Workman's Waste of Time

Uber Diaries: Respect the Grind

2019-10-23T11:33:00.003-07:00

(Note: This is a story I wrote for an upcoming book. This one didn't make the final cut, but I still like it.)

Pickup: Sentinel Hotel

The passenger is average height, but an athletic build. He gets into the van with a duffel bag I assume is luggage. I swipe the app to reveal the destination and am a little surprised he’s not headed to the airport. Instead, he’s going to the Nike employee store, so I break out my standard joke for that destination.

“So, are you prepared to lose your NCAA eligibility over this?”

He chuckles a little bit and says, “Yeah, I think I’m okay.”

There is a bit of reality in that joke. At the entrance to the Nike employee store there’s a sign that says, in effect, shopping at the store constitutes receiving a gift from Nike and shopping there could result in a loss of NCAA eligibility.

For most people, that sign isn’t much of a problem. First, it is extraordinarily hard to get an entry pass to the store. Columbia Sportswear and Adidas have employee stores in the Portland area and it’s not hard to figure out how to shop there if you do a little digging. But with Nike, you have to know someone who works there and bring photo ID and proof of current address such as a utility bill. So it’s almost impossible anyone could stumble into the store and, say, accidentally get kicked off the Duke basketball team.

Second, as a percentage of the population, there aren’t all that many people with enough talent to be college athletes. Many people harbor dreams of competing at that level, and most will have to give up those dreams one day. You usually don’t get anything as a reward when you give up your dreams of playing college football. But if you shop at the Nike employee store, at least you get half-price sneakers in exchange.

The passenger is well dressed and looks as if he could easily afford to pay full price for his sneakers. After some prodding, he admits he plays for the NFL. He’s a running back and has been in the league for about 8 years.

It’s April and I ask a few questions about how much training you have to do in the off-season (answer: a lot, it’s pretty much a year-round thing) and then I ask another question:

“You make your living playing a game. It’s a difficult game, to be sure, but it’s a game. And I’m assuming you started playing that game because it was fun. Now that you’ve been doing it as your job for 8 years, how much of it is still fun.”

He thinks for a moment and begins telling a story:

“When you’re a rookie in the NFL, yeah, there’s some hazing, but when you step out there on that field on Sunday morning, it’s as cool as you would imagine it would be. In fact, it’s cooler than that. When you walk out there for the first time… every kid dreams of that, and now you’re there. And it’s cooler than you’d imagine.

“However, if you’re not careful, you can start to become ungrateful. You’ll start to take it for granted, and you can get a bad attitude.”

When the ride ended, I Googled my passenger and discovered he was drafted in the first round and had a few great seasons. Then he got injured and lost a whole season. When he came back the next year, he had lost his form. But he kept improving and, in the season that had ended a few months earlier, he had completed a career-year and was on his way to becoming his team’s all-time leading rusher. I didn’t know this at the time, but it makes sense when you hear the rest of his story.

He continued:

“But if you’re lucky, you can push through that bad attitude and get some of that gratefulness back. And that’s where I am now. It’s a grind, but I see it as a thing that gets me back out onto that field each Sunday. And here’s the thing, it’s still as cool as ever to be out there. That doesn’t go away.

“Now don’t get me wrong, I hate practice. And you would not believe how many boring meetings we have to go to. So is it still a grind? Yes. But now, I respect the grind.”

He hits this punchline just as we’re pulling into the driveway of the Nike Store. He had managed to tell a good story with a beginning, middle, and end, and managed to make it end at the perfect time. And when I see that, I can only have one reaction.

“Wow, you’ve had media training, haven’t you?”

He just smiles and gives a slight nod.

“I can tell you, they got you the good stuff.”

He walks away and eventually vanishes into the Nike Store. Nine months later, he will score a touchdown in the Super Bowl.

Dropoff: Nike Employee Store, Beaverton

Save Your Outrage

2016-11-11T01:33:00.000-08:00

Just home after an evening of driving. I usually work a little bit later, but I decided to cut things short. As I write this, police are clashing with rioters in downtown Portland. Shop windows have been shattered. Buildings and street signs are covered with anti-Trump graffiti. Rioters pulled a guy out of his Jeep because he had American flags on his car.

I understand the anger and fear these protesters are feeling because I’m feeling it, too. We have made probably the worst electoral decision in the history of this country, a decision that may well threaten the very foundations of the democracy we live in and the constitutional system of checks and balances that Americans hold dear.

These are scary times. I haven’t had a good night’s rest since Tuesday and I’ve got that “just about ready to puke” feeling in the back of my throat.

But these riots are bullshit.

Let’s start with the name: Not My President. Sorry to inform you, but he is, or at least he will be come January. Trump won the election. Period. Granted, he won on a technicality and more people voted for Hillary, but this is how we elect the president. I’d love to see that change, but for now, we’re stuck with the crappy Electoral College.

One of the biggest sins of the right over the past 8 years was the relentless campaign to deny Obama’s legitimacy as a president by claiming he wasn’t really American. It was notable during the debates that Trump called Obama “your president.” That was wrong. And it’s also wrong to deny that Trump will legitimately be president, no matter how much you want that to not be true.

And while a night of angry but peaceful protest might be useful to send the message that the next president will not have broad popular support, what’s happening now is an adult version of a temper tantrum.

Because the problem is that Trump hasn’t done anything yet. Yes, it’s lead a despicable life and said and done horrible things during the campaign and been basically a walking symbol of everything that is wrong with America. But this is not something we just learned yesterday. We’ve always known this, and despite that fact, people still voted for him. And since he won, he’s done exactly two things: he gave a surprisingly gracious acceptance speech, and he went to the White House and did and said what he was supposed to do. That’s it.

So if you’re out rioting in the streets now, it’s really because you’re upset the candidate you didn’t like won. But that’s not yet a sufficient grievance. Mobs don’t get to overturn an election.

On retaining wall by the freeway, someone wrote in 20-foot high letters: FUCK TRUMP.

Fuck Trump?

Fuck you.

Trump is a terrible person and I have every reason to believe he will be a terrible president. But Portland is great. Why are you trashing our city? It’s not going to make Trump any better, but it will make our city worse. And if things start going really bad with a Trump Administration, this is all we’ve got. We’ve got a great city to live in and we should all put a lot of energy into making it even better because that may be the only thing we have control over during the dark days ahead.

Instead, people can’t go out at night and it will cost thousands of dollars to clean up the damage. And you’re doing this to a city whose population rejected Trump by a margin of something like 10-1. You’re not even punishing the people to did this to you, but instead you’re making things bad for the people who tried to stop it.

