My Simultaneous Self

2003-07-04T23:50:00.000-04:00

Barry White, Disco-Era Crooner, Dies at 58

2003-07-04T23:43:00.000-04:00

More Marketers Are Consulting a Younger Focus Group: 'Skippies' (washingtonpost.com)

2002-05-30T13:09:00.000-04:00

Sometimes, the darn thing works

So yesterday we stumbled across technology in the darnedest place. We were in Kmart, trying to replace the cushions we had bought the day before that turned out to be too small for the hand-me-down porch chairs from my parents. So we found bigger cushions, and a bunch of other stuff we didn’t know we needed until we started wandering around the aisles of Martha Stewart’s land of home knick-knacks.

The technology was at the end of our shopping excursion. It turns out, Kmart now offers self-serve checkouts lanes, where the shopper is the cashier, and the bagger and the consumer all at the same time. Although we didn’t really mind having to do it ourselves. If anything, the experience was faster, it was an amusement for the kids, who helped scan bar codes on three-packs of Wiffle balls and family size Nutter Butter cookies. And other than the need for a floor manager to come by and approve our purchase – why we don’t know – the whole thing was convenient, efficient, and pleasantly surprising. Who’d’ve thunk it? Technology that actually serves the purposes it was intended for. And, as long as the customers are all honest and trustworthy individuals, Kmart can probably save itself a lot of money. (Except when people like me forget to take everything out of the cart, and we end up walking out with extension cords that didn’t pass under the watchful eye of the infrared scanner, or Kelly the Cashier. Oops.) But the machine doesn’t want coffee breaks, or health insurance, and it doesn’t show up for work generally disgruntled thinking about finding the keys to the shotgun cabinet in the back of the store. (Can I be gruntled, by the way? And would it be a good thing if I was?) And if shoppers are generally accurate in their checkout procedures, then there is probably the ability to do more in the way of inventory control, and to do CRM-like work recording the customer’s shopping preferences. And the machine is more accurate when it comes to taking payments too – even if the customer pays with cash, it will always dispense the right amount of change, and the register will never end up short at the end of a shift. And, the register can be used in English or Spanish, at the customer’s choice. When was the last time you had a bilingual cashier with perfect grammar in both languages?

Of course, this very technology means there are some people who will not be getting jobs, and that probably should be upsetting. Although, I wouldn’t wish a job at Kmart on anyone. But these days, a job is a job. As much as there is something to be said for technology that can be used to make our lives easier, and free up valuable time so that we can do other things (insert personal pursuits and hobbies here: __________), it is a trade off. Is it the price of progress? Is it, as Martha would say, ‘a good thing’? My hunch is yes, but there’s still a part of me that is remotely troubled by the entire thing.

And this good experience with technology over the long weekend was offset by a bad experience with a real live customer service professional in Filenes. And that is being polite. I was there to try to exchange a watch – we spent a lot of time trading things in for other things this weekend – which my wife had bought me as a belated birthday present. I liked the watch she picked, but it was too big, too heavy for my taste, and in many ways quite similar to the watch I already own and like a great deal. So we agreed that I should go back and look at other watches, and maybe pick out a different one.

After wandering around for a bit, I stumbled across the “fine” watches counter in the store – which is quite separate from the regular old watches that go on sale once a week. I stood there admiring several of what were likely going to be the most affordable watches – in my price range, at least – from a company that is reputable and classy and not going to require a bank loan. There was even one with a sale tag on it that looked fairly nice in the case, so I figured I’d wait for a chance to look at it up close before talking myself out of it because of the price.

So the lady with big hair and too much makeup behind the counter finally decides to glance my way, looks at the box in my hand (the watch I am planning to return), and says ‘What is that?’ Oh, this? A watch I want to return, and exchange for another one… Thinking I was getting an opening at service. ‘You can’t return that watch here,’ she informs me. At this point, the customers she is already helping interject with ‘We were here first,’ (to which I remind them that she spoke to me, not the other way around), and ‘This is the section with expensive watches,’ (to which I think, get a grip you pompous snob, I know how much they cost) and I proceed to lose it. I make it clear that I wouldn’t buy her damn watches, and that I would take my business back to the counter with the nice helpful sales lady and the less-expensive brands. In fact, I then found a watch for myself that I liked, and one for each of my daughters too, so I left the store with three watches, instead of one. Sadly, there is no CRM system in place to recognize my customer service experience that afternoon. I grumbled, and got a nice watch, but the store lost out on what could have been an even more lucrative sales opportunity. I think it is time to call the store manager to complain.

2002-05-10T17:25:00.000-04:00

Has it been a year already?

Tomorrow marks the one-year anniversary of the death of Douglas Adams. What a loss. He was such a clever writer. I devoured his trilogy as a boy, and probably have him to thank for convincing me that reading can be something one does for fun. As it happens, a new book has just been released – the cynic would say the timing is well-manipulated – featuring some of his essays and other work, much of it previously not published before. So, I bought it the moment I saw it. I’m reading on my commute. Wonderful stuff. An essay about his big nose, and another about why he favoured gin. And the “lost book” that has been culled together from several bit and pieces by the people that were closest to him (editor, wife, assistant, agent, etc). The new book is called The Salmon of Doubt. It is a birthday present to myself, which occurs on Monday. He makes me wish I had an ounce of ability. But it is nice to see he was also plagued by his own demons of self-doubt, self-worth, etc., and that like most other writer-types I know, he was a true procrastinator. Maybe there’s hope for a bloke like me yet.

In honour of the passing, here are some links to stuff that were a part of his life:

The Guide (interesting ownership details there)

The fans

The gorillas and the rhinos

2002-05-02T16:26:00.000-04:00

The clean sweep

We’re all moved out of the old place. It was around 11:20 p.m. on the evening of the 30th, but I had everything finally out of the now-former apartment that was our home for the past four years. In the end, I was really starting to hate it. Mostly because it seemed like it would never end. Of course, during my very last run for the border to clean out the last remaining nooks and crannies, there was stuff still left in places that I had assumed were empty, like the dishwasher, and under the sink in the bathroom. It’s empty now. And now, comes the fun part: figuring out where we’re going to put all of the damn stuff in the new place, which, if not for the garage and basement, would be a whole lot smaller than the place we were in before.

And on the work front, it appears that my job actually has some real work behind it. All of it has cropped up at once, of course. I’m finally editing the monster document that needs updating and printing in time for meetings a few weeks from now. And I’m trying to balance that out with the editorial review I am doing of content that isn’t really ready for primetime, but it is being gussied up for use on client extranet sites anyway. In principle this is a good idea, but the lack of quality in the majority of the content we are planning to share with clients – and potential clients – is really kind of embarrassing. I am not in a position to fix it. This is a source of great frustration. (Happily, I now have a work friend, and she makes me laugh out loud. Sadly, I only get the chance to catch up with her every few weeks or so... Although, we can pester one another via the corporate IM tool, and discuss the finer points of rock pushing.)

Finally, I’ve stopped taking the wonder drug for my blood pressure – for the time being. It was making me dizzy, and when I told this to Dr. Genius, his answer was, ‘Well, you should stop taking it then.’ Gee, good call. Should I be switching to a new drug? Nope, not yet, according to him. Rather, I’m now switching Docs. I’ve got an appointment with a new guy tomorrow afternoon. And it can't come a moment too soon. The drug should be out of my system by now, but the strange wobbly feeling persists... It’s time for a clean sweep.

2002-04-23T16:57:00.000-04:00

‘So I guess I’m not pregnant, huh?’

My wise-ass response during my abdominal sonogram this morning didn’t really faze the attendant who was conducting the test. She just kept telling me to take a deep breath, and hold it. Let it out… Deep breath…. Let it out. We did this for about 10 minutes or so, as the gal mashed the ultrasound wand into my gut with a firmness that said ‘hold still, dammit.’ When she actually turned the sound on and you could hear the wind-tunnel-like screech of my innards, I had to bite my lip a bit to keep myself from laughing. I kept expecting to hear that tiny heart beep you get to hear when the same procedure is done on a pregnant woman. I’ve heard that sound many times now. It’s very cool every time. But today, there was nothing but my gastrointestinal juices churning away. At one point, my stomach did let out a rather audible rasp, but that was only because they had asked me to fast prior to the procedure, so I had not eaten since dinnertime last night.

I did get a souvenir from the whole thing. I got a copy of one of the pictures of my abdomen. I guess it is my liver, actually, since that is the part of me that my doctor seems to understand the least. But what the hell do I know? I just know that whenever my wife had these procedures done, we always got copies for the old scrapbook. So now, the thermal printout of my mid-section graces the fridge at home, along with more obvious snapshots of our kids, and our friends' kids. I need to get that pic scanned somewhere so I can send electronic copies to everyone I know. Maybe someone will be able to tell me what it reveals.

2002-04-22T13:26:00.000-04:00

The Big Dig

We spent the majority of the weekend hauling boxes and stuff and chairs and tables and more boxes and the cat and the two goldfish and more boxes to our newly carpeted duplex from our now old apartment about a mile away. I am so sore this morning that it hurts to think about it. My legs have not been this stiff in a long time. And of course, just to make things interesting, today was the first day of my modified route to the train station from the new place. (I hesitate to call it a house or home, although it is clearly the first abode I have lived in that isn’t actually an apartment in many years. We do have a garage, i.e., storage for lots of stuff I will be happy to keep in boxes until the turn of the century, and a small backyard where the wee ones can run around until they turn beet red, but still, it is a rental, and it has enough problems that calling it ‘home, sweet home’ doesn’t seem fitting just yet.) So, now, instead of a seven-minute walk down the short steep hill to the train station from our old place, I have what will likely be about a 20 minute walk down a long, slow grade to the train station. I’d like to provide an accurate measure of the amount of time required to complete the walk, but the kinks in my knees and tightness in calves this morning made the walk a little slower than I would like to think it should normally take.

