Beer Run

Hi there, blognoscenti. I had intended to post a couple of days ago, but the impending (well, next week) arrival of the Mrs.' dad for a visit forced us to confront some house-cleaning imperatives. We did take some time out from cleaning over the weekend to do some errands, including a run to the liquor store, which gave me the idea for this entry.

For more than a decade we lived about a mile south of Wellington Circle, which is the tangled and tricky intersection of routes 28 and 16 in Medford, MA. Now we live about a mile north of it. For pretty much all this time, I've been buying my beer from the Kappy's Liquors store that sits at the northeast edge of the Circle. I prefer to buy my beer by the case, because that way I only have to think about it every month or so.

Our friend Sandra has always referred to Kappy's as "the Liquor Palace" so I got in the habit of doing it too. It's arguably a palace of commerce, but not in the aesthetic sense: it's a plain white building with way too much fluorescent lighting inside. But when I walk through the door and see the mountains of beer cases stacked in rows, it makes me feel warm inside, the way I used to feel when I was a kid with a dollar to spend at the candy store. It usually takes me at least 20 minutes to decide what kind of beer I'm going to get, even if I walked in thinking I knew what I wanted. I just like to wander up and down the aisles, looking for something different, or something familiar.

But this weekend I decided to try another store in town. I was swayed by a radio ad I'd heard. I'd been there once or twice a while ago; it's not any more or less convenient than Kappy's. The ad claimed their prices were better, and I guess I wanted to see if they were. The store itself was somewhat dingy inside, done up in paneling straight out of Ralph Kramden's Raccoon Lodge and probably about as old. They had plenty of beer, and it was piled high like at Kappy's, but somehow it just wasn't the same.

And the prices weren't that great either: most of the brands I tend to buy were a couple of dollars more expensive per case. I did end up buying beer, but pretty much only because I'd already put my empties into the machine and gotten my deposit credit, but I don't need to go back. So, Liquor Palace, I've learned my lesson. Just because a store has a radio ad doesn't mean it's the better place for me to shop. Sometimes, the best place to shop is the place you've been shopping all along.

I'm a Member of the Stupid Club

Have you ever done something that's just so painfully stupid you can't believe you're allowed to walk around using the earth's oxygen? I'm now a member of that club.

On Sunday I noticed that my winter parka was kind of dirty down the front, along the flap that covers the zipper, probably from reading the paper every day on the way to work. I was a little embarrassed that I hadn't noticed it sooner, so when I got home I pulled the gloves out of the pockets and put the coat in the washing machine. A little while later I was wondering where I'd put my cell phone, then I remembered it was time to put the coat in the dryer.

On my way down the stairs to the basement those two thoughts converged in my head in one of those "oh, no" moments that we hope never to have. Sure enough, the phone was in the inside pocket. I'd been in such haste to wash it that I allowed that thought to override my usual logical process: come in the house, take phone out of pocket and put it in usual spot so I can find it again later, hang up coat.

The phone was toast, although the battery worked fine in the Mrs.' phone (same brand). I still had my previous phone, so a call to customer service got that one reactivated and solved the immediate problem of having one to use. The bigger question is, what now? I don't want to continue using the old phone indefinitely. If I go to Verizon Wireless to buy a replacement, they're going to charge me some ridiculous amount (probably around $300, from what I can gather without asking them directly). I've had a cell phone for over ten years and until now I've never rendered one inoperable, so I don't feel that insurance is worth it--if I'd been paying for it all this time, I would have paid more than twice the cost of a non-contract replacement phone, and there's typically still a deductible involved.

eBay is an option--my reactivated temporary phone came from there--but there is a certain amount of risk in such a purchase, and current model phones aren't exactly bargains; to replace my drowned phone with the same model would cost one-third to one-half of what Verizon would charge me. Some of the more established cell-phone sellers on eBay are now offering guarantees, which would make me feel better about choosing that route.

Another possibility is craigslist. I have both bought and sold things on the 'list, and while it can be a pain for buyer and seller to make the arrangements to meet, at least you can look over the merchandise and ensure it works before handing over your money. But the selection of phones for Verizon is a little thin at the moment, and not surprisingly tends toward older models.

