Into Center City, Philadelphia. Oh, the movers accidentally charged me $1,000 more than they should have, and the Comcast guy spent three hours rewiring the house's built-in ethernet connection - the wrong way - and the back yard isn't useful for the doggy because the city historical commission hasn't given our landlord the permission to build the steps yet, and I can't find the hair cutting scissors so I look like an unfrozen caveman lawyer, and I'm pretty sure, but not really sure that my cell phone charger is at work which I hope it is because my battery sure is dead. And I have to call Apple's customer support to complain about the backwards compatability of iTunes (if you have a video iPod, do NOT plug it in to a computer running iTunes 6. You will not like what happens); Comcast to complain about our installer (seriously, three hours? did he take a nap or something); Sprint because someone (not me) signed me up for their expensive equipment replacement plan when I bought my new phone; and of course Chase bank, to make sure the refund owed to me by the movers goes through (lest I really start complaining).
But.
Everything's out of boxes except for our book collection - and that's like 13 boxes or something - and a bunch of Meg's boxes full of random stuff, much of which was never actually packed because it was never unpacked from when we moved to the last place a year ago (she's funny like that).
The dog is fairly well settled during the day, but pretty much a basket case at night.
Walking to work is infinitely awesome. Having tour buses go by on the street outside your stoop, also awesome. Grocery delivery is awesome. Across the street from a high-end sushi restaurant; awesome. Moving into the city and *gaining* a back yard; totally awesome.
Pictures soon.
Monday, July 30, 2007
Tuesday, July 10, 2007
Officials worry of summer terror attack - Yahoo! News
Officials worry of summer terror attack - Yahoo! News
...the very definition of all bun, no burger.
Synopsis:
-The director of homeland security has a gut feeling that a period of increased risk may happen
-An official who dare not be named is worried without any knowledge of a specific threat.
What's to be done, then? A level of super extreme readiness? Will we ever get to terror level "a-okay"? Do we even know what the colors are underneath yellow and red?
What reasons could there be to run an article like this? To inform the public that the guy who's responsible for being concerned about possible terror attacksis concerned there might be one? As opposed to every other day, when he has a long lunch and naps under his desk?
Is it trying to inspire the public to be more vigilant? I hope not. My experience in the vigilance of the ordinary citizen has not been the greatest. Most people I see on mass transportation do their best to ignore their fellow travelers, and do so fairly successfully. So, is an article like this *really* going to supplant basic self-preservation as an impetus to be watchful?
If not, what is it trying to do?
Is it blatantly fear politicing? I guess, but man, a little subtlety wouldn't be too tough.
...the very definition of all bun, no burger.
Synopsis:
-The director of homeland security has a gut feeling that a period of increased risk may happen
-An official who dare not be named is worried without any knowledge of a specific threat.
What's to be done, then? A level of super extreme readiness? Will we ever get to terror level "a-okay"? Do we even know what the colors are underneath yellow and red?
What reasons could there be to run an article like this? To inform the public that the guy who's responsible for being concerned about possible terror attacksis concerned there might be one? As opposed to every other day, when he has a long lunch and naps under his desk?
Is it trying to inspire the public to be more vigilant? I hope not. My experience in the vigilance of the ordinary citizen has not been the greatest. Most people I see on mass transportation do their best to ignore their fellow travelers, and do so fairly successfully. So, is an article like this *really* going to supplant basic self-preservation as an impetus to be watchful?
If not, what is it trying to do?
Is it blatantly fear politicing? I guess, but man, a little subtlety wouldn't be too tough.
Monday, July 09, 2007
Suspension of Disbelief
http://www.phillyburbs.com/pb-dyn/news/111-07072007-1374412.html
The latest engagement took place Thursday for Jessica Margerum, 20, of Bristol Township, who goes by Jessyka, and Michael Birbeck, 26, of Falls Township. As the big question appeared on the scoreboard, Michael lowered to one knee, and Jessica's screams alerted the fans around them.
The pair became friends four to five years ago, but waited to date until Margerum finished high school. Birbeck, a youth minister at First Presbyterian Church of Levittown, felt it was inappropriate to date a member of his youth group. Spending more time together, they realized they were meant for a deeper connection.
“Our relationship went from him being my mentor, to one of my best friends, to my boyfriend, and then to my fianc. It is a very nice progression,” Margerum said.
----------------
...uh huh. So she was.... and he was... I see.
And they didn't... until...
And if you believe that,
The latest engagement took place Thursday for Jessica Margerum, 20, of Bristol Township, who goes by Jessyka, and Michael Birbeck, 26, of Falls Township. As the big question appeared on the scoreboard, Michael lowered to one knee, and Jessica's screams alerted the fans around them.
The pair became friends four to five years ago, but waited to date until Margerum finished high school. Birbeck, a youth minister at First Presbyterian Church of Levittown, felt it was inappropriate to date a member of his youth group. Spending more time together, they realized they were meant for a deeper connection.
“Our relationship went from him being my mentor, to one of my best friends, to my boyfriend, and then to my fianc. It is a very nice progression,” Margerum said.
----------------
...uh huh. So she was.... and he was... I see.
And they didn't... until...
And if you believe that,
Thursday, June 28, 2007
tom stanton - prize-winning baseball author - The Final Season
tom stanton - prize-winning baseball author - The Final Season
So, I just finished this book, which I'd bought years ago. I had never got around to reading it; it was a staple of the "futures shelf," where I put the couple dozen or so books I've bought but not yet read. I'm stupid like that; my eyes are bigger than the time I have to satisfy my appetite.
But I pulled this down and read it, I thought, because I'd just seen the Tigers play in Philly. And I wanted to remember what it was like when they weren't a good team - the book's set in 1999, pre-Juan Gonzalez, when they finished about 30 games out of first.
It's about a journalist who attends every gave of the 1999 season, the Tigers' last in Tiger Stadium. He thinks he's writing a book about the closing of a great old stadium, and his feelings of anger about that. Later, he realizes that his anger and frustration are about the fading of his memories and of his father's mortality. The closing of Tiger stadium places the author just a bit farther from his memories.
