People love to carp about The Government. And usually it's that designation, capital "t", capital "g."
But when it works it's beautiful.
In the post mortem of last week's fires I am certain that there will be some culprits, and the smart money is on the California Department of Forestry, the agency in charge of the air assets for fire fighting. Unions, bureaucracy, snafus of epic proportion...it will all play out over the next few weeks.
Now move to the city, country and state. Leadership from San Diego Mayor Jerry Sanders, County Supervisor Ron Roberts and Governor Arnold Schwarzenegger had direct influence on an evacuation that exceeded the scope of Katrina, the re-population of those evacuees, coordination of assets and information, refugee centers that actually worked, and a fostering of an atmosphere of giving, both time and donations, by the average San Diegan.
Apologists for Katrina say that we compare apples and oranges. Maybe so, but the San Diego response started at the city and the county level. New Orleans Mayor Ray Nagin, in an homage to Nero, ate dinner while the city sank under the weight of the hurricane. He evacuated his family to Texas and was incommunicado for nearly three days. (Ironically, the media was able to speak with the former mayor of New Orleans while Nagin remained missing in action.)
Our first responders were on the job. The New Orleans police and fire department had 40% of their work force fail to respond, though some were caught on film looting with the best of them.
I must single out the efforts of my City Councilman, Brian Maienschein. Brian, experienced through his representation of the victims of the 2003 Cedar Fire, knew exactly what to do. One Tuesday afternoon he had posted on his website the addresses of all the Rancho Bernardo homes that were destroyed or damaged in the fire. He and his staff walked every street in the community. He was also instrumental in helping establish the first of several centers to help those who lost their homes or are facing clean-up.
A local community center was transformed into a one-stop-shop, housing representatives of FEMA, the Red Cross, all of the utility and phone companies, cable television. The parking lot was filled with catastrophe teams from insurance companies. We met with a representative from USAA, got our FEMA number, and picked up some free cleaning supplies and a rake and a shovel from the Red Cross.
So, when it works, the government is beautiful.
Wednesday, October 31, 2007
Saturday, October 27, 2007
Back in the saddle again
We got back to the homestead on Thursday afternoon and had a long conversation with our next door neighbors, Francois and Marie and two of their three children, Pierre and Alex. We had just enough time to assess the damage, fortunately light, and make a start at cleaning. Our neighborhood is still without power and will be until the earliest midnight tonight and the latest a couple of weeks from now. At sunset we collect our gear and head off to our new home, the Radisson hotel.
Yesterday we made a great start on getting an upper hand on the clean-up. I handled the exterior, wearing one of those stylish face masks, and Lynn attacked the indoors. What's left will remain the purview of a restoration company. Looks like we will need to have the attic cleaned and the insulation replaced. We also have our Christmas decorations stored up there so maybe everything will look like it came down the chimney (or chimbley) with Santa.
After lunch we walked the neighborhood and covered about two thirds. The fire came a lot closer than we knew, destroying a house less than a block away, probably about 100-125 yards. We have found several partially burned pieces of paper in our yard, a check, a time card, a budget from a landscaping business owned by a woman whose house also burned.
Television crews were still roaming the neighborhood and the presence of the first responders and their back-ups was more than apparent. Every few minutes we had a San Diego policeman or two drive by the house. The National Guard, complete with M-16s, have troops walking the neighborhood or cruising by in Hummers. San Diego Gas & Electric has hundreds of personnel, supplemented by contractors and teams from Pacific Gas & Electric, on the ground trying to get power to our neighborhood.
We talked with perfect strangers yesterday. People we had never met before. Everyone seems keen on sharing their story.
As to the neighborhood...tragic. While the media has demonstrated this point countless times, there seems to be a randomness in the destruction of certain homes. Lynn and I were able to walk out on a dirt path at the corner of an especially hard-hit cul de sac and look down the valley and observed the fire's path. Some homes survived because of a barrier of red apple ground cover or large rocks and a plant free barrier. Others, away from the canyon, were victims of the embers.
One of the strangest sights was a two-story home, destroyed by the fire, and one of the collapsed walls leaning against the home of the next-door neighbor, who sustained no damage at all!
At one home nearly twenty teenagers, friends of the family who had lost their home, were helping sift through the ashes to find mementos. At another, a troop of boy scouts were helping their friend.
Everywhere people are sharing information and offering assistance.
One house we saw was destroyed not by the fire, but by heavy smoke damage. The interior was blackened.
We are lucky. Our damage, at this point, seems confined to the kitchen, where the ice-maker and frozen food melted and warped the wood floor, our fence and gates (wind damaged) and some outdoor cushions, covered with ash and still smelling like it even after a proper cleaning.
The cats are fine and have adopted their former routine. Bustopher likes to roam outside and then some back in, his legs and paws covered with soot. Macavity makes his ninja forays and then comes in to find some new place to hide and plan his next nefarious caper.
We're off to breakfast and then donning our grubbies back to the clean-up.
Yesterday we made a great start on getting an upper hand on the clean-up. I handled the exterior, wearing one of those stylish face masks, and Lynn attacked the indoors. What's left will remain the purview of a restoration company. Looks like we will need to have the attic cleaned and the insulation replaced. We also have our Christmas decorations stored up there so maybe everything will look like it came down the chimney (or chimbley) with Santa.
After lunch we walked the neighborhood and covered about two thirds. The fire came a lot closer than we knew, destroying a house less than a block away, probably about 100-125 yards. We have found several partially burned pieces of paper in our yard, a check, a time card, a budget from a landscaping business owned by a woman whose house also burned.
Television crews were still roaming the neighborhood and the presence of the first responders and their back-ups was more than apparent. Every few minutes we had a San Diego policeman or two drive by the house. The National Guard, complete with M-16s, have troops walking the neighborhood or cruising by in Hummers. San Diego Gas & Electric has hundreds of personnel, supplemented by contractors and teams from Pacific Gas & Electric, on the ground trying to get power to our neighborhood.
We talked with perfect strangers yesterday. People we had never met before. Everyone seems keen on sharing their story.
As to the neighborhood...tragic. While the media has demonstrated this point countless times, there seems to be a randomness in the destruction of certain homes. Lynn and I were able to walk out on a dirt path at the corner of an especially hard-hit cul de sac and look down the valley and observed the fire's path. Some homes survived because of a barrier of red apple ground cover or large rocks and a plant free barrier. Others, away from the canyon, were victims of the embers.
One of the strangest sights was a two-story home, destroyed by the fire, and one of the collapsed walls leaning against the home of the next-door neighbor, who sustained no damage at all!
At one home nearly twenty teenagers, friends of the family who had lost their home, were helping sift through the ashes to find mementos. At another, a troop of boy scouts were helping their friend.
Everywhere people are sharing information and offering assistance.
One house we saw was destroyed not by the fire, but by heavy smoke damage. The interior was blackened.
We are lucky. Our damage, at this point, seems confined to the kitchen, where the ice-maker and frozen food melted and warped the wood floor, our fence and gates (wind damaged) and some outdoor cushions, covered with ash and still smelling like it even after a proper cleaning.
The cats are fine and have adopted their former routine. Bustopher likes to roam outside and then some back in, his legs and paws covered with soot. Macavity makes his ninja forays and then comes in to find some new place to hide and plan his next nefarious caper.
We're off to breakfast and then donning our grubbies back to the clean-up.
Thursday, October 25, 2007
The Madness of Mike Aguirre
Michael Aguirre, San Diego City Attorney, has descended beyond demagoguery to the brink of megalomania. His bizarre conduct over the past few weeks, when the city first faced the collapse of city streets in the Mount Soledad neighborhood of La Jolla and now the fires, calls into question not merely his capability but his mental soundness.
In an interview last evening with Kimberly Hunt on KUSI television, Mr. Aguirre alluded to secrets about the fire that he would reveal next week, suggesting some heinous cover up or gross mismanagement. As one of the still evacuated residents of Rancho Bernardo, I resent the City Attorney's politicizing the fires and using it as yet another bully pulpit.
Mr. Aguirre has ceased to be the city's advocate, preferring the role of devil's advocate. He postures as the last angry man and the only honest man in local politics. His relationship with Mayor Jerry Sanders is toxic. He files frivolous lawsuits, relishes battling everyone, has decimated the ranks of the city attorney's office, and has cost our cash-strapped city millions of dollars because of his shenanigans.
Why compromise when you can confront? Why accommodate when you can antagonize?
Mr. Aguirre seeks the microphone and then blurts out such nonsensical drivel that his behavior reminds you of a hyperactive and uncontrollable child.
Consider his suggestion that the entire city of San Diego evacuate in the face of the wildfires. The entire population, every man, woman and child, under Mr. Aguirre's plan, would take to the roads and leave, ostensibly for Arizona. Millions of people in perhaps one million vehicles on the already stressed highways fleeing the city. This plays more like a scene out of a poor Hollywood script; it is not the deliberate thoughts of a rational civic leader. Beyond the logistics, apparently Mr. Aguirre never thought about the aftermath of his suggestion. An abandoned San Diego, a vacuum that would be filled by to looters, criminals and illegal aliens.
And now we must wait a week until he unveils his latest conspiracy theory.
Enough.
As responsible citizens we can no longer merely wait for the next election to send this popinjay packing. Recall Mike Aguirre.
In an interview last evening with Kimberly Hunt on KUSI television, Mr. Aguirre alluded to secrets about the fire that he would reveal next week, suggesting some heinous cover up or gross mismanagement. As one of the still evacuated residents of Rancho Bernardo, I resent the City Attorney's politicizing the fires and using it as yet another bully pulpit.
Mr. Aguirre has ceased to be the city's advocate, preferring the role of devil's advocate. He postures as the last angry man and the only honest man in local politics. His relationship with Mayor Jerry Sanders is toxic. He files frivolous lawsuits, relishes battling everyone, has decimated the ranks of the city attorney's office, and has cost our cash-strapped city millions of dollars because of his shenanigans.
Why compromise when you can confront? Why accommodate when you can antagonize?
Mr. Aguirre seeks the microphone and then blurts out such nonsensical drivel that his behavior reminds you of a hyperactive and uncontrollable child.
Consider his suggestion that the entire city of San Diego evacuate in the face of the wildfires. The entire population, every man, woman and child, under Mr. Aguirre's plan, would take to the roads and leave, ostensibly for Arizona. Millions of people in perhaps one million vehicles on the already stressed highways fleeing the city. This plays more like a scene out of a poor Hollywood script; it is not the deliberate thoughts of a rational civic leader. Beyond the logistics, apparently Mr. Aguirre never thought about the aftermath of his suggestion. An abandoned San Diego, a vacuum that would be filled by to looters, criminals and illegal aliens.
And now we must wait a week until he unveils his latest conspiracy theory.
Enough.
As responsible citizens we can no longer merely wait for the next election to send this popinjay packing. Recall Mike Aguirre.
Tuesday, October 23, 2007
But knowing is better...
My son and daughter think that I am the most well prepared, anal retentive human they know. They might be right. That attention to preparedness and detail failed me as I went to bed on Sunday night with no plan to evacuate the house in case the wildfire hit Rancho Bernardo.
As I wrote earlier, we escaped with little.
I even forgot my asthma medicine.
A newscaster announced that RB residents were being allowed back into their homes to retrieve medicines. Not knowing the drill we loaded up the Jeep and the sedan and drove to our home, figuring that a police cordon in front of our development could be easily breached with a driver's license. The police had other, and better ideas. They have the major roads into residential areas cordoned off at key choke points. No one is allowed to walk through the neighborhoods. Instead you collect at the Holiday Inn on West Bernardo Drive and do the Disneyland snake line waiting your turn to be escorted to your home.
After a two-hour wait, made pleasant by meeting and greeting neighbors and making new pals in line, Lynn and I hopped into the backseat of a patrol car and were driven to our house.
We drove past the strip mall that is being used as the RB command center, and the location that Matt Lauer interviewed the Governator this morning. About twenty pieces of equipment were ready to be staged and but on the line, the firefighters enjoying a short respite from their valiant round-the-clock battles. We turned left on Escala and dipped into the canyon, blackened on both sides by the fire, as was Battle Mountain. Miraculously we did not see a single home along Escala or in the foothills that suffered any damage. We crossed Pomerado, made the two quick right turns and saw the house. Intact. As was the entire cul de sac. We had five minutes. I grabbed the medicine, some clothes, fed the cats on the ground floor. Lynn sprinted in, fed the cats upstairs (yeah, we could have communicated a little better) and tossed a new tee-shirt into the bag.
I also retrieved a canopy from the garage.
