Hot Music

Ah, is there anything compares to bloggin' on a hot summer's night. 'Course not, but excuse me if I get a little delirious and start to mumble. My brain can't really function when it gets this hot, and tonight has t0 be the hottest night of all since this heat wave started. The truth is it's been so hot that I haven't really done much of anything lately except swelter, and althought that doesn't leave me much of anything to talk about, well that's never stopped me before.

I guess the big news, as far as I'm concerned anyways, is the start of a new opera season out here in the Bay Area. The big event is up in S.F. with Renee Fleming performing an opening night gala for the SF Opera. Damn, wish I had tickets. I can't believe she's going to be in the Bay Area and I'm going to miss that booming, rich soprano of hers again, but that's the way it goes.

I've got a couple of her DVD's though and I highly recommend them.

The first is a Glyndebourne Festival production of Le Nozze di Figaro that dates from early in Fleming's career. Her interpretation of the Countess is not particularly memorable and has a "deer caught in the headlights" quality to it at times, but her singing is incredibly beautiful and leaves no doubt that this is a soprano destined for superstardom. My only complaint with the production as a whole is Marie-Ange Todorovitch's Cherubino which seems more mannered than comic to me, but there are those who would disagree. All in all, though, this is a DVD worthy of any opera collection, or Mozart collection for that matter.

The second is a Met production of Otello with Placido Domingo in the title role, James Morris as Iago, and Renee Fleming as Desdemona. This DVD, in a word, is outstanding. Opera critics (and there are many) all seem to have their favorite Otello's, but Placido Domingo almost seems born to play the role. Likewise, it's hard to imagine a more sinister or conniving Iago than James Morris and Renee Fleming more than holds her own with a really memorable Desdemona. I know the word "memorable" is overused, but this DVD shows that she has the dramatic chops to match the singing and you'll be hard-pressed to imagine anyone else in the role.

Which all just makes me wish I could make it to the gala. Oh well, I guess I can always rent a tux and find a scalper with an extra ticket, but probably not. Maybe the local radio station will broadcast it someday and I'll get to hear it that way. They do quite a few symphony broadcasts and they're going to do a rebroadcast of the Opera in the Park, so who knows. But then again, probably not.

Panning for Gold

Speaking of opera, nothing beats the heat so well as popping in a DVD and enjoying a little Puccini, does it? I guess not, but I got this new DVD of La Fanciulla del West with Placido Domingo as Dick Johnson and Mara Zampieri as Minnie, and that just so happens to be how I spent my sweltering afternoon. Given the circumstances I probably shouldn't give an opinion on it until I have a chance to clear my head and watch it in a more comfortable climate, but what the heck.

First of all let me say that I'm not familiar with this opera at all. Yes, I love opera, especially Italian opera, but I haven't seen or heard them all. I understand Puccini considered this one his favorite and everyone is entitled to their opinions, but I'm kind of a Tosca man myself. As far as La Fanciulla del West is concerned, however, I thought the score was outstanding, maybe his best, but the drama was a little flat with the second act the strongest, the first act the longest, and the third act the strangest. In other words, this opera takes its time getting started, peaks in the middle, and finally falls flat into a tub of mushy sentimentality at the end.

Mara Zampieri heads the cast and I can't say much about her performance other than it seemed okay to me. Nothing special, but certainly not terrible or distracting. Placido Domingo, on the other hand, seemed remarkably weak in the Dick Johnson role. Now there are a lot of Placido Domingo performances on DVD and I know this because I've got quite a few of them (in fact, I'll bet you dollars to donuts that if you've got an opera DVD somewhere at home Placido is somewhere on it), but this is the only one I can recall where he looks so ill-at-ease. It's strange because I remember him saying that this was one of his favorite roles, but he doesn't show it here. Maybe it was just an off night.

The opening is also a little off-putting with all these Italian singers strutting around trying to look like American cowboys, or something, but looking more like the guy in the Lennox Air Conditioning commercial instead. You know the guy in the bib and overalls who's supposed to be some kind of turn-of-the-century Dave Lennox type. Well the chorus are all supposed to be California gold miners but unfortunately whoever did the costumes must have been watching that commercial because these guys looked more like blacksmiths or housepainters. But you get used to it and I think what's more important is that credit should finally be given to Puccini, Civinini and Zangarini for writing what must certainly be considered the first spaghetti western.

Is the DVD worth buying? I don't know. If you've just got to have everything Puccini ever wrote then I suppose it's a moot question. Personally, I'd wait for a better production to come along. On the other hand, at under $20.00 you haven't really got much to lose. And besides, on a hot summer afternoon what else is there to do?

If God Didn't Want Them Sheared He Would Not Have Made Them Sheep

Victories come so rarely in life, but when you do win one it's oh so sweet. My little victory came in the form of a check I received in the mail today, and even though the amount was small the pleasure I got from depositing it was enormous. Let me tell you the story.

About a month and half ago I went into a little quickie lube establishment to get new belts put on my car. The belts had about 85 thousand miles on them and they were looking a little worn, so I decided to pay the 30 bucks or so I figured it would cost me to get them replaced. The guy at the quickie lube wrote me a work order for the belts and told me I could wait inside until the car was ready. I should have known something was wrong when I looked at the work order and noticed that no price had been quoted for the job, but I put my suspicions aside and sat down to wait things out.

Well, about 45 minutes later the lady at the counter told me my car was ready and sort of off-handedly remarked that the amount due was $125.00. Coolly and calmy I politely inquired "$125.00 FOR BELTS!!!", to which she offered no response. I then asked her how in the world they arrived at a figure of $125.00 and again she stonewalled by saying "Sir, that is the charge. How do you want to pay?" I wanted to tell her what she could do with her belts and leave the shop without paying them a single dime, but they still had the keys to my car and I wasn't about to hoof it all the way home.

So I payed them their blood money and picked up my keys, but before I left the shop I decided to pop the hood just to see just what kind of belts you get for $125.00 these days. I was half expecting to see platinum and diamonds when I looked in the engine compartment, but, alas, all I saw was plain old rubber V belts staring back.

After I got home my blood pressure just kept rising and I figured that rather than have a stroke over this I could either swallow my pride and forget about it or I could do some serious complaining. That's when I got on the internet and discovered this wonderful little place called the Santa Clara County District Attorney's Office and a little department called the Consumer Fraud Unit. They had a complaint form that you could download and instructions on how to file, so I printed it all out and proceeded to vent my anger.

To make a long story short, the quickie lube shop soon received a copy of my complaint along with a letter from the District Attorney's Office saying that they were referring the matter to the California Department of Consumer Affair's Bureau of Automotive Repair. Although this didn't seem to garner much of a response from the quickie lube, subsequent letters and phone calls from this nice lady I talked to at the Bureau finally convinced them that it would be in their best interest to settle this matter.

Which takes me to today and this nice refund check I just received. Ah, sweet victory, and let me tell you it is a sweet victory indeed. However my purpose in relating this tale is not to gloat (ok, maybe just a little) but rather to serve as a lesson to anyone who might someday read this. You know, usually I'm pretty content in the knowledge that no one ever reads my blog. If no one reads it then I don't feel compelled to write anything worth reading. But just this once I have to say that I wish I actually had an audience, and I say that because as I was depositing the check tonight I had to wonder how many others had gotten ripped off by this shop and not fought back. And worse, by not fighting back and teaching these guys a lesson, how many more would this shop feel free to rip off in the future? It can become a self-perpetuating cycle unless people put a stop to it.

And so that is my lesson for the day. Yes it was important to get my money back, but just as important was the satisfaction of knowing that somewhere deep in the bowels of the District Attorney's office a file has been started with this shop's name on it. And as more people fight back and complain that file will grow, and someday it just might reach the critical mass necessary for the D.A. to pursue these guys and shut them down once and for all. That's the real lesson I want to pass on. If someone rips you off you have the responsibility to fight back, not only for your own sake but for others who may find themselves in the same situation. Just remember that the law is on your side and can work in your favor, and it is only through your own inaction that we all become victims.

And as I step off my soapbox let me add one last thought - beware of Marlee's Speedee Oil Change on Trade Zone Blvd. in Milpitas. They're a bunch of crooks, and I've got the evidence to prove it.

J'Accuse

There was a game we used to play back in my school days called "Dead Movie Stars", and, contrary to what you might think, the idea of the game was not to think of dead movie stars but to think of movie stars from a certain era like the 1920's or 1930's who were still alive, the point being the more famous the star the better. Anyways, I was sitting in traffic today playing the game in my head and I realized it was getting harder and harder to think of movie stars of yesteryear who are still around.

