m not exactly Quasimodo either. Sure, I could have hipper clothes, a six pack instead of a keg or a more stylish haircut, but aside from my frumpy clothing and deteriorating physique, it’s not like I’m chopped liver either. There have been ample opportunities for some stranger sitting across the restaurant to pick up my meal or send over a free drink, but the fact-of-the-matter is I’m zero for 10,000. Not one time in the span of 18 to 51 has anybody ever randomly bought me a drink or picked up my lunch. No waiter has ever said “this one’s on the mysterious lady in red in the booth by the window” or “compliments of Mr. Soros” or even “this ones on the masked man with the white horse.” Sure…a litany of cherished friends and valued colleagues have generously taking me to lunch or provided me with very nice restaurant gift cards, but with respect to random buys…I’ve got nothing…zero, zilch, nada.

As my work colleagues mulled this over last Wednesday in the conversation alluded to above, we began to explore some possible explanations for her prowess and my dismal 51-year dry spell. My fellow male coworker theorized that at least part of the reason for my drought was due to my gender, and there were various other hypotheses offered about body language and facial expressions. I logically reasoned that it could be that I’m just too cool, or that I exude too much confidence. Maybe it’s that I just ooze some level of class or telegraph some extraordinary station of success that leaves folks feeling absolved from any need to randomly extend me charity. Then, amidst this exploration of these increasingly likely explanations, my dear friend with the amazing knack for getting her meals and drinks paid by strangers matter-of-factly offered this straightforward explanation. “Maybe people think you’re an A-hole.”

Now…usually it’s tough to follow up on a gem like that, but as if that wasn’t insightful enough…she continued by noting there is actually a new book that might offer some insight into my dilemma entitled “Assh#le.” Convinced to prove the “good things come in threes theorem,” she then closed with (I swear on a bible I’m not making this up), “maybe you just need to smile more.”

So the day started with 290 folks on my holiday card list…and ended with 289.

It’s Friday and I’m determined to solve this confounding mystery. I’m going to hit some bars and restaurants and get at least one random jackass to buy me one stinking drink…or at least pick up my usual side of brussels sprouts. I’m going to disprove this A-Hole theory and force my myself to chat up every simple-minded waiter or mind-numbingly boring bartender. Instead of rolling my eyes and shaking my head in disgust, I’m going to return any stranger’s inviting brief smile with a mildly pleasant manufactured expression. And when some nitwit tries to start a random buzz-killing conversation about the warm December weather or the Redskins playoff hopes, I’ll stay clear of my standard “hey no offense… but I came in here alone for a reason” response and attempt to feign some level of interest. Someway, somehow, I’m going to get to the bottom of this 51-year shutout. I swear…I just don’t get it.

Have a great free Friday and a wonderful weekend. If you can, enjoy the near 70-degree Washington holiday season weather and go out and do something really nice just for you.  Sorry for all the typos, poor grammar, improper use of words like “literally” and the many misspellings. I know this is a mess. Listen to some music…it will make it all better...or at least a little better. 

If you really love me so...

...and nothing provides clarity like a little perspective

It had been a perfect Thanksgiving, with great food, wonderful people, a roaring (OK…it was gas) fire and a somewhat unexpected early-evening snowfall (after an unseasonably warm near-record 60 degree high that day) that deposited a picturesque one-inch coating of snow on Maple Grove and throughout the greater Minneapolis area.  The Friday that followed was also nice, and started with an invigorating three-mile,  three-degree wind-chill aided run around Rice Lake before a day of shopping, my yearly movie (Skyfall) and various other luxuries provided by my generous brother and sister-in-law. Departure day on Saturday was also good, and included a leisurely IHOP breakfast with my nephew  before heading to a surprisingly quiet MSP airport for what was shaping up to be a smooth trip back home to DC. Even my slick new Ford Escape rental car was better than usual, and after cruising around for 48 hours listening to Siriusly Sinatra on the premium sound system in the comfort of heated seats, I wasn’t particularly looking forward to work re-entry and the holiday weekend coming to an end.

