"I See God" is a driving game we invented on our latest vacation. The rules are simple - if you are the first to spot a church, you state, loudly, clearly, and before anyone else, "I see God," and then you get a point. Each player accumulates points until someone who's not in the lead sees a cemetery, which, following a clearly stated, "I see dead people," resets the game. It's not the greatest driving game ever, but it works well on state highways and county roads, where we spent almost all of our driving time on this particular journey.
Our travels first took us to Iola, Kansas for my wife's cousin's wedding. From there it was on to Osage Beach, Missouri, smack in the middle of the Lake of the Ozarks. It was on the drive to Osage Beach where the game really took off. My wife at one point, from her front passenger seat (a situation so advantaged as to almost be cheating, by the way), accumulated 6 (6!) points before my youngest ended her run with a mercifully small (because my wife couldn't see it) cemetery hidden off the side of the road.
A couple of days into our stay in Osage Beach, we decided to head to the outlet mall for some after dinner shopping. By 'we' I mean me, my wife, my daughter, and my mother-in-law. I wanted to check out the Brooks Brothers store, and my m-i-l had some kind of secret mission that included my daughter.
It was cloudy when we set out for the mall. None of us was thinking about the weather. I had my mind on a shirt - a nice, plain, white dress shirt. A replacement shirt for the white shirts I've worn out over the years. A simple thing. My wife wanted sandals. M-i-l and my daughter had the aforementioned secret mission.
Steady, sometimes heavy rain fell on the way to the mall. M-i-l noted that, hey, those clouds over there look kind of ominous. We all concurred and continued to focus on our destination. Oh the wonderful things we'll buy!
As we pulled into the parking lot, the destination of the secret mission was revealed: Bath and Body Works. I scanned the collection of generic, strip-mall stores looking for the B&BW signage when I saw a young man staring vacantly into the sky and speaking into his cell phone. "That's weird," I said.
I dropped m-i-l and daughter at the B&BW and headed across the lot toward Brooks Brothers. "Let's check the radio," I said, hitting the AM button followed by 'seek'. The first 3 hits were music. The fourth yielded, "Tornado warning for Osage Beach."
"Aren't we in Osage Beach?" I asked my wife. She looked left. I looked right. "Where is it? I don't see it."
The radio repeated the warning. Take cover in blah blah blah. "Yeah, I know what to do, but I'm in a f--king outlet mall parking lot, 500 miles from home." The stores appeared to be mostly glass, and sans basements. Katie looks right. I look left. Nothing. In fact, the sky appears to be lightening up a bit.
I don't know why, but I looked straight up. For just a moment I was speechless. Breathless. "Katie," I croaked, "I can see God." I looked toward Katie. "Look up."
"What is that?" she said.
Quietly, as if not trying to wake it, I responded, "it's the tornado." For some reason I continued whispering. "It's right above us. Hold still and you can see the rotation."
Wife and I sat motionless, speechless, and without inhalation for moments. Several long moments. Awestruck, battling several thoughts at once. Is this where we die? It's beautiful. Look at the symmetry! It looks like cotton candy. If it drops right now, will it pick up the van? What does flying glass embedding in my skin feel like?
"What do we do? Go inside?" wife wondered, trance-like. It was like a dream.
"Not really sure. It hasn't dropped yet. It must be a 'Doppler-indicated' tornado." It's tail was a couple hundred feet straight above the minivan. Maybe not even that much. "If we can drive at a 90 degree angle from the direction it's travelling, we can outrun it. Which way is it going?" [A parallel track had started running in my mind. Holy f--king s--t! This could be it. This is not the way I wanted to go...]
We sat silently, not even breathing, waiting for the tornado to do something besides spin over our heads. "I think it's moving away from us," [Of course, I thought, if it touches down right now, we're f--ked.] "Wait...wait...yeah, I think it's moving away." And it was also moving away from B&BW.
We called m-i-l on her cell phone. No answer. She returned the call while we called her again. We traded voicemails. By this time the sirens finally erupted. "Is there a tornado warning?" she asked.
"It's right above us. We're watching it right now. I'm going to come pick you two up."
"We're just going to run down to the Maidenform shop - it's just a couple of doors down. Pick us up there."
What?! She wants to keep shopping?! Really?
"The tornado's right here in the parking lot. It's right above us." I was whipering again, trying again not to draw the tornado's attention.
"Is it moving away?"
"Yeah. Kind of." Still whispering. "I think so. Which way is west?" It was too dark to use daylight to determine direction. After a short discussion we concluded that the tornado was moving away from the mall.
I picket up m-i-l and daughter at the Maidenform shop and we headed back to Brooks Brothers. We received great service; I bought my white shirt, and we spent about 40 minutes in the shop. A second tornado was spotted in Osage Beach - m-i-l and I wandered into the parking lot to see it for ourselves. Then we called my father-in-law, who was watching the boys.
"How're the boys doing?" my wife asked. She listened to her father's response. She told him that the laundry room was probably the best place to go. And no, don't tell them about the tornado. Don't know what they'd do, but it's likely f-i-l couldn't handle it. "No, we'll stay here until the all clear," wife told her father.
One of the BB associates, on the phone, shared that the second tornado had been spotted on County Road Y. Since the condo containing f-i-l and the boys was located on County Road W, we all grew concerned. Attempts to hale f-i-l via cell phone were fruitless.
"Which 'Y'?" m-i-l asked the associate. "How many Y's could there be?" I wondered. In a local dialect understandable only to lifelong Missourians, m-i-l and the associate determined it was a different location miles away. Whew!
During the 40 minutes in the store we had an opportunity to discover other wonderfully-priced BB products. Fearing personal insolvency, I suggested we head home even though the rain was still quite heavy. M-i-l insisted on a last quick stop at the Coach store (they initially wouldn't let her in because they were in a lock-down and couldn't remove it until the "official" all-clear had been sounded, but as they debated the situation the all-clear did officially sound and m-i-l procured a new purse).
