I Cecil You, Too

          I have never celebrated the fake holiday in mid-February.  It's a scam holiday which business's use to sell cards, flowers, candy, and all that foolish shit.  I give gifts of love when the time is right, not when someone else says I'm supposed to.

          Anyway—what the fuck is this thing we all have labelled with the word: LOVE?  I know what mix of emotions I feel/have felt for those I've loved and do love (not a very large list) but it's amazingly hard to explain how certain fluctuations in my brain's chemicals affect my heart/brain/gut/libido, and even harder to understand/compare when others explain their "feelings of love".  We just assume everyone must be feeling the same way we feel when we use the same words they use.

          "See that color?  That is what I have labelled: Red."
          "Oh, that's red?  Ok, I'll begin to refer to everything which is colored that way: red.  Umm, what about when I feel all these crazy feelings at the same time?  I need a label, so that when I am feeling all these feelings I do not need to explain each of them every time."
          "That is labelled:  Love."
          "What about all those same feelings, except one:  I don't want to be physically intimate?"
          "Still labelled: Love.  You could add the word Platonic, but that'll require an explanation because that word has different interpretations."
          "What about when I feel all those feelings for my pet?"

          "When I say, I love my cat (Cecil) I think I must be misusing the word.  Instead, I should use a word that compounds the meanings of the words: pride, enjoyment, happiness and admiration."

          I'm proud of Cecil's training and I enjoy his 'loving' attention.  He never makes me angry (Mostly because he can't communicate with words, has no malice, and enjoys my company) and I admire him for his actions, looks, demeanor, and thoughtfulness (is he being thoughtful?  I'm probably just anthropomorphising his behavior).  Maybe I should consider his name, Cecil, to be my label for what I feel about him.  When I say, "Such a good Cecil"  I really mean that I'm currently feeling a combination of pride/enjoyment/happiness/admiration.

          When I receive an "I love you," I—almost never—use the phrase: "I love you too". 

          Because it's wrong to treat an I love you, as if it requires a mandatory reply.  It is not supposed to be interpreted as if it were the question: Do you love me?  Also, it should not become a replacement phrase for goodbye.  When people do that, they cause their incessant I love you's to lose their value.  Eventually, it becomes a throw-away line.  If said all the time, what do they say when they really want someone to know they have caused a rush of complicated emotions which are identified (when felt all at the same time) as the feeling of love?  

Recap:  "I Love You"—all three words—are reserved for when the emotion of love is actually being felt.  I do not want my I love you to cause an immediate response of I love you too.  I prefer either no reply or a response like: "those words make me feel good," or "Thank you," or "I like it when you tell me that," or "those words make me happy," or "when you say that, I get warm inside".  It is better that the person you love smiles and says nothing, and some time in the future, if they tell me they are currently feeling the emotion they call love—for me—I know they're feeling love at that moment and I can decide to reply with my present feelings, or not to reply.  I appreciate their statement of love when they are feeling it and then I consider what I did to make them feel that way.  This is my normal.

          When she was young, I tried to encourage my daughter, Denise, to understand and to communicate her feelings of love.  It was a long and complicated issue.  I found communicating my thoughts to her and her mother, on expressing love, very difficult.  I felt there was a lack of love in our family, and wanted us to tell each other that we loved each other more often (it worked occasionally).  I also wanted us to communicate our love by kissing (which never caught on).  The compromise I got from my daughter was cheek-bumps.  I failed at explaining to her that bumping cheeks was how people communicated respect to either: an old and feeble relative; someone who was contagious; or (in France) because that was their custom.

          Denise now says I love you to each of her children many times a day.  Each of her kids reply with a I love you too.  I see and hear their devotion and their respect.  With them, it does not seem to be a "worn out phrase" or a "throw away line".  In fact, when a child is upset (and, intentionally, does not reply to their mother's I love you) they—routinely—apologize (later) and remind her that they love her.

          I am now an old relative with whom respectful cheek bumps may be apropos.  And, now, I am adjusting to her normal.  Now, I reply to her I love you with an I love you, too.

Landmines, Deal Breakers and Brass Rings

This essay is intended to help you with future “new” relationships.  I hope this information is considered valuable enough that you decide to teach your children to apply this to their future adult relationships.

Before beginning a new intimate relationship with someone, I have picked an appropriate time to have what I refer to as my, “Landmines, Deal Breakers, and Brass Rings Conversation”.

“Landmines” are things you know about yourself.  They can be any value, character trait, habit, and/or fetish, which you are aware other people may not like.  Landmines are not obvious (and sometimes we intentionally hide them).   Tattoos are a good example; some people dislike all tattoos and others just dislike certain types of body art.  A large number of clearly-visible tattoos might not be considered a Landmine (unless the racist ones are all hidden), however, someone with a few concealed tattoos should consider them a Landmine. 

Although identifying and sharing each others Landmines are crucial to a healthy relationship, the most important aspect of discussing Landmines is that it starts “The Conversation” on a positive note.  Each person shares something they are either embarrassed about themselves, or their past, or which the other person might find off-putting.  To decide if something is or is not a Landmine, I ask myself, “If I don’t share this, and—instead—they discover it in the distant future, could I be accused of being intentionally deceitful or lying by omission?”

