Forced into the Groove

On my commute home last night, I ended up sitting next to a guy with his iPod cranked up so loud I was forced to listen to his music, distorted and scratchy, blasting out of his ears. I couldn't identify the music, but it had the general parameters of a funky groove. In other circumstances this is something I would probably enjoy, but I was trying to read, and my brain could not block out this intruding stimulus, so I kept losing the thread of the article and ended up rereading the same section several times before giving up. I shot the guy a couple of annoyed looks, but he was blissed out in Funkland and never noticed.

It reminded me of the old days (which is to say, the 80s), when people would get on the subway carrying gigantic boomboxes blasting Run-DMC or whatever the hot hit was at the time. But in fact the blaring-headphone phenomenon is closer in spirit to when you're stopped at a red light and the car adjacent to you is bleating and vibrating with the driver's music choice. Invariably the sound is buzzy and distorted, because the music has been on so loud for so long that the vibrations have loosened the screws that attach the speakers to the back window shelf. Yeah, it was like that.

Patriots' Day

Here in Massachusetts, today is Patriots' Day, which is observed as a state holiday in commemoration of the Battle of Lexington and Concord that started the Revolutionary War. It's also the day when the Boston Marathon is run, and it coincides with school vacation week in most cities and towns.

But here at the office, it's one of the only holidays that we don't have off, and with everything going on in the city today, getting to and from work was a bit more tricky than usual. Not terrible, because I stayed away from the Copley Square area. Usually I get off the Orange line at Back Bay and take the 39 bus down Huntington Avenue, but that route (along with many others) gets altered on Marathon Day, so I just stayed on the train to Ruggles, where I got on one of the many buses that runs through the hospital area.

Last year I took the day off, but we are going away again later this week, back to Santa Cruz for more family stuff related to the Mrs.' father's passing a few months ago. I'll be out of the office for four days, so it didn't seem necessary (or a good use of my vacation days) to take today off. And anyway, I would rather have off the day after Thanksgiving, or Christmas Eve, or the week between Christmas and New Year's, which are all paid holidays for us.

Snippets

It's deadline week again, but things are going well. Once again I am ahead of schedule, and hopefully I can maintain this from month to month.

Otherwise I feel like I haven't had much to say, which is not good from the perspective of you folks who visit here looking for fresh content. I feel some degree of obligation to post semi-regularly, so I thought I would collect some miscellaneous bits that aren't necessarily postworthy on their own.

--I finally have a boss again, after a period of more than six months. He started this week, but oddly, I have not yet spoken to him. You would think that someone would have brought him around and introduced him, but that didn't happen. I saw him yesterday at our weekly bagel breakfast, but as soon as he was introduced to the group, he fell into a conversation with our publishing director and remained so for the next thirty minutes. Even as the gathering was breaking up and people were heading back to work, they were still talking, so I guess I'll catch up with him at some point.

--The Mrs. has a job interview today. While not remarkable in and of itself, this is her first one since she decided to attempt to go back to work, and it's with her former employer, which is a bit ironic, though the position in question is in a different office and is somewhat different in nature.

--My sister is participating in the Avon Walk for Breast Cancer next month. I am not soliciting donations on her behalf, but perhaps you too know someone who is planning on walking that you could support. It's 40 miles over two days, and she has been training for a couple of months, walking gradually longer distances with her walk partner, and even going to a gym three times a week. This is impressive because, like me, she is fairly averse to physical exertion in all forms.

--For the first time in several years, the Mrs. and I are getting both a federal and a state tax refund. This was largely due to me being unemployed or underemployed, and one year to my not having enough withheld. For the past couple of years we have used out state refund to pay the balance we owed the feds, but this year we're getting a few hundred bucks back from each.

--We're probably going to use some of that refund for a memory foam mattress, and since Jordan's Furniture is doing their Red Sox promotion again this year, we'll probably buy it from them. Given that Jordan's issued refunds to about 24,000 customers after last year's World Series victory by the Sox, they decided to make it a little harder this time: in order for us to get back whatever we end up spending (excluding tax and delivery charges, of course), the Sox must not only reach the World Series and win it, but they must do so in a four-game sweep. But hey, that's how they won it in '04 and '07, so who knows?

The (Your Company's Name Here) Life

The Mrs. doesn't read this blog, but she suggested this post: while reading Entertainment Weekly, she came across an ad for George Michael's upcoming tour. (Twenty years ago, while still in high school, she was a fan, so it's understandable.)

The tour's shows were listed by date and location, but no cities or states were given, just the names of the venues where is to perform. Out of 21 dates, all but three venues have corporate-sponsorship names like American Airlines Center and General Motors Place. The exceptions? Madison Square Garden (it seems quite odd that naming rights to it have not been sold yet), The Forum (ditto), and the San Diego Sports Arena (sounds like they're just lacking imagination).

So how long, then, before promoters start selling naming rights to the actual tours? Like the Ensure George Michael Yep, That Geezer's Still Around Tour? Or the Energizer Huey Lewis Needs a Retirement Home Experience?

(Thanks, Mrs.)

T'd Off

According to an article in today's Boston Globe, men who wear visible crewneck undershirts under their button-front shirts are committing a fashion crime. Wow, who knew?

I found this article pretty ridiculous, for a couple of reasons. First, I had to read the article twice to discern that the writer's specific complaint seems to be against guys who wear dark T-shirts under light dress shirts. I don't necessarily disagree with this (I do think it looks dumb when you can read a T-shirt's graphic through the shirt on top of it), but it seems like a pretty flimsy hook on which to hang a feature story, and it's poorly executed.

Second, it's a weak argument, and the author proves it himself by pointing out how he sees men dressed this way all over. If that's the case, I would say that the guys wearing the style are right and the author is wrong. Third, the author's regular gig for the Globe is reviewing movies, so how exactly does that qualify him to tell us how to dress?

He seems to think guys should wear V-neck undershirts, but there are quite a few of us who prefer to keep our chest hair covered when we're in public. Modesty is so underrated these days.

Rock On

Eesh, where were we? Too long since the last post. It's not like I've been swamped with work, or doing anything especially exciting (unless you find household errands exciting, in which case, well...)

I did manage to finish a book that I had started a couple of months ago, but hadn't made much progress on until about two weeks ago. The Sound of Our Town is a history of Boston rock & roll by Brett Milano, who has been covering local music for various newspapers and magazines for decades, so he knows his subject. He starts with local doo-wop groups in the 50s and works chronologically up to the present day. It's definitely worth reading for anyone who's a fan of local music, and a good introduction to Boston's rich rock history for those who are not familiar with it.

Flopped

I just saw a guy in the restroom wearing flip-flops. I should point out for those of you visiting from elsewhere that rain has been pouring down all day today here in Boston, and it's about 40 degrees.

Sometimes I just want to ask people, "What's wrong with you?" But I don't. Should I?

This Is Why I Married You...?

Last night I asked the Mrs. if she wanted to come into town and meet me for lunch. She thought about it for a few seconds (not a good sign) and said, "Not really."

I asked, "Why not?"

She: "Because I'd have to drive in, and find a place to park..."

Me: "Well yes, you're so busy these days." (The Mrs. is still enjoying a life of leisure after leaving her job at the end of October.)

She: "I see you all the time anyway."

Me: "Well, I see you all the time too, but I still asked."

Shack Attack Flashback

A couple of months ago, I got a new high-definition TiVo to go along with my high-def TV. I was going to write about it, but most of my friends have been hearing about my TiVo obsession since I got my first one in 2005, and everybody else, well, usually people just roll their eyes. Either you're already a believer, or you don't care at all. Anyway, I wanted to move the older TiVo into the other room and hook it up to the other TV. I needed some network cable, the round stuff with the connectors that look like wider phone-line thingies.

I asked the IT guy at work if he had any cable lying around, and he dropped some off at my desk later that day. I brought it home and put it somewhere, but I didn't move the TiVo right away because there was some stuff on it that we hadn't watched yet. After we did get around to watching those shows, I didn't move the TiVo right away, out of laziness more than anything else.

On Sunday I was feeling somewhat industrious, so I started doing a bunch of little things around the house that I'd been meaning to get to, and eventually I got around to moving the old TiVo. Of course, this was the point when I realized I didn't know where I'd put the network cable, which I needed to connect the TiVo box to my cable modem so it can obtain programming information via the internet. (TiVos can also do this through a phone line, but our home phone is the voice-over-IP kind, and for some reason, these two pieces of electronic gear don't always play well together.)

I spent about two hours looking for the cable. Our apartment isn't that big, and there are only so many places it could be, so I looked in those places over and over again, along with every other likely possibility. It's also ten feet long, so wherever it was, it would be fairly obvious. I did not find it, which led me to the conclusion that it may have been accidentally thrown out. I don't know if that's what really happened, but believing that's what happened makes me feel a tiny bit better about my inability to find it.

So last night we were going to Trader Joe's on Memorial Drive, and I realized that I could pick up a cable at the MicroCenter across the parking lot. I used to go there fairly frequently, but I hadn't been in the store in several years. I also knew that I could get a cable cheaper online, but the frustration of not being able to find the original made me impatient and disinclined to wait another week in order to save a few bucks.