When we arrived back at the condo the boys were watching the National Geographic channel (no local weather crawls on the cable channels to scare my youngest) and f-i-l was watching the sky out on the porch. Wife and I shared a pitcher of Sangria and slumbered deeply.
I dreamt of the Wizard of Oz.
Monday, June 15, 2009
Monday, March 30, 2009
Court of Dreams
Recently I had the opportunity to attend a Hopkins High School (HHS) basketball game at the Minnesota Boys State High School Basketball Tournament. Though I remember exactly who the opponent was, because of some unusual circumstances I won't be able to tell you the opponent. Let's just call them BHS. Hopkins (28-0, 4 players already signed to Division 1 universities, with their average margin of victory 32 points) against BHS (15-14, apparently slept with someone to get in the tourney). It wasn’t close – final 68-26, but loads of fun. Why?
1. A bit of hometown pride. Our guys looked like men against boys. I suspect there might be some Chemistry going on in the locker room instead of the classroom – Jesus these guys were big.
2. Finding the player who reminds me of me. BHS point guard, number 32, skinny, studious looking, good ball handler, textbook shooter. Scored 10 to lead his team. Also made good decisions, didn’t take a bad shot (though occasionally shot badly – more on that later). Solid, if unspectacular, defender – good positional defender.
3. The Hopkins fans. The Minnesota equivalent to the Cameron Crazies at Duke, complete with practiced chants. Some examples:
• The aforementioned BHS point guard shot an airball in the opening minutes. From that moment until the game became a joke just before halftime, the Hopkins fans taunted “Air-Ball!” every single time he touched the ball, which was often because he’s the point guard.
• When a HHS player shot an airball, the BHS crowd, of course, feebly retaliated with their own “Air-Ball!” chant. The Hopkins fans responded by chanting in unison, and much more loudly, [Clap. Clap. Clapclapclap…]“We… can’t… hear… you…”.
• Late in the game, with Hopkins emptying the bench, what I counted as the 3rd string Hopkins point guard stole the ball at mid-court and drove for an uncontested layup, the Hopkins fans chanted, [Clap. Clap. Clapclapclap…] “He’s… a… fresh-man…”. As if to say, "even our freshmen are kicking your ass."
• When a BHS player shot a free-throw, the HHS crowd, situated directly behind the shooter’s backboard, stood silent, facing away from the shooter. Yes, away from the shooter. And silent. This is in contrast to the typical opposing-free-thrower-distraction tactic of screaming and waving of hands. Again, the crowd is facing away from the shooter – and silent. Then, just as the shooter is going into his shooting motion, the crowd, in unison, spins around and yells, “Hey!” and waves, kind of like the flight attendants at the end of a flight.
4. Good basketball stuff. Like:
• Royce White – Hopkins stud #1, headed to the U of M in the fall, steals the ball, heads downcourt 1 on 3, stumbles, takes a fadeaway 12-footer, hits nothing but air, and gets pulled from the game immediately on the next whistle. White sits and listens as the head coach gives him what I consider to be very direct feedback on his decision making. No one is above sitting down after making a selfish play.
• Michael Broghammer – Hopkins stud #2, headed to Notre Dame in the fall, steals the ball and heads downcourt for a breakaway, 2-handed dunk and very obviously travels. The game is still relatively close at the time – Hopkins up 17-6. The BHS head coach explodes, gesturing very specifically that he believes that traveling should have been called. This being high school basketball, not the NBA, not only is there no make-up call forthcoming, the BHS coach gets called for a technical foul.
• The center from the Hopkins last string team (and by last string I mean that these 5 guys were literally sitting in the last seats on the bench, next to the 2 Rubenesque female team managers, and that these 5 look like the offspring of the starting 5), in the game all of 5 seconds, gets fouled on the defensive end while rebounding. Apparently not realizing that Blaine is in the penalty, he lingers on the defensive end of the court, and you can see the reluctance in his eyes as he heads down to take the foul shots. He makes the first shot by banking it in on the fly – a shot that in “H-O-R-S-E” doesn’t count unless you called “bank” before taking the short – and immediately smiles and relaxes while receiving a congratulatory fist bump from what I imagine to be his best basketball friend, the skinny last-string point guard. Now completely relaxed and composed, he hits nothing but net on the second shot.
• Five minutes into the game the score is Hopkins 4, BHS 0. On the surface this appears to be a close game. But if you were paying close attention you would have noticed that Hopkins had already missed 4 free throws and several make-able jump shots and layups and BHS had yet to draw iron. Literally. When Blaine gets the ball it takes their starting point guard 8 seconds to advance past midcourt – and that’s just being guarded man-to-man – Hopkins doesn’t begin employing a full-court press until 5 minutes left in the half.
• Hopkins top 9 players – any mix of them – will win the tournament. They are head and shoulders better than any other team. The drop-off to the next 5 guys on the Hopkins bench is pretty small. Hopkins players 9-13 outplayed BHS’s starters. Hopkins has a scary level of depth.
It was a great time for me. I actually had to blink back tears when I thought of how much my father-in-law would have enjoyed this outing. I guess that in the winter, my 'field of dreams' is a basketball court.
1. A bit of hometown pride. Our guys looked like men against boys. I suspect there might be some Chemistry going on in the locker room instead of the classroom – Jesus these guys were big.
2. Finding the player who reminds me of me. BHS point guard, number 32, skinny, studious looking, good ball handler, textbook shooter. Scored 10 to lead his team. Also made good decisions, didn’t take a bad shot (though occasionally shot badly – more on that later). Solid, if unspectacular, defender – good positional defender.
3. The Hopkins fans. The Minnesota equivalent to the Cameron Crazies at Duke, complete with practiced chants. Some examples:
• The aforementioned BHS point guard shot an airball in the opening minutes. From that moment until the game became a joke just before halftime, the Hopkins fans taunted “Air-Ball!” every single time he touched the ball, which was often because he’s the point guard.
