Ramblings 2002

Outtakes

Photographs and Memories

Wine Weenie

In God We Trust (sort of)

The End of the World

A "Nice" Holiday

George Wasington's Axe

It's Pull My Finger Time Again

December 21, 2002—Outtakes

I’ve received many comments this past week regarding the holiday picture of our two dogs. In case you didn’t see it, there is a link to the picture at the end of the previous Ramblings, “Photographs and Memories.”

Most folk’s comments run along the lines of, “How did you ever get them to sit so still like that?”

That’s the irony of a job well done. It often looks so easy, so perfect. It’s like when I asked a friend the other day how she liked our Christmas tree. “Oh, it’s beautiful,” she said, “but I thought you didn’t like artificial trees.”

It isn’t artificial! But it is almost perfect in its symmetry. No needles have fallen off of it because it was purchased fresh-cut and kept in water. And unlike the “deli trees” sold all over Manhattan, it has a deep dark green color instead of the pale lime (or worse, brown) of the Christmas trees that are so typically offered up for us city slickers’ consumption. It is, in short, a perfect tree. But it didn’t come to our living room by accident. We went to a lot of effort to get it.

Often, what looks perfect or easy to do is so misleading. The graceful figure skater who turns in an Olympic Medal-winning performance, is a good example. Or Fred Astaire’s dancing. We’re never aware of the planning and preparation and the pain, frustration and disappointment that often goes into a winning routine.

Now, my dear friends, I have a dirty little secret to share with you. Those dogs did NOT sit still! We took about 50 shots to get that “perfect” picture. Caboose didn’t like the Velcro straps of his little hat—and it made him look like an organ-grinder monkey. So we got rid of the straps and double-faced taped the hat to his head. When one dog would sit still, the other one would move, ruining the picture. When they both were sitting still the lighting would be wrong. When the lighting was right the background would be messed up. On and on. It took about three hours to get that one good picture. And that doesn’t include set-up time and test shots made the previous day.

So what follows here in this Rambling are some “outtakes”—a few of those pictures that didn’t make it. I hope you enjoy them. A word of warning though. Make sure you haven’t had too much liquid to drink before viewing them. You may have an accident from laughing so hard!

Enjoy the rest of the holidays, everyone, and have a wonderful New Year.

Click here to see the outtakes.

December 11, 2002—Photographs and Memories

We’re starting to receive Christmas cards now. They’re trickling in, one or two a day. We save every one and hang them on a wall. Each card gets read twice—once as it comes in and is going up on the wall; the second time, when it comes down and is headed for the trash can. I would love to save them all, for future old times sake. But space doesn’t permit. I’ve kept only one card over the years—a hand-painted water-color made just for my wife and me. It goes up on the wall every year with all the new ones.

Today I received a card from my cousin, Nancy. In it she included an old photograph of her brother, my brother and me. The three of us are standing in front of my house in Florida when I was fourteen years old. The inclusion of that photograph made this a most special Christmas greeting. I don’t know that the card itself will be reprieved from its January sentence to my building’s compactor (perhaps, on appeal), but the photo will survive.

I love photography. I even freelanced as a photographer for a period of time. And while I have photographed such majestic sights as the Grand Canyon and the ruins of Pompeii, it is people—and animals—that I enjoy photographing the most. I seem to have a knack for capturing them in natural poses—or posing them naturally.

Ironically, my sense is that most people don’t really like to have their pictures taken. The guy with the camera is usually a pain in the ass at any gathering. And I can appreciate that. You’re at a birthday party in a restaurant, for example, and some idiot comes around and sticks his camera in your face. It’s an intrusion on the moment. It’s almost as embarrassing as having to sing Happy Birthday—or worse, having the waiters sing it to you.

But almost invariably, when my pictures are developed or posted on line, the folks who grudgingly obliged to have theirs taken are just dying to see them. And, especially if a picture is flattering, they want copies.

Much of my family’s history has been documented with photos. My father had a camera as far back as I can remember. I have albums and photo portraits of my family that go back as far as the late 1800’s. Many of those pictures were taken by what must have been a traveling photographer. Getting your picture taken at the turn of the twentieth century was still a big deal.

Yet there are great gaps in my photo-documented life. There are many pictures of me as a baby and of me with my family and relatives when I was a child. And I am well represented in the thirteen thick albums I’ve accumulated in the last twenty years. And now I have even more albums taking up gigabytes of hard drive space on my computer. But there are also long stretches of my life that were not recorded on film.

As I look back, I am amazed that there exists only one picture (not counting those yearbook mug shots) of me during my high school years. One picture! It’s a snapshot of me with my grandmothers on the day of my graduation. What happened back then? I starred in two high school plays, sang in the chorus, formed a rock and roll band, had lots of friends and did everything that a typical teenager does. Yet none of it was ever photographed.

Then there are my four years of college life. Again, no pictures. And for the two years I spent in the army—including the sixteen months I served in Germany and traveled all over Europe—I have only a couple of snapshots, neither of which show me in uniform doing military stuff. What happened?