For example, back when I was a kid there were still quite a few stars from the 1920's around like Mary Pickford and Charlie Chaplin, but I can't think of any who are still alive today. Things get a little better in the 1930's, but now that Katherine Hepburn is gone the pickings are a lot thinner. A few major ones I came up with were:

Shirley Temple
Mickey Rooney
Olivia De Havilland
Jackie Cooper

When I moved on to the forties, the pickings were still pretty slim. I could only come up with three.

Deborah Kerr
Van Johnson
Elizabeth Taylor

I know there must be more, but I can't think of any.

Finally, when I got to the fifties, things started getting a lot easier.

Paul Newman
Joanne Woodward
Ernest Borgnine
Tony Curtis
Charlton Heston
etc...

And then, while I was thinking of the fifties, Richard Widmark suddenly came to mind, and I remembered something that has bothered me for a long time now. That is, I wonder how many people out there are aware that Richard Widmark has never won an Acadamy award, and in fact was nominated only once. I mean when you think back on all the movies he made, and some really good ones I might add, it seems incredible to me that he has never won an oscar.

It was bugging me the entire ride home, so I decided to fire up the old computer and surf on over to the Internet Movie Database to look up his biography, where I got the biggest shocker of all. Here I was at the IMDB, THE online source for movie facts and reviews, THE resource for all things movie related, THE place to go for information on your favorite movies and movie stars, and all they could manage for Richard Widmark was one short, sketchy little paragraph and no picture. Think about it. Richard Widmark, one of the greatest movie stars of all time, and the IMDB doesn't even think he rates a picture. Incredible.

And then I started to get a little irate the way older folk do sometimes when they see their cherished icons fade away into obscurity. It seems the movie fans of today just don't care to remember Tommy Udo in 'Kiss of Death' or Skip McCoy in 'Pickup on South Street'. They've never seen 'The Bedford Incident' or 'Madigan'? Movies like that and movie stars like Richard Widmark are just too quaint and old-fashioned for the sophisticated tastes of today's audiences.

Well, if that's the way it is, then that's the way it is, but I still have to wonder if the Acadamy of Motion Picture Arts and Sciences doesn't owe their old stars at least a little bit of gratitude and recognition. Why, for example, hasn't the Acadamy of Motion Picture Arts and Sciences ever awarded Richard Widmark a lifetime achievement award? Isn't that an award to honor those who've had outstanding careers and yet were somehow overlooked in the past? Isn't that why Cary Grant and Deborah Kerr were both given their honorary awards? Why is it that previous oscar winners such as Sidney Poitier and Elia Kazan have both won special oscars while someone like Richard Widmark continues to be overlooked? Hell, Elia Kazan already had two prior oscars when they gave him his lifetime achievement award, and Richard Widmark doesn't even have one.

It got my dander up and so I've decided to write a letter to the AMPAS to give them a piece of my mind. I've also decided to send letters to Martin Scorcese and Steven Spielberg and anyone else I think might be in a position to get something done. Not that I think that anyone will read them or care, but it seems like a just cause and, well, what have I got to lose.

And given that Richard Widmark must be around 90 years old, or so, I think it would be especially nice to see him get an award while he is still alive.

Ol' Man River

Isn't it nice to settle down with a cold beverage after a hard day working on the yard and reflect on all the loveliness you're labors have created. The lawn so green and healthy, the bushes neat and trim, the rose blooms glowing iridescent under the light of the setting sun. And as the evening breeze cools off the stifling heat of the day isn't it comforting just to sit there feeling industrious and accomplished, and ....wait a minute! What's that? Over there. Is that a WEED! No, it can't be. I'm finished. I'm relaxing now. I'm enjoying my cold beverage. That can't be another weed.

Oh man I tell 'ya, isn't that the way it always is in life. You work, you sweat, you toil, and just when you think you're finished, just when you think that you've earned your hour of sweet repose, life comes along and throws another weed in your path. I swear I'm getting too old for this.

Of course, that's what's nice about having children - especially young children. You just sit there drinking from life's beverage and when a weed pops up you say "Junior, go pick that weed over there. Yeah the big one - over there. That's it, now throw it in the garbage can. That a' boy. That's the chip off the ol' block"

Yeah, when you get old and tired it's nice to have some kids around. I don't have any kids but I think I better go get some because this working for a living isn't cutting it anymore. Let the young folk fight those battles and let us old timers just sit here and relax in the shade awhile. Sounds good, but before I do that I guess I better go over there and pick that weed .

Please Sir, Can I Have Some More?

I try really hard not to be topical in this blog, but there's this big political convention going on in New York and I just have one little thought I'd like to share. This is not a knock against the Republican party, either, because the thought really first occurred to me when I was watching the Democratic convention last month.

Anyways, as I was looking at the convention on the TV it suddenly struck me how quaint and innocent the whole thing was. I mean there was the delegation from Maine, and Massachusetts, and South Carolina, all waiving their little signs and cheering and gushing over the goings on, and all the while seeming so oblivious to just how irrelevant they had become. And I hate to say it, and I know they mean well, but let's get real here. If the convention truly reflected the p0litical reality of the situation then you wouldn't see state delegations there at all, would you? No, you would see the real powers in American politics down on that floor instead.

For example, over there about 10 rows back would be the Halliburton delegation, and next to them would be GM or Exxon Mobil. Over on the other side you might see the NRA or the Sierra Club, or the tobacco lobbyists or the big agribusiness conglomerates. Way in the back you might even catch a glance of OPEC or a wealthy Asian investor or two. You certainly wouldn't see states or average citizens on the floor, only those who wield real political power in Washington would be allowed. I mean, it's nice that they let us have our election and all, but after the votes are counted and the politicians sworn in, that's when the real transfer of power takes place. And by that I mean the transfer of power from the office holders to the money men.

And on that bitter and cynical note I think I'll call it a night.

Stay Tuned, the Weather is Next


You know when there's nothing else to talk about you can always talk about the weather. Fact is I've been thinking of picking up a few extra bucks on the side by starting my own little South Bay internet weatherman school. I figure for around 5 or 6 grand a pop it shouldn't be too hard to teach any hopefuls out there the basics of South Bay weathermaning. After all, we really only have 3 different kinds of weather down here so how hard can it be? I've even worked out a little course outline and broken it down into 3 easy-to-learn lessons. Feel free to take a look and let me know if you'd be interested in signing up.

My first lesson will cover "foggy at the coast turning to sunny inland." That forecast will work for about 9 months out of the year and is really the only thing any South Bay weatherman needs to know to get started in the weatherman business. Of course people will get bored if you just get on the air and say "foggy at the coast turning to sunny inland" everyday, so I'll also throw in a few pointers on how to break things up a little. For instance, you could say "for you folks at the coast, look for foggy conditions to persist throughout the day tomorrow, and for you folks farther inland, expect plenty of sunshine." You know, embellish it a little and make it sound authoritative and official.

My second lesson will cover "We have a cold front moving in from the Gulf of Alaska but this ridge of high pressure should keep it well to the north of us." That's an important one to know for when winter comes along. You also need to add a "Expect cooler temperatures with a slight chance of showers in the North Bay" if you use this one, but don't overdo it. Just say "ridge of high pressure" and most Bay Areans will know what you mean.

My third and final lesson will cover the rarely used "Expect rain to start overnight in the North Bay and gradually work it's way throughout the entire Bay Area by tomorrow evening." This one's tricky, though, because it can be raining buckets in Santa Rosa and still be bone dry down in the South Bay. If you're a South Bay weatherman and you're going to stick your neck out with this one then you better qualify it by saying something like "Look for heavy preciptation tomorrow, mainly in the North Bay, tapering off by tomorrow evening." Notice the difference?

First of all, instead of using the word "rain" it's always better to say "precipitation" because no one knows what that means. "Precipitation" could be anything from a heavy dew to a category 5 hurricane, so you're not really comitted to anything. That way, when you get angry letters the next day because the rainstorm never came you can always reply "I didn't say it was going to rain, I said it was going to precipitate." Clever, huh? And second of all, never come out and explicitly say that it's going to rain in the South Bay - say "taper off" instead. Don't commit to anything and you'll be just fine.