So I'll have to bide my time with my old phone while checking craigslist and eBay looking for the right deal. In the meantime, when I go to do laundry you can bet I'll be checking every pocket very carefully.

Where Did My Products Go?

I realized that I haven't been keeping up with the "consumption" aspect of this blog's mission. I've still been a consumer, of course, but my recent entries have not focused on that so much. That's because I'm smart enough (thankfully) to know that not everything I buy is interesting enough to write about. I recently bought another pair of boots that were too big, but that didn't seem to merit a post of its own, especially since I was dumb enough (regrettably) to wear them for the better part of a day even though I'd already determined they were too big, thereby rendering them un-returnable. So I sold them on eBay, for less than I hoped I'd get, but they're on the way to someone who wants them, and thus no longer taking up space in the house, sitting there quietly mocking my stupidity.

However, I do have a consumer-related issue that's been on my mind for a while. I seem to have what is becoming an alarming tendency to choose personal-care and grooming products that later disappear, inevitably after I've decided that Product X is the best thing ever and I never want to use anything else. It's just happened for the third time in the past several years.

The first instance was a hair product. It wasn't anything fancy; in fact, it was one of the cheapest products in that aisle of the drugstore--after having been burned by $10, $15, even $20 products that didn't work, its low price was the reason I decided to try it. But it worked, so who cares? Then it went away with no warning, no "get it while it lasts!" signs. The rest of the product line was still there, taunting me in its gaudy aqua packaging (it seems like it was aimed at gum-snapping teenage girls, but again, who cares?). I looked in the clearance section. I looked in other drugstore chains. I looked in the supermarket's health & beauty aisle. I looked in Target, Costco, and even the dreaded Wal-Mart: nothing. I gave up and resorted to a succession of inferior products.

Fast-forward about two years to the winter of 2005. I found myself wandering the aisles of the discount paradise known as the Ocean State Job Lot (an odd sort of hybrid of a dollar store on steroids and a Big Lots, indigenous to New England, but primarily found in Rhode Island, southern Connecticut, and southeastern Massachusetts) when I spotted the unmistakable aqua containers. Could it be? It was. Had they been sitting in a warehouse somewhere this whole time? Didn't know, didn't care. I knew from previous use that each bottle lasted me at least eight months (because I don't have much hair left). I grabbed six bottles, which I think ended up costing 75 cents each. I'm on bottle three four.

The next such incident involved a product I used to use to wash my face before shaving, that did nice things to my pores and helped prevent cuts. Again I got hooked and again it disappeared, except this time the supermarket continued carrying it for a while. I should have stocked up then, but I didn't realize it was happening again. When even they no longer had it, I looked to the company's web site, which claimed it was still available. Their retail locator offered a list of stores that carried the brand, but wasn't any more specific. After another week or so spent running around, I again gave up; this time, at least, I was able to find a comparable replacement product.

Most recently, I've used and lost a clear-gel acne treatment product which I would apply before going to bed. Fortunately I'm at an age where I don't have to deal with acne on a regular basis, but we all need a little help now and then. It was remarkably effective; often the offending breakout would be gone the next morning, and without causing any irritation like some acne treatments do. I still have some left, but when it's gone I really don't know what I'm going to use in its place, as I haven't been able to find any comparable products.

Repeated disappointment has made me cynical, and these days I'm trying not to grow too attached to my products. Maybe it's time for another trip to Job Lot.

TV Wasteland

It's been a rough few weeks over here at the SAR household. The Mrs. has been struggling with a persistent cough that turned out to be bronchitis. It took two doctor visits to affirm this (even though I guessed it three weeks ago), as the doctors didn't see the need to do a chest X-ray the first time around. So helpful. The antibiotics she got on the second visit did what they were supposed to do, but when they ran out earlier this week, her cough returned. So she made a third visit to the doctor yesterday and got another round of a different antibiotic, which seems to be working and hopefully will clear the gunk out of her lungs for good. (It had better, because I'm really, really tired of hearing that cough.)

As a result, we haven't done much outside the house lately, especially with the cold blast we had this past week. Even a short amount of time in front of the TV confirms that March is the dead zone for network programming, since it immediately follows the February sweeps period. There's some college basketball tournament coming up that we don't care about, we're not interested in who is going to be the next anorexic model or slutty dancer, and we don't partake of that despicable emotional beatdown masquerading as a singing competition (and what does it say about our country and culture that this is what now passes for entertainment?), so the pickings are slim.