My advice: save your outrage.

Trump has promised to do a lot of awful things and at times seems unconcerned with how the government works and the constitutional limits to his power. There are legitimate fears that he will move to limit free speech rights, suppress the free press, and persecute religious minorities. If Trump does (or even tries to do) these things or any other of the scores of terrible things he’s proposed, I will be right out on the streets exercising my right to assembly and peaceful protest.

But for now, save your outrage. You’re going to need it.

Uber Diaries: The Crying Woman

2016-05-20T01:09:00.000-07:00

Pickup: Tanasbourne

I pull up to a park and there's a couple waiting on the sidewalk. I push the button to open the sliding door and they're having a serious talk and she's crying. They look over at me and I say "take your time" as I push the button to close the door.

After a couple of minutes, the man walks away and the woman gets in the car. She's crying, and not the type of cry you'd expect when you're riding in a stranger's car. Usually, you'd expect heaving shoulders and muffled sobs as the person tries to hold it together during the short ride. But this woman is weeping loudly like a widow at a mafia funeral.

I have never seen this woman in my life and have no idea what she and the man were talking about or what has her so upset. But I look at the map and I know exactly where we're going, and I know more about the back story than I probably should.

Three months ago, I picked up the man from this very location. We went to the grocery store and he went inside and bought some diapers, then we drove them over to the house I'm taking the woman to now. After that, I took him to work. The ride took 30 minutes, and he talked the whole time.

This happens sometimes. People get into the car and they just want to unload. I'm not bothered by this and actually consider it a bit of a privilege to be able to provide such a service. Once a woman who was dealing with some difficult stuff apologized for unloading it on me, and I said something I've repeated to a lot of other passengers:

"It's fine. Just dump all that crap into this car. Get as much of it out as you can. When this ride is over, I'll drive away with all that crap and find a place to dump it, and you will never see me or that crap again."

I actually said that exact same thing to the man who was standing on the side of the road, but I didn't count on actually seeing him again. And I certainly didn't imagine I'd meet the woman he was talking about.

So I know about this woman in the back of my car... or at least I know some things about this woman.

I know she and the man are both young, maybe 22 or 23. And I know they have a daughter together who's still an infant.

I know he wants a relationship with her (or at least did three months ago) and she does not.

I know she wanted to get an abortion when she learned she was pregnant, but he talked her out of it.

I know things are not good between her and the man on the side of the street.

I know she subtly resents her child to taking her youth away and resents him for convincing her to go through with the pregnancy and not offer the child up for adoption.

I know her parents hate the man who knocked up their daughter, and actually have a restraining order out on him. When we dropped the diapers off at her house he had to leave them on the doorstep and jog away saying, "I'm technically not supposed to be here."

I know she's had a history of depression.

I know the man is crazy about the daughter they have together and he says it has changed the course of his life, a life that has had more than a few troubled patches.

I know he was a little buzzed as I dropped him off for the graveyard shift at his work. I know he operates heavy equipment at his work.

I know all of this is absolutely none of my business, and mentioning a word of this to the sobbing woman in my car would probably freak her out.

So we drive for 5 minutes, but it feels like a lot longer. I've got all this knowledge, but it's completely worthless at this moment. It's not going to comfort her, or give her perspective, or anything. It's not going to solve the problems or the pain in her life right now.

The only thing I can really offer her is a Kleenex.

She takes the Kleenex, wipes off her cheeks and runs out of the car and into her house.

I drive away.

Drop off: Five Oaks

Uber Diaries: Uber For Rich People.

2016-04-19T22:19:00.001-07:00

Pickup: Portland International Airport.

The guy had airport ID and a "crew"tag on his bag, so I imagined he worked for an airline, but I didn't recognize the logo on his shirt.

"We need to pick up my friend at the Atlantic terminal before we head out to the hotel."

The Atlantic terminal is the place where private or charter planes land. It's not the sort of place a "normal" person would normally go to, and certainly not a place where there would be many Uber pickups. But it turns out, I knew exactly where the Atlantic terminal was because it's where the Timbers landed after winning the MLS Western Division championship last winter.

We pick up the second passenger and are on our way to Beaverton. One person is from Denver, while the other is from California's central coast. It seems like they may not have seen each other for a couple of weeks and they spend part of the ride catching up.

Once that was done, I had some questions about their work. What sort of charter flights do they work on?

"It's a service where you can call up and get a plane to take you where you want to go. It's kind of like Uber for rich people."

I ask how much like Uber it really is. How long do you have to wait between calling for an airplane and taking off?

"It depends on a few things, mostly the level of service you choose, Normally you'll have to wait about one day, but if you've put enough money into this, you can get a plane in a couple of hours sometimes."

The guy from Denver chimes in:

"For us, we get at least two hours notice before we need to take off. So we know we've got this thing going out of Hillsboro and down to California, and we'll probably be in San Diego and Orange County this week, but that could all change."

As I listen, this all sounds very attractive to me. I kind of like the idea of getting a phone call and hopping on a plane to a destination you didn't know at the start of the day. It's like of like driving Uber, where you never know where you'll be in the next hour, but with even bigger distances.

The rest of the ride was spent talking about different sorts of planes, the insane security the Secret Service requires when the President travels, and, of course. the Faroe Islands. Because how can you have an Uber ride without talking about the Faroe Islands.

I like these guys a lot, and as I drop them off, I wish I could chat with them more, and maybe I'll pick them up for another ride one day. But there's pretty much no chance I'll ever meet them at their work. The "private jet on demand" world will probably never be within my financial reach.

As they take their bags out of the back of the vehicle, I offer them each a firm handshake and say, "Thanks for using Uber for poor people."

Drop off: DoubleTree Beaverton.

Uber Diaries: Federal Pen

2016-04-06T22:40:00.003-07:00

Pickup: Portland International Airport

As I pull up to the curb, the app sends me a text message saying I should be looking for “a tall Asian man in a Zoo York sweatshirt.” I don’t usually get messages like this. The only time this happens is when a parent has sent me to pick up their kid at a middle school activity (this happens more often than you’d think).

So I sit at the curb and eventually I see the guy. He’s wearing a Zoo York hoodie, sweatpants, and sandals with socks. He has no luggage. I imagine he’s dropped off a friend or works at the airport or something.

“I need to go to Sheridan,” he says.

“The Sheraton by the airport?” I reply.

“No, Sheridan, Oregon.”

“I think there’s a Sheraton downtown. Let me look that up.”

“Sheridan, Oregon.”

“Oh, the town. There’s a town called Sheraton?”