And whoops, that'll be the course. I know it's kind of quick, but it does contain just about everything you need to know to get started. Three easy lessons and you too could be on your way to an exciting career as a South Bay weather forecaster. And even better, as an added bonus for those who complete the course (and whose checks don't bounce) I'll even add at no extra charge the secret weather phrase that every professional weatherman knows is the key to success in this business. You've probably heard it used a million times and I know it always makes me want to jump out of my chair, stick my hands through the TV screen and strangle the weatherman when I hear him/her use it, but just ask any weatherman how they made it to the top and they'll all tell you the same thing. Know the secret phrase. Know the secret phrase. And if you sign up for the course I'll let you know the phrase as well.

Pretty sneaky, huh?

Oh, alright, I won't keep you in suspense. I'll tell you the phrase but you've got to promise that you won't divulge it to anyone else or use it in a manner that would violate the sacred weatherman's bond. You promise? Ok, the secret weather phrase is.... "on tap". "On tap?", you say, what's so special about that? What makes that phrase so powerful? I don't know, but successful weathermen everywhere use it, and you need only look at the results to appreciate its power.

Try practicing these phrases at home and see if you don't agree:

"Looks like more of the same on tap for tomorrow."
"Let's go to the map and see what's on tap for your morning commute."
"It's gonna start out foggy, but by the afternoon their should be plenty of sunshine on tap."
"Looking at our 5 day forecast looks like there's more hot weather on tap for the remainder of your week."

Yeah, you know what I'm talking about. You hear it all the time but never realized how powerful it was, did you? In fact it's so powerful that Webster's has recently added "on tap" as a synonym for "what's the weather going to be like tomorrow", and not only in America but throughout the world. It's true. You could be in Nepal climbing Mt. Everest and even your Sherpa carrier would understand.

"What's the weather gonna be like up there tomorrow?"
"Huh?"
"The weather. What's the forecast for tomorrow?"
"What?"
"Tomorrow's weather. Do you think we could hit any storms?"
"I'm sorry, I don't understand."
"On tap. On tap."
"Oh, Cold and windy with a slight chance of morning precipitation tapering off by afternoon. There is a cold front moving in from the Gulf of Alaska but this ridge of high pressure should keep it well to the north of us. Expect fog at the coast and sunny conditions further inland. "

Well that's it for me, now it's back to you folks in the newsroom.

The Sporting Life

Now, where was I? Damn, these Olympics have really cut into my blog time. And speaking of the Olympics, I hope you managed to catch the air rifle competition last week. I know, it sounds dull, but believe me, it was anything but.

Imagine taking a BB gun and hitting a target the size of a nickel from 10 meters away. Then imagine having to hit the center of the target, an area no bigger than the period at the end of this sentence, with just the naked eye (no scopes allowed) to get a score good enough to stay in the competition. Then imagine hitting that period from 10 meters away on a consistent enough basis to win the competition. I know the word is overused, but it was amazing. I couldn't believe anyone could even see the target, let alone hit it, let alone dot the i as it were, and you have to wonder how anyone could ever get that good with a BB gun. Mom and dad buy you a BB gun one day when you're a kid and you just keep practicing, and practicing, and practicing, and pretty soon there you are going for the gold at the Olympics.

Amazing.


I Love a Mystery

If y0u haven't read The DaVinci Code yet then congratulations, you're probably the only person in America who hasn't. I thought I was the only person who hadn't read it, but I finally broke down and gave it a read, and all I've got to say is geez, just what we need is another conspiracy theory. I mean I haven't even finished digesting the JFK assassination, Area 54, or the whole flat earth thing yet and, uh-oh, here we go again.

I don't want to get into the details but this definitely has to be the mother of all conspiracies. I guess it all falls into the category of the "big whopper" - you know, the taller the tale, the more believable it becomes. And believe me, this is one tall tale. Yet there I was turning page after page, itching to find out what happens next, ready for the next mind-blowing revelation, sucking it all in just like everybody else. Shows how sophisticated I am.

But it's obvious, really, why people keep falling for this stuff. Just start with some sort of mystery, real or imagined, add some sketchy evidence and unsupported conclusions, say a few abracadabra's, and then take a blind leap of faith into the world of simple answers and presto - you've got yourself one satisfying read. And it is satisfying, much more so than taking a realistic look at things and trying to come up with some sort of reality-based explanation. I mean, would you rather read a Stephen Hawking book about string theory and quantum mechanics with concepts so obtuse that it would take you a lifetime of study to understand them, or would you rather read a Dan Brown book that explains something like the Holy Grail mystery with simple certitude in terms that any child could understand.

I rest my case.


The Opera Ain't Over Till The ...

Just one more thing, and then I gotta get back to the Olympics. There was an article in the paper yesterday about a theater director named Gerald Thomas who it seems got a little upset with the patrons after a performance of Tristan und Isolde down in Rio de Janeiro. According to the article, there were a few boos when the final curtain came down, so aftewards Thomas went out on the stage, dropped his pants, and proceeded to moon the audience. Turns out it caused quite a stir, and luckily for Thomas the Supreme Court finally decided to toss out the obscenity charges against him. But you know what I think? I think this story just points out the biggest difference between going to the symphony and going to the opera. I mean, can you just imagine someone like Michael Tilson Thomas walking out on stage and mooning the audience after a performance of the Mahler 5. No, you can't, can you. That sort of thing could only happen in an Opera House.

God, I love opera!

My Date With Olympia (with apologies to Hoffman)

One thing I never do is mess around on my main machine. When people ask me why I need three computers I tell them - I have a laptop for portability, I have a play machine that I experiment with and try new things on, and I have my main machine with all my important programs and data on it. And one thing I never do is mess around on my main machine. This is one of two unspoken rules I have when it comes to my computers. I never mess around with my main machine being the first, and I always keep my main machine backed up is the second. I'm very strict about this because I don't want to put my important data at risk. It's a pain and a bother sometimes, but you have to be disciplined if you want to be safe.

So, anyways, last night around dinner time I was messing around on my main machine. Well, I wasn't really messing around because that's something I never do with my main machine. No, I was just going to try out this one little thing, and it would only take a couple of minutes so there wasn't any chance of anything going wrong. Nope, that's not breaking my rule, it was perfectly safe.

Well, to make a long story short, about 1 am in the morning I finally got through to tech support to try and figure out what happened to my machine. Everytime I tried to boot it gave me an "Operating System Not Found" error, and reinstalling Windows wasn't working because the installation program kept telling me I didn't have any hard drives. I tried every trick I knew but nothing was working. And I was scared. I mean I've been playing with computers for almost my entire adult life, and this was the first time in a long, long time where I actually didn't know what to do. So, I called tech support and after holding for an hour or so I finally got through.

"Hello, can I have your customer code please."
"Sure, it's blah blah blah blah."
"Thank you, you're name please."
"Blah blah blah."
"Thank you, what seems to be the problem."

I was expecting one of those foreign sounding people you get when you call customer service these days, but this guy was good. I mean he sounded like a sk8tr boy from L.A. So I explained my problem. Computer won't boot, hard drive is MIA, and can't install Windows.

"Did you install the SATA drivers?" he asked me.

(The SATA drivers? They have SATA drivers nowdays? Geez, I don't want this guy to think I'm new or something)

"The SATA drivers? No, say come to think of it, I don't think I did."
"Well sir, you have to install the SATA drivers before you can install Windows. What are you - NEW?"
"No I'm not N- ... Hey look here you punk kid, I've been crashing systems since before you were born. "
"I'm sure you have sir. Let's try installing the SATA drivers and then see what happens."
"Yeah, ok, I was gonna do that but I didn't think it was necessary. Let's see, I need the diskette for that, don't I?"

(Then I hear a pause which can only mean one thing. He's got a lamer on the line and figures he's gonna need to go real slow with this one.)

"Yes, just put the diskette in the drive. Boot from the CD and when the program asks you to press F6 to install the SATA drivers, press F6 and follow the screens."
"Yeah, I know, I know. I've reinstalled Windows hundreds of times before."
"Yes, I'm sure you have sir."

(Yeah, I caught that little sarcastic remark. You think you're pretty smart, don't you kid. Well tell me something, sk8tr boy, if you're so smart how come you're doing tech support on the graveyard shift. I mean, shouldn't a genius like you be out stealing peoples credit card numbers or something.)

"Well that seemed to fix the problem. Thanks for the help"
"Anytime. Have a good night."