  
Examples of Landmines:

• Incarcerations 
• Addictions
• Diseases
• Non-standard employment
• Non-standard housing
• Pet issues or allergies
• Children given for adoption
• Previous long-term relationships
• Dangerous or risky behaviors 

         “Deal Breakers” are things you absolutely will not tolerate in another person.  Many non-smokers consider smoking or vaping (of any substance) to be a Deal Breaker.   At this point in “The Conversation,” each person takes turns explaining to the other the types of behavior(s) which—if discovered in the future—would cause them to terminate the relationship.  For example:  if someone quit smoking a while ago (and didn’t consider it important enough to be a Landmine) and then the other person told them that smoking was a Deal Breaker, it’s now a subject which needs further discussion.

Normally, people identify things they consider Deal Breakers based on their past.  If a previous significant other was a habitual liar, they may no longer put up with the smallest amount of dishonesty and—therefore—might consider some “white lies” to be Deal Breakers; along the same lines, if a previous significant other constantly acted jealous for no reason, they may now consider any hint of jealous behavior to be a Deal Breaker.

Examples of Deal Breakers:

• Pregnancy
• Desire for future children
• Sports enthusiast
• Love/hate of pets
• Must/must-not Hunt, fish, camp
• Share same Religion
• Share personal politics, values, habits
• Sexual/pornography appetite

         “Brass Rings” bring “The Conversation” to a close on a positive note.  Each person explains at least one thing they would ultimately love to receive from the relationship or from their partner.  This is the point where each person is expected to bare their deepest desire.  Selfishness is a must when explaining one’s Brass Ring(s).  It does not work if—after making it all the way through the Landmines and the Deal Breakers—someone claims their Brass Ring is just the happiness of the other.  

Examples of Brass Rings:

• Clitoral orgasms
• Enjoyment of specific sexual acts
• Destination vacation
• Financial security
• Platonic love
• Children

Stupid Genius

Stupid Genius - 2018

Denise's LOVE

          On New Years Eve, I found a very touching note from my daughter after I returned from dropping her off at the airport.
          I snapped a picture of her handwritten Love and made a character's face with it.  The L became the character's eyes, the o an ear, the v it's nose, and the e is it's smile (with tongue sticking out of the corner).   These items (and others) are available at my CafePress Shop.

This is the image alone.

My dearest only child - Denise,

    Please accept my apology.  I hate myself for shouting at you.  I have spent almost all the hours since our phone-call, trying to understand why your words caused me to feel so much anger.  I'm ashamed of myself.  I should have paused, thought about what you said, realized you had no way to know your actions (which—like you said—are the actions of many others) would cause me so much pain, and I should have waited to talk to you about my anger on a later date.

    In order to fully understand my own thoughts on this issue, I’ve had a long conversation with myself – and – this is that conversation:

    “What were the words, said by Denise, which made you feel angry?”
    “Denise shared how she and her boyfriend met in a bar and then she said, ‘The next day or so, we exchanged messages and I almost decided not to chat with him because he never offered to buy me a drink that night.’  I didn’t immediately feel angry when she made that statement.  But I did begin to ask questions to learn if she was aware of what her words meant.”

    “Obviously the answers she provided to your questions did make you angry.  Why?”
    “She said that when she went to bars it was what was expected and normal.  That, ‘all men purchased drinks for all women.’  When I asked her if, ‘she had ever purchased a drink for a guy?’ She replied, ‘No.  She had never done that, and no woman she knew had ever done it’.”    

    “Why were Denise’s words so upsetting?”
    “I was shocked to learn that someone I love, someone I care about as much as I care about my daughter, would have such low self esteem.”

    “Can you explain what that means, and why you think she has low self esteem because of this statement?”

    “The reason a man purchases a drink-gift for a woman is he hopes she will accept it, feel obligated to talk to him for a short period of time (commonly understood to be the time it takes to finish the drink) which—he hopes—will lead to more drinks, more conversation, and eventually sex.”

    “What does that have to do with a person’s self esteem?”
    “Self esteem means:  self-worth.  How a person thinks about themselves; the cumulative good and bad thoughts one knows about themselves.  (This is not a dollar price tag.  Having high self esteem is not saying, ‘I think I’m worth a million dollars.’)  Self esteem is a vague picture that people hold in their mind about themselves.
    “If someone has mostly good thoughts about themselves; takes care of themselves; treats themselves with respect; considers themselves to be both caring and thoughtful; and behaves in a positive manner—they are considered to have ‘high self esteem’.  Conversely, when someone thinks about themselves in mostly negative terms; treats their mind and body terribly; knows that they are careless and thoughtless; and performs negative acts—they have ‘low self esteem’.
    “If someone expects men to buy them drinks, then they are expecting men to pay to talk to them; to ‘buy their time’.  Women who think this way are communicating to men (even if they don’t know it) that their time is for rent.