Eventually we work it out and I see that the town, which I’ve never been to or heard of before, is about 75 miles south of the airport.

“I’m turning myself in at the federal prison in Sheridan.”

He explains that he can’t have anything with him when it surrenders, so he doesn’t have his cell phone with him. His wife was the one who set up the ride. As he’s explaining this, a message comes up on my phone:

“Sorry, I shouldn’t be doing this but can u tell my husband I love him very much always and forever so sorry again.”

The drive to Sheridan is about 90 minutes. During the long drive, he tells me about his daughter who’s 10 and the mortgage business he used to run in Central California. It was in that business where the troubles began.

I didn’t ask exactly what he did, but it had something to do with the go-go days of the mortgage bubble when, as he put it, “something was legal, and then one day it’s illegal.”

He says he’s been sentenced to 40 months, but he has 47 months of credit, so there’s a chance they’ll just turn him around and send him right back home. But maybe not. The process seems a little like changing colleges, he’s not sure what credits will transfer or how long it will take the feds to figure everything out. His attorney says it could take 13 weeks before everything is straightened out. So he doesn’t really know what’s going to happen. He just knows he has to show up to prison. Today.

I joke, “So if you’ve been sentenced to 40 months, and you’ve got 47 months credit, you should get some sort of voucher that you can redeem later. It’s like you could go out and commit a crime that would usually get you six months for and you’ve already got the credit.”

Amazingly, he laughs at this.

We get about 10 miles from Sheridan and he says, “I’m told this is the nicest prison camp in the federal system.”

He’ll be in a minimum security prison camp and spend most of his day working on various projects, maybe landscaping, maybe highway cleanup, that sort of thing. At his camp, there will be no fences, no walls, no razor wire. But if you walk off, you end up in the real prison, serving real hard time.

At a nearby town, we stop at a bank. He came with money because he thought he would need it. But upon landing, he learned he can’t bring anything inside with except ID and the clothes on his back, maybe a wallet. So he deposits the money and we drive the last few miles to the prison.

It’s been rainy in Oregon these last few months, but as we pull up to the prison, the sun has come out and it’s a gorgeous late morning. The facility has the minimum security prison camp, and a proper prison, with the fences and the razor wire… I’m guessing medium security.

I don’t know which way to turn towards. That’s when I see the lawn sign that points towards the regular looking prison and says, “Self Surrender.”

I pull into the parking lot and hand the guy my phone. I tell him to go outside the car for some privacy and call his wife. I can’t help but empathize with the guy. We’re about the same age, have kids about the same age, probably about the same socioeconomic status. If I really got myself in trouble and ended up in prison, I imagine this is what it would look like.

I try not to listen to his phone call, but I hear him tell his wife he loves her and that he’s made a bunch of videos for his daughter on the phone he’s left at home.

When he’s done, he opens the car door, hands me my phone, and thanks me for the call. Then he puts two pens and small note pads down on the passenger seat.

“I can’t bring these inside, so you can just have them.”

They’re now on our kitchen counter. My wife uses them to make shopping lists for me. My daughter scribbles on them, making the lists illegible.

He stands in the parking lot for a moment and is about ready to walk towards the door. Just then, a van pulls up and three guys with shotguns get out. The back door of the van opens and a man in an orange jumpsuit gets out. His legs are chained together and he’s making the slow, shuffling walk towards the door as the guys with shotguns watch.

My passenger decides to stay in the parking lot a few moments longer. I put the car in “drive” and head back to Portland.

Drop off: Sheridan Federal Correctional Institution.

Musical Memories: David Bowie, "Life On Mars?"

2016-01-11T14:24:00.002-08:00

Despite being a huge music nerd as a kid, I can only say I liked David Bowie back then, as opposed to being a fan. I knew most of the hits and when the album “Let’s Dance” came out along with its music videos on heavy rotation on MTV, I liked that a lot. I was also aware of Bowie’s influence on most of the music I liked as a teenager (David Gahan’s performance of Bowie’s “Heroes” was what convinced Depeche Mode to make Gahan their lead singer).

But that respect and enjoyment didn’t translate into complete fandom. I didn’t own any David Bowie records and didn’t obsess over the various personas Bowie took on at various points in his career.

That all changed when I was 33. I had gotten a Border’s gift card for Christmas and I used it to buy a “Best of Bowie” CD because it was a little embarrassing that I owned none of his music. About a week later, I started a solo drive from Los Angeles to Washington DC, so I had some time to listen to a lot of music.

I got around to listening to the Bowie CD just outside of Memphis. It started with “Space Oddity” (everyone knows that one), then “The Man Who Sold The World” (oh, that’s right, that Nirvana song was a cover), then “Changes” (great to sing along to if there’s nobody else in the car).

Then came track four, “Life on Mars?” I was caught completely off guard. I’ll admit, my mind was drifting a bit when the song started, but by the time it ended I was entranced. I hit the “back” button on the CD player and listened again, trying to make sense of the inscrutable lyrics and epic scope of the arrangement.

I’ve no doubt there are online message boards where people argue endlessly about what exactly the song means. But like many great works of art, you can see whatever you want in it. For me, it was pretty straightforward. “Life on Mars?” is about alienation. It’s about looking around you in disgust and wondering if there’s anything better anywhere else and fearing you won’t ever have access to it. It’s exactly how I felt as a teenager growing up in Rochester, New York.

I hit the “back” button on the CD player and listen again. I think, “How could I have gone 33 years without hearing this song? Where were you during puberty? I really could have used you during puberty.” Despite this, my teenage years all of the sudden seemed retroactively less lonely. After all, someone else wrote a song about the same thing when I was just a few months old, this sort of feeling must be pretty common.

I hit the “back” button again.

The experience of listening to the song is similar to riding a rollercoaster. In fact, if you close your eyes, you can even see the dips and turns. It starts off quiet and slow, like you’re rolling out of the loading area. Then you slowly creep up the hill. When Bowie belts out “Sailors…” that’s your first plunge. It takes your breath away in the same way. By the time he sings “oh man”, you’ve bottomed out and the momentum is carrying you up the next hill. Then he sings “take a look at the LAW MAN…” and you’re down the second hill. By the time you hit, “Is there life on Mars?” you’re rounding a banked turn. After more twists and turns, you’re returned safely to the place where you started, dizzy, out of breath, and ready to take the ride again.

I hit the “back” button again, and again, and again.

After about an hour, I pause the music and call my go-to guy for all things Bowie: Sam. I ask him about the song, why he’d never played it for me before (I think the answer was something like, “you’ve really never heard that song before?”).