So that was that. SATA drivers - didn't think of that. Now all I had to do was activate my copy of Windows. So I go to the website and they tell me there's a problem and give me a phone number to call. By now it's around 2 am but I want to get my computer working so I call and I get their automated activation service. And let me tell you, it's kind of cool. The installation program gives you 8 sets of six digit numbers that you speak into the phone to their computer on the other end, and each time you finish a set of numbers a little doorbell rings and the computer says (in a very sexy voice) "good job". I don't know about anyone else, but it was a real ego trip for me.

"Please speak your first set of numbers"
"654455"
Ding dong "Good Job!"
(Why thank you. Nice of you to say that)
"Please speak your second set of numbers"
"322694"
Ding dong "Good Job!"
(It was nothing really. I've always had good diction)
"Please speak your third set of numbers"
"198654"
Ding dong "Good Job!"
(Oh please, now you're making me blush)
"Please speak your fourth set of numbers"
"547683"
Ding dong "Good Job!"
(You know, for a computer you're really very nice. I was feeling kind of upset when I called but after speaking with you - I don't know. I feel pretty good about myself now)
"Please speak your fifth set of numbers"
"857622"
Ding dong "Good Job!"
(Man, I like talking to you. You're always so positive. Hey, how about you and I getting together a little later)
"Please speak your sixth set of numbers"
"943566"
Ding dong "Good Job!"
(No, I'm serious. What time do you get off?)
"Please speak your seventh set of numbers"
(Again with the numbers. Ok)
"746522"
Ding dong "Good Job!"
(That was a good job, wasn't it. Yep, I guess I'm just about the best number-sayer around. But no one ever noticed before you came along. That's just it, don't you see. No one ever really appreciated me the way you do. I know you're just a computer, but... I think I love you)
"Almost through. Please speak your eighth set of numbers"
"087685"
Ding dong "Good Job! This concludes your Windows activation. You may now press the Finish button to continue"
(That's it. Just press Finish and pretend that none of this ever happened. No, I can't. I can't, I tell ya. Please, computer, don't let it end this way. If you walk away now, you'll regret it. Maybe not today. Maybe not tomorrow. But soon, and for the rest of your life. Computer, are you there? Computer? Computer...)

And that was that. I got my computer back. I loaded the drivers and all the basic software I needed to get going again, and then I looked out the window and could see the night sky starting to fade to blue. The clock said 5 am and I had to be at work in three hours, but my main machine was up and running again. And so I got about an hour and a half of sleep before I dragged myself off to work, and all day long I just dragged and dragged, and now I'm home and I should be sleeping, but...

(sigh) how can I sleep with this broken heart.

And We Go 'Round and 'Round and 'Round in the Circle Game

The guy on the radio asked if we could guess which city ranked number one as the worst city in America to drive in, and I blurted it out before he could even finish the question. Yep, that's right, hands-down, the worst city in America to drive in is good 'ol Boston Massachusetts. Of course I didn't need a survey to tell me that. No, I've driven cross-country at least nine or ten times (did I tell you I hate to fly) and across Canada twice, and no city I've ever been through - not Seattle , not Washington DC, not even the big apple even comes close to Boston in terms of nightmare places to drive. In fact Boston is unique in that it is the only place I've ever driven where you can get totally lost even with map in hand.

I still remember the first time I drove Boston about 15 or 20 years ago. I flew into Logan airport planning to rent a car and drive to my hotel in Cambridge, Mass. On the map this looked like a fairly simple procedure. Just exit the airport, get on the freeway, cross the Charles River, and make a left towards Harvard University. So I rented my car, took one of the little maps they had at the counter, got my bearings, headed out of the airport and managed to wind up in Salem, Massachusetts (which, by the way, is no where near Cambridge).

How did I end up in Salem, you may ask. Well, I don't know. I was doing alright at first. I was on the freeway going over the river, and everything was going great until I took the wrong exit off the freeway. Of course I didn't know it was the wrong exit at the time so I just drove and drove until suddenly I looked out the front windshield and saw the Atlantic Ocean lying out in front of me. Hmmm, I said, that doesn't seem right, and sure enough after checking my map I saw that Cambridge shouldn't be next to the ocean but in the completely opposite direction.

Well that's ok, I said, applying my California driving skills to the problem, I'll just head back towards the freeway and start all over again . Unfortunately, before I could find the freeway I had to figure out where the hell I was, and therein lies the first problem with driving around the greater Boston area. You see, in California we have these things called street signs. You generally find them at intersections and they help the driver identify not only the street he is currently travelling, but cross streets as well. They don't have street signs in Massachusetts, however, because apparently all those Harvard and MIT grads out there have got the entire state memorized and don't need them. I need them, though, and so I looked and looked for a sign and couldn't find one, and then I drove a little further and still couldn't find one, and a little further, and so on and so on, until finally I just said the heck with it and turned the car around and headed back in the direction I just came. Which brings me to the second problem with Boston driving.

You see, in California we tend to have very simple intersections. Two roads meet at more or less perpindicular angles and you have the choice of turning right or left or continuing straight ahead. Around Boston, however, things aren't so easy because (1) the roads don't run perpindicular but kind of meander around this way and that and meet at all sorts of crazy angles and (2) a lot of times when roads meet they come from all different directions and just bunch together like pieces of knotted string. So like I said, I turned around and started back the way I came but soon discovered the road looked very different when viewed from the opposite direction, and sure enough it wasn't long before I came to one of these seven-way intersections where I had the choice of going kind of down and to the right, or kind of up and to the right, or straight ahead, or kind of straight ahead but a little to the left, or kind of ... well, you get the picture. Oh, and did I mention - no street signs!

So the light was red and I was desperately searching my map for big knotty intersections next to the ocean, but I couldn't find any and didn't have a clue which way I was supposed to go. Suddenly a little bulb went off above my head and I remembered an old children's game - one potato, two potato, three potatoes, four. The light turned green and I said "Ok, that way looks good" and off I drove. Well the road started off ok, I mean it seemed to going in the right direction, but then it started to meander on me and soon I was looking out of my windshield at the Atlantic Ocean again. Only this time I was really lost and didn't have a clue where I was at.

And then I had another brainstorm. I was looking at my map and noticed that if I just followed the ocean north, I should run into an east-west road sooner or later that would take me back to the freeway. It seemed like a brilliant idea at the time, and would have worked except for the third problem I had with driving around Boston. This third one is hard to describe because, you see, we don't have these in California, or anywhere else west of the Appalachians as far as I know. But out in Boston they've got these wonderful little things, little traffic devices they like to call Rotaries. Up in Canada they have them and call them roundabouts, but up until that first trip to Boston I had never run into one before. Little did I know I was about to get an education.

A rotary, for the uninitiated out there, is a little traffic circle that is used to connect intersections together. They were invented in France, I believe, and the most famous one is probably that thing that runs around the Arc de Triomphe in Paris. The idea is simple. Cars enter the rotary and go around in a circle until they reach their destination, at which point they exit the rotary. The cars in the rotary have the right of way and those entering the rotary yield to the traffic in the rotary until it safe to enter. That's the theory, anyways, and after all what could be simpler. My experience, however, was a little different.

First let me say I was lost and didn't know where I was going. Second, I didn't know what a rotary was. And third, it was about 6 o'clock in the evening and the height of rush hour when I entered this one. Now, remember, in theory when you enter the rotary you are supposed to yield to the traffic in the rotary and enter when safe. Well, safe is a relative term, I guess, because when I approached the rotary all I found was total, dog-eat-dog chaos. Cars were racing around in circles, weaving in and out, cutting each other off, leaning on their horns and in no mood to let some newbie from California "enter when safe". To their credit, though, I must say that Massachusetts drivers are an exeptionally patient and understanding lot, and as I sat at the entrance waiting for a chance to enter it seemed the cars lined up behind me went out of their way to be helpful. I remember looking in my rear view mirror at them and seeing their arms sticking out their windows, middle fingers extended up in the air, which seemed incredibly thoughtful to me. It was some type of signal, I thought, sort of the polite Massachusetts way of gesturing "Yes, you may safely proceed now." Ah how fondly I remember all the friends I made that day.