    “Are you saying these women are prostituting themselves for drinks?”
    “No.  I am not implying women who expect drink-gifts are prostitutes!  Not at all.  Instead, what I am saying is that when a woman expects a man to buy her a drink — instead of informing him (not asking...telling him), up-front, that she is going to buy the next round — she is telling him that she considers herself to be subordinate to him.  She considers all men to be superior to her.  She is telling him that she has low self esteem.  Simply put:  she thinks her life is worth less than his life. 
    “A woman with high self esteem doesn’t sit and wait for a man to offer her a drink.  She offers to buy the man she admires a drink—first.  If he gladly accepts and says he will buy the next round, she has found an equal.  If he refuses to accept her drink but offers to buy her one—he thinks all women are supposed to be subordinate to him (she should run away).  If he accepts and never offers to buy her a drink and expects her to buy him drinks all night long?  Well.... is she looking for a subordinate man?  If so, she found one.
    “At this point I should mention:  “buying a drink” is a dumb, irritating, ‘ploy.’  The entire situation and verbal game sounds wrong-headed; it doesn’t matter if anyone ever offers to buy anyone else a drink.
    “Think of it this way:  if a person (woman or a man) goes to a bar and then sits and waits for the opposite sex to approach, talk, and offer them gift-drinks...they have low self esteem. Or they are a narcissistic attention-whore (which is not Denise, so, no reason to expound on that).  Everyone should feel free to walk up to and talk to anyone whom they admire.  No drinks are ever need.  Approaches are made by people who are self-assured and confident.  All one needs to do is say, “Hello, I like your smile.”  That is how a conversation is begun.  If the other person is interested in talking to you, then it will take off from there.  If they are not, they will not offer you a seat, not engage you in conversation, and you can move on and tell the next person you admire that you, “think the color they are wearing looks good on them.”     

    “Is this something you think everyone knows about?”
     “About how to start a conversation with an attractive stranger?  I hope so.  Denise is not shy and she's in her mid-30s!”

     “I meant awareness of one's own self esteem.  Is that something you think people have?”

     “Unfortunately, far too many people have no idea.  This is not something many people have ever wanted to learn about themselves.  I also realize that many people have never even considered what the term ‘self esteem’ means and never think about their own self esteem.”

    “Aren’t some women fully aware of their low self esteem and subsequent actions?”
    “Yes.  Some women are open about their life’s expectations when they admit they expect men to buy them everything.  They have a clearly-stated goal of finding someone to take care of them.  Those women are derogatorily referred to as Gold-diggers and the men who keep them are derogatorily referred to as Sugar-daddy.”

    “Did you get angry because Denise’s words made you think she was a gold digger?”
    “No.  She said that she never thought about her behavior other than to think that it was ‘how everyone acted’ and that it was ‘normal’.  According to her, it was how every woman around her had behaved her entire life.  Since she and I have just reunited after 16 years, I think it’s possible she has never had a positive role model to show her how to act if she wants to attract a partner interested in an woman who is assertive and who expects to be treated as an equal.”

    “Why didn’t you explain all this to her on the phone instead of getting angry?”
    “The shock took over and I lost all my clear thoughts.  I love my daughter so much it makes my head spin at times.  When we talk, her words about her life make me feel emotions of concern, and worry, and pride, and contentment, and empathy, and excitement, and sadness, and so much more . . . all inside of one single conversation.
    “We have (so quickly) reunited to become parts of each other’s lives, that when I discovered she had adopted a long-term bad behavior—and it was something she’d done her entire life—I was so shocked I blew up.”

    “And your shock turned to anger?”
    “Yes.  Unfortunately all I could focus on was that she didn’t know how a simple act of “expecting free drinks from men” had informed every man she’d ever talked to in a bar that she had low self esteem.  And, then all I could think about was that she must also not know that almost all men with lower self esteem were only interested in finding women with low self esteem.   
    “Which made me think about all her previous failed relationships.  And, I wondered if all of them had been doomed to fail because of that.
    “Then I realized that if I had not lost contact with her 16 years ago, she would have known (because I would have told her before she was 21—before she went into her first bar) that she should only trust men with high self esteem, who gratefully accept compliments or drink-gifts from women and who are not looking for a subservient partner.  I would have also made sure she knew she should never talk to a man who only wants a subservient woman.  They are the men who always say: ‘I never let a little lady buy me a drink!’
    “I felt that, maybe, her low self esteem was caused by me.”

    “How do you think you can fix this?”
    “Denise knows how much I want her to be happy.  How much I love her.  How hard I am willing to work to help her in any way that she wants me to help her.  Over time, this will be thought of as ‘the phone call when I got angry and made her cry.’  I’m very sorry for not using my words very good.  I hope she will forgive me.”

Hello There 2018 - Let the Catching Up Commence!

...you'll be my bodyguard and I can be your long-lost pal.  I can call you Betty—and Betty, when you call me—you can call me Al...

    After three years of: ‘no good reason to sit down and write’ my life has spanked me with a dozen reasons.  Now I feel driven to get the swirling cacophony onto the page in-hopes of, maybe, getting “thoughts in order.”  (A distant *yay* echoes off the surrounding cliffs of the neverscape.  Or, at least, I think it was a yay...maybe it was naaayyy?)

    My ex-step-daughter — I can call her Betty — contacted me a few months ago.  She was 19 when I divorced her mother (with whom she shared a close, daily-contact, type of relationship).  Now she is 35.  Over the 16 year interim, I assumed our estrangement was, unfortunately, the expected outcome of what had become a tenuous relationship.