I stop for lunch outside Knoxville. Then I get back in the car, and turn on the song again. When it ends, I hit the “back” button. I repeat this process for another 9 hours as I drive towards Washington. I feel like I need to make up for the last 20 years of not listening to this song.

After that, I went back and dove more deeply into the rest of the catalog and really started to appreciate the staggering influence Bowie had on much of the music I loved and how much great stuff he himself put out. And now, all these years later, I still come back to “Life on Mars?” on a regular basis, whenever I need it.

So now, when the unexpected news of Bowie’s death is in the news, it’s his own song and his voice that’s helping to soothe the sadness. That’s quite a gift to give a stranger. Thank you.

A Letter to Nate

2014-06-06T14:03:00.002-07:00

This week, Nate and Will have been having a pretend camp experience at school, complete with tents and shirts that have been worn all week and are starting to smell. As part of that, we had to write the kids letters as if they were away at camp. The letter to Nate went a little like this...

June 3, 2014

Dear Nathan,

Oh, what sorrow we felt when you left us to attend Camp Learned-A-Lot. In our grief, we threw away all of our furniture, painted our house black, and dressed Eliza up in your clothes so we could pretend she was you. (This did not work well, just ask Eliza.)

We simply didn’t know what to do without you around. I had taken to going to the brown chair in the living room and shouting, “Nate, stop sitting on the arm of the chair,” despite the fact that you weren’t there… and the fact that the chair wasn’t there either because I had thrown it away with all the rest of our furniture. This behavior concerned your mom greatly and she advised I take up a hobby to occupy my spare time.

So now I’m happy to announce I’ve turned most of our (mostly empty) house into a dog kennel. A dog kennel is basically a hotel for dogs, except there’s no swimming pool and we don’t put tiny chocolate mints on the dog’s pillows at night. Also, you’re allowed to use the bathroom in the yard, which is generally forbidden at hotels that humans use. Staying with us right now, we have a Scottish terrier named Tiki, a boxer named Cha Cha, a poodle who answers to the name of Congressman Jonesboro, a collie named Briefcase, and another collie named Briefcase 2, Electric Boogaloo. We also have a sixth dog named Eric. We don’t know what kind of dog he is and we suspect he may be a man dressed in a dog costume. We’re not veterinarians, so we can’t tell for sure and we’d hate to kick him out because Eric is, by far, the best behaved animal in the kennel. So we’ve decided not to pursue the matter further.

Eliza misses you very much and she expresses it by saying things like, “I get to use the iPad all by myself” and “let’s watch another episode of ‘Daniel Tiger’s Neighborhood.’” Sometimes Eliza will express her longing for her big brother by singing songs. One goes a little like this:

“I miss my brother Nate, I miss my brother Nate, I miss my brother Nate, where is my princess doll?”

Right about this part of the song, Briefcase 2 will start licking Eliza and she’ll run away screaming, “leave me alone, Briefcase 2!”

Needless to say, we are all anxious for you to return and to hear stories of camp and to discover what you’ve learned. We have missed having your sweet personality in our home and we love you very much.

With Much Love,

Dad

P.S. We will make sure we get rid of all the dogs before you come home, including Eric.

P.P. S. What is 133+465? I’m just wondering.

Unlike his brother, Nate instinctively got it when he read the letter. Nate's reply included an order to "GET RID OF THOSE DOGS AT ONCE" and the P.S. was the answer to the math problem, followed by his own mathematical question.

A Letter To Will

2014-06-06T13:56:00.001-07:00

It's the second-to-last day of school here in The Beav, and the kids are doing a special "Camp Learned-a-Lot" activity. Basically, they pretend they're at camp. There are tents in the classroom, and they all wear the same shirt. That sort of thing. As part of that activity, parents were supposed to write a letter to their kids as if they were at camp. Julie was too busy to write, so it was all up to me. And when it's all up to me, this is what happens...

June 3, 2014

Dear William,

It seems like just yesterday you were sitting in our living room, scattering Legos everywhere, and asking if you could use the iPad. Those were good times for us, and many happy memories remain.

But alas, you’ve run off to Camp Learned-A-Lot and it sounds as if you have been having a great time. While you’ve been gone, we’ve been occupying our time by making giant replicas of you and Nathan. We’ve constructed them out of rolled up newspapers and articles of clothing you didn’t pack off with you. Newspaper Nathan and William are not very good at eating their breakfast in the morning. Our table now has piles of uneaten eggs and honey toast that are starting to attract ants. However, Eliza likes the fact that Newspaper Nathan and William are good at sharing and always want to play princess and watch “Olivia.” So the experiment is not a complete failure.

In your absence, we have decided to rent your room out to a nice family from Latvia. There is a father named Edgars, and a mother named Inga. They have five children, three boys named Ivars, Juris, and little Edgars Jr, and girls named Rita and Scratchy. The rent they pay has made us rich beyond our wildest dreams, but there have been some considerable drawbacks.

First off, our new Latvian friends consume an enormous amount of grey peas and bacon. I’m told it’s Latvia’s national dish, but it looks quite disgusting and grey peas are almost impossible to find in Oregon. Also, they leave caraway cheese around the house. It’s this traditional yellow cheese with little seeds inside. It has a strong smell and I fear our whole house will smell like this cheese by the time you return. They’ve also taken to singing the Latvian national anthem during the early morning hours. While I’m sure their national anthem is a song they’re very proud of, I can assure you it’s not the sort of tune you want waking you up at 3 in the morning.

Needless to say, we miss you dearly and can’t wait for your return from camp. We’re interested to hear about the things you’ve been learning and hope you’ve been having good experiences there. We are proud to call you our son.

With Much Love,

Dad

P.S. Don’t forget to write.

P.P.S. Please take at least one shower while at camp.

P.P.P.S. Why is there air?

Will's reaction to this letter was... well... not all that positive, Both in writing, and in person, Will said the letter was "confusing" and handed it back to me, even when I said it was for him and he should keep it.

Phil Hoffman, RIP

2014-02-03T01:38:00.002-08:00

Phil Hoffman, circa 1982

I woke up Sunday morning to the news Philip Seymour Hoffman had died, and the news hurt more than a normal celebrity passing would. I grew up with Phil. We weren’t friends, really. He was two years older than me, in my sister’s grade. But we rode the same school bus from elementary school on, and knew a lot of the same people.

Phil Hoffman (that’s how he was known in school, I didn’t know his middle name* until I saw it on the big screen) was friendly, outgoing, and athletic. In the interactions we had, I was struck by his kindness. In short, he was kind to me.