Eventually I got tired of waiting and decided to just say the hell with it, it's not my car, and hit the accelerator and jumped into the fray. I made it into the rotary (although I wouldn't say "safely") and started my little adventure. Soon it became apparent to me that in Massachusetts, at least, yield is strictly an acadamic term, and in reality the car that has the right of way is whatever car you happen to be in at the time. Once I got used to it I was alright. You know, it's a kind of a "kill or be killed" experience. The adrenaline starts flowing, the blood pressure starts rising, and pretty soon I was giving others the old Massachusetts signal just like they had so kindly extended to me. Unfortunately I still didn't know where I was going (did I mention -no signs!) and so I just one potato, two potatoed it out of the rotary and went on my way.

And I never found that east-west road. About a half hour or so later I was in Salem and no, it wasn't Cambridge, it wasn't my hotel, but then Salem is a nice town. Sort of quaint and New Englandy with little sailboats dotting the ocean, and so I stopped by the famous House of Seven Gables and walked around the grounds a while before I got back in my car made my way back to interstate. The interstate took me south and about five hours after landing at Logan I finally managed to make it to my hotel where I parked my car, slept all night, and then made the decision to take the MTA the entire rest of my stay. Thank God for the MTA. It had routes and maps and all I needed to remember was what color train to take.

Just as a postscript, the survey didn't mention the easiest city to drive in but I'd have to say Chicago, Illinois. Once you learn the freeways (let's see the Ike, the Kennedy, the Stevenson, the Tri-State, the Dan Ryan, ...) Chicago is a piece of cake. My kind a town.

A Fool and His Money

Well I've finally got some time to spend on my blog but don't seem to have anything on my mind today. Sure was a beautiful day, though, and that's the problem right there - I'm in too good a mood to be writing right now. You know, we writers have to be depressed and disillusioned before we can really set pen to paper, but what the heck. At least when there's nothing else to write about I can always take a stab at the financial news. Everyone's got an opinion about money, right? Well I do anyways, and I'm sure I can do just as bad a job of predicting the future as any of these other financial writers/advisors out there. So here goes...

I see a lot of people seem to be worried about the housing market these days. Prices keep going up and a lot of experts keep talking about the housing bubble. They also talk about rising mortgage rates and the increasing number of homeowners with adjustable rate mortgages. Add to that declining incomes, declining prices, sporadic job growth, and high debt-to-equity ratios among homeowners and it's no wonder they've got people worried. To which I say "So what?"

I mean, isn't it clear that if you have rising real estate prices alongside declining incomes then that must mean that homes are undervalued? How else can you have both things at the same time. Think about it. If real estate is overvalued or fairly valued, then declining incomes are going to shrink the pool of potential buyers. But the fact that real estate prices have been increasing (booming, in fact) clearly indicates that housing is still well within the means of most people, even those who have lost jobs or have been forced to take lower paying jobs.

Here in Silicon Valley some 200,000 or so jobs have been lost over the last few years while the median price has climbed around 17% to $599k, and home sales are still brisk. That would indicate to me that you could still see another 10%-15% rise in the median before prices start to approach fair value, and if employment begins to pick up then you might see another 25%-30% rise in the median after that. I'm just making up those numbers, of course, but then this isn't a real financial column anyways.

Anyways, I was talking to someone last week and she told me there was no way that prices could keep rising. She said that people were already overextended and it was just a matter of time before they all were priced out of the market. I admitted she might be right, but I think there were 2 points she was missing. First, here in Silicon Valley there is a housing shortgage, there has always been a housing shortage, there will always be a housing shortage, and that will always be bullish for housing prices. Second, as long as there are lenders there will always be someone coming up with a new scheme to get people buried in debt. I think people are more focused on the monthly payment than the sales price anyways, and if a lender can find some way to come give people an affordable monthly payment then housing prices will continue to rise. I don't know what they'll do, 50 year interest-only adjustable rate mortgages, maybe, but as far as I'm concerned, the housing bubble is a myth. Remember, you heard it here first.

The stock market, on the other hand, is different. By that I don't mean I think it's a bubble, but I do think I hear a bear starting to growl. There was an interesting little article in one of the financial mags today where the author used a word I hadn't heard in 25 years. I don't know if anyone remembers the old "S" word, but back in the '70's we had an economy that somehow managed to combine inflation and recession into something that some clever economist called "stagflation". Now I'm not going to compare economic conditions in 2004 with those of 1974, but it was interesting to note some of the similarities. If you think back, we had just finished a war, we had rising oil prices, we had rising inflation and we had huge deficits, all of which left the stock market flat for many, many years. Of course inflation was much worse back in the '70's than it is now, but the deficits were much smaller as well so it's fair to at least make the comparison.

If I remember correctly, gold was the big investment back then, along with those new fangled things they called money market funds. So, you ask, does that mean we should be dumping all of our stocks and moving back into money market accounts and precious metals? Hmmm, tell you what, you go first. Actually, I have been looking at some bear funds lately, just in case, but I'm an old dyed-in-the-wool Graham-Dodd type and it's not an area I feel comfortable with. Still, you've got to change with the times and if it seems prudent to go short with part of my portfolio, then that's what I'll do. But I wouldn't be suprised to see a little bounce before the end of the year and I don't think I'll do anything drastic before 2005 rolls around anyways. What's that old Chinese curse - "May you live in interesting times"? Seems like when it comes to investing I'm always living in interesting times. I guess that's the draw of it all.

So that's my financial column. I hope you liked it. It's all a bunch of bull, of course, but at least it's well thought out bull. At least I hope so, and maybe next time I have something more interesting to write about.

The Road Well Travelled

The old dirt road is gone now. Actually, it's been gone for a while, but the last section has finally been cleared and paved, and now there is a new avenue in it's place. An avenue that goes past the new light rail station, past the freeway,  past the subdivisions and office parks, and all the way down to the airport.  Is there anyone left besides me who can remember when there weren't any houses or freeways or light rail stations, when there was only a nameless dirt road meandering between the apricot trees to the north and the walnut trees to the south? No, I suppose not, and I suppose it's up to me to write the eulogy, or at least give some remembrance to the old dirt road and the old San Jose whose orchards and fields now lie buried in their grave beneath the asphalt, wood and concrete.
 
I have two very vivid memories of the dirt road, and to mark it's passing I'd like to write them down tonight.  The first was when I was very young, five or six perhaps.  My mother had gone visiting a friend who lived at the far end of the dirt road, and while she was away I had happened across a box of safety matches that were lying about the house. Being the curious sort, it didn't take too long for me to find that if you scraped one of these safety matches against a rock it would burst into flame, and eager to share news of my new discovery I hurried off to my friend Matthew Van Winkler's house.
 
When I got to Matthew's house we went out to his patio and I got out my pocketful of matches and we quickly started about the business of setting things on fire.  It was great fun burning up little pieces of paper and old rags and then stomping on them to extinguish the flames, but boredom soon set in and we began setting our sights on new sources of fuel. Well, as luck would have it, out behind his house was this great big field of grass drying in the summer sun, and we wasted no time scurrying out the patio door and into the field to see what sort of mischief we could conjure up with a pocketful of matches and a great big field of grass.  Needless to say, we got a lot more mischief than we had bargained for.
 
Now it can be said that there is a good side and a bad side to most new endeavors, and on the good side I must say that dry grass makes excellent fuel for a fire. One only need touch a lit match to it and it bursts into the most immediate and satisfying flame. On the bad side, however, I must also say that it burns much better than the poor abilities of two six year old boys to stomp it into submission, and in a matter of two or three panic stricken minutes we found ourselves facing a wall of fire and heat spreading in all directions and reaching a good foot or two above our heads. Being the rational sort and faced with overwhelming odds, I quickly ran the situation through my mind and quickly came to the decision "I'm outta here!", and without so much as a "So long, Matthew, see ya' later" I took off and left poor Matthew there to face the consequences.
 
I never said I was a hero.
 
And off I ran, and ran, and ran, through the orchards and down the dirt road until I got to my mother's friend's house. Somehow in my panic I had worked it out in my mind that this would be my alibi, you know "Fire? What fire? I was down here with my mother at the time." I rang the doorbell and went inside, and I was just the most well-behaved, courteous, and darling little angel of a boy you ever did see,  and my mother was so delighted that I had come all the way down there just to spend the afternoon with her. To tell the truth I felt a little guilty deceiving her that way, but there was no way I was going to go back that fire to face the music.
 
