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.
27 March 2008
24 March 2008
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.
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.
22 March 2008
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.
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.
18 March 2008
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?
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?
17 March 2008
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.
13 March 2008
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.
12 March 2008
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?
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?
10 March 2008
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?
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?
07 March 2008
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.
06 March 2008
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?
How can we hope to thin the herd, Darwin Awards-style, when there are those who would try to thwart it?
04 March 2008
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.
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.
27 February 2008
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?
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?
26 February 2008
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.
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.
25 February 2008
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!"
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!"
23 February 2008
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.
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.
18 February 2008
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.
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.
17 February 2008
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.
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.
13 February 2008
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.
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.
12 February 2008
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.
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.
11 February 2008
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.
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.
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