Normally a trivial errand like this wouldn't be worthy of a post, but when I went to pay for the cable, I was confronted with the ghost of Radio Shack. Since the purchase was only a few dollars, I chose to pay in cash. See, MicroCenter likes to send you promotional flyers in the mail, just like the Shack used to a generation ago, back when they were still vaguely relevant in the consumer electronics marketplace. If you buy something with a credit card, MicroCenter gets your info from the transaction and puts you on their mailing list. If you pay cash, they ask you for your name and address, so they can put you on their mailing list.

You would think that a $10 network cable would not be considered a significant enough purchase to trigger the address request, but I can recall buying something like a $2 headphone adapter at the Shack and getting asked for my name and address, so I suppose I should not have been surprised that the MicroCenter cashier asked me. I started to give a fake name and address, almost on instinct, because it's what I used to do back in the Shack days, but then I stopped. I looked at the cashier and said, "Can we just skip this nonsense?"

I amended my question by making it clear that I understood she was just doing her job, and I wasn't trying to give her a hard time. She shrugged and took my money, so I guess they aren't too rigid about it, but it all just seems so silly. Regardless of what MicroCenter thinks, the presence of a flyer in my mailbox is not going to make me any more likely to shop there.

Bargain Clicking

Over the weekend, I started putting away some of my heavy-duty winter gear, like my parka and the seriously insulated boots (Chippewa, made in the USA) that I bought after that first December snowstorm. Am I worried that we might get a storm in April? Nope, I'm not even considering the possibility. Having worn one pair of boots or another pretty much every day for the past four months, I've reached the point where I'm kind of tired of them. I'm ready for the weather to warm up, so I can break out some of my favorite retro sneakers. In fact, I'm tired of most of my winter clothing. Happens every year around this time.

In a similar vein, one morning a few weeks ago I was getting ready for work when I realized that I was tired of wearing jeans every day. For a long time I had thought myself lucky because I had jobs where I did not have to adhere to a dress code, but suddenly I found myself wanting more variety. It's not like I don't own any other pants besides jeans, but when I took a closer look, I found that in fact I had little else: one or two pairs of khakis that fit, one or two pairs that no longer fit, and a couple pairs of corduroys.

Beyond wanting to mix things up, I think this also has something to do with environment. At my previous office job, the company's founders (two around my age, one about a decade older) and most of the other employees dressed like the computer programmers and web developers they were: jeans, T-shirts, sneakers, the occasional button-front shirt, shorts in summer. One guy took off his shoes as soon as he arrived in the office, and padded around in his socks all day. I took my cues from the rest of them, and adjusted my manner of dress slightly so it more or less aligned with what everyone else was wearing.

The same thing is now happening at my current job. I've been here for more than two years; I started as a contractor, and was hired as a full-time employee almost a year ago, so I feel established and like I belong. The guys in this office don't dress up, but they do dress one or two notches better than the guys in my previous office, so I am reacting to that by wanting to elevate my own dress accordingly.

On my lunch break a day or two after this realization, I was poking around on eBay and drifted into the clothing section. I've bought shoes on eBay, but no articles of clothing other than a coat a couple of years back. After a few minutes, I realized that there were tons of brand-new clothing items for sale, much of it dirt cheap.

As a result, over the past couple of weeks I have picked up several new pairs of khakis at an average transaction price of around $11 each plus shipping. One of the pairs of pants that no longer fit me was a style I particularly liked, a nicely broken-in khaki made by Polo and inspired by World War II uniforms, that I found on clearance a few years back at Bloomingdale's in Manhattan. They are well-made and (at least when I first got them) fit me extremely well.

I love these pants and was really bummed that they no longer fit me, so I was very excited to find some of them available in my current size on eBay. (Note to self: make an effort to prevent waistline from expanding any further.) Finding them at all felt like a victory, since they are not carried by many stores; in those that do, they retail for around $100 a pair, so finding them so cheap on eBay was a double bonus.

I also scored an $80 pair of L.L. Bean shoes for $20, and a vintage Woolrich shirt-jacket (a good layering item during the transitional weather of April) in excellent condition for $10. There are a couple of other auctions that have a few more days to go, but other than those, I think I'm set for a while. On the other hand, there's a part of my brain that says I should buy as many pairs of these favorite khakis as I can find, and hoard them.

A Plague of White Shoes

I'm worried. I've spotted a men's fashion trend for the coming spring-summer season that is very disturbing. I'm talking about white shoes.

Last week I happened to be in one of those self-serve shoe-store chains that have become popular. They offer a large selection and the pretense of a good deal, but if you pay attention to prices or do a little online comparison shopping, you'll find that these stores charge pretty much the same as what you'd pay for the shoes anywhere else.

Anyway, there are two of these stores within about a mile of our house, different, competing chains. The names of the stores don't matter, because they sell the same shoes. There's also that big one downtown, but does anyone bother to shop downtown anymore? Last time I was down there, on a weekday after work, it was like a ghost town.

So I was wandering around the shoe store, mostly just killing time, and I started to notice all kinds of white shoes in the men's section. Some were leather, which is bad enough, but some of them appeared to be fabric, which is I don't know how many kinds of horrifying. Most of them were in the form of loafers or what are sometimes called "driving shoes."

I'm starting to think that fashion designers sit around going, "Let's see, what can we come up with that's completely hideous, but if we package and present and market it the right way, people will think they have to have it?" "Hey, I know--how about we do the white shoes again?" "Perfect! Ha ha, those suckers. Pass the espresso, will ya?"

I lived through this fashion scourge the first time around; it was called the Seventies, and it wasn't any more pleasant back then. When you wear white shoes, you abandon any element of dignity you might have had. There is one exception to this: white bucks, those suede shoes with red rubber soles that are favored by wealthy WASP types in the summer months, most likely with no socks. It's pretty much impossible to be anything but dignified in those.

If you feel like you want to try to rock the white bucks this summer, be my guest. But any other white shoes that are not sneakers or golf shoes are just wrong. Proceed at your own risk.

Don't Sit There

Coming home from work this evening, I got on a train and started to lift a piece of newspaper off the seat right next to the door. A person sitting across from me said, "Don't sit there, it's wet." I lifted the paper to find some sort of beige gunk. It looked like it could have been hummus, if hummus was more liquid than solid.

The next seat over also had papers on it, so I started to move those. The woman said, "No, that one's wet too," but I was a little too fast. There was more beige goo on that seat, which had gotten smeared on the paper, so now it was smeared on my glove as well. I moved away and the woman said, "I tried to warn you." She did try to warn me, so I looked at her and nodded and said, "Yes, you did," suggesting that I appreciated her effort. I used another piece of discarded newspaper to wipe off my glove.

At the next stop a man sitting next to the woman got off the train, so I sat next to her. We watched as people got on the train, and as they attempted to sit in the gooey seats, she repeated her warning for the benefit of the newcomers. Next stop, same thing, except this time there was another impatient person like me, who got goo on her hand despite my seat-mate's warning. She looked at me and said, "See, you're not the only one." I said, "It's like watching an experiment." She nodded in agreement and added, "a social science experiment."

Maybe it really was an experiment.

With This Ring...

I made it through my deadline week, this time with a bit less angst than in the past couple of months because I was actually a little ahead of things this time. It was nice to be able to email the person whose work depends on me finishing my work and tell her everything was ready, a day or so earlier than when I usually do. And it made yesterday a pretty low-key day in the office, since quite a few people had already taken the day off for the Easter holiday.

Back in February when we went to California, the Mrs. stayed behind a few extra days to spend some time with her sister in Santa Cruz. While she was there, they happened to go to a jewelry store that was closing because the owners were retiring. As it happened, everything was 50% off, so she decided to buy us new wedding rings.

We got married almost ten years ago, and we paid for our wedding ourselves, so we did not spend a lot on the rings. We had them made by someone at the Cambridge Artists' Cooperative, and while they were a good value, I think it's accurate to say that neither of us was ever really that happy with them. The rings were white gold, or at least that's what we asked for, but they had a distinctly yellow cast to them. I don't do yellow gold; it just isn't me. No gold watches, no gold anything. I won't even wear a belt with a brass buckle.

But some things just end up not being that important in day-to-day life, so we wore the rings, and that was that. Of course, over time I put on some weight, and eventually I realized that I could not remove the ring. I had no reason to, but it had gotten kind of tight on my finger, and I figured that wasn't good. So I was quite excited when the Mrs. surprised me with a platinum wedding band. Platinum is what I'd always wanted, but we couldn't afford it back in '98.

Since I wasn't with her, she'd guessed on the size, and this one was too big, but better too big than too small. We managed to get the old ring off my finger with some liquid soap and about five minutes of manipulation. I left my finger bare for a couple of weeks to see if the indentation would go away; it's now been about five weeks and it's still there, though it is less pronounced than it was.

After that I started wearing the new ring, but it wiggled around. I knew I could get an inexpensive ring guard to attach around the underside and make it fit better, but I wanted to have it sized. A couple of years ago the Mrs. bought a ring from Barmakian Jewelers in Framingham. Barmakian is kind of a fancy place, but they've been in business for almost 100 years, and they believe in the old-fashioned sort of service that's not so easy to come by these days. They also have a store downtown in the Jewelers' Building, on Washington Street across from H&M, so I decided to go there. I had called the store, and was told the resizing would cost around $50.

The store is open later on Thursdays, which was the most convenient time for me to stop by. They occupy two separate areas of the seventh floor of the Jewelers' Building, and of course I went into the wrong one first, but they got me turned around and sent me in the right direction. The wedding ring department was pretty dead; the clerk said he could have the ring resized for me in about ten minutes, so I sat and waited. He came out with it after it had been resized but before it was polished, to ensure I was happy with the fit.

