Doctor of Thinkology

Moving Day

noreply@blogger.com (Anonymous) — Mon, 15 Feb 2016 22:29:00 +0000

See www.doctorofthinkology.com for future postings.

Enjoy!

Just Dessert

noreply@blogger.com (Anonymous) — Mon, 15 Feb 2016 00:27:00 +0000

Nobody likes a cheater.

But sometimes it's just skirting of rules. Is that a cheat?

I always objected to that skim. The boys knew it was not going to fly. The times someone tries to get away on an absolute narrow reading of the ruling--nope. Not happening.

I always say that we do the spirit of the law, not the letter of the law in our house. People know right from wrong. Parsing means you're trying to get away with something.

People, we know better.

V.D.

noreply@blogger.com (Anonymous) — Sat, 13 Feb 2016 18:34:00 +0000

Somebody asked me what I was doing for Valentine's Day. We were in the kitchen at work. People were talking about their weekend plans--especially looking forward to a federally induced 3-day weekend.

"So, you have plans for Valentine's Day?"

I was in the midst of my beeline for the coffee maker. I came to an immediate and full stop. The question halted me, and, before I could check myself, I said that Valentine's Day was a bullshit holiday.

Now everyone in the kitchen froze. The only sound was the very faint whirring of the microwave in the background. Someone was making oatmeal, I think.

I realized what I did. I spoke bad about that (b.s.) holiday of romance among people who were primed for romance. Or pined for romance. Or thought that they were supposed to participate in this external marker for romance.

And here I was, offering grumpy-Sanders, bellicose-Trump pronouncements on hearts, chocolates and flowers. On overpriced dinners for amateurs who only go out once or twice a year.

Truthfully, I like chocolates and flowers and fancy dinners. I often buy them myself. It was part of my training, because my truly loving spouse does not show unending devotion via these symbols. [Except for the dinners. We do that together. They are fun. We like to eat. And drink fancy drinks. And wine, too.] We have our own way of maintaining civility and sparks just shy of an incendiary device as part of our long term Waltz of the Incompatibles.

So my highly attuned senses dismissed the idea that V-day is important to show love in your life. Dismissed it a little too quickly and with a bit too much fervor.

Someone broke the silence and said, "I'd think you'd be like that about Valentine's Day."

I really appreciate that "do what you want" attitude. So, you all do you.

Disco Inferno

noreply@blogger.com (Anonymous) — Sat, 13 Feb 2016 04:15:00 +0000

Oh Kanye!

Dude, I so love your music but mostly your vulnerability. You have such passion and such angst, it makes your art. And you know that a good row makes for good sales. I remember when you and 50cent went at it. That day you both dropped your records in the background of a shitstorm bet. Likely you both sold way better because of the noise. Actually we know you both sold better.

So today there was a cacophony about your new joint. Looks like you're dissing Taylor Swift--hate to say this, but--again. The lyric in question

"I feel like me and Taylor might still have sex. / Why? I made that bitch famous."

Then you go through some B.S. rigamarole about calling a woman a bitch is okay, even "endearing" in hip hop. It's a term affection just like you call folks "Ns".

Did you see what I just did there, Kanye? I didn't call anyone an "N", because I am white. So, you get to do that and I don't. And I'm fine with that.

But one other thing, you don't get to call me, or Taylor, a bitch, either. You can call 50 a bitch. And you can call Luda a bitch. I don't care. But don't you call a woman a bitch, because it's not the same. At all.

Bad friggin' blood.

Another thing I know. More folks are listening to this song. This is likely what you're going for. And your art.

Oh Taylor!

Tay Tay has her people out on this. You've been one of my guilty pleasures. You have that manufactured vulnerability, too. And I am a sucker for it. And your catchy pop tunes.

But where did your little bro come from? I didn't know he spoke on your behalf until today. I didn't know he existed until today. I guess he was so mad at Kanye that he threw out a pair of his Kanye West branded sneakers. We know this because he did this via a post on Instagram.

I hope someone did a dumpster dive and grabbed those $200 kicks and resold them on eBay. I hear they're going for $800-900 on the resale market. Hmmmm. I wonder if Kanye gave them to the Swift family.

Speaking of resale, all this noise continues to make Taylor Swift famous. #justsayin

Curtis knew. So did I. So do I.

Cheesey Post

noreply@blogger.com (Anonymous) — Fri, 12 Feb 2016 00:40:00 +0000

It was pretty much guaranteed there'd be Kraft Singles in the deli drawer. Processed cheese product, Pepperidge Farm soft whole wheat bread and butter was my the three ingredient go-to dinner when I didn't feel like cooking.

Grilled cheese sandwiches. Crunchy on the outside, melted goo on the inside. I would put butter on both sides of the bread so the cheese would be buttery as well.

Balancing the buttered bread as I assembled the sandwiches was the hardest part. (This worked out poorly if I left the butter in the fridge. I usually kept it on the countertop. Except for that time period when the dog was on his butter diet. The other dog, when the kids were young.)

I'd butter two pieces of bread and lay the cheese in, put the bread together, then butter the top. I'd flip the top to the bottom when I put it on the grill and butter the piece that was now on top.

Actually, buttering the sandwich really wasn't the hardest part. Fact is, I would regularly burn the grilled cheese. The toast would be black and gross on one side. Sometimes both sides, but usually after I burned one side I'd be much more mindful and avoid burning the other. I'd scrape the bad side and serve it burnt side down. Artful presentation can go a long way. They'd still notice, though.

Fact is, burnt isn't always the same. Sometimes it just burns right at the surface--just the coating of butter. It looks bad but tastes fine. The bread under the crust is soft and the cheese nicely melted and buttered. Sometimes it's burnt through so the bread is hard and shiny like plastic and you know this because someone at the table knocked on it like a door with a little knuckle to prove it's lousy. When you bite in, it definitely does not taste fine.