And despite how much stuff we did manage to move this past weekend, we aren’t done yet. And we had help from Frances’s dad, and his wife, and father-in-law. They were awesome. They were relentless, and we owe them a heap o’ thanks. I tried to be the good son-in-law, too, and to be prepared for our out-of-town movers. I knew my father-in-law’s in-law is an older man, who happens to be fairly set in his ways, so I called ahead to find out what kind of beer I should have stocked in the fridge. The old codger drinks Schaffers (you know what they say about those brewskis), in 16 ounce tall boy cans, and nothing else. Let me repeat that last part: nothing else will do. So, I tried on Friday morning to secure a case of the tried and true, and the guy behind the counter at the local distributor/package store looked at me with pity in his eyes, and said, ‘nope, you won’t find that around here.’ Shit. Now what? Make do with another brand, right? I figured, yes, he’s loyal to the one brand for reasons I will never understand, but he must be willing to drink something else from time to time… So, at the suggestion of the package store guy, I bought a case of Ballantine, thinking, as a generational choice, it would probably be a reasonable substitute. Ha. Guess again. He wouldn’t touch the stuff. God dammit. Fortunately for me, my father-in-law brought a supply of Schaffer’s for the old man, so he was good to go. He had his first one (that I was aware of) on Saturday morning around 10:30 a.m. Not exactly the breakfast of champions, but I guess when you reach his age, you can do whatever the hell you please. I’ll drink the Ballantine, and I’m sure it will be great. (And considering my usual one-drink-per-week pace, it ought to last a while.)

By Friday afternoon of last week, we had moved in one decent load of stuff from the old place, and right around 5:00 p.m. the Good Humor truck stopped on our block, right across the street from us. It was like a picture from my own childhood. I grabbed the girls, and we proceeded to walk quickly and carefully across the street to the waiting truck, where we bought frozen treats on sticks for everyone under the age of 35. What a joyous thing that is: a truck that brings the junk food right to you. And if that wasn’t enough, the local installer/independent contractor for DirecTV had just finished mounting an 18-inch dish on the roof of our place, and had set up receivers in two rooms. I was so pleased I even gave him ice cream. We now get channels that we didn’t even know existed. And, best of all, we’ve got YES TV. We have Yankees games. I plan to invite Pat over right away so that he can watch the rest of the season with me. And he can help me drink those Ballantines.

2002-04-15T16:49:00.000-04:00

I’ll send you my bill

“Your resting heart rate is too high,” he tells me this morning, without the slightest hint as to what that means to me in the grand scheme of things. Yeah, well maybe I’m nervous sitting there in examining room, wondering what this morning’s visit is going to reveal about my current state of health, one month since the last visit. Oh, and the fact that you, Dr. Genius, were 30 minutes late, and made me wait like an idiot with in a lobby room with the same news weeklies I read the last time I saw you. A half an hour. He made me wait for him a half an hour. I was pissed by the time he sauntered in, glanced at me (with a vague recollection of our last meeting?) and casually flipped a “Sorry, buddy,” in my general direction. I could feel the love. A half hour late, and I got to watch him check himself out in the glass doors as he made his way into the building, and futz with his hair on the way in.

Is his time that important than he can waste a half hour of mine? Is mine simple worth less than his? I was just about to get up and make a scene with his receptionist – not that there would have been anyone else to hear it, he had no other patients waiting first thing this morning, which makes me wonder – when he rounded the corner, and checked his own watch to see just how late he was. I was livid by the time it was clear I had been made to sit, and that I would miss my train – ‘make yourself comfortable’ – and then there was no sense of guilt on his part for jerking me around. I even called his office this morning to double check on the time of the appointment so that I wouldn’t be late. I’m thinking maybe I should send him an invoice for my lost time this morning. I don’t expect him to pay me back, but maybe it will serve to remind him that he should take other people’s time a little more seriously.

So should I have been calm by the time he was finally ready to see me? Should my resting heart rate have been any different than it was? This guy made meaningless small talk, and attempts to speak my language – did he really call my natural father ‘your old man’? – and then didn’t give me any new answers. Diet and Exercise. Lose weight. Uh, yeah, sure Doc, whatever you say. It was in fact the same standard one-liners he had given me a month ago. I sit at a desk and stare at a computer for the better part of one-third of my day, and he seems to be suggesting that I have a problem with discipline and self control. I mentioned to him that both of my parents have high blood pressure (the numbers there were also high – the same as before, in fact), but that didn’t seem to lead to any viable connections that I could benefit from. Turns out – and I didn’t mention this to the Doctor, because it seemed pointless at this stage – the moms has been taking high blood pressure medication since her mid-20s, and has ever since.

So the doctor did a new round of blood work, which I’m guessing is going to come back the same as it did a month ago. And now, to add to the mix, I get to have an abdominal sonogram next week. ‘I want to rule out hepatitis,’ he says to me. What? Hepa-what? Why the hell would I have hepatitis? ‘Oh, it could be low-grade and have gone undiagnosed,’ he assures me. Asshole. The blood test last month revealed elevated liver enzymes – not that high, but high enough that he wants to rule out… What? Are all doctors these days required to assume the worst, and then hope that their guesses will prove to be unfounded? That’s certainly the way it feels. So I get to have some pictures taken of my gut. That could be fun. I’ll finally know a little bit more about what my wife went through when they photographed her belly during the pregnancies. As long as I can have some copies for my scrapbook…

2002-04-12T13:44:00.000-04:00

A train of thought

As I mentioned yesterday, I’ve been giving a lot of thought to the piece that ran in the NY Times a few weeks ago now about the notion that the Web just isn’t fun anymore. Maybe I’m overreacting, but it would seem to me that the pompous know-it-alls at the paper of record either just don’t get it, or are too damn lazy to figure it out. Of course the Web is fun. It is, as I said, a daily source of fun, amusement, diversion, wackiness, useless trivia, and practical information, all rolled into one humongous, hastily wrapped package that looks like it might just burst at the seams (maybe we should wrap it like a fish in yesterday's paper). Happily, that package is something like the duffel bag that Mary Poppins drags around wherever she goes. You know, she reaches in, and every time she does she pulls out something new, and something that you never expected would be able to fit in a bag such as that one in the first place.

So rather than just gripe about the Times, and what I believe to be an error of both omission and commission on their part in this case, I’m going to get off my duff and do my own small something about it. And since I have a day job, and limited resources to commit to an effort such as this, I’m going to start out small, and see where it goes. It will be one of those labours of love. The kind that you stumble across from time to time, and think, ‘golly, now there’s a true sign of commitment.’ And until I can get my hands on a book, or a class, or a tutor to jump start my brain in the ways of html, my effort likely won’t be very fancy. I’m not planning to purchase domain names, and dedicated hosting services. I’ll use a blog. And don’t worry, it won’t be this one. It will be a stand-alone site, devoted to all the things that make the Internet, and the technology that supports it, worth celebrating. And there won’t be parties, and hoopla. Just the simple act of sharing, and the genuine enthusiasm that ought to accompany an effort such as this one. Ideally, if a few people agree with me, and see the merit of the exercise, then perhaps it will take on a life of its own, and require nurturing and support above and beyond my own small dreams. But I’m getting ahead of myself here.

For starters, who am I to make such determinations? What gives me the right to claim I even know what fun is? I’m almost 33 years old, married with three children all under the age of five, I live in the burbs, and don’t see movies unless they are animated. Maybe I’m not qualified. The beauty of personal publishing on the Web, and an experience such as this, is that there is a nominating committee of one. So I put it to a vote last night, and convinced myself that I should give it a go. This isn’t to suggest that I wouldn’t be open to suggestions. After all, most of the fun stuff I learn about on the Net comes to me in the form of suggestions, and pass-along links from others. So I will mostly certainly be happy to accept feedback of all shapes and sizes.

I’ve also been grappling with what to call it. As any savvy marketer knows, a name is not something to be taken lightly. So I started with “The Web Doesn’t Suck.” While obvious, and likely to lead to lots of accidental links by people looking for porn, it wasn’t quite right. Then I thought, perhaps something that played off of the idea of size and unlimited aspect of the Web, so I was thinking along the lines of “A Million Reasons Why the Web is Fun.” But that would be a bit harder to substantiate. Then I thought about calling it “A Barrel of Monkeys.” Another obvious choice in some ways, but not quite right. And I know that, unlike this seemingly endless rant, I want the new site to be succinct, and quick, and perhaps even pithy. I want it to emulate the ideals of the once mighty Suck.com, which reminded us that less is always more. So I thought perhaps that it could be called “Cut to the Chase.” This has a certain punch, but it sounds impatient. I know we’re all busy, and trying to pack more into our days than ever before, but if we don’t make time for the fun, the fun will pass us by.