When it was finished he came back and gave it to me. I put it on and looked at him, then looked around for a cash register. I looked back at him and said, "Uh, this didn't come from here." He thought about it for a moment, then kind of shrugged at me, as if to say, "I won't tell anyone if you won't." I thanked him and went on my way.

So, consider this a plug for Barmakian Jewelers. Not just because they gave me a freebie, but because they care about making their customers happy, even ones who haven't actually bought anything.

NoSpace

I have a long-standing policy of not belonging to any of the social-networking sites. I was going to say I have resisted joining them, but I haven't really resisted, because there wasn't anything to resist; I just didn't care. I have no need to be on MySpace because it's for kids, bands, and would-be predators, and I'm none of those. Facebook is for the college crowd, I'm not LinkedIn, and mercifully, I don't Twitter (it has "twit" right in its name, that's a pretty clear sign to stay away).

Due to my stubborn and contrary nature, I often resist doing things precisely because others are doing them. At times I have been asked or prodded to join one of these networks for various reasons. My friend Sandra has tried on numerous occasions to get me to join one or more of these sites. More recently, my former boss invited me to join Facebook, which I politely declined. (I hope he wasn't offended, but I didn't hear back from him, so...) Even if I was interested in joining, after some of the things I've heard about how hard they made it for people to cancel, I'd have second thoughts about it anyway.

The truth is, I just don't really like people all that much (which, if you've been paying attention at all, should be fairly obvious). I'm over 40, rather set in my ways, and have a decent complement of friends already. I have all the social network I need. That's not to say that if I met you for the first time tomorrow, we wouldn't become friends. I'm just happy with the way things are. But there's a new twist to all this, and I'm not sure what to make of it.

The Mrs., who if anything cares less about this stuff than I do, has joined Facebook at the urging of her sister, so they can play Scrabulous, the Facebook version of Scrabble. The really strange part of this is not that she joined, but that she would do so to play Scrabble. She has always hated Scrabble because she's not such a great speller, and because her brain is not as good as other people's at finding words amidst a jumble of letters sitting on a little wooden shelf. But in the online gamespace, she can take her time and try out words to see if they are, in fact, actual words. Her sister seems to be at about the same level of ability, because their games have been very close. The Mrs. now has games going with a couple of other friends as well.

Now she's also gone and joined LinkedIn, mainly because she's looking for a job. I feel a bit differently about LinkedIn, because it's a professional networking site, as opposed to a social-networking site. Sure, people may join partly to locate and reconnect with old friends (that seems to be the extent of the "networking" the Mrs. is doing so far), but that isn't its primary purpose. I admit that I'm also tempted to join, but fortunately I'm not looking for a job, and I don't plan to be, now that I've finally got some occupational stability.

There are some old coworkers and friends I'd like to touch base with, but I could probably find them some other way if I set my mind to it. So I probably won't join. Why ruin a good thing?

Heads Up Follow-Up

So, it seems that lamppost stunt I linked to last week wasn't real after all. Well, it was real in the sense that it was a PR stunt, so yeah, not real.

Laugh of the Day

This blog has nothing to do with anything, it's just one of the funnier things I've seen in a while. Maybe you'll agree, maybe you won't. But it does make you wonder about they mysteries of human attraction.

American Branding

Last month, JCPenney launched American Living, an exclusive (to their stores) line of clothing and home goods. You may have seen the commercials, which resemble the TV equivalent of glossy fashion magazine ads. In an unusual arrangement, the products are being produced for Penney by Polo Ralph Lauren, though (not surprisingly) you won't find his name anywhere on them, or in any of the advertising. This is the first time that Polo has agreed to produce products to be sold under another brand, and it's a clear attempt to draw new, more affluent shoppers to Penney.

I had been eagerly (and somewhat irrationally) anticipating the arrival of this line since first hearing about it last year. Although I'm not a big Penney shopper, I do have several pairs of their store-brand jeans, and I'm always on the lookout for new sources for the kind of clothes I like to wear, and figured that the prices would be lower than for comparable Polo-brand items.

About the only time I get near a JCPenney is when we go to the Northshore Mall in Peabody (not that often), but as it happened, when I was in California last month, we went to a "lifestyle center" (industry-speak for an outdoor, village-style mall) that had a JCPenney, and although the line had not been officially launched at the time, they had pretty much all of the men's clothing in-store already.

Naturally I was pleased by this, until I started looking at the clothing. All the shirts had a big, colorful eagle embroidered on the pocket. Sound familiar? The eagles were bigger than the polo players that have kept me from buying lots of Polo clothes over the years, but, to be fair, at least these shirts had pockets. I know, I should have seen this coming, but somehow I didn't. I wanted to believe that someone could market a line of clothing that didn't need logos, and I also thought that Penney, being a somewhat traditional, middle-of-the-road store, wouldn't go for something so, well, bourgeois.

Anyway, my disappointment was tempered (somewhat) by the fact that the clothes seem to be decently made. In fact, the khakis (which had only a little fabric label on the back) seemed indistinguishable to me from Polo khakis, and I would not be surprised if they were made in the same factories. While it's true that the quality of Polo clothing has declined from what it was say, fifteen years ago (when it was also somewhat less ubiquitous), in general they still use better fabrics and their clothes tend to feel nicely broken-in even when new, which for me is part of their appeal. And the prices, while high for Penney, are indeed lower than what you'd pay for a pair of khakis with a Polo label in Macy's, and the Penney clothing will frequently go on sale, to stimulate sales and interest in the line.

After I had returned from my trip, I decided I wanted a pair of the khakis, so I ordered them online, along with a belt. My order was processed and shipped the same day, which was encouraging. Shipment was via the US Postal Service, which was not. "Tracking" USPS shipments, unlike those of UPS or FedEx, is more of a concept than a reality. The status of your package is updated once per day, if you're lucky, and often says something vague like "shipping information received" or "arrival at unit."

After almost a week had gone by, I figured that I should have received my package, but every day I had looked up my order information on the JCPenney site, and had gotten a tracking number full of zeros and "no information available." Uh-oh. The next day, however, I got not only a complete tracking number, but the information that my package had been delivered. Two days earlier. So now the USPS can bend the space-time continuum? Even though the mail room stopped handling our packages after our office moved within the building last summer, I headed down there, just in case. Nothing there. I checked again the next day. Nothing.

I called Penney customer service. I was told that no action could be taken until ten days after the shipment date, which was still another day or two away, and a Saturday. After the weekend I checked the mail room again (nothing, of course) and called customer service again. They offered to cancel and re-enter my order, but I opted to just cancel and get a refund. I guess I'll just buy the pants next time I'm at the mall. But I have to wonder: that package was allegedly delivered somewhere, just not to me. Who's got my pants?

Sleep Research

I arrived home late Saturday night with a few more beers in me than is typical these days, and with my ears ringing because I'd forgotten my frickin' earplugs when running out the door to see that band I was plugging the other day. (It was an excellent show, by the way--they sold out Lizard Lounge.)

Before falling into bed, I remembered that Daylight Savings Time was kicking in, so I went around and set all the clocks an hour ahead. So by that reckoning, it was already after 2 when I hit the pillow, and I ended up getting around seven hours' sleep. Usually I have a rough time adjusting during the week following the springtime hour change, but on Sunday afternoon I found myself with an opportunity. The Mrs. had gone out, the dog was dozing, the house was quiet, and I decided that I should take a nap.

I slept for almost two hours, and woke up with a big grin on my face, feeling great. When I woke up this morning, I felt none of the grogginess and disorientation I've experienced in the past. Looks like I've discovered the secret to surviving the DST switchover. And really, if you think about it, is there much that sleep can't cure or relieve?

What Are You Doing Saturday Night?

I know it's kind of short notice, but a plug is in order: our friend Sandra's main squeeze Dave has himself a band called The Rationales. They're playing a show tomorrow, Saturday the 8th, at the Lizard Lounge, which is on Mass. Ave. in Cambridge between Harvard and Porter, downstairs from Cambridge Common. Eight bucks gets you in, and you'll also get to see Chick and Joyce from 90's local faves Scarce do an acoustic set, and more.

Heads Up

What's our world coming to? I wish this was some sort of joke, but it's on Yahoo News, so probably not.

How can we hope to thin the herd, Darwin Awards-style, when there are those who would try to thwart it?

Tell Me a Story

I just got an email from a friend asking, "where's the blog?" Do you all miss me that much?

The truth is, I often write these things during the workday, and many of those times I should have been doing my work. Lately work has just gotten too busy for me to take time out to spend so much time on my posts, and it's probably going to stay that way, so I suppose I will have to adjust. I get a full hour for lunch, and I take it every day, so that would seem like a good time to post.

Anyway, there's also the matter of material. Believe it or not, there are times when I don't have any topic ideas at the ready. Sometimes my daily commute provides me with impromptu blog fodder, but (thankfully, really) that doesn't happen every day. But sometimes inspiration comes from unexpected places, and I did read something in the paper this morning that raised my eyebrows.

For the second time in less than a week, the author of a memoir has been exposed for fabricating the work. Last week the person in question happened to be a resident of this area, but the story I read about today was more interesting to me, partly because I happened to read a profile of the writer in the same paper just last week. Even then, there were elements of her story that did not sound quite right to me, and some things were glossed over in the profile that left me wondering.