    In the early 1990s I assumed the temporary, non-tenured, position as her primary care-giver from a litany of predecessors.  She was an obedient, friendly and pleasant ten year old.  Easy to talk to.  We liked each other.  Her mother’s ‘hands-off’ parenting style fit nicely with my desire to teach.  My more authoritative and ‘present’ style seemed to be more appropriate and needed.  Until ... a few years later ... it wasn’t.  Because: teenagers.  (I see no need to provide details about the petty crimes, drugs, running away for weeks, or dropping-out of school.)  She was not “cash me outside, how bout dat?” girl.  But in the late 1990s, it felt like all my efforts to help her become a good person had amounted to hundreds of man-hours of wasted time.  Against my wishes, her mother allowed her—at 16—to get married.  At 19, my adult step-daughter was back in my house as a divorcée with an infant named Destiny. 

    It had become perfectly clear I was nobody’s parent, nobody’s teacher, all my opinions were worthless and the only things required from me were: shut up; provide food, shelter and money; and shut up.

    A year later, Betty's mother told me that all she required of me was the same five things.  And, that was when I paid thousands of dollars to lawyers so they would legally affix the prefix “ex-” in front of all of our respective relationship labels. 

    Last month, the aforementioned ironically named infant (my ex-previous-step-granddaughter...if that’s even possibly a real label for a relationship) turned 17.  Her mother, Betty, had progressed from using my name to using the title ‘Dad’ and we have progressed from the occasional text message or email to weekly phone calls.  By yesterday — Festivus of 2017 — our phone calls are almost daily and they sometimes are hours in duration. They are a vibrant and wonderful mix of reminiscing, catching-up, discussing current topical issues, exchanging opinions and tears, and planning future visits (Betty lives 3,000 miles away).

    In eight weeks, we have become bodyguard and long-lost pal.  I have learned many of the lessons (which I assumed had been a waste of time) were, actually, vitally important.  My parenting style twenty years ago had influenced some of her parenting successes.  She had now raised three, constantly-on-the-honor-roll, loving, respectful, and wonderful children, who are now 10, 14, and 17.  Yes, of course, her life has not been without its pitfalls.  But, I have recently learned, in several conversations, that the reason Betty believes she became an attentive, loving, parent (one might use the term “helicopter-parenting soccer mom”) with a job, stable household, and a smile in her voice, is partly because of me. 

    Next week, she will be visiting with my wife and I. 

    The pronoun game has already been addressed and re-addressed.  We can lay no claim to the names Grandpa and Grandma — even if those labels were appended with our names so that the “grand kids” can distinguish us from the people who rightfully hold those titles.  More important (and to-the-point):  two months ago, neither of us had any idea we would soon be exchanging stories with a highly likable, mature woman, overflowing with laughter and love who wants us to think of her as our “daughter” and who asks for, receives, and heeds our advice.  Also we held no inkling in our minds that this self-same “woman of many titles (none of which fit perfectly)” had three children who might someday be eager to include us in their lives as “pseudo-quasi Nana and Papa figures.”

    Maybe this is an appropriate point for me to provide a synopsis about the end of my life?

    Most people cringe when someone discusses their own death, preferring to only think of death in an abstract manner.  Or they always ask to postpone those “morbid thoughts” for when the “time comes.”  Others attempt to hold on to an obscenely strange belief that, “it’s never going to happen.”  That is not who I am.  I have contemplated and embraced my terminus and have come to accept its eventuality without any dread.  I hope to have about five years left.  It would be great if I have double that.

    If I make it to 62 (in 2021) I will have outlived all my male ancestors, none of whom lived to receive social security.  None had retired before they died.  All died of apparent (or possible) heart attacks.

    I have attempted to avoid and continue to (mostly) avoid many of the "environmental factors" which contributed to the early demise of my father, grandfathers, and great-grand fathers (nicotine, alcohol, red meat, etc.)  None-the-less: genetics.  So I retired at the age of 43 from the military, divorced a stress-inducing woman the same year, and have attempted to live as frugally as possible on my military pension for the last 16 years.

    My goal was to live through at least two peaceful decades of happy retirement.  Most people want the same thing.  Only the masses don’t think about actuary tables; they fall in lock-step with the government who proclaims that everyone should retire about 65, because the government says they'll more-than-likely die in their early-to-mid 80s.  (Those who think that way are stupid, conformist, sheep.  *baaah*)

    Now, I've — out of nowhere — received a wonderful surprise opportunity: to be able share my last few years (five? – fingers crossed ...  20? – all fingers and toes quadruple-crossed) with not only my still-fantastic wife, Pam.  But, now, with our new bodyguard Betty and her three children.  I'm immensely glad she treats us both like long-lost pals.

Shut - not Closed

          As I have done in the past, I turn this canvas to the wall.  I will be back when blogging excites me again.  Until then...Alf's feet are saying. 

Mashup by FAROFF

Mashup - Sabbath Jazz - Paranoid

Idea Channel - Yule Tube

nine hours of hobbiting

          We intentionally did not see the first two films (2012 and 2013) in order to see the 3d Hobbit Trilogy all at one time.  Today, we did just that—in comfort—in a local recliner-theater which offered a one o'clock (1300) to ten o'clock (2200) marathon.  Worth it.

2014 ten films

          With one last page still hanging on the calendar, I prematurely offer this years ten best films.

          Birdman should not be missed by anyone; Interstellar is a real treat; Gone Girl was filmed perfectly; John Wick aspires to be (and maybe is) the best retired-hitman-revenge movie of all time; Lucy is a great action-think film; Guardians of the Galaxy entertains almost everyone; Under The Skin perplexes wonderfully; Snowpiercer is full of great characters and is metaphorically over-ripe; The Lego Movie and The Boxtrolls prove stop-motion animation can trump green screen and computer animation.