It's a fairly brilliant book, even if it doesn't have much of a continuous narrative. Actually, it reads, interestingly enough, like a bunch of blog posts.
But I realized today, as I read it on the train, that I picked it up off the futures shelf around father's day. This is the second father's day I've spent out here, away from my father, but the first where I was away indefinitely.
My brother was with me on father's day; Pat was in town to see the Tigers play the Phillies. I don't see him enough, that's for sure, and he traveled 8 hours by car to see the same baseball team that plays a half hour from his house. (And to be an opposing team's fan at a Philadelphia sporting event, which I think qualifies his vacation as "adventure travel"). But it was the game that got him out here.
Pat called me yesterday from my parents' house in Michigan, where they were finally getting around to opening dad's father's day gifts. Mom called me later to tell me that Dad really liked his present; today when we talked on the phone Dad asked me where I'd found it.
I like the kind of presents that show some sort of bond, or recognition; presents that show not only how much we care about the recipient but what we know about them. Presents that we think they'll enjoy because we know them well enough to know what sorts of memories, interests or inside jokes make them happy. Presents that make them feel like they're special to us.
I gave my dad a scale replica of Olympia Stadium, where the Red Wings used to play and where he used to see hockey when he was younger than I am now.
I stayed up late tonight, finishing Standon's book, knowing now why I was really reading it.
So, I just finished this book, which I'd bought years ago. I had never got around to reading it; it was a staple of the "futures shelf," where I put the couple dozen or so books I've bought but not yet read. I'm stupid like that; my eyes are bigger than the time I have to satisfy my appetite.
But I pulled this down and read it, I thought, because I'd just seen the Tigers play in Philly. And I wanted to remember what it was like when they weren't a good team - the book's set in 1999, pre-Juan Gonzalez, when they finished about 30 games out of first.
It's about a journalist who attends every gave of the 1999 season, the Tigers' last in Tiger Stadium. He thinks he's writing a book about the closing of a great old stadium, and his feelings of anger about that. Later, he realizes that his anger and frustration are about the fading of his memories and of his father's mortality. The closing of Tiger stadium places the author just a bit farther from his memories.
It's a fairly brilliant book, even if it doesn't have much of a continuous narrative. Actually, it reads, interestingly enough, like a bunch of blog posts.
But I realized today, as I read it on the train, that I picked it up off the futures shelf around father's day. This is the second father's day I've spent out here, away from my father, but the first where I was away indefinitely.
My brother was with me on father's day; Pat was in town to see the Tigers play the Phillies. I don't see him enough, that's for sure, and he traveled 8 hours by car to see the same baseball team that plays a half hour from his house. (And to be an opposing team's fan at a Philadelphia sporting event, which I think qualifies his vacation as "adventure travel"). But it was the game that got him out here.
Pat called me yesterday from my parents' house in Michigan, where they were finally getting around to opening dad's father's day gifts. Mom called me later to tell me that Dad really liked his present; today when we talked on the phone Dad asked me where I'd found it.
I like the kind of presents that show some sort of bond, or recognition; presents that show not only how much we care about the recipient but what we know about them. Presents that we think they'll enjoy because we know them well enough to know what sorts of memories, interests or inside jokes make them happy. Presents that make them feel like they're special to us.
I gave my dad a scale replica of Olympia Stadium, where the Red Wings used to play and where he used to see hockey when he was younger than I am now.
I stayed up late tonight, finishing Standon's book, knowing now why I was really reading it.
Monday, June 18, 2007
Tour Guide and Apartment Hunter
With family in town, and still no place to move to, it's been a busy week. It's nice to play tour guide because I get to do the touristy stuff that I never think to do living here.
And as for the apartment search... there's no end, it seems, to the shabby and shadiness. There's a lot of crappy apartments in Philadelphia, and I've seen plenty. Good thing we only need one.
And as for the apartment search... there's no end, it seems, to the shabby and shadiness. There's a lot of crappy apartments in Philadelphia, and I've seen plenty. Good thing we only need one.
Tuesday, June 05, 2007
nwa.com: Flight Selections
At about 9:15pm on June 5, I pulled up this flight combination for $218. When I clicked "Select," the price jumped to $291. When I tried the search again, the price became $363 for the flight combination. As you can imagine, this shocked and confused me. I called 1-800-225-2525 to speak with a booking agent, and after some difficulty with the voice recognition answering service, became connected after a very short wait. The booking agent was, as you can imagine, not very helpful. His hands were tied, and I wish it were not so.
I understand the reality of airline flight prices and the real problems with making them a real-time internet commodity. Sometimes, occurences like what happened to me happen; by the time I hit the right database, the flight had increased in price. That said, there's little way to make it not look like a bait-and-switch. I strongly recommend you allow for human override of price increases within 15-30 minutes of the increase, or build in a system to offer tickets locked in at certain prices for certain amounts of time (ticketmaster.com does this fairly well). Otherwise, what happened to me - which sent me running, not walking, over to US Airways - will keep happening.
I had hoped to leave a scathing review of the customer service system on the survey that the automated voice asked me to answer while I was on hold; however, when the agent hung up, no survey followed.
If you're going to have your automated calling program offer a survey, make sure the survey is actually offered. Nothing confirms a perceived lack of customer care like an improperly implemented customer survey. It was more than a little insulting to be asked to take a minute to answer a survey, and then find out that my time would not be necessary after all.
I now urge you to take a minute of your time to consider my complaint and suggestions. I appreciate any input you can offer on this matter, and I can assure you that your time is valuable to me.
I understand the reality of airline flight prices and the real problems with making them a real-time internet commodity. Sometimes, occurences like what happened to me happen; by the time I hit the right database, the flight had increased in price. That said, there's little way to make it not look like a bait-and-switch. I strongly recommend you allow for human override of price increases within 15-30 minutes of the increase, or build in a system to offer tickets locked in at certain prices for certain amounts of time (ticketmaster.com does this fairly well). Otherwise, what happened to me - which sent me running, not walking, over to US Airways - will keep happening.