• When a HHS player shot an airball, the BHS crowd, of course, feebly retaliated with their own “Air-Ball!” chant. The Hopkins fans responded by chanting in unison, and much more loudly, [Clap. Clap. Clapclapclap…]“We… can’t… hear… you…”.
• Late in the game, with Hopkins emptying the bench, what I counted as the 3rd string Hopkins point guard stole the ball at mid-court and drove for an uncontested layup, the Hopkins fans chanted, [Clap. Clap. Clapclapclap…] “He’s… a… fresh-man…”. As if to say, "even our freshmen are kicking your ass."
• When a BHS player shot a free-throw, the HHS crowd, situated directly behind the shooter’s backboard, stood silent, facing away from the shooter. Yes, away from the shooter. And silent. This is in contrast to the typical opposing-free-thrower-distraction tactic of screaming and waving of hands. Again, the crowd is facing away from the shooter – and silent. Then, just as the shooter is going into his shooting motion, the crowd, in unison, spins around and yells, “Hey!” and waves, kind of like the flight attendants at the end of a flight.
4. Good basketball stuff. Like:
• Royce White – Hopkins stud #1, headed to the U of M in the fall, steals the ball, heads downcourt 1 on 3, stumbles, takes a fadeaway 12-footer, hits nothing but air, and gets pulled from the game immediately on the next whistle. White sits and listens as the head coach gives him what I consider to be very direct feedback on his decision making. No one is above sitting down after making a selfish play.
• Michael Broghammer – Hopkins stud #2, headed to Notre Dame in the fall, steals the ball and heads downcourt for a breakaway, 2-handed dunk and very obviously travels. The game is still relatively close at the time – Hopkins up 17-6. The BHS head coach explodes, gesturing very specifically that he believes that traveling should have been called. This being high school basketball, not the NBA, not only is there no make-up call forthcoming, the BHS coach gets called for a technical foul.
• The center from the Hopkins last string team (and by last string I mean that these 5 guys were literally sitting in the last seats on the bench, next to the 2 Rubenesque female team managers, and that these 5 look like the offspring of the starting 5), in the game all of 5 seconds, gets fouled on the defensive end while rebounding. Apparently not realizing that Blaine is in the penalty, he lingers on the defensive end of the court, and you can see the reluctance in his eyes as he heads down to take the foul shots. He makes the first shot by banking it in on the fly – a shot that in “H-O-R-S-E” doesn’t count unless you called “bank” before taking the short – and immediately smiles and relaxes while receiving a congratulatory fist bump from what I imagine to be his best basketball friend, the skinny last-string point guard. Now completely relaxed and composed, he hits nothing but net on the second shot.
• Five minutes into the game the score is Hopkins 4, BHS 0. On the surface this appears to be a close game. But if you were paying close attention you would have noticed that Hopkins had already missed 4 free throws and several make-able jump shots and layups and BHS had yet to draw iron. Literally. When Blaine gets the ball it takes their starting point guard 8 seconds to advance past midcourt – and that’s just being guarded man-to-man – Hopkins doesn’t begin employing a full-court press until 5 minutes left in the half.
• Hopkins top 9 players – any mix of them – will win the tournament. They are head and shoulders better than any other team. The drop-off to the next 5 guys on the Hopkins bench is pretty small. Hopkins players 9-13 outplayed BHS’s starters. Hopkins has a scary level of depth.
It was a great time for me. I actually had to blink back tears when I thought of how much my father-in-law would have enjoyed this outing. I guess that in the winter, my 'field of dreams' is a basketball court.
Thursday, March 19, 2009
I'm Sorry, But I Don't Remember Who You Are
I am new to the Facebook phenomenon, and need to share something with the many, many people for whom I’ve confirmed ‘friendship’ on my Facebook site:
For those of you I know through my high school connection, I probably don’t remember very much about you.
To be honest, the great majority of you (my high school ‘friends’) have not entered my thoughts in the 24+ years since we were in high school together. There’s also a really, really good chance you didn’t enter my thoughts while we were seniors together either – unless I had you in a class or you were a very, very pretty girl (and I think you know who you are, or were at the time -God knows what Father Time has done to that unblemished high school skin, taut high school bottom, or those blossoming high school breasts). So in that case, it’s been 25+ years since I even recognized your existence.
Here’s the other funny thing. When I joined Facebook, it wasn’t with the expressed purpose of finding all those chums from high school that I’d been missing for better than 2 decades. Not only was it not an expressed purpose, it was neither a secondary nor tertiary purpose. It was whimsical at best when I decided to look for old ALHS buddies. And with the exception of a very (very, very, very) small proportion of my confirmed ‘friends’, I wasn’t looking for you.
Wow, so now what? I’ve reacquainted myself with this group of people who I barely knew, if at all, in high school, and I’m struggling with some fundamental questions, like – if I didn’t hang out with you in high school, why would I want to hang out (virtually) with you now? Once we get past the re-introduction (which often includes a run through the yearbook looking for a face to match with the name), sharing of marital and reproductive status, and a sharing of educational and occupational histories, just how do we continue with an awkward electronic relationship? Or do we at all?
Please understand that I mean no malice by any of this. Had I written this in high school, from what I recall of myself, I likely would have intended much malice. Because one thing I’ve learned about myself is that my recollections from high school, and oddly, there are few, are mostly of all the truly crappy things I did to other people. Or of thought-crimes committed against other people. These actions, if perpetrated by my own offspring, would elicit scorn, scolding, ‘the eye’, demands for apologies and some sort of punishment. But I totally got away with all of these things in high school, though some might argue that I didn’t get away with anything, because I continue to burden myself with shame.
What have we established so far?