So as I was lying in bed late last night, mulling over my random possibilities, I started thinking about the various trains of thought that I had been chasing. And that was when it hit me. This whole thing is about ideas, and where those ideas take you. (‘Come on baby, take a ride with me…’ the old Cougar growls.) It is about taking a trip – a virtual one, certainly, but a journey nonetheless – into what for many will be uncharted territory. So, with that in mind, I’d like to invite you to find a seat on the Thought Train.* The tickets are free for young and old. And there will be near-daily departures. Step lively. We’re ready to go. All aboard.

*All apologies to those ideas that seem similar or already thunk up before. Any similarity between this and other trains of thought (see Cluetrain, the Peace Train, and that train leaving for the Hogwarts Academy on track 9¾ for instance) is purely coincidence.

2002-04-11T16:58:00.000-04:00

The Web doesn’t suck

I’m still stuck on those know-it-alls at the NYT who claimed recently that the Web isn’t fun anymore. It is so, dag-nabbit. In fact, I would contend that it is on a daily basis. I’ve decided that I am going to make it one of my personal pet projects to prove it. I may start a separate blog-o-rama for just this purpose, as my pal, The Blind Tangerine, suggested.

Today’s fun came in two forms:

The small world project @ Columbia, which isn’t new, but was new to me, and didn’t take much time, and could be quite fascinating from the sociologist’s point of view.

And, in a small piece of flash video that my geeky PR friend sent to me, featuring Mr. Bay Watch himself singing, flying through the air, and generally getting high on a feeling. What’s not to like? If that ain’t fun, then I sure as heck don’t know what is.

In other news, My officemate and I had a genuine celeb sighting today on our lunch break. We caught a glimpse of a man passers-by swore was Hugh Grant. We heard Sandra Bullock was supposed to be there too, but we missed her. Hugh pretended to get in a car parked on 6th Ave in front of the McGraw-Hill building. Woo-hoo.

2002-04-09T14:16:00.000-04:00

Happy Birthday, Josie

It seems unreal in some ways, but it’s true. Josie is five today. I am the parent of a five-year old. I’m still trying to let that one sink in a bit. We were all up early this morning, and Josie came out in to the living room to find the some-assembly-required “clubhouse” for Barbie’s mini-friend Kelly. A choking hazard at every turn, but she was obviously thrilled. She didn’t even want to stop playing with it to eat breakfast, and mom had made chocolate chip pancakes with strawberries sliced on top, and a sausage pattie on the side. Clearly not your typical weekday morning at home. I even had time to have a plate, too. I would have stayed longer, but I’m already on what is essentially the latest train I can ride in the morning, and still get to the office at a somewhat respectable time. Breakfast family style like this was the closest we’ve been to a ‘Leave it to Beaver’ moment in a very long time.

Although yesterday I came home to find that my wife had made the two baby blankets (luvies?) with her friend from down the hall that she had committed to making. (I was not convinced the fabric would ever actually be used.) And I have to admit, the blankies look pretty good. The kids like them, and it sure beats paying $20 a pop for the pre-fabbed, store-bought variety, which are nice, but at least four times the price of this new, homemade substitute. Could this be the start of a cottage industry? My better half thrives on projects, so maybe this will be a new form of distraction to break up the routine. She’s already talking about trying to sell them at the local baby boutique in our town. It won’t raise piles of cash, but if she’s having fun, who am I to argue with it?

During the day yesterday, I continued to learn that much of my job consists of reinventing the wheel. I’ve been handed tasks that are simultaneously being done by others, who, in the case of one effort, are people who know better than I do about the subject matter involved.

On a happier note, I discovered – for myself at least – the underground pedestrian mall that occupies much of midtown. I was in search of salad, and knew that there was a takeaway place listed in the vicinity that I’d liked when I’d eaten at their other location in the past. I just didn’t realize there was this entire network of options down there. I must be an idiot. I’ve walked by it hundreds of times, and never once realized what I was missing. It just might make midtown bearable.

As you wish

And my buddy Shimmy finally took me up on my offer to help him with his personal project. It’s more than that, but I guess I don’t know how to describe it adequately. He’s trying to run a non-profit while still keeping his day job. He needs me to update some figures in an Excel spreadsheet. I can do that. It should only take an hour or so to re-enter the new information. It isn’t exactly what I had in mind, but it’s a start. And I told him I wanted to help, so I guess I was asking for it. It’s a worthy cause, right? Absolutely. They recently issued an annual report, which verifies the finer details. I’m not in a position to give them piles of cash, so I’m hoping a little sweat equity will get me started on the road to giving more of myself.

A bitter PiL

The disappointment of the day came in the form of a terse piece of e-mail from one of my friends from the NP years. One of the people that I was genuinely interested in trying to renew those old connections with. It looks as though she is not up for it. I’m not sure why. More work than we can both handle right now? The challenges of maintaining a friendship after so many years? The fact that she thinks I’m not being honest with her? The fact that we are simply at very different places in our lives now, and maybe I’m hoping to recapture a time and a place that is just gone. She was reading this stuff from time to time. I know that wasn’t helping any. It just raised more questions. But if she is reading, I do hope she’ll give it the old college try. It’s probably far too selfish of me to ask, but I’m needy, and I don’t think I can help myself. The timing of the post-punk refrain calling from the Internet radio station through the monotone speaker in my computer seemed strangely appropriate to the circumstances of the morning’s mail:

‘Disappointed a few people.
When friendship reared its ugly head.
Disappointed a few people.
Well, isn’t that what friends are for?
What friends are for…’ (repeats)

PS: She wrote back this morning, and the window is still open. It’s gonna take time, and work, but I think it will be worth the effort.

PPS: My roto-team has somehow managed to jump into first place. How this really happened, I’m still not sure. The season is young, and Cablevision is facing a class action lawsuit. Serves them right. In fact, if you're looking to sign up, write to these people today.

2002-04-05T12:56:00.000-05:00

Past, Present and Future

A little bit of all three to report about today, which feels like a good thing.

The past came in the form of Jason #2, who is in NYC for the week with his significant other. This one is clearly serious. They looked really happy together. They still do all that smoochy stuff that I have vague recollections of from days gone by. Must be nice. So we managed to steal away for a little more than an hour yesterday to have lunch, and begin the process of catching up. It sounds as though the two of them might be moving back east in about a year or so. That would be sweet. Sooner would be better, but he has a degree to finish up first. We’ll get to call him Dr. J.

We had pizza at a place across the street from my office that is good, fast and cheap. Also crowded, and not necessarily conducive to close inter-personal communications, but we did ok. She had never experienced NY-style pizza before, although this wasn’t her first trip here. I was happy to oblige her culinary cravings. I don’t think I would ever turn down pizza. This place qualified for the NY state of mind.

No. 2 has really not changed much since last we met, except for the committed-relationship thing, which is a pleasant change to see. His tastes seem the same, and he can still make me laugh. He is responsible for my initial introduction to South Park, many years ago when he was teaching HS English here in NYC, and all his kids were watching it, so of course he had to keep up. We reflected on the zingers hurled out during the episodes aired the other night, and wondered what the hell they’d done with Kenny. Is Butters a permanent replacement? I’ll admit I don’t get to see the show on a consistent basis, so I may have missed something in the plot line.

But now we’re back in one another’s respective loops, and I think we’ll manage to stay intertwined.

As to the present, when I got home, my oldest daughter, who as of yesterday will be five years old in five more days, was playing checkers with her mom. Nothing could have made me happier. Well, not much, anyway. You see, I was playing checkers by the time I was five, and I was really good at it. I could beat any of the kids on my block in Modesto, CA, and I had this really funky checker set that had purple and orange pieces, instead of the standard red and black. Now Jo still needs work on some of the fundamentals of the game, like the fact that there are consequences for every move you make, but she sat there and patiently worked through it. I took over mom’s place after getting home, and tried to walk Jo through some of the finer points of an on-the-board ass-whuppin’. Yes, I let her win, but I was trying to show the young checker champ in-training that she has potential. It’s in her genes, after all.

And the future came in the form of a quick note from Richard. If all went well he should have been on the Today this morning sometime between 8 and 9. He has a new book to promote, which is about the way that emerging trends affect our culture, and our lives. I told him to tell Catie that we still think she is creepy. (Nothing personal there, just a bit of history.) I’m sure he’ll let that slide. I asked my better half to try to watch it this morning, and to let me know how it went. I’ve been on a train, as usual, during the time that would have included his scheduled appearance. I wonder whether he’ll mention “it.” My own ego secretly hopes he does, but in reality, it is probably best to let that sleeping baby stay put.

Richard has been a dear friend during this past year, and he provided the most wonderful counsel – pro bono – at a time when we needed a lot of advice. I can’t ever really repay him, and his firm for the kindness he showed me. So do me a favor, and buy his book. He deserves the royalties.

2002-04-04T17:07:00.000-05:00

What am I doing?

What is this thing? Why do I feel it is important? Why do I care if other people read it or not? Do I care? Why am I even exposing myself – or parts of myself – this way? This is just a hunch, but I suspect I am not the first one to run into the blogger’s dilemma: knowing that I am reaching out to everyone and no one at the same time. But what a strange fascination it has become. It started, for me anyway, as an excuse to sit at the keyboard and write down things that have relevance for me. Why do I feel compelled to share? Do I genuinely think that anyone out there that might be reading this actually gives a shit what I have to say? Am I that arrogant? Probably. Or is it somehow happily bigger than my own petty insecurities, so that I am absolved of my sins of confession? Lots of questions. Not many answers.