We were driven back to the Holiday Inn. With the aid of three young Hispanic teenagers, I put the canopy together, and left it, providing some of San Diego's finest a bit of shade.
By the way, we also saw and had a short conversation with Congressman Duncan Hunter. While he comes across as a pretty tough guy, you could see the pain and enormity of the fire etched into his face. And we're not even in his district.
So, the good news is that the house is currently standing. The cats are freaked but alive and we're back in La Mesa mooching off my buddy, Jerry.
As I wrote earlier, we escaped with little.
I even forgot my asthma medicine.
A newscaster announced that RB residents were being allowed back into their homes to retrieve medicines. Not knowing the drill we loaded up the Jeep and the sedan and drove to our home, figuring that a police cordon in front of our development could be easily breached with a driver's license. The police had other, and better ideas. They have the major roads into residential areas cordoned off at key choke points. No one is allowed to walk through the neighborhoods. Instead you collect at the Holiday Inn on West Bernardo Drive and do the Disneyland snake line waiting your turn to be escorted to your home.
After a two-hour wait, made pleasant by meeting and greeting neighbors and making new pals in line, Lynn and I hopped into the backseat of a patrol car and were driven to our house.
We drove past the strip mall that is being used as the RB command center, and the location that Matt Lauer interviewed the Governator this morning. About twenty pieces of equipment were ready to be staged and but on the line, the firefighters enjoying a short respite from their valiant round-the-clock battles. We turned left on Escala and dipped into the canyon, blackened on both sides by the fire, as was Battle Mountain. Miraculously we did not see a single home along Escala or in the foothills that suffered any damage. We crossed Pomerado, made the two quick right turns and saw the house. Intact. As was the entire cul de sac. We had five minutes. I grabbed the medicine, some clothes, fed the cats on the ground floor. Lynn sprinted in, fed the cats upstairs (yeah, we could have communicated a little better) and tossed a new tee-shirt into the bag.
I also retrieved a canopy from the garage.
We were driven back to the Holiday Inn. With the aid of three young Hispanic teenagers, I put the canopy together, and left it, providing some of San Diego's finest a bit of shade.
By the way, we also saw and had a short conversation with Congressman Duncan Hunter. While he comes across as a pretty tough guy, you could see the pain and enormity of the fire etched into his face. And we're not even in his district.
So, the good news is that the house is currently standing. The cats are freaked but alive and we're back in La Mesa mooching off my buddy, Jerry.
"It's the not knowing that is interesting..."
Apologies to A.A. Milne and the dour Eeyore.
Yesterday morning at 4:30 a.m. I heard the nonstop wail of sirens. We had gone to bed the night before concerned about a fire in Ramona, about 20 miles from our home. The Santa Ana winds drove that fire into Rancho Bernardo.
The police were driving through our development, sirens and amplified mikes blaring, urging an immediate evacuation.
We left with very little and drove first to my office, to regroup, and then to La Mesa, to stay with a friend.
Thanks to all of you who have called and left messages. We spent the day and evening watching the local news and surfing the Net for information. We learned that about 25 homes in our Montelena neighborhood have been destroyed. We cling to hope on the thin thread that Lynn's voice still greets us when we call home. Our phone holds the answering capability. Frankly I don't even know if that is the correct technological touchstone for confidence, but I'm taking it,
With Highway 15 we have another decision to make. When we return to our home.
Over 300,000 people have been evacuated in the county of San Diego. Firefighters, media, city workers have toiled non-stop and their efforts have not gone unappreciated.
Yesterday morning at 4:30 a.m. I heard the nonstop wail of sirens. We had gone to bed the night before concerned about a fire in Ramona, about 20 miles from our home. The Santa Ana winds drove that fire into Rancho Bernardo.
The police were driving through our development, sirens and amplified mikes blaring, urging an immediate evacuation.
We left with very little and drove first to my office, to regroup, and then to La Mesa, to stay with a friend.
Thanks to all of you who have called and left messages. We spent the day and evening watching the local news and surfing the Net for information. We learned that about 25 homes in our Montelena neighborhood have been destroyed. We cling to hope on the thin thread that Lynn's voice still greets us when we call home. Our phone holds the answering capability. Frankly I don't even know if that is the correct technological touchstone for confidence, but I'm taking it,
With Highway 15 we have another decision to make. When we return to our home.
Over 300,000 people have been evacuated in the county of San Diego. Firefighters, media, city workers have toiled non-stop and their efforts have not gone unappreciated.
Friday, August 24, 2007
The chutzpah of the Norwegian veteran
Office mate and resident genius Moshe made good on a promise to take me to lunch. Since it was his treat I decided to eschew our normal lunchtime establishments of Rubio's, et. al., instead selecting a dining experience at The Barrel Room.
We had just been served our food when a well-dressed man entered the restaurant. He wore a white fedora that matched his white shoes, a seersucker suit of vintage quality, a shirt and a tie. He carried a small, soft-sided attache case.
He had the most pleasant smile upon his face. We put his age at mid-seventies. He approached our table, the smile beaming, and asked, "Do you have a few dollars that you can spare a Norwegian veteran?"
While I didn't have to give Moshe the Heimlich Maneuver it was a rum thing. I sure that my face betrayed a similar sense of shock.
If the fellow had been in his teens or early twenties I might have ascribed this brazen request as a high school prank or college fraternity pledge ordeal gone awry. But when someone older than your dad panhandles you during lunch hour at a fairly nice restaurant...
We refused to give the Norwegian veteran any cash, hopefully with a smile as warm as the one he laid on us. Undeterred, he made his way to a half-dozen other tables until one of the waiters escorted him off the premises. No fuss, no argument, knowing the jig was up, he walked in as serenely as he entered.
For the curious, the answer is no. His accent was more Midwestern than anything, certainly no trace of the Scandinavian countries about him, no sing-song lilt of Norway.
Moshe sat dumbfounded for most of the remainder of the meal.
And that reminds me of another bizarre restaurant experience. This time I was eating breakfast with a couple of friends at the decidedly downmarket IHOP. Sitting at the table next to us was a man elegantly dressed in a suit and tie. He had an attache case at his feet, a silk tie knotted against the closed collar of a blinding-white shirt. He devoured both his breakfast and The Wall Street Journal.
The breakfast was one of those heart-clogging one-from-every-column offerings. Eggs, potatoes, three kinds of meat, pancakes, syrup, the bottomless cup of coffee and a small glass of OJ.
The man finished his breakfast, patted his lips and then bolted out of the fire door into the alley at a full sprint. By the time the waitress knew what happened he was out of sight, having skipped on the check.
So, you know what you now have to do? Use the Comments link to send me your best restaurant story.
We had just been served our food when a well-dressed man entered the restaurant. He wore a white fedora that matched his white shoes, a seersucker suit of vintage quality, a shirt and a tie. He carried a small, soft-sided attache case.
He had the most pleasant smile upon his face. We put his age at mid-seventies. He approached our table, the smile beaming, and asked, "Do you have a few dollars that you can spare a Norwegian veteran?"
While I didn't have to give Moshe the Heimlich Maneuver it was a rum thing. I sure that my face betrayed a similar sense of shock.
If the fellow had been in his teens or early twenties I might have ascribed this brazen request as a high school prank or college fraternity pledge ordeal gone awry. But when someone older than your dad panhandles you during lunch hour at a fairly nice restaurant...
We refused to give the Norwegian veteran any cash, hopefully with a smile as warm as the one he laid on us. Undeterred, he made his way to a half-dozen other tables until one of the waiters escorted him off the premises. No fuss, no argument, knowing the jig was up, he walked in as serenely as he entered.
For the curious, the answer is no. His accent was more Midwestern than anything, certainly no trace of the Scandinavian countries about him, no sing-song lilt of Norway.
Moshe sat dumbfounded for most of the remainder of the meal.
And that reminds me of another bizarre restaurant experience. This time I was eating breakfast with a couple of friends at the decidedly downmarket IHOP. Sitting at the table next to us was a man elegantly dressed in a suit and tie. He had an attache case at his feet, a silk tie knotted against the closed collar of a blinding-white shirt. He devoured both his breakfast and The Wall Street Journal.
The breakfast was one of those heart-clogging one-from-every-column offerings. Eggs, potatoes, three kinds of meat, pancakes, syrup, the bottomless cup of coffee and a small glass of OJ.
The man finished his breakfast, patted his lips and then bolted out of the fire door into the alley at a full sprint. By the time the waitress knew what happened he was out of sight, having skipped on the check.
So, you know what you now have to do? Use the Comments link to send me your best restaurant story.
Wednesday, August 22, 2007
Men's Vogue?
In today's mail I received a magazine subscription solicitation for Men's Vogue.
Now there's a fucking oxymoron if there ever was one. What kind of a man would subscribe to Vogue or Men's Vogue?
Maybe, just maybe, could it be that new untermensch, The Metrosexual.
Last year, shortly after I returned from a fly-fishing pack trip into the Eastern Sierra, I had lunch with a good friend of mine. Let's call him MB. MB is a few years older than I am, a retired business owner who built and sold a great company. Basically, he does lunch. Knowing that he is a foodie, of sorts, I introduced him to one of my favorite restaurants, La Bastide, a country French establishment.
MB leaned over, and with an air of the conspiratorial about him, admitted to a guilty pleasure. An indulgence. A pedicure. Yeah, my buddy confessed that there is nothing quite like getting a pedicure. He encouraged me to get one, suggesting further that I go on Sunday afternoon when the chances of being seen were greatly reduced.
In turn, I described our trip. We rode on horseback 12 miles into the wilderness and made camp jump below 10,000 feet. Our campground was near a small stream, a clearing surrounded by trees. In a trice we put up our tents, set up the kitchen and watched in amazement while Jon crafted a fire pit, using rocks from around the campsite. Jon also sighted in our toilet. About a quarter of a mile above camp, Jon dug a hole, placed a folding plastic toilet over it, and then hung toilet paper from a tree branch using some string.
Creating the best, most scenic shitter in the history of mankind. Sitting there in the cold morning, looking at mountains, a slow, meandering stream, listening to the noises of the animals and birds...what a place to pinch a grumpy.
That, I said to MB, was my idea of a guilty indulgence.
As for Men's Vogue, I might know a guy in Colorado who would read it...
Now there's a fucking oxymoron if there ever was one. What kind of a man would subscribe to Vogue or Men's Vogue?
Maybe, just maybe, could it be that new untermensch, The Metrosexual.
Last year, shortly after I returned from a fly-fishing pack trip into the Eastern Sierra, I had lunch with a good friend of mine. Let's call him MB. MB is a few years older than I am, a retired business owner who built and sold a great company. Basically, he does lunch. Knowing that he is a foodie, of sorts, I introduced him to one of my favorite restaurants, La Bastide, a country French establishment.
MB leaned over, and with an air of the conspiratorial about him, admitted to a guilty pleasure. An indulgence. A pedicure. Yeah, my buddy confessed that there is nothing quite like getting a pedicure. He encouraged me to get one, suggesting further that I go on Sunday afternoon when the chances of being seen were greatly reduced.
In turn, I described our trip. We rode on horseback 12 miles into the wilderness and made camp jump below 10,000 feet. Our campground was near a small stream, a clearing surrounded by trees. In a trice we put up our tents, set up the kitchen and watched in amazement while Jon crafted a fire pit, using rocks from around the campsite. Jon also sighted in our toilet. About a quarter of a mile above camp, Jon dug a hole, placed a folding plastic toilet over it, and then hung toilet paper from a tree branch using some string.
Creating the best, most scenic shitter in the history of mankind. Sitting there in the cold morning, looking at mountains, a slow, meandering stream, listening to the noises of the animals and birds...what a place to pinch a grumpy.
That, I said to MB, was my idea of a guilty indulgence.
As for Men's Vogue, I might know a guy in Colorado who would read it...
Tuesday, August 21, 2007
If you call yourself Michelangelo...
If you call yourself Michelangelo and the company sells paint, then shouldn't the product be great?
Not only does the paint leave much to be desired, but the company gets an "F" when it comes to customer communications as well.
Lynn and I tackled the guest bathroom over the last month. Our first step was to strip the wallpaper, and like all the other papered walls in the house, the original owner had not prepped the surface. This meant that after tearing chunks of drywall off the surface, we had to put on a skim coat of drywall mud. And we didn't do a half-bad job. The room has an Italian plaster kind of look.
Lynn selected the paint, a new product that promised a one coat faux finish. Now, we are vets of other faux finish projects, and they are expensive and time consuming, requiring a base coat, a finish coat and a glaze. But not with Michelangelo paint! One coat. Says so on the company's website, www.michelangelohome.com. There is an elaborate video posted online as well as a DVD that comes with each can of paint.