Many people I know, my wife included, could care less about taking pictures or having pictures taken of them. Their argument usually runs along the line of, “I don’t need a picture to remind me of where I’ve been or what I’ve done. I would rather enjoy myself unencumbered by taking pictures. And besides, I will always have the memories.”

Yeah, well wait until you get a little older. The memory is one the first things to go, you know. If you can’t remember where you put your car keys thirty minutes ago how do you think you are going to remember your daughter’s prom date thirty years from now?

I, on the other hand, am more like Tipper Gore. I would carry a camera everywhere with me if it weren’t for two things. First, no question about it, it is a hassle handling a camera—especially if you are doing something that requires a lot of physical activity, like washing the dog. Second, sometimes it just doesn’t seem appropriate to be taking pictures of everything going on around you. I could never be a photojournalist, for example. “Excuse me, could I get a picture of you as you jump off that building?”

Photographs and memories. I suppose you can have memories without photographs. All you have to do is start thinking about whatever it is you want to have a memory about. But how often do you do that? How often do you say, “Oh, I think I’ll sit here and take a stroll down memory lane?” And even if you did, how often are those memories truthful? Time has a way of changing memories.

The camera, on the other hand, never blinks. And while it’s possible to have memories without photographs, it’s impossible to have photographs without memories. One of the great “mission statements” ever created was that of Kodak’s some years ago—“We preserve memories.” What I like about photographs is that they have the ability to literally lead you down a memory lane. That’s a great thing—assuming you have good memories.

Here’s a tip for taking better pictures of people (or pets) this holiday season.

Get in close. Most amateur photographers simply don’t move (or zoom) in close enough to their subjects. Remember, you’re not taking a picture of the sofa and the wall. You’re taking a picture of your Uncle Bill. So get close to him. Try it. You’ll be amazed!

And now, here’s my holiday photo greeting to you. Wishing you “Doggone Happy Holidays!” Click here.

November 30, 2002—Wine Weenie

Okay, so I’m not a oenophile, I’m a weenie. When it comes to wines I’m like the farmer from Kansas visiting the Museum of Modern Art. I don’t know much about them, but I know what I like.

I also know what I don’t like. I don’t like red wines, for example, although I’m always a sucker to buy the Beaujolais Nouveau this time of year on the first day it comes out. “Just had it flown in today,” my wine seller tells me. I can’t figure out what all the fuss is about. I’m always expecting each year’s new Beaujolais to be the one to turn me on to red wine, but it never does.

So that leaves white wines. I hate sweet wines like the White Zinfandels my friends from out of town always order. I also don’t like Chablis or Chardonnay, although I will still take a bad Chardonnay over a good red wine any day. As I mentioned elsewhere in these Ramblings (“I Want My Pinot Grigio”) I prefer Italian white wines—Pinot Grigio first, then maybe a Soave, Trebbiano or Orvieto Classico (but if a restaurant doesn’t have the PG it’s highly unlikely to have the others). In the absence of the availability of an Italian white wine, I can make do with a Sauvignon Blanc or one of those Pouilly Somethings. After that it’s Miller Time.

But what I do like is a FULL glass of wine.

It happened again last night. After settling for the Sauvignon Blanc at a trendy new neighborhood restaurant, I was served a modest-sized wineglass—half empty. Okay, maybe it was half full and I should be more positive in my outlook. I must work on that. But at seven dollars a throw I want to swallow more than three times. I understand that “fine” wines are not supposed to be served brim-full-to-the-top—you’re supposed to be able to swirl it around and smell its bouquet or some such thing. But give me a break, folks. We’re talking “vintage last month” here, not some dusty label that was put down twenty years ago. Let’s fill her up three quarters, alright?

So we go into this restaurant last night with a friend from out of town. Now it is 8 p.m. on a Friday night. The place is half-empty—excuse me, half-full. The first thing they asked is if we had a reservation. Hell no, we don’t have a reservation. It’s Thanksgiving weekend and everyone is out of town! I suppose you could argue that it was only proper for them to ask. But they went into this whole song and dance like they were going to try to squeeze us in somewhere.

We should be so grateful.

Then the waiter promenades over and wants to know if we want bottled water or plain old yucky tap water to drink. Although he’s holding a bottle of Sparkling Pellegrino in his right hand, his left hand isn’t encumbered with a pitcher of Aqua de New York City Reservoir. When I said I didn’t want any water at all he promptly took my glass away. “Okay, no water? Bad boy!”

Like other businesses, many restaurants in New York City are suffering in this bad economy. A walk through Mulberry St. in Little Italy is depressing. All those wonderful restaurants are virtually empty. They have never recovered from the events of 9/11 which took place just a few blocks away. So what do they do to improve the situation? Do they lower their prices? Do they crank up the friendly service? No. They just put more hucksters out on the sidewalks to try to get you into their places.