The networks also use this time to try out new shows, away from the clutter of new episodes of established shows, and sometimes it works out well--Grey's Anatomy started in March two years ago, and it's turned into a top-rated show. But last Sunday we did make the mistake of watching the first episode of The Winner, a mind-blowingly bad new "comedy" on Fox, mostly because it was sandwiched between new episodes of The Simpsons and Family Guy and there wasn't anything else on that we cared about at the time. Two-thirds of the way through, the Mrs. stopped coughing long enough to comment, "I hate this already. Do we have to finish watching it?" We didn't have to, but we did, because there were only ten minutes left, but we opted to skip the second episode shown later the same night.

It's not all bad news, though. Because of their networks' scheduling quirks, there are new episodes of Lost and 24 on every week. NBC is showing plenty of reruns of one of our favorites, The Office, which is always worth watching a second time, but they're sweetening the deal with some with scenes that didn't make it into the episodes the first time around. The New Adventures of Old Christine comes back tomorrow night, promising us a few more laughs. And there's always Netflix. And before we know it, April will be here, and with any luck, the Mrs. will have stopped coughing, the weather will improve, and we'll be able to go see a movie.

Up in Somke

I don't smoke. I don't know anyone who does, except my father, who's been smoking so much, for so long, that I don't think he could quit if he wanted to. I was thrilled when Massachusetts passed the law several years back banning smoking in restaurants, bars, and clubs. But with that law came the exile of the smokers to sidewalks everywhere, often in clots that need to be dodged.

I was thinking about this as I went to get lunch the other day. I work in the midst of a cluster of top-tier hospitals, without exaggeration some of the finest medical care in the world, so I don't see a lot of people standing around on the street smoking. But the law of averages says that a certain percentage of people in any workplace are going to be smokers, and the medical area is no exception.

The rear entrance to the Longwood Galleria food court is at the end of an alley; it's a natural gathering spot for smokers who have finished lunch and are grabbing a puff before going back to work. Also abutting the same alley is the Dana-Farber Cancer Institute, which, according to their web site, "provides expert, compassionate care to children and adults with cancer." Is it just me, or is this the height of irony? At least the smokers will know where it is when they need to go there...

Random Acts of Weirdness (Pet Peeve Unit)

It was a week of random weirdness (and rudeness) out there in the big city. Here are some examples:

—The other day I went out to get lunch and drop off a bill at the mailbox. (Yes, I still pay one or two of my bills by check, but only because the companies in question don't offer an appropriate online payment method. In this case it's National Grid, our electric company. The only way you can pay online is to set up a recurring monthly payment, and I choose not to do this because I like to retain control over when and how much I pay.)

But I digress... as I approached the mailbox, I noticed a guy standing in front of it. I figured he was dropping off a piece of mail like me. As I got closer I saw that he was outside for a smoke break. He was standing in such a spot that there was no way I or anyone else could get to the mailbox without stepping around him and into his cloud of smoke. The mailbox is directly in front of an open area, and had he chosen to stand in any other spot nearby, his smoke bomb would have offended no one. I have to wonder if a smoker would feel marginalized enough by the laws to do something like this on purpose, but I decided against asking him.

—Even if the T never gets around to putting transmitters in the subway tunnels, cell phones still work some of the time, which is unfortunate. Wednesday morning on the Orange Line, a young woman sat down next to me in the midst of a conversation that proceeded to go something like this:

"Tell her about MY new sneakers...Did you tell her?...Did you tell her?...Tell her about MY new sneakers...Tell her about mine...Tell her about mine...Did you tell her?...Did you tell her?...Did you tell her?...Did you tell her?...What did she say?...Really?...I'm gonna lose you, I gotta go."

I'm not exaggerating: she really did say "Did you tell her?" ten or twelve times. I'm thinking it was a reception issue. If there had been actual cell service in the tunnel, would she have had to repeat herself so many times? We'll never know.