The paint is expensive, $46.00 a gallon. We also bought a sea sponge for the technique we would use.
Our next step entailed putting a primer and sealer on the wall. We learned that Michelangelo paint does not work directly on sealer, so we now had to paint the wall. Fortunately we had a nearly full gallon from another project and so painted the wall.
There was only one problem with the Michelangelo paint.
It doesn't work.
When Lynn returned the paint to Home Depot she was told that many customers had returned Michelangelo paint for the same reason. What the company doesn't tell you is that the paint doesn't work over acrylic paint. Almost every paint sold at the big box stores and specialty paint retailers is acrylic paint. Non-acrylic paint is cheap paint.
I e-mailed Michelangelo two weeks ago to make them aware of the problem and the seven hours they added to our home project.
Still waiting for a reply.
Not only does the paint leave much to be desired, but the company gets an "F" when it comes to customer communications as well.
Lynn and I tackled the guest bathroom over the last month. Our first step was to strip the wallpaper, and like all the other papered walls in the house, the original owner had not prepped the surface. This meant that after tearing chunks of drywall off the surface, we had to put on a skim coat of drywall mud. And we didn't do a half-bad job. The room has an Italian plaster kind of look.
Lynn selected the paint, a new product that promised a one coat faux finish. Now, we are vets of other faux finish projects, and they are expensive and time consuming, requiring a base coat, a finish coat and a glaze. But not with Michelangelo paint! One coat. Says so on the company's website, www.michelangelohome.com. There is an elaborate video posted online as well as a DVD that comes with each can of paint.
The paint is expensive, $46.00 a gallon. We also bought a sea sponge for the technique we would use.
Our next step entailed putting a primer and sealer on the wall. We learned that Michelangelo paint does not work directly on sealer, so we now had to paint the wall. Fortunately we had a nearly full gallon from another project and so painted the wall.
There was only one problem with the Michelangelo paint.
It doesn't work.
When Lynn returned the paint to Home Depot she was told that many customers had returned Michelangelo paint for the same reason. What the company doesn't tell you is that the paint doesn't work over acrylic paint. Almost every paint sold at the big box stores and specialty paint retailers is acrylic paint. Non-acrylic paint is cheap paint.
I e-mailed Michelangelo two weeks ago to make them aware of the problem and the seven hours they added to our home project.
Still waiting for a reply.
Tuesday, August 7, 2007
A Brace of Books
In the last month I have read two outstanding business books. Most business books are pamphlets with one decent chapter surrounded by 250 pages of drivel. These two books were consistently informative, with each chapter strong and filled with valuable information.
The first is Deep Smarts: How to Cultivate and Transfer Enduring Business Wisdom. The authors are Dorothy Leonard and Walter Swap. Their premise is a simple one, in order to insure a business continuation companies need to proactively transfer knowledge from one "generation" to the next. Using the dot.com meltdown as a backdrop, Leonard and Swap demonstrate that the shortage of business coaches and mentors (as well as the suspended belief in reality that "this time it's different"--it never is in business) played a major role in promising companies failing.
The second book is A Whole New Mind: Why Right Brainers Will Rule the Future, Daniel H. Pink. Pink, who also penned Free-Agent Nation, makes a compelling argument that we are in the early days of the Conceptual Age, and that the MFA, not the MBA, may be the degree of choice. Pink suggests cultivating "The Six Senses" (Design, Story, Symphony, Empathy, Play and Meaning) and provides a useful portfolio at the end of each chapter to help you develop some of these right-brain skills.
The real kudo, though, goes to my friend and colleague Tony Hutti. Although he is a staunch Notre Dame fan, I forgive him that sin in thanks for his timely reading list suggestions. Tony recommended both of the above.
The first is Deep Smarts: How to Cultivate and Transfer Enduring Business Wisdom. The authors are Dorothy Leonard and Walter Swap. Their premise is a simple one, in order to insure a business continuation companies need to proactively transfer knowledge from one "generation" to the next. Using the dot.com meltdown as a backdrop, Leonard and Swap demonstrate that the shortage of business coaches and mentors (as well as the suspended belief in reality that "this time it's different"--it never is in business) played a major role in promising companies failing.
The second book is A Whole New Mind: Why Right Brainers Will Rule the Future, Daniel H. Pink. Pink, who also penned Free-Agent Nation, makes a compelling argument that we are in the early days of the Conceptual Age, and that the MFA, not the MBA, may be the degree of choice. Pink suggests cultivating "The Six Senses" (Design, Story, Symphony, Empathy, Play and Meaning) and provides a useful portfolio at the end of each chapter to help you develop some of these right-brain skills.
The real kudo, though, goes to my friend and colleague Tony Hutti. Although he is a staunch Notre Dame fan, I forgive him that sin in thanks for his timely reading list suggestions. Tony recommended both of the above.
Sunday, August 5, 2007
Proof of Age
This evening I was being my old anal-retentive self, soaking the humidifiers for my cigar humidor in distilled water. I noticed that the Thompson Cigar Company logo was attached to the twin humidifiers.
I no longer do business with the Thompson Cigar Company. This followed my last order, placed in 2005. I ordered, waited patiently, the impatiently, and then called Customer Service to inquire about my errant cigars.
The customer service representative informed me that they couldn't ship the order without a proof of age. I had to prove that I was over 18 years of age. The company's solution, FAX a copy of my driver's license.
Maybe the Thompson Cigar Company has missed the whole identity theft thing. I politely informed them that faxing my driver's license was not going to happen. I then used logic, reminding the representative that I had been ordering cigars since 1992. So, unless I was 5 years old when I placed my first order, it was a good bet that I was over 18. I even suggested that she check my website, certainly the gray-haired dude fishing in the river was well to the north of the legal age.
Alas, logic and company policy rarely meet. No proof of age, no order.
I opted for no order.
Why, in an age of unprecedented competition and consumer choice, would a company make it so hard to do business with them? (I also have requested, on three occasions, that they take me off their mailing list...but the catalog still come and I garner a wee bit of perverse pleasure in tossing them out unopened...but in the recycle bin.)
My two Internet connections for this guilty pleasure are Holt's Cigars, http://www.holts.com/ and Cigars International, http://www.cigarsinternational.com/. I was introduced to the latter by Reas Pearce, the Michelangelo of house painters.
But most of my custom goes to Liberty Tobacco, http://www.libertytobacco.com/, a San Diego cigar store run by the irrepressible Charlie Hennigan. Totally politically incorrect, the store boasts a killer walk-in humidor, and incredible selection, a living-room type lounging area with a big screen TV and a cast of regulars.
And Charlie has never asked to see my driver's license.
I no longer do business with the Thompson Cigar Company. This followed my last order, placed in 2005. I ordered, waited patiently, the impatiently, and then called Customer Service to inquire about my errant cigars.
The customer service representative informed me that they couldn't ship the order without a proof of age. I had to prove that I was over 18 years of age. The company's solution, FAX a copy of my driver's license.
Maybe the Thompson Cigar Company has missed the whole identity theft thing. I politely informed them that faxing my driver's license was not going to happen. I then used logic, reminding the representative that I had been ordering cigars since 1992. So, unless I was 5 years old when I placed my first order, it was a good bet that I was over 18. I even suggested that she check my website, certainly the gray-haired dude fishing in the river was well to the north of the legal age.
Alas, logic and company policy rarely meet. No proof of age, no order.
I opted for no order.
Why, in an age of unprecedented competition and consumer choice, would a company make it so hard to do business with them? (I also have requested, on three occasions, that they take me off their mailing list...but the catalog still come and I garner a wee bit of perverse pleasure in tossing them out unopened...but in the recycle bin.)
My two Internet connections for this guilty pleasure are Holt's Cigars, http://www.holts.com/ and Cigars International, http://www.cigarsinternational.com/. I was introduced to the latter by Reas Pearce, the Michelangelo of house painters.
But most of my custom goes to Liberty Tobacco, http://www.libertytobacco.com/, a San Diego cigar store run by the irrepressible Charlie Hennigan. Totally politically incorrect, the store boasts a killer walk-in humidor, and incredible selection, a living-room type lounging area with a big screen TV and a cast of regulars.
And Charlie has never asked to see my driver's license.
Monday, July 16, 2007
Jonesing for the Tour de France
Today, Monday, July 16th, is a rest day for the Tour de France, or Le Tour de France, and I am suffering a mild case of withdrawal. With eight stages completed, the race has become one of the more interesting editions of late, and a morning staple. The field is peppered with favorites, the crashes epic, and every day a new hero emerges.
One of the most refreshing moments was T-Mobile rider Linus Gerdemann's successful breakaway on Saturday, a ride that propelled the 24-year German rider into the yellow jersey and the white jersey (best young rider), as well as the stage win. Gerdemann stressed the need for a new generation of "clean" cyclists to put their stamp on the event that has been synonymous with drug scandals over the past several years.
Of particular note are the two main announcers of the race, Phil Liggett and Paul Sherwen, who bring the beauty of the English language, a deep understanding of their sport, and a keen sense of both geography and history to their broadcasts. Watch a single Tour broadcast and compare them to the panoply of morons that clutter the booths of football and baseball. (Jon Madden has become a bumbling parody of himself with him "booms" and "bams".) Rather than dumb down their broadcast, Liggett and Sherwen assume that you have a working brain.
There are still 13 stages to go...
A final note...check out the www.versus.com website coverage of the race, much easier to navigate than the official website, www.letour.com.
One of the most refreshing moments was T-Mobile rider Linus Gerdemann's successful breakaway on Saturday, a ride that propelled the 24-year German rider into the yellow jersey and the white jersey (best young rider), as well as the stage win. Gerdemann stressed the need for a new generation of "clean" cyclists to put their stamp on the event that has been synonymous with drug scandals over the past several years.
Of particular note are the two main announcers of the race, Phil Liggett and Paul Sherwen, who bring the beauty of the English language, a deep understanding of their sport, and a keen sense of both geography and history to their broadcasts. Watch a single Tour broadcast and compare them to the panoply of morons that clutter the booths of football and baseball. (Jon Madden has become a bumbling parody of himself with him "booms" and "bams".) Rather than dumb down their broadcast, Liggett and Sherwen assume that you have a working brain.
There are still 13 stages to go...
A final note...check out the www.versus.com website coverage of the race, much easier to navigate than the official website, www.letour.com.
Sunday, July 15, 2007
Books and the end of something...
A couple of musings about books.
I buy all my mysteries from Mysterious Galaxy, an independent bookseller specializing in science fiction and mysteries. I even pre-ordered the last Harry Potter novel. Yeah, I can get it at 40% off from Barnes & Noble or Amazon.com but that's not the point.
The point is that these small independents are the lifeblood of authors. A couple of times each week Mysterious Galaxy sponsors book signings from some of the biggest and smallest name in mystery/crime fiction. From Michael Connelly and Robert Crais to the less well-known, and is some cases superior talents of Alan Russell and Don Winslow, Mysterious Galaxy offers an intimate environment to listen, learn and buy.
And then there's the staff, including Patrick, who always greets me with our favorite word from the HBO series Deadwood.
The store is fun, intimate, and only a few blocks away from another of my favorite San Diego establishments, Liberty Tobacco (but that's another post for another time.)
My other thoughts surround the end of the Books section of The San Diego-Union Tribune. If there has ever been a champion for books it has been the section's editor, Arthur Salm. His columns, insights and suggestions are gems.
The handwriting on the wall was first the inclusion of the Books section into the Arts Sunday section. From there it was only a short few weeks until it disappeared, now folded into the increasing drab Arts section. The local fish-wrapper has now sentenced its literate and polished book reviews to the same fate that nearly every American daily has adopted. Only six U.S. newspapers have a stand alone book review section.
There's enough ink and newsprint for Paris Hilton, Phil Spector, Brittany Spears and entire columns featuring local American Idol "judges" but not enough for books. Another black mark for The San Diego Union-Tribune.
I buy all my mysteries from Mysterious Galaxy, an independent bookseller specializing in science fiction and mysteries. I even pre-ordered the last Harry Potter novel. Yeah, I can get it at 40% off from Barnes & Noble or Amazon.com but that's not the point.
The point is that these small independents are the lifeblood of authors. A couple of times each week Mysterious Galaxy sponsors book signings from some of the biggest and smallest name in mystery/crime fiction. From Michael Connelly and Robert Crais to the less well-known, and is some cases superior talents of Alan Russell and Don Winslow, Mysterious Galaxy offers an intimate environment to listen, learn and buy.
And then there's the staff, including Patrick, who always greets me with our favorite word from the HBO series Deadwood.