This woman wrote a book under a different name, presenting it as the story of her childhood and adolescence as a half-white, half-Native American living in a black family's foster home in South Central Los Angeles. She said she had followed her foster brothers into the Bloods gang and worked as a drug runner for gang members. In fact, she is white, was never a foster child, and had a reasonably privileged upbringing as a Valley girl. She now says that much of the book is based on the experiences of people she met while working with anti-gang violence organizations, and that she felt those people did not have the opportunity to tell their own stories, so she (sort of) did it on their behalf.

When I hear about situations like this, what I wonder is: how do you think you can pull off a lie of such magnitude and get away with it, especially now that we're in the age of the internet? This woman's older sister saw the profile I read last week, that had the fabricator's PICTURE in it, and contacted her publisher to tell them she was a fake. (Gotta be some bad blood in that family, huh?) But if it wasn't a family member, it might have been someone she went to school with, or a neighbor of her parents, or her piano teacher, or any of a dozen other possibilities.

If you're trying to scam the world in such a manner, why not say to the reporter, "Um, yeah, I would really prefer if you didn't put my picture in the paper because, well, there might be people from back in my gang days who wouldn't want me talking about this stuff so openly" or some bullshit like that. Maybe it was intentional--maybe it was all just a publicity stunt, except that the publisher has recalled the book and pulled the plug on her tour, probably not the desired end result.

One other nagging question: why has there been this recent spate of embellishments and falsifications? What's so terrible about presenting these stories as fiction? Why try to fool everyone? It would be clear that they were informed by real people and events, and would certainly be as powerful as a memoir. I can't understand why one would risk so much: reputation, friends, possibly livelihood. It doesn't seem worth the price.

I occasionally fudge dates a little, such as saying something happened "yesterday" when it actually happened a few days or a week before--sometimes I don't get around to telling the story right away--but I don't make up stuff.

Jumpin' Jerk

The weirdest thing happened to me yesterday. As I was leaving work, I stopped in the restroom. Someone was using the urinal, so I went into the stall. When I came out, the person was still there, standing at the sink. He wasn't washing his hands or anything, just standing there, staring at himself in the mirror. I recognized him as one of the reference librarians.

I stood there, waiting to use the sink. And waiting. He did nothing, and didn't move. A full minute passed. I was getting a bit impatient to get on my way, so I looked into the mirror, hoping to catch his attention. After a few seconds he appeared to notice me, and started jumping up and down in place. I just stood there and looked at him, totally floored.

He continued pogoing up and down, but slowly started moving backward as he jumped, so that he gradually moved away from the sink. He never said a word. By now I didn't really want to wash my hands anymore, because I just wanted to get the hell away from the guy, but I did it anyway, as quickly as possible, and took off.

This isn't the first time I've experienced weirdness in the restroom on this floor. A few weeks ago I encountered a guy yapping away on his cell phone, and last week I walked in to find a woman standing in there, seemingly having just finished a cell phone conversation. But I haven't seen either of those weirdos again, whereas I passed Pogo once already this morning. And every time I see the guy, I know I'm going to think to myself, YOU FREAK! WHAT THE HELL IS WRONG WITH YOU?

The Daily Grind

By now you all know I love my gadgets. In fact, I got a new gadget a few days ago that I'm very excited about. I've been messing with it every day, and when I'm not using it, I like to just admire it. But it's not a computer, not a TV, not a cell phone or GPS or iPod or other mobile device.

It's my new coffee maker. And believe me when I say this thing deserves to be called a gadget.

My previous coffee maker still worked, but it was somewhat past its prime in terms of making good coffee. It was seven years old, but when you use a thing like that every single day, it ages similarly to dog years, so by that measure it was almost 50. I remember when I got it because the one I had before that died very suddenly: one day it made me coffee, the next day it was dead. I'd had that one only two or three years, so it definitely died too young.

When I started thinking about replacing my coffee maker, I decided that I wanted the kind that grinds the beans and then makes the coffee all in one unit. It's been pretty well established and documented in these posts that I'm a very lazy person, and while I certainly appreciate the flavor difference gained by grinding your coffee beans just before brewing, I am far too slothful to make that happen every day, or even just on weekends. I generally grind it at the store when I buy it, or if I'm feeling particularly indolent, I buy it already ground. So one of the grind-and-brew units seemed like an excellent option for me.

I had mentioned to my siblings that this was something they could get us for Christmas, but either they didn't have enough time, or they didn't want to try to guess which one to get, because they gave us a gift card for Macy's. Macy's hasn't exactly been my favorite store for a while now, but they do still have a decent housewares department, so off I went in search of a snazzy new coffee machine. Somewhat to my surprise, they had only two grind-and-brew models, neither of which appealed to me. Hopefully we'll find something else to use the gift card for, eventually.

I started looking around online to see what was available and what I should expect it to cost. A Krups unit caught my eye, imposing and purposeful-looking, but it was $130. Somehow I ended up on Amazon reading users' comments, and one of the least expensive and best-reviewed units was a Melitta. Amazon was selling it for $50, so I bought it. It arrived just before we left for California, so I left it to deal with when I got back.

However, in addition to being lazy, I am frequently not satisfied. After using the Melitta for a few days, I concluded it wasn't really what I wanted. It's my own fault, because I didn't do enough research beforehand. I have always had coffee makers that use cone filters, because I feel they make better coffee than the ones that use basket-style filters. (All of you French-press fawners and percolator partisans can save yourselves the trouble of telling me how much better the coffee is--I believe you, but did you catch the part about me being lazy?) Also, I prefer paper filters; I never use those permanent mesh filters, because I can't stand having to clean the thing every day (again with the lazy).

As it turned out, not only did the Melitta come with a built-in mesh filter, but it was also basket-shaped. The grinding blades are attached to the bottom of the basket, so there is no way to bypass it or use anything different. Like I said, my own fault. I decided not to keep it, but since I had already used it several times I did not think it was appropriate to return it, so I opted to re-gift it. I cleaned everything thoroughly, packed it all back in its box, and gave it to someone who will enjoy it, and to whom we owed Christmas and birthday gifts.

As soon as I had decided the Melitta was not for me, my mind went back to the Krups. It was large, formidable. It had levers and buttons and was kind of complicated-looking and, well, masculine. Not that a woman couldn't or wouldn't use it, but it's a guy's coffee maker, if that makes any sense. Here, take a look for yourself. See what I mean?

I checked it out in person at a Crate & Barrel. The thing weighs over eight pounds. The grinder assembly sits on top, above the (cone) filter chamber. You can choose how finely you want the beans ground, plus there are three settings for brew strength. As the beans are ground, they come out a little chute on the front and drop into the filter. When it's done grinding, the cover of the filter compartment snaps shut rather dramatically and it starts brewing. Coffee and a show. You can see how this would appeal to someone like me.

As it happened, we had accrued a new chunk of those American Express rewards points that I love so much, so I used them to get a Crate & Barrel gift card and picked up the unit on Saturday. There I was on Sunday morning, standing in the kitchen staring at it as it put on its little routine. And yes, the coffee is quite good. I'm still experimenting to find the best combination of grind and brew strength, but to me that's part of the fun.

In fact, I think Krups is missing out on opportunities to market this thing to guys. Why not take out some ads in Sports Illustrated and Men's Journal? Better still, sell it at Home Depot and Lowe's. Not in the power tool section, necessarily, but nearby. Do demos on Saturdays. Guys see this thing in action, they're going to want it.

He'll Be Remembered

I've told this story to a couple of you, but for those of you who have not heard it, it was one of the highlights of the memorial service for my father-in-law:

Bill was a science and environment reporter for the Nashville Tennessean newspaper for about eight years. Even though he was forced to crank out copy on deadline, he was always a stickler for good writing: proper sentences, grammar, and punctuation. For about a year, around 1970 we think, he had Al Gore working with/under him as a junior reporter, and he was allegedly a merciless editor of Gore's articles (and everyone else's).

Fast-forward to about six or seven years ago, after Clinton and Gore had left office. Gore comes to southern California to appear at a function or speaking engagement. So Bill goes with a local politician that he had worked with for a long time (the person telling the story at the memorial). They're waiting outside in some sort of line, Gore arrives, comes walking along the line with his Secret Service detail, smiling at people. He spots Bill and yells his name excitedly, and starts moving faster toward him. The Secret Service guys don't know what to make of it. He gets there and they say their hellos, and Bill says, "I wasn't sure if you'd remember me." Gore says, "Remember you? I used to have nightmares about you!"

The Hours

Even though it was snowing yesterday, getting to work was a breeze because it was also school vacation week, so there's been less traffic on the roads all week, the buses came a little earlier than usual, the subways were less crowded, and everything just moved smoothly. Getting to work usually takes about an hour; yesterday I was there in 45 minutes. Too bad it won't last.

My job is not stressful, but I do have this one Big Important Deadline each month, and it was yesterday (which is the main reason you haven't heard much from me this week). A lot of people in my office chose to work from home rather than deal with the snow, but I don't have all the necessary software at home. My alternative would be to lug my laptop home from work whenever there was an impending storm, but then I wouldn't have anything to gripe about.

So I worked. I was an industrious little knowledge worker all day, stopping briefly to chat with a couple of others who had made it into the office. We got an email around 2 telling us we could leave at any time, but I wasn't finished yet. I did finally finish everything around 4:30, and there was one other person still in the office.