In fairness to the place last night, the food was very good and the service was passable. So why all the pomp? Good times or bad, restaurants just can’t seem to get over the pretentiousness thing. This restaurant—which is “Mexican fusion,” whatever that means, makes a big deal out of the fact that it carries over 100 brands of Tequila. Who cares? There aren’t three people in all of Manhattan who can tell the difference. Fifty is plenty.

But don’t go by me. I’m a Tequila weenie, too.

October 19. 2002—Canine Comedians

Yes, it's that time of year again. Today was the annual Canine Comedy Parade held at Gramercy Park. We entered both Darcy and Caboose. If you missed my description of the previous event*, click here. Unfortunately, we were a little disappointed with our dogs' performances today. I guess even real hams have off days.

This year Darcy got the award for Most Interesting Breed. I think what that means is that it is a consolation prize. Actually, we thought she had a chance in the Over Fifty-Pounds Lap Dog category, but that award went to a dog even bigger than Darcy.

Then we held out hope that Caboose could bring home the bacon in the Best Kisser category. You know, he is very licky. He will sit on your lap and lick your lips until you pull him away with a big, "Enough, already!" But poor Caboose was stressed out by the whole scene. He didn't want to be on the ground with the other dogs, and when it was time for him to perform in front of the judges he wasn't in a kissy mood. He just wanted to go home.

Darcy, on the other hand, was loving every minute of it. As usual, she ran around greeting everyone and sniffing their butts. She acted just like any politician running for office. But, even so, she failed to capture the Most Friendly award.

Caboose made another attempt in the Most Clever Name contest. We thought he would be a shoo-in for that, because he wouldn't have to perform. Just show up in front of the judges with his little nametag. Buzz. Thank you for playing. The award went to some dog with a really dumb name—the Canine equivalent of Algernon, or whatever.

After an hour and a half of fierce competition and only one award to show for it, we still held out hope of capturing the Most Unusual Pair award. After all, everywhere I go with both Darcy and Caboose in tow I get all these looks and smiles. They really do look funny together—one 70 pounds, the other 7. So I thought, Okay, they're saving the best for last.
After circling the dogs around the judging area—Darcy pulling ahead of me and Caboose pulling behind me like a, duh, caboose—we finally presented ourselves in front of the three judges. I thought for sure we had this one aced, judging from the others competing in the same class. Keep in mind, sucking up to the judges was allowed. So we sucked up bigtime. In fact, we even knew two of the judges from our early morning walks around Gramercy Park.

But being the odd couple was not in the cards. The award went to two dogs that I thought looked pretty much the same. Well, perhaps they had radically different personalities—like maybe one was a Republican and the other a Democrat or something. I don't know.

All in all, though, we had a good time. We'll try harder next year.

* The event wasn't held last year because it fell so soon after 9/11.

September 8, 2002—What Happened?

While I sense that many are dreading it, there is one reason to look forward to September 11 this week.

Yes, it will be a media circus. Already the networks are serving up round the clock coverage—with non-stop images and sounds of airplanes crashing into buildings, dust and smoke billowing through streets, rubble, sirens screaming, bodies falling through skies, firemen and police officers covered in dust, rubble, Guilliani, Bush, megaphones, Pataki, Chelsea Jeans, Ground Zero, viewing platforms, shrines, volunteers, rubberneckers, terrorists, Jihad, “Let’s Roll,” Pentagon, rubble, highjackers, Muslims, Osama, Taliban, Al Queda, Afghanistan, rubble, anthrax, homeland security, shoe bombers, Dead or Alive, Tora Bora, Axis of Evil, burkas, Mullahs, Mohameds, rubble, rubble, rubble.

The only thing the media won’t be able to reproduce is the smell. But it should be a grand show, nevertheless.

Yes, we’ve come a long way since Sept. 11, 2001. Remember all the Taliban jokes and computer “kill the bastards” arcade games? We were all riled up back then, weren’t we?

We came, we looked, we took pictures. We got VIP tours of Ground Zero, complete with commemorative hardhats. We bought souvenir books, post cards, T-shirts and FDNY ball caps. We built makeshift shrines and went to church and organized candlelight vigils. We got angry, frightened, sad, anxious and indignant.

But who today is still using their Osama Bin Laden toilet paper? Since we couldn’t find him we retreated and declared victory. We moved on to other evil fish in waters less murky.

There’s an old saying that there are three kinds of people in this world. Those who make things happen, those who watch things happen. And those who ask, “What happened?”

I’m looking forward to this week because perhaps for a few brief days everyone will wake up and ask, “What happened?” What ever happened to Osama Bin Laden and Mullah Omar? What ever happened to increased airline security? What ever happened to rebuilding Afghanistan? What ever happened to that new U.S.A Freedom Corps? What ever happened to bi-partisan cooperation in Congress? What ever happened to that brief moment when all Americans felt connected to each other?

Only when we are able to answer, “What happened?” will we be able to move on. I hope this week is the beginning of that process.