Then I noticed she was wearing headphones. I noticed because, since she was done talking, I could hear the music coming out of her ear. And I wondered, was she listening to the music while talking on the phone? Because that probably would have affected her ability to hear the other end of her conversation. But I didn't want to look too closely at her, because the music coming out of those headphones was Journey's "Faithfully," and that's just so wrong on so many levels, I don't know where to begin.

Now, she could have had a cell phone that plays mp3s, and I'm fairly certain that those are engineered in such a way that you can't listen to music while on a call, but since I have an iPod with far more capacity than any phone-sized memory card, I don't really pay attention to such things (even though my own cell phone has this capability).

This was at 8:30 AM. Sometimes when I overhear these conversations, I wonder about why people feel the need to have incredibly lengthy and involved conversations so early in the day. I think back to twenty years ago, when I was young enough that I might have felt such a need, but even if cell phones had been common then, I can't imagine myself needing to talk to even my best friend before getting to work, wspecially about something as banal as new sneakers. And anyway, I'd much rather show my new sneakers to my friends than tell them about them over the phone.

—At the end of that same morning's ride, I was preparing to get off the train to switch to a bus. There was a fairly bulky dude standing directly in front of me, so I went through the motions of folding up my newspaper and putting it away, putting my cap back on, and otherwise telegraphng to him in the universally understood (or so I thought) mass transit code that I was about to get off the train, and it would be helpful to me if he would move a couple of inches in the direction of his choice to give me some room to stand up.

The train wasn't really crowded by this point, so he had plenty of room to move, but he chose to remain in the exact spot where I needed to be when I stood up. So the train reached the station and I stood up, putting myself very much inside his personal space, hoping he'd get the message that he was impeding my passage. As I moved toward the door of the train, instinct told me to look over my shoulder, and I saw him glaring at me, as though I had somehow committed an offense against him. I felt I had no choice but to glare back because it really was his fault, even though the whole incident was ridiculous and pointless, and never should have happened. Fortunately the rest of my trip to work that day was without incident, but some days it's just such a challenge, you wish you didn't have to bother.

Can You Hear Me Now? (Crazy Gadgets Unit)

The post I was planning for today is gonna have to wait, because just when you think the world has become too boring and homogeneous and has run out of weirdness, this comes along to restore the faith...

Courtesy of Engadget, a tech blog, and those wacky Japanese and their penchant for gadgetizing their entire lives, comes today's little moment of joy: a device that lets you see inside your ear canals while cleaning them. Wow. Just...wow. This sort of thing is guaranteed to make my day, every time.

Scratching the Itch

Back in 2004, I started buying lottery scratch tickets. I had never done this before; in the early 90s I had a set of numbers I played in one of the weekly jackpot games for a while, but that was it for me as far as the lottery was concerned. But in mid-2004 I was laid off, and to my twisted way of thinking, a lottery prize would be a convincing argument for not having to get another job.

So what happens when a compulsive mind like mine decides to participate in legalized gambling? Well, I'm not analyzing percentages or anything like that, but I did quickly arrive at some conclusions regarding how best to waste spend my money. I don't have an addictive personality, but I can certainly see how easy it would be to go overboard, so I decided right away that I was going to limit myself to $10 per week, so things wouldn't get out of hand. (I figure the money falls in the same category as a daily fancy-latte-type drink, which I don't buy, so it has about the same justification.)

Then I looked at the the games themselves. I determined that the $1 tickets just aren't worth it, because the prizes are too small. Conversely, while the $5 tickets have much bigger prizes, when I did buy them I never won anything, and for the same amount of money, you don't get as many chances to win: if I buy five $2 tickets, I'm getting a total of ten chances (two per ticket), but if I buy two $5 tickets, there are only eight chances (four per ticket).

So for me the happy medium seems to be the $2 tickets. In a typical week I'll win a couple of bucks, just enough to make me feel like it's worth it and keep me coming back. On a couple of occasions I won $50, and once a few months ago $100. When that happens, I either take the Mrs. out for a nice dinner, or put it into the "fund" (also known as a savings account) I maintain for big-ticket purchases. At the moment, the fund has about 50% of the cost of the plasma TV I'm going to buy soon, which will make paying for it a good bit easier.