As I was gathering up my stuff and putting on my coat, I was thinking how nice it would have been to leave early, to have gone home and taken a nap and still be getting paid for it. No matter how old we get, we still want a snow day. We want to be relieved of our obligations and responsibilities, if only for a day or just a few hours, due to circumstances beyond our control.

Instead, I went home at essentially the same time I always do. The Mrs. had picked up a frozen pizza the night before, and some of that ready-to-bake frozen chocolate chip cookie dough that comes in pre-cut cookie portions. I decided the snow shoveling could wait until today.

Suit Up

I'd almost forgotten about this:

Friday night, Diesel Cafe in Davis Square. Twentysomething dude, suit and tie, Red Sox cap, Bluetooth headset. Trying to look grown-up, but failing.

Take away any one of those three elements, and I probably wouldn't have noticed him. No, that's not true: it's never okay to wear a baseball cap with a suit. Never.

Eyeglass Update #4: The Near-Sighted Eagle Has Landed

My redone glasses showed up on Thursday, but I've been busy. This time they got it right (which I figured they would after screwing up the first time, but you never know...).

They are a bit tight on my head, but it is a different frame style, and they are new, and the old ones had become so loose that these may seem too tight by comparison. I'm sure they'll loosen up a bit over time, but this is where you notice the difference in service: if I had bought the glasses from a brick-and-mortar optometrist, I would have been able to have them adjusted when I picked them up. But considering the difference in cost, I can make do without a bit of adjusting.

The frames I chose are made by Ray-Ban. Yes, they make other things besides just sunglasses--who knew? But the important thing is that Ray-Ban is owned by the Luxotica Group, which is one of the largest manufacturers of eyeglass frames and sunglasses in the world, and they do this manufacturing in Italy. I happen to be of Italian heritage, but this is not merely a sort of nationalism. It's just one of those facts of life that sometimes certain things are made better in one place than in others, and this is one of those things. Life is full of compromises, but there are some things you just don't compromise on.

The frames are very solid and sturdy, which should help me because I have a tendency to knock them around when they are not on my face (even though I'm so near-sighted, I take off my glasses to use the computer or read). They don't look all that different from my previous glasses, but at least they aren't scratched and missing their finish. Was it worth the time it took to save 50%? Probably. Obviously, if this had been any kind of emergency, I would not have been able to buy glasses online. But now I have a backup pair, so if there is any kind of emergency, I'm covered.

Manners on the T, or How I Will Eventually Be Arrested for Assault

Ready for some full-contact commuting?

This morning I happened to see a coworker at the T station. She lives in my town, but tends to go into work earlier and stay later (drag), so I don't see her on the subway that often. She took off her headphones and we started talking.

When the train came, it was fairly full, but it looked like there would be enough room for both of us to board. We had just made it inside the doors when I was pushed deeper into the train from behind, causing me to bump into several people. I regained my balance and turned around to see a man and a woman who appeared to be a couple squeezing in behind me. There was quite a bit of twisting and shuffling as the other riders tried to accommodate me and the pushers.

I was directly in the middle of the train, equidistant from all the grab bars. I was able to shift a couple of inches and get close enough to a bar to get hold of it (If I had shorter arms, I would have been out of luck). The train doors were still open, and there was still a good bit of rearranging of bodies going on. Mrs. Fuckface said, "I don't think there's enough room." Mr. Fuckface said, "It's okay." I tilted my head toward him so he would hear me and said, "Not really."

He looked at me and made a face. I glared back. He was a little shrimp of a guy (aren't they always?), and it occurred to me that I could have shoved him back off the train pretty easily, but I've already been sued once in my life (for something I totally didn't do) and believe me, once is enough.

I turned to my coworker and said, "If you want to put your headphones back on, I don't mind." She said, "There's not enough room to move my arms." We switched to the Green Line at North Station, and as it happened, a nearly empty E line train was coming in just as we crossed the platform. We looked at each other. "This is more like it," she said. When we boarded, we were able to sit down, a rare thing indeed.

On the flip side, when I was waiting to pay for my lunch, the person in front of me got to the cashier and started fumbling in her wallet (a pet peeve, but a subject we'll save for another day). After we had passed the fifteen-second mark with no resolution, the cashier gestured for me to put my salad on the scale. She actually rang me up first because the person in front of me wasn't ready. How often does that happen? Ultimately the woman discovered that she had no money on her, and had to leave her food.

In & Out

Generally speaking, I don't eat fast food. Burger King makes me ill, as does Taco Bell. McDonald's? If it's absolutely my only choice, I'll get one of their salads. I do kind of like Wendy's, but I try not to make it a habit.

So why was I so excited to go to In & Out Burger in California? Mostly because I've been hearing for years how good it is, how it's a cut above fast food, how everything is made fresh. I went to LA a couple of times in the '80s, but even though it's been around since 1948, I wasn't aware of In & Out at the time (though I did try Fatburger, several years before it was mentioned in that old Beastie Boys song).

In 2003 we went to the Mrs.' hometown to attend a wedding. I said then that I wanted to go to In & Out, but we were only there for a couple of days and just didn't manage to fit it in. So this time I was determined to get there, no matter what. The Mrs. was willing to accommodate me. When we landed in Long Beach she was quite hungry, so the first thing we did was find a place that suited her. The first place we came across was a Panera, and by then I was pretty hungry myself, so I had a sandwich and some potato chips.

The Mrs. said we could go to In & Out as soon as we got to San Bernardino, but I figured I wouldn't be hungry again that soon. By the time we'd finished the day's errands and tasks it was around 7, and there was a Mexican restaurant much closer to where we were than the In & Out, so I suggested we wait until the next day. (I think I was sort of doing this on purpose, prolonging it a bit more.)

Finally on Thursday evening we made it to In & Out. It's certainly nothing to look at: a small white building with two drive-up lanes on either side and a walk-up window in the middle. We opted for the walk-up. There were several people waiting ahead of us, so it took a few minutes. We soon realized that some of these people had already ordered and were only waiting for their food to come out. This is one of the reasons people are so crazy about In & Out: everything is made when you order it, so it takes a little longer, and all the ingredients are fresh, never frozen.

I figured if I was going to do this, I was going to do it right. When we got to the window, I ordered a "double-double" (two patties, two slices of cheese, lettuce and tomato), "animal style" (grilled onions and pickles are added, and the meat patties are cooked in mustard on the grill), with fries and a vanilla shake. The fries were just so-so (I'm not a big fry eater anyway), but the rest of it was awesome. Even the Mrs. was impressed with her burger and shake, and she is notoriously fussy about food. While we were waiting she looked inside and said, with some surprise, "They're cutting potatoes!"

Isn't it great when something actually lives up to your expectations? I had plenty of other good food on the trip, but I'll probably remember that meal long after I've forgotten about everything else.

Transcontinental

I'm back from my latest cross-country adventure, and was welcomed home this morning by the rudeness of this frigid air. Just yesterday I was walking around in the sun, wearing shorts.

We flew into and out of Long Beach on this trip. It's pretty close to downtown Los Angeles, but somewhat more distant from San Bernardino, our destination, than the Ontario airport, which JetBlue also serves. But while Ontario is medium-sized, Long Beach is puny, and puny airports have one thing going for them: they're easy. I think there are ten gates, total. The baggage carousels are outside, which I found quite amusing. Security, while still tight, is a relative breeze.

The five car rental agencies all share one small metal building that looks like it was made out of aluminum foil and held together with chewing gum. You pick up your bags, cross the roadway, go into the building and check in, go outside and find the row with your car in it, and drive away. Total elapsed time: about seven minutes. Try that at Logan or O'Hare. Plus our rental had built-in satellite radio: bonus.

One strange thing did happen during our arrival. When the bags started to come out, I spotted the Mrs.' bag, grabbed it, and parked it in front of her. A few moments later I saw my own bag, coming toward me from my left. Then a guy down to my left leaned over and picked it up. He set it down and extended the handle. I thought it might be a good idea if I did something to stop him, so I drifted over and got in his path, and said, "Would you mind checking the name tag on that? Because it looks just like mine." He leaned down and looked at the tag and said, "Oh, you're right." He was genuinely surprised that this was not his bag. I thought to myself, one of the reasons I bought a red suitcase is so it would stand out and not look like everyone else's black rolling suitcase, so I could spot it easily. But even so, I always check the tag, just in case. Silly me.

Tomorrow: adventures in southern California fast food, and more.

Adventures in Technology

Recently I mentioned that I have been working to bring my mother into a somewhat more modern era of computing. She has been slogging away with dial-up internet access while my brother, who lives in the same house, has high-speed cable internet. As far as I can determine, the only reason they did not extend this to my mother's computer is because it would have involved additional wiring. It may also have been because my mother's computer is circa 2000 and runs an older version of Windows, doesn't have much memory, and is painfully slow in general.

The main reason this came up is because my mother has been looking for a job, and she has come across places that will only accept emailed resumes, and various other technological hurdles. I was about to buy her an inexpensive computer, but when I mentioned this to a friend, he said he had just bought a new one and offered me his old one. It already had a wireless card installed, which meant that all I needed to do was add a router to my brother's computer, no extra wiring needed.

I decided I wanted to get an LCD monitor to go with it, because they use less energy, take up less space, and are easier on the eyes. A couple of days of searching on craigslist resulted in a 17" LCD for $100, and the seller even came to met me about 95% of the way between his house and mine. I test-connected everything and it all worked fine.