1. I wasn’t looking to find my high school classmates.
2. Now I’ve been re-connected with those classmates.
3. I am compelled to air quote our confirmed ‘friendship’, thus questioning its legitimacy.
4. I have a nonspecific, negative, almost aching recollection of my own behavior in high school.
Perhaps now would be the time to put forth a blanket apology for all the things I did in high school that offended you then or, in hindsight, offend you now. Please know that I apologize for:
• any actions, activities, or pranks that may have caused physical injury;
• any condescending remarks, sexist or lewd statements, unfiltered or insulting quips that may have caused you psychological suffering;
• though it really seems like a victimless crime, targeting you in my masterbatorial fantasies;
• adding you to my “if-I-were-Mr.-T-for-a-day,-I’d-kick-your-ass” list, though again, victimless crime;
• mocking you or humorously exposing any one of your physical limitations, including but not limited to your height, weight, speech impediments, inability to play team sports, etc.;
• any other offense I for which I have no specific recollection.
That said, one thing I’m unclear about is why all you people want to be my ‘friend’. For as much as I didn’t hang out with you in high school, you also did not hang out with me. I assume that was your choice. Perhaps you are playing the “collect-as-many-friends-as-possible-in-Facebook” game. I do not understand this game. I desire meaningful contact in my relationships, and the CAMFAPiF game does not achieve that end.
Perhaps you are just reaching out to be … I hate to use this word … friendly. Okay, I suppose there’s nothing wrong with that. But you should know, if that’s the case, I’m not going to be a very good friend. Chances are, unless you live fairly close to me, I’m going to perturb neither my schedule nor my expense budget and make a special, long-distance trip to see you. I probably (99% probability) won’t invite you to stay in my house when you’re travelling through my area. I probably (again, 99% probability) won’t send you anything more than a ‘wall-to-wall’ shout-out on your birthday, even though Facebook will give me ample notice of such events.
So what, then, are we achieving with this electronic relationship? Having written this much (me) and read this far (you), I believe we’re both feeling sort of hollow about the whole thing. I search for meaning in our electronic daliance and come up short. Here’s how my search always ends: I know what happened to you since high school and you me. Assuming our profiles are truthful, we’ve answered the long-standing question, “Whatever happened to XXX?”
“Wow,” I wonder, “is that it?”
I suggested on Facebook that now, because I’ve connected with all these high school classmates on Facebook, I won’t need to attend my 25th reunion this August. This was met with comments that I’ll be missing out on all the fun, etc. What fun? I ask. I submit that the primary reason for attending high school reunions is to find out “Whatever happened to XXX?” Secondarily, we all want to know who got fat? Who went bald? Who took care of themselves? Who succeeded wildly? Who failed miserably? Who married whom? And finally – who will scrape up the nerve to show up?
Disclaimer: I attended my 10 year HS reunion. I didn’t attend the 5 year, 15 year, or 20 year. I’m assuming similar behavior at the ones I didn’t attend and the ones I have yet to attend. At my 10 year I participated in many superficial ‘my-occupation-is-my-identity’ conversations followed closely by a resurrection of all the old HS cliques. Sure, it was nice chatting with the old clique again – what few of us there were in attendance. I’ve stayed connected with precisely 1 person from that reunion, and that only through the annual exchange of holiday cards.
Will my Facebook participation alter my HS reunion participation? Now that I’ve connected with you, read your profile, scanned your “25 random things about me” posting, will I make a more meaningful connection with you if we both attend our reunion? Hmm, let me envision the conversation…
Without Facebook
Me: So what do you do?
You: I sell Mary Kay products.
Me: [nodding] Cool.
You: And you?
Me: I’m in IT at Target.
You: [nodding] Cool.
With Facebook
Me: [having read your profile, I already know you sell Mary Kay products] So how’s that Mary Kay deal working out in the recession?
You: Really good. Beauty products sales traditionally spike during a recession. I think women find it an inexpensive way to improve themselves.
Me: [nodding thoughtfully] Cool.
You: [having read my profile, knowing already that I work for Target] Still hanging in there at Target?
Me: Yep. Times are tight, but we’re still profitable.
You: [nodding thoughtfully] Cool.
So you see how much less awkward and more meaningful this human interaction was, and all because of Facebook. Wow! Technology really does make life better.
One Last Thing
So far we know:
1. I wasn’t looking for you, and you weren’t looking for me, but we’ve connected anyway.
2. I’ve addressed my nonspecific negative feelings toward my behavior in high school by issuing a blanket apology.
3. I’ve figured out how to use Facebook to make our next face-to-face experience slightly less awkward.
I can’t believe it took me this long to figure out the last thing that needs to happen. You see, I frequently (usually) begin writing my posts not knowing how they’ll conclude. They usually begin as a nagging feeling that I’m only able to address through writing, and the act of writing helps me sort through the feeling toward some conclusion. I finally figured out the conclusion.
4. I need to issue blanket forgiveness to you for any slight you imparted on me.
That’s it. It’s that simple! We essentially agree to forgive each other our trespasses. We drop the petty, childish, sophomoric baggage from HS that we’ve dragged all through our adult years. You forgive mine; I forgive yours. If we can enter into this agreement, we can enjoy our company at the reunion this summer.
Now – who’s in?
For those of you I know through my high school connection, I probably don’t remember very much about you.
To be honest, the great majority of you (my high school ‘friends’) have not entered my thoughts in the 24+ years since we were in high school together. There’s also a really, really good chance you didn’t enter my thoughts while we were seniors together either – unless I had you in a class or you were a very, very pretty girl (and I think you know who you are, or were at the time -God knows what Father Time has done to that unblemished high school skin, taut high school bottom, or those blossoming high school breasts). So in that case, it’s been 25+ years since I even recognized your existence.
Here’s the other funny thing. When I joined Facebook, it wasn’t with the expressed purpose of finding all those chums from high school that I’d been missing for better than 2 decades. Not only was it not an expressed purpose, it was neither a secondary nor tertiary purpose. It was whimsical at best when I decided to look for old ALHS buddies. And with the exception of a very (very, very, very) small proportion of my confirmed ‘friends’, I wasn’t looking for you.