Because of the latter disasters, the kids would not trust that the former could occur. Always twice shy, they began to turn the sandwich over on the plate to see if it was actually burnt. Woe unto me that it was not good. To make it through dinner, I'd take the one that looked most burnt. It was fine. Almost always.

And that's what I'd do when I did not want to cook dinner.

I think I may have burnt this one as well. It will be better next time. Probably.

Bag O' Ash

noreply@blogger.com (Anonymous) — Thu, 11 Feb 2016 03:26:00 +0000

Three almost painfully earnest--think Unbreakable Kimmy Schmidt--women greeted people alighting from Metro Center this morning. They were wearing big and friendly smiles.

They said "hello," and then offered up ashes.

I looked again, sideways and not slowing down as to look like I might be a taker of their wares.

It was sunny and cold. All three women had dirt on their foreheads. I did a quick calendar calculation. Yesterday I was drinking whiskey. It was Fat Tuesday. So today would be Wednesday. Ash Wednesday. The beginning of Lent. Today.

I spied a reusable grocery bag to the left of the lay providers of holy ashes. It was like one of those brightly colored plastic totes you could buy at Trader Joe's with tropical flower colors if not actual outlines of flowers. Were the ashes in there? In that bag? How much did they carry with them? How did they transport them? And why were they so jovial? Is this a celebration of fasting and penitence?

I'm wondering if these cheery women took this task upon themselves? Were they assigned ash distribution for those on the go from their church?

Who did they think would be interested? People who forgot about getting their ashes? Those who couldn't make it to church?

This is definitely not for Catholics. There wasn't a street Mass. So maybe for other Christians who do Lent? Or for a casual Lenten observer? Or maybe Lent is #trending for fashionable religious and secular alike? Like ashes from H&M?

Frankly, it's a weird kind of proselytizing. Usually disciples give out pamphlets not ashes. Maybe the ashes were old pamphlets that they were recycling.

Pope Francis described Lent as a good time "to train ourselves to be more sensitive and merciful." In that spirit, I am going to stop judging the happy women with the ashes in their shopping bag peddling contrition with a side of penance

Amen.

Disproportionate Representation

noreply@blogger.com (Anonymous) — Wed, 10 Feb 2016 01:43:00 +0000

Today is the first presidential primary of the 2016 Presidential Election Cycle. (I know that's not really a proper noun, but SOMETHING should be proper this cycle. Something.)

Also, the Iowa election thing doesn't count as a primary, because it's a caucus. Whatever that is.

People in early primary states have an undue influence on the outcomes of our elections. Like New Hampshire. They have 0.4% of the U.S. population. (Data from here.) And they have about 95% of our news interest right now for their 48 or so delegates to the party conventions. It takes 1,237 delegates to win on the R-side and 2.383 on the D-Side.So these are drop in the bucket numbers.

In New Hampshire, they are so done with the attention. Some posted signs to keep away the "personal" attention.

“No solicitation! Political or otherwise. Please respect our privacy. We promise not to knock on your door. Thanks.” --via NYTimes

Other facts about the little granitey state of New Hampshire? They have two Senators and two members of the House of Representatives.

So I live in a place where we have ZERO Senators and ZERO members of the House. That doesn't stop people who we don't get to vote for from telling us what to do. Nope. It's worse to be left out.

Oh, and one last thing. Our Presidential primary date? Used to be in April. Got moved to June. You know, when everything has already been decided.

And then we have to physically LIVE with the winner. Insult to injury.

#notaxationwithoutrepresentation

Tasting Sweet, Seeing Green

noreply@blogger.com (Anonymous) — Tue, 09 Feb 2016 04:07:00 +0000

When we were little there used to be cool toys in cereal boxes (and in boxes of Cracker Jack, too, when Cracker Jack came in boxes versus bags). The toys in my childhood cereal boxes were like toys kids get in a Happy Meal except they were always plastic. Sometimes you get a stuffed toy in a Happy Meal. Never in a cereal box.

Occasionally there would be a record manufactured right into the cereal box. We'd cut it out and try and play it in the red Close N'Play. It always--and I mean every time--was unplayable. But we'd act like we could make out the tune because it was a record, and it was ours.

Usually the prize was inside of the box. The box also housed a highly-sugared, highly-manufactured grain like Cap'n Crunch (I'd pick out the crunch berries if Mom got that kind), Fruit Loops, Apple Jacks (my definite fav) Frosted Flakes or Lucky Charms (of which the commercials were significantly superior to the cereal. Yea, even at those times).

Okay. I admit that I ate all the cereal that I would never buy my own kids. Guilty as charged.

The giveaways in the cereal boxes were featured in the ads during the Saturday morning cartoons. No. Seriously. There used to be a time in which kids didn't have cartoons on demand. We had to wait until Saturday mornings for our cartoon binges. I'm not making this up.

Anyway, when we'd open a new box of cereal, we'd immediately flip the box over to see the prizes featured on the back. There would always be pictures of the prize inside. Sometimes the prize would have wheels, sometimes the pieces of the prize had to be disengaged from plastic that held all the pieces inside a cellophane bag and sometimes the prize had a rubber band so that you could launch something. To be clear, we never put an eye out. Dad did, more than once, step on a toy wherein it would be embedded in his foot. So it's not like these prizes were without danger.

We--us three kids--came up with the rules on who got the prize. At first, someone would dig through the box and just grab it. Possession nine-tenths being what it is and whatnot. There was some coming to blows with this method. Grabbing the box. Fighting over the box. Just sneaking the box. Punches and sometimes tears.

We needed something new.

The next method was that when you poured the cereal, if the prize fell into your bowl, you got to keep it. This seemed beautifully random. Except it wasn't. There was some maneuvering of the box, shaking to one side to unearth the toy and unfair joggling and manipulation. This technique soon came into disuse, likely because of blows being had.

There had to be a better way.