The next step was purchasing a router. Normally I am fairly competent in the area of technology and consumer electronics, and am comfortable making such purchases. But in this case I was a bit in the dark, because I have been a Macophile for more than 15 years and I am (somewhat intentionally) ignorant in the ways of the dark side.

(I tried to convince my mother to get a Mac back when she purchased the ill-fated HP that I was endeavoring to replace, but at the time she said that already knew her way around Windows and didn't want to have to learn the differences. This time I again considered trying to get her to switch, but decided that a free computer, even a Windows one, was worth making the best of, and having had jobs where I used Windows, I knew that XP was somewhat friendlier than the older versions of the operating system.)

I asked a few people for suggestions, including the friend who had given me the computer, the IT guy in our office, and a couple of others. Every one of them said the same thing: get a Linksys router. That amounted to a convincing endorsement. Normally I would buy this sort of product online, but there are times when it seems like it would be easier to just go to a nearby store and get it, and this was one of those times. Or so I thought.

A quick check on PriceGrabber and a glance through the flyers in the Sunday paper showed that most places sell the Linksys WRT54G for about $50, which seemed fine to me. So a week ago Saturday we headed out to get one, intending to drive down to my mother's house in Rhode Island the next day to set everything up. I had seen the router in the OfficeMax flyer for $50, so I told the Mrs. I wanted to go to OfficeMax. To her all office-supply stores are the same, and she thought I meant I wanted to go to Staples, so she drove in a different direction.

I decided it wasn't worth our time to try to go back the other way, figuring it would not make any difference which office superstore I bought the thing from. But when I got to Staples, I found that they were selling the router for $70, $20 more than most other places. I did not have the OfficeMax flyer with me, and generally that's the sort of proof required in order to get a store to price-match, so I decided to buy a different router instead of taking the time to go to a different store. (I'm pretty sure that stores count on this sort of behavior.)

The next day was a Sunday, and the Mrs. wasn't feeling well, so we postponed our trip to RI. While looking through the Sunday paper, I found that Staples had the Linksys router on sale for $50 for the week. I decided not to think about it, lest I become angry about it all over again.

During the course of the week I happened to be discussing the project with a couple of other people, and I was told that the router I had bought was bad news, and I should return it and get the Linksys. We had to go right past Staples to get on the highway, so on Saturday I went back. Of course, they were out of what I wanted. We had decided to make a slight detour to get some pastry at Lyndell's in Ball Square, which took us near a second Staples. Guess what was also out of stock there? I was ready to return my original purchase out of sheer disgust and annoyance, but the line was too long, so I decided to suck it up.

When we got to my mother's house, my brother opened the router box and found that the ethernet cable that was supposed to be included was missing. That was pretty much the final straw. Fortunately there is a Staples about a mile from my mother's house, and fortunately they had the Linksys in stock. It turned out to be very easy to set up, and the "new" computer recognized the newly created wireless network immediately. In fact, the connection seemed faster than my own cable internet service at home (which could be due to the number of users in my neighborhood, but I have no way to know for sure).

So the story had a happy ending, and I think we all learned a valuable lesson: don't buy anything at Staples, ever.

Goin' Back to Cali

(Yes, I know. But I couldn't resist.)

The Mrs. and I are heading to southern California next Wednesday to honor her father's memory at an event she and her sister have planned on Saturday the 9th in San Bernardino, where he lived. Not exactly a pleasure trip, as there is still bureaucratic stuff to be taken care of regarding his last hospital stay, disposition of assets, and so on. And truthfully, there isn't anything to do in San Bernardino anyway.

But it won't be all depressing either. Bill had a lot of friends, and so the Mrs. has been fielding phone calls for the past couple of weeks from a lot of people who knew her dad and are planning on attending the event: people who, like him, were involved in local government; at least one of the Mrs.' high school teachers; their family physician and his wife; even his tai chi instructor called to say she was organizing a group of students from his class to come. At the moment it looks like somewhere between sixty and eighty people will be there, which is great.

Will we have a chance to get to LA for any amusement? I don't know. Everything is being kept kind of loose right now, because the Mrs. doesn't know how much time is going to be taken up by the mundane stuff that needs to be done. But it's possible. And I am finally, finally going to get to go to In & Out Burger. I've heard about it for years, and we were supposed to go there in 2003, when we went out to attend a wedding, but for whatever reason it didn't happen.

Also, there is a possibility that I may be able to post to the blog while I'm away, because I decided I could no longer survive without mobile internet access and I recently bought a BlackBerry Curve. It's a pretty nifty little device, very compact with a well thought-out design. Google makes dedicated Gmail and Google Maps applications for the BlackBerry OS, and both of those are pretty sweet (the map app uses the cell network's towers to show you your approximate position). I'm not making any promises, but at least I have the capability to write and post, so we'll see how things go.

Oh yeah, almost forgot: GO PATRIOTS!!!!

Phones and 'Phones

Time for some bits of randomness...

--Yesterday I went into the restroom at work and found a guy in there talking on his cell phone. The building I work in houses a library in addition to various offices, so it tends to be quiet. But there is no specific prohibition on cell phone use (they seem to care more about people spilling food on the books) and there are plenty of nooks and quiet areas on the various floors where one can have a quiet cell phone conversation without disturbing others, and I often see people doing this. So why this dude felt it was necessary to have his conversation in the restroom was unclear, but this is something I find particularly annoying. My response was to make as much noise as possible while I was in there, in the hope that I may have annoyed him back, at least a bit.

--To the guy on the T yesterday morning, listening to music on his headphones so loudly that I could identify the artist (Dropkick Murphys) from six feet away: holy crap, how loud must that be inside your head? Ow.

--Then on my commute home, someone's phone rang with a Dropkick Murphys ringtone. It was that song "I'm Shipping Up to Boston" that was featured in The Departed. I'm not a fan of ringtones in general, but if you feel you need to have one, that song seems like a good choice.

Microwave Roulette

The kitchen in our apartment was redone a few years back, when the owners lived in the unit. Everything is nice and modern, and we enjoy the conveniences of a dishwasher and garbage disposal. There are several power outlets along the wall where the counter and sink are, so naturally that's where we have our appliances plugged in. There's the microwave, the toaster oven, the coffee maker, the dishwasher, the switch for the disposal, the switch for the light over the sink, the stove, and the vent hood above it. (The stove is gas, but it needs electricity for its clock and the fan and light in the hood.)

A while after we moved in, we discovered that random kitchen activities would trip the circuit breaker. Each occurrence meant a trip down to the basement to reset the breaker. After a few more instances, we realized that these events weren't so random. Every time it happened, it was caused by one of us trying to use the microwave.

As a result, we started to adjust our behavior. Neither of us wants to be the one who causes the breaker to trip and thus has to trudge downstairs to flip the it back on, so we do things like set the microwave for longer than may be necessary, to avoid food that isn't hot enough and needs to go back for a second zapping, because that could be the one that does it. We turn off lights before starting the microwave. We try to remember when the breaker last got tripped, and try to estimate how long it's going to be before it happens again.

Not being an electrician, I'm not certain of this, but it seems to me that even though we don't make a habit of running all our kitchen appliances simultaneously, this circuit has too much on it and probably should have been split into two smaller circuits. When I talked to the landlord about the circuit, I got a sense that he and his wife had had to put up with the fussy breaker as well. But he's not going to pay to have work done on it. So reheating leftovers becomes sort of like a game of Russian roulette, but with a touchy circuit breaker instead of a gun.

Eyeglass Update #3: I Can See Clearly Now, But...

Glasses arrived yesterday via USPS Priority, which costs $6.99. (You can get free shipping, but I think it's just first-class and is therefore not trackable.)

The prescription is correct, which is good. The frames are the right size and color, which is also good. They left out the anti-reflective coating, which is not good. They did not charge me for it, but it was in my order confirmation, so somewhere along the way it got lost. So I called customer service and explained what had happened. After about two minutes on hold, I was given instructions on how to return the glasses so the error could be fixed. The rep admitted that mistakes do sometimes happen, and obviously they want me to be satisfied, so they are going to give me some sort of discount on the coating. The saga continues...

Eyeglass Update #2

So, about that weekend posting I mentioned? Didn't happen, obviously. But when I reviewed what I had done for three days, I came up somewhat empty. Saturday we were out of the house almost all day, from haircuts to errands to picking up a used computer that's going to help bring my mother into the 21st century. Sunday was mostly consumed by the football games, with a run to the grocery store to get stuff to eat while watching those games.

Monday was a holiday, but I spent a good chunk of the day working, because I had a deadline this week, and because last week we were closed for a day because of a storm that didn't amount to anything. I was unprepared for the closure, which was deemed a "work at home day" by management, and felt I could use the holiday to make up for some of the time missed the previous week, and thus improve my chances of making my deadline. I also had a visit from the cable company, which I'll have more to say about soon.

Now, the good news: I got an email from FramesDirect on Monday informing me that my glasses have shipped, which means they should be here in another day or two.

Work, Work, Work

Sorry for my absence from the interwebs the past few days, folks, but it's been a hectic week at the office for your intrepid blogger. First, I missed a day of work because the bosses decided our office would stay closed on Monday due to the storm. Of course, that storm turned out to be nothing much, really. I'll never look a gift snow day in the mouth, but it messed up my rhythm for the week as deadlines impend.