August 16, 2002—Long Live the King!

There are certain events which one always remembers where he was when they occurred. For me it was the assassination of President Kennedy, the space shuttle Challenger explosion, 9/11, and the day Elvis Presley died.

I can’t believe it has been twenty-five years ago today that a friend called to tell me The King was dead. It seems like it was just yesterday. The Kennedy assassination, the Challenger disaster and even 9/11 seem like events from my distant past. But not so, the death of Elvis. I’ve been trying to figure out why that is.

I may have found the answer, or at least my answer. While watching the goings on at Graceland today I finished writing a new chapter for A Rock In My Shoe called “The Heartbreak of Mediocrity.” In the chapter I talk about being just an average kid when I was growing up. What I didn’t talk about is that there was always one person that I wished I could have been like. That person was Elvis.

And I wasn’t alone in my fantasy. It seemed like every other boy I knew had bought a guitar and was learning how to play “Love Me Tender” or “Hound Dog.” We had other male performer idols in those days—Fabian, Johnny Horton, Pat Boone, Roy Orbison, Buddy Holly and Ricky Nelson to name just a few. But Elvis was always The Man.

Elvis was the guy the girls fell all over themselves for. Let’s face it, if you weren’t a football hero you secretly hoped there was a chance that you could be the next Elvis. If Fabian could do it, maybe you could too.

But that only counts for us guys. What about the girls? Why did they like him so much? Why are they still crazy about him twenty-five years later? I mean, the girls went wild over Frank Sinatra too in his early days. But I don’t see them making pilgrimages to Hoboken.

I think the answer—for both the guys and the girls—lies in the fact that Elvis always seemed so accessible. He seemed to really like his fans. You just don’t get that impression with so many other entertainers.

I never met Elvis, but I’ve met a couple of people who did. One fellow was in Elvis’s company in the army in Germany. He said he was just a regular guy. Didn’t ask for anything special, did his job well, and was just as prone to pranks and cutting up as anyone else.

Of course, part of his mystique is that he died suddenly and relatively young. But you could say the same thing about Ritchie Valens, Buddy Holly or even Ricky Nelson.

I don’t know. It’s hard to nail down why he is still so popular. All I can say is that, for me, he represented something that I wasn’t. But because of his self-deprecating sense of humor and modesty I always felt like I COULD be him. Still do!

Would love to read your own thoughts on this on the Discussion Board.

Thank you. Thank you very much!

August 7, 2002—Simpatico

A couple of days ago I was awakened early in the morning with a bad case of the trots. There was only one reason I could think of that would explain why my bowls were in such a tizzy. It was the fast food fried chicken I had eaten the night before.

Sometimes I just never seem to master the lesson that I started to learn several years ago while visiting Florence, Italy. My wife and I had just arrived in town and we were starved. But it was only noon and few restaurants were open yet. After walking up and down several streets we finally found one place that appeared to be open. But there weren’t any customers inside and the waiters that were there didn’t speak English and gave us the feeling that they couldn’t care less if we sat down or not. So we left, thinking perhaps they really weren’t open for business yet.

While standing back outside the restaurant an Italian couple came along and also went inside to check it out. They came right back out. I asked the man if he spoke English, which he did, and then I asked him if the restaurant was not yet open.

“Oh, it’s open,” he said. “But it’s . . .” and he struggled for the right word.

“Simpatico,” he said. “The simpatico is not good.”

The implication was that no self-respecting Italian would eat there because it was a tourist trap. Immediately the place didn’t feel right to him, and that’s all he needed to know. I’ve tried to keep that in mind ever since. Move on if the place doesn’t feel right. But like I said, I haven’t totally mastered that lesson yet.

I hated that chicken place, but I kept going back there! It’s close, it’s quick, it’s cheap and it’s usually very tasty. But this particular “restaurant” is one of the most miserable fast food joints you can imagine. The employees are slovenly, surly and stupid. Rarely do they get an order exactly right—and of course I never discover the mistake until I get everything home and unpacked. So when they can’t even get their orders straight you also gotta wonder how often they change the grease they fry their chicken in. Now I finally know.

You are what you eat. I think everyone pretty much agrees with that these days. But I don’t think many people give much thought to the environment in which their food is prepared. Personally, I don’t want meals prepared by miserable people. That negative energy goes right into your food and then you’ve got it in your body. You may not notice it the first time, or the second or third. And you may not get food poisoning or diarrhea. But I’m convinced that there is a cumulative effect of eating food prepared by miserable people in a miserable environment. I mean, do you really want to eat food prepared in a kitchen that has a No Spitting sign next to the sink? There’s a place around the corner from me that has just that—right there in plain sight of all its customers! I can’t make this up.

It’s enough to gag a maggot.

July 9, 2002—A New Prestige

I am not the most modest person in the world. Anyone who has his own website and presumes for a millisecond that others would have any interest whatsoever in actually reading it has to have some modicum of ego.