The store is fun, intimate, and only a few blocks away from another of my favorite San Diego establishments, Liberty Tobacco (but that's another post for another time.)
My other thoughts surround the end of the Books section of The San Diego-Union Tribune. If there has ever been a champion for books it has been the section's editor, Arthur Salm. His columns, insights and suggestions are gems.
The handwriting on the wall was first the inclusion of the Books section into the Arts Sunday section. From there it was only a short few weeks until it disappeared, now folded into the increasing drab Arts section. The local fish-wrapper has now sentenced its literate and polished book reviews to the same fate that nearly every American daily has adopted. Only six U.S. newspapers have a stand alone book review section.
There's enough ink and newsprint for Paris Hilton, Phil Spector, Brittany Spears and entire columns featuring local American Idol "judges" but not enough for books. Another black mark for The San Diego Union-Tribune.
Thursday, July 5, 2007
Fourth of July in Mexico? My ass!
The American in Mexico...on the Fourth of July. We decided, at the last minute, to take a Carnival Cruise down the Mexican Riviera. Yesterday, the Fourth of July, we happened to make a port call in Ensenada, a city less than two hours south of San Diego and a favorite day-trip or weekend retreat for Americans who find Mexico fascinating, romantic, colorful...or just plan inexpensive.
Did I see a single American flag, even a paper version, hanging outside any of the Ensenada watering holes, restaurants, or tourist traps?
Not one.
But walk through downtown Santa Barbara, California on Saturday, May 5th and you would have sworn you were in Mexico. Mexican flags and shameless promotion of Cinco de Mayo. The most absurd pandering establishment was a bar themed as an English pub. I poked my nose in, contemplating indulging in one of my worthwhile pursuits (drinking my way through the single malt alphabet--let's leave that for a different post) when I saw the ceiling festooned with Cinco de Mayo promotional material.
OK, we're the paragons of capitalism, and I was in Santa Barbara where it's a party every weekend (as if the Barbarians need an excuse to party!) so I can temper any perceived cynicism by pleading that it is just us doing what we do we do best...make a buck.
Yet somewhere in all of this there might be a lesson. Why no flags in Ensenada? Why not indulge the Americano tourista? After all, a peso's a peso.
Or can we chalk this up to being proud of your own country. Mexicans tear their hair out when we beat them in soccer, causing a national examination of spirit. Mexicans in the United States (whether here legally or not) drape themselves in the flag of their country.
Meanwhile, our national angst seems bent on apologizing for our country. Apologizing for what? For remaining the beacon of the world? For being the land of opportunity? We seem to walking around too worried that we are going to offend someone.
Before I go all James Brown and Living in America on you, I'll sign off.
But not before saying that for the first time in my life I'll admit that I missed the fireworks and The 1812 Overture.
Did I see a single American flag, even a paper version, hanging outside any of the Ensenada watering holes, restaurants, or tourist traps?
Not one.
But walk through downtown Santa Barbara, California on Saturday, May 5th and you would have sworn you were in Mexico. Mexican flags and shameless promotion of Cinco de Mayo. The most absurd pandering establishment was a bar themed as an English pub. I poked my nose in, contemplating indulging in one of my worthwhile pursuits (drinking my way through the single malt alphabet--let's leave that for a different post) when I saw the ceiling festooned with Cinco de Mayo promotional material.
OK, we're the paragons of capitalism, and I was in Santa Barbara where it's a party every weekend (as if the Barbarians need an excuse to party!) so I can temper any perceived cynicism by pleading that it is just us doing what we do we do best...make a buck.
Yet somewhere in all of this there might be a lesson. Why no flags in Ensenada? Why not indulge the Americano tourista? After all, a peso's a peso.
Or can we chalk this up to being proud of your own country. Mexicans tear their hair out when we beat them in soccer, causing a national examination of spirit. Mexicans in the United States (whether here legally or not) drape themselves in the flag of their country.
Meanwhile, our national angst seems bent on apologizing for our country. Apologizing for what? For remaining the beacon of the world? For being the land of opportunity? We seem to walking around too worried that we are going to offend someone.
Before I go all James Brown and Living in America on you, I'll sign off.
But not before saying that for the first time in my life I'll admit that I missed the fireworks and The 1812 Overture.
Thursday, June 28, 2007
Never, never land
Some things take on a life of their own.
The entire clan attended a wedding last Saturday and it was a posh affair. Incredible meal, announced course by course on a menu displayed at each place setting. Dessert was accompanied by Starbucks coffee.
My son, Justin, decided to order tea, not because he prefers tea to coffee (that would be his sister, Liz), but because he has never had a cup of Starbucks coffee. It's not that he's a rabid anti-globalization nut, as he readily acknowledges Starbucks commitment to fair trade coffee, its forays into organic coffee, and the company's rather forward thinking benefits program. (He does, however, personally blame Starbucks for the demise of Mike's Coffee, a Poway neighborhood coffee shop.) He's never had a cup of Starbucks coffee and didn't want to start last Saturday down some personal road to caffeine perdition.
And that led to a conversational riff about other "nevers". Birdmonster band mate David Klein's grandmother has never eaten anything from McDonald's. Imagine, billions and billions served and the incredible statistic that here in the U.S. one in seven people have a meal at McDonald's every day, and David's is the octogenarian poster Nana for healthy eating.
Finally, Frank Sinatra claimed that he never wore a pair of blue jeans in his life.
The entire clan attended a wedding last Saturday and it was a posh affair. Incredible meal, announced course by course on a menu displayed at each place setting. Dessert was accompanied by Starbucks coffee.
My son, Justin, decided to order tea, not because he prefers tea to coffee (that would be his sister, Liz), but because he has never had a cup of Starbucks coffee. It's not that he's a rabid anti-globalization nut, as he readily acknowledges Starbucks commitment to fair trade coffee, its forays into organic coffee, and the company's rather forward thinking benefits program. (He does, however, personally blame Starbucks for the demise of Mike's Coffee, a Poway neighborhood coffee shop.) He's never had a cup of Starbucks coffee and didn't want to start last Saturday down some personal road to caffeine perdition.
And that led to a conversational riff about other "nevers". Birdmonster band mate David Klein's grandmother has never eaten anything from McDonald's. Imagine, billions and billions served and the incredible statistic that here in the U.S. one in seven people have a meal at McDonald's every day, and David's is the octogenarian poster Nana for healthy eating.
Finally, Frank Sinatra claimed that he never wore a pair of blue jeans in his life.
Wednesday, June 27, 2007
Surly in Chicago
Yesterday I was at Midway Airport in Chicago, flying Southwest, and I eagerly brought my good friend, Ron Penland, to PotBelly Sandwich Works for his first PotBelly submarine sandwich. What at operation! Eager, energetic members of the PotBelly staff work like musicians in a symphony to turn out hundreds of sandwiches every day. It starts with one employee asking you to shout out your order when you're about ten or fifteen down in line. By the time you reach the counter you are then asked by another employee what condiments you want on the sandwich.
Smooth, efficient and tasty. Oh, I don't want to forget the unusual selection of beverages, sugar cane sodas, IBC rootbeer, and other "not found everywhere" drinks.
All came to naught when I checked out. A rather surly young lady, who had nothing more to do that operate a cash register, significantly diminished the collected efforts of every other PotBelly employee. When I asked for a jar of hot peppers to purchase and carry home she stared at me. I repeated the request and she pointed with her chin and said "Take that one there."
"The display jar?" I asked.
"Uh-huh."
She rang me up and we exchanged a $20 and the $7.25 in change.
"May I please have a bag for the peppers?" I asked.
Again with the head point, this time to a bag on the counter. So I bagged my own peppers and sat down to eat.
Great sandwich, by the way. But there was a bit of an unpleasant aftertaste regarding the service.
As I waited for my flight I thought I would refuel with some joe. I walked in A Piece of Cake, a shop that proclaims itself to be a bakery, bar and deli. I placed my travel coffee mug on the counter and asked for a cup of regular coffee.
"Small or large?" the cashier asked.
"Whatever you need to charge to fill this up," I answered.
"We don't do that. You have to buy one of our cups."
All right, let me give this young lady the benefit of the doubt. Maybe this is some stupid corporate policy, and maybe she doesn't even agree with it. But, please, a little courtesy would have been nice.
I decided not buy any coffee at all. Why would I buy a paper cup, pour it into my mug and then throw the paper cup away? Don't we have enough garbage?
Perhaps these are minimum wage jobs. I doubt it, but in each instance, it might be the case. Unless these two paragons lose the attitude they will never rise above those entry level positions.
Smooth, efficient and tasty. Oh, I don't want to forget the unusual selection of beverages, sugar cane sodas, IBC rootbeer, and other "not found everywhere" drinks.
All came to naught when I checked out. A rather surly young lady, who had nothing more to do that operate a cash register, significantly diminished the collected efforts of every other PotBelly employee. When I asked for a jar of hot peppers to purchase and carry home she stared at me. I repeated the request and she pointed with her chin and said "Take that one there."
"The display jar?" I asked.
"Uh-huh."
She rang me up and we exchanged a $20 and the $7.25 in change.
"May I please have a bag for the peppers?" I asked.
Again with the head point, this time to a bag on the counter. So I bagged my own peppers and sat down to eat.
Great sandwich, by the way. But there was a bit of an unpleasant aftertaste regarding the service.
As I waited for my flight I thought I would refuel with some joe. I walked in A Piece of Cake, a shop that proclaims itself to be a bakery, bar and deli. I placed my travel coffee mug on the counter and asked for a cup of regular coffee.
"Small or large?" the cashier asked.
"Whatever you need to charge to fill this up," I answered.
"We don't do that. You have to buy one of our cups."
All right, let me give this young lady the benefit of the doubt. Maybe this is some stupid corporate policy, and maybe she doesn't even agree with it. But, please, a little courtesy would have been nice.
I decided not buy any coffee at all. Why would I buy a paper cup, pour it into my mug and then throw the paper cup away? Don't we have enough garbage?
Perhaps these are minimum wage jobs. I doubt it, but in each instance, it might be the case. Unless these two paragons lose the attitude they will never rise above those entry level positions.
Friday, June 22, 2007
Where the couches go to die...
At best, the concentrated Goleta neighborhood of Isla Vista is a strange community. Yards from the campus of University of California Santa Barbara, Isla Vista's population is composed of young men and women, most between the ages of 19 and 23. Most are living in their first apartment or house that didn't have mom and dad riding herd.
Think of a young adult equivalent of Escape from New York.
Pedestrians rule, motor vehicles crawl through streets teaming with students on foot and on bicycles.
And like many UC campuses and the surrounding environs there is more than a whiff of entitlement as well as the certainty of the newly educated who envision themselves saving the world from their less enlightened parents. Here's where Al Gore's An Inconvenient Truth is embraced as gospel, where Michael Moore's biannual video rants are cheered, and where anything remotely conservative is vilified.
As it should be for this is the age for idealism and big dreams and youthful confidence.
Green? Hell, yeah! Vegetarian, vegan? Absolutely.
This year a UCSB environmental group attacked a perennial problem that occurs with the mass exodus of students at academic year end. As the houses empty tons of furniture, electronics, household goods, clothes and books are unceremoniously dumped. Garbage cans and dumpsters overflow. Couches are strewn along every street. And while this group did admirable work, creating a central clearing house for large pieces of furniture, there are still pockets of hold-outs.
As I walked Isla Vista following graduation last week, I was appalled and sickened to see a landscape that resembled a bombed-out Baghdad or a Tijuana trash site. Front yards filled with empty bottles and plastic glasses. Scorched streets littered with carbonized hardware from couches burned to "celebrate" graduation. Lawn furniture tossed from homes on Del Playa onto the beach, and most shocking, a couch floating in a kelp bed in the ocean.
If they care so much about the environment, trot out green credentials, and eschew chewing animals, why do so many of these privileged young adults think they have a free pass for the week surrounding year-end?
Think of a young adult equivalent of Escape from New York.
Pedestrians rule, motor vehicles crawl through streets teaming with students on foot and on bicycles.
And like many UC campuses and the surrounding environs there is more than a whiff of entitlement as well as the certainty of the newly educated who envision themselves saving the world from their less enlightened parents. Here's where Al Gore's An Inconvenient Truth is embraced as gospel, where Michael Moore's biannual video rants are cheered, and where anything remotely conservative is vilified.
As it should be for this is the age for idealism and big dreams and youthful confidence.
Green? Hell, yeah! Vegetarian, vegan? Absolutely.