I have come to see that this experience is many things at once. It is both pompous look-at-me posturing, and pathetic pleas for help. It is a travelogue through my day (or the recorded moments of it); and it is the torn out pages of a diary, that have been scattered at random. It is a one-way mirror, like on all those gritty cop shows where the thug gets roughed up as the sarge looks from the other room; and it is door #2, where the contestant has no idea what he’s going to find on the other side – it could be the grand prize, but more likely it is the booby prize.

And what about the reader? The reader has a part to play too. Do you have to show up? Are you doing this when you could be doing something else? Is it the Web’s reality TV, which many of us claim we don’t watch, but we privately do, knowing that they might do something provocative that will leave us wanting more? You can stare into the fish bowl, or through the peephole, and steal glimpses that are known only to you. Do we feel compelled to come back, and see more? It is hard to look away. I know. But you don’t have to stay. You can read another blog, or you can do other things online, or you can turn the damn thing off and go outside. Or read a book. Or get back to work. Or… No one forced you to be here. But I’m glad you are...

... and as long as you're here, I thought I would share the silliness of the day that caught my attention:

My employer has a theme song (2 actually) -- please listen to the ones that are allegedly the work of PwC, we need to move back up the charts.

And someone is auctioning off a piece of ABC Gum. Can you say, yuckie? (And who said the Net isn't fun anymore?)

2002-04-03T12:50:00.000-05:00

[Preface]

[The following are the thoughts I meant to post yesterday, but there wasn’t enough time in the day. I have chosen not to rewrite any of yesterday’s words, even though the thoughts are incomplete. The day started out in a foul mood, as you will see, and for the most part, it didn’t get any better. In recounting yesterday’s events at work, I spent more than six hours of my day on three separate conference calls, each one more frustrating than the last, and the first one, the three-plus hour monster that I did not learn about until approximately an hour before it started, where I was supposed to help take notes, interrupted my attempt to have lunch and a heart-to-heart with the moms, which I always struggle to bring myself to do, but in the end, I am usually glad I did. She offered to pick me up after work today, and we’ll have that talk on the drive back to the burbs. I also managed to miss lunch yesterday in the process, which made me a real treat to be around by the time I got home.]

[The highlight of the day was coffee with Annette from the GWT. She had me convinced that I am not completely spinning my wheels at work, and that in my two short (too- short?) months on the job I have actually managed to get a number of things done that she found noteworthy. I will take her word for it. She has been around this place long enough to know otherwise, I suspect. Although she hinted at the fact that she’d be ready to make a move if the right opportunity came along… Foundation work? Do I know anybody at a foundation who could use someone like her? She’s the dealmaker within her group, and I’m fairly certain that she is good at it. I hated cutting our conversation short, but there was that phone calling me… At the end of the conversation, after agreeing that we would try to make these meetings more of a habit, she said, “You have the most sympathetic eyes.” I said thank you, not really sure how to respond to that one. Is that a good thing? I simply thought I was trying to pay attention, and to remain engaged in our conversation. It didn’t hurt that her eyes are an exceptional soothing blue. Just call me Mr. Sympathy.]

An IOU

I owe you one honest answer. Or maybe several of them, but I never like to burden people I respect with a whole lot of bits and pieces at once. It feels selfish of me to unload all of my angst in one big ker-plop. You said I was on your mind the other day, and you asked if I am ok. You said you thought it sounded as though I was resigned to my unhappiness. Well, resigned might not quite be it, but at the same time I’m not sure where to find an appropriate alternative. It probably seems petty I know, and I should be the happiest/luckiest fella around. I have a family, and we’re healthy, and I have steady (albeit drudgery-laden) work, and we are moving into a new place in a few weeks that is bigger than the one we’re in now, and it even includes a strip of grass in the back where the girls can run around, and not be consigned to playing in traffic. And yet… I’m miserable, and angry, and worried, and lonely, and disconnected, and generally wondering, ‘how did I get here?’ What happened to the life I remember? The life I thought I would have? Is this it? Is this what I was destined to do? Ride the train for two hours a day (both ways) and go sit at a desk in a cramped little box where I can stare at a computer all day because I don’t have a window to look out of… Go home again and try to remain calm as my youngsters clamor for attention in the hour or so before their bedtime, while my stomach gnaws away at me in its plea for empty calories that I know I should deny, when all I want to do is collapse on the couch and watch the tube because it is easier than thinking. Then laying down my weary head and not sleeping, or sleeping in fitful spurts that don’t even seem worthwhile, while the woman beside me feels like she could be a thousand miles away.

Now before we jump to conclusions, I promise not to do anything rash. I may need to be medicated (although you would probably try to steer me toward something more herbal/homeopathic) but I’m not planning to take more than the recommended daily allowance.

2002-04-01T13:24:00.000-05:00

Weekend Edition

You can get a lot done in two days if you apply yourself. While a chronological retelling of events of this past weekend might be the most logical, it isn’t necessarily the rank order in terms of my personal priorities. Yesterday we had brunch with my folks, my sister and her friend David at the Kittle House in Chappaqua. Always a lovely affair. Homey sort of setting, and table after table of good eats. Something for nearly everyone. Lois is always our picky eater. She loaded up on watermelon and not much else. (Perhaps she wasn’t hungry after ravaging the basket of sugar-shock that was raided not long after 8:00 a.m.) We like to think of her as our little fruitetarian. Zane did well too, until we brought him a plate of rice pilaf, and let him dig in. He wants to try it, but he gets so frustrated because he can’t really pick it up and shovel it in with any degree of accuracy yet. Rice was everywhere. We were still digging it out of the crevices in his clothes several hours later.

And of course, there were all of the goodies left behind by the Bunny. ‘How does a bunny lay eggs?’ my daughter Josie asks, in all innocence. Umm, good question. It must be magic. That answer proved satisfactory this year. Who knows how long we’ll get away with that one. But all of the kids were clean, and on good behavior, so we took lots of pictures, which I will drop off this morning on my way to work. I need to remember to get a CD made with the prints, so we can beam smiling, happy, chocolate-coated faces to in-boxes far and wide.

We got more packing done yesterday afternoon, thanks to grandparents who took the girls to the park at the local elementary school (known affectionately, and longingly as The Wooden Castle). It finally looks like we have begun to make a dent in the work, although we have so much more to do, and we can get in to the new place in about three weeks. We’re in a lot of trouble. I know we’ll get it done, but it certainly feels like it will never end. I’d be quite happy to leave most of it packed, and in the new garage, and find ways to make do with less. Perhaps this will give us a chance to find a renewed simplicity, and start in the new place clutter-free, but I have my doubts.

Play ball!

On a happier note, Saturday morning we managed to conduct our roto-draft for our mini-fantasy baseball wackiness. Thank you, Pat, for pulling it all together (and for not sticking me with complete losers during the five-minute gap when technology failed me, and cut me out of the chat room). And no thanks to you, Mr. Blind Tangerine for blowing us off. (We’ll try to work you in with the remaining second tier shlubs, but it’s your own darn fault if you spend the season with has-beens and injury riddled hacks.) I should have I hope you overslept for a good reason. What’s her name again? I’ll post my fake roster later, and link over to the Yahoo site that is hosting this statistical circle jerk for the added pleasure of baseball fans everywhere.

Saturday night

So I got to spend some quality time with Sarah on Saturday night at the local coffee and bar in my little downtown. We took a long stroll down our respective memory lanes, and tried to pack 10 years of history into less than a four-hour reunion. Was that too long to be out on a Saturday night with someone I hadn’t seen in ages? With someone who isn’t my wife. I didn’t think so. I would have gladly sat up all night talking, but the employees were ready to go home, and they cleaned up around us. Her brown paper bag of photos filled with friends, and homes, and cats, and other memory triggers was more than a handy prop. All of it was well complemented by the music on the stereo system, which seemed to be chosen as a retrospective of the bands we would have both listened to during the years gone by. She has learned so many things over the past decade. She’s stronger than I remember. And I don’t mean she has become a body builder. She seems to know what she wants from her life now, and is well on her way to making that happen. Funny how we admire the confidence we perceive in others that we so often fail to see within ourselves… She has a close circle of friends, but she hasn’t yet met ‘the one.’ I make attempts to be vaguely reassuring, and tell her it will happen when the time is right. He must be out there, right? But how do you know? Obviously, she had a safe trip home. Her word of the day was in my in-box this morning to greet me.

It sounds like she may be coming back east after eight years. I’d be very happy if that worked out. I need these points of reconnection. In fact, Jason #2 will be in NYC most of this week, and I get to play catch up with him on Thursday. More soon.

If there are replies, send them here, until I figure out how to set up a button to do this for me. And finally, happy April.

2002-03-29T14:30:00.000-05:00

She’s really going to Paris

I still can’t believe it is true. But, we finally spoke this morning on the phone, and she confirmed everything she had already told me in her e-mail, so it must be so. Somehow, it didn’t seem real until this morning’s call. She’s in business for herself, and frantically trying to secure new clients. She will. She has a knack for this sort of thing. But until the ink dries, the next few months will undoubtedly be nerve-wracking. Well, for what it’s worth, my dear friend, Colette, trust that you are in my thoughts. Often.

It was hard enough when you were simply out on the West coast. Now you will be in Europe doing the ex-pat thing, and trying to assimilate. Damn I miss you. (More than you may ever know.) I miss our talks, and your advice, and sense of humor, and ability to see through BS. The thought of losing our connection makes me weak. This is going to be very frustrating. But, it is a great opportunity for you, and I know you will be able to make it work.