Given that I spend two-thirds of each year wishing my life away  looking forward to football, changing leaves, Thanksgiving and the holidays, it’s still sad to me when I think about how quickly they all fly by. Just yesterday I was celebrating the first college football game of the season and promising to really take in the Fall season. Now, once again, after barely blinking…Labor Day, Halloween and Thanksgiving are all fading fast in the rearview mirror…and the weeks ahead will be the typical frenzied blur. Though I romanticize each holiday season about quiet nights by the fire in the glow of the lighted tree, history dictates it won’t be long before we’re mired in the charmless days of post-holiday winter. So...as I thought about these things and the realities of all the pre-Christmas work that waited at home while sitting in the United Red Carpet lounge waiting for the return DC flight, I wasn’t surprised to find the post-Thanksgiving blues starting to seep in.  

After all, after looking forward to it for months, the idyllic Thanksgiving weekend was now over and my mind shifted to the coming hassles of decorating, harrowing gift shopping, mounting chores,  and the unavoidable frayed nerves that result from the inevitable chaos of overbooked holiday schedules (why do I spend the whole year looking forward to this?). As I glanced around the imbecile convention (not sure what it means that it took me 5 minutes…including a google search, to find out how to spell “imbecile”) that is Gate E4 of the Minneapolis U.S. Airways waiting area, the conglomeration of de-evolving life forms preparing to board a commercial airliner adorned in their lint-covered jammies, camo pants and generally offensive leisure/trash wear had me feeling pretty low. Probably hard to believe, but by the time I plopped down in my upgraded first class seat for the 2 ½ hour flight to the nation’s capital…I already had a pretty bad attitude.

 As I sat there watching the people schlepping back to coach in their manpris and flip flops, my mind drifted to that old evolutionary chart from elementary school and I started to wonder if we were really improving as a species. Actually…in reality…you didn’t have to observe much to realize there wasn’t a need to waste much time contemplating that question. As they filed by…the answer seemed sadly obvious, and I started to connect the dots between my increasing back pain and man’s inevitable return to all fours.

Seated in front of me to my right against the bulkhead was a young couple. They couldn’t have been very old, and though the fresh-faced chap sported a fairly clean-cut look, their combined disdain of fashion indicated they were committed to validating my return to homos erectus theory. To compound matters, the dude’s holey jeans and graphic tee look were augmented by untied hi-top basketball shoes that must have been designed to give him kind of a pseudo hip-hop look.  He also exacerbated their obvious unwarranted intrusion into the refined First Class cabin by propping his left foot on a pillow which extended at least partially into the galley food-prep area and dangerously close to the public space that brave and desperate passengers navigate when they’ve thrown in the towel and decide to use the glove compartment sized lavatories.

After a bit I heard the flight attendant tell the couple that she’d put his crutches in the small coat closet. In the course of their exchange, she asked the young lad how he’d hurt his leg. “I got hit by a rocket” he replied… “in Afghanistan...I got to spend a couple of days at home but I’m headed back to Walter Reed.”

It was a good Thanksgiving. Somehow my problems seem a little smaller now…and my back hurts a little less too.

It’s Friday, so enjoy the magic of the season by having a truly wonderful and well-deserved weekend. If you can, do something fun and try to feel at least a little grateful for the fact you have the freedom to do so.

 

Sorry for all the typos and mistakes.

 

Boy was he cool...

and it's time to go hunting

Growing up in the urban mecca of Los Angeles, I never really got the whole hunting thing. Sure, it seemed to make some sense if you were dressed as a Pilgrim or slogging through a nineteenth century South Dakota winter on the prairie before the advent of electricity and supermarkets, but why anyone in the modern era would look at a beautiful brown-eyed deer and want to blow it’s brains out just never made sense to me. I’d heard all the reasons why it was necessary or even humane…but somehow my limited citified mind was just never able to connect the dots.