I had hoped to leave a scathing review of the customer service system on the survey that the automated voice asked me to answer while I was on hold; however, when the agent hung up, no survey followed.
If you're going to have your automated calling program offer a survey, make sure the survey is actually offered. Nothing confirms a perceived lack of customer care like an improperly implemented customer survey. It was more than a little insulting to be asked to take a minute to answer a survey, and then find out that my time would not be necessary after all.
I now urge you to take a minute of your time to consider my complaint and suggestions. I appreciate any input you can offer on this matter, and I can assure you that your time is valuable to me.
Monday, June 04, 2007
My Review of the Manny Brown's in Neshaminy Mall, Bensalem, PA
From citysearch and any other restaurant ratings site I can find... I'd love to send this to Manny Brown's corporate, but I lack an address.
----
I signed up as a member to this site just to give this place my worst possible recommendation. I went there on a holiday, and they were very short-staffed. Even then, the service on their outdoor patio was truly an abomination. They managed to turn a simple American Tex Mex experience into a Greek tragedy. My table, and the other four on the patio all had complaints; we all had to go get our own silverware and had to take bottles of ketchup off of abandoned, non-bussed dirty tables. Drinks took half an hour, even though the bar was empty. A third of our order was never entered into the system. Upon confrontation, after a long search, our server blamed the bartender for a missing round of drinks. Things moved so slow that I began to contemplate the pointlessness of existence and man’s inhumanity to man; great for my writing career, but a far cry from the zany good-time such places attempt to inspire. I bailed on the missing round of drinks and food; I asked for them to be canceled, but they were never recorded in the first place, so all ended fairly tidily on that front.
A table for two at the far end of the patio sat for 30 minutes without a drink order, and watched closer tables order and receive their food. They yelled at a server that wasn’t their assigned server; the two servers then yelled at each other in front of the customers.
I promise you, citysearch readers, that if I ever see service this poor again I will return to this page and update this review. It's worth going and ordering soft drinks just to watch... just don't expect refills.
----
I signed up as a member to this site just to give this place my worst possible recommendation. I went there on a holiday, and they were very short-staffed. Even then, the service on their outdoor patio was truly an abomination. They managed to turn a simple American Tex Mex experience into a Greek tragedy. My table, and the other four on the patio all had complaints; we all had to go get our own silverware and had to take bottles of ketchup off of abandoned, non-bussed dirty tables. Drinks took half an hour, even though the bar was empty. A third of our order was never entered into the system. Upon confrontation, after a long search, our server blamed the bartender for a missing round of drinks. Things moved so slow that I began to contemplate the pointlessness of existence and man’s inhumanity to man; great for my writing career, but a far cry from the zany good-time such places attempt to inspire. I bailed on the missing round of drinks and food; I asked for them to be canceled, but they were never recorded in the first place, so all ended fairly tidily on that front.
A table for two at the far end of the patio sat for 30 minutes without a drink order, and watched closer tables order and receive their food. They yelled at a server that wasn’t their assigned server; the two servers then yelled at each other in front of the customers.
I promise you, citysearch readers, that if I ever see service this poor again I will return to this page and update this review. It's worth going and ordering soft drinks just to watch... just don't expect refills.
Sunday, June 03, 2007
Because I'm in a frustrated mood
Dana Wakiji: the most painful sports blogger I've ever read, plastered all over the front page of detnews.com. If following a sports blogger while you watch a game is like having friends sit next to you on the couch, her blog is the one friend who doesn't really follow sports and talks too much while trying too hard to fit in.
It takes newspapers four more years than it should have to have some staff members writing live news and analysis... it'll take another four years for them to figure out that they should find people who can write insightful commentary extemporaneously.
------------
For some reason, I've been struck with a series of horrible customer service experiences, culminating today wtih being laughed at on the phone by a local real estate agent, who I've subsequently slammed on a real estate agent rating web site. Customer service in Philly is rarely adequate; it's either exceptional or horrendous... more the latter, unfortunately. I've had the usual horrible moviegoing experience (come for the popcorn, stay for the two-and-a-half hour commentary track by the people next to you), some really bad restaurant service, and the most hilarious experience at a large concert venue not to be named ever.*
I like it when the bigger problems in my life involve having the wrong food brought to me, so I have that going for me, which is nice.
I mean, I have two months to find an apartment in center city that's fairly large, not too expensive and accomodates a large dog, which means a yard would be nice, and of course not a high-rise. That's a problem, you could say. I view it as a challenge, because I am foolhardy. Problems, I think, have their genesis in reaction to circumstances; they happen to you. Challenges are created by initiative; you undertake them. Lots of times, the two merge in an indistinguishable goo of difficulty. There's no doubt the apartment search will be just that.
Accomplishing a tricky objective, like putting together a piece of furniture, isn't all that frustrating. For one thing, you approach it as a tricky objective. You're ready for it. You know it will suck. It's the simply objectives that become unnecessarily tricky - through bad luck or the bad nature of other people - that you absolutely cannot stand. They are the root of real frustration. It's not putting together the furniture that's the hard part; it's getting the damned screws to turn right so that the legs are all straight.
*Short version: I'm going to see an arena concert at an arena venue. My girlfriend has a backpack with her, and we're not sure whether we're allowed in with it, or if we should leave it at my office. The venue has no "customer relations" number, so I call the box office. Employee doesn't know if backpacks are allowed. Nor does she know who to ask that would know. Nor is there anyone, in the box office, who would know. Nor is there another number I can call. Prudently, we leave backpack at office. Walking in to the concert, there is a sign on every entrance door stating prominently, in all capital letters, that backpacks (specifically) are prohibited. The obvious conclusion is that the box office employee in question is unable to read.
It takes newspapers four more years than it should have to have some staff members writing live news and analysis... it'll take another four years for them to figure out that they should find people who can write insightful commentary extemporaneously.