This year a UCSB environmental group attacked a perennial problem that occurs with the mass exodus of students at academic year end. As the houses empty tons of furniture, electronics, household goods, clothes and books are unceremoniously dumped. Garbage cans and dumpsters overflow. Couches are strewn along every street. And while this group did admirable work, creating a central clearing house for large pieces of furniture, there are still pockets of hold-outs.
As I walked Isla Vista following graduation last week, I was appalled and sickened to see a landscape that resembled a bombed-out Baghdad or a Tijuana trash site. Front yards filled with empty bottles and plastic glasses. Scorched streets littered with carbonized hardware from couches burned to "celebrate" graduation. Lawn furniture tossed from homes on Del Playa onto the beach, and most shocking, a couch floating in a kelp bed in the ocean.
If they care so much about the environment, trot out green credentials, and eschew chewing animals, why do so many of these privileged young adults think they have a free pass for the week surrounding year-end?
Thursday, June 7, 2007
What's up with all the TVs?
Everywhere you go you are assaulted by televisions. In the waiting lounge at the airport...televisions. At the athletic club...televisions (and usually duelling televisions set to different stations at max volume.) In a bar or restaurant...televisions.
I'll give you the sports bar or the themed restaurant. You expect to have twenty TVs cracking out every baseball/football/basketball game airing at that moment and perhaps even some of the fringe "sports" like poker. (When did poker exactly become a sport?)
But to walk into a high-end restaurant and find TVs sprinkled around to compete with decent conversation and a bit of, God forbid, silence.
There's a thread of thought that you can't go anywhere on this planet and not hear something. In other words, no true silence. There is no Bose noise cancelling, Get Smart cone-of-silence, noise-free zone anywhere.
But the electronic noise is overwhelming. Cellphones with their seemingly infinite number of rings that include Justin Timberlake songs, hand-held video games chirping, beeping, exploding away, those friggin' aforementioned TVs, the pulsing rap music escaping from the open windows of a pimped-out Honda civic, and the white noise hum of music leaking out from the iPod headphones.
Increasingly you have to plan to escape the noise of the modern day.
I like to choose my noise. Moving water on a stream. The woods at the beginning of the day with the first drumming of grouse, a woodpecker, the gobble of a turkey. Elk bugling in the fall. Wind soughing through the trees. The crackling of a fire and the din of millions of tree frogs. Rain on a tin roof.
I'll give you the sports bar or the themed restaurant. You expect to have twenty TVs cracking out every baseball/football/basketball game airing at that moment and perhaps even some of the fringe "sports" like poker. (When did poker exactly become a sport?)
But to walk into a high-end restaurant and find TVs sprinkled around to compete with decent conversation and a bit of, God forbid, silence.
There's a thread of thought that you can't go anywhere on this planet and not hear something. In other words, no true silence. There is no Bose noise cancelling, Get Smart cone-of-silence, noise-free zone anywhere.
But the electronic noise is overwhelming. Cellphones with their seemingly infinite number of rings that include Justin Timberlake songs, hand-held video games chirping, beeping, exploding away, those friggin' aforementioned TVs, the pulsing rap music escaping from the open windows of a pimped-out Honda civic, and the white noise hum of music leaking out from the iPod headphones.
Increasingly you have to plan to escape the noise of the modern day.
I like to choose my noise. Moving water on a stream. The woods at the beginning of the day with the first drumming of grouse, a woodpecker, the gobble of a turkey. Elk bugling in the fall. Wind soughing through the trees. The crackling of a fire and the din of millions of tree frogs. Rain on a tin roof.
Tuesday, June 5, 2007
The Son Also Rises
A tip of the hat to my son, Justin.
On Sunday afternoon, while enjoying a cigar in the backyard, I finished the fifth Michael Malone novel I have read in the last year and a half. The Justin and Cuddy mysteries are quite enjoyable, but the two other novels I have read by Malone have been masterpieces.
So here is my unequivocal recommendation to buy and read Foolscap, or The Stages of Love. Initially set in the world of academia, nestled in a small North Carolina town, Theo Ryan (the half-Jewish, half-Irish son of a pair of inveterate stage troopers) is a tenured professor befriended by America's living treasure playwright, Joshua Ford Rexford. Peopled by Malone's normal cast of slightly off-plumb characters, the book is a laugh out loud (or LOL for you text messaging fools and e-mail emoticon freaks) funny romp.
While I haven't quite figured out how he wrote a very passable paper in high school on John le Carre's Tinker, Tailor, Soldier, Spy without cracking the cover, I take comfort in Justin's reading habits and his recent recommendations.
Now, kid, maybe you should read Tinker, Tailor, Soldier, Spy.
On Sunday afternoon, while enjoying a cigar in the backyard, I finished the fifth Michael Malone novel I have read in the last year and a half. The Justin and Cuddy mysteries are quite enjoyable, but the two other novels I have read by Malone have been masterpieces.
So here is my unequivocal recommendation to buy and read Foolscap, or The Stages of Love. Initially set in the world of academia, nestled in a small North Carolina town, Theo Ryan (the half-Jewish, half-Irish son of a pair of inveterate stage troopers) is a tenured professor befriended by America's living treasure playwright, Joshua Ford Rexford. Peopled by Malone's normal cast of slightly off-plumb characters, the book is a laugh out loud (or LOL for you text messaging fools and e-mail emoticon freaks) funny romp.
While I haven't quite figured out how he wrote a very passable paper in high school on John le Carre's Tinker, Tailor, Soldier, Spy without cracking the cover, I take comfort in Justin's reading habits and his recent recommendations.
Now, kid, maybe you should read Tinker, Tailor, Soldier, Spy.
Friday, June 1, 2007
Survival of the Fittest
As I near my 54th birthday, I am reminded of author Jim Harrison's observation that "as I get older I find that I have a diminishing portfolio of enthusiasms."
Other than the National Basketball Association, my interest in professional sports has waned to nearly nil. I relented last season and watched the San Diego Chargers crash and burn in their playoff game and the Chicago Bears succumb in the Super Bowl; but other than those two games I watched no NFL games.
Baseball...yawn city. I reluctantly went to a Padres game, more to hang with a buddy than to watch the game. In fact, dinner and the cigar were the highlights of the evening.
And these are teams that contend...that at least have a shot at winning it all. What about the poor wretches (I am a recovering Chicago Cubs fan) who support the perennial bottom dwellers of their respective professional sports leagues?
For the owners there is little incentive to dump millions into their teams. What with salary caps, TV contracts and revenue sharing, professional sports and Cuba remain the last bastions of socialism. As for the players on these teams, they seem to be suffering from Jimmy Carter's 1980's malaise.
A remedy? Relegation.
In the professional soccer (football) leagues of Europe teams are not guaranteed a berth at the highest level of the beautiful game. If the team finishes in one of the bottom spots the entire team is relegated to the next level. In England that means being relegated from the English Premeire league into the Championship League. Falter there and the team can be sent down to League One. The teams earn their way back into the higher levels by finishing at the top of their new leagues. Relegation and promotion. Redemption in sports.
Imagine an NBA team, rather than inventing injuries to star players in order to improve chances of scoring the top lottery pick, scrambling to stay out of the last four positions because that would mean relegation to the D League. Or the Washington Nationals (or better yet the New York Yankees) suddenly becoming a AAA ballclub. You might seem some hustle, some interest, and more importantly, consequences for "stinkin' up the joint."
Impractical? Yeah. But a guy can dream, right?
Other than the National Basketball Association, my interest in professional sports has waned to nearly nil. I relented last season and watched the San Diego Chargers crash and burn in their playoff game and the Chicago Bears succumb in the Super Bowl; but other than those two games I watched no NFL games.
Baseball...yawn city. I reluctantly went to a Padres game, more to hang with a buddy than to watch the game. In fact, dinner and the cigar were the highlights of the evening.
And these are teams that contend...that at least have a shot at winning it all. What about the poor wretches (I am a recovering Chicago Cubs fan) who support the perennial bottom dwellers of their respective professional sports leagues?
For the owners there is little incentive to dump millions into their teams. What with salary caps, TV contracts and revenue sharing, professional sports and Cuba remain the last bastions of socialism. As for the players on these teams, they seem to be suffering from Jimmy Carter's 1980's malaise.
A remedy? Relegation.
In the professional soccer (football) leagues of Europe teams are not guaranteed a berth at the highest level of the beautiful game. If the team finishes in one of the bottom spots the entire team is relegated to the next level. In England that means being relegated from the English Premeire league into the Championship League. Falter there and the team can be sent down to League One. The teams earn their way back into the higher levels by finishing at the top of their new leagues. Relegation and promotion. Redemption in sports.
Imagine an NBA team, rather than inventing injuries to star players in order to improve chances of scoring the top lottery pick, scrambling to stay out of the last four positions because that would mean relegation to the D League. Or the Washington Nationals (or better yet the New York Yankees) suddenly becoming a AAA ballclub. You might seem some hustle, some interest, and more importantly, consequences for "stinkin' up the joint."
Impractical? Yeah. But a guy can dream, right?
Tuesday, May 29, 2007
Enough already!
Doing my best to be compliant with all the various and sundry laws and regulations that burden small business, I duly ordered my 2007 California and Federal Employment Notices. These notices, which cover the established laws concerning payroll, safety and health protection, family and medical leave, and other labor law snippets, must be posted if you have even a single part-time employee.
Let's ignore the fact that you need a good-sized place to post the notices (they cover nearly the entire door) in lieu of examining the company that I chose to do business with this year.
Starting with Google I located Personnel Concepts (www.personnelconcepts.com) and placed my order online. Simple, right?
Wrong. I then played telephone tag with a representative of the company that spanned two weeks. When we finally connected (on the fifth call), she then proceeded to ask my questions about my business. Number of employees, revenues, etc. I asked if the poster had been mailed yet. No, she answered.
Then she received the lecture, tempered by my stating that I understood that making this call wasn't her idea. I want to buy a poster that keeps me compliant with the law. Her company wants to gather demongraphic information so that they can sell me other stuff, without fulfilling the first order. The company hadn't earned my business, I gave it to them based on a Google placement. Personnel Concepts did, however, earn my ire.
Three weeks and still waiting...maybe I need to make another telephone call.
Let's ignore the fact that you need a good-sized place to post the notices (they cover nearly the entire door) in lieu of examining the company that I chose to do business with this year.
Starting with Google I located Personnel Concepts (www.personnelconcepts.com) and placed my order online. Simple, right?
Wrong. I then played telephone tag with a representative of the company that spanned two weeks. When we finally connected (on the fifth call), she then proceeded to ask my questions about my business. Number of employees, revenues, etc. I asked if the poster had been mailed yet. No, she answered.
Then she received the lecture, tempered by my stating that I understood that making this call wasn't her idea. I want to buy a poster that keeps me compliant with the law. Her company wants to gather demongraphic information so that they can sell me other stuff, without fulfilling the first order. The company hadn't earned my business, I gave it to them based on a Google placement. Personnel Concepts did, however, earn my ire.
Three weeks and still waiting...maybe I need to make another telephone call.
Jimmy Carter and the Mirror
“I think as far as the adverse impact on the nation around the world, this administration has been the worst in history,” said Former President Jimmy Carter.
With this utterance, Mr. Carter has finally stepped through the looking glass and entered his version of Wonderland. Surely, if any presidency deserves the appellation of “worst in history”, it is his.
Entering the White House in 1977, following the Watergate scandal that led to Richard Nixon’s resignation and Gerald Ford acting as caretaker-in-chief, the nation had high expectations for the Man from Plains. A peanut farmer, a former governor, a man who admitted in Playboy magazine that he had lust in his heart, Mr. Carter promised open government and the highest ethics the office had seen.
What we got was an amateur hour that left the country and the world in financial shambles. America was viewed as an empty shell, incapable of stepping on to the world stage. No longer did we wield the big stick, we relied on the big boycott.
Other than the high-water mark of the Camp David Accords, what composes Mr. Carter’s legacy?
Mr. Carter’s colorful crew of advisers found themselves under a media microscope that uncovered cocaine use and financial chicanery worthy of a Little Rock, Arkansas commodities trader.
Who can forget the sweater? During the energy crises that rocked the country, Mr. Carter held his fireside chats a bit more literally than his recent predecessors. Dressed like the avuncular Mr. Rogers, he enjoined us to turn our thermostats down to 65 degrees. A beautiful, but slightly chilly, day in the neighborhood.
During the Carter administration interest rates soared to nearly 20%, inflation raged, and unemployment grew, spawning a new term in the lexicon of economists: stagflation. Ronald Reagan’s debate team coined the term “misery index” to drive home the economic failure of Carter’s policies.
When the Russians invaded Afghanistan, Mr. Carter announced a boycott of the Moscow Summer Olympic Games.