When I win a small amount, I practice a "reinvestment strategy" of sorts: when I go back the following week, I use the winnings to buy additional tickets beyond my weekly allotment. So this week I had $6 from last week's tickets, so I got a total of eight tickets, but still spent only $10. This makes me feel like I have more chances to win something.

Massachusetts participates in one of those multi-state jackpot games called Mega Millions, which is drawn twice a week. When the jackpot gets large, say over $100 million, I find it pretty hard to resist, so I amended my lottery rules to allow me to spend another $10 per week on Mega Millions. I don't play a specific set of numbers; rather, I embrace the randomness of the world and play "quick picks," which means I let the lottery machine randomly choose the numbers for me. (Actually, I decided that filling in the tiny circles on those cards every time would make me feel just a little too desperate.)

To my complete lack of surprise, my winnings from the jackpot game have been next to nothing. Occasionally I have a couple of the numbers, but without the "mega ball" the prizes are negligible. Last week I had the mega ball twice, but no other numbers, which got me $2 for each mega ball. Since the jackpot was still growing, I put the $4 toward the next set of quick picks. I'll probably never win anything substantial, but I tell myself I have just as much chance as anyone. I fantasize about world travel, vacation homes, helping my family, becoming a philanthropist, and not having to work ever again. Especially that last one.

In NyQuil We Trust

Being sick is just so much fun. But as soon as I figured out what was going on, I reached for the NyQuil, for two reasons: one, it was already in the house, and two, it always works. Since it was a long holiday weekend and I didn't have to worry about going anywhere or being lucid, I took the green stuff round the clock until Tuesday, when I decided to shift to the day/night combo because I wanted to try to start feeling normal again.

A lot of people will tell you they don't like the taste of NyQuil (their spelling, by the way, with the capital Q). Not me; I love it. I love it because it Tastes. Like. Medicine. One whiff and you know it's serious stuff. One swallow, and you know you're going to feel better soon. Of course, the sense of wooziness brought on by the combination of the antihistamine and alcohol is part of the fun too. It makes you relaxed, passive, receptive. Appetite? Not really. Take a shower? Nah. Five or so hours of Anthony Bourdain on the Travel Channel? Sure.

Closed Due to Illness

Well, after fighting it for a week, I finally caught whatever it is the Mrs. has been coughing out into the atmosphere. Programming will resume when I can once again think straight...

Plaid World

Sometimes I just don't have a good topic in mind. Like today. I was actually going to write a lame post about how sometimes I can't think of anything to write, but fortunately/unfortunately, on the way home from work I encountered unexpected inspiration. A young lady standing at the bus stop was wearing Burberry earmuffs. Burberry. Earmuffs. My brain just locked up; I didn't know what to make of them. And then I thought to myself, I wonder if she's wearing a Burberry thong too? Because if they make Burberry earmuffs, they must make fucking Burberry underpants. Then, a little while later, while I was in the midst of an errand at a trendy shopping mall, I saw a second young lady wearing them. At least it's clear who the target customer is.

When I got home I looked them up online, and saw that they are cashmere and cost $115. Just think about that for a minute. What's the last item of clothing you bought that cost over $100? I bet it was probably a coat, or maybe a good pair of shoes, or possibly you treated yourself to a cashmere sweater. I rooted around in my own brain, and I think for me it was a leather coat I got about a year ago. It was originally $250 but I found it on clearance for around $120. I also bought a pair of engineer boots around the same time that were about the same amount. The closest thing I have to earmuffs is those things that go around the back of your head and cover your ears, and twist up into a sort of ball when you aren't wearing them. They cost about $10.

I still can't get my mind around the fact that someone thought the world needed cashmere earmuffs with the Burberry plaid on them. It does not surprise me that people would buy them, because people will buy anything. I just think it's sad that we allow ourselves to be marketed to in this way, and that we think we need to buy expensive designer items to validate ourselves.

By the way, I couldn't find any underwear, but they do make Burberry-plaid bikinis. I'm sure it's just a matter of time, though.

City Mice, Country Mice

Over the weekend we made an overnight visit to friends who live in West Brookfield, a very pretty, very small town out in the middle of the state. Their house is on five acres at the end of a long driveway, and they regularly get coyotes, foxes, deer, and other wildlife as visitors in their yard. We ate, drank, talked, and relaxed. We took a walk in the snow, in spite of the cold, and even the dog seemed to enjoy herself--she doesn't like to walk at home because other dogs in the neighborhood make her nervous. (Yes, she is a pathetic, 60-pound sissy-dog.)