Wow, so now what? I’ve reacquainted myself with this group of people who I barely knew, if at all, in high school, and I’m struggling with some fundamental questions, like – if I didn’t hang out with you in high school, why would I want to hang out (virtually) with you now? Once we get past the re-introduction (which often includes a run through the yearbook looking for a face to match with the name), sharing of marital and reproductive status, and a sharing of educational and occupational histories, just how do we continue with an awkward electronic relationship? Or do we at all?
Please understand that I mean no malice by any of this. Had I written this in high school, from what I recall of myself, I likely would have intended much malice. Because one thing I’ve learned about myself is that my recollections from high school, and oddly, there are few, are mostly of all the truly crappy things I did to other people. Or of thought-crimes committed against other people. These actions, if perpetrated by my own offspring, would elicit scorn, scolding, ‘the eye’, demands for apologies and some sort of punishment. But I totally got away with all of these things in high school, though some might argue that I didn’t get away with anything, because I continue to burden myself with shame.
What have we established so far?
1. I wasn’t looking to find my high school classmates.
2. Now I’ve been re-connected with those classmates.
3. I am compelled to air quote our confirmed ‘friendship’, thus questioning its legitimacy.
4. I have a nonspecific, negative, almost aching recollection of my own behavior in high school.
Perhaps now would be the time to put forth a blanket apology for all the things I did in high school that offended you then or, in hindsight, offend you now. Please know that I apologize for:
• any actions, activities, or pranks that may have caused physical injury;
• any condescending remarks, sexist or lewd statements, unfiltered or insulting quips that may have caused you psychological suffering;
• though it really seems like a victimless crime, targeting you in my masterbatorial fantasies;
• adding you to my “if-I-were-Mr.-T-for-a-day,-I’d-kick-your-ass” list, though again, victimless crime;
• mocking you or humorously exposing any one of your physical limitations, including but not limited to your height, weight, speech impediments, inability to play team sports, etc.;
• any other offense I for which I have no specific recollection.
That said, one thing I’m unclear about is why all you people want to be my ‘friend’. For as much as I didn’t hang out with you in high school, you also did not hang out with me. I assume that was your choice. Perhaps you are playing the “collect-as-many-friends-as-possible-in-Facebook” game. I do not understand this game. I desire meaningful contact in my relationships, and the CAMFAPiF game does not achieve that end.
Perhaps you are just reaching out to be … I hate to use this word … friendly. Okay, I suppose there’s nothing wrong with that. But you should know, if that’s the case, I’m not going to be a very good friend. Chances are, unless you live fairly close to me, I’m going to perturb neither my schedule nor my expense budget and make a special, long-distance trip to see you. I probably (99% probability) won’t invite you to stay in my house when you’re travelling through my area. I probably (again, 99% probability) won’t send you anything more than a ‘wall-to-wall’ shout-out on your birthday, even though Facebook will give me ample notice of such events.
So what, then, are we achieving with this electronic relationship? Having written this much (me) and read this far (you), I believe we’re both feeling sort of hollow about the whole thing. I search for meaning in our electronic daliance and come up short. Here’s how my search always ends: I know what happened to you since high school and you me. Assuming our profiles are truthful, we’ve answered the long-standing question, “Whatever happened to XXX?”
“Wow,” I wonder, “is that it?”
I suggested on Facebook that now, because I’ve connected with all these high school classmates on Facebook, I won’t need to attend my 25th reunion this August. This was met with comments that I’ll be missing out on all the fun, etc. What fun? I ask. I submit that the primary reason for attending high school reunions is to find out “Whatever happened to XXX?” Secondarily, we all want to know who got fat? Who went bald? Who took care of themselves? Who succeeded wildly? Who failed miserably? Who married whom? And finally – who will scrape up the nerve to show up?
Disclaimer: I attended my 10 year HS reunion. I didn’t attend the 5 year, 15 year, or 20 year. I’m assuming similar behavior at the ones I didn’t attend and the ones I have yet to attend. At my 10 year I participated in many superficial ‘my-occupation-is-my-identity’ conversations followed closely by a resurrection of all the old HS cliques. Sure, it was nice chatting with the old clique again – what few of us there were in attendance. I’ve stayed connected with precisely 1 person from that reunion, and that only through the annual exchange of holiday cards.
Will my Facebook participation alter my HS reunion participation? Now that I’ve connected with you, read your profile, scanned your “25 random things about me” posting, will I make a more meaningful connection with you if we both attend our reunion? Hmm, let me envision the conversation…
Without Facebook
Me: So what do you do?
You: I sell Mary Kay products.
Me: [nodding] Cool.
You: And you?
Me: I’m in IT at Target.
You: [nodding] Cool.
With Facebook
Me: [having read your profile, I already know you sell Mary Kay products] So how’s that Mary Kay deal working out in the recession?
You: Really good. Beauty products sales traditionally spike during a recession. I think women find it an inexpensive way to improve themselves.
Me: [nodding thoughtfully] Cool.
You: [having read my profile, knowing already that I work for Target] Still hanging in there at Target?
Me: Yep. Times are tight, but we’re still profitable.
You: [nodding thoughtfully] Cool.
So you see how much less awkward and more meaningful this human interaction was, and all because of Facebook. Wow! Technology really does make life better.
One Last Thing
So far we know:
1. I wasn’t looking for you, and you weren’t looking for me, but we’ve connected anyway.
2. I’ve addressed my nonspecific negative feelings toward my behavior in high school by issuing a blanket apology.
3. I’ve figured out how to use Facebook to make our next face-to-face experience slightly less awkward.
I can’t believe it took me this long to figure out the last thing that needs to happen. You see, I frequently (usually) begin writing my posts not knowing how they’ll conclude. They usually begin as a nagging feeling that I’m only able to address through writing, and the act of writing helps me sort through the feeling toward some conclusion. I finally figured out the conclusion.