Turns out that their was almost always different toys in each promotion. There would regularly be three color options for the toy. Almost always blue, green and yellow. We used this to create a system that effectively avoided blows. When we got the box, each of us would select a preferred color and whatever color the toy was, whenever it appeared, we knew who it belonged to.

We went one step further and standardized on a selection order--by age. I was in the middle, so I was okay and the youngest was just happy to be in the game.

So for years I thought that my favorite color was green because the Oldest Sib would always always always always select the blue toy. And nobody wanted the yellow toy. So I would select the green and made myself feel good by deciding that it was my favorite color anyway. The Youngest Sib got dibs on the unwanted yellow.

Eighty or ninety or even 100 percent of the time there would be a yellow toy in the cereal box. So the Youngest Sib, despite not making a choice, made out well. And, most importantly, there was no coming to blows anymore.

Cereal boxes do not have good toys anymore. Even though I don't buy the crap cereal that I grew up on, I still nostalgically look at the boxes. No toys. Those times are over. The other time that is over is the time in which kids would figure out what they decided was fair--without any parental meddling.

And, in case you were wondering my real favorite color is red.

Old Women Bruhs

noreply@blogger.com (Anonymous) — Sun, 07 Feb 2016 23:22:00 +0000

What is the old white woman version of the word "bro?"

Gloria Steinem--second wave feminist icon--totally stepped in it when she tried to old-splain why young women were not supporting democratic presidential candidate Hillary Clinton.

Women are more for [Clinton] than men are. Men tend to get more conservative because they gain power as they age, women get more radical because they lose power as they age.

They’re going to get more activist as they grow older. And when you’re younger, you think: ‘Where are the boys? The boys are with Bernie.’ --More here.

I kinda get her motivation. She's like, "Damn! I just might see a woman elected president of the United States in my lifetime! And I don't have any idea why young women are not wanting this, too!"

Classic and historical problem with American 2nd Wave feminism--white, middle class, educated and tone deaf to the needs of the women who are not them.

Now, Steinem did take it back. Using the classic and historical excuse of "misspeaking."

But still, insulting people who you want on your side because they disagree with you just might be the problem.

Origin Stories

noreply@blogger.com (Anonymous) — Sat, 06 Feb 2016 22:52:00 +0000

As part of the offsite, participants had to share their origin stories. It wasn't put that way, but it was part of the ice breaker exercise.

One person spoke about an idyllic childhood in a communist country. Since there were so many constraints it was a simple time. When pressed, it might not have been all good. They did have to stand in crazy lines for hours and the shelves in the stores were empty.

Another person conveyed the challenges of being bi-racial. They didn't know that it was important until high school when people started confronting them with "what are you?" This led to much soul searching. Someone else lost a parent at a very tender age and had to overcome being a nerdy outcast but found a circle of great friends on the way to great success.

It seemed everyone had a struggle to overcome--although everyone seemed to see their struggle as simply part of their origin. Made me wonder if there is something about the expereinces people have that draw them to different types of work. This offsite was at a non-profit.

What would this ice-breaker be like in the investment banking industry. Would participants talk about growing up with cooks and servants? About prep school, the tennis instructor and the golf team? Would they talk about meeting their future spouses at a Renaissance Weekend at an exclusive Hilton Head hotel? Would they talk about their parents and grandparents and great-grandparents preceding them at their Ivy League college? About getting a loan from Dad to start their first firm or build up their investment portfolio or to pay off a bad business break? Would they bemoan the challenge in getting a good apartment in Manhattan?

Just wondering about origin stories.

Brown + Dog

noreply@blogger.com (Anonymous) — Sat, 06 Feb 2016 03:48:00 +0000

Who is it that says dogs are colorblind? They are very wrong. My dog most definitely knows the color brown.

This I know because he desperately hates the UPS truck. And its denizens. (sorry drivers!)

This I know because whenever he sees a UPS truck he yells at it. Loudly. At the top of his lungs, and, totally, by the way, at the top of my patience.

The truck rolls down our street, he furiously barks.

It stops and delivers Zuilly or Zappos or Amazon across the street. He goes off.

And, sorry and so sad and so very wrong, when a poor driver has to come up on our porch for our delivery. Super sorry, since I'm a very active Amazon Prime member. Poor driver endures shock and awe from the red-coated full-throated beast. Really, I am sorry. Really. I am.

Total hate from our sweet oversized over-bellowed hound.

In our house it's awful. So awful that would yell at him to shut the eff up. Where "eff" is a very different word, but Loyal Reader, I don't want to say this word in front of you.

I did some research and found that when I was yelling AT him to shut up, he thought that I was yelling WITH him. What? So I'm screaming at him to shut up and he's like, YEAH! We are getting those muthafuckas to leave us alone.

Dear Lord, what have I begot?

Next round. He yells at the UPS driver and gets all physical. He knocks over all the flowers, and I see that all the pillows are on the floor. He's on the couch standing in kill stance. YELLING at the top of his lungs and throat and whatever else a hound dog has. Trust me, it is loud. No. Seriously. LOUD.

So I walk up and grab his collar and say in a whisper, "This is not your job. Leave it." And I repeat this about twenty million gazillion billion times, always in a whisper. [while in my head I am screaming YOU STUPID SHIT DOG SHUT THE FUCK UP, but he never hears this. He just hears the gentle whisper.]

"This is not your job. Leave it."

And I drag his 85 pounds of muscle ass off of the couch where he is in total KILL mode. That means that all four of his strong-ass legs are planted strong, that his tail is rocket straight, that his muzzle is pointed and strained toward the perceived [totally wrongly because there is no threat] danger.

As I drag him by his collar he pulls back to the bullshit threat. Bullshit because there IS NO THREAT. But, because he is still doing his job since he is the dog in the house, I continue to whisper to him the alternative. [Whispering is getting increasingly difficult, if you couldn't figure that out on your own. Just saying.]