I was not a terribly popular kid in junior high. I had basically no friends. To remedy that, a social worker suggested I become the equipment manager for the freshman football team. My duties involved checking out equipment and then ducking off to Wegmans to buy doughnuts that I would then resell at an obscene profit. Phil would buy my doughnuts. And he was nice to me. At that stage in my life, that was really important to me. Phil’s younger sister, Emily, was also always unfailingly nice to me despite the fact I had absolutely no status in the school caste system. My impression was that the Hoffmans where raised to be kind people.

In high school, Phil’s talent as an actor started to emerge and you didn’t have to be all that perceptive to figure out that he was immensely talented. The school’s drama teacher, Ms. Marshall, quickly realized Phil was special. The school staged one drama and one musical every year, but in 1985 they added a third play: “Death of a Salesman.” It was staged as a special assembly for the seniors and it also ran at night for a week or so. I didn’t go. But the people who did said they saw something really special.

So it wasn’t a surprise when Phil went to New York City after high school. Rumor had it Ms. Marshall, who had a background in the NYC theater scene, had taken him down to the city and had introduced him to several casting directors and agents.

In a seemingly short period of time, he was in the movies. My sisters and I rented “Scent of a Woman” just to see his relatively small role as a smug prep-school guy. I still remember the first time I actually saw him on the big screen. I was with a friend watching “Boogie Nights” in a theater in Los Angeles when Phil appeared in a scene, with an odd red bob and his gut hanging out of a tank top. I leaned over to my friend and said, “Oh my gosh, I went to high school with that guy.” She chuckled and said, “Yeah, I think we all did.” To which I replied, “No, I mean, that guy, that guy up there, he went to Fairport High School!”

I think most people from Fairport had that moment of shock and delight and pride when they first saw Phil on the big screen. It’s not like Fairport was some no-hope dead end kind of town, it was a relatively insignificant middle class suburb southeast of a relatively insignificant mid-sized city in upstate New York. The idea that someone from your town could be in a movie with Tom Cruise or some other big star was amazing. And the fact that he was holding his own against a-list talent was even more remarkable.

The fact is, Phil could have been a crap actor and we all still would have loved him. Rochester and its suburbs don’t have many hometown boys who made it big. Irondequoit had Lou Grahm, the lead singer of Foreigner. Flugelhorn player Chuck Mangione was born in Rochester, and we never let him forget how proud we were that he wrote the theme to the 1980 Winter Olympics. Comedian Foster Brooks worked in radio in Rochester for a short time early in his career and we immediately adopted him as our own. The newspaper once even did a big write-up for the guy who played a supporting role in the teen sexploitation film “Hardbodies.” (Update: This paragraph wasn't all that fair. If you want examples of Fairport and Rochester locals who made good, check out the comments section.)

But Phil wasn’t crap, instead, he was probably the best actor of his generation. I’ve not seen every film he’s made, but he was the best thing in every film I ever saw him in. And as he grew in fame, we could still recognize him as one of ours. In a “60 Minutes” profile on Phil in 2006, he’s seen walking down the street in Manhattan wearing an ill-fitting brown plaid shirt and sweat pants (we Rochesterians, we’re not a fashionable people). He still returned to Fairport High to lecture and teach drama to students.

And because he never fully abandoned Rochester (full disclosure, I haven’t been back since 2004), we all counted Phil’s success as partly our own. We beamed with pride when he won the Best Actor Oscar for “Capote.” It was like everyone from Fairport was suddenly his grandmother, “My grandson Phil is doing very well in the movies these days. Did you hear he won an Oscar?”

Now that he’s died, this young, and in this way, it’s crushing. From a standpoint of his art, Phil certainly had much more great work in him that would have made many people happy for many years. And from a personal side, we can put faces to the names of those of his family members who mourn him tonight.

But to learn that he died of a drug overdose opens the door to a darker reality all of us hometown boosters now must confront. Somewhere, in a place most of us didn’t know about, there was a struggle or a pain or something Phil was treating with heroin. We were all willing to bask in the reflected glow of his accomplishments, but were we willing to help take on this other burden?

That’s not really a fair question, I know. How were any of us to know about this in the first place? And even if we did, what exactly would we have done to help out? You can’t really pick up the phone and say, “Hey, Phil. I used to sell you doughnuts in junior high and you were friendly with my sister. I think it’s time you got some help.” But still…

Whatever the case, we mourn the loss of a great actor tonight, and somebody who made us proud to be from a dinky little suburb nobody would have cared about otherwise. And we can thank him for sharing his gifts with us for as many years as he did.

(*UPDATE: Phil's middle name wasn't "Seymour" it was just a name he chose on a lark. I had actually thought it was a reference to a production of the Miracle Worker we appeared in when I was in the sixth grade. We were supposed to come up with a scene for the blind kids at Ann Sullivan's school and, as a joke, we all chose sight related names. I was "Luke" and when my name was called, everyone looked in different directions and said, "where?" My sister was "Iris," and the jokes went on from there. Someone in that sketch was named "Seymour," and I assumed it was Phil. However, I found the program for that production and Phil's name isn't anywhere in it. So I'm left to assume I've mis-remembered who was in that play. In case you're wondering, we never performed our little sketch. Ms. Marshal was in a bad mood the day we were going to do it and we decided to go with the serious scene we had written instead.)

(UPDATE UPDATE: My sister found the program from that production of The Miracle Worker and Phil Hoffman was, in fact, in it. However, it's unlikely he saw the skit as he didn't portray one of the blind kids.)

RING TONE DEAF

2011-05-20T00:08:00.001-07:00

I heard Jon Stewart say something funny today and I thought it would make a good ringtone. So here it is:

http://traffic.libsyn.com/faroepodcast/Daily_2.mp3

Contractual Obligation

2011-04-23T20:10:00.000-07:00

You win, Grandparents (and Patti), we had an Easter egg hunt, and we made a video of it, and now you're posting it here. I don't know how long it's interesting to watch a video of children looking for plastic eggs, but I'm pretty sure it's not nearly as long as this video. So for the rest of you, you're excused from watching this. If you're a grandparent, here's your red meat...

ONE MORE MORE TRY

2011-03-15T11:16:00.000-07:00

A month or two ago, I was waxing nostalgic for an old George Michael tune. Apparently, Iron And Wine were, too. Here's what they did with it...

Iron And Wine covers George Michael

EXIT STAGE RIGHT, PLEASE

2011-02-10T22:45:00.000-08:00

Back in the ‘90s, I used to perform with a sketch troupe and we had a regular gig at the Comedy Store on Sunset. During that time, we saw a lot of bad comedy. Some of the worst came from an improv troupe called “At the Drop of a Hat.” They were a bunch of middle aged people who did unfunny improv while accompanied by an on-stage cellist. (To his credit, the cellist was actually pretty good.)