4. I need to issue blanket forgiveness to you for any slight you imparted on me.
That’s it. It’s that simple! We essentially agree to forgive each other our trespasses. We drop the petty, childish, sophomoric baggage from HS that we’ve dragged all through our adult years. You forgive mine; I forgive yours. If we can enter into this agreement, we can enjoy our company at the reunion this summer.
Now – who’s in?
Wednesday, January 28, 2009
"Good to See You" Takes on New Meaning
The company that I work for laid off 9% of its staff from the corporate headquarters yesterday. As a veteran of many, many layoffs, I have to say that they did it in the most humane way possible - or, as one executive I used to work for would say, "If you have to eat a turd, do it fast."
We all received an email yesterday morning just after 8:30. Or at least it appeared we did. Little did we know there were 2 emails. One set of people got an email telling us to come to a meeting at 9:00am at an unspecified location on our floor. The other email (this one I did not receive) directed its recipients to a meeting room at 8:45am. The poor souls who received the 8:45am invitation were laid off.
When we congregated for the 9am meeting, we were told that our company was blah, blah, blah poor economy, and blah, blah, blah difficult decisions and that affected team members were notified at 8:45am. They read that part twice - about the affected team members were already notified at 8:45am. In other words, if you didn't already know, you were safe.
Whew!
What's that saying about the best laid plans? As I returned to my cube, still processing what I'd just heard, I noticed a figure pass my cube and head for the cube of a group manager (that's a manager's boss in our company's management food chain) across the aisle from me. From the corner of my eye (an aside: I think I was afraid to look - I guess I knew deep down inside what was about to happen) I noticed said group manager follow our department director (that's 2 levels up in the management food chain) down the aisle and into an unoccupied conference room.
Holy sh*t! They're still laying people off! I know they said they were done, but they're not! F*cketty, f*ck! Then I started cataloging all the reasons they could be coming for me - the executives don't know me, I'm expensive compared to all these young whippersnappers around me, I offended someone and I didn't realize it, etc. I felt trapped and helpless - I want to run, but it would be of no use.
Every pitter-patter of footsteps in my aisle caused my pulse to double. I began emailing everyone I knew to see if they'd survived. Literally the first person I contacted replied "...everyone's fine - except me". I wanted to scream.
Shortly thereafter, the aforementioned group manager returned, nearly teary eyed, and began the humbling process of boxing up his personal items. He later shook my hand and said goodbye. It was sad for both of us.
It wasn't until about 11am that I found my boss and confirmed that everyone had indeed been notified. None of the managers knew anything - the criteria for selection most notably. The management layer 3 slots above me were the only ones that knew Tuesday was an "event" day and who would be laid off. So it was a surprise to even the managers, which is actually kind of scary when everyone is panicking. (The managers tried to look calm, like parents in a thunderstorm, but most of us could see through the facade.)
Here's what really happened (at least in many cases): the emails were sent just after 8:30, and then for what I can only assume were security reasons, the user IDs of the "affected" employees were deactivated. Immediately. So they couldn't read the message telling them where to go for the 8:45 meeting. Many, my friend included, prairie-dogged out from their cubes and asked of cubemates, "Hey, did you guys get this meeting invite for 8:45? Where do we go?" I realized later that the group manager across the aisle was having the same problem, but just followed the rest of us to the 9am meeting.
I understand the strategy employed - the company wanted the affected employees to know first, even before their managers. But it wasn't executed as planned and caused extra dismay.
Today work resumed. Affected teams met to devise how to make up for the lost co-workers. We all quietly mourned those affected, vowed to help them any way we could, then moved on to the business at hand.
And in the elevators today, whenever you saw someone you hadn't seen in a while, you said, "Hey - good to see you." And we meant it.
We all received an email yesterday morning just after 8:30. Or at least it appeared we did. Little did we know there were 2 emails. One set of people got an email telling us to come to a meeting at 9:00am at an unspecified location on our floor. The other email (this one I did not receive) directed its recipients to a meeting room at 8:45am. The poor souls who received the 8:45am invitation were laid off.
When we congregated for the 9am meeting, we were told that our company was blah, blah, blah poor economy, and blah, blah, blah difficult decisions and that affected team members were notified at 8:45am. They read that part twice - about the affected team members were already notified at 8:45am. In other words, if you didn't already know, you were safe.
Whew!
What's that saying about the best laid plans? As I returned to my cube, still processing what I'd just heard, I noticed a figure pass my cube and head for the cube of a group manager (that's a manager's boss in our company's management food chain) across the aisle from me. From the corner of my eye (an aside: I think I was afraid to look - I guess I knew deep down inside what was about to happen) I noticed said group manager follow our department director (that's 2 levels up in the management food chain) down the aisle and into an unoccupied conference room.
Holy sh*t! They're still laying people off! I know they said they were done, but they're not! F*cketty, f*ck! Then I started cataloging all the reasons they could be coming for me - the executives don't know me, I'm expensive compared to all these young whippersnappers around me, I offended someone and I didn't realize it, etc. I felt trapped and helpless - I want to run, but it would be of no use.
Every pitter-patter of footsteps in my aisle caused my pulse to double. I began emailing everyone I knew to see if they'd survived. Literally the first person I contacted replied "...everyone's fine - except me". I wanted to scream.
Shortly thereafter, the aforementioned group manager returned, nearly teary eyed, and began the humbling process of boxing up his personal items. He later shook my hand and said goodbye. It was sad for both of us.
It wasn't until about 11am that I found my boss and confirmed that everyone had indeed been notified. None of the managers knew anything - the criteria for selection most notably. The management layer 3 slots above me were the only ones that knew Tuesday was an "event" day and who would be laid off. So it was a surprise to even the managers, which is actually kind of scary when everyone is panicking. (The managers tried to look calm, like parents in a thunderstorm, but most of us could see through the facade.)
Here's what really happened (at least in many cases): the emails were sent just after 8:30, and then for what I can only assume were security reasons, the user IDs of the "affected" employees were deactivated. Immediately. So they couldn't read the message telling them where to go for the 8:45 meeting. Many, my friend included, prairie-dogged out from their cubes and asked of cubemates, "Hey, did you guys get this meeting invite for 8:45? Where do we go?" I realized later that the group manager across the aisle was having the same problem, but just followed the rest of us to the 9am meeting.