Honeymoon - Pam and Veach

          Pam and I were married on 1 Nov 2014 and just spent an amazing few weeks honeymooning at the Oregon coast, Washington's Hood Canal, and in Leavenworth, Washington (no it's really not in Bavaria).

cat meme

Humor Defined

          Funny is in the ear of the beholder.  Timing, pacing, delivery, grasp of storytelling—all very important.  These girls have made the funniest video I've seen in months.   Honestly, this wouldn't tickle as hard if Haylee and Amanda were one single google search less naive, or if their rendition of Sir Mixalot's Big Butts was bad, or if they sang the middle stanza.  But their cluelessness adds to their hella good performance and is multiplied by the fact that some of the lyrics offend them enough to make me laugh so hard I lost my breath.

Pop Culture - Madeon (vids)

How To Handle the Toilet Needs of Hiking Housecats

         This is a continuation of an article I wrote five years ago explaining how I trained my cats to hike with me (original article here). 

          Recently, I was asked how I handled litter box needs during car rides and on the trail.  A great question; to answer it, I share the following (please bear with...some of this is tangential but pertinent).  

          The first step in transporting your cat from home to hiking trail is deciding if you are going to confine your cat to a carrier or pet backpack; use a pet halter and seat-belt fastener; or allow him/her to ride loose in the car.  I quickly learned that my current cat, Cecil, does not like to wear a halter, so he is either in his backpack/carrier or loose (depending on length of trip).

          I familiarized Cecil with his backpack by leaving it open in a corner of our house and playing with him in and around it for weeks.  Eventually, he chose it as a place to nap. 

          I recommend "vehicle trial-drives," prior to beginning any cat hiking, during your initial 'determine how attached your cat is to you' phase (which can take two weeks or two months depending on your cat and how much time you spend together). 

          Even if you have no intention to teach your cat to hike with you, I suggest you take your pet on a monthly ride in your vehicle if—for no other reason—than to insure he/she doesn't solely associate car rides with going to the Veterinarian.  After a few car rides (both at night and during the day) your cat will become familiar with your car, understand it is the same as the inside of your house, and will relax in his/her spot.  When going on a short (less than 60 minute) ride, Cecil prefers to ride on the left side of my lap against the door.  I secure my cats in their carrier(s) during long drives.

          I only bring along a litter box when I intend to be away from home for more than 24 hours and/or the cats are going to be riding in the vehicle for more than 6 hours.

          Cats are similar to humans in their toilet preferences and routines.  Just like people, cats prefer to use the toilet in their own home.  Many people choose to 'hold it' rather than use public bathrooms, which—for cats—means digging in unfamiliar earthy, sandy, hard-compact dirt.  On more than one occasion, I have witnessed our female cat, Aggie, go for over 12 hours without a bathroom break, even though she was outside for nine of those hours in the forest with us.  Cecil, on the other paw, seems to look forward to using the entire great outdoors as his sandbox and, even when we are only going on a quick hike, will begin to look for a place to squat after only 30 minutes outside.

          In an essay about cat bathroom behavior, there is one final thing which needs mention...it's impossible for a cat to accidentally urinate or defecate.  Every time they squat, they do so with intent.  A decade ago, I took one of my previous cats, Gus, on a short drive to hike the forest trails near Prescott, Arizona.  Weeks earlier I had taken him on a weekend trip and on that trip I had put a litter box in the car's rear foot-well.  This trip, I did not.  I had not vacuumed the car since that earlier trip and I also failed to notice a small amount of litter had fallen onto the carpet.  We were on the road no more than ten minutes and I heard him scratching at the carpet in an attempt to cover his urine (this is the primary reason I recommend you choose to confine your cat in a backpack or carrier...even on short trips). 

Veach Rocks (2)

          My second creation, also from an Oregon beach, is the same—but different—all over.  This rock is an ever so slightly flattened egg-shape covered in tiny "craters".  It is painted with enamel and measures 2¼" long, 2" wide, and 1¾ deep (57mm x 51mm x 46mm).

side a                                                        side b

Veach Rocks (1)

          I have returned to more creative endeavors.  This small flat rock from my favorite Oregon beach is almost a perfect 1 ¹¹⁄₁₆" (42mm) circle.  Painted/baked with ceramic enamel and ½" thick (13mm)—it's perfect worry stone size, for your pocket.

side a                                            side b

Lucy - film review (☆☆☆☆)

          Lucy, Luc Besson, 2014 is not only recommended viewing for fans of the writer-director's other films, but for aficionados of the filmic arts who enjoy the occasional unique as well.

          Monsieur Besson took La Femme Nikita's initially reluctant female singularity Übermench, added a sufficient amount of humor from his The Fifth Element, included an obligatory crazy-foil and legions of speedbumps dressed in black (Léon, The Professional) and then went one step further: he added a message.  The result is a successful think/action movie.  I do not know of another example of this type of film, which makes it worth seeing if only because it's one-of-a-kind.

          Abstract, philosophical (para-philosopical to be more accurate) films like Koyaanisqatsi or even The Tree of Life are solid documentaries or dramas (or a combination of both) and all are locked to their Serious Messages.