One week, they got the call to perform at the Comedy Store’s La Jolla venue. It was kind of a big deal to get invited to La Jolla. You got a free meal and could stay the night in Mitzi Shore’s condo on the ocean at Pacific Beach. Naturally, my troupe was wildly jealous and wished “At the Drop of a Hat” ill as they headed south on the 405 freeway.

We got our wish.

A few minutes into their performance, someone on stage made some crack about SDSU that didn’t go over well with the crowd. So someone out there in the darkness just said, in a dispassionate tone, “boo.” He didn’t yell it or draw out the “o” so he was actually booing the group, he just said “boo.”

A few seconds later, someone else said it. “Boo.”

More and more people started in, and before long, people were actually booing “At the Drop of a Hat.” It started in the middle of the room, and spread out the edges. Pretty soon, it was loud, “booooooooooo!”

It was at this point that someone in “At the Drop of a Hat” actually thought he could retake the situation. He smiled and laughed and said, “Ok, I get it. ‘Boo.’ Now, someone give me a location where two strangers might meet…”

“BOOOOOOOOOO!”

It wasn’t going to work. The audience had gotten a taste of their own power, and they wouldn’t be satisfied until “At the Drop of a Hat” walked off the stage in shame.

About four minutes later, the battle was over. The humiliated comedians walked off the stage, through the hostile crowd, and out the door, to the thunderous cheers of the audience. (The La Jolla Comedy Store has no back exit, making their walk of shame all the more terrible.)

So this afternoon I’m watching the news from Egypt on Al Jazeera English (fine, put me on the “do not fly” list, those guys have covered this story better than anyone else) and I thought of “At the Drop of a Hat.”

On one side of the screen was Egyptian President Hosni Mubarak, addressing his nation. On the other side, a live shot of protesters in Ciaro. At first, the protesters were silent, watching the speech on TVs set up around the square.

Mubarak starts by telling people how great he is and how much good he has done for Egypt. But after a few minutes, it becomes clear that he’s not going anywhere. He’s not going to resign. Instead, he’s talking about a constitutional committee he’s set up to produce reforms and talking about how he was wild and impetuous as a young man.

Somewhere among the protesters in Ciaro, someone took off his shoe and held it over his head, a sign of great disrespect. Pretty soon, others were doing the same. By the time Mubarak repeated that he would not step down before his term ended in September, the people in the crowd were shaking their fists and chanting something like, “he must go now.”

Is it possible the president of Egypt has even less skill in reading crowds than the worst improv comedy group in LA? Apparently so. To an outside observer, it’s hard to believe just how wrong he got this.

But make no mistake, the audience has gotten sense of their own power, and they won’t be satisfied until the performer leaves the stage.

(Note to Mubarak… who certainly reads this blog and is frustrated that I don’t post here enough: get onto Wikipedia and look up Nicolae Ceauşescu. These things don’t end well for people in your situation. Get your luxury flat in Dubai and get the hell out. The alternative for you is much, much worse.)

ON THE RADIO, TODAY!

2011-02-07T11:01:00.000-08:00

Today's "The Story with Dick Gordon" features an interview with me about my love of some far-distant islands and the origins of the Faroe Islands Podcast.

The show airs in the United States on public radio stations and broadcast times can vary from city to city. So you can check here to see when (or if) the show is airing in your town.

No luck? Never fear. The interview is online here:

http://thestory.org/archive/the_story_020711_b.mp3/view

MUSICAL MEMORIES: GEORGE MICHAEL

2011-01-16T00:32:00.000-08:00

The part of me that wishes I was cool doesn’t want to feel any resonance with this particular artist. But tonight I must grudgingly admit that a few of his songs have played a role in my life.

It started innocently enough tonight as I logged into iTunes. A few shameful music purchases have caused the good people at Apple to believe that I want a lot of cheesy 80s music in my life. So there in the “recommended” list was “Faith” by George Michael. My mind was cast back to my late teens when my older sister owned this album and we gleefully danced to “I Want Your Sex” with the idea that it would shock our parents. (I have no idea of this was successful or not, but if it was my parents lever let on.)

So, just for old time’s sake, I click on the link. But the song I decide to preview isn’t the one of the popular songs. Instead, I click on is the rather sappy and overwrought ballad, “One More Try.” In the 90 seconds you can get for free, I am immediately transported to an exact moment in my teenage life.

I’m on a United Airlines 727 headed from Salt Lake City to Chicago, O’Hare. In Chicago, I’ll change planes and continue my journey home to Rochester. But now, I’m just burrowing into my seat and putting a cassette into my Walkman to help me pass the time.

As I listen to music and look out the window, I think about the past four months. I was away at school in Idaho. My first time living away from home. While Southeastern Idaho didn’t agree with me at all, it did have one thing going for it: an astounding male to female ratio… something like 1:4. As a result, even a socially inept person like me could have a pretty thriving dating life. And, improbable as it was, I actually had a girlfriend; my first ever.

Her name was Barbara and we kissed amid giant snowflakes as they slowly fell on a cold Rexburg night. It was my first kiss and, corny as it might sound, it was kinda magical. She was from Boulder City, Nevada, the daughter of a florist, and 21. That’s right, an older woman. For whatever reason, she took a liking to a terrifyingly skinny guy from upstate New York. So we started going out. It wasn’t the most mature relationship in the world, consisting mostly of making out and going to movies, but for teenage first-love*, it was pretty good. (*Or whatever it is when you’re a teenager. I think “love” in the sense adults know it is maybe a bit too strong, but “like” isn’t strong enough, and “lust” doesn’t really work either as it neglects the fact that there was a genuine and rather sweet affection to be found in the relationship.)

But the semester ended and we prepared to go our separate ways. I was a few weeks shy of 19, meaning I would soon leave for a 2 year Mormon mission. Barbara would head home for the summer, and then back to school in Idaho in the fall. It’s custom for girlfriends to say they’ll wait for their boyfriend to return from serving a mission. It’s also custom for that vow to be broken after about a year or so. I suggested that we not even go through that charade and just leave things on good terms and commit to look each other up in two years if she hadn’t gotten involved with anyone else. I remember that rather practical and realistic suggestion was not greeted with much enthusiasm.

So, without any real game plan for the future, she got into a car and headed back to Nevada. Someone standing with me asked, “so, is your little heart just a’ breakin’?” (She was from Oklahoma.) I was actually a bit annoyed at the suggestion. After all, I was striving to be an unemotional person boldly looking to the future, not the past.