It's only a 90-minute drive from our house to theirs, but it's such a striking contrast to living in the city or just outside it, as we do. If I could drive, I wouldn't mind living somewhere less urban, though not necessarily as rural as "camp," as our friends refer to their place. And as much as the Mrs. enjoys nature, animals, and getting away from things, I could tell that even after only 24 hours, she was getting a little bored with all that peace and quiet.

Sure, we have cable and TiVo and Netflix and everything else, and we could have all that no matter where we lived (our friends can't get cable, but they have DirecTV), but sometimes you just want to go out and do something, and that's where the differences come into focus. If they want to go see a movie, they have to drive 40 minutes to Amherst or Northampton or Worcester; from our house, we can get to either the Capitol, the Somerville Theatre, or the Revere Showcase in about 15 minutes. They have one pizza place and one Chinese place; the pizza place delivers, the Chinese place doesn't. The choices for sit-down dining are bound to be limited in a town with only 1600 residents; again, satisfaction is at the other end of a lengthy car ride. Hell, it's ten miles from their house to the liquor store.

As with everything else in life, it's a tradeoff: what you get in exchange for what you are willing to give up. As we were driving home Sunday evening, slipping through the city on the Turnpike, the Mrs. gestured outside the car and said, "See, I would miss this too much." I knew exactly what she meant.

Employees Must Wash Hands

The restrooms where I work got shiny new dispensers for the toilet paper, soap, and paper towels last week. Not exactly a major news story, but I couldn't help but notice that it didn't necessarily result in an improvement in the restroom experience. The soap is the foamy kind, which is fine; it's a little nicer than the gel-like substance it replaced, and lathers more easily. The paper towel dispenser requires a combination of pulling down on the towel and pushing in on a piece of plastic that sits behind the towel, which is pretty counterintuitive, and kind of dumb. The toilet paper is wider and thicker, but quite a bit coarser than what it replaced. So that's 1 for 3. Maybe I'd better stop wishing they'll do something about how the restroom smells.

[On closer inspection, I determined that the plastic push bar is there to help the towel along if pulling off one sheet does not bring the next sheet far enough out of the dispenser to be pulled. My bad. But it's still somewhat kludgy, so 1.5 out of 3.]

Also work-related, but with broader implications as well: just how lazy do you have to be to ride the elevator down one floor? I see this about once a week. Our office is on the sixth floor, which is the top of the building, so I feel somewhat justified in riding the elevator (although, since we publish health newsletters, we are always being guilted encouraged to use the stairs, and quite a few people do). But people persist in riding from five to four, or three to two. And these are not people with crutches or walkers or wheelchairs; these are able-bodied types, generally in their twenties, and since the rest of the building is a library, most of them are medical students. If anyone should be taking the stairs, it should be them, right? Setting the example?

Button to Button

Size creep, as it has come to be known, is keeping a clothing size's physical measurements the same, but labeling it as a smaller size than it was previously known. It's aimed primarily at women, supposedly to flatter them into thinking they are thinner than they really are, or some marketing BS like that.

J. Crew is practicing reverse size creep; that is, I've had to start buying their clothing in bigger sizes. Their men's size large shirts, and at least one style of sweater, no longer fit me comfortably. They have trimmed the patterns by at least a couple of inches, so while I can button the shirts, there's enough pulling between the buttons to look unattractive. I noticed that the armholes and upper arms are cut more snugly as well. Extra large fits comfortably enough, but the sleeves are a little too long. If anything, they should be going in the opposite direction, given our country's obesity epidemic, or at least consider offering the shirts in more than one fit/cut.

Much Ado...

So yeah, here in Boston we now look like a bunch of fools in the wake of yesterday's Mooninite invasion. Clearly the mental geniuses (I attempted to link to the hairy guy's web site, but who knows if it's ever coming back) who were hired to make and place these things didn't use good judgment, and even if the city's response seems like an overreaction in hindsight, it's understandable why they reacted the way they did.