          Template-driven action films are, by design, the opposite of unique.

Lucy.  Well...Lucy is both of the above.

eye space

Mother - Fabrice Le Nezet

wampeter and cecil

Dealer Review - Smart Center of Portland

Avoid salesman Mark Tower—everyone else is fantastic.

The best measure of a business is how they handle mistakes and problems.

Recap:  I ordered and placed a $1,000 down payment on a 2014 Smart Cabriolet on the 4th day of February 2014.  My salesman, Mark Tower, told me it would be delivered between late-April and mid-May, which was fine by me...who needs a convertible in Portland until May?

New bit:  In April, Mark told me "Wampy" (nickname explained here) would be arriving in the port of LA on 16 May.  I thanked him for his update and explained that I did not want, during dealer prep, to have a license plate holder screwed into the front plastic of my car because I intended to install a special mounting bracket.  He assured me his service department would, "never install a front plate bracket without a customer request".

Memorial day came and went.  No car.  I'm impatient; so I asked for an update and Mark responded with (and I should note, he—like almost everyone under the age of 50—only communicates by phone text) "it's a 2015 and they aren't releasing them yet.  I'll let you know when they ship it north.  If you're not satisfied you'll get a full refund".

Angry at being treated this way (and confused...how did my 2014 become a 2015?) I complained to the General Manager who immediately rectified the situation by giving me a free Smart Cabriolet loaner until my car arrived. 

Please note:  I used the past tense form of 'arrive' in that last sentence because I only needed to drive their free loaner for six weeks; I picked up Wampeter on 10 July.  I paid dealer invoice—$20,500—not the MSRP of $21,950.  And, as you have already sussed, a front plate bracket had been installed, which they are going to fix (in a week or so) by swapping the front body panel from another new car in inventory.

Mercedes Benz of Portland/Smart Center of Portland, has many professional, wonderful, fantastic people.  I worked with, and recommend working with, Andrew Plummer (GM), Dale Acelar, Crystal Barber, Ben Tait, and Mylee Burns.  I recommend you avoid Mark Tower.

same old me no longer able to abide the same old me who once abode

          It's not you, it's me (George didn't coin the phrase, but I give him credit anyway). 

          For the last ten months I've struggled finding a comfortable workplace.  A place where I fit.  Six different locations.  Three different employers.  It's not them.  It's me.

          I stopped delivering newspapers last September because 700 days without a day off = insane.

          So I went to work as a driver for a temp agency (BBSI).  They scheduled me, over the next four months, to drive for three different companies:  Brasher's Auto Auction, Manheim Auto Auction, and Enterprise Car Rental Agency.

          After a few weeks, I had the scheduler stop sending me to Brasher's because it was poorly managed, extremely unsafe, and people yelled.  All the time.  At everyone.  For any reason.  Bunch of old grouches who hated their jobs, co-workers, and employees.  When I feel particularly self-deprecating, I think I should have felt right at home.

          Manheim was the exact opposite of Brasher's; clean, safe, organized, and professional.  But every effort to get scheduled more than one day a week met with failure.  From my vantage point it looked like I was too young to be selected as a full-time driver at Manheim.  I might fit in there in ten years (or as soon as all my hair turns grey).

          I drove the most for Enterprise.  Part-time.  The hours changed every week.  And I quickly became intolerant of the vast majority of my co-workers with whom I was trapped in an 11-passenger van for almost every shift.  Impolite smokers.  Strong perfume wearers.  Incessant talkers.  Constant smartphone sharers.  Adult children with broken internal thermostats (cranking the van's heater).  And every one of them proudly a master of the obvious; "It's snowing!"  "Traffic is terrible!"  "It sure is getting late!"

          Once I obtained a full time job cleaning cars for Alamo and National Car Rental Agencies, I quit driving for BBSI.  With all the vacuums and car washes and traffic noises, I thought I might be able to work an entire shift and, maybe, I would never smell or talk or listen to a co-worker ever again.  But after a few months I discoverd the company itself—EAN Holdings—was so corrupt and managers so terrible that I couldn't tolerate working for them and resigned (detailed here).

          Two weeks later I began working at Avis Budget Group.  Same job.  Same pay.  But (just like Brasher's and Manheim) ABG is a much cleaner, safer, and professional company to work for than EAN.  I was much happier.  My schedule was consistent.  My managers polite, understanding, and even complimentary at times.

          So why is it me?

          Why am I, once again, dissatisfied with my work environment?

          Within my first couple weeks at ABG three different co-workers drove into the back of the car I was driving through a car wash.  It must be me.  I must be driving too slow.  Once is a coincidence.  Twice is bad luck.  Three times in ten days?  Clearly, that's my fault.

          My third week I was sitting in the break room with a male and a female co-worker (neither of whom I knew other than to exchange greetings).  They were talking—each from a different country and speaking their own accented English—so, at first, I was unable to understand any of their conversation.  Their accents were so heavy I didn't think they were speaking English.  But (just like the way Antonio learns English in the 13th Warrior) I soon began to understand some of their words and then almost all of them.
          He was, and had been for several minutes, sexually harassing her.  Brazenly.  Openly.  Willfully.  He degraded her and her family and laughed about it when she protested.  He talked about her and interrogated her using the vilest words.
          I wish I could say I immediately jumped to her rescue and forced him to stop his ugly tirade against her and all women.  I didn't.  I was shocked and I thought, 'The words coming out of his mouth can't actually be what I think I'm hearing; I must be missing the context of their conversation; they must be best-friends and this is just banter...dark, ugly, jokes; I just don't get the funny because I missed the beginning of the conversation...which must be a running joke because she keeps saying "How many days have I told you to stop saying these things to me?"
          I questioned her later.  Learned he had been sexually harassing her for months.  Learned she refused to report him.  So I reported him.  I wish I could say he was fired.  He wasn't.  She was eight months pregnant and so she left on early maternity leave.