A few hours later, my grandfather picks me up and drives me to down to Salt Lake, where I board a flight for home. And the tape I’ve got in my Walkman is a copy of “Faith” I copied off my sister. I go through the first three tracks which include the infamous, “I Want Your Sex” and am confronted with “One More Try.”

I’m not paying that much attention to the song, so I don’t really know what it’s about, but it’s slow and kind of sad sounding and affects me in a way I’m not quite prepared for. After a minute or so, I notice I’m starting to tear up a bit, so I reach into my pocket and throw on a pair of Ray Bans and look out the window.

This is all new to me and I don’t know what to make of it. But it quickly becomes apparent that my first real romantic relationship is over. What I don’t know then is that we’d actually bump into each other about a year later when I’m a missionary. It will be an awkward encounter where we shake hands (missionaries are forbidden to hug members of the opposite sex) and it’s apparent that whatever spark there was between us is now gone and her mountain of a father will look at me with eyes that say, “my daughter dated this putz? “ Sitting in that plane, I also don’t know that Barbara will be married 18 months later.

I don’t know any of these things, but as the final synthesized string chord hits on “One More Try” I know it’s over, and I know I’m sad about it. As much as I protested, my Oklahoma friend was right, my little heart was a’ breakin’.

I stop listening to George Michael and instead turn on “Rock the House” by this new group called “DJ Jazzy Jeff and the Fresh Prince” so I’d have a more positive outlook when I arrive home several hours later.

Back in 2011, I decide to purchase “One More Try.” It’s going to ruin my “suggestions” on iTunes forever, but if George Michael can evoke such a vivid memory, I figure he deserves $1.29. It’s the least I can do.

LAMEST NEW YEAR'S EVER

2010-12-31T21:27:00.000-08:00

In reverse order, the three lamest New Year's Eves ever:

3. 1996-1997, Downtown Los Angeles. Having rubber bullets shot at me by LAPD riot unit.

2. 2005-2006, Medford, Oregon. Sitting in a screening of Pride and Prejudice. Message waiting for me on the phone when I get out. It's a violent and sexually explicit message left by some drunk guy I didn't know.

1. 2010-2011, Phoenix, AZ. Me, in darkened living room writing this right now.

(FYI: Best ever was 1999-2000, Las Vegas. First ever with Julie.)

FAROE FRIDAY: AWARDS EDITION

2010-12-03T01:08:00.000-08:00

You may have noticed the banner ad at the top of our blog and wondered just why it urges you to vote now. That's a good question, and I'll answer it right now.

The show I host, The Faroe Islands Podcast, has been nominated for a Podcast Award in the "travel" category and we couldn't be more pleased. The winner will be decided by popular vote, so yes, we're in the middle of a popularity contest. And the competition is stiff. We're up against no fewer than FIVE podcasts dealing with Walt Disney World. And two of them have been nominated for the more prestigious "Best Produced" award, which means they likely have a large and motivated fan base.

But those of us who put together the Faroe Islands Podcast believe we can pull off a major upset simply because the Faroe Islands is better than Disney World (I've been to both places, so I should know). And with a little help from all of you, we can make this happen.

All you have to do is click on the banner at the top of the page or go to http://www.podcastawards.com/ and vote for us. The "travel" category is at the very bottom of the page, so you'll have to scroll down a bit. After you vote, the site will (almost always) send a confirmation email to your account. Click on the activation link, and you're good to go.

Under the rules of the competition, fans can vote for their favorite podcast once a day until December 15th. That means our podcast's small but loyal fan base can turn themselves into an outsized number of votes during the next two weeks. But even if you don't listen, and I'm sure many of you don't, we could still use your help with a vote or two, or 10.

So please vote and help us spread the word about the podcast and the Faroe Islands. Thanks.

THE END

2010-11-30T20:32:00.000-08:00

And with that, NaBloPoMo is over. Much to my surprise, I actually made it. I posted 30 times in 30 days, which is about twice the output this space has seen in the previous 11 months. It has cost me sleep and a bit of my sanity and I came within a few minutes of blowing the whole thing with just a few minutes left in Sunday.

And after a project such as this, it's natural to take a look back and see if anything has been learned and what it might mean for the future. And on both counts, the answers are a bit murky.

As for what I learned this month, I think I've learned I'm very close to being completely scheduled out. Increased responsibilities with the kids and increased demands from the podcast have greatly limited my time to do other things. Most of the time spent writing here came out of my sleep time, and that's had some seriously negative consequences. I've been sluggish and grumpy and shorter with my kids than I should be. The lack of sleep has also contributed to what were likely a few depressive episodes this month. That's no good, and it can't really continue.

I've also learned that I'm still finding my "voice" for this period of my life. It was pretty well developed when I was writing humor at BYU (fish-out-of-water, sexually frustrated), and at Cal State, Northridge (liberal smartass), and even while in Texarkana (fish-out-of-water, culturally frustrated). But here, it's a little harder to find. Perhaps I've found it, but I'm really too afraid to embrace it. That humorless and not terribly thoughtful rant against the holidays I posted yesterday was about the easiest thing I've written all month. I just opened up the tap and let the bile flow.

But I don't really like that piece and, quite frankly, if I didn't have the need to post something every day, it wouldn't have seen the light of day. I guess what I didn't like about it was that it was simply a list of grievances without any value added in terms of insight, humor or solutions. In short, it didn't justify it's own existence, which any piece of public writing needs to, in my opinion. But maybe unfiltered anger and dissatisfaction is what I've got to offer right now. If so, I don't think I'm all that interested in serving it up.

So then what does this mean for the future? Well, it certainly means I will NOT be able to keep up a daily posting schedule like I did this month, much as I would like to. But there needs to be more action here in the future and I need to devote more time to writing stuff that isn't email or descriptions of islands in the North Atlantic.

In short, watch this space. Hopefully it will still flicker to life several times each month. But now, a little rest.

HAPPY HELLIDAYS

2010-11-29T21:30:00.001-08:00

I'll just come right out and say I don't like the holidays, at least not since I became a working adult.

It has been a slow realization over the years that began when I started working in the news business. You never get holidays off, but your job is much harder because there really isn't much news happening on Christmas or Labor Day or whenever. Furthermore, all the stores and restaurants are closed, so there's nowhere to get lunch during your normal busy workday. Except, Jack In The Box. They're open on Christmas. For many years, that's what Christmas meant to me, it's the one day each year when I eat at Jack In The Box. That's hardly a day worth celebrating.