------------
For some reason, I've been struck with a series of horrible customer service experiences, culminating today wtih being laughed at on the phone by a local real estate agent, who I've subsequently slammed on a real estate agent rating web site. Customer service in Philly is rarely adequate; it's either exceptional or horrendous... more the latter, unfortunately. I've had the usual horrible moviegoing experience (come for the popcorn, stay for the two-and-a-half hour commentary track by the people next to you), some really bad restaurant service, and the most hilarious experience at a large concert venue not to be named ever.*
I like it when the bigger problems in my life involve having the wrong food brought to me, so I have that going for me, which is nice.
I mean, I have two months to find an apartment in center city that's fairly large, not too expensive and accomodates a large dog, which means a yard would be nice, and of course not a high-rise. That's a problem, you could say. I view it as a challenge, because I am foolhardy. Problems, I think, have their genesis in reaction to circumstances; they happen to you. Challenges are created by initiative; you undertake them. Lots of times, the two merge in an indistinguishable goo of difficulty. There's no doubt the apartment search will be just that.
Accomplishing a tricky objective, like putting together a piece of furniture, isn't all that frustrating. For one thing, you approach it as a tricky objective. You're ready for it. You know it will suck. It's the simply objectives that become unnecessarily tricky - through bad luck or the bad nature of other people - that you absolutely cannot stand. They are the root of real frustration. It's not putting together the furniture that's the hard part; it's getting the damned screws to turn right so that the legs are all straight.
*Short version: I'm going to see an arena concert at an arena venue. My girlfriend has a backpack with her, and we're not sure whether we're allowed in with it, or if we should leave it at my office. The venue has no "customer relations" number, so I call the box office. Employee doesn't know if backpacks are allowed. Nor does she know who to ask that would know. Nor is there anyone, in the box office, who would know. Nor is there another number I can call. Prudently, we leave backpack at office. Walking in to the concert, there is a sign on every entrance door stating prominently, in all capital letters, that backpacks (specifically) are prohibited. The obvious conclusion is that the box office employee in question is unable to read.
Thursday, May 31, 2007
Wednesday, May 30, 2007
Nothing makes you forget your problems...
I've had a bad week in consumerism. I've had a lot of bad customer service experiences; from movies to meals. It's frustrating to the point of actually writing griping e-mails. The one to AMC theaters, first draft in my mind, reads more like an essay opining on American culture than an actual complaint. I'll probably post it here.
But after a nasty attempt at ordering dinner, I was I was at Rite Aid, buying medicine (Meg's got some sort of whooping cough) and frustrated.
A middle-aged woman, in poor shape physically, was there with her daughter (also in poor shape). This is not a surprise, as the Rite Aid near our house isn't in the most affluent area of our town, which is quaint but by no means terribly affluent.
The woman was telling her daughter that she'd like to buy a heated knee brace, but couldn't until the next day, when her husband's check comes in. Then, the pharmacist told her that the Allegra they needed - that's a prescription I take, for allergies - isn't covered on their insurance. It was, apparently, but her husband's insurance through the Teamsters doesn't cover it anymore. That sucker's $70 a bottle.
So she has to get one pill, for her child, for tomorrow, until the check comes in.
It made me feel like my problems were just a little smaller. Yeah, I'm carrying a very heavy student debt load. But my health insurance covers Allegra, and even if it didn't, I could swing it without having to wait until payday. So I have that going for me, which is nice.
Vonnegut, maybe, said something to the effect of "nothing makes you forget your problems like meeting someone who has worse problems." That's about right.
But, then, in the midst of a shopping trip that was clearly shaped by economic concerns, the woman's daughter notes that "lighters are on sale."
With the right couple of inferences, that does make this woman seem a little bit less sympathetic. If the woman is a smoker, quitting would save money and help (or even eliminate) her daughter's allergies.
So, then, comes the interesting moral dilemma, through which knowledge of self might be gained. How I feel about what I just observed and overheard is fairly complicated, and I won't examine it here (yet). More than anything, though, I just wish that kid didn't have to worry about getting her medicine.
But after a nasty attempt at ordering dinner, I was I was at Rite Aid, buying medicine (Meg's got some sort of whooping cough) and frustrated.
A middle-aged woman, in poor shape physically, was there with her daughter (also in poor shape). This is not a surprise, as the Rite Aid near our house isn't in the most affluent area of our town, which is quaint but by no means terribly affluent.
The woman was telling her daughter that she'd like to buy a heated knee brace, but couldn't until the next day, when her husband's check comes in. Then, the pharmacist told her that the Allegra they needed - that's a prescription I take, for allergies - isn't covered on their insurance. It was, apparently, but her husband's insurance through the Teamsters doesn't cover it anymore. That sucker's $70 a bottle.
So she has to get one pill, for her child, for tomorrow, until the check comes in.
It made me feel like my problems were just a little smaller. Yeah, I'm carrying a very heavy student debt load. But my health insurance covers Allegra, and even if it didn't, I could swing it without having to wait until payday. So I have that going for me, which is nice.
Vonnegut, maybe, said something to the effect of "nothing makes you forget your problems like meeting someone who has worse problems." That's about right.
But, then, in the midst of a shopping trip that was clearly shaped by economic concerns, the woman's daughter notes that "lighters are on sale."
With the right couple of inferences, that does make this woman seem a little bit less sympathetic. If the woman is a smoker, quitting would save money and help (or even eliminate) her daughter's allergies.
So, then, comes the interesting moral dilemma, through which knowledge of self might be gained. How I feel about what I just observed and overheard is fairly complicated, and I won't examine it here (yet). More than anything, though, I just wish that kid didn't have to worry about getting her medicine.
Wednesday, May 23, 2007
I'm Not On The Train
I moved to a city that has a light rail system, albeit an expensive and not necessarily reliable (hey, even dangerous!) one. Having moved from a city that doesn't have such a system, or any system, really, I am mostly positive about it. With the notable exception that I've caught like 4 colds since the start of the year, almost certainly traceable to the shared breathing situation I'm in for an hour per day, it's been great. Reading on the train, no matter how bumpy, beats stuck in traffic all day every day.