He fights me for the effort that it takes for me to pull him off--and this is a SIGNIFICANT effort. I don't go to the gym because I build super-body-strength since I am pulling this freak around. Maybe I should thank him. Or give him a doggie-treat.

Anyway, he pulls back so he can alert from his spot looking out the window. He is up on the couch. He is protecting us all. Standing on the couch gives this big dog another couple feet. So he's at about five-feet at the snout, and he's at full yell.

I'm pulling him off the couch, [pretending to] always whispering, but, frankly, if that stupid effin' dog knocks me over [again!!] I will likely maybe lose my shit.

I'm pulling him off the couch with all my weak-strength and all the time gently whispering that it's not his fukcing job and walking him away from the window and, then, magically, when we walk into the next room he suddenly becomes complacent.

What?

I walk him toward the bathroom, and as I get closer he knows that he needs to go to a place and pull himself together.

We call it "Puppy Time Out."

I escort him, at this point easily, to the bathroom and put him inside. I tell him to chill out.

And, he does.

Seriously. This dog is smart. He knows that once I gather my strength and pull him off the couch it's over. Totally over. And he needs to pull himself together. And sit pretty. It's over. And the damn truck will be gone. And he will sit, like a little dream whip, in a little ball, on the couch.

"Stop, Doc!," you say. "So why does this indicate color awareness??"

When he sees someone on the street [i could do an entire separate series of his street insanity] wearing a boxy brown jacket, he wants to do great bodily harm to him.

I know this because my arms are much longer than they were the day before we saw that poor man standing on the other side of the street with his brown HH or North Face or whatever brown coat with a hood. I was frantically holding that mass of dog-muscle away from the guy with the brown jacket as he was punished via very loud and vicious-sounding barking. I was so embarrassed. If the guy was wearing a blue or red or green or khaki jacket, no yelling.

[But if he was wearing a church lady hat, all bets off. The dog hates hats, too. That is another post.]

I don't get this. Like at all. But I love my crazy red dog.

Corporate Doughnuts

noreply@blogger.com (Anonymous) — Fri, 05 Feb 2016 03:05:00 +0000

When I was in school we'd raise money selling donuts and coffee.

You had to reserve the space in the Union. Sign ups for student groups--mostly progressive and then finally the Young Republicans when they finally cracked the code since the progressives weren't sharing--were at the beginning of the semester. You tried to get as many days as you could. Donut selling was easy money (see more below).

Most student groups used the same coffee makers. I forget who owned them. It might have been the PIRG. There were two big multi gallon machines. No decaf, just regular coffee. I think we bought the coffee from the PIRG, too. Or at least reimbursed them.

There was sugar we'd put in a styrofoam coffee cup with a plastic spoon. There was powdered coffee creamer which got the same treatment. My tenant's rights group supplied our own cups and coffee modifiers, and our own napkins, too.

One day our director thought it'd be better if we owned our own coffee makers. Then WE could rent to other groups--like the Young Republicans--and it would pay for itself in a few months. Such entrepreneur. Much pain in ass.

Boss man didn't manage the coffee makers. They'd come back dirty. They'd not come back. We had to chase down our friends in the other student groups for payment. And they'd want to pay in donuts.

All the student groups got their donuts from the same donut shop. I don't remember the name, but it wasn't called donut. I think the goods came from a place called Dairy Something or Somebody's Dairy. I don't really remember. I might be making the name stuff up.

We'd order the donuts in two dozen increments. Someone with a car--not me since I only had two wheels--would pick them up before the crack of dawn. I would be there for setup. I'd get the coffee started, lugging the big pot to the sink in the janitor's closet to fill it. I know. Don't judge me. We all did it and drank the coffee, too.

The donuts were all cake donuts. In fact they were all the same donuts. The differentiator was the covers. There were chocolate, grainy sugar, toasted coconut, cinnamon (with the grainy sugar) and peanut. Sometimes there were maple, but they weren’t big sellers. If the director picked up the donuts he would get those even though they didn't sell. He must have liked them, or he wanted more variety for our display. The sprinkles on the white frosting either sold out fast or not at all. On Valentine's Day there were donuts with red and white sprinkles. THOSE were popular. My personal favorite was the plain.

When I was on donut duty, I would eat two. Usually one cinnamon (with the grainy sugar) and a plain one. Yes, eating our profits, because although the money was easy, there wasn't a lot of it. We might clear between $35-$65 after costs. And be super pleased.

I prefer cake donuts over yeast donuts. I've had good yeast donuts in the past, but it seems that nowadays everyone is imitating those Krispy Kreme donuts. Those donuts with the slippery, greazey sticky coating. I don't know that it's sugar. I do know that it's nasty. Like I said, I like good yeast donuts, but these aren't those.

The best donuts I've had since being all the way grown are Downyflake donuts. They have two types, plain and chocolate covered. I only like the plain. They are sinkers. If you leave them in a paper bag they grease it all up. So good. When you buy a dozen in a box and there's some left for the next day, you pop them in the toaster oven on toast. If you put a paper towel underneath it and can avoid the paper catching fire, it will crisp up really nice. If the paper catches fire it crisps up, but not really nice.

I've often wondered what happened with that other New England donut, Dunkin' Donuts. I thought they were decent, but someone brought them into work and they were absolutely inedible. It's like they are diet donuts--in fake flavor and in rubbery consistency. It seems like they switched to good-for-you oil. I like the bad slash-tasty oil. It's not good for you. It's just good.

These gross corporate donuts, DunkinD and KrispyK are lousy excuses for donuts. I miss donuts cooked in good fat and that taste good. And that you could sell at school and make $45 for your cause.

But I don't want artisanal doughnuts that cost $2.50 each that claim to be good and just aren't that good.

Donuts have become a memory for me.

Post #34

noreply@blogger.com (Anonymous) — Wed, 03 Feb 2016 23:04:00 +0000

Silver bird to hearth

Dormant coals reanimate

Haiku for auld tyme?