It’s all about the network

El Tigre recommended a site this morning that I hadn’t seen before, which at first glance appears like it might be useful. Of course, after you complete the free registration, they hit you up for a paid version. Pretty sneaky, sis. I’ll give the freebie a whirl, and see if I can wring any viable connections out of it. Who knows? I recognized the name of one of the people who endorsed the product, so it can’t be that bad.

Fun is where you find it

That article in yesterday Times about the Web no longer being a source of fun seems to have ruffled quite a few feathers. That article is getting reprinted elsewhere, and commented on by people who know otherwise. Of course, it happens that the paper is wrong on this one, but they can change their minds in next week’s edition. Until next week, here is one source of fun. Happy Easter.

2002-03-28T16:53:00.000-05:00

Sunny and bright

Just a quick note to keep up appearances. Today turned out exactly like I hoped it would – except for the news about the “Passover massacre” and the death of Uncle Miltie and Arthur. Two funnymen are gone in one day. That sucks.

On a much lighter note, I had a delightful lunch on this sunny spring day with Rhys, his partner Mike, and Suzanne. I haven’t seen Suzanne in nearly a year. Is that possible? I guess so. The last time was out at that conference in L.A., where we just happened to run into one another. They’re all in town for a week of theatre and site seeing. Mikey has never been to the Big Apple before. We ate at my favorite spot in all of NYC, which happens to be a short walk from work.

I adore Rhys. He is the one technologist who never makes me feel like an idiot about technology. He can talk about it in ways that make it seem fun, and useful, and completely accessible. And you can see the passion in his eyes for the purity that can be found in simple lines of code. A fascinating fella. I only wish that I had more time today to listen to him talk about it. He has new plans, which are simmering as we speak. I feel privileged to be included. I’m not sure why he thinks I’m qualified to help him, but I’ll do my best to be candid, and to ask questions that might lead to new directions for the work. And if any of it seems useful, he can take what he needs.

Random mental notes

There is a piece in the Times today about the Newsblaster. This doesn’t seem right somehow. Happily, it isn’t a perfect beast – yet – and it may still be a while before it can actually replace editors that need coffee breaks.

Also in today’s Times there is a piece about how the Web doesn’t seem to be fun anymore. Says who? Are we really that cynical? I know I usually am. But if the Web is that boring, why does the newspaper of record have a weekly section devoted to its very progress? And if it isn’t fun, why does it have sites like this?

Finally, happy birthday to Julie. She’s 28 on the 28th. I’d ask her to take a bow, or make a speech, but she didn’t want to get involved. (She politely declined a previous invitation to read the rants that sit here.)

2002-03-27T13:02:00.000-05:00

Why is this night different from all other nights?

Because I said so. No, that’s not it. Ask your mother. Or your grandma. She’ll tell you. Sorry. I would never actually give such trite answers during such a solemn, yet strangely festive celebration. It is such an odd mixture, the Passover ritual. Well, it is in my mother’s house, which is where we go on our annual pilgrimage to retell the tale that has been told for thousands of year (I’m guessing here) in homes around the world. While it is a time to cherish and embrace the freedom of “our people,” (or, The Tribe, as I like to call it) it is also an evening filled with not-so-subtle reminders of the bitterness and pain that is a part of our history, and the world we live in today.

My oldest daughter is excited though, and will likely be an active participant at the Seder table tonight. She even helped make the chicken soup at Gogo’s house over the weekend. (That was before we took them to the Easter egg hunt in our local park – see the entry from 3/25/02.) And she’s been talking about the four questions, which is the big part that kids get to play during this evening’s fete. That, and the surprises that await her if she can keep the afikomen (the middle matzah – also known as dessert, although why a piece of plain, dry, flat bread somehow tastes better than the rest of the box, I will never truly understand) hidden from her grandparents long enough.

There is an interesting point of variance for you in this portion of the meal. In some households, the parent hides the matzah, and the children must find it. Some token prize is awarded to the one who finds the parcel. In my parents house, growing up, it was always the children who swiped the matzah at some seemingly opportune moment, and rushed to get it out of sight of the grown-ups so that it could be ransomed back at the end of the evening for something far more valuable that an unleavened loaf. The bidding from my end would usually start somewhere around one million dollars for every child present at the table, while my parents would offer a nickel. The haggling could go on for a long time as we engaged in the delicate art of negotiation. (A good skill for every eight-year old to know.) An amicable middle ground would eventually be reached, and my parents never ended up writing an IOUs.

As an aside, starting today, and running through next week at the cafeteria in my office building the food service vendor is playing its own afikomen game with the patrons. A piece of matzah will be stashed in some not-quite-so-obvious location within the confines of our dining hall, and the lucky employee that happens to find it gets free lunch that day. There was a notice about this posted on the electronic employee message board that is used for all of the valuable inter-office chatter. At first, when I read about it, I thought maybe I should be offended. Although I’m not quite sure why I feel that way. Perhaps it was because that same day a notice went out about the raffle that is also being run this week in the cafeteria to give away two candy-filled Easter baskets to two random employees who’s receipts are drawn from the boxes with the gender-coded ribbon on them (pink for the girl basket, blue for the boy). Or maybe it is because in reviewing the menu for the rest of the week, it didn’t really appear that there were a whole lot of choices on it with the observant Tribesman in mind. (Not that I am an observant Jew – I prefer to think of it more as a cultural one – but I do try to lay off the bread-like products for the week that is required. In anticipation of the bread-free week ahead, I had a muffin this morning on the train care of my favorite Flying Pig in Mt. Kisco.)

And then there were four?

The other reason this night might be different is because today is going to be go down as somewhat of a historic one in the on-going saga that has consumed the accounting and audit industry. The head of Andersen announced his resignation yesterday, and as various pieces of that member of the Big 5 continue to be devoured by the other four (the feeling of some twisted form of cannibalism runs high here), you can clearly see the beginning of the end. Andersen is on the verge of implosion. Yesterday, during a department wide conference call for members of the IT group that I happen to be a part of, the leadership did their best to assure us that this was all for the best. It is funny (sad?) to note how their messaging to us has shifted in very subtle ways over the past few months. Initially, the attitude was almost defensive, and supportive of our brothers in arms who were under siege within the media. And at the time, there was the public assurance that we would never go after their clients for our own corporate gain. Uh huh. Guess again. Now, we are celebrating the defections that have decided to seek shelter under our big tent, and we are saying things that help to give us more perceived distance from the scandalous ones that have tarnished the very reputation of our industry. What a great time to watch it all unfold. I'm sure there is some metaphorical comparison that could be made with Passover here, but I haven't landed on it yet...

2002-03-26T15:06:00.000-05:00

Before I begin...

...today’s long-winded entry, two news notes:

1. Can you say “ironical”?

2. Don’t thumb yer nose at me, ya lousy kid.

And, now, the continuing saga…

‘I always thought you hated me.’

Nothing could be further from the truth. I had to remind her several times that this was not the case. Why she could have thought that – and for all of these years – was beyond me. Had this one false impression kept us apart, and limited our friendship in the decade that has gone by? I certainly hope not, but it is hard to explain an absence after oh-so-many years.

For the record, I’m talking about Cris. She did call back. Last night a little bit after 9 o’clock. Her name even came up on the caller ID window of the phone, so I had a split-second to prepare myself for a conversation with my past. After the usual politeness that is required in circumstances such as these, we managed to go on and have a real conversation. We talked for two and half hours.

She sounds like she is doing quite well, which was what I expected. Although, she made a decision to dramatically alter the course of her life, and is now doing work that is not at all what I would have expected. She went back to our old stomping grounds, and got another degree, but in chemistry this time. Now she is a chemist. She knows this isn’t what she wants to do with the rest of her life, but she also knows that this will pay the bills, and that he present employer might pay for her graduate study, when the time is right (and she finds that program in natural medicine that she is searching for). Fascinating case that Cris D. A capable chemist who would rather be dispensing holistic remedies and showing people that they can live in a world that isn’t consumed by prescription pills and other additives. (I think Cris and Sarah will have a lot of notes to compare.)

She is still in New Paltz. While it sounds as though she dabbled with the idea of leaving, she has never been too far from the shadow of Mohonk after all this time. Perhaps the legend is true...

We both realized last night – although our selective memories of days gone by are both a bit fuzzy now – that last night was the first real conversation of any substance that the two of us had ever had with one another. Before, the conversations focused on our big plans, and some decision that had to be made that moment. I think we must have had at least one or two simple conversations in there somewhere, but she insists that we did not. But now we have, and I think we did a fairly decent job of it. (I wonder if she remembers that dinner in our dining hall freshman year. We barely knew each other then. We weren’t even sitting together at the time. In fact we were several tables away from one another. But the things we were both doing to soft-serve cones that were playfully directed at one another were unmistakable. Nothing ever happened. Fake ice cream never tasted so good. Sweet memories.)

As the conversation progressed last night, we started to talk about the other people we would each like to find now. This list wasn’t a complete match for the two of us, but there was some overlap in there. They’re out there. We’ll find them. I just don’t know why everyone wants to start with that Doug dude. What did people see in him? I saw a pompous guy with come-hither curls and a leather jacket. Whatever. We’ll find him too. (Strangely enough, my wife has been trying to reconnect with her own past in the last few weeks. One key player re-emerged recently, and called yesterday to yell. Strange bird that one. If Frances wants to keep that one going, she is going to have to do all of the heavy lifting. I’ve had my fill of relationships like that. One of them is my natural father. It takes too much energy to always be the one to keep the relationship going. And then when things fall apart, you inevitably shoulder the blame for some transgression. Classic “blame-the-victim” mentality. I’m not doing that anymore.)