          Last week, I attempted to provide guidance to another co-worker regarding a policy, which we'd all been instructed to comply with a few days earlier.  In hindsight, I was not very politic (in fact, I was as blunt as silence can be).  He was preparing to work on a vehicle "out of order" and I took it and put it back.  He protested.  So, I pointed at the car which the manager wanted next and said, "that's next".
          He verbally exploded.  His posture was aggressive and, at one point, I was certain he was going to punch me.  He slammed car doors and kicked trash cans instead.  The gist of his yelling was, "you are not my boss, you can't tell me what to do."
          So I reported him to HR.  Verbal abuse, creating an uncomfortable work environment, refusing to comply with company directives, blah blah.

          It's me.  I can't work with people anymore.  And it's not because people at work are any different than they ever were because "people" have always been this way.  "People" fall into two categories: slammers and closers (detailed here) and the vast majority have been, and will always be, slammers.
          The reason I now-know it's me is: I now realize I was once a reasonably-tolerant closer who kept his mouth shut, professed a live-and-let-live mentality, and grinned and bore it.
          Now, I can't.  Now, I say something.  Now, I speak up.  Now, I make corrections where I think corrections are warranted . . . even though I should shut up and keep my feckin' opinion t' me-self.

          GET  OFF  MY  LAWN  YA  CRAZY  GOOD  FER  NOTHIN  KIDS  

Symmetrifractal - Mike Swale

Late Spring Cleaning of Brain Detritus

          Costumes.  People who dig themselves a nice comfortable rut and then walk that rut for the remainder of their days.  Committing crimes, and by crimes I mean things the perpetrator—rather than society—believes to be wrong.  Which leads to a tipping point and voila, "I'm a criminal; this is my costume".

          I knew a guy who claimed he had PTSD (which he called 'battle fatigue') which he said he "got" when serving as an apprentice seaman aboard a ship in the Gulf of Tonkin.  Once, he detailed the traumatic hours his vessel took and returned fire, his fall down a gangway ladder and his feelings of extreme stress caused by an inability to see what was going on since he was below decks the entire time performing duties, listening to the barrage.

          From earlier conversations, I knew he had been drafted into the Navy in 1967, at nineteen, and I was also aware—but chose to never mention—that the Gulf of Tonkin Incident (whether real or fabricated, it matters not) was in 1964.

          I'll refer to this storyteller by name from here-on because Billy doesn't "go on the web or do any of that smarty phone stuff" and even if his girlfriend reads this to him he could brook no argument with me, because it's all the truth.  Or at least these are facts as he believed he understood them and as he related them to others.  Which is the same.  Except it isn't, is it?

          Bill—now a 66-year old hippy—may have real memories of, and honestly think he was present at, the Gulf of Tonkin Incident.  It doesn't matter that he wasn't; his brain thinks he was.  The same brain that doesn't think he's a hippy anymore.  He admits he was, "kind-of a wild child and maybe 'the hippy label' could have applied in the 70's."  But that was, "in his youth" and, "not who he was anymore".

          The reason I say Billy is, was, and-forever-will-be a hippy is because he wears the costume.  His black shoulder-blade length hair is never out of a braided pony tail.  A bandanna of some kind is worn as well at times.  He dies his thick beard black to match his hair, and every day—without exception (summer or winter)—these are the clothes he wears:  black leather biker's boots, black Carhartt pants, and a black leather vest with small lapel pins which signify his Vietnam service, support of POW/MIA, etc.  He not-only looks like Tommy Chong but his vocal pace and tone sounds almost the same as the character from the movies (a peppering of far-out's, his dude's are long and filled with too many U's just like his way too-many man's are heavy on the A's).

          The only stories Billy seems to enjoy recounting are those that involve drugs.  After a few weeks, one gets weary of yet another version of:  when he almost got busted; when he had taken too much; or when he did something stupid because he didn't want to get busted or had taken too much.

          On more than a couple of occasions, I witnessed strangers approach Billy in restaurants or on the street and ask if they could buy drugs.  He always politely informed them he "wasn't carrying" (had nothing to sell).  Because of the numerous prescription drugs he had to take, now, Billy only smoked an occasional joint.  None-the-less his costume still acted like a placard (Get Your Illegal Substances Here!).  He refused to take the sign off even though he was no longer in-business because, although it looked like a costume to others; to him, it was a uniform.  He had worn it his entire adult life, it was the foundation for all his memories, and he hadn't chosen retirement...his doctor explained the facts to him and he chose life.

          Billy had been arrested a few times: loitering, vagrancy, possession, public intoxication, failure to appear, etc; and—each time—he had spent a few days, weeks, or months in jail.

          I asked what he thought about living the type of life that always carried with it a potential for incarceration.