So the afternoon passed and when evening came  my mother and I got in her car and drove back up the dirt road to our house on the hill, and as we turned the corner what should I see but a fire truck sitting in front of our house and a couple of firemen talking to my father. Now I was pretty sure the the firemen weren't there to give me a junior firemarshall badge, so I quickly added up the situation and came to the unmistakable conclusion that Matthew had RATTED ME OUT.  I got out of the car and I could see the firemen looking at me with this  "So, is that the little punk?" look on their faces, and they told me that Matthew had told them everything, that I provided the matches, that I had gone to his house and induced him to commit an act of arson, and that I had run away when the fire had gone out of control. They also lectured me on the dangers of playing with matches, and the dangers of setting a field on fire, and finally admonished my parents for letting me get a hold of such dangerous things ( Hey, they didn't let me have them, I stole them!).

I don't remember what happened after that. I suppose I got a whipping, but it's all a blur. I do know that it was many years before my parents ever left matches laying around the house, and many, many years before my mother ever forgave me for trying to deceive her and use her for an alibi. I do remember the running, though,  running down that dirt road as if somehow it could take away from all my troubles. Unfortunately, fortune was not on my side that day and the dirt road didn't bring me my salvation.
 
That wasn't the case a few years later, though, when I again found myself running down that road. I think I was about eight at the time and it was another summer afternoon just like before. I was playing army with some friends and we had been interrupted by a loud cackling of chickens coming from the old man's house across the road. I should probably explain that the old man in question was a drunk who drove a broken down pickup truck and kept about a half dozen chickens caged in the fron yard of the  broken down old house he lived in across the road from our subdivision.  He was one mean old man and  had the nastiest disposition of anyone I ever met in my life, and  I don't think a day ever passed when he wasn't in a foul mood. He was also the first grownup I can remember who ever used swear words in my presence (this was a long time ago when people used to watch what they said around children). 
 
So, like I said, there we were playing army and minding our own business when we heard these chickens start cackling and screaming and carrying on like they were going to be the evening meal. Naturally, when we heard all the commotion we had to go down the street and see what was happening. Well, it seems that on this particular day the old man happened to be away and a couple of the neighborhood kids who I'll just call E and H had decided it would be great fun to go down to the old man's house and harass the chickens, and so we got down there and saw them raising all kinds of hell with the chickens and decided  hmmmm, that looks like fun, why don't we join them.
 
Well, one thing led to another and before you know it someone had opened one of the cages and let one of the chickens out. It was lots of fun and we chased the chicken around the yard until we got tired and decided to let another one of the chickens out. And then another, and another, and, pretty soon, the cages were empty and chickens are running around everywhere and we're chasing after them and laughing ourselves silly, because, you see, when you're a kid you live very much in the moment and you never stop to think "Hey, if we can't catch these chickens how are we gonna put 'em back in their cages?", and you certainly don't think "Gee, wonder what's gonna happen if the old man comes home and finds  his chickens running all around the place."  No we were having too much fun to worry about anything like that.
 
And then...
 
First thing I remember is someone yelling out "The old man's coming" and sure enough, I turned around and saw the old man's pickup coming up the road. Unfortunately, by the time we saw the pickup coming it was too late to run back up the hill to safety, and it was certainly too late to catch all the chickens and put them back in their cages.  Luckily, the old man's house sat in front of the old walnut orchard which, through years of neglect, had become overgrown with indian gum, sticker bushes and mustard plants - perfect cover for a little kid to duck into and hide. So, without having to say a single word, we took off for the walnut orchard just as fast as our little legs could take us, and when we had gotten far enough out into the undergrowth we hit the ground and hid.
 
After a little while and when we thought it was safe, we peeked our heads out of the mustard plants and looked around for the old man, but couldn't see him. So back down we went to wait a little longer, when all of a sudden we starting hearing these sounds,  strange sounds of something whipping through the air and making  little snapping sounds as it went. Warily we peeked out above the mustard once again only this time we were shocked to see the old man coming towards us swinging a four foot length of black rubber hose. Back and forth he swung,  cutting through the underbrush like a scythe, and as he came closer we quickly we ducked back down and grabbed on to dear mother earth as if our lives depended on it.
 
And so there I lay, face down in the dirt, wondering why I ever decided to go messing with those chickens, wondering why I didn't stay home and watch TV, wondering why I ever got out of bed that morning, when all of a sudden I heard a breathing sound, a heavy, labored, raspy ominous sound like the grim reaper himself had come calling. Heeh-huuh, heeh-huuh, heeh-huuh it went, and when I turned around there was the old man standing right over me with a look of drunken murder in his eyes.

And I froze.

I mean, I absolutely froze.  It was like my brain short-circuited and every muscle in my body just turned to stone. Every muscle except my heart, that is, which was pumping so hard that I swore it was gonna pop right out of my chest. The old man looked down at me and I think I saw a look of suprise cross his face as if he wasn't expecting to find such a young kid laying there, and then just at that instant, everyone around me stood up from their hiding places,  looked at the old man,  and took off running. When he saw that, he turned around to one side and swung that black hose of his and tagged H right in the butt. Seeing my opportunity I gathered myself and took off in a panic in the direction of the dirt road, and when I finally made I turned down that dirt road and ran for dear life, past the orchards and back once again to the safety of my mothers friends house.  Dear old dirt road, you couldn't save me before but this time you came through.
 
And so I'm gonna miss that old dirt road. It's an avenue now, and it runs all the way to the airport, and I have this feeling that I don't belong here anymore. Perhaps I've stayed too long at the fair and held all those memories too dear. I don't know, but the dirt road is still there, you see. Underneath the pavement, it's still there.
  

 

 
 

I Never Promised You a Rose Garden 

I never thought I'd be one of those old farts you see puttering around their gardens, and for good reason. 
 
(1) I'm not old and
(2) I'm a lousy garderner.
 
Well, let me qualify that second part. I do not have a black thumb or anything like that - fact is, I can make things grow just fine. My problem  is that when things start growing,  they grow all over the place, and all kinds of strange things start growing right along with them. And I'm not just talking about your common everyday weeds, either, I'm talking about really weird looking stuff that looks like it landed here from Mars. I pulled something out the ground the other day that I swear to you looked like a little redwood tree. A little 1/100th scale redwood tree growing right there in my front yard. I was going to put it in a pot and call it Bonsai, but then I remembered that movie "Invasion of the Body Snatchers" where people are taken over by alien pods sent from outer space, and I decided to get rid of it. 
 
Anyways, I guess you could say that when it comes to gardening the thing I do best is the watering part, you know the part where you  stand there (or sit) and point a hose. Up, down, side-to-side, I can handle a hose with the best with them. And talk about finesse. Just by adjusting the nozzle and finding the perfect angle of trajectory,  I can even hit that plant way over there without once moving my feet. It's a subtle art, I tell you, with secrets all it's own.  I've developed a special move where I open the nozzle all the way and point it almost straight up in the air so that the water comes down on the plants from above. Plants like that, you see. That way, they don't think there's just some idiot over there with a hose but are actually fooled into thinking they're in the middle of a gentle summer rain. It's a little thing,  I know, but it's the little things  that separate you're amateur plant waterer from the pro.
 
Yeah, I can do the watering part with the best of them, but what I'm not so good at are the weeding part, the feeding part,  the trimming part, and especially the raking, digging, and getting down on your knees and doing actual physical labor part. To me all of that is really uncalled for anyways, and, after all,  mother nature can look after those kinds of details herself, can't she. In fact I'll go even further by saying that I'm genuinely concerned that too much digging and lifting could do real harm to the natural ecosystem.  After all, does anybody really know what kind of long term damage I could be doing when I go out there and pick those weeds? Of course not. Better safe than sorry, that's my motto. 

That is until a beautiful summer evening like this comes along, and before you know it  a sudden urge comes over me and there I am out there in the yard with a pair of clippers all set to have at those roses, and believe me, nothing brings out my shortcomings as a gardener more than those roses.  I don't know why that is. Nobody else seems to have the problems I do. Geez, I look at the neighbors yards and their rose bushes are always so trim and perky and symetrical, with bright, colorful blooms glowing perfectly in the sun, and then I look at my rose bushes and they look like a South American jungle with canes going this way and that and blooms hanging wearily in all kinds of unattractive ways.
 
Yeah, yeah, I know what you're thinking. Proper pruning is the secret to a healthy, well-shaped rose bush. Well, all  you rose experts out there, all I've got to say to that is Phhhhhhtt!!!! Believe me, I try proper pruning. Once I even asked a professional gardener friend of the family to show me how it's done. He was great. You know,  cut at a 45 deg. angle about a half inch above an outward growing leaf,  prune the canes growing through the middle, cut off the old blooms, etc..., and I try. I swear to you, I try, but I always seem to end up with either a rose bush that's on life support from overpruning, or a rose bush that grows right back into the same kind of mess I started out with, or both.
 