I’d been told about the need to manage animal populations, prevent starvation or the value in thinning out herds to promote longevity, but somehow I just wasn’t buying it. I could never speak much deer, but somehow I always sensed if given the opportunity to pose the question to an eight-point Buck on the option between going without some quality grazing or a having a .308 long-grain ripping through their ribcage…the deer would respond with something like “let me take my chances finding some food before you thin me out.”

I guess the urge to look at an animal and think “God that’s beautiful…I’d really like to blow it off the face of the earth” makes some sense to me…but I always thought it was something we as humans should try to suppress. It’s kind of like the urge take naked pictures of yourself and text them…or to hold up banks or watch NASCAR. In my own life, I routinely feel the desire to actually knock out real people quite frequently…but somehow I reason the world is somehow a better place if I don’t follow through on that temptation. I also fear they might succeed in clobbering me instead…which would actually seem more sporting than any option the defenseless deer typically have.

I remember driving back from supper one evening in Minnesota with my then 90-year old grandpa. We came across the Red River through the heart of Fort Abercrombie, North Dakota just inside the Minnesota boarder. As we crossed the state line and curved across the river on the picturesque ribbon of highway that winds right through the middle of the old fort, there was a herd of deers (if you speak Minnesotan you know they sometimes say deers instead of deer) standing by the northeastern blockhouse down by the river. My grandpa suggested we pull over…and we sat there in the car for a few minutes just watching them feed against the setting sun. At some point my grandpa, a lifelong Depression era farmer, Roosevelt Democrat) and no virgin to barely scrapping by, said in a thick Swedish accent something like “aren’t they beautiful…I just never understood why anybody would want to shoot one if they didn’t have to.” For some reason, perhaps because I’m just a sissy city boy…that always just resonated with me. I acknowledge if I’d grown up in the country it would be different, but as a product of urban life I really just never really understood it all. That feeling pretty much stayed with me…until I moved to the District of Columbia. Now…I think it should be open season year round. Not on deer though…but on unruly and inconsiderate environmental rush-hour bicyclists.

When I think about the people that make up this selfish group of peddle-happy wasted flesh, all the rationale used to justify killing defenseless animals suddenly becomes crystal clear. Those of us forced to slog up 16^th street while some self-centered jackass peddles two miles an hour up the hill blocking an entire lane of commuters should be able to line them up with the hood ornament and step on the accelerator. Over time, people could develop some genuine cyclist hunting prowess…and would be able to knock self-centered riders up on the parkway or sidewalk completely out of the traffic with little or no disruption to traffic. Car commuters (now well-rested after arriving home on time the previous evening) could stand around the water cooler the next morning boasting of their successful hunts. Hey Bob, I bagged a nice red-helmeted 3-speed list night” or “Bubba, I nailed a blue-helmeted 10 –speed from 30 yards at 40mph. I was home in 20 minutes.”

Much like the hunting of animals…there could be a really, really humane component to this too. If at some point, people started noticing the consequence of this practice was somehow endangering the total number of selfish morons that take pleasure in screwing up the nightly commute for the rest of the city by peddling in the middle of a lane of a major artery at 2mph shouting “I’m superior to everyone behind me,” we could manage the hunts by rationing out tags to commuters that would only entitle them to taking out a limited number of bike riders per month. If, cyclists chose to use a bike lane or ride on the right side by the curb so cars could pass on their left (as I was taught to do when I was about 4 years old), they could be off limits. Hunting cyclists would be a good family and memory building exercise too as frustrated drivers could pass on the skill to children riding along in the car after a long day at school or daycare.

I know what you’re thinking…and yes…it’s true…I come up with some very good ideas. As a matter of fact, I’m going to head into the office now and see if I can’t bag a fit lycra-suited 15-speeder on Mass avenue. Seems to me it would make a great mount for the wall in the family room.

The election is over so have a wonderful weekend and try to take some time to chill and have some fun. You may even want to go for a bike ride, hunt some deer, or even cheer Brad Keleslowski's #2 Miller Lite car onto victory in the final NASCAR cup race at Homestead, Fl (or so I've heard).  Whatever your pleasure, try to relax and do something just for you. You can start it off just right with some nice music. Sorry for all the typos, poor grammar, lousy writing and misspellings.