But I have to wonder: even though apparently not one policeman, firefighter, EMS worker, or other emergency response person involved had ever heard of Adult Swim, doesn't it seem like one look at the device in question would make it clear it was some kind of spoof? I mean, it doesn't exactly look threatening, plus it's giving the finger (which, incidentally, made for some amusing moments in the local media, as some TV stations reportedly blurred the digit and others did not). Do we have to be so uptight about everything?

Good Neighbor

In my neighborhood, the bus into and out of the subway station runs every 20 minutes in the morning and evening. It would be nice if it was every 15 minutes, especially now that it's actually cold outside, but at least I know when to expect the bus to arrive (within a reasonable window of time), and it is generally reliable, which is a near-miracle for the T.

This morning I was just a tiny bit behind schedule. Maybe I took too long to tie my shoes; maybe I was trying to get too many little things done before I left the house. Whatever the reason, the cycle of the traffic light at the corner was against me, and the bus pulled away just before I got to it. I stopped running and was taking a moment to debate the wisdom of walking versus standing still, when I noticed a car had stopped next to me and the driver was gesturing for me to get in. I took a quick look at the car and the driver--no one I knew, so I figured he'd been at the traffic light and had seen me running.

I got in the car, thinking the guy was going to offer to get me ahead of the bus so I could get on at another stop. But he said he was going over to Cambridge and was willing to drop me off anywhere along the way. We determined that Lechmere was a good target because it would not take him out of his way and would give me a direct ride to work. He introduced himself and told me where he lived, on a street that runs off ours. We passed a pleasant 20 minutes talking about the weather, the T, the increasing amount of traffic on the roads during his daily commute, and his daughter's college plans.

He dropped me off at the station, I thanked him, got on the train, and it rolled right out. I ended up getting to work about 15 minutes earlier than usual. So thank you again, Hernan, for making my morning, and my whole day, much more pleasant than it started out to be. Hopefully I'll see you around the neighborhood again.

Greyhound Love

If you've read my sidebar over there to the right, you know we have a dog. I've been planning to post about her for a while, and this past weekend marked six months since we brought her home, so it seemed like the right time to do it.

In late July we adopted London*, a retired racing greyhound from Greyhound Welfare, an organization based in the DC area that also has a New England chapter. They hold "open house" events every few weeks at various pet stores around the area where prospective owners can meet several dogs informally and get information about the adoption program. We went to three of these before and during our application and screening process. It was at the second one that we first met London, who had just come into the program and was nervous and shy. But by the next open house a couple of weeks later, she was wagging her tail and generally making herself irresistible.
(*We didn't choose her name; at the time, they were naming the dogs after cities and, though they assured us we could change her name to anything we wanted, we thought it was a good name and saw no reason to change it.)

As part of the adoption process, Greyhound Welfare places dogs with foster families to help them make a successful transition to post-racing life. For example, a racing dog typically does not know how to go up and down stairs, because racing kennels are on one floor. It's easy for the dog to learn, but it requires a little effort, so having the foster family do this lets the adoptive family focus on helping their new friend get comfortable in its new surroundings.

GW is very thorough: their process includes a written application, with required references from people who know you; a phone interview; a visit to your home with an adoptable dog to evaluate safety and general dog-worthiness; and a visit with the dog you are considering adopting at its foster home. They make a concerted effort to match the right dog with the right family.

A greyhound is a good choice for people who work, because they are generally content to spend the day sleeping, and they rarely bark. Contrary to what some think, they don't require a great deal of exercise, but some attention and activity time is necessary for any dog. When I get home from work, I take London outside and she runs a few laps around the yard to release that pent-up energy. But within an hour or so, she's back to lying down on her living-room bed next to us as we watch TV. Of course, some dogs are naturally more energetic than others; London's brother was up for adoption at the same time she was, and it was clear when we met him that he would need much more activity to be content.
Growing up, we had at least one dog in the house from the time I was about three, but as an adult I had never owned a pet until now, so it felt like a big deal. The Mrs. loves all animals, and her mother even raised German shepherds for a while, but this was her first time as a pet owner as well. As a couple who have chosen to be child-free, it still feels a little weird to have something that we are responsible for, that is dependent on us for its care, but it has been a tremendously rewarding experience. And as far as we're concerned, she's earned the right to be lazy. She's retired, after all.