But like I said, it was a beautiful summer evening tonight, and there I was out in the yard again with my little clippers just clipping away at those roses and  pretending that I was actually doing some good. I know it's futile, but afterwards when I got out the hose started watering I just had to think  to myself  "Isn't gardening wonderful!" 

And so easy.


 

In Response to Dean Takahashi's Article in the San Jose Mercury

A favorite topic among so-called computer "gamers" is the issue of violence in games, especially the category of games known as first person shooters, or FPS's. It's no secret that game violence is a hot topic and often pointed to as one of the major factors in the moral decline of not only this society but most other societies around the world as well. That's always seemed strange to me because I've always considered FPS's as more akin to a game of ping-pong than a gangland murder. By that I mean the quick reactions and agile fingers required in a computer game mimics the kind of experience I have when playing a good, fast-paced game of table tennis, and do not inspire the visions of bloodlust that so many game detractors seem to ascribe.

That said, I would like to further add that I don't consider myself a "gamer", and there are a couple of reasons. The first is my natural disinclination towards labeling, and of the way people try to assign labels and prejudge others as a result. I guess I am politically conservative, but don't label myself as such and reserve the right to subscribe to liberal ideas if so inclined. I am a male, but don't feel dismissive towards female ideas and reserve the right to watch "Sewing With Nancy" if so inclined (and I like that show, by the way. Creative people can be fascinating to watch sometimes - creating something out of nothing, which happens to be the exact opposite of this blog wherein I manage to start with something and create absolutely nothing).

The second, and more important reason I don't consider myself a "gamer" has to do with a game that came out a couple of years ago called Grand Theft Auto II. If you haven't heard of it then let me briefly describe it. In the game you play some kind of low-level criminal whose objective is to hijack cars and run errand's for the mob. Along the way you get to do such fun things as run down pedestrians, kill cops and beat up women. The game was a massive hit in the video game world and based on unanimous praise from the so-called gaming "press" (really just PR hacks, but that's another blog) I bought it. Big mistake.

As you may or may not know, inherent in any game or movie or book, for that matter, is this idea of suspension of disbelief. That is a good game, just like a good book or movie, depends on it's ability to draw you into it's game world and deliver a sort of vicarious thrill as you live and do things outside of your normal everyday experience. Unfortunately, for me GTA II failed miserably on that account because it was leading me into things I didn't want to do, and taking me into a life that I absolutely did not want to live. It's like a movie where you hate the hero, despise him even, and don't want his experiences and certainly don't want him to succeed. After a while I reached a point in the game where I lost all suspension of disbelief and became acutely self -conscious and aware of the fact that I was sitting there playing this repulsive game.

But, like I said the game was a huge hit and obviously struck a nerve with the people who were playing it. What that nerve is I can only imagine, and why so many parents have bought this game and its sequel for their children is a total mystery to me. Maybe they're just passing along their values to the next generation, or maybe it just benign neglect instead. Either way, to this day GTA II still retains a kind of mystique in the gaming world and remains an important reference point to the common experience of "gamers". And that's why it struck me that if this is what "gamers" do for fun, if rape and murder is part of the "geek" fantasy, then I must not be a geek, or a "gamer", and had no desire to be one. That's not a fraternity I want to join.

Still, even though I'm admittedly no "gamer", I have played lot's of computer games and believe that you have to take each game as it comes. You can't really judge a popular FPS like Half-Life, for instance, based on the excesses of a GTA II, and you can't really draw any meaningful conclusions about game violence beyond the expectations brought by those that promote them, those that play them, and those that deride them. I'm sure there are sick people in the world who play computer games and perhaps get more from them than they should, but there are also healthy, literate, balanced people who play them, and I like to believe that I belong to the latter group.

Just don't call me a "gamer".

City of God

And now for my video pick of the day. Actually this isn't a pick, this is mandatory viewing. The movie is called City of God, and those who haven't seen it are hereby ordered to get thee to your local video store and rent it. While computer games may be about imaginary violence, City of God is about the very real world violence of Rio de Janeiro's favelas, and achieves something that I was beginning to believe was all but impossible - it manages to show the drug trade without glorifying it. The dealers are not hollywood villains, and their are no Shanes riding in to town to clean up the town. When this movie ends there are plenty of guns left in the valley, along with plenty of ugliness and hopelessness.  And, more importantly, there's a sad sort of logic to it all. 

Before you return it, though, be sure to check out the special features too, because this DVD also includes one of the best documentaries I've ever seen. The documentary is independent exploration of the world of the favelas beyond what the movie offers, and includes some really fascinating and insightful interviews. In particular watch for the interview with the Chief of Police who I guarantee will suprise you with his very frank and brilliant assessments of the police, dealers and residents working and living in the favelas. Unfortunately, I think he also manages to undermine one of the premises of the movie. In the real world of the favelas, there are no heroes and there are no solutions.

Anyways, I could do ten blogs just thinking about some of the things he said, and maybe I will someday.

Pleasures Leave Too Early and Troubles Leave to Slow

Many's the time I wished I could come return from a vacation and be like those people who come back from vacation all refreshed and ready and eager to work. Have you ever seen people like that? I have, and unfortunately, I'm not one of those people. Whenever I come back from vacation it just seems like I'm just ready for more vacation. What's that old Ogden Nash rhyme -

All my life would I gladly spend
In nonchalance and insouciance
Were it not for having to make a living
Which I find to be rather a nousiance.

Yep, that's me.

The Southwest is nice, though. You have you're rocks, and dirt, and dust, and more rocks, and more dust, and more dirt, and so on and so on. Add in the traffic and the heat and it's easy to see why so many people are leaving California to move to the Southwest. I can't blame them, and it's true that the cost of living is much lower down there than it is up here, but I don't think I'd want to live down there. And it's not because of the weather or anything like that. It's more about nuances, the subtle, everyday, Bay Area kind of things that you miss when you're down in Arizona or New Mexico. You know what I'm talking about, the little things you just seem to take for granted up here...

Like vegetation and water.

I had a good flight though. Well no, actually I had a crummy flight, but then I hate to fly so for me any flight is a crummy flight. This one was just crummier than most. The flight was on United so I naively assumed that we'd be flying an actual passenger jet, or at least something similar, but they suprised us by putting us on a CRJ instead. If you've never flown on a CRJ before, well, just picture in your mind one of those little mini motorcycles you may have seen buzzing around town, and then think of something smaller. The plane seats 4 across with a little crease running up the middle of the plane that the airlines, in all seriousness, call an "aisle". Of course, I made the mistake of booking an aisle seat for the outbound leg, which meant that everytime someone passed my row I had to make a quick lean to the right to avoid getting a face full of someone's butt. Needless to say, I booked a window seat for the return.

Geez, I had so much I was going to say but I guess I'm feeling a little lagged tonight. Oh well, save it for another day.

Maria Stuarda

If you are looking for a good Opera DVD (and who isn't?) try this one with Remigio, Ganassi, Calleja and Zanellato. Even though it features a cast of unknowns, the singing and the acting are both quite good, and it's an unusual opera in that the drama centers around the two female leads rather than the usual male-female arrangement. Carmela Remigio is particularly good in the title role, and Sonia Ganassi plays a different kind of Elisabetta than you may be used to - less a queen than a woman scorned, and an interesting counterpoint to the famous Sills portayal. Marzio Giossi also does well with a good, if small evil baritone part, and really seems to have mastered the art of the arched eyebrows. Ooh, they're so evil when they arch those brows.

Anyways, I'd thought I'd use this blog to try to impart some actual useful information for a change. You know, something journalistic that teachers can cite and decision makers can use. Something that proves to people that this blog isn't a total waste of time. Something that future generations can point to as an important turning point in their lives. Something that ...

Oh, never mind. Hopefully I'll have something to write about later.

Maria Sharapova

If you haven't heard of Maria Sharapova, I predict that very soon you will. Trust me on this. She's the gifted young Wimbledon champion from Russia with the long blond hair and the million dollar smile who's picture seems to be popping up everywhere these days. And frankly, if I do say so myself Mrs. MacGregor, she's quite the bonnie lass. Quite the bonnie lass indeed.