Breaking Bad

noreply@blogger.com (Anonymous) — Wed, 03 Feb 2016 02:53:00 +0000

NOT the buskers in question.

There's a group of buskers that have taken up as artists-in-residence at Metro Center. They perform on the platform down the escalator where folks are waiting for the Orange, Blue and Silver lines and where the Red Line passengers walk to reach the opposite train.

It's a fairly intimate spot. By intimate I mean small. The area is flanked by two triple sets of escalators, and there are big pillars with the lists of stops on either side next to their respective tracks. The buskers don't really get in the way, though. Good on them. Except that they may block one of the pillars so people unsure which train to get on won't have a clue.

When I've seen them, there's been 2-5 men setting up with an amp. I think that they dance, but I've mostly seen stretching. And jawing. There is an upturned baseball cap that is likely for donations. First time I saw it, I almost picked it up to give to the guy. I thought he dropped it. Then I recognized the signs of a pending performance: the amp, the fiddling with the amp, the stretching, the cool shoes and the multi-colored hair.

I think, though, that they would be more likely to get green in the hat if there was some type of performance. Not being a busker myself, I could be wrong.

Today, as I crossed the platform-stage, there was sound coming from the amp. The sound was music. There was a guy who was kind of dancing. To be fair, I guess he really was dancing. Not in a way that was impressive, that might make you stop and watch or that was even choreographed.

Like I have on previous days, I rubbernecked. One of the guys was making motions at the "dancing" guy's back, almost like he was either trying to fan the flames or put out a fire. Hard to tell. It almost seemed like they were nervous or embarrassed, like the kids trotted out by their parents at the family gathering who really don't want to play the violin for Aunt Viola. The buskers looked like that the other days, too. If this was stage fright, I didn't see any imminent end to it.

There were four or five women clapping along to the music. There were people covertly glancing at the potential performers. These people didn't want to encourage the buskers, but they didn't want to miss out. A few others stopped to wait. Well they were waiting for the train anyway, but instead of facing the track they turned toward the amp and the guy moving in front of it. Something might happen.

Me, I continued walking across the stage stepping onto the up-escalator, swinging around to face back at them. Something was bound to happen, no? No.

I didn't see any money going into the hat. Seems that bad busking is not a good entrepreneurial look.

[image: The Ballroom Project]

Friends in Red Coats

noreply@blogger.com (Anonymous) — Tue, 02 Feb 2016 04:56:00 +0000

My office is a block and a few steps from the subway stop.

I say this because the office isn't on the same block as the stop. You have to cross a street. The stop itself is like an eighth block in from the corner, so when I get out, I walk the most of the block, then cross the street. It's about a quarter of that next block to the entrance to my building.

Seems like a block and a few steps to me.

If I'm prompt to work, cars whizz by on all lanes. It's more likely that I am less prompt. This works out great because I can peruse the food trucks that line up as soon as the rush hour parking restrictions lift.

Overall, I am NOT a fan of the food trucks. First, they aren't any cheaper than building located restaurants and sandwich shops. You can't pay less than $10 for lunch (except for the burrito lady with all the good salsas, but she has a cart not a truck and is down the block in the other direction, so I stand by my ten bucks).

Second, they were supposed to be a response to lack of variety in food vendors. The variety though, consists of kebabs, Indian food and tacos/burritos. That might seem like variety, but if there are eight trucks lined up and 3 are gyros and 2 Indian every day, I'm missing the variety.

Third, where do you eat your truck food? On a nice day you can sit by the fountain--depending on how loud the guy by the elevator is arguing with himself. Even then, you have to balance whatever you're eating on your lap. You can't put your fork down. You can't keep your soda within arm's reach. Heaven forbid there's a little wind and your bitty napkin gets blown away. The solution to these struggles is worse. If you won't/can't perch outside, you're sentenced to taking your sad styrofoam container back to your sad little desk. Sad.

Why am I even looking at the trucks since I hate them so much, you ask? Good question. I guess I'm just shopping for that amazing bargain with cafe seating. Enough food trucks. This isn't even about them.

It's really all about walking past the Washington Marriott at Metro Center. But really much more about the men who call the cabs.

I don't know anything about the hotel except for what I see on the outside. And there are quite fancy men on the outside.

The men on the outside are all tall. Some are thin. Some are not so much thin. But they all wear these amazing red coats.

The coats look very lush, like big wool that isn't too heavy. Not like these guys couldn't easily wear a heavy and unwieldy wool. But the coats they wear seem more fluid.

The wear red pants, too. And have very jaunty and amazing caps.

But that is not the best part of what they wear. No. Not at all. The best part of the men who stand in front of the Marriott in their scarlet garb is the smiles and good nature that they wear.

I get how they wear that for their patrons. They earn tips. So they expertly bring in the cabs. They empty out the limos and ubers and Super Shuttles. Today I saw a woman exiting from a cab and the bellman adroitly and subtly removed the winter coat from the woman's arms, then her extraneous bag, leaving her lighter and happier to stand there in her black booties and grey skinny jeans with a single black bag over her shoulder. He took away her physical burdens by building trust. He did this in 2 seconds.

I walk by every day. In the morning--late as I admitted--and on the way back to the train in the evening.

I was walking back to the train this evening and walked back under the Marriott. It was almost raining, meaning that it was more substantive than a drizzle but less sustained. I was too lazy to pull my umbrella from my bag, so I hugged the hotel for my block and a few steps walk. There were awnings I could scurry under, and I looked forward to the big overhang by the main entrance, mostly because there is a heater that hangs outside. I always swerve to grab a taste of it's heat.

I passed by the entrance and sauntered underneath the heater when one of the bellman walked towards me in his claret wool. The evening man is bigger--girth wise--than the morning lead.

We were on the same path, so I moved a bit toward the street as I walked towards him. He was tucking a scarf under his chin, against the almost rain. He looked at me and he shined a smile of recognition that made the rain away.