I understand the strategy employed - the company wanted the affected employees to know first, even before their managers. But it wasn't executed as planned and caused extra dismay.
Today work resumed. Affected teams met to devise how to make up for the lost co-workers. We all quietly mourned those affected, vowed to help them any way we could, then moved on to the business at hand.
And in the elevators today, whenever you saw someone you hadn't seen in a while, you said, "Hey - good to see you." And we meant it.
Thursday, January 22, 2009
So I'm Reading This Book, Part 2
One more post, then I'm caught up.
Look Me in the Eye - My Life with Asperger's by John Elder Robison. Nonfiction.
About: The older brother of writer Augusten Burroughs (Running with Scissors), Robison describes life on the Autism spectrum.
My thoughts: Robison describes growing up unknowingly on the Autism spectrum. A fabulous book - one that I shared pieces of with my own little Aspy sons. Robison wasn't diagnosed until the age of 40, so he can share how he really felt as a child, especially with the benefit of hindsight.
I highly recommend this book to any parent of a child on the Autism spectrum. It is required reading!
Look Me in the Eye - My Life with Asperger's by John Elder Robison. Nonfiction.
About: The older brother of writer Augusten Burroughs (Running with Scissors), Robison describes life on the Autism spectrum.
My thoughts: Robison describes growing up unknowingly on the Autism spectrum. A fabulous book - one that I shared pieces of with my own little Aspy sons. Robison wasn't diagnosed until the age of 40, so he can share how he really felt as a child, especially with the benefit of hindsight.
I highly recommend this book to any parent of a child on the Autism spectrum. It is required reading!
So I'm Reading This Book...
Earlier this year I tried (not-so-valiantly) to catalog the books I've read this year on this very blog. Of course I lost track. Now I'm trying to catch up in one long post. Keep in mind - this list is all I have record of - library books have long been checked back in and forgotten. In no particular order:
What is the What by Dave Eggers. Nonfiction-sort of.
About: the account of one of The Lost Boys of Sudan, or the story of a Darfur refugee, told in an autobiographical voice by an American author.
My thoughts: Wow, where to begin. Do I start with a gimmicky device where Mr. Eggers writes an "autobiography" for Sudanese refugee Achuk Deng? Eggers' distinctive style only broke through a few times.
No, I think I will always remember the incredible, unspeakable things Deng witnessed all before the age of 12. Village burned, separated from family, literally running for his life at the age of 10. Walking with 300 other boys across the desert to Ethiopia. Seeing friends die of exhaustion, dehydration, and starvation. Living among 40,000 others, unwelcome, in a refugee camp in Ethiopia. With 5 other same-age boys, burying the dead in the camp. Fleeing from the gunfire of Ethiopians into alligator infested waters of the Gilo river. Seeing fellow refugees become the center of said alligators in feeding frenzy. All this and not quite halfway through the book. Then it just gets worse. Friends captured and turned into slaves. Slaves! In the 1990s! I could go on but I won't.
A great, great book. I was spent when I finished it.
Eats, Shoots & Leaves by Lynn Truss. Nonfiction.
About: grammar.
My thoughts: Yep, a book about grammar. By a militant grammarian. She was utterly appalled by the title of the film Two Weeks Notice. "Where's the apostrophe?" It's a charming little book about proper punctuation. I really liked it.
The Road by Cormac McCarthy. Fiction.
About: A father-son journey through post-apocalyptic America
My thoughts: Another wow! Two wows! This is possible the most affecting book I've ever read. I changed my view of life after reading this book. Stylistically spartan - just like the surroundings described inside. A man and his 10 year old son journey to the sea during a nuclear winter following what was apparently the war to end all wars. No food, no animals to kill, vegetation dead, the surviving humans feed off each other. An amazing journey. Do not read this book if you are depressed.
Everyone is Entitled to My Opinion by David Brinkley. Nonfiction.
About: a collection of Brinkley's one minute signoffs from his Sunday morning TV show.
My thoughts: November 6, 1983 - two reports on greenhouse gases suggest that climate change is 100-200 years away. If only we knew then what we know now.
September 13, 1987 - Presidential candidate Joe Biden is accused of plagiarizing a speech from a British Labour Party candidate. However, Biden credited the author several times during the speech. So, contrary to popular belief, Biden is not a plagiarist.
The Dilbert Future by Scott Adams. Nonfiction.
About: the future, according to Dilbert.
My thoughts: A mostly uninteresting rehash of strips. Except...
In the last chapter, Adams shares what he really thinks. There is one theory of note. Gravity doesn't exist. We are just part of a universe in which every piece of matter is doubling in size every second. Wacky.
Cartoon History of the Modern World by Larry Gonick. Nonfiction.
About: a graphic novel history book.
My thoughts: I really enjoy the cartoon history series. A great way to bone up on history.
What is the What by Dave Eggers. Nonfiction-sort of.
About: the account of one of The Lost Boys of Sudan, or the story of a Darfur refugee, told in an autobiographical voice by an American author.
My thoughts: Wow, where to begin. Do I start with a gimmicky device where Mr. Eggers writes an "autobiography" for Sudanese refugee Achuk Deng? Eggers' distinctive style only broke through a few times.
No, I think I will always remember the incredible, unspeakable things Deng witnessed all before the age of 12. Village burned, separated from family, literally running for his life at the age of 10. Walking with 300 other boys across the desert to Ethiopia. Seeing friends die of exhaustion, dehydration, and starvation. Living among 40,000 others, unwelcome, in a refugee camp in Ethiopia. With 5 other same-age boys, burying the dead in the camp. Fleeing from the gunfire of Ethiopians into alligator infested waters of the Gilo river. Seeing fellow refugees become the center of said alligators in feeding frenzy. All this and not quite halfway through the book. Then it just gets worse. Friends captured and turned into slaves. Slaves! In the 1990s! I could go on but I won't.