But I’m also not the kind of guy that goes around swaggering about his accomplishments. I never sent out engraved cards to friends and relatives announcing I’d been promoted—a la, “I made partner at some white shoe law firm and now I can charge you even more.” Nor do I pass out cigars when I adopt a new dog. But today marks a truly special occasion and I really must strut my stuff. So please indulge me.

Finally, I am no longer just some dorky guy from Missouri trying to make it in the Big Apple. I have arrived. I am a V.I.P. Captains at the city’s finest restaurants will now shepherd me to their best tables. At any hotel in the world I will pass the front desk and go straight to my room. I’ll be chauffeured everywhere. Captain Stubing will invite me to sit at his table on the Love Boat.

I’ve been pre-approved!

Yes, today Chase Bank notified me that because I’m already a S.I.P—Sort of Important Person—I can now “upgrade” my card and become a Prestige Cardmember. The quotation marks around the word, “upgrade” are Chase’s, not mine. In fact, every time the word “upgrade” appears in this “invitation” it is in quotes.

I placed the word “invitation” in quotes because what I received in the mail is not really an invitation. It doesn’t actually mean I’m being invited. That’s why people sometimes put words in quotes. They don’t literally mean the word that they are using. Unless they are actually quotes, words in quotation marks take on a faux meaning. Like if I write, His car is a “classic,” it means that it is not really a vintage automobile. It’s just old. So what, I wonder, is Chase hiding when they say I can “upgrade”?

I get a lot of junk mail. Most of it doesn’t even make it upstairs to my apartment. It goes straight into the trash can next to the mailboxes in my building’s lobby. But this was an especially egregious piece of deception.

To begin with, the letter looked official—with a notice on the outside saying that a response was required. When I get something official from my bank I take it seriously. After all, they could be changing the terms of my credit card, notifying me of a mistake in a deposit I made, or telling me my account has been migrated to another bank—all of which has happened to me in the past. So I brought the letter upstairs and opened it.

Immediately relieved that everything is still OK with my bank, I started to read about what I will get when I “upgrade.” To begin, I will have “continuing charge privileges.” Well that’s nice. I guess that’s a benefit. I certainly wouldn’t want one of those credit cards that don’t allow you to charge anything on it.

There are, of course, a myriad of other benefits I will get with my new Prestige Cardmembership including discounts on meals, protection for all my other credit cards, access to emergency cash, car rental discounts, free flight insurance, and a toll-free weather reporting service (wow!). Finally, my wife can also be a V.I.P. at no extra cost.

Wait a minute! Cost? What’s this about cost? Only when I got to the fine print on the back of the “RSVP” (get it?) did I learn that it will cost me forty clams a year to hob nob with the rich and famous.

Now one would think that with my new Prestige Cardmembership I would also get a special card, no? Not just gold, or platinum. Something symbolic of my new stratospheric status. Say, a helium card. But no, what will I get? A sticker that says “Prestige Cardmember” to affix to my regular card.

Finally, here’s the coup de grace. At the end of the fine print I read that, “The Reunion Group, Inc. is the exclusive provider of Prestige benefits and is solely reponsible for them. Chase and The Reunion Group are not affliated.”

What a minute! Who the hell is The Reunion Group and why are they not mentioned anywhere else in the literature? And what do they mean they are “not affiliated?” Clearly, they are providing this service for Chase’s customers. If businesses working in concert with vendors to offer customers a service is not an affliliation, then what is?

Tacky—all the way around. I’ll just remain an S.I.P.

June 27, 2002—In God we Trust (sort of)

I guess I missed class that day. I thought our constitution guaranteed us freedom of religion, not freedom from religion. Hell, who can be free from religion? I don’t like it either, but religion runs just about everything in the world.

So what’s with this atheist Dr. Michael A. Newdow who brought the lawsuit charging that his daughter shouldn’t have to even listen to The Pledge Allegiance being recited in school (she doesn’t have to participate)? Get a life, buddy. Yes, the consitution ensures us there is a separation of church and state. But I’d argue that “church” and “religion” are not the same thing.

Well, our brilliant congressmen and women can fix this little problem real fast—just like they did in 1954 when they added the words “under God” in the first place. Just add one more word to the pledge—“possibly.”

“. . . one nation, possibly under God, indivisible . . .”

Come on, guys, let’s really mess it up!

June 24, 2002—The End of the World

My brother believes the world is soon coming to its end. He has wholeheartedly embraced a “prophesy” faith—a belief held by largely fundamentalist Christians who maintain that the predictions of The Book of Revelations are about to come true any day now. Nine/Eleven was just a small preview, he tells me—merely a harbinger of much worse things to come. The good news, according to my brother, is that there’s still time to be saved and sit at the right hand of God in the hereafter.