Cris asked me a lot of questions. And I guess some of my answers were not what she expected. Do I really drive a minivan? Yup. It’s used, it’s purple, and it holds my family of five and all of our stuff. Do I really hold grudges? Probably. Can’t I just learn to let it go? In theory, sure. But then what would I be left holding? Do I really jump to conclusions about people I have never met, or places I have never been to (such as Idaho)? Apparently so. She always thought I was open-minded. I think on the surface I usually am. But then I think about things that I just don’t know – such as Idaho – and my mind races with thoughts that are on a very narrow trail indeed.

As we were winding down our marathon of gossip and revelation, she gave me homework. Typical. She suggested a good multi-vitamin (without iron) and a magnesium supplement for the migraines. And an audiotape of breathing exercises that I am supposed to listen to on the train. Can I breathe and type at the same time? We’ll see. She also gave me the name of a company to contact that makes full-spectrum light bulbs. I need to find out if they make a long tube-like version to stick in the fixtures over my head in my office-box. And the recommendation that I discover what my favorite flower is, and that I place some in a vessel of some kind on my desk. She was fairly shocked to learn that I couldn’t name a favorite flower. Hers is white daisies. Simple pleasures, I suppose. Last, she thinks I need to ask myself ‘Have I always been this way?’ Which way is that? The grudge-holding, conclusion-jumping, narrow-minded kind of way, I suspect. That will take some time to figure out. Although deep down, I suspect I already know the answer.

PS – Before I forget. I also flossed last night. Cris assures me it is addictive, in a good sort of way. I’m not convinced. She is very concerned about oral hygiene.

Today’s happy notes

As an employee of the Firm, I am “entitled” to one-year of fee-free checking at Citibank. Would have been nice to find this out two months ago, but never mind. And of course, the Citi has no mechanism in place to notify me when the year has expired so that I can go back and re-up with the program again. I need to send myself a reminder. Sounds like they need a good CRM implementation.

While wandering in searching of take-away, I found a Thai place on 44th. Not bad. It’s close, and it was fast. So I brought it back to the cafeteria so as not to stink-up the office-box with garlic chicken, and there were guys in red shirts handing out free samples of smoothies. Awfully nice of them.

2002-03-25T13:34:00.000-05:00

And the Oscar goes to…

(NOTE: Many of today’s links are drawn directly from my daily does of news snippets from CNN, so some of these links might not be entirely reliable.)

I have to admit, I missed most of it. I think of any of the movies that were nominated this year, I only saw the feature-length animated ones. Not terribly surprising, considering that our home is dominated by the G-rated squad. It was nice to see in the paper today that Denzel finally got one. He probably deserved it. And Halle Berry looked great. I have no idea whether she deserved it. Sidney Poitier gave a good speech – that was about all I saw in its entirety. I felt badly that I didn’t enter Caitlin’s pool once again this year – she’s kind enough to send me an application each year, but it would be a complete guessing game, and I don’t have the patience.

Arguing with a two-year old

Patience seems to be something I’m in need of a lot at home these days. I argue with my two-year old, and she does not yet know the rules of logic. It is always a losing battle. I lose every time. You would think I would learn. But by the end of the day, when all you want her to do is to put on her PJ’s and get into bed – quietly – the idea of remaining calm as she struggles to do anything other than listen to me is a recipe for disaster. Perspective, and the ability to be rational, goes right out the window after that. This morning, all three of the little darlings – devils? – were up by about 6:45 a.m. Lois led the charge at 5:30 a.m., waking up unable to find things she craves that were of course right next to her in bed. This woke up the baby, and neither of them were about to go back to sleep after that. Happily Josie managed to sleep through the initial wave, but she didn’t last much longer. I have the two little ones in the bathroom with me this morning starting around 6:15 a.m. while I was trying to shave. (‘Lois, don’t touch the water, it’s hot.’ ‘It’s hot, da-da?’ ‘Yes, it’s hot.’) No matter what time it is in the morning, or what day of the week it is, Lois assumes that Sesame St. will be on for her convenience. It starts at 7. When will she be able to tell time? Shouldn’t Elmo teach her that?

(And just so no one thinks that I don’t adore my children – which I do – and that I don’t have the desire to spend every free waking moment with them… On Saturday we took the girls to the annual Easter egg hunt at our local park, which was a blast. Other than the muddy sneakers and boots. It was over and done in under five minutes, after the organizer said ‘Go!’ and the wee ones started running, and swept over the grounds like brightly colored locust scooping up every plastic egg in sight. Both children did well, and had baskets filled with freebies that were either edible, or likely to be choking hazards. A good time was had by all. Afterwards, we had group lunch with the neighbors and their kids at BK (not here), where the indoor jungle gym apparatus kept them busy for the better part of an hour.)

(Random observation – There is a ton of work going on around 125 and south for the few blocks that I can see from my train elevated above the road. New construction, and old buildings that had been abandoned for years look like they are suddenly getting facelifts. New construction in Harlem? When did that start? Where the hell have I been?)

So where was I? Oh yeah, at this point, with bags under my eyes that ache, I am free of my familial bonds for the next 10 hours or so. Youpie. I probably shouldn’t admit that fact, but I am so tired. And lucky. I get to go to an office. I don’t have to stay home with the little critters all day and keep them entertained, fed, clean, safe, loved. My wife has the harder job by far; I will gladly admit that to anyone that asks. The weekend alone is enough to knock me out. And as much as it is supposed to be a break from the rest of the week, it isn’t really. There is no time during those two days that is just my own. I wanted 10 minutes to go to the bookstore to buy a lousy magazine for this roto league that I am completely unprepared for, and when did I manage to go? Last night, after the threesome had gone to bed – I almost said ‘put to sleep’ – that wouldn’t be right, would it? (Calling Dr. Freud…) At that point, I excused myself, and left the building. Searching for the advice of others for a game I ultimately know very little about.

Random parting shots (some finished mid-afternoon as I review what I wrote)

We’re nearly at the end of our arrival platform, so I need to cut this off. Before I do, a few more quick notes:

I know I am lucky to get to leave the house five days a week, and to leave the rest behind. In fact, as I came to realize on more than one occasion: I am quite lucky to have the privilege to get on a train everyday, and sit there for nearly an hour, and feel sorry for myself.

Last night, rather than Oscar, we watched pieces of other things. Frances had the remote, and her finger was twitchy. We saw glimpses of HBO, including this wacky thing called Taxicab Confessions, where passengers pour their hearts out to strangers driving cabs in Vegas. It is the closest I have been to matters of the flesh in I don’t know how long. Why is that? She promised. Like always. Why should I even have to ask? I must be a glutton for punishment. Am I blue? What do you think?

Also, I will likely try to pick up where I left off last week with Sarah – we have resolved to find our past together. (She has written back, and has even sent pictures. She looks like I remember. She looks great. And, I have to remember, she is reading this thing – I did invite her in last week. My ability to censor myself will likely fall flat at some point. ) She found Mr. Margolis, who is still out in Michigan finishing his PhD. I am suitably impressed with his stick-to-it-iveness. I’m starting today with Cris. I think I found her number online. It looks like she never left New Paltz. (I left her voice mail on her machine – it is clearly her voice. Will she call back?) Perhaps there will be a re-union in there somewhere…

And, happily, lunch plans with Suzanne B. She’ll meet me on the lower level of GCT, and we’ll rush through food and catching up. She’s at Risk Waters group now, which I think will be a good thing for her. I hope so. She had a hard year in ’01. (Nope, lunch got cancelled – she has deadlines to meet, which is ok, because my job actually appears to have kicked in as of today, and leaving here would have been tough. It’s now 1:15 p.m., and I will be eating at my desk today – I hope.)

2002-03-22T14:49:00.000-05:00

All you can eat

Yesterday brought with it a different blast from the past: Lunch with Amy D. Happily, she and I were both able to report about our respective new-found employment. She was out of work longer than I was, but it looks like she has landed well. She is now editing the alumni magazine for Barnard. It will be a real change from financial reporting to be sure, but I think it will be good for her. Steady. Respectable. Low pressure. Not that she doesn’t thrive under pressure. She was always good with deadlines. I just think this one will give her a chance to find a groove and ride it out for a while. And, she gets to do a complete overhaul of the book – new design, look, feel, and writers.

Strangely enough, Amy now has one problem though that I encountered myself several years ago when I first came to NYC. She has a grumpy old lady of her own who had been the editor for many years, and is now in the process of being phased out. Naturally, it sounds like there are jealousy issues, and why-can’t-you-do-it-my-way issues. But if Amy is lucky, her current killjoy will decide to retire ahead of schedule, and let Amy get down to bid-nez.