Things got much, much worse once the major component of my job title became "full time dad." Everyone already knows the common gripes that come with parenthood: the hours are horrible, you never get any days off, you don't get paid, it's tedious and unrewarding, the people you're working for (assuming they're 4-year-old boys) are complete sociopaths. It's well trodden territory, and it's all true.

But the holidays take those problems and turn them up to 11. Just like working a news job in Christmas, you have to do all the same things you normally so, but you have fewer resources to help out. The preschools are closed for two weeks, you may be traveling, the small, daily rewards you give yourself to help you get through the days aren't available.

So it's harder, but it's called a "holiday." Everyone keeps asking you things like, "how's your holiday?' And the real answer is, "This is no f---ing holiday, this is the exact same thing I do every day, except I'm more tired, more frustrated, I'm working longer hours doing more difficult work, and I have to endure questions from people who want me to pretend that I'm enjoying this crap!" But it usually comes out something like, "it's a lot of work, but we're gettin' by," followed by a forced grin.

The real holiday will be somewhere around January 4th or 5th when everyone is back in school and perhaps the youngest is taking a nap and maybe, just maybe, you can get some rest or steal away for a short bike ride or something.

Until then, I'll endure this "season of joy" through gritted teeth and secretly wish I had been born into a religion that didn't forbid alcohol consumption.

WORDLESS WEEKEND: WORDS

2010-11-28T23:04:00.000-08:00

Oh crap... almost out of time for today.

So here's something, Eliza really seems to be talking a lot these days, which is impressive because she's just barely 13 months old. Two examples:

1) I woke up this morning and Eliza walks up to me and hugs my leg and says something that sounds like "My daddy." It was adorable.

2) Eliza was not good at church today. When we got home, I asked her, "Did you have fun at church today?' She scrunched up her face, and flatly said, "nah." It wasn't adorable, but I laughed so hard I nearly threw up.

WORDLESS WEEKEND: MORE SOVIET WEIRDNESS

2010-11-27T01:41:00.000-08:00

There appears to be no end to the strange television produced under communism. I still have no idea what precisely these people are supposed to be doing. But there is a mime, so you've got that...

FAROE FRIDAY: FUGLA

2010-11-26T01:34:00.000-08:00

One of the funnest things about doing my podcast about the Faroe Islands is getting to meet fun and interesting people. One such person is Jennifer Henke (pictured above). She's an American who lives in the San Francisco Bay area who decided to investigate her Faroese roots a few years ago. The result was a reunion with dozens of long lost relatives, and a book written by her about her experiences.

Henke has been a guest on the podcast a few times before, and we were in the Faroe Islands at the same time last summer. So when I was driving by her village, I paid her a visit. And a little of our conversation can be found in this week's show...

As always, you can listen to the show on our media player at the top of the the podcast blog, get it on iTunes, or download it directly here:
http://traffic.libsyn.com/faroepodcast/Podcast_73.mp3

THANKS

2010-11-25T01:51:00.000-08:00

I know I just spilled a few million pixels bagging on Thanksgiving, but I actually like it in theory, if not in practice. So in the tradition of this day of thanks, let me count up the things I'm thankful for. Let's see... One, two...

Three...

Ah yes... four... the most important thing I'm thankful for.

Happy Thanksgiving, y'all. I'll go back to complaining tomorrow.

TURKEY-EVE

2010-11-24T15:12:00.000-08:00

Oh crap! It's late in the day and I've not written here.

Not much time to write anything profound (although it has never stopped me before), but I'll offer one short take on Thanksgiving, a holiday I like in theory--who can say being thankful for stuff is bad?--but hate in practice.

Mostly it's a turkey thing. I really don't like eating turkey. Don't like holidays centered around meals at all. And this one is a doozy. It can last for hours and, if there are strangers around, I'm subjected to a constant barrage of questions centered around why I'm not eating turkey and usually ending with a plea to enter therapy.

I'm also somewhat bemused by how traditional Thanksgiving is, at least in terms of gender roles. No matter how progressive a family is, when Thanksgiving rolls around, the wife is in the kitchen and men tend to gather around the TV watching football... even if they don't like football. I don't know that I hate that, but I find it interesting.

And now I've got to go retrieve my car from the window glass replacement shop. A full-length takedown of the holidays will come at a later date.

I AM NOT STALKING PAUL F. TOMPKINS

2010-11-23T00:34:00.000-08:00

As soon as somebody starts a sentence with, "last night I had a dream that...", it's time to start ignoring that person. They've got nothing interesting left to say.

With that in mind, I've been having some odd dreams lately. The first involved me just sitting around reading a book called, "Big Freaking Deal: A Parent's Guide to Lowering a Child's Self Esteem." I've no idea what that's supposed to mean, but I know that somewhere buried in my subconscious is a best-selling book just waiting to get out.

But the stranger evening apparition involves Paul F. Tompkins. For those of you who don't know who Paul F. Tompkins, shame on you. He's a wildly talented stand up comic who has worked with the likes of the Mr. Show crew. Much of his live act is improvised, which is not an easy thing to do. I've seen him live a few times and have laughed so hard I nearly peed myself.

I don't know Paul F. Tompkins, though I've no doubt he's a lovely person spend time with.

But when I shut my eyes last night, I was holding an invitation to Mr. Tompkins' birthday party. I've no idea when his actual birthday is, but in this dream, it was on Thanksgiving Day. (This dream may be based on an actual experience where I scored an invite to Dave Foley's birthday party in 1999. Foley was a former Kid In The Hall. I couldn't go because I was out of town that weekend, but he told stories about the party the next week on the Tonight Show.)

Back to the PFT party... The invitation was printed on a sheet of copy paper and featured an itinerary for the day, and I must admit, it looked pretty lame. People were supposed to meet at his house at about 2:00 PM and start drinking (kind of a non-starter for me as I don't even drink). Then there was supposed to be some hanging around a pool and more drinking. The big highlight of the evening would come at 2:00 AM, when everyone went to a local Best Buy to wait in line for the Black Friday opening at 6.

In the dream, I'm trying to convince Julie that the party will be really cool and that hanging outside of a Best Buy at 2 in the morning with a bunch of drunk people is really fun. Julie counters (correctly) that I hate all of the things listed on the flier and therefore would have a terrible time at the party. I counter with some really sound logic like, "Yeah, but it's Paul F. Tompkins' birthday!"

I woke up truly puzzled by what this was all supposed to mean. Most theories these days say that dreams don't really mean anything and it's basically just your brain taking out the trash, and I'm inclined to agree. I'm just surprised something that odd was even lurking around there to be discarded.

But one thing is certain: this is the kind of post you get when you're 23 days into a 30 day writing project.