Lately I’ve begun to think that my brother might be right. I have this dreadful feeling that one day I am going to look out my window onto Lexington Ave. and see that the world is standing still. Not only will the traffic be bumper to bumper—which it often is already—but the cars' engines themselves will have stopped running. The traffic lights will all have gone dark. Airplanes will no longer be taking off from LaGuardia and those that did will be falling from the sky. My computer has died. My lights are off, the toilet won’t flush, the stove is leaking gas and I can’t get out of my apartment because the elevators are not working. In short, the world has come to an end—or at least to a screeching halt.

The cause of my "daymare," though, is not because we haven’t all gotten straight with Jesus. No, the reason the world will come to this endgame is because we finally reached the point where there is no one left on earth who knows how to do anything.

I am reminded of it daily, but last week provided an especially good example. On my annual fishing trip up north with my buddy, our guide was having problems with his boat’s motor. The motor had been in and out of the shop several times over the previous few days. Each time, it was supposedly fixed. Yet inevitably, after running for fifteen minutes on a real lake, the engine would suddenly shut down. The problem, our guide said, is that there are no mechanics anymore. None of them really understands how an internal combustion engine works. They only know how to change parts.

Parts changers! What a great euphemism for the know-nothings of the world. Take, for example, those I call upon to help me with my computer. Lately I’m discovering that even I often know more than those who sit at the help desks in the secret crannies of cyberland. Many of these so-called computer experts don’t have a clue as to how a computer or it’s software actually works. They are simply manual readers—the computer industry’s equivalent of auto mechanics who only know how to replace one part with another.

Today a mechanic is rated poor, fair or good by how many parts he knows how to change. It’s a bonus for the customer if he also happens to change the right part. The computer “expert” is rated according to the number of scenarios he has memorized from his manual. You know you’re in trouble when he says, “Let me put you on hold while I check the book.”

The parts changer mentality has permeated every profession, from the lowest paid to the highest. The low-echelon equivalent of parts changers include the telemarketers that call you at dinner time and read from a script. Cluelessness rules. That guy trying to sell you credit card protection is not only clueless about sales technique, he’s even more clueless about your wants and needs. He knows no facts and benefits whatsoever about his company’s products or services. Everything has been dumbed down for him by his company and put into a script that he merely has to read into the phone. If you don’t believe me, just interrupt him with an intelligent question and then sit back and enjoy the fun as he struggles to get back on track.

The upper echelons of parts changers can be found in the executive suites of corporate America. Is there still a CEO out there who knows how to actually do anything? Take this lead paragraph from an article on the front page of today’s The New York Times:

Did Steve Case really build America Online? Puh-leez!. The company and its enthusiastic employees built AOL because it was the right product at the right time. I get sick and tired of hearing CEO’s get all the credit. According to the article, the average CEO in 2001 made over ten million dollars a year—410 times what the average worker was paid. Does that mean they know 410 times as much as their secretaries? I don't think so. If you want to know who really builds companies just look to the administrative assistants. I’m glad at least some stock holders are finally starting to figure that out.

It’s amazing that these guys have been so well compensated for losing money—in other words, for knowing nothing! Some of them actually admit that they don’t know anything. Just ask Kenny Boy and the other (“Ah didn’t know nuthin’ ”) guys at Enron.

So my point is, where are the people who actually know how to do something? Unless we can quickly identify and press them into service, the world will definitely come to an end soon—“not with a bang, but a whimper.”

May 10, 2002—A "Nice" Holiday

They’re rioting in Africa.
They’re starving in Spain.
There’s hurricanes in Florida.
And Texas needs rain.
The whole world is festering with unhappy souls.
The French hate the Germans,
The Germans hate the Pols.
Italian hate Yugoslavs,
South African hate the Dutch.
And I don’t like anybody very much!

—The Merry Minuet

Obviously, we haven’t progressed very much since Sheldon Harnick penned those lyrics a half century ago. The players may have changed, but the world is still festering. If anything, things have gotten worse.

I’m confused. I want to know—as Rodney King did after the Los Angeles riots of ten years ago—“Why can’t everyone just get along?”

Remember when you were a kid and you got into an argument or a fight with one of your playmates? It was usually over a toy and the refusal of you or the other child to share it. Inevitably, a parent would have to intercede and say, “Now children, be nice to each other.” And that would usually do the trick. A little parental authority goes a long way. For as long as I can remember we have had the same situation in the Middle East and now the United States is being asked to step in and, in essence, make those children “be nice.”

Now don’t get on my case for being simplistic or insensitive to the problems in that part of the world. You know what I mean. But it does appear that our country’s current administration has finally acquiesced to the fact that it is going to have to get involved.

But how can we tell others to be nice when we can’t be nice ourselves? Look at the way play here at home. Corporate greed, pedophiles in the clergy, inequality in healthcare, a bankrupt legal system, domestic terrorists, politicians beholden to special interests—the list goes on ad nauseum.