But that's not to say that it isn't a challenge. For one thing, most of my fellow train riders have a less-than-sunny outlook on riding the train. Or going to work. Or something like that. The sighs and long faces I see trundling down the aisle towards me make me self-conscious about my hair, and worried about our national psyche.
I can't make people like their jobs, or like their mornings, or like their lives. I can only hope.
To be honest, though, I don't really hope for them to be happy. That's their choice. I just wish they'd take more showers, not smoke so much, and talk on the phone less. I mean all these things in the least altrusitic way. I'd prefer for them to be clean, healthy, and more desirous of face-to-face communication in their daily lives, but I care more about how these nasty lifestyle traits of theirs affect my train-riding experience. Unfortunately, the average commuter sitting next to, in front of, or behind me on the train has either walked out of a sewer, recently smoked his clothing so as to better preserve it, and/or is loudly talking on his cell phone. Bonus points for the guys with the walkie-talkie feature, the inventor of which I would like to punch in the groin.
But the interesting observation of the day - and please confirm, any of you who ride trains on a daily basis - is that there's a good chance (maybe 90%) that a person who starts a cell phone call while on the train will, in the call's first 10-20 seconds, announce to the party on the other end, loudly, that he or she is on the train. People who ride trains: watch for this. Yeah, it's a function of the mobile phone society; we have no idea where the other person is when we call, and often we're calling to find out exactly that. Or we just want to know. But still, it's fairly obnoxious for a person to announce to a room full of people, on a train, that he is on the train. It does confirm to the party on the other end that he has completed rolling himself in the mud and leaving stale cigars in his coat pockets, I suppose.
That said, I enjoy the train and look forward to riding it to work in the morning. It's overpriced, and it's often late, but it beats driving.
That I haven't adjusted to, sadly. I have a theory that, once one learns to drive in one region of the country, one cannot move to another region without thinking that the drivers in the new region drive like rabid crazed idiots. My adjustment to the driving style of the atlantic states has been rocky at best (New Jersey, I'm looking at you, here).
So, I like the train. A Philly SEPTA commuter on his cell phone is annoying; a Philly car commuter on his cell phone is just plain dangerous.
But that's not to say that it isn't a challenge. For one thing, most of my fellow train riders have a less-than-sunny outlook on riding the train. Or going to work. Or something like that. The sighs and long faces I see trundling down the aisle towards me make me self-conscious about my hair, and worried about our national psyche.
I can't make people like their jobs, or like their mornings, or like their lives. I can only hope.
To be honest, though, I don't really hope for them to be happy. That's their choice. I just wish they'd take more showers, not smoke so much, and talk on the phone less. I mean all these things in the least altrusitic way. I'd prefer for them to be clean, healthy, and more desirous of face-to-face communication in their daily lives, but I care more about how these nasty lifestyle traits of theirs affect my train-riding experience. Unfortunately, the average commuter sitting next to, in front of, or behind me on the train has either walked out of a sewer, recently smoked his clothing so as to better preserve it, and/or is loudly talking on his cell phone. Bonus points for the guys with the walkie-talkie feature, the inventor of which I would like to punch in the groin.
But the interesting observation of the day - and please confirm, any of you who ride trains on a daily basis - is that there's a good chance (maybe 90%) that a person who starts a cell phone call while on the train will, in the call's first 10-20 seconds, announce to the party on the other end, loudly, that he or she is on the train. People who ride trains: watch for this. Yeah, it's a function of the mobile phone society; we have no idea where the other person is when we call, and often we're calling to find out exactly that. Or we just want to know. But still, it's fairly obnoxious for a person to announce to a room full of people, on a train, that he is on the train. It does confirm to the party on the other end that he has completed rolling himself in the mud and leaving stale cigars in his coat pockets, I suppose.
That said, I enjoy the train and look forward to riding it to work in the morning. It's overpriced, and it's often late, but it beats driving.
That I haven't adjusted to, sadly. I have a theory that, once one learns to drive in one region of the country, one cannot move to another region without thinking that the drivers in the new region drive like rabid crazed idiots. My adjustment to the driving style of the atlantic states has been rocky at best (New Jersey, I'm looking at you, here).
So, I like the train. A Philly SEPTA commuter on his cell phone is annoying; a Philly car commuter on his cell phone is just plain dangerous.
Sunday, May 20, 2007
So, yeah.
I don't consider myself to be particularly diva-esque, but I was gently persuaded to pick this back up. I had realized, after long moments of reflection and laziness, that nobody really cared to hear me pontificate, muse and otherwise babble about the goings on of the world, or my part in it.
So, there.
But, for the few of you who still drift back here and whomever you might forward this along to, here we are. Nah, that's crap. For me, here I am.
I'll probably just put on a song - today it's _ by Tv on the Radio - and give it the old one draft, no re-write try.
Here's the latest:
Moving to the downtown part of Philadelphia (they call it "Center City") in August or something.
Still living in a small town on the Delaware River. Nothing is open late; there's one excellent restaurant. It remains a 10-minute drive from any store, movie theater, or other trapping of suburban life. But it sure is quaint.
Kind of.
I live on a fairly urban street - rowhouses, close yards, and the like. And I've noticed that annoying neighbors only get more annoying over time. My next door neighbors, who run a local trash collection business - more Clampett than Soprano - have gone through varying degrees of bothersomeness. I keep meaning to have them investigated by the EPA, given the oxygen tanks in their yard - at least I hope they're oxygen tanks - and doubtless other nasty, nasty stuff that they probably should leave lying around their property like some sort of garage sale.
The warm weather has brought back the People Across the Street Who Stand Outside Talking Loudly and Smoking Newports. We know what brand they smoke because, well, when one goes in the house, another yells, "BRING ME SOME NEWPORTS!" loud enough for us to hear in our house. Which is on the second floor.