And, fortunately for Amy, it doesn’t sound like her old lady is nearly as nuts as my old was. Mine was a drunk, and she liked to plagiarize a well-respected daily newspaper written in our nation’s capital. Luckily I caught our paragraph-swiping malcontent red-handed – twice – before any real damage was done (nothing she ‘borrowed’ ever went to print), and I was finally able to convince the director of that organization (a non-profit run by dreamers and wannabe hippies) that it was time for my old lady to be shown the door. We still gave her a plaque for all of her years of loyal service. We couldn’t really fire her, because she was a volunteer. If I had to guess, I would say she was probably doing it for years, and no one bothered to check. If anyone had caught it, that place would have been litigated into oblivion long ago. I left that place back in ’97, about two months after they gathered all of us around the lunch table one – we were a small troupe, and we could more or less squeeze in around the table together commune style – and reported that they had enough money left in the budget to pay us for the next two months. After that, it was anybody’s guess. I panicked. I had my young family to support (Josie was nearly six months old at the time). My dear friend Caroline put me in touch with the people that were running Individual Investor magazine (now defunct), which in turn brought me to Ticker (now more or less defunct under a new parent). (NOTE TO SELF: Why is it that nearly everywhere I work ends up going out of business? Is there a connection? Consult higher powers.) That was where I met Amy, the eager young staff writer who was kind enough to put up with me while I attempted to figure out what might possibly be of interest to the modern financial planner.

So Amy and I met at this place she found through Zagat’s. A Thai place on 8th avenue, which was a short walk for me, and a relatively easy subway ride for her. When it comes to food, I think either of us would gladly pick Thai first, over nearly any other choice. In fact, if memory serves, Thai was the basis of her first date with her now husband, Mystery Marc (my daughter’s name for him). When we got there we had the place to ourselves, and since menus did not appear to be an option, we had the buffet. It was fine. Not great, but good. And low key. And we had plenty of time to chat, and catch up. And I did my best to control myself with the food. I didn’t really eat all that I could. And while I did go inside the bakery that was two-doors down, I managed to talk myself out of buying anything, which felt like a small victory for the demons of self-control that haunt my gullet. This is the same bakery that makes those chocolate-filled cupcakes that make the Hostess variety seem like rank amateurs (not that their flash site is for amateurs...). Maybe the problem was that I just didn’t see any of those on display, so it didn’t seem worth the bother.

Time to eat the donuts

Not that yesterday’s lost calories really matter. This morning is supposedly the ‘final’ Friday for free donuts in the cafeteria at work. The food service company that contracts with my employer has been doing this for the past several weeks, threatening to cut off the calories each time, and then coming back with one more round glazed, deep-friend goodness. Plus, once they’ve got you downstairs, the likelihood is you aren’t just going to pick up donuts. You need a drink to go with ‘em. Coffee. Milk. Etc. You know, make a meal out of it. And for that you have to pay. No one leaves empty-handed, and the vendor is clearly still making money.

In thinking about my recent entries to this space, it must appear that I have an eating disorder. Food is on my mind a lot. OK, nearly all the time. Should I be worried? I’ll just go grab a donut and think it over. (And for the record, I only had one. And I had a salad for lunch.)

Parting thought, and welcome back
Thank you, Sarah S. for writing this morning. Out of the blue and made my day. How long has it been? Too long. Why are you all the way in Cincinnati? We'll catch up. It will be long distance. That is probably safer.

2002-03-21T10:15:00.000-05:00

‘Bored. Amuse me.’

That was the late afternoon correspondence from the Blind Tangerine – so what else could I do? He is temping for a financial services giant that doesn’t want its employees diddling away valuable company time using IM, so he sends out pleas seeking quick connections to reality. I’m probably reading too much into this, but he isn’t here to challenge my assertion. So with his challenge in my inbox, I sent my aching hands back to the keyboard and pounded out a quick note to attempt to pacify the man in search of diversion. Here’s what I wrote back (places within the brackets are my new comments added this morning to fill in any gaps):

gee, let’s see, you want amusement. So now I am a personal entertainment assistant. I'm a PEA. Thanks.

Lunch with Pat (art director @ IW, and now of another title within the Penton realm) was delightful. Well, ok, fun. (Partly due to the fact that we got to eat @ Scopa, my favorite $5 salad in all of NYC. Seriously, it is cheap, it is huge, and it is chock full of the freshest veggies around. It is nowhere near my current office though, so it was a haul to get there. While there, I ran into the guy who is the director of the non-profit I worked for before moving over to IW two years ago. That job – and my boss at the time – was how I discovered Scopa in the first place. BTW, they also make these brownies that are killer, but in my effort to appease Dr. Admonition, I passed on the dessert. I don’t like that guy – big surprise – but he was convincing.)

Despite the (non-stop) rain (well, ok, mostly just a heavy, annoying sprinkle) and the fact that I did not have an umbrella. Happy first day of spring, BTW. (Today feels much more like a first day of spring should – sun is shining, and the weather guy assures me that it will climb right back up into the 50s today. Woo-hoo.) He brought me copies of both IW and Biz Fin -- and you're right, IW doesn't completely suck. But the recent interviewees for the Q&A are fairly lightweight stuff. (This is my own petty bitterness showing through. If I had been there to do the interviews… Well, I know the subjects of the interviews themselves would have been more of the name-brand F500 variety.) And both seem to have a marketing focus (not that I mind that sort of thing) -- seems odd for a mag that used to be so hung up on the Value Chain... what do I know? (Not much, apparently, since they did see fit to cast out my accumulated knowledge and smoking Rolodex last fall. A lot of good ideas have gone to waste I’m afraid.)

Pat wants me to find a way to sell the story I have to tell about the baby-naming escapade -- he thinks he has a name of someone for me to approach at the New Yorker. (That is one of the only places that did NOT write about this media whirlwind when it kicked up a storm at the end of last summer. He was more excited about it than me, frankly. Is that amusing? (I should think so. Eventually, I will probably devote more time and energy to explaining this one – again – but to give the whole thing a bit of closure, I think. Actually, I was really close to finding a place for my spin on the spin of the story last fall in Brill’s Content. My pitch was well received, and then they announced they were closing the following week. I am going to assume that the two events hold no correlation to one another.)

And he is VERY grumpy about the fact that Cablevision is screwing real New Yorkers out of their god-given right to watch the Yankees on basic cable this season... I agree with him on this one. Have you seen the business wrangling about it? Yankee owners created a new TV network, called YES, and now Cablevision won't run it. Miserable SOBs. (I would highly encourage individuals to submit nasty letters to the hierarchy of Cablevision demanding their YES TV. Until then,) I guess I will have to resign myself to baseball on the radio, which tends to be more fun anyway -- the commentators are all of the color I need. I think we've talked about that before.

Also had IM fun with Mr. Zippy -- he didn't seem quite as bitter as the note you mentioned to me from yesterday... (Oops, I should probably edit that bit out, but for the interest of editorial purity, it stays.) Pat and I have talked him into wasting time with us via a "fantasy" baseball thing that we are starting. Do you care much for the national pastime? We have room for another team or 2, if you want to lose valuable hours in your day tracking stats on Yahoo. There is no money changing hands in this one -- purely an intellectual exercise, actually.

Glad to see you are busy. Get back to work. Most of this note will make up my blog entry for the day. Thanks for saving me some time. – jason

Today’s note to self:

Gal across from me on the train is writing in a notebook and using a pen that both have the Loudcloud brand emblazoned on them. Seems odd. Quite a blast from the past. She doesn’t look like the LC type. And she is reading a reference card for how to use Outlook 98 – also not very LC. Maybe the stuff was a gift? Not in the best taste, I would suggest. OK, so now I don’t have a clue about her. She just whipped out a Blackberry, and she is using it with all of the sophistication of a regular. She’s probably a new VP.

2002-03-19T13:44:00.000-05:00

‘Embrace you job’

That was what she said to me this morning as I was walking out the door to go grab the train to the city and to my job. I know she meant it in a supportive way (the she in this case being my darling wife), but all I could think was, ‘yeah, right.’ There isn’t much to embrace, per se. At least not yet. That’s what I keep telling myself – and anyone who asks, actually – that my job is really just getting started, and that the real role I was hired to do hasn’t come into play, yet. Never mind that I’ve only been at this new position for two months now, it’s a long warm-up routine. I know that what I am doing now is moving me closer to the actual work that I was told I would be doing, but I’ve never been known for my patience. Ask anyone. Maybe that makes this portion of the job my test of personal commitment. Will he stick it out? Will he be able to sit still long enough to get to the good stuff? I sure hope so.

I certainly can’t afford to be out of work right now. Been dere and done dat. Nearly four months of unemployment this past fall was plenty. Although, now that I’ve been through it, I’m sure it will happen again someday. It wasn’t my fault. There was no stealing on the job, or any number of other transgressions that would normally result in someone getting the old heave-ho. This was pure number crunching on the part of my former employer. Run the numbers around a month before the Quarter is set to end, and see where things stand. Coming up short? Must find a way to keep the investors happy. Naturally the easiest place to save a buck or two is cutting back on the cost of your “human resources.” The day I was told it was time to go, five other people were also shown the door, including my boss. It was the last thing I expected that morning. When my boss came into my office and told Mr. Z and me that he had been fired, I think my jaw hit the desk. We all had a feeling that we were going to get some “news” that day – after all, my boss’s trip had been cut short, and he was ordered to come back to NY right away. The best part of all was the timing. It was right before Labor Day weekend. I love irony. And in my own case, I’d only been back at work for about 2 weeks after having been on a paternity leave for two weeks before that. Really nice. So here I am, father of three, and I’m being told by the publisher and the vp in charge of firing people that this is it. What do you say? Not much if you read the fine print of the exit documents they want you to sign telling you they’ll take away your meagre severance package if you say anything rotten about them. I needed the money. I kept my grumbling to myself – mostly.