 

I'd rather have a dollar than a dime...

...and it's nice to have a little wind at your back

After pretty much dodging a bullet with hurricane Sandy, the DC area also fully avoided the nor'easter that followed on the super storm's heels just about a week later. Though the second storm slammed areas of the northeast with as much as a foot of snow, all we seemed to get here in the District were some clouds, some late night flurries and a bit of wind.

I was hoping to see least a dusting of the white stuff when I headed out the front door at 3:58am for my Thursday morning run, but the only remnants of the nor'easter in Cleveland Park were some water beads on a few cars (the four in the neighborhood that were waxed) and about a 15mph stiff wind coming out of the north west. The breeze didn't seem like much of a factor when I started running east toward Connecticut avenue, but when I hit the major artery on the corner of Yuma and turned headfirst into the wind north on Connecticut, I realized the gusts were pretty formidable and cold enough (at least for early November) to immediately blow away any lingering effects of Wednesday night's red wine.

Exercising used to be fun for me...but now that I'm on the backside of fifty, it pretty much just hurts. In light of the rapid physical deterioration, I'm usually pretty content to use any weather-related obstacle like wind as an excuse to ease up...especially when I'm running. It just feels better when I don't have to push so hard. But something was different about Thursday.

I'm guessing it could have been the fact that I was still riding high from the election outcome, but for some reason I resisted the usual temptation to just cruise and pretty much pushed myself against the wind uphill on Connecticut toward Chevy Chase. When I turned left on Nebraska Ave the breeze became less of factor, and by the time I turned left again on Wisconsin, the northwest wind was squarely at my back. After fighting the headwind for more than half the run, it felt good to have the push at my back. I just kind of took long strides moving southeast on Wisconsin...and though I was clearly moving at a good pace...it didn't seem to be too taxing.

When I turned back into the wind heading north on 37th street toward the house for the last quarter mile, it would have been easy to let up. However after having the wind at my back for a while, the gusts in my face now felt more invigorating than anything...and I pushed harder before kicking it into high gear for the last few blocks.

If you believe in the power of a strong middle class, the virtues of equity, fairness and justice for all Americans and if you think diversity is a strength and not a weakness, this past Tuesday was a good day. It wasn't a landslide, or even close to the mandate that many of the spinsters are trying to imply, but it was a clear repudiation of extremism and a good night for people that work for a living. For progressives, there's been a fair amount of headwind for way too long. But now...thanks to a few million folks that pulled the right lever...the wind is at our back for a while. It won't likely last forever, or even for more than maybe a couple of strides. However it would be good to enjoy the fruits of victory, and to reap the replenishing benefits that can only come from a wind-aided run.  We're going to need to be rested for the next test, so let's enjoy this outcome and replenish our resources in hopes we can keep this going for a while.

 

You can start by having a good extended weekend. If you can, spend at least a minute to think about the men and women that served this country so we all have the right to cast a vote.

Have a good Veteran's Day weekend.

Close your eyes and relax...

...and I wish I could just go fishing.

The ominous  charred ruins of the short-lived Pacific Ocean Park Amusement park and pier that served as the border between Santa Monica and Venice beaches when I was a kid looked like a movie set, and as I later came to find out, it actually was. POP (Pee-oh-pee as it was affectionately called by the locals) opened in 1958, and was envisioned at the time that it would compete with Disneyland. The nautical theme park in the Ocean Park section of Santa Monica, California drew 20,000 visitors the day it opened, and though it saw early success, a host of factors contributed to plummeting attendance and it eventually closed down in October of 1967.

My mom took me to POP several times when I was a little chap, but my most vivid memories of the old amusement park are tied to the period between its 1967 closure and its eventual demolition in 1974.  Though I’m not sure when the practice actually started, I went to the beach every single summer day from the time I was in about 5^th grade until the beloved wave-riding ritual was rudely interrupted in the summer of 1977 by the need to begin my planned path to the National Football League (likely with the Los Angeles Rams…via an underwhelming career at Hamilton high school and an even more disastrous stint at UCLA).