And I may very well take out the little rat dog across the street that sits in a third-story window and barks at my dog every. single. them. my dog goes outside to Do His Business(tm). My dog has a fairly severe case of social anxiety disorder, thank you very much, and he's made quite nervous by angry barking. The space outside my foyer is my space, Rat Dog, and if you don't like it, I feel for you. I am now walking my dog past Rat Dog's yard often, with the hopes that he'll start peeing on the trees and light poles on sidewalks near their property. So far, so good. I want Rat Dog smelling my dog's urine in his dreams.
But these are minor annoyances. My place is large, inexpensive and rather quiet, considering. But because "everything's going pretty well" is both a jinx of a statement and a boring post, I thought I'd share the neighbor stores.
I do, also, have a newer bag:
repliedtoall.blogspot.com
There. Until next time.
So, there.
But, for the few of you who still drift back here and whomever you might forward this along to, here we are. Nah, that's crap. For me, here I am.
I'll probably just put on a song - today it's _ by Tv on the Radio - and give it the old one draft, no re-write try.
Here's the latest:
Moving to the downtown part of Philadelphia (they call it "Center City") in August or something.
Still living in a small town on the Delaware River. Nothing is open late; there's one excellent restaurant. It remains a 10-minute drive from any store, movie theater, or other trapping of suburban life. But it sure is quaint.
Kind of.
I live on a fairly urban street - rowhouses, close yards, and the like. And I've noticed that annoying neighbors only get more annoying over time. My next door neighbors, who run a local trash collection business - more Clampett than Soprano - have gone through varying degrees of bothersomeness. I keep meaning to have them investigated by the EPA, given the oxygen tanks in their yard - at least I hope they're oxygen tanks - and doubtless other nasty, nasty stuff that they probably should leave lying around their property like some sort of garage sale.
The warm weather has brought back the People Across the Street Who Stand Outside Talking Loudly and Smoking Newports. We know what brand they smoke because, well, when one goes in the house, another yells, "BRING ME SOME NEWPORTS!" loud enough for us to hear in our house. Which is on the second floor.
And I may very well take out the little rat dog across the street that sits in a third-story window and barks at my dog every. single. them. my dog goes outside to Do His Business(tm). My dog has a fairly severe case of social anxiety disorder, thank you very much, and he's made quite nervous by angry barking. The space outside my foyer is my space, Rat Dog, and if you don't like it, I feel for you. I am now walking my dog past Rat Dog's yard often, with the hopes that he'll start peeing on the trees and light poles on sidewalks near their property. So far, so good. I want Rat Dog smelling my dog's urine in his dreams.
But these are minor annoyances. My place is large, inexpensive and rather quiet, considering. But because "everything's going pretty well" is both a jinx of a statement and a boring post, I thought I'd share the neighbor stores.
I do, also, have a newer bag:
repliedtoall.blogspot.com
There. Until next time.
Monday, March 12, 2007
Where did I go wrong? Where did I go wrong? Where did I go wrong? Where did I go wrong? Where did I go wrong?Where did I go wrong?
Our dog is, essentially, an emotional cripple. Raised for the first three years of his life in a kennel, fed gruel and mash with dozens of other dogs at the same time. So, you can imagine, he has some tendencies that I like to call "home schooled." For example, he knows not of "tug," "fetch," "stay," or really any other dog game or command. He also has fairly strong seperation anxiety. So to curb that, we leave the radio on in the living room. The radio in the living room only gets one station; a Top 40 station from (you guessed it) New Jersey.
So here's what the kids listen to: The Fray. All songs in every playlist are now by The Fray. Many involve "Grey's Anatomy." All involve the piano and pain. Occasionally, to break up the monotony, there's a song about the taking off of clothes, but then it is back to The Fray for a Fraytastic 23-hour block of the same three songs by The Fray over and over and over and over AND OVER AGAIN.
Ahem.
So here's what the kids listen to: The Fray. All songs in every playlist are now by The Fray. Many involve "Grey's Anatomy." All involve the piano and pain. Occasionally, to break up the monotony, there's a song about the taking off of clothes, but then it is back to The Fray for a Fraytastic 23-hour block of the same three songs by The Fray over and over and over and over AND OVER AGAIN.
Ahem.
Thursday, February 01, 2007
Monday, January 22, 2007
Re-run
Before I switched jobs, I used to drive 25 miles to work, each way, most of it on the Pennsylvania Turnpike. It’s a straight shot and I can do it in less than 30 minutes door-to-door in theory. But the turnpike can be an unforgiving mistress – you don’t want to be stuck on a 30 mile stretch of road that has only four exits when there’s an accident up ahead.
There is always an accident up ahead.
When there is, I sit there bleeding my 20s out of my ears as I browse the bumper stickers ahead of me.
(Favorite bumper sticker: “If you’re going to ride my ass, at least pull my hair.” This person lives on my street, as I see his or her car there all the time. I was thinking of replacing that sticker with one that says “If you’re going to ride me, at least mow the lawn while you’re at it.” It’s better for the kids.)
So I like to think that there’s just one person, who, every day, turns the Turnpike into a Living Museum of Contemporary Automobiles (with admission charge, no less). Yeah, the same person. Every day.
It’s fun, because I get an arch nemesis. One who has no regard for his safety or others, an unlimited supply of late 90s Honda Accords, and insurance premiums the size of a small country’s GNP. Same guy, every time. Some times he’s talking on a cell phone, making a claim from yesterday. Some times he spills hot coffee all over himself. And some times, he does it because he just cannot escape his destiny.
Nor can I escape my destiny to pass by him, slowly, as his mimics the same “Gosh, is that your bumper over there?” facial expression standing on the shoulder, all the while harboring a secret kink for repentance.
More than anything, this same guy adds an element of danger to my otherwise sleepy weekday morning. On a good day, I get to work in 35 minutes. On a bad day, it can be 70. I never know. He has a habit of going Ricky Bobby style into the wall five minutes after I leave, rendering the traffic helicopter functionally useless.
It was during one of these 70 minute sessions that I listened to a book-on-tape version of “Paycheck,” the Phillip K. Dick story.