Then on Wednesday, I ran into some computer problems with the temp. I'd begun converting some files for him to work on, but it turned out that he could not open the converted files on his computer, because it has an older version of the software than I used. My boss used to keep track of all the software, but he's been gone since the end of September and he hasn't been replaced yet.

The other person who was likely to have a clue about the software has been put on bed rest for the duration of her pregnancy and is working from home, so I've been emailing back and forth with her and searching through desk drawers in various offices, looking for software that we supposedly have but I cannot find.

Meanwhile, I came up with a way around the problem: I re-converted the files using the older version of the program still on my computer, and that worked--the temp was able to open them, so I'm not sure there's any need to bother trying to find and install the mystery software. Also meanwhile, my own work languishes--really, I shouldn't even have taken the time to write this post. Fortunately we have a long weekend, and hopefully I will be able to get to a post or two then.

No Parking

Yesterday morning I woke up a little before 9, which is typical for me on a Sunday. I put on some clothes so I could take the dog out. She did her #1 in the back yard, then we proceeded down the driveway for her morning stroll 'n' sniff around the block. When we got to the end of the driveway, there was a car parked across it, blocking our car in. There was empty space behind the car along the curb, but I had no way of knowing if it had been that way overnight. I took the dog on her walk as I thought about how to respond.

There is no shortage of parking in this neighborhood. Just about every house has a driveway, the few apartment buildings have their own lots, and there are no permits or stickers, so anyone can park anywhere on the streets. Our landlord deemed that the tenants of the first-floor apartment (that's us) have exclusive use of the driveway and garage, probably because that's how it was when they lived in this apartment. The three people who live upstairs park on the street, and they seem fine with that.

I did not recognize the car, so I knew it didn't belong to any of our upstairs neighbors, or any of their friends. Besides, they are intelligent and considerate people, and they know that if there is some sort of parking emergency, like during December's snowstorms, they can just pull in the driveway and park behind us.

We came back from out walk, and an hour later I looked outside and the car was still there. It had Connecticut plates, so I reasoned that it might be someone's visitor. I didn't want to have to walk around ringing doorbells, trying to figure out who the car belonged to. I thought about writing a sticky note that said "Please don't block our driveway" and putting it on the driver's window, but that seemed like kind of a wimpy response. By now it was nearing 10:30, and I think if you're going to be so rude as to block someone's driveway with your car, you should at least get your ass out of bed and move the car at some reasonable point after the sun has come up. I decided to call the police department, mostly because I wanted to know if I had any legal position, such as the right to have the car towed.

To my surprise, the person on the phone at the police station said they would send an officer out. I took my coffee into the living room and watched out the window, waiting for the show to start. An officer showed up about ten minutes later. He blooped the siren for a moment, sort of like a warning shot. Then he got out of his cruiser and wrote a ticket. I thought, this is great, but then it occurred to me: a ticket still didn't solve the problem of our driveway being blocked. He pulled his cruiser forward of the car, and I saw a tow truck coming around the corner. I thought, wow, Medford takes parking enforcement seriously.

Just then, the car's owner appeared. He was a big guy wearing a hockey sweater. I had an idea which house he'd come from; a bunch of rowdy dudes had moved in two doors down near the end of the summer. I watched the officer give him a bit of a civics lesson on being a good neighbor, along with the citation. The big dude got into his car and went on his way. I wonder if this will make the police blotter?

Sweet Treatment

Remember a couple of weeks ago when I was talking about IKEA's cinnamon rolls? Did that make any of you hungry? In the mood for some delicious baked goods? Want to learn how to make great baked treats yourself? You're in luck, because our friend Anne teaches baking classes at Brookline Adult & Community Education, and she has two classes coming up that I offered to plug on her behalf.

The first class is called "Breakfast Baking" and takes place on Saturday, January 26th from 10 AM-1 PM. Anne is planning to demonstrate "professional baking techniques, and how to prepare breakfast specialties that are quick and easy to assemble even on the busiest of mornings. We'll make and enjoy breakfast treats like Sour Cream Coffee Cake, Chocolate Chip Muffins, Banana Bread, Cornmeal Currant Scones, and more." Mmmm, I could go for some of that coffee cake about now...

The second class, "Homemade Bars and Brownies," is the following Saturday, February 2nd, also from 10 AM-1 PM. "In this highly-participatory class, bakers of all levels will learn easy recipes and how to make two of the most popular desserts: bars and brownies. We will roll up our sleeves and make an assortment of homemade Turtle Shortbread Bars, Double-Cherry Streusel Bars, Four-way Fudge Brownies, and Citrus-Hazelnut Bars." Oh, baby.

I can testify to Anne's baking skills and the goodness of her creations, as we have been testers for some of her recipes in the past. Tough job, huh?

Eyeglass Update #1

I got a call from a customer service rep at FramesDirect yesterday after I'd submitted my order and faxed my prescription, but it was after I'd left work for the day. When I came in this morning, the voicemail light was blinking on my phone. Here's the thing: I never get phone calls on this line. Once or twice a coworker has called me from within the office about something, but since I've been here, any work-related matters involving people outside the office have been resolved by email, so I did not know how to retrieve the message.

The phones here are terrible: most of the buttons are unlabeled, and nothing about how to use it is obvious. It turned out that the phone had been used by someone who left here over six months ago, and it still had his name as the voicemail greeting. I haven't figured out how to change that yet, but a call to the telecommunications department got the voicemail password reset so I could at least listen to the message.

The reason for the call was that, due to the strength of my prescription, the lenses have to be custom ground, so there would be a surcharge on the order, and the rep wanted to give me the option of choosing the cheaper, but thicker, polycarbonate lenses. She left a name and an extension, so when I called back I was able to speak to her, and not have to explain everything to another rep who was not familiar with my order. So, points to them for getting customer service right.

Specs

A follow-up on the eyeglass frames I bought on eBay: while the measurements of the lenses and bridge are identical to my current glasses, the overall width of the frame is a bit narrower, resulting in them gripping the sides of my head a little too tightly. Also, they have this sort of filigree trim on the temples, which was not visible in the auction photos; had it been, I wouldn't have bid on them, because they just aren't me. So I learned a lesson there, but like I said, they only cost me $30 plus shipping, so I will probably just give them away, or something.

Meanwhile, yesterday after work I found myself with a bit of time to kill, and while wandering around downtown I passed Cohen's Fashion Optical. They are an East Coast chain, and somehow the place had slipped beneath my radar altogether. So I went in, and through some sort of luck, they had the frames I was thinking about ordering online, which meant I was able to try them on to see which size I should get. (You can do all the measuring in the world, but as I learned, glasses just have to be tried on before a decision can be made.)

Of course, they wanted $270 for just the frames, which is what the frames cost that I looked at in the other place. Online from FramesDirect, I can get the entire pair of glasses made for that amount, with the high-index lenses and the more expensive of the two choices of anti-reflective coatings. So, kids, in the interest of consumer research (and blog fodder), I have decided to take the plunge and buy a pair of eyeglasses online. I've placed my order, I've faxed my prescription to them, and now I await the results.

One important note: if you decide to follow my lead and do this yourself, you need a very important piece of information called pupillary distance, which, in typical science-speak, is the distance between your pupils. This number dictates how the lenses should be ground so that they are properly centered in front of your eyes. You can get it a couple of different ways: if you are getting an eye exam, you can ask the doctor to take the measurement. But if you have already had an exam, like I did last year, and are working with a copy of that prescription, the PD may not be on there, because it is usually done by the optician at the time you order glasses. What then? You can look in the mirror and hold a ruler up to your forehead (which is a less than ideal solution, for obvious reasons), or you can call the place that made your previous glasses; they should have it. That's what I ended up doing.

Attention Passengers

I noticed that the T has altered its incoming-train announcements (at least at Wellington in the morning; it could be just a test). I was pleased when they started doing these, because they do make your life a little bit easier--when it's 15 degrees and you hear the announcement, you know you only have to stand outside for another minute or so before you can squish into the train with all the other over-bundled commuters and instantly get overheated.

The thing that has always bothered me about them is the choice of wording: "Attention passengers: the next Orange Line train to Forest Hills is now arriving." Each time I hear it, I think to myself, well no, it's not actually arriving; technically it's still approaching, so that's what the announcement should say.

What the T has done is added a second announcement for each train. And lo, what does that first announcement say? "Attention passengers: the next Orange Line train to Forest Hills is now approaching." Then there's another announcement, when the train is in fact arriving in the station, that says the train is arriving. Whoa. It's like the T somehow got inside my head and read my thoughts. Scary.

The only real downside to the T showing a flash of original thought? That we might expect more of them in the future.

Darkly Dreaming

The Mrs. and I have spent the past few days immersed in the first season of the Showtime series Dexter. We've never had HBO or Showtime or any of the other premium cable channels, mostly because, while cable TV and internet have become things we feel we don't want to live without, I do feel like I'm already giving Comcast too much of my money every month for those services. So with original series like Dexter that air on premium channels, we generally wait until they're available on DVD. In fact, we still haven't seen those last nine Sopranos episodes from earlier this year; I should Netflix them soon.