In that one moment, I knew he knew me from walking back and forth. It wasn't the smile that he gave to the hotel guests. It was the smile that he gave to someone he sees most days.

I guess we're friends. We're friends because we see each other. He recognizes my coat and my hair. He has, over the past few months that I've been at this office, taken me from the randomness of the people he sees on that street in his day and knows me.

Since we say hello every day and we know each other, he's now my friend. And I am happy to see him, too.

Mastery

noreply@blogger.com (Anonymous) — Mon, 01 Feb 2016 04:57:00 +0000

James McNeill Whistler, the guy who famously painted his mother, went back to the drawing board--literally--to create a masterpiece.

It seems that the already well-accomplished artist felt that his work on the human form was weak. So he went about practicing and perfecting his drawing by spending hours in the studio studying and reworking images on paper. He thought he didn't do enough work earlier. He crammed on the form of the body and the draping of fabric. He worked in chalk on brown paper or sketched in oil.

I was struck by the exhibit showing a piece of art that never was. (Well, it was, but then it was destroyed. But that's not my point.) There were many studies, many explorations, many versions of the work. All in preparation for the final canvas, which was itself reworked, painted, scraped and repainted. This went on for ten years, incomplete. His mom thought that “he had tried too hard to make it the perfection of art.”

Ten years working on a singular painting. While this wasn't his sole effort, it was an ongoing effort. Learning, working, improving, struggling, and doing it more.

This is someone acquiring mastery. It is a process that takes time. It is a process that requires sustained effort. It is a process that accesses multiple aspects of thinking and feeling.

I live in a world of immediacy, of instantaneous transfer of messages, some of which are programmed to disappear immediately. I am surrounded by people anxious to master, but in our anxiety and rush we move past the task that is completed, but far from mastered. We claim to respect and admire craft and virtuosity, yet adopt a DIY mentality, "I can do this." And then think that we DID attain a high level--but it was just cleverness.

It's the neighbor's house that they remodeled seven years ago. They can't sell it now. The work they did was good. It looked good. They were not proficient in laying floors and hanging cabinets and taping drywall. It was the first time they tiled a bathroom. Their work was more than sufficient. It was fine. But it took them much longer than the practitioners who had apprenticed and studied. It lacked the familiarity, judgement and awareness of the master. They were neophytes. It was their first rodeo. Their work did not stand the test of time.

Also, today I was reading a critique of the White House work on a cancer "moonshot." Dr. Vinay Prasad, a cancer researcher at Oregon Health and Science University, took the idea to task. After challenging the Ground Hog Day aspects (War on Cancer in the 70s anyone?) and efforts to push drugs out faster, accelerating new therapies and opening clinical trials (none of which are groundbreaking), he identified the deficiency with the moonshot approach. The fundamental problem he sees is that a surge of concentrated effort to cure cancer doesn't fit medical discovery. Science is a long process of experimentation, applying lessons and connecting dots across disciplines. It takes time. And mastery.

I'm wondering, what I am working on? What am I trying to master? What will I leave that will stand the test of time?

Damn, that museum trip has my mind working.

I'm a Punk

noreply@blogger.com (Anonymous) — Sun, 31 Jan 2016 04:48:00 +0000

I went to the Freer Gallery to see the Sōtatsu exhibit today.

Here's my compressed 411 for you: Some 400 years ago in Japan, this guy, Sōtatsu, was an amazing artist and craftsman. He decorated papers and fans and told stories with ink and paint and foils. He did prints for poetry scrolls and made beautiful panels. He used the medium like nobody else and influenced eastern art. All the credit went to his collaborators and students. He disappeared for centuries.

My point isn't about his struggles. He did okay for himself. My point is that he was a master. He was able to accomplish masterpieces because he worked on his craft. He was great and memorable for hundreds of years because he worked to learn. He experimented, refined and improved his art.

So here I am tonight, slogging and slurring through post number 30. I'm writing because I am faux-working at my craft. Really, though, I'm just a punk. I'm writing without the care and effort and path to improvement of Sōtatsu and his disciples. I'm just putting a notch in the gun. X'ing today on the calendar. Did it. Done!

I still believe that forcing myself to write every day makes me a better writer. At least it makes me faster. But to really be better, I need to focus on making my actual work better. I've been publishing and moving on, when I would learn more by going back, editing refining and reflecting, and maybe throwing some away.

This is a raw idea and I promise (myself) that I will return to this tomorrow. I need to get on an escalator to improvement rather than the moving walkway that drives me across the same level.

Thank you Sōtatsu for tweaking this punk.

Inspiration.

Just Dessert

noreply@blogger.com (Anonymous) — Sat, 30 Jan 2016 03:30:00 +0000

Let me tell you what it's like eating through a tube in your nose.

Wait. Backing up a minute.

As the surgeon was telling me about my upcoming procedure, he had my full attention until he got to the part where I would be eating through my nose for a few weeks.

My brain hit the brakes for a hard stop. The doctor said other stuff--I know because I saw his mouth moving--but I don't remember anything else he said. (Fortunately the Spouse was there to collect the data I missed.) I was stuck on eating dinner through a tube in my nose.

Most interesting was the nonchalance of the surgeon. As if he was telling someone with a new cast to be sure to keep it dry in the shower. Or reminding you not to eat after 11 p.m. the day before the procedure. Or that you could be reimbursed for parking the day of surgery if you got your ticket from the garage stamped by someone at the information desk.

After the surgery, I woke up to hear the surgeon talking to Spouse, telling him that I would probably be out for a while and that I would likely be unable to speak for a few days. I asked why that was, and neither could hold their surprise. Spouse because I was awake, and Dr. that I spoke. Spouse expected the latter.

I had an IV for the morphine, antibiotics and whatever else they were giving me, so we weren't using the tube right away. And then it was hooked to the IV stand. It would be 30 hours before my nurse briefed me on how to feed myself.