Short version of “Paycheck”: Engineer/mechanic wakes up in room in the pseudo-future. Realizes he can’t remember a couple of years. Remembers that part of his contract with employer is that he’d have his memory erased when his job is over. Instead of money, he’s “paid” himself with an envelope full of Stuff. Pissed, he almost discards Stuff until he realizes that the stuff is keeping him from being killed by Shadowy Government Agents, Employer, and Pretty Much Everybody Else. Finds out that what he worked on was a machine that can see the future, and he saw his own future and sent himself Stuff to save his life.
It worked pretty well as a short story, and it is always fun to read Dick’s stories which have the same protagonist (grizzled, chain-smoking, thoughtful) and same female lead (gorgeous, chain-smoking, not to be trusted). But wait! There’s a movie. So I borrowed the DVD from the Bristol Public Library here, and checked it out.
What was essentially a creepy time travel story became, before my eyes, a John Woo action movie. I haven’t really enjoyed a John Woo movie since he did Face\Off (or Face/Off, possibly just Face Off), a movie in which John Travolta switches faces with Nicolas Cage to infiltrate his crime ring (I would have held out for Jude Law, but whatever). They do this face-switching because they live in a pseudo future that has seamless face transplants but not wiretapping. Face/Off had great action scenes that made little sense and no morally redeeming subplots (other than a weirdo family bond in Travolta’s family that involved doing a face touching movie not unlike the Giant Panter’s Iron Claw from Nintendo Pro Wrestling). Awesome.
Woo’s Paycheck, though, sucked. Mostly because I didn’t like Ben Affleck.
No, I’m not one of those people who “hates” certain celebrities because of what they do in their personal life. I don’t know Ben Affleck, I likely won’t know Ben Affleck, so he can be Ty Cobb for all I care. I liked Good Will Hunting, and I think Changing Lanes is a total sleeper. What I mean by “not liking” him is that I didn’t like his character.
And that’s a big problem. Kurt Vonnegut called it the only rule of writing: make sure your main character is someone the audience likes.
Think about it. Andy Dufresne from Shawshank, Wesley from Princess Bride, even sniveling Lloyd Dobbler from Say Anything were guys we liked. We might not be friends with them if they actually evidence, but we at least wouldn’t plot their downfall. Some great main characters, like Rick Blaine from Casablanca, Han and Chewie, and (most notably) The Dude from Lebowski are people we’d want to hang out with if they really existed. We like them so much they seem like friends. We actually care about them, even though they’re not real. That’s a level of transcendence that elevates movies to an art form.
Affleck didn’t do this in Paycheck. His character, the Engineer, seems rich and spoiled, mildly abusive to Stock Bitch Buddy Character Guy (played by Paul Giamatti, speaking of “Paychecks”). In the movies most awkward scene he tries to proposition Uma Thurman in the first two minutes of meeting her, with all the tack of a drunk middle-aged man at a Denny’s in the wee hours of the morning. Seriously. They talk for 110 seconds and he tries to take her home, like it’s 3 A.M. at the Kappa Delta House. (Said out loud to the TV: “Dude, at least do shots with her and wait a little bit first.”)
I know that the screenplay was trying to make him have an “edge.” A deleted scene confirms this as it mentions that he was married and lost his wife and the baby in pregnancy (wife’s, not his). But the scene in which this happens is so clumsy and inarticulate that, in the first 15 crucial minutes where you decide if you even care about this character, you think he’s a tool. Maybe some of the 14-year old guys in the audience were impressed, and tried it out immediately on their friend’s cousins. But probably not.
Also, the movie was trying to plant a line about “second chances” so that it could bring it back in act three. This is, after all, a movie about time travel (sort of). But that’s the problem. Planting a line and brining it back – cyclical writing – only works to the extent that you can bury what you’ve planted. Not too far, so that the audience misses it, and not too shallow, that everyone knows you’re planting it. But just enough to trigger a reaction of surprise and delight. You can have people in a movie about time travel talk about “second chances” in the first act. It’s too obvious. Affleck might as well have said “Man, I wish I could have traveled back in time and started this conversation all over again,” followed by Uma saying, snarkily, “Why don’t you go build a time machine, then?”
Then again, Paycheck really seemed to think that its audience had the attention span of a Labrador puppy in a field of squirrels, chew toys and table scraps. Forty minutes in, Affleck sits in his apartment and reflects on the first Act of the movie. We know this because we see it in a two-minute recap. What the hell? Why not just put a title up on the screen that this is the Plot Recap For People Who Just Went Potty, Got Food, or Have Raging ADHD. It’s Paycheck, not Primer. The plot wasn’t all that hard to follow. The rest of the movie had flow-breaking moments where one character would ask “what’s he doing?” and we’d get a totally unnecessary explanation that really should have been spoken directly into the camera.
But mostly, Affleck’s character was just a jerk. They try to put some altruism in the movie, but really he looks into the future and sends himself all that he needs to keep the girl, stay rich and not die.
Which makes sense, I guess. That’s what everyone goes back in time for: to right the wrongs, save Doc Brown or their girlfriend from dying, or otherwise profit somehow.
Me? I’d go back in time, every morning, to one-half hour before that my arch nemesis crashes his car, and drive to work in smooth, cruise controlled serenity. Because, screw that guy.
There is always an accident up ahead.
When there is, I sit there bleeding my 20s out of my ears as I browse the bumper stickers ahead of me.
(Favorite bumper sticker: “If you’re going to ride my ass, at least pull my hair.” This person lives on my street, as I see his or her car there all the time. I was thinking of replacing that sticker with one that says “If you’re going to ride me, at least mow the lawn while you’re at it.” It’s better for the kids.)
So I like to think that there’s just one person, who, every day, turns the Turnpike into a Living Museum of Contemporary Automobiles (with admission charge, no less). Yeah, the same person. Every day.
It’s fun, because I get an arch nemesis. One who has no regard for his safety or others, an unlimited supply of late 90s Honda Accords, and insurance premiums the size of a small country’s GNP. Same guy, every time. Some times he’s talking on a cell phone, making a claim from yesterday. Some times he spills hot coffee all over himself. And some times, he does it because he just cannot escape his destiny.