          He replied (you should try to hear Tommy Chong's voice), "It was no different than gettin' drafted. (man) I was sent to war; no choice.  I did what my country asked; I served.  When the cops rousted me, or I got busted for somethin', it wasn't no different. (dude)  The Navy and the Man: even though they both made me go and do, places and things I didn't plan-on or wanna-do, they both still gave me three-hots-and-a-cot, free medical and dental care, and there was always someone to talk to until my time was up."

          I asked why Billy had never been dissuaded by the illegality.

          He said, "The law is wrong, man.  There's nothin' wrong with takin' drugs.  What anyone on this planet wants to put in their bodies is their business.  Drugs are illegal because the government needs to keep the military-corporate-industrial-police state funded.  It's OK if you take prescriptions from your doctor; it's not OK if you grow your own?  No taxes.  Less jobs for the masses.  The day they make every drug legal is the day that tens of millions of police, lawyers, jail guards, border guards, pharmacists, doctors, and prescription drug manufacturers go on unemployment."     

          Billy may be retarded (that was the medical term his VA psychiatrist used: minor retardation) but it was self-induced.  Decades of illegal drugs had killed more brain cells than he could spare.  But he was still savvy enough to put some cogent thoughts together once in a while.  And that was entertaining to witness.

          Since it is not in my nature to drive a point home at the expense of common decency, I didn't ask Billy to enlighten me as to how he thought his body's organs had gotten into their current state of imminent failure.  It may have been one way to refute his "nothin-wrong-with-drugs" claim.  But, I suspect, he would have blamed his terrible health on agent orange or paraquat or MK-ULTRA and never on the misdeeds he inflicted on his own body, which was all "his business" until it was time to die.  Then he went to the VA.  The government now keeps him alive with taxpayer dollars.

other articles with death-panel candidates:

a tweeker with a new heart

death panels!  yes!

A free "stand in" loaner from the dealership

I have mixed emotions.  Sorry and perturbed (to have been dealt this hand); combined with a bit of consternation (at feeling forced to—once again—gripe and complain like an ornery ass-hat) and pleased as a swine wallowing in his own ordure (at my current vehicular status).  I eliminated names to protect the guilty and the innocent.

Smart Center Portland General Manager,

          I ordered a 2014 smart cabriolet in February.  At the time, I was informed it would be built in April and delivered in late May.  As the months passed, I was informed of the status of my vehicle, its VIN number, when it would arrive in the port of LA, and when it was expected to get to Portland.

          On 23 May I received a quick note relating that since it was a 2015 model year that it was uncertain when it would be released and that I would be kept updated.

          I wrote back expressing my huge concern; I was expecting my 2014's soon arrival and was now worried it might not be the model I wanted.

          This was your salesman's reply:

"The only difference between the 2014 and 2015 Smart is a digit in the VIN.  If its not the car I promised then you will have your deposit refunded no questions asked.  I will let you know when Smart trucks the car North to us."

          No acknowledgement that I ordered the current model year—not next year's—and no explanation. 

          Is this how all customer's are treated?  If I had ordered an expensive Mercedes and the next model year arrived instead, would I have been provided full explanations or would I also just be encouraged to request a refund?

          I want to understand this mix-up.  Is it only mine or an entire shipment?  Does this happen routinely when new model years come out or is it the first?  Was the mistake made when the order was submitted or on the factory's end?  What is your best educated guess on arrival?

          I don't intend to wait until September.  I ordered a convertible in February so that I could enjoy the top down this summer. 

          I do not want to have any more dealings with that salesman; he should focus his derisive 140 character messages on young tweeters and not on people who've already bought a car or three in the past.

Respectfully,

Veach Glines

Mr. Glines,

          I apologize for my salesman's seemingly emotionless, flippant, curt and non-helpful email message.

          I have reviewed the order and determined that indeed your order was originally processed as a model year 2014 but was switched by the factory due to the changeover from one model year to the next.  I am working with the smart brand people, now, to see when we might be able to get the vehicle from the port.  I will let you know as soon as I hear from them.

          Until I can get a definitive answer, I would like to offer you a Smart convertible to drive.  Although it will not be the car you ordered, I am hoping that it would be a satisfactory short term solution.

          Per your request, I removed the salesman from your file and added a new salesman.  I have cc’d him on this message and will make sure he connects with you right away to update you and make arrangements for alternate transportation. 

Thank you,

General Manager

Yesterday I met with the General Manager who gave me a 2013 smart cabriolet to use until my 2014 2015 arrives or they locate one in stock somewhere.  Thank you smart center of Portland.

other grumpy snapperhead letters for perusal:
to amazon about a marketplace vendor
to an internet spammer (with great comments)
to a real jewelry company (gave me a free ring)

Rule 34, no exceptions

see my hopes way up there? teetering?

          Today, I was informed that my vehicle is being held in the port of LA/customs because it's a 2015 model.  According to the salesman (who I'm beginning to despise rather than just think about the same way I do all people who sell for a living: with disdain) since the 2015 models are not authorized to be delivered yet, it will not be trucked north for an undetermined amount of time.

          I ordered a 2014.  I've been told the 2015 is the same as the 2014 and that the only difference between them is a digit in the VIN number.  I'm still... what's the word? ...pissy.  That fits.  Color me pissy and skeptical (because sales guy is an idiot).