The tube was thinner than I expected and kept in place by two stitches on the side of my nose. It was in my left nostril, but it wasn't uncomfortable. The big deal was ensuring that it went properly into my stomach. I guess the food passed wouldn't do much good otherwise. Fortunately the surgeon took care of that. It had some length, almost like a long strand of hair weave. It was a hint of when I had long hair--or any hair. I could flip it over my shoulder. The tube, that is.

After I got unhooked from the autofeed, I needed my training. The nurse poured this thick muddy colored liquid into a plastic hospital measuring cup. She pulled out this massive (to me) syringe with a long nozzle that she dipped into the slurry and drew the plunger back to fill it. The syringe screwed into my tube and she slowly pushed the plunger in and the liquid was delivered into my stomach.

It didn't taste like anything, since going through my nose it bypassed my tongue and tastebuds. It was room temperature, so I couldn't feel in passing through. I bet if if was hot or cold the change in temperature would register through my throat or in my stomach. The only clue I was left with was the syringe emptying.

It was my turn. It took 3 or 4 syringe fulls to finish the bottle. It was weird, but I slowly emptied the measuring cup. After emptying the tube, I had to "drink" some water to flush it out. I also would use the syringe and tube to take my meds, but in the hospital I was still taking them by IV.

When I was released, I had my supply of Ensure, liquid tylenol and my hospital laboratory kit. I placed it all on this red square melamine holiday plate with a poinsettia design that I got from Target.

Three times a day I pulled the plate off of the server and onto the dining room table. I'd lay out my supplies and completely and absolutely feed myself and take my medicine. And the surgeon was right. It wasn't such a big deal. The weirdness wore off and the family began to take it in stride.

I even got outside and took a walk with my alien-like tube hanging off my face freaking out at least one neighbor who was too polite to ask what the hell was going on. He just stood there talking with us. It was kinda sweet because I really didn't want to talk about it and he gave me a bye. I don't care if it was a happy accident. I'm still grateful.

I am a super fast healer--no doubt abetted by my slavish adherence to all rules by my health care team. [Others in my life get no such obedience and at least one would like me to occasionally be more compliant.] I was able to go back to mouth feeding after eight days, and damn were those mashed potatoes good. As was the cottage cheese.

Thinking of this on the occasion of the two-year anniversary of my tube-feeding (I know, an odd celebration), my mind started playing Thru The Wire.

I drink a Boost for breakfast, an Ensure for dessert.
Somebody ordered pancakes, I just sip the sizzurp.
That right there could drive a sane man berserk.

I'm all better now. So I ate a steak.

Tea Time

noreply@blogger.com (Anonymous) — Fri, 29 Jan 2016 03:26:00 +0000

I started writing a post this morning. It was shaping up well. I was working on descriptive writing.

I had an intellectually full day today and came home to warm up leftovers. I was planning on finishing that post.

I looked for tonite's debate. And then I got a headache. It's too hard to be creative. So this is all I'm writing today. This meta post about writing. Or more like about not writing. It is still a post. It still counts.

I'm going to have some chamomile tea. And an Advil.

Fairy Tail

noreply@blogger.com (Anonymous) — Thu, 28 Jan 2016 03:35:00 +0000

The dog is such a princess.

An eighty-five pound, 38 inches tall, deer-legged, red, short-haired, long-eared princess.

The past few days have been exhausting in the "doing his business" category. He needs to find just the right spot.

The ground's been covered in snow, outside of a path in the center of the sidewalk and the plowed strip in the street. Somehow he knows that under those twenty-three inches of snow is sidewalk and not grass. He is obviously very picky about going only on organic matter. He's like the princess, and the pee.

Sorry, dad joke.

Post 26-2016: Harry Potter Is Dead

noreply@blogger.com (Anonymous) — Wed, 27 Jan 2016 04:58:00 +0000

Okay, Harry Potter is not dead, especially in that is a fictional character. The actor that was Harry Potter, though, is a corpse in a new movie at Sundance.

There was some noise made about people walking out because of the noise made by the corpse, whom Daniel Radcliffe (nee Harry Potter) played, made.

So making a long story short (and I did not see the film but the Spouse did), the actor who many of us know as Harry Potter played a slightly animated dead man who performed as a jet ski propelled by his dead man farts and steered by his erection.

Yes. Just what I said.

I am so delighted that Mr. Radcliffe, formerly of Harry Potter fame, stretches his fans (and likely turns away fans) by playing difficult to understand roles. Frankly, he could just pull in the residuals from his childhood fame. He could do a reality TV show. He could go to Harry Potter conventions. But he does not.

Instead he is working on his craft. He is an actor. And he has said he has done poor work And he challenged himself and audiences working totally exposed on stage.

Now, it seems, he is doing what he wants to do to be a better actor. I think all of us can learn from him--to not sit on your best early work but to challenge ourselves and make fools of ourselves and do good work and not such good work.

I like this reincarnated Harry Potter.

"Reality" Show?

noreply@blogger.com (Anonymous) — Tue, 26 Jan 2016 01:07:00 +0000

It's not funny anymore.

It used to be very funny. But not anymore. Not to me, anyway.

Many (including the Doc) were anticipating a glorious return of Tina Fey as the garbled, grammar-impaired former governor of Alaska after Palin's (at times incoherent) endorsement of a presidential candidate blew up the Internet with flurries of "no she didn't," and "what the hell did she say?" and a bunch of snark about her and her family's fortunes.

And deliver Tina Fey did. Down to the Liberace Vegas cardigan, Tina Fey continues to do a spot-on Palin spoof.

Ha! Ha! How goofy is she. Ha! Ha! What a pair. Ha! Ha! Is this real? Ha! Ha! What are the voters thinking? Ha! Ha! What a joke this entire election process is.

But it's not funny anymore.