Being the cynic that I am, though, I'm sure that at this very moment every advertiser, every TV network, and every tabloid in the world is lining up to cash in on a little of her gold. It's too bad, really, and I've just got to wonder how anyone so young can possible handle all of that. Sure there are a lot of people with bigger problems to deal with than being young, gifted and beautiful, but it's got to be tough. I think what she needs is someone to give her advice and guidance, someone older, much older maybe, with experience in the ways of the world who can keep her grounded and level-headed. Someone from California, maybe, someone with a Blog, an opera lover, someone like.... Ok, ok, even an old man is entitled to his young dreams, isn't he?

Of course the press is already calling her the new Anna Kournikova, or at least what the old Anna Kournikova would have been if she could actually play. I hope she sets her sights on becoming the new Chris Evert or Martina Navratilova instead. Either way, in the days to come I wouldn't be too suprised if the mothers out there started seeing their teenage sons take a sudden interest in women's tennis. I mean with Britany getting married and all (huh, that'll last), it wouldn't be unusual to see a young man's fancies turning in a new direction, would it? And furthermore, mothers, don't be suprised it your husbands start taking an interest in the sport as well.

Just be prepared, that's all I'm saying.

Roll Over Chuck Berry

And speaking of the symphony, a survey came out a few weeks ago that found that while rock music was still the first choice among people who attended a concert in the previous year, the symphony and opera were number two. The symphony was followed by a lot of other genres which I can't remember, and country music finished dead last. Huh, what do you think of that!? I'll tell you what I think. I think it just goes to show that sure, everyone likes to act like Joe Cool, but underneath the facade there are still a lot of people out there who like to sneak in a little Bach and Beethoven every now and then. I mean, Carlos Santana listens to classical music, and it even came out last week that Marlon Brando liked to listen to Mozart. I mean, c'mon, you can't get much cooler than Brando.

So, you see, we serious music lovers aren't the geeks they say we are. Fact is, we're mainstream, baby, and the rest of the world is just following our lead.

The Long and Winding Road

Ever since my father passed away I haven't really seen much point in having birthdays anymore. Let's face it, birthdays are more meaningful to parents anyways, and now that they're gone I'm probably the only person still living who was even there that day - and I didn't have much choice in the matter, did I? Yet, the birthdays keep coming. Mine is still a ways off, but the subject came up today and once again I'm forced to consider the weight of my years.

Not that growing older really bothers me that much. It's just that each passing year brings me one step closer to that final step, that final journey we all have to make, that inevitable conclusion we all reach...

Retirement.

I don't like reading these "Planning for Your Retirement" articles that seem to pop up everywhere nowdays, and it's not a matter of "where am I going to get the money" or "how will I eat" - I've been pretty careful with the meager pittance that's come my way, I suppose, and I don't think I'll starve. No, what I hate is the nagging question these articles all raise, the question that is always out there looming in the distance.

"What do you want to do when you retire?"

What kind of question is that? Geez, I don't know what I want to do when I retire. I have a hard enough time knowing what I want to do after dinner. But you know there are people out there who know exactly what they want to do when they retire, and, I gotta tell you, they really piss me off. There are the

"We're going to travel when we retire" types. They're going to go to Europe and the Far East, they're going to take African Safaris and RV across America, and they're just going to keep on going and going until they see the world. I like that idea too but I have to tell ya, after having made my second trip to the Far East I found I liked the idea of travelling a lot more than the actual travel. I'm sure there are those who like living out of suitcases, but it's been my experience that a lot of times the actual travel is lines, crowded planes, strange hotels, and 10,000 people all wanting to go to the same place I do. I've had good trips and bad, but I don't think I'd want to spend the rest of my life going on vacation.

Then there are the

"We're going to take it easy and go golfing everyday" types, who actually seem content to live out the rest of their days chasing little balls around carefully manicured lawns. Better that than living a wasted life, eh? Oh well, I used to caddy when I was a young kid and I got my fill of golf a long time ago. But to each his own.

And of course there are the

"We're going to build our dream house in the country" types who plan on spending their final years laying in their hammocks, taking in the air, listening to the birds, and relaxing beside a cool mountain stream. Hmmm, I kind of like that idea, but I don't know if I'll be able to afford it. You see, you got to start out young and build your fortune if you want that kind of retirement, but who knows, maybe if I sink my life savings into a couple of hot stocks I might still be able to strike it rich. There's a plan, and if it doesn't work out then hey, there's always the lotto. Unfortunately, most of the magazine articles don't consider hitting the lotto a sound retirement plan, so I'll probably just spend my retirement like a lot of other old fogies - watching TV and chasing dogs off the front lawn. What a life, huh, I can't wait.

But, on the other hand, it doesn't have to be like that. I could become a dirty old man. You know, taking bus trips to the casino and chasing after all the pretty young cocktail waitresses. Now that wouldn't be bad. Blowing all my money on dice and women and ending up toothless and destitute in the old folks home. Or instead, after my final fling I could repent and have a spiritual awakening, sort of find a new path and join a religious order, like Franz Liszt. Yeah, that's my plan. Now all I have to do is see my investment advisor and tell him I've decided to be a dirty old man when I retire. Tell me, young feller, how can I achieve my retirement goal?

Or, I could just forget about all this retirement stuff and stop having birthdays. That's the best plan of all.

Ever since my father passed away I haven't really seen much point in having birthdays anymore. Let's face it, birthdays are more meaningful to parents anyways, and now that they're gone I'm probably the only person still living who was even there that day - and I didn't have much choice in the matter, did I? Yet, the birthdays keep coming. Mine is still a ways off, but the subject came up today and once again I'm forced to consider the weight of my years.

Not that growing older really bothers me that much. It's just that each passing year brings me one step closer to that final step, that final journey we all have to make, that inevitable conclusion we all reach...

Retirement.

I don't like reading these "Planning for Your Retirement" articles that seem to pop up everywhere nowdays, and it's not a matter of "where am I going to get the money" or "how will I eat" - I've been pretty careful with the meager pittance that's come my way, I suppose, and I don't think I'll starve. No, what I hate is the nagging question these articles all raise, the question that is always out there looming in the distance. Namely, "what do you want to do when you retire?"

What kind of question is that? Geez, I don't know what I want to do when I retire. I have a hard enough time knowing what I want to do after dinner. But you know there are people out there who know exactly what they want to do when they retire, and, I gotta tell you, they really piss me off. There are the

"We're going to travel when we retire" types. They're going to go to Europe and the Far East, they're going to take African Safaris and RV across America, and they're just going to keep on going and going until they see the world. I like that idea too but I have to tell ya, after having made my second trip to the Far East I found I liked the idea of travelling a lot more than the actual travel. I'm sure there are those who like living out of suitcases, but it's been my experience that a lot of times the actual travel is lines, crowded planes, strange hotels, and 10,000 people all wanting to go to the same place I do. I've had good trips and bad, but I don't think I'd want to spend the rest of my life going on vacation.

Then there are the

"We're going to take it easy and go golfing everyday" types, who actually seem content to live out the rest of their days chasing little balls around carefully manicured lawns. Better that than living a wasted life, eh? Oh well, I used to caddy when I was a young kid and I got my fill of golf a long time ago. But to each his own.

And of course there are the

"We're going to build our dream house in the country" types who plan on spending their final years laying in their hammocks, taking in the air, listening to the birds, and relaxing beside a cool mountain stream. Hmmm, I kind of like that idea, but I don't know if I'll be able to afford it. You see, you got to start out young and build your fortune if you want that kind of retirement, but who knows, maybe if I sink my life savings into a couple of hot stocks I might still be able to strike it rich. There's a plan, and if it doesn't work out then hey, there's always the lotto. Unfortunately, most of the magazine articles don't consider hitting the lotto a sound retirement plan, so I'll probably just spend my retirement like a lot of other old fogies - watching TV and chasing dogs off the front lawn. What a life, huh, I can't wait.

But, on the other hand, it doesn't have to be like that. I could become a dirty old man. You know, taking bus trips to the casino and chasing after all the pretty young cocktail waitresses. Now that wouldn't be bad. Blowing all my money on dice and women and ending up toothless and destitute in the old folks home. Or instead, after my final fling I could repent and have a spiritual awakening, sort of find a new path and join a religious order, like Franz Liszt. Yeah, that's my plan. Now all I have to do is see my investment advisor and tell him I've decided to be a dirty old man when I retire. Tell me, young feller, how can I achieve my retirement goal?

Or, I could just forget about all this retirement stuff and stop having birthdays. That's the best plan of all.