When “students” took over the American embassy in Iran, Mr. Carter relied on diplomacy devoid of consequence. An eleventh hour hostage rescue mission by Delta Force failed because of equipment problems, an apt, though tragic metaphor for the Carter years.
And that brings us to the Carter administration’s most far-reaching failure. Policy wonks tipped the human rights scales against the Shah of Iran in favor of the Ayatollah Khomeni. In that reversal of foreign policy, Mr. Carter’s State Department transformed one of strongest allies in the turbulent Middle East into a feared enemy and a state that sponsors terrorism. Their sheer naiveté gave the world its first Muslim theocracy in centuries. Muslim fundamentalists now had a road map to achieve their goals. Here, indeed, is a domino theory worthy of discussion.
The resulting wave of global terrorism can be laid squarely at the door of the administration that is truly the “worst in history”, that of Jimmy Carter.
Jimmy Carter has spent the last 26 years burnishing his legacy and his image. He has written enough memoirs to suggest that he has led multiple lives. He has penned sophomoric poetry. Hammer in hand, he builds homes for Habitat for Humanity. He is available as an observer at elections, a peace broker, and he samples Paula Dean’s southern food specialties. Denied any relevance as a president, he seeks a world-wide stage as he strives to become the greatest ex-President.
Yet even in this effort, Mr. Carter has stumbled mightily in the past year. His most recent literary offering Palestine: Peace not Apartheid offers more than a whiff of anti-Semitism. Mr. Carter also chose to keep a monetary award from the Zayed Foundation, supported by the rabidly anti-Semitic Sheikh Zayed bin Sultan Al Nahayan. Harvard University returned a $2 million gift to its Divinity School from the Zayed Foundation, sponsors of the Zayed Centre for Co-Ordination and Follow-Up that declared that Jews are “the enemies of all nations.”
Jimmy Carter, himself no stranger himself to Saudi Arabian oil men and money, counts Sheikh Zayed as a personal friend.
Perhaps more troubling is that Mr. Carter’s pronouncement is merely the latest in the alternative universe of foreign policy being practiced by the Democratic Party. Whether it’s Senator Moharry ibn-Reid (D., AQ) spluttering that the war is lost, or burqa- sporting Majority Leader Nancy Pelosi making nice with the Syrians, there seems to be a collective amnesia regarding the separation of powers.
As Jimmy Carter backpedals from his statement and the White House dismisses him as irrelevant, perhaps it is time for Mr. Carter to pick up his hammer and go quietly in a self-imposed retirement from public life.
With this utterance, Mr. Carter has finally stepped through the looking glass and entered his version of Wonderland. Surely, if any presidency deserves the appellation of “worst in history”, it is his.
Entering the White House in 1977, following the Watergate scandal that led to Richard Nixon’s resignation and Gerald Ford acting as caretaker-in-chief, the nation had high expectations for the Man from Plains. A peanut farmer, a former governor, a man who admitted in Playboy magazine that he had lust in his heart, Mr. Carter promised open government and the highest ethics the office had seen.
What we got was an amateur hour that left the country and the world in financial shambles. America was viewed as an empty shell, incapable of stepping on to the world stage. No longer did we wield the big stick, we relied on the big boycott.
Other than the high-water mark of the Camp David Accords, what composes Mr. Carter’s legacy?
Mr. Carter’s colorful crew of advisers found themselves under a media microscope that uncovered cocaine use and financial chicanery worthy of a Little Rock, Arkansas commodities trader.
Who can forget the sweater? During the energy crises that rocked the country, Mr. Carter held his fireside chats a bit more literally than his recent predecessors. Dressed like the avuncular Mr. Rogers, he enjoined us to turn our thermostats down to 65 degrees. A beautiful, but slightly chilly, day in the neighborhood.
During the Carter administration interest rates soared to nearly 20%, inflation raged, and unemployment grew, spawning a new term in the lexicon of economists: stagflation. Ronald Reagan’s debate team coined the term “misery index” to drive home the economic failure of Carter’s policies.
When the Russians invaded Afghanistan, Mr. Carter announced a boycott of the Moscow Summer Olympic Games.
When “students” took over the American embassy in Iran, Mr. Carter relied on diplomacy devoid of consequence. An eleventh hour hostage rescue mission by Delta Force failed because of equipment problems, an apt, though tragic metaphor for the Carter years.
And that brings us to the Carter administration’s most far-reaching failure. Policy wonks tipped the human rights scales against the Shah of Iran in favor of the Ayatollah Khomeni. In that reversal of foreign policy, Mr. Carter’s State Department transformed one of strongest allies in the turbulent Middle East into a feared enemy and a state that sponsors terrorism. Their sheer naiveté gave the world its first Muslim theocracy in centuries. Muslim fundamentalists now had a road map to achieve their goals. Here, indeed, is a domino theory worthy of discussion.
The resulting wave of global terrorism can be laid squarely at the door of the administration that is truly the “worst in history”, that of Jimmy Carter.
Jimmy Carter has spent the last 26 years burnishing his legacy and his image. He has written enough memoirs to suggest that he has led multiple lives. He has penned sophomoric poetry. Hammer in hand, he builds homes for Habitat for Humanity. He is available as an observer at elections, a peace broker, and he samples Paula Dean’s southern food specialties. Denied any relevance as a president, he seeks a world-wide stage as he strives to become the greatest ex-President.
Yet even in this effort, Mr. Carter has stumbled mightily in the past year. His most recent literary offering Palestine: Peace not Apartheid offers more than a whiff of anti-Semitism. Mr. Carter also chose to keep a monetary award from the Zayed Foundation, supported by the rabidly anti-Semitic Sheikh Zayed bin Sultan Al Nahayan. Harvard University returned a $2 million gift to its Divinity School from the Zayed Foundation, sponsors of the Zayed Centre for Co-Ordination and Follow-Up that declared that Jews are “the enemies of all nations.”
Jimmy Carter, himself no stranger himself to Saudi Arabian oil men and money, counts Sheikh Zayed as a personal friend.
Perhaps more troubling is that Mr. Carter’s pronouncement is merely the latest in the alternative universe of foreign policy being practiced by the Democratic Party. Whether it’s Senator Moharry ibn-Reid (D., AQ) spluttering that the war is lost, or burqa- sporting Majority Leader Nancy Pelosi making nice with the Syrians, there seems to be a collective amnesia regarding the separation of powers.
As Jimmy Carter backpedals from his statement and the White House dismisses him as irrelevant, perhaps it is time for Mr. Carter to pick up his hammer and go quietly in a self-imposed retirement from public life.
Wednesday, May 23, 2007
Yoga and Turkey Hunting
One of the 2007 goals was to get to a yoga class. Lynn found a local studio and we have been chanting "Oooommmm", saying "Namaste" and doing downward facing dogs, warrior and tree poses for a couple of months now.
Last week I was in Pennsylvania for a eight days of turkey hunting and fly fishing. Not surprisingly, the yoga helped in both outdoors endeavors.
Turkey hunting requires an number of disparate skills and great deal of luck. Danny Wadkins, a Corrections Officer and an incredible hunter and sportsman, acted as a guide. He called turkey, usually imitating a hen, or blasting the woods with a single shock gobble call to locate male birds. Once we had an idea about where the birds might be located, we sped through the woods and posted to call the birds in closer. It was at those moments that I found yoga kicking in. Controlling my breath, relaxing into position, the ability to hold completely still, sometimes in uncomfortable or awkward positions, all had a foundation in yoga.
Since this is spring turkey hunting only male birds may be taken. On one of our hunts a hen returned the call. Danny said that at times hens will travel with a jake or tom, so we sat beneath a four-stand of hemlock trees as he continued to call in the bird. She came in alone. We saw her at about 75 yards out and watched as she closed within 10 feet, staring at us, wondering where her "girlfriend" might be. In order to enjoy this type of special moment in the woods, you have to been completely still. Even the blink of an eye can alert the turkey, causing them to disappear like ghosts.
I have seen a number of yoga magazines, usually featuring blissed out Gumbyesque wraiths contorted into any number of incredible poses. The articles tend to the vegetarian and holistic side of life.
So this may be the only place you will ever see turkey hunting and yoga in the same sentence.
Last week I was in Pennsylvania for a eight days of turkey hunting and fly fishing. Not surprisingly, the yoga helped in both outdoors endeavors.
Turkey hunting requires an number of disparate skills and great deal of luck. Danny Wadkins, a Corrections Officer and an incredible hunter and sportsman, acted as a guide. He called turkey, usually imitating a hen, or blasting the woods with a single shock gobble call to locate male birds. Once we had an idea about where the birds might be located, we sped through the woods and posted to call the birds in closer. It was at those moments that I found yoga kicking in. Controlling my breath, relaxing into position, the ability to hold completely still, sometimes in uncomfortable or awkward positions, all had a foundation in yoga.
Since this is spring turkey hunting only male birds may be taken. On one of our hunts a hen returned the call. Danny said that at times hens will travel with a jake or tom, so we sat beneath a four-stand of hemlock trees as he continued to call in the bird. She came in alone. We saw her at about 75 yards out and watched as she closed within 10 feet, staring at us, wondering where her "girlfriend" might be. In order to enjoy this type of special moment in the woods, you have to been completely still. Even the blink of an eye can alert the turkey, causing them to disappear like ghosts.
I have seen a number of yoga magazines, usually featuring blissed out Gumbyesque wraiths contorted into any number of incredible poses. The articles tend to the vegetarian and holistic side of life.
So this may be the only place you will ever see turkey hunting and yoga in the same sentence.
Monday, May 21, 2007
Airport observations
"Whenever you're feeling bad about yourself, go to an airport."
The first time I said that I was in an airport and directed the comment to my friend, Guy Williams. We were returning from one of the corporate group gropes we frequently attended in the early 1990s.
If anything, the advice is more appropriate these days.
You can place part of the blame on the wheel. Yes, somewhere in prerecorded history the first man fashioned the first wheel, but it took until the late 20th century before someone thought to to put them on luggage. Now all manner of bags sport a set of wheels.
To give credit where credit is due, it was my hunting and fishing "daddy", Bill Howarth who climbed this particular soapbox for one of his rants. Bill will give you a pass if you're dragging 60 lbs. of stuff on your next trip. He saves his ire for the morbidly obese who are tugging a computer case or large purse behind them.
This path of least resistance is also common in the gym that I visit most mornings. Why, if you are going to work out, to stress your body and your cardio-vascular system, would you take the elevator to the second floor? (My gym rant also includes: "Why would you walk or run on a treadmill in San Diego?" Sure, dead of winter Minnesota or Montana, I can see it, but San Diego?)
When we returned from our week in Pennsylvania, waiting for my return flight at Scranton/Wilkes-Barre airport, we matched up the rolling pieces of luggage with the overweight owners. You don't see a lean guy or gal pushing around a rolling valise that can hold a sandwich and a pair of glasses. They're manhandling backpacks that suggest an assault on Everest. (These they'll cram into the overhead compartments, but that's another musing for another Spambrother at another time.)
Riding mower or push mower? Elevator or stairs? Moving walkway or just plain walk? Do you do things the hard way or the easy way? Now, I'm not a Luddite suggesting that we return to a world where we had no mechanical advantage. But in a world where most of us sit on our ever expanding asses, maybe a degree of difficulty is in order.
The first time I said that I was in an airport and directed the comment to my friend, Guy Williams. We were returning from one of the corporate group gropes we frequently attended in the early 1990s.
If anything, the advice is more appropriate these days.
You can place part of the blame on the wheel. Yes, somewhere in prerecorded history the first man fashioned the first wheel, but it took until the late 20th century before someone thought to to put them on luggage. Now all manner of bags sport a set of wheels.
To give credit where credit is due, it was my hunting and fishing "daddy", Bill Howarth who climbed this particular soapbox for one of his rants. Bill will give you a pass if you're dragging 60 lbs. of stuff on your next trip. He saves his ire for the morbidly obese who are tugging a computer case or large purse behind them.
This path of least resistance is also common in the gym that I visit most mornings. Why, if you are going to work out, to stress your body and your cardio-vascular system, would you take the elevator to the second floor? (My gym rant also includes: "Why would you walk or run on a treadmill in San Diego?" Sure, dead of winter Minnesota or Montana, I can see it, but San Diego?)
When we returned from our week in Pennsylvania, waiting for my return flight at Scranton/Wilkes-Barre airport, we matched up the rolling pieces of luggage with the overweight owners. You don't see a lean guy or gal pushing around a rolling valise that can hold a sandwich and a pair of glasses. They're manhandling backpacks that suggest an assault on Everest. (These they'll cram into the overhead compartments, but that's another musing for another Spambrother at another time.)