It's very very serious. We are so busy having out-of-the-body-politics-experiences, mocking people--candidates and voters alike--we aren't seeing that we risk the very existence of our democracy.

WHOA, you say. Aren't you going a little overboard? Maybe this political season is pushing you too much to a docu-drama.

Hear me out.

It's not like the right to vote is guaranteed. There are plenty of places where people can't vote. Or places in which people vote in sham elections. Despite high voter-registration rates, too few people vote in U.S. elections. Too few people know how our government works, even folks purportedly defending it. Our 240 year grand experiment in democracy is not a sure thing. And the way our Constitution is structured, it's up to us to make it so.

It's not enough to be entertained by politics and our presidential process. That's not participation, that's observation. Take this seriously, learn about the issues and the candidates and vote.

Let's use political satire as a motivation. Okay?

Head to Head

noreply@blogger.com (Anonymous) — Mon, 25 Jan 2016 00:44:00 +0000

Watching the AFC and NFC championship games and wondering, how much longer will we watch football?

Will a future civilized society look back at today's Sundays (and Mondays and Thursdays) of watching super humans in pads and helmets running into each other, bones cracking, brains shaking inside skulls and shake their own heads at our barbarism?

Today I watched a receiver grab the football and bring it close to his body, tucking in and cradling it by bringing his head closer to his chest. As he contracted himself, a defender running at full speed--which is very fast in the NFL--hit him. The defender was trying to get to him before the ball, or even better, to hit him just as the ball came in and cause a drop.

As the receiver lowered his head, the defender crashed into him, helmet meeting helmet. Flags flew. The defender somehow had to be able to stop himself to avoid hitting on the defenseless receiver.

That is an important rule. A rule pushing even the most agile and aware athletes at the top of their ability. Then there's the conflict between pulling up and doing your job. Can it be enforced? When it's enforced it's 15 yards and a first down.

The rules to protect the gladiators are important. They likely are making a difference. But as we watch this crazy game, I wonder how long until it just isn't the same game. More pads, more rules, more whistles.

Moms and dads don't want their kids to play anymore. Young, promising players are walking away. And the issue is increasingly, and finally, becoming an issue. I've known people who loved playing football. I've loved watching it. But as the athletes become bigger and faster and stronger, maybe the game has run it's course.

But don't worry more civilized people of the future. Football is nothing compared to brutality as entertainment of the UFC. Maybe that's football with the pads off.

Words Describe

noreply@blogger.com (Anonymous) — Sun, 24 Jan 2016 02:52:00 +0000

The only thing that anyone is talking about today (and yesterday, and yesterday's yesterday and, very likely, tomorrow and tomorrow's tomorrow) is the snow.

There is a lot of it, to be sure.

It is a big event. Much discussion has been had about the naming of this event.

People were a little concerned about originality--we've had Snowmageddon in 2010, and The Snowpocalypse in 2009. So you can't go there. Some weather media conglomerate decided to make it a named storm, a la a hurricane. That didn't catch on. [hmmm, nobody mentioned snowicane]. I've decided to use the Blizzard of 2016--kind of old skool.

Other words that we use to describe this snow include snow storm, blizzard, packing snow, powder, drifts, avalanche, moguls, glacier, flakes and flurries.

But people hunkered down since the snow started in earnest yesterday afternoon have many other words that they are using for it. Some of these names are not appropriate for your eyes, my Loyal Reader.

The words come out in inches and then feet. They speak of closings and delays. Words to describe back breaking shoveling and the schadenfreude of seeing the city plow itself stuck in the snow.

We have many words to share our experience, giving lie to the myth of the great Eskimo snow hoax. You know, when some amatuer linguist spawned

...the familiar claim about the wondrous richness of the Eskimo conceptual scheme: hundreds of words for different grades and types of snow, a lexicographical winter wonderland, the quintessential demonstration of how primitive minds categorize the world so differently from us. -- Geoffrey Pullum, Professor of General Linguistics

See, it isn't true that indigenous people of the north have hundreds of words to describe snow. Turns out that, in fact, people who speak English have the same or more words.

Dr. Pullum is quite critical of the full scale and uncritical adoption of this myth.

The prevalence of the great Eskimo snow hoax is testimony to falling standards in academia, but also to a wider tendency (particularly in the United States, I'm afraid) toward fundamentally anti-intellectual "gee-whiz" modes of discourse and increasing ignorance of scientific thought.

How we describe things matter. Science matters. Critically and objectively looking at data matters. Making things up because they are more interesting or make you look better is fiction. Not truth. Okay Iowa?

SnowThing 2016

noreply@blogger.com (Anonymous) — Sat, 23 Jan 2016 00:35:00 +0000

Here's my report.

Brought in the cushions and the umbrella. I don't anticipate coffee on the back porch in the next few days.

Made chili. Took dog out for a walk at 1:30 pm with no sign of snow. Dog did his business and, while not "news," it was an important happening. For those of you who care, he did country AND western.

Sheltered The Spouse's rose experiment by taking the broken Ikea picnic bench and turning it upside down to tent the miracle propagation. Cleared the front porch and dumped the butts and hid the hidden pipe beneath the basket. Also, moved the shovels closer to the door. I read those Little House books. I know that a few feet can be insurmountable.

After 3 pm, did my duty and walked the streets. Snow falling. The sidewalks were starting to fill, except for the stretch from Miss Alice's house and around the corner of the apartment building. Good that the apartment building people are paying homage to Alice. She rocks. Also, it behooves you to not mess with her.

Found myself around the block at my neighborhood watering hole. Partook of local beers and infused whiskey spiked hot cider. I did this to be neighborly. It seemed to be appreciated.

Left as the snow was increasing. Was accompanied by a steadfast young man from the pub who may have served my beverages. Came home to eat the chili noted earlier herein. Snow falling, still. Drinking hot tea. Inside. Maybe 2 1/2" on the ground. Waiting for the thunder snow.

Believe we'll be fine.