Though it's only twelve episodes, Dexter is some of the best television I've ever seen. Dexter Morgan is a crime scene tech, specifically a blood spatter analyst, for the Miami police department. He's also a killer who kills only other killers, those who have managed to elude justice one way or another. His adoptive father, a police officer, realized early on what Dexter was and what he was capable of, and taught him in how to pass for normal to get along in the world, how to kill without leaving evidence, and to kill only those who deserved to die. The psychological motivations that drive Dexter are fascinating, and far more rich and complex than those of just about anyone in TV history.

Based on the book Darkly Dreaming Dexter by Jeff Lindsay, naturally the show is at times gruesome, but it's also deeply compelling, with superb writing and excellent acting. As Dexter struggles to comprehend the motivations of a killer who seems to be using his crimes to send messages intended specifically for him, it quickly becomes apparent that this is no ordinary TV show. If you're not squeamish and not upset or disturbed by this sort of material, you should definitely see Dexter.

Seeing Red

I need a new pair of glasses badly. I've had my current pair for six years, so the lenses are scratched and the finish (originally midnight blue) has worn off much of the metal, leaving them looking like the eyewear equivalent of an '86 Accord that's been parked outside for the past twenty winters. Also, I have no backup pair, so I'm hoping to solve that, and make my current pair my backup pair.

Now, I'm not one of the folks who can just cruise over to For Eyes or one of those other places that advertises on TV and pick up the "two pairs for $99" special. That's mainly because I have a pretty heavy-duty prescription, and in order to avoid the coke-bottle look, I need what are called high-index lenses, which cost somewhat more than the standard plastic lenses that come in the promo-package glasses. If you want the anti-reflective coating, which is helpful if you have to sit under fluorescent lights all day, that costs extra too.

Having been to quite a few of these places recently to browse frames, I can say that none of them have anything I'm interested in wearing on my face. Besides my strong prescription, I have a narrow head for an adult male, and (in case you hadn't picked up on this by now) I'm wicked fussy about pretty much everything. The dominant style at every place I've visited is wide, rectangular frames with a very short top-to-bottom lens measurement, which is precisely the worst-looking style of eyeglass frame for my face. I do best in the roundish realm, and round is out right now, and has been for a while.

There's a place near work that isn't part of a chain, so I popped in there just out of curiosity. I found a nice-looking pair of round frames. They happened to be a designer brand, but they were also the right size and color, with no fussy trim and no logos, so I showed them my prescription and asked them what the total cost would be. The guy looked at my prescription, did some scribbling, punched at a calculator, and said, "Seven hundred."

Seven hundred dollars. SEVEN. HUNDRED. DOLLARS. For a pair of eyeglasses? My new computer cost less than that, and I got a free printer with it, a printer that also scans and copies, and probably makes toast too. Not wanting to look like a clueless bumpkin, I kept calm and didn't change my facial expression. I asked, "How much are just the frames?" "Two seventy-five." Oooo-kay then, gotta be getting back to my office, thanks for your time.

This makes me wonder how the cheapie places do it. I'm sure they are using cheap frames that are no doubt made in China (the higher-end brands tend to be made in Italy), but even so, one place charges a hundred bucks for two complete pairs of glasses, and another place charges fourteen times as much, so what does that mean in terms of lens quality? Eyeglasses are kind of crucial to a lot of people, so what happens when you spend the least possible amount of money on them? That worries me.

None of this has helped me get new glasses, of course. So I'm considering other options. I bought a pair of new, Italian-made designer frames on eBay for a mere $30. If I like how they look on me, I'll have lenses made for them. If I don't, I'm thinking about getting glasses made through the web site FramesDirect. They have a great selection, and I've found exactly what I want; the only drawback is that I can't see and try on the frames first. But I may have to trust in the measurements and photos; the alternative is to call every optician in town to see if they carry the frame style I want.

1985, Part 2

The other major thread running through 1985 was the woman. I met her in early February, at a party hosted by myself and the other residents of the brownstone dorm where I lived. She came as the guest of someone else I knew that I had run into that week and invited.

I was in charge of the music for our house parties, and I think that's what caught her attention initially: we liked a lot of the same music, stuff that wasn't necessarily popular. We danced and talked about music, and I thought she was interesting and attractive; after the party I thought maybe there was something between us, but I had never had a real girlfriend before, so I didn't think much more about it.

Several days later, I again saw the person who had brought her to the party, this time in the cafeteria. It turned out that they were roommates. She said, "She's been talking about you all week, will you please just call her?" This was difficult to comprehend. She was tall and voluptuous, with striking features. She had a punkish haircut and dressed with attitude. She had lived in foreign countries and spoke fluent Spanish. I had never met someone as worldly and sophisticated as her, let alone had someone like that be interested in me. But while I've done at least my share of stupid things in my life, I'm no idiot; I called her that night.

It was just before the Presidents' Day weekend, and she was going home to visit her family, so we made plans to go out the following weekend. I thought I had won some sort of dating lottery. I tried not to talk or think about her too much, afraid that I might jinx the whole thing. For our first date we went to see Stop Making Sense at the Harvard Square Theater. We were both big Talking Heads fans, but she was really into them. She told me she had already seen the movie, but wanted to see it again. It was unseasonably warm for February, so we took a long walk after the movie.

The following weekend was the start of spring break, and I was heading for Florida with a few friends, not to run amok in Fort Lauderdale but to relax by the pool at my friend's house outside Miami. So it was another couple of weeks before I saw the woman again. We dated regularly through March and April, frequently going out to see bands on weekends (once even taking the bus to Worcester to see Prince at the Centrum), but things didn't get serious between us until the semester was nearly over, mostly because I was nervous and unsure of myself. She was finishing her sophomore year and was headed home for the summer to Maine. She didn't really want to go home, but she couldn't afford to stay in the city for the summer. She left a few days before my graduation, and we were faced with sustaining the relationship while apart over the summer.

We wrote many letters to each other, talked on the phone as often as possible (long distance calls were still kind of expensive then), and managed to see each other about every other weekend. Most of the time I would take the bus to Portsmouth, where she would meet me and we would drive the rest of the way to her family's home. I felt strange around her parents, not having been in this sort of situation before, but they made me feel welcome and seemed to like me well enough. A few weekends she came down to Boston and stayed with me.

As the summer went by, I fell deeply and helplessly in love. At times I literally had stomach aches from the pain of being apart from her. As the end of August approached, my anticipation grew for her return and the beginning of the school year. (Although I had graduated, my brain was still very much on academic-year time, and knowing her and other people who were still juniors or seniors kept me in that mind-set.) She returned on a Friday, which happened to coincide with my birthday, and we spent the weekend celebrating.

We fell into a pattern: during the week I would usually stay with her in her dorm room (she had a single). From there I would go to work in the morning. After work I would go home to my apartment, eat dinner, and pick up a change of clothes, then head back to her place. On weekends we would stay at my apartment; she loved to cook and was happy to have access to a kitchen. It wasn't domestic bliss, but I was feeling blissful anyway.

Through my various ordeals with housing and jobs that year, she was a great source of strength to me, always able to say the right thing and help keep me optimistic. When I moved into the house in Allston in early December, I thought everything was falling into place and started allowing myself to think about a long-term future with her. But about a week later, she broke up with me.

It happened at a holiday party back at my old dorm, where we had first met. I had become too dependent on her, or something along those lines. What I wanted her to understand was, this is my first relationship, so I don't exactly know what I'm doing and I'm sure I'm going to make mistakes, give me a chance. But it didn't seem to matter what I said. She had had other boyfriends. She knew what she wanted, and I had been what she wanted, for a while, but no longer. That was probably the worst night of my life.

Naturally, we had already bought each other Christmas presents. Logic takes leave in situations like this; I was still so much in love with her that I wanted to give her the gifts anyway, mostly because I wanted her to see how much thought I had put into them. I had paid attention to things she had said about books, music, jewelry, things I knew she liked. I had chosen wrapping paper in her favorite colors. I had wrapped everything so carefully (I've never been much of a gift-wrapper). I naively thought these gestures might be enough to win her back, but of course they weren't.

I went home for Christmas and never said a word about any of it to my family. I pretended everything was normal and great between us. After I got back from my family visit, she called from her family's home: did I have plans for New Year's Eve? I hadn't made any specific plans, but before all this had happened, I had assumed they would somehow involve her. She was bored, and invited me to come up and spend it with her. Was this a mere olive branch, or a real reconciliation? She didn't give me a clue either way on the phone. It turned out to be a reconciliation. She had had time to think, and had realized that she hadn't been fair to me. She wanted to come back. I wanted her to come back, more than anything. Happy new year.

It lasted about two weeks. At least the second time, it wasn't as much of a shock. Ultimately we would go back and forth this way for months. Eventually it wasn't painful anymore, and when it finally ended for good, it just ended. Nothing was said, but I knew it was really over, and to my surprise I found that I was relieved. It had become clear that there wasn't going to be a happy ending for us, regardless of how well things might have been going at any given time. I did love her, and I knew that she had loved me as well, but she needed something I was simply unable to give her.

We attempted to remain friends, but she had been moving away from me for a long time in many ways, and then she moved away for real, to the other side of the country, with another man. In looking back, I am certain that even if she had not broken up with me that first time, we were not destined to be together. I can't explain how or why I know, I just know. But when you're in the middle of something so intense, you can't see it that way. You can't see in from the outside until you've been turned inside-out. With the benefit of hindsight, I was able to see that she had given me something very important: the ability to see myself in a different way. She showed me that there were other choices, other possibilities for my life. She helped me find myself, my real self, the one I didn't yet know existed.