 

Every day, regardless of weather, a couple of buddies and I schlepped down to the beach via the No. 28 Blue Ocean Park Santa Monica bus and spent the day frolicking in the Pacific where Ocean Park Boulevard met the sand at lifeguard station 26.  As we bobbed in the salty water waiting for the next set of rideable waves, the burned out skeletal remnants of the abandon amusement park’s pier framed the view to the south...and seemed to beckon us to visit the seemingly haunted ruins which served as the setting for the final scene of the famed TV series “The Fugitive.”  

 Some mornings, probably about twice a month, my friends Michael Cooper, Keith Sylber and I would get up early and head down to the shore before 6am to spend a couple hours fishing before starting the more taxing surfing routine. On those days we’d often have to catch the Blue Pico No.7 bus (which ran earlier…it was a 3-mile trip), and walk the mile on the boardwalk in the dark down to Ocean Park. The jagged pilings of the abandon pier were menacing, and we had to ignore some threatening “danger” and “no trespassing” signs before negotiating a couple of formidable chain-linked fences (with barbed wire on top) to gain entry to the abandoned amusement park area. Once in there, there was a rickety ladder (made from burned out 2x4 wood) you had to climb to get up to what was left of the pier, and it was always a challenge to get all of our gear up to that level. Once up to the pier, it seemed like a war zone. Everything was battered and broken and seemed to be covered with soot. What was left of the decaying buildings and former thrill rides were covered with graffiti and danger signs.

There were two sections where the pier was completely washed out or burned away, and someone had constructed two planks to bridge the two 15’ or so spans (it seemed like the Grand Canyon) over the 30’ drop to the rolling ocean and broken pilings below. It always took a few minutes to get the nerve to cross, and we usually had to flip a coin to see who ventured across first to test sturdiness. The plank, which was no more than 12 inches wide, looked like a toothpick above the churning sea…and it always bowed a bit as you made your way to the other side. Thankfully nobody ever fell, or even really stumbled as I recall, but once we made it out to the end of what was left of the pier to where an old roller coaster once stood, we were usually rewarded by a morning’s catch of some pretty nice butter-mouthed perch.

One time, as we were heading back to shore, there were a couple of older kids just on the other side of the last span and as we approached they picked up their end of the plank and acted as though they were going to toss the “bridge” into the sea. I remember the smile on the guy’s face as he motioned as though he was going to throw our only safe way of passage into the water. I looked into the guy’s eyes and essentially pleaded with him not to do it. My buddy Michael’s older brother Scott was with us that day, and as I tried to negotiate with the cat on the other side Michael’s brother Scott said something like the following…

“Listen motherfu#ker$, go ahead and throw it in. When you do, I’m going to jump into the water and swim to shore. I’m going get there before you do, and I’ll be waiting for you at the bottom of that ladder and when you climb down, I’m going to beat the living shit out of you with a two-by-four.” Not sure if he could of pulled it off, but at least to me, he didn’t appear to be bluffing. The kid on the other side who was unmoved by my more diplomatic passive approach seemed to do some math in his head and decided to buy it too. Not long after Scott’s promise, the kid gingerly replaced the plank so we too could cross. As we started, they ran…and though we gave chase for a while…we ultimately decided to let it go.  I think Scott’s plan was to beat them to a pulp anyway…we just needed to get across the span first.

What’s the point? I’m lost too. Just trying to fill some space on a Friday morning…and maybe take your mind off the east coast storm damage and looming election for just five minutes. Hope it helped.

It’s Friday, and whether you’re relaxing or working to elect folks committed to freedom, justice, fairness and equality, start the day with a little music. If you do, you will have a better day, and a better weekend.

BTW...sorry for all the mistakes...I know this is a disaster

Another sunny honeymoon