In our quest to fulfill our inalienable rights I’m wondering if we have forgotten how to be nice. After all, no one is holding a gun to our heads commanding us to be greedy, mean or deceitful. In addition to the Bill of Rights we Americans enjoy, we also have the right to be nice. I think we’ve forgotten that—or perhaps been led to believe that nice is not “right.” So maybe it’s time for a new Declaration of Independence—“Life, Liberty and the pursuit of Niceness.”

I propose that we create a new holiday. Call it something like “National Be Nice Day.” We can slip it in between Mother’s Day and Father’s Day. With a few letters to our congressional representatives and a little lobbying from the greeting card industry, we could pull it off by the end of this year. I sense the times are ripe for it.

What would happen on a National Be Nice Day? Here’s some of the things that I propose everyone do on the new holiday.

On this new holiday everyone would perform at least one good deed. There is nothing like performing good deeds to make you feel swell about yourself. We need more people feeling swell about themselves instead of being swell-headed. I envision a holiday where everyone follows the old Boy Scout maxim of performing “good turns.” If everyone in the country did just one nice thing for someone else every day there would be no need to frantically pursue happiness. Let’s start by just having everyone do it for one day.

On this new holiday strangers will be allowed to speak to each other. I’m not talking about children being encouraged to talk to weirdos. But there’s no reason why nice folks like you and me can’t say “good morning” to a stranger we pass on the street or get on an elevator with. A kind word may be just what someone needs to make it through is or her day.

On this new holiday everyone will say “please” and “thank you.” I know, this will be an effort for many. Especially the thank you part. People just don’t seem to say thanks anymore. But it will be worth it. And by the way, you can add “you’re welcome,” as well.

On this new holiday people will show each other appreciation. Everyone likes to be told that they matter. So let’s make a special effort to let those closest to us know that we care. Florists will love this aspect of the holiday, as will Godiva, Hallmark and Rodney Dangerfield.

On this new holiday everyone will exercise patience. Road rage will disappear. Drivers will yield to pedestrians (OK, they do that in California, anyway). People will exercise a new-found tolerance in store check-out lines and the tech support guys will spend hours helping you install that new printer. Of course, there will be opportunities for abuse. Telemarketers will be tempted to exploit your being patient. Yes, you will still be allowed to hang up on them.

Perhaps you think I’m being facetious, but I’m not—really. Granted, there’s probably a better name for the holiday than National Be Nice Day. Smarter people than I can figure that out later. But if we can have a holiday to celebrate trees (Arbor Day) why CAN’T we have a holiday to celebrate—and practice—our own inherent goodness?

Where am I wrong?

March 10, 2002—George Washington’s Axe

A hunter is out in the forest when he comes upon a farmer chopping wood. They get into a pleasant conversation and eventually the hunter notices that the farmer is using what appears to be a very old axe.

“My, that axe looks like an antique,” he says to the farmer.

“Oh yes,” says the farmer. “In fact, this axe used to belong to George Washington. This is the very same axe that the Father of Our Country used when he cut down his daddy’s cherry tree.”

“Really? That’s amazing! Considering how old it is, it’s in very good shape. How have you managed to preserve it so well?”

“Well, sir,” says the farmer, “it’s had two new heads and three new handles.

That’s kind of the way I’m feeling about A Rock In My Shoe these days. I started this site two and a half years ago. Those of you who were with me back then will remember the first crude pages. Not that the site is today the gold standard of web design. It still has a way to go. But like George Washington’s axe, very little remains of the original. So I thought I’d give you just a little bit of an update on how the site is going.

According to my monthly Hostcentric’s service's logs (the site is actually stored on a server near Orlando, Florida) we are getting about 1000 visitors per month. Granted, stephenking.com doesn't have anything to worry about just yet, but I am pleased that we are steadily building an audience.

This modest success is due to two reasons. One, I have been pretty diligent about registering individual pages with the major search engines. Not that anyone would ever do it, but if you type in "A Rock In My Shoe" on a Google search you will find that ARIMS comes up first. So we sort of own that phase, webwise. If anyone should be searching for Richard Bradley by name—say old army buddies or college classmates—my biosketch page comes up fifth. And recently someone wrote to me who did a search using the words "Long Island Rail Road" and "Leadership." He quickly got the chapter, "Can't Get No Satisfaction" which, you may recall, was the first chapter I wrote and is primarily about the LIRR.

The second reason that traffic is growing is because A Rock In My Shoe is now linked FROM several other websites. Having other sites link to yours greatly increases your site’s ranking with the search engines. One of my current short-term goals is to get ARIMS linked from even more sites. So if you know of someone who has a site that would be complemented by a link to ARIMS, please tell them about us.

Like George Washington’s’ axe, there is little left of the original A Rock In My Shoe. Like grains of sugar that won’t dissolve in a glass of iced tea, there are still a few spots that remain to blend in with the new look. But for the most part the site has morphed into something completely different from the original. That’s exciting to me, but it’s also a little sad.