A great, great book. I was spent when I finished it.
Eats, Shoots & Leaves by Lynn Truss. Nonfiction.
About: grammar.
My thoughts: Yep, a book about grammar. By a militant grammarian. She was utterly appalled by the title of the film Two Weeks Notice. "Where's the apostrophe?" It's a charming little book about proper punctuation. I really liked it.
The Road by Cormac McCarthy. Fiction.
About: A father-son journey through post-apocalyptic America
My thoughts: Another wow! Two wows! This is possible the most affecting book I've ever read. I changed my view of life after reading this book. Stylistically spartan - just like the surroundings described inside. A man and his 10 year old son journey to the sea during a nuclear winter following what was apparently the war to end all wars. No food, no animals to kill, vegetation dead, the surviving humans feed off each other. An amazing journey. Do not read this book if you are depressed.
Everyone is Entitled to My Opinion by David Brinkley. Nonfiction.
About: a collection of Brinkley's one minute signoffs from his Sunday morning TV show.
My thoughts: November 6, 1983 - two reports on greenhouse gases suggest that climate change is 100-200 years away. If only we knew then what we know now.
September 13, 1987 - Presidential candidate Joe Biden is accused of plagiarizing a speech from a British Labour Party candidate. However, Biden credited the author several times during the speech. So, contrary to popular belief, Biden is not a plagiarist.
The Dilbert Future by Scott Adams. Nonfiction.
About: the future, according to Dilbert.
My thoughts: A mostly uninteresting rehash of strips. Except...
In the last chapter, Adams shares what he really thinks. There is one theory of note. Gravity doesn't exist. We are just part of a universe in which every piece of matter is doubling in size every second. Wacky.
Cartoon History of the Modern World by Larry Gonick. Nonfiction.
About: a graphic novel history book.
My thoughts: I really enjoy the cartoon history series. A great way to bone up on history.
Saturday, January 03, 2009
Friday, January 02, 2009
Lycra Shaped People
I started working out a bit more this summer, adding some biking trips (rule: get bike to a path, ride in a single direction as hard as possible into the wind for 1 hour, then return) to my regimen. And I also started running 1 to 2 times a week, no more than 1 hour at a time. And I lost some weight (15-20 pounds depending how you account for it).
I decided that, because of my propensity for profuse sweat, I needed to start layering my workout uniform. Thus began the search for those spandex/lycra/nylon-lyra-spandex-mix shirts that those runners/cyclists wear. Folks wearing those clothes never look like sweaty pigs. Sweaty pigs like me.
I found and purchased a particular shirt that appeared to be my size. I didn't try it on in the store for a number of uninteresting reasons, but when I got home I threw it on just before dinner (and a later workout that night).
It's a tight shirt. It's tight enough that it cannot be removed without reversing it. It's not ridiculously tight - it doesn't leave marks on my skin or anything.
My appearance at the dinner table drew double-takes from both my wife and teenaged daughter. "Wow," my daughter gasped, "it's kinda wrong when your dad is chiseled." My wife scanned me like a construction worker scans a pretty office blond and added, "Wow, you are looking good."
Bolstered by this unsolicited praise, I checked myself in the mirror after my workout that night. With the shirt on - yeah, I'm kinda chiseled. Not quite ready for the Body Armour ad, but there's definitely a muscular, manly shape there.
Then I removed the shirt. "Hey, where'd it go?" Suddenly all the flabby parts covering my six-pack abs re-appeared. My chiseled-ness had vanished.
"Oh my God, I'm an idiot. It's the shirt." The shirt shapes my body, tightening in the right spots, nudging the malleable flesh into areas that then appear muscular. It's like a push-up bra for men!
Then I began noticing just how common this phenomenon is. Because of my wife I know that there are about 72 kinds of underwear for women that "shape" their bodies. Now there are for men too. And when I began to really look for the lycra-shaped people, there they were, all around me. I'd never noticed before.
We have become a society of lycra-shaped people, well on our way to becoming the morbidly obese, amorphous blobs featured in the Pixar film Wall-E.
I decided that, because of my propensity for profuse sweat, I needed to start layering my workout uniform. Thus began the search for those spandex/lycra/nylon-lyra-spandex-mix shirts that those runners/cyclists wear. Folks wearing those clothes never look like sweaty pigs. Sweaty pigs like me.
I found and purchased a particular shirt that appeared to be my size. I didn't try it on in the store for a number of uninteresting reasons, but when I got home I threw it on just before dinner (and a later workout that night).
It's a tight shirt. It's tight enough that it cannot be removed without reversing it. It's not ridiculously tight - it doesn't leave marks on my skin or anything.
My appearance at the dinner table drew double-takes from both my wife and teenaged daughter. "Wow," my daughter gasped, "it's kinda wrong when your dad is chiseled." My wife scanned me like a construction worker scans a pretty office blond and added, "Wow, you are looking good."
Bolstered by this unsolicited praise, I checked myself in the mirror after my workout that night. With the shirt on - yeah, I'm kinda chiseled. Not quite ready for the Body Armour ad, but there's definitely a muscular, manly shape there.
Then I removed the shirt. "Hey, where'd it go?" Suddenly all the flabby parts covering my six-pack abs re-appeared. My chiseled-ness had vanished.
"Oh my God, I'm an idiot. It's the shirt." The shirt shapes my body, tightening in the right spots, nudging the malleable flesh into areas that then appear muscular. It's like a push-up bra for men!
Then I began noticing just how common this phenomenon is. Because of my wife I know that there are about 72 kinds of underwear for women that "shape" their bodies. Now there are for men too. And when I began to really look for the lycra-shaped people, there they were, all around me. I'd never noticed before.
We have become a society of lycra-shaped people, well on our way to becoming the morbidly obese, amorphous blobs featured in the Pixar film Wall-E.
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