Riding mower or push mower? Elevator or stairs? Moving walkway or just plain walk? Do you do things the hard way or the easy way? Now, I'm not a Luddite suggesting that we return to a world where we had no mechanical advantage. But in a world where most of us sit on our ever expanding asses, maybe a degree of difficulty is in order.
Tuesday, May 8, 2007
Swinging for the Fences
Last week I attended the Small Business Success Conference in Pasadena, California. The Conference was the brainchild of my good friend, Ken Keller. Ken is not only a colleague but also a prolific writer. He has penned two business books, writes a weekly "Brain Food for Business Owners" column that goes out to over 10,000 subscribers, and also writes columns for a number of Los Angeles-area publications.
Ken's idea was to craft a conference geared strictly to small, entrepreneurial business owners. The conference offered:
Ken's idea was to craft a conference geared strictly to small, entrepreneurial business owners. The conference offered:
- Personal access to a number of vendors, including AFLAC, Microsoft, Cingular, Bank of the West and Staples
- Speakers on a variety of topics, from succession planning to financing
- Keynote address by Lawrence Haughton, author of It's Not the Big That Eat the Small, It's the Fast That Eat the Slow
- A speed networking session offered by BNI
- A dedicated area where a dozen experts were available to answer business questions
The conference was well-conceived, equally well-run, and offered Pasadena and Los Angeles business owners a unique opportunity to improve their businesses by "sharpening the saw." Two radio stations broadcast from the conference and the Mayor of Pasadena performed a ribbon cutting ceremony to open the doors.
Why didn't business owners and entrepreneurs break down those doors to attend?
That's a question many of us were asking ourselves the day of the conference. There should have been 5,000 people in attendance instead of 800 who showed.
Ken has already conducted a thorough review, and true to form, shared his observations. The media campaign, heavily reliant upon print advertising, did not produce results. He will focus more on viral marketing, the Internet, and his vast referral network to insure that his next conference, October 3, 2007 in Long Beach, California is a huge success.
Here's my observation. Ken swung for the fences. He dared to dream that he could put on an exciting event that would help small business owners. He did. He took great risks, and while the immediate reward was not there he is re-grouping, refining and planning to make the next event even better.
Thursday, May 3, 2007
The Sage of the Shoe Rag
On May 2nd I attended the Small Business Success Conference in Pasadena, CA. One of the conference participants, American Insurance Network, had an interesting "hook" to bring you into their booth.
Those of us who have walked the exhibit halls of conferences and conventions have assiduously loaded our tote bags with a variety of give-aways, usually logo items: pens, pencils, baseball caps, calculators, coffee mugs, pads of paper, etc. Other vendors tempt us with food, candy, water or another beverage.
But the owner of American Insurance Network offered a complimentary shoe shine. Brilliant, because you spent at least five minutes sitting in the chair while you got the shine, all that time available to learn about the services of the company.
In the realm of guilty pleasures, the shoe shine ranks right up there with a great cigar.
And that brings me to memories of the late Walter Clark, World War II Army veteran and San Diego's legendary shoe shine man.
In the downtown office that I worked in during the early 1980s it was a right of passage to be introduced to Walter, who held court in the now-closed Florsheim Shoe Shop in the Westgate Hotel. Walter knew every politician, attorney, judge and stockbroker in town. Then Mayor (and later U.S. Senator) Pete Wilson was a loyal customer.
Over the years I got to know Walter. He was politically astute, highly opinionated, and a keen observer of the human condition.
There are two stories about Walter that I tell often.
Walter suffered a heart attack in the mid-1980s. He was so well-known and beloved that the evening news reported on his condition, in part as a request from Sharp Memorial Hospital. So many people called the hospital to inquire about Walter that the switchboard systems collapsed. When Walter returned to work he refused to shine wing-tip shoes saying it was too hard on his heart...he also admonished those wearing the stout brogues (after first suggesting that these middle-aged lions of the legal profession had last purchased shoes before they graduated from college!) to purchase a new, more stylish pair from one of the young men in the shop.
At the time I made three stock market reports each day on KJOY, an easy-listening...well, OK, elevator music...station. One day I asked Walter his opinion of the economy and he said that "things were bad." The next morning the report on Leading Economic Indicators was released, and things were bad. Thus began a ritual. The day before the Leading Economic Indicators were released I would visit Walter and ask for his opinion. In every case he was right. He predicted an improving economy and later opined that the economy was roaring. Finally I asked Walter how he formed his opinions.
"Look across the street," he said. At the time Horton Plaza, a shopping mall in the heart of downtown San Diego, was under construction. "I count the number of African-American kids working on the job. When the number starts to go down I know that the economy is starting to slow down. When there are no blacks on the job, I know we're in for hard times. And when they started getting hired again, I figure things are improving. They are the last to be hired and the first to be fired."
That direct observation made Walter the financial sage of shoe rag.
Those of us who have walked the exhibit halls of conferences and conventions have assiduously loaded our tote bags with a variety of give-aways, usually logo items: pens, pencils, baseball caps, calculators, coffee mugs, pads of paper, etc. Other vendors tempt us with food, candy, water or another beverage.
But the owner of American Insurance Network offered a complimentary shoe shine. Brilliant, because you spent at least five minutes sitting in the chair while you got the shine, all that time available to learn about the services of the company.
In the realm of guilty pleasures, the shoe shine ranks right up there with a great cigar.
And that brings me to memories of the late Walter Clark, World War II Army veteran and San Diego's legendary shoe shine man.
In the downtown office that I worked in during the early 1980s it was a right of passage to be introduced to Walter, who held court in the now-closed Florsheim Shoe Shop in the Westgate Hotel. Walter knew every politician, attorney, judge and stockbroker in town. Then Mayor (and later U.S. Senator) Pete Wilson was a loyal customer.
Over the years I got to know Walter. He was politically astute, highly opinionated, and a keen observer of the human condition.
There are two stories about Walter that I tell often.
Walter suffered a heart attack in the mid-1980s. He was so well-known and beloved that the evening news reported on his condition, in part as a request from Sharp Memorial Hospital. So many people called the hospital to inquire about Walter that the switchboard systems collapsed. When Walter returned to work he refused to shine wing-tip shoes saying it was too hard on his heart...he also admonished those wearing the stout brogues (after first suggesting that these middle-aged lions of the legal profession had last purchased shoes before they graduated from college!) to purchase a new, more stylish pair from one of the young men in the shop.
At the time I made three stock market reports each day on KJOY, an easy-listening...well, OK, elevator music...station. One day I asked Walter his opinion of the economy and he said that "things were bad." The next morning the report on Leading Economic Indicators was released, and things were bad. Thus began a ritual. The day before the Leading Economic Indicators were released I would visit Walter and ask for his opinion. In every case he was right. He predicted an improving economy and later opined that the economy was roaring. Finally I asked Walter how he formed his opinions.
"Look across the street," he said. At the time Horton Plaza, a shopping mall in the heart of downtown San Diego, was under construction. "I count the number of African-American kids working on the job. When the number starts to go down I know that the economy is starting to slow down. When there are no blacks on the job, I know we're in for hard times. And when they started getting hired again, I figure things are improving. They are the last to be hired and the first to be fired."
That direct observation made Walter the financial sage of shoe rag.
Friday, April 27, 2007
Pick Your Narcotic
The debate surrounding Congress' unilateral and unconditional surrender has been surprising muted, perhaps in the face of the President's intention to veto the bill. The political pandering is enough to send Iceberg Slim into a state of apoplexy.
Then again, maybe the quiet is merely a reaction to an unusually large dose of media-administered narcotics.
While most Americans are unable to define the differences between the two Muslim sects, Sunni and Shia, they can recite chapter and verse of the saga surrounding Anna Nicole Smith's baby and who won the sperm donor battle.
But, wait...there's more. Rosie O'Donnell has been cashiered from "The View." Who gives a shit? Evidently, many people do, because network news, CNN, Fox, and the other purveyors of "balanced information" are deluged with this story. (The upside: at least the verbal battle of the witless--Rosie and The Donald--will mercifully fade away.)
Act now and we'll throw in...the NFL draft. Talk about inanity. There is actually a mock draft that goes through seven rounds! The admonition to "Get a life!" will definitely fall on the deaf ears of draftniks who will study, yes, study, a supposed order of 200+ mythical picks.
And if you thought that your media narcotic offerings were finished, we haven't discussed the specter of Phil Spector, his wall of sound and a nasty habit of bringing loaded guns into his bedroom.
Television news also gives airtime to who was voted off the island, who's left on "American Idol", what former sports star is still dancing, and even what is happening on TV dramas and comedy. Do you honestly think that Walter Cronkite or David Brinkley would have tolerated this bastardization of the news?
So, chose your narcotic and dull your mind so that the really important issues and questions slide harmlessly into the cobwebbed recesses of your brain.
Then again, maybe the quiet is merely a reaction to an unusually large dose of media-administered narcotics.
While most Americans are unable to define the differences between the two Muslim sects, Sunni and Shia, they can recite chapter and verse of the saga surrounding Anna Nicole Smith's baby and who won the sperm donor battle.
But, wait...there's more. Rosie O'Donnell has been cashiered from "The View." Who gives a shit? Evidently, many people do, because network news, CNN, Fox, and the other purveyors of "balanced information" are deluged with this story. (The upside: at least the verbal battle of the witless--Rosie and The Donald--will mercifully fade away.)
Act now and we'll throw in...the NFL draft. Talk about inanity. There is actually a mock draft that goes through seven rounds! The admonition to "Get a life!" will definitely fall on the deaf ears of draftniks who will study, yes, study, a supposed order of 200+ mythical picks.
And if you thought that your media narcotic offerings were finished, we haven't discussed the specter of Phil Spector, his wall of sound and a nasty habit of bringing loaded guns into his bedroom.
Television news also gives airtime to who was voted off the island, who's left on "American Idol", what former sports star is still dancing, and even what is happening on TV dramas and comedy. Do you honestly think that Walter Cronkite or David Brinkley would have tolerated this bastardization of the news?
So, chose your narcotic and dull your mind so that the really important issues and questions slide harmlessly into the cobwebbed recesses of your brain.
Thursday, April 26, 2007
Gratitude and Laughs
Gratitude:
I spent the last three days in Phoenix, Arizona attending a meeting with seven others who happen to do what I do...(We all run a business that creates peer advisory boards for entrepreneurial business owners and top executives.) This meeting falls into a "practice what you preach" mode.
So, it is apt that I have a word of gratitude to my colleagues and friends for the invaluable advice and counsel that they offer. Whenever I face a business problem or opportunity I have a ready group available to give me fresh thinking, solid advice, expert contacts, and judgment.
Who is on your team?
Laughs:
We returned to San Diego on Southwest Airlines. The senior flight attendant turned that boring obligatory preflight speech into a stand-up comedy routine that not only had us laughing, but imparted the necessary information. A new twist: as we took off, with the plane's nose elevated, about fifty packs of peanuts came sliding down the aisle. "Here are your complimentary snacks," she announced, over the roars of appreciation and laughter. "We'll be sending the drinks next!"
I spent the last three days in Phoenix, Arizona attending a meeting with seven others who happen to do what I do...(We all run a business that creates peer advisory boards for entrepreneurial business owners and top executives.) This meeting falls into a "practice what you preach" mode.
So, it is apt that I have a word of gratitude to my colleagues and friends for the invaluable advice and counsel that they offer. Whenever I face a business problem or opportunity I have a ready group available to give me fresh thinking, solid advice, expert contacts, and judgment.
Who is on your team?
Laughs:
We returned to San Diego on Southwest Airlines. The senior flight attendant turned that boring obligatory preflight speech into a stand-up comedy routine that not only had us laughing, but imparted the necessary information. A new twist: as we took off, with the plane's nose elevated, about fifty packs of peanuts came sliding down the aisle. "Here are your complimentary snacks," she announced, over the roars of appreciation and laughter. "We'll be sending the drinks next!"
Sunday, April 22, 2007
Men, Mayhem & Mystery
On Saturday I spent most of the morning with the San Diego Chapter of the Romance Writers of America.
Thanks to my buddy, the 6'6" Alan Russell (America's tallest mystery writer and one of the best), I participated in a panel that also included Ken Kuhlken, Gene Diehl, the aforementioned Alan, and 86-year old Bob Wade. Bob contributes a monthly column to the San Diego Union-Tribune's Book Section, and his beat is mysteries.
We answered a number of interesting questions...but there was one that caused me some pause.
Did we participate in any writers' clubs or associations?
The answer was mainly "No!"