Pet Peeve Dept. Unit

I'm sure all of you readers are courteous, respectful, and well-groomed people, but not everyone else out there in the world is so. Today's gripefest concerns those folks who insist on keeping their overstuffed Godzilla backpacks on while riding the subway. Guess what? Your shit is hitting me, and it's pretty fucking annoying.

I was coming home from work yesterday on the Green Line (a whole realm of torture in itself), minding my own business, reading the paper. Jack and Jill Dumbass get on, Jack stands next to me, and they have a really, really stupid conversation. (I wanted to quote a sample, but it was so insipid I blocked it immediately. I think it was about theater. Sorry RH, if you're reading.) As the train picks up speed it starts to sway, and with each sway Jack's giant backpack hits me on the shoulder. This goes on for about fifteen minutes. Jack never notices, never says anything to me, never attempts to shift his position. I think he finally got out at Park Streeet. On tonight's ride home I got hit in the back of the head by another genius (which he must be, if he needs to carry all those books around). This is where we need a rule that you can just go ahead and smack someone, and get a free pass, and not even have to explain yourself. Maybe we'd all be issued a card or something, and you'd just hand it to the person, and it would read: "You've just been idiot-smacked. Because you're an idiot."

Personally, I haven't used a backpack since college, which was a long time ago. (Even then, I never filled the thing the way people do now.) Shortly after graduation I switched to a messenger-style bag, probably before they were even called that, and I haven't looked back. One reason is because, no longer being in college, I had less stuff to carry for a typical day. I was also in the process of a personal style overhaul and decided it was time for an upgrade. The bag I have now is very thin, so it doesn't stick out from my body much, and the ends of the strap are attached to the bag at an angle, so it is even less obtrusive. Civilized, dare I say.

I know, this is the #1 college "town" in the nation, and a lot of those people whose backpacks are hitting me repeatedly are students who need to lug around every textbook they own, everywhere, every day. But clearly some responsibility is called for, and that's the problem. Everyone has become so selfish, no one gives a shit about anyone else but themselves. People won't even step aside anymore; they walk right at me all the time, and I swear if I didn't move out of the way they would crash right into me, then say it was my fault. At which point I would be forced to use another idiot card.

Silver Screens of Yore

In addition to watching football, I also wasted some time this weekend on a fun web site called Cinema Treasures. I enjoyed looking up information and readers' reminiscences about movie theaters I went to while growing up, or in college, that no longer exist, including the hometown theater where I first saw a little movie called Star Wars.

But be warned: the site's performance is erratic, and it can be very slow.

Season's Over

Ouch, that hurt. Not how our season was supposed to end, especially on an interception. But I don't want to be too hard on Brady and the boys, because they've given us so much great football over the past six seasons. And I was lucky enough to attend my first Patriots game this season, thanks to my brother (the ticket was my birthday present from him).

One observation, though: I've never played or coached football, but I know enough about the game to understand that with three and a half minutes left and a lead in your possession, you give the ball to your running back(s), keep it in bounds, and burn the clock, doing whatever it takes to get the necessary first down(s) to get inside two minutes and take a knee. So why was Tom heaving the ball up there on that next-to-last drive? Three pass attempts equaled no first down, and gave the ball to the Colts with more than enough time to score the winning touchdown, but not enough time (realistically) for the Patriots to answer it.

We can be fairly certain the NFL will schedule the Pats to play both the Colts and Chargers next season, to stoke the rivalries.

I think Belichick and Co. have at least one more Patriots Super Bowl victory in them, but if anything it's going to be more difficult to attain than the previous three. What I'd love to see is a season similar to 2003 and 2004, only better, where the team hardly loses all season and is really dominant, not just in their division but in the whole AFC. I want to see a year where the Pats are the #1 seed, giving them the first-round playoff bye and two home playoff games at Gillette Stadium, a magic carpet ride of a season that leads them to wherever the Super Bowl is being played that year and their fourth championship. That's my idea of fantasy football.

ADDENDUM: I was going to mention (but forgot) that, as a consolation for Patriots fans, spring training for the Red Sox begins in about three weeks.