So where was I? Oh yeah. I’ve got a job. Hooray. I know, I should be grateful, and most of the time I am. I know plenty of folks who are still looking for fulltime employment right now, and I’ve met many more who have become victims of a shitty economy, just the way I had. I keep reminding myself of how lucky I must be: employed, decent benefits, family with full bellies and a roof over our head, etc. Who could ask for anything more? Well, apparently, I could. I’m just being selfish, I suppose. I don’t even know what I want. Oh sure, there are plenty of “things” that I want. But most of it I know I can’t have, and won’t have, so I keep my grumbling to myself. Most of the time.

As we crossover into Harlem on the train, I know that I will spend the better part of today filling in the minutes and hours with the busy work that must be done in preparation for the work I was told I would be doing. The train is packed. Half the people around me are asleep. The rest either read the paper, or catch up on the junk mail that clutters our lives. Do we enjoy this routine? Do we have a choice? All the busy work is “supposably” leading the way to the real work. But the deadlines continue to be pushed back, and there are new meetings to be had to talk about the meetings we will have. Oh well. It’s a job. It’s my job. I’m just not ready to embrace it.

2002-03-14T13:39:00.000-05:00

Explaining myself

What is her name? I can’t remember. She’s standing in the corridor area by the doors to the train staring at me. It’s not a rude stare. It’s more of an ‘I-know-I know-you’ kind of stare, but the connection takes an extra moment because the context is all wrong. What am I doing sitting on a train bound for GCT? I’ve never seen her on this train before – and she’s thinking the same thing. She remembers my name – I still can’t remember hers – but she’s a friend of the family that much I know. More like a friend of a friend of the family that we see rarely at holiday parties, and birthdays for little children we barely know. Any way, I find myself explaining my appearance, and my circumstances in polite conversation that passes for catching up. My hair is cut short – too short my wife would say – care of the $10 barbershop in Katonah where the older Russian men who stand too close for comfort while cutting heads have done their usual hack job. OK, I could have asked the guy to leave a little more or top, but in that chair, with the sound of the electric trimmer buzzing in my ears, all I want to do is close my eyes and sink into its red vinyl embrace. By the time I look at the results – I have to put my glasses back on to see clearly into the mirror that can’t be more than three feet in front of me – it’s too late. At least it is cleaned up now. It looks neat and trim. A little too militaristic really, but it will grow out quickly. At least I haven’t gone bald yet – I’m not sure how my own vanity will handle that inevitability. Probably not well. Why is it that despite my age, I still want – no expect – to see an 18-year old in the mirror staring back at me? Man, that was a long time ago. I look nothing like that kid now. What a joke.

So in addition to the cheap haircut (I could probably get a more expensive one but the result would likely be the same, and lately it seems like a waste of money to pay more that that if I don’t have to. I know there’s a place near my office that only charges $9 a pop, but that would mean going during my lunch break, and we all know I don’t intend to give that up.) I have on a tie and pants that weren’t bought at the Gap. It isn’t exactly pinstripes, but it goes above and beyond “business casual” which as of this past December, I had been told was dead by various consultants who are paid to know these things. As I said before, the context was all wrong for this encounter. So I briefly explained where I work now, and how the family is doing, and the fact that we have to move sometime in the next month. Our lease is nearly up on the apartment we have lived in for the past four years. We’re in a co-op building that has decided to go to an all owner-occupied mode, and we’re not buying. The management company offered the unit to us – and we briefly thought about trying to scrape the money together to buy it – but the asking price is now ridiculous, and the monthly maintenance fees for the unit are like blackmail, and to top it all off, we know all of the little problems that the unit has hidden in its corners. Those are problems that we don’t need right now. So we’re trying to find a new place. We have an appointment tonight for another place in Mt. Kisco that could be good. We’ve seen it from the outside. And we have a good lead on a place in South Salem, which would permanently alter my commute, but would mean good schools for Josie, and plenty of common space where the munchkins could run around in relative safety. I think we’ll have a decision made by the end of this week. I sure hope we do. This is one more thing I want to stop doing. We’ve spent the better part of the past two months trying to find the right place. I know it is a trifle when compared to the real problems that surround me on a daily basis, but it is an all-consuming activity right now. Ugh. The train is pulling in. The friend of the friend has long since left to go find a seat – I offered her the one next to me, but she declined. I suppose that might have required further conversation that neither of us was really prepared to have at 8:00 a.m.

2002-03-12T14:03:00.000-05:00

Goodbye Dot-Com

Well, it became inevitable. And in this case, it’s not your typical dot-com crash. This one was our cat. We – my children – called her Dottie. That always did seem easier. Not that she ever responded to either name. She was my birthday present nearly two years ago, and at the time I had just started working at a magazine devoted to coverage of the Internet (more about that another time). So, it seemed fitting to name her D-C. Sure looking back now that spring was already the beginning of the end for the hype that the Internet had promised, but there was still a sense of possibility that was truly palpable. I thought I was going to be – what ? – part of a new era? No. It was never that romantic. But it did feel like potential was peeking out from behind a billowy curtain. The point of my digression does come back to the name. As a kitten, D-C seemed to hold all of the potential and joy and freedom of new life. The name seemed like a perfect fit.

I’ve always had cats while growing up. My parents have four today. Until yesterday, we had two. Dottie, despite all of our efforts to give her a happy home just never seemed happy with us. The times that were the exception to this was when I would wake up in the morning, and find her sleeping at my feet on top of the bed. She always was underfoot. She was often temperamental – perhaps not surprising for a cat – but she took it out on the other cat, Amelia, and recently, she began acting out in new ways. She became very aggressive and territorial towards our baby, who is now nearly seven months old. She was peeing on things that clearly are the baby’s objects, and, well, I’ll spare you the details. It was too much. We – my wife and I – don’t know how to fix it. Our hands are full already with three children all under the age of five in our apartment that seems to be getting smaller by the day. So a decision was made. Dottie had to go.

Believe me, it was the last thing I wanted to do. Whenever I’ve had a pet in the past, that decision has been a commitment. An unspoken contract that must be fulfilled. I’ll feed you, house you, make sure you are in good health, give you odd stuffed toys to play with, and in exchange you’ll make nice once in a while, and let me pat you on the head. A reasonable exchange for both parties involved. Or so it would seem. Dottie wasn’t convinced. So I began making calls – a lot of calls. Each agency referred me to another. No one has room for an adult cat. Strike one. It makes it easy to understand why so many “companion animals” get dumped by the side of the road somewhere. Sure, a “humane society” will be happy to let you adopt, and take the problem off their hands. But that is purely a one-way transaction. Read the fine print. All sales final. What the hell were we going to do? She’s young and healthy, and active. We can’t have her put down. (What a lousy euphemism that is, eh?) Maybe my sister could take Dottie in – even on a temporary basis? No luck. No pets allowed in her building. Strike two. And then, Sunday night, a call from a stranger. She’s a volunteer with a local rescue organization called Little Orphan Animals. I begged my case and pleaded with her to take Dottie. She agreed. Thank you. So I dropped her off last night, leaving crying children with mom so that I could do the deed.

At the moment, Dottie is at Petsmart in northern Westchester in a holding cage waiting for someone to see the potential in her eyes that we first saw. She slunk to the bag of the metal crate when the volunteer put her inside, and refused to look out. She refused to look at me. Will she remember? Will she care? You could tell she was nervous. But I must attempt to convince myself that this is for the best. She will be adopted. She will be “rescued” and given a new chance at life. We did what was best for her, and the best for our baby, right? I certainly hope so.

But what about this cough?

Well, the other half of yesterday, or so it seemed, was spent dealing with my personal health. After my managed service provider coughed up the names of four different doctors within a five mile radius of my home, I started making calls to MDs I’ve never met seeking a last minute appointment for this nagging cough, and the accompanying headache that has left me bleary and mean for the past four days or so. It felt like it must be a sinus something. As much as I hate being subjected to the prodding and stern reprimands from anyone in a white coat seated across from me, I knew it was time for antibiotics. So I find a doctor that I’ve never seen before, and the minute I walk into his personal office and sit down, I know this guy isn’t the one I will be returning to for long-term care. I felt like I was interrupting his day. He was still moving in to this new office space, so he unpacked random desk necessities while we spoke. He made some notes in a file using a fountain pen, so you know it will be illegible later. Still, I had an appointment, and someone else was paying for it, so let’s make the most of it. He showed me in to the room next door, and told me to take off my shirt and have a seat. Wonderful bedside manner. He took my blood pressure first. It’s high. Too high, in his opinion. I’m sure he’s right. I don’t know what the numbers mean. He seemed not at all pleased. He ordered a blood test, and did an angiogram – which I’ve never had done before. Lots of probes stuck to my body with a conductive tape, which the doctor seemed to enjoy ripping off afterward… Not sure why. So during the post-examination consult, he told me I’m overweight (big surprise there), and that my blood pressure was – what was the word he used – did he say “chronic” – he probably did, but as I try to replay the moment now, I can’t really pull the dialogue together in my mind. Fine, so as of today I am promising myself to watch the calories. We’ll see how long that lasts. I know I should, but… Finally I managed to get the doctor to swing back around in the conversation to the ailments that brought me to his tender care in the first place. Zirthromax for the cough – a quick five-day regimen, and a wonder drug (and controlled substance, actually) for my headache, which last night left me feeling no pain. Truly. I haven’t been that loose in a long time. Please sir, can I have another? Sadly the doctor only gave me a very limited quantity of the happy pills; otherwise, I would be on my way to an addiction to painkillers even as I write.

More soon. I’ll write by train, and post by night? We’ll see. Thanks for visiting. – jason