Gene posited that men are more lone wolves. I mentioned that when I do see my fellow mystery writers it usually involves food and drink. We are always interested and supportive of what the others are working on, but we don't have that "sisterhood" shared by the RWA.
And who knew? About the romance genres I mean. I met a woman who was writing historical romances where druids play a role, another who was writing pirate romances, another writing fantasy, and a guy who was writing thriller-type romances using one of those unisex first names.
Thanks to all the enthusiastic women who make RWA work, especially Sylvia Mendoza who coordinated the event.
Thanks to my buddy, the 6'6" Alan Russell (America's tallest mystery writer and one of the best), I participated in a panel that also included Ken Kuhlken, Gene Diehl, the aforementioned Alan, and 86-year old Bob Wade. Bob contributes a monthly column to the San Diego Union-Tribune's Book Section, and his beat is mysteries.
We answered a number of interesting questions...but there was one that caused me some pause.
Did we participate in any writers' clubs or associations?
The answer was mainly "No!"
Gene posited that men are more lone wolves. I mentioned that when I do see my fellow mystery writers it usually involves food and drink. We are always interested and supportive of what the others are working on, but we don't have that "sisterhood" shared by the RWA.
And who knew? About the romance genres I mean. I met a woman who was writing historical romances where druids play a role, another who was writing pirate romances, another writing fantasy, and a guy who was writing thriller-type romances using one of those unisex first names.
Thanks to all the enthusiastic women who make RWA work, especially Sylvia Mendoza who coordinated the event.
Thursday, April 19, 2007
Imus and the Hyprocrites
This post appeared in a slightly different form in the April 20, 2007 of The San Diego Union-Tribune under the title "Free Speech Takes a Beating." Here's the link: http://www.signonsandiego.com/uniontrib/20070420/news_lz1e20tenuto.html
I have not come to praise Imus, nor to bury him.
Last week, Don Imus, agent provocateur of the radio waves, uttered an ill-timed comment regarding the Rutgers women’s basketball team. Ill-timed because this is the same Imus whose program parodied the Catholic cardinal of New York City by having “him” read the winning lottery numbers, who always ended mock interviews with the senior senator from Massachusetts with “him” speaking underwater, and who played the “Black Beatles” songs, one that included the lyric, “We all live in a yellow Cadillac.” And only now we are outraged?
There are issues more important that what Don Imus said, and said only once. The horde that clamored to crush Imus and succeeded in securing his ouster from both CBS Radio and MSNBC acted not with righteous indignation but mendacious posturing, leavened by a staggering hypocrisy.
CBS President and Chief Executive Office Leslie Moonves said, “There has been much discussion of the effect language like this has on young people, particularly young people of color trying to make their way in society.” The same CBS that aired the Grammy Awards, where rap-star Ludacris’ song “Money Maker” was named the Rap Song of the Year. As for the “effect language like this has on young people”, Imus said it once; since that time print, radio, television and electronic media have repeated it tens of thousands of times, publicizing the comment far beyond Imus’ listeners. A Google search of the three words reveals nearly two million results!
Adding to the list of usual suspects are the Reverends. Jesse Jackson crowed that Imus’ dismissal was “a victory for public decency”, this from a man who fathered a child out of wedlock and has been gorging himself at the public trough for the better part of four decades.
One should hold particular distaste for the pandering Reverend Al Sharpton. Here’s what New York’s most opportunistic religious figure had to say: “He says he wants to be forgiven...But we cannot afford a precedent established that the airways can commercialize and mainstream sexism and racism.” This presupposes that Sharpton’s television is caught in a time warp that features a continuous loop of Lassie and Ozzie & Harriet. I can only hope he watched that paragon of good taste, Victoria’s Secret Fashion Show…on CBS.
At one point, Sharpton suggested that Imus would come through this trial unscathed, perhaps in the same fashion that Sharpton did in the aftermath of the Tawana Brawley affray.
The NAACP, not wishing to be an afterthought, also piled on. The same NAACP that sponsored the 38th Annual Image Awards. The show was hosted by LL Cool J. Read the lyrics of “Fudgidabowdit” and try to argue that they have a shred of dignity or redeeming value. I challenge the NAACP to contrast them with Imus’ unfortunate utterance and explain its unusual silence on the entire issue of rap music. (A search of the NAACP website uncovers exactly three references to hip-hop music, none for rap.)
The voices of CBS, the Reverends, and the NAACP are strangely silent when it comes to the misogynistic, demeaning lyrics of hip-hop and rap music, persistent hate speech that goes far beyond Imus’ quaint, dated reference. Their voices are also strangely silent when Bill Cosby makes one of his pungent observations about African American culture.
And don’t trot out the canard that “we” can say anything about ourselves but that “you” can’t say it. If words are hurtful and demeaning than whoever utters them is hateful and helps perpetuate negative stereotypes.
Another issue is free speech. Where are the stalwarts of free speech? They have muzzled themselves in the face of this onslaught from the “right thinking” mob. Here is another example of someone else, with the arrogance of their position, dictating what we can or can’t listen to, watch on television, or see in theaters. They become arbiters no different from demagogues and dictators. Who is next?
Don Imus now has a choice. He can slither over to satellite radio and join the detestable Howard Stern, or he can go quietly into the night. Imus is a money machine, a means of production that buoyed not only CBS radio but also MSNBC TV. In an entertainment version of Atlas Shrugged he can leave the field of battle to the mediocre and the antiseptic.
I have not come to praise Imus, nor to bury him.
Last week, Don Imus, agent provocateur of the radio waves, uttered an ill-timed comment regarding the Rutgers women’s basketball team. Ill-timed because this is the same Imus whose program parodied the Catholic cardinal of New York City by having “him” read the winning lottery numbers, who always ended mock interviews with the senior senator from Massachusetts with “him” speaking underwater, and who played the “Black Beatles” songs, one that included the lyric, “We all live in a yellow Cadillac.” And only now we are outraged?
There are issues more important that what Don Imus said, and said only once. The horde that clamored to crush Imus and succeeded in securing his ouster from both CBS Radio and MSNBC acted not with righteous indignation but mendacious posturing, leavened by a staggering hypocrisy.
CBS President and Chief Executive Office Leslie Moonves said, “There has been much discussion of the effect language like this has on young people, particularly young people of color trying to make their way in society.” The same CBS that aired the Grammy Awards, where rap-star Ludacris’ song “Money Maker” was named the Rap Song of the Year. As for the “effect language like this has on young people”, Imus said it once; since that time print, radio, television and electronic media have repeated it tens of thousands of times, publicizing the comment far beyond Imus’ listeners. A Google search of the three words reveals nearly two million results!
Adding to the list of usual suspects are the Reverends. Jesse Jackson crowed that Imus’ dismissal was “a victory for public decency”, this from a man who fathered a child out of wedlock and has been gorging himself at the public trough for the better part of four decades.
One should hold particular distaste for the pandering Reverend Al Sharpton. Here’s what New York’s most opportunistic religious figure had to say: “He says he wants to be forgiven...But we cannot afford a precedent established that the airways can commercialize and mainstream sexism and racism.” This presupposes that Sharpton’s television is caught in a time warp that features a continuous loop of Lassie and Ozzie & Harriet. I can only hope he watched that paragon of good taste, Victoria’s Secret Fashion Show…on CBS.
At one point, Sharpton suggested that Imus would come through this trial unscathed, perhaps in the same fashion that Sharpton did in the aftermath of the Tawana Brawley affray.
The NAACP, not wishing to be an afterthought, also piled on. The same NAACP that sponsored the 38th Annual Image Awards. The show was hosted by LL Cool J. Read the lyrics of “Fudgidabowdit” and try to argue that they have a shred of dignity or redeeming value. I challenge the NAACP to contrast them with Imus’ unfortunate utterance and explain its unusual silence on the entire issue of rap music. (A search of the NAACP website uncovers exactly three references to hip-hop music, none for rap.)
The voices of CBS, the Reverends, and the NAACP are strangely silent when it comes to the misogynistic, demeaning lyrics of hip-hop and rap music, persistent hate speech that goes far beyond Imus’ quaint, dated reference. Their voices are also strangely silent when Bill Cosby makes one of his pungent observations about African American culture.
And don’t trot out the canard that “we” can say anything about ourselves but that “you” can’t say it. If words are hurtful and demeaning than whoever utters them is hateful and helps perpetuate negative stereotypes.
Another issue is free speech. Where are the stalwarts of free speech? They have muzzled themselves in the face of this onslaught from the “right thinking” mob. Here is another example of someone else, with the arrogance of their position, dictating what we can or can’t listen to, watch on television, or see in theaters. They become arbiters no different from demagogues and dictators. Who is next?
Don Imus now has a choice. He can slither over to satellite radio and join the detestable Howard Stern, or he can go quietly into the night. Imus is a money machine, a means of production that buoyed not only CBS radio but also MSNBC TV. In an entertainment version of Atlas Shrugged he can leave the field of battle to the mediocre and the antiseptic.
Sunday, April 15, 2007
My lot as a barista
The other day I kept track of the time I waited for the filtered water from the refrigerator at home and the Arrowhead dispenser at work to fill the respective coffee carafes.
Doing some quick math I discovered that I spend five hours a year just filling water for the coffee. My lot in life is to act as a half-assed barista for both home and office. (This varies greatly from the serious barista chops of my good friend, John Hamilton, CEO of Service Strategies Corporation, who has a machine that was priced in the four figures. John serves as the main coffee baron of his office, taking great pride in brewing the perfect cup for his guests and staff members.)
Five hours a year.
In five hours you can:
Doing some quick math I discovered that I spend five hours a year just filling water for the coffee. My lot in life is to act as a half-assed barista for both home and office. (This varies greatly from the serious barista chops of my good friend, John Hamilton, CEO of Service Strategies Corporation, who has a machine that was priced in the four figures. John serves as the main coffee baron of his office, taking great pride in brewing the perfect cup for his guests and staff members.)
Five hours a year.
In five hours you can:
- Read a book
- Watch a couple of movies (or one Martin Scorcese film and a Sylvester Stallone movie)
- Do your taxes
- Run 35 miles (or whatever your pace might be)
- Fly across the United States (includes full cavity search by TSA)
- Clear 3,240 spam e-mails from your account
...or fill up the coffee carafes with water.
Of course, this doesn't take into account cleaning the aforementioned carafes, grinding the beans, loading the coffee maker, etc.
And that brings us to the main purpose of this particular musing.
Our obsession with saving time, clearing our lives of "time wasters", always insisting that we be doing something productive, something that could change the world. Me, I chose to wait for the water. Because to always be at something, cramming each moment with some productive task, does not give us time to think or reflect. Lost in the hurly-burly is why we are doing what we do anyway.
To think of the appreciation that Lynn, at home, and Linda, at the office, have for a well-brewed cup of joe in the morning, that's reward and meaning enough.
Saturday, April 14, 2007
Initial musings
I often say that I lead the most serendipitous life imaginable.
In my typical anal retentive fashion of setting goals for this year, I chose an odd one, "To collect people." This means that I actively search for opportunities and situations that put me in the way of meeting new people. (One of my long-standing business practices has been to give anyone an hour of my time.)
What happens when you meet more people is that you naturally connect to even broader sources of information or recommendations. For example, if I needed to I could get the name of the man who made Sean Connery's wig for Hunt for Red October.
Since these are initial, unconnected musings, I thought I would suggest visits to two of my new favorite websites:
http://www.mojopages.com/
An online method of customer rating businesses, the third Internet company started by Jon Carder.
http://www.humanclock.com/
One of the most benign and delightful online communities.
And, of course, a shout out to one of my favorites.
http://www.birdmonster.com/
The trials and tribulations of indie rock band, Birdmonster. Don't miss the blog, already awarded a Blog of Note kudo.
In my typical anal retentive fashion of setting goals for this year, I chose an odd one, "To collect people." This means that I actively search for opportunities and situations that put me in the way of meeting new people. (One of my long-standing business practices has been to give anyone an hour of my time.)
What happens when you meet more people is that you naturally connect to even broader sources of information or recommendations. For example, if I needed to I could get the name of the man who made Sean Connery's wig for Hunt for Red October.
Since these are initial, unconnected musings, I thought I would suggest visits to two of my new favorite websites:
http://www.mojopages.com/
An online method of customer rating businesses, the third Internet company started by Jon Carder.
http://www.humanclock.com/
One of the most benign and delightful online communities.
And, of course, a shout out to one of my favorites.
http://www.birdmonster.com/
The trials and tribulations of indie rock band, Birdmonster. Don't miss the blog, already awarded a Blog of Note kudo.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)