It’s sad because in the process of making the site look more “professional” I’ve decided to retire some old familiar faces. The Photo Gallery is gone, as is Pam’s Corner.* They’ve outlived their purposes. Those were nice pages for a personal website. But as ARIMS becomes more and more a place for the constructively discontented it just seems as though family photos and recipes for spinach lasagna no longer fit in. Perhaps some day I’ll start another website just for that purpose. But it’s time for A Rock In My Shoe to move on.

While I’m at it, there’s a new guest on the Guest Appearances page. Check out Road Trip by Warren Tripp.

That’s it for now. See you next time!

* If you really want to see them again just add “/gallery.html” or “/corner.html” to the ARIMS URL—e.g., www.arockinmyshoe.com/gallery.html.

February 13, 2002—It’s Pull My Finger Time Again

Happy New Year’s! OK, I know it’s a little late. Happy Valentine’s Day would be more appropriate, but let’s take first things first.

I haven’t written anything here recently for one reason. We now have a Discussion Board and I frequently post things on it instead of here. If you haven’t visited the Discussion Board, check it out. There’s some very interesting topics being talked about over there.

So I don’t know if it pays to keep this Ramblings section going or not. I’ll give it a few more months and see how I feel about it then. It may be that I’m just in a funk.

Why am I in a funk, you ask? Well, let’s see. Let’s take a look at the headlines of The New York Times today and see what there is to be happy about. Here we go. This is all from the front page, mind you:

Enron’s Ex-Chief Harshly Criticized by Senate Panel

Powell Say U. S. is Weighing Ways to Topple Hussein

Power Drove Milosevic to Crime, Prosecutors Say as Trial Opens

Inquiry is Started on Judging of Olympics’ Figure Skating

Bloomberg Plan Would Trim 1,600 Police Jobs via Attrition

Are you still with me? I haven’t even gotten down to the fold in the paper yet. Let’s continue. Flipping the paper over we find:

Case Tying Algerian to Sept. 11 Attacks Collapses in Britain

October Strike on Taliban Hit Civilians, Survivors Say

Normally, I’d pick one of these topics and make some fun of it. But these are not laughing matters.

Well there IS some good news. A miniature poodle named Ch. Surrey Spice Girl won “Best in Show” at the Westminster Kennel Club show in Madison Square Garden last night. But that’s not really a headline. It’s just a little teaser. You gotta go to page D6 to read about it.

But I saw Spice Girl do her thing last night. I watched her on television, which is more than I can say I did for the Olympics. Anyone who even remotely knows me knows that I am not a sports fan. And Monday’s disgrace in the ice skating judging only reinforces my antipathy about competitive sports.

To me, the Super Bowl and the World Series are scams. They’re just two big corporations—cloaked in symbols of national and regional patriotism—fighting it out on a gridiron with soldiers-of-fortune who are paid millions. I find it mind-boggling that people will support that kind of crap at all. And yet I know a lot of folks eat it up. I really, REALLY just don’t get it.

But don’t go by me. I know I am a misfit. Almost everyone in my family loves the Super Bowl and many of my best friends are avid baseball fans. Just know that I wasn’t always this way. As a kid I used to love to play football, for example, in elaborate—yet unsupervised by adults—games played on my neighborhood’s vacant lot. When I lost interest was about the time Astroturf became popular. Where’s the fun if you can’t slide around in the grass and mud?

But the Olympics is another thing altogether. While I still never cared much for the Summer Olympics, I used to watch the Winter Olympics a lot. There was something about them that had an element of man against nature that I found satisfying. And, of course, figure skating has all the elements of dance, music and theatre which makes it an artistic “sport.”

But—except for the cute female ice skaters—even the Winter Olympics lost their appeal to me a few years ago. Hell, they don’t even use real snow anymore. After this week’s judging fiasco I’m not even going to hang around the TV to ogle Michele. I find the whole thing so disgusting.

My wife disagrees with me. She feels that these kids have worked so hard to get to the Olympics that they deserve to be seen. She’s probably right. But what I see are kids who are often exploited from early childhood to succeed in something—anything—at the expense of having a life. Or if the kids do really want to do it, their parents often have no life because they are sacrificing everything for their kids. And what about that hockey dad who killed another hockey dad? Oh God, don’t get me started again.

OK, I’ll wrap this up real quick before I piss EVERYONE off. I would love to see the Olympic athletes unite. I was disappointed that David Pelletier and Jamie Sale took the “high road.” Sure, they were good sports about it. But there are times when I think you have to speak up for yourself. I’m not suggesting they should get on TV and rage against the unfairness of it all—although who’d blame them? But a little self-righteous indignation wouldn’t hurt, either.

The Olympics and Enron have a lot in common, IMHO. They are both about big money, self-promotion and screwing the people who invest their money and their souls in a game that is stacked against them. It’s Pull My Finger time all over again.

Wouldn’t it be interesting if the athletes all walked out of Salt Lake in protest? That would get the Olympic Committee’s attention, wouldn’t it? But it will never happen. And Ken Lay will never go to jail.

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