Nor can I escape my destiny to pass by him, slowly, as his mimics the same “Gosh, is that your bumper over there?” facial expression standing on the shoulder, all the while harboring a secret kink for repentance.
More than anything, this same guy adds an element of danger to my otherwise sleepy weekday morning. On a good day, I get to work in 35 minutes. On a bad day, it can be 70. I never know. He has a habit of going Ricky Bobby style into the wall five minutes after I leave, rendering the traffic helicopter functionally useless.
It was during one of these 70 minute sessions that I listened to a book-on-tape version of “Paycheck,” the Phillip K. Dick story.
Short version of “Paycheck”: Engineer/mechanic wakes up in room in the pseudo-future. Realizes he can’t remember a couple of years. Remembers that part of his contract with employer is that he’d have his memory erased when his job is over. Instead of money, he’s “paid” himself with an envelope full of Stuff. Pissed, he almost discards Stuff until he realizes that the stuff is keeping him from being killed by Shadowy Government Agents, Employer, and Pretty Much Everybody Else. Finds out that what he worked on was a machine that can see the future, and he saw his own future and sent himself Stuff to save his life.
It worked pretty well as a short story, and it is always fun to read Dick’s stories which have the same protagonist (grizzled, chain-smoking, thoughtful) and same female lead (gorgeous, chain-smoking, not to be trusted). But wait! There’s a movie. So I borrowed the DVD from the Bristol Public Library here, and checked it out.
What was essentially a creepy time travel story became, before my eyes, a John Woo action movie. I haven’t really enjoyed a John Woo movie since he did Face\Off (or Face/Off, possibly just Face Off), a movie in which John Travolta switches faces with Nicolas Cage to infiltrate his crime ring (I would have held out for Jude Law, but whatever). They do this face-switching because they live in a pseudo future that has seamless face transplants but not wiretapping. Face/Off had great action scenes that made little sense and no morally redeeming subplots (other than a weirdo family bond in Travolta’s family that involved doing a face touching movie not unlike the Giant Panter’s Iron Claw from Nintendo Pro Wrestling). Awesome.
Woo’s Paycheck, though, sucked. Mostly because I didn’t like Ben Affleck.
No, I’m not one of those people who “hates” certain celebrities because of what they do in their personal life. I don’t know Ben Affleck, I likely won’t know Ben Affleck, so he can be Ty Cobb for all I care. I liked Good Will Hunting, and I think Changing Lanes is a total sleeper. What I mean by “not liking” him is that I didn’t like his character.
And that’s a big problem. Kurt Vonnegut called it the only rule of writing: make sure your main character is someone the audience likes.
Think about it. Andy Dufresne from Shawshank, Wesley from Princess Bride, even sniveling Lloyd Dobbler from Say Anything were guys we liked. We might not be friends with them if they actually evidence, but we at least wouldn’t plot their downfall. Some great main characters, like Rick Blaine from Casablanca, Han and Chewie, and (most notably) The Dude from Lebowski are people we’d want to hang out with if they really existed. We like them so much they seem like friends. We actually care about them, even though they’re not real. That’s a level of transcendence that elevates movies to an art form.
Affleck didn’t do this in Paycheck. His character, the Engineer, seems rich and spoiled, mildly abusive to Stock Bitch Buddy Character Guy (played by Paul Giamatti, speaking of “Paychecks”). In the movies most awkward scene he tries to proposition Uma Thurman in the first two minutes of meeting her, with all the tack of a drunk middle-aged man at a Denny’s in the wee hours of the morning. Seriously. They talk for 110 seconds and he tries to take her home, like it’s 3 A.M. at the Kappa Delta House. (Said out loud to the TV: “Dude, at least do shots with her and wait a little bit first.”)
I know that the screenplay was trying to make him have an “edge.” A deleted scene confirms this as it mentions that he was married and lost his wife and the baby in pregnancy (wife’s, not his). But the scene in which this happens is so clumsy and inarticulate that, in the first 15 crucial minutes where you decide if you even care about this character, you think he’s a tool. Maybe some of the 14-year old guys in the audience were impressed, and tried it out immediately on their friend’s cousins. But probably not.
Also, the movie was trying to plant a line about “second chances” so that it could bring it back in act three. This is, after all, a movie about time travel (sort of). But that’s the problem. Planting a line and brining it back – cyclical writing – only works to the extent that you can bury what you’ve planted. Not too far, so that the audience misses it, and not too shallow, that everyone knows you’re planting it. But just enough to trigger a reaction of surprise and delight. You can have people in a movie about time travel talk about “second chances” in the first act. It’s too obvious. Affleck might as well have said “Man, I wish I could have traveled back in time and started this conversation all over again,” followed by Uma saying, snarkily, “Why don’t you go build a time machine, then?”
Then again, Paycheck really seemed to think that its audience had the attention span of a Labrador puppy in a field of squirrels, chew toys and table scraps. Forty minutes in, Affleck sits in his apartment and reflects on the first Act of the movie. We know this because we see it in a two-minute recap. What the hell? Why not just put a title up on the screen that this is the Plot Recap For People Who Just Went Potty, Got Food, or Have Raging ADHD. It’s Paycheck, not Primer. The plot wasn’t all that hard to follow. The rest of the movie had flow-breaking moments where one character would ask “what’s he doing?” and we’d get a totally unnecessary explanation that really should have been spoken directly into the camera.
But mostly, Affleck’s character was just a jerk. They try to put some altruism in the movie, but really he looks into the future and sends himself all that he needs to keep the girl, stay rich and not die.
Which makes sense, I guess. That’s what everyone goes back in time for: to right the wrongs, save Doc Brown or their girlfriend from dying, or otherwise profit somehow.
Me? I’d go back in time, every morning, to one-half hour before that my arch nemesis crashes his car, and drive to work in smooth, cruise controlled serenity. Because, screw that guy.
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