chillen in da sun.

It's a bit cold in the north, so I thought I'd seize the opportunity to spend a few days in sunny F.L.A.

Here I get to hear all about the problems that will happen during the election because Jeb Bush failed to fix all the problems from the 2000 election. You know the problems, right? The ones where a few people got all pissed off because they wanted Al Gore to win and when that didn't happen they screamed and yelled and hired lawyers to get their way. But since Governor Bush didn't fix that, they're crying all over again.

Maybe next time I'll go to Costa Rica. And I will not take a radio.

welcome to westworld

Some early observations from the train, bus, terminal, etc. First off, it seems as though Delta now has a computerized, digital voice that announces passenger boarding by zone. Repleat with all the charm of a voice-mail system, only you can’t hang up on it or press “#” 100 times to make it go away. The only good thing about this is that it temporarily drowns out the CNN monitors. A case of “the lesser of two evils” if ever there was one.

Does this gizmo really save anyone any money? Does it really make anything more efficient? No freaking way. Oh, I see. It’s supposed be self service boarding; like the self-checkout crap at Home Depot and various other places. Fine; you want me to do your job for you? Then discount my price accordingly. Otherwise, get someone on the job. And does this really strike anyone as somehow enhancing security at the gate? I highly doubt it.

If this is what Delta has come to, then I predict that it won’t be long before they do close up shop. The thing is so obnoxious that customers will seek alternatives just to get away from it. Ugghhh. Welcome to digital hell. The sooner this finishes them off, the better. Humans, people, we’re HUMANS!

Hmmmm….I wonder which is worse…the digitized, emasculated male voice, or the real voice of a woman ticket jockey with PMS.

Now, about the slice of Pizza at the Sbarro shop (an obscure chain that noone really knew how to pronounce, put on the map by one John Edwards during the vp debate). It never occured to me how much spinach tasted like seaweed - at least, what one might expect seaweed to taste like. I suppose it might have actually been seaweed. The chain probably started topping their pizzas with it because it's more efficient and really has more protein or something.

Shakespeare on lawyers

He might have been on to something.

The train rides are becoming routine now, so little inspires me anymore. All I really have to report today is from the subway.

On the platform a few of us milled around by the spot for the lead car. Suddenly a sharply dressed, starched, anal-retentive no-nonsense type in his late fifties cuts through our little crowd like a shark through warm water, as we nobody else mattered. Even if the lights went out you would be able to see “asshole” written all over him.

He stations himself like an idling race car right in the spot where you’re not supposed to stand – where the disembarking passengers are allowed off first.

So there he stood, all smug and dictatorial, willing the doors to open. As they obeyed, he strode through the exiting passengers. He found himself a seat and put his briefcase on his lap. Can you guess what he took out of it?

Right: a legal brief.

Who am I to challenge the wit and wisdom of Shakespeare?

cold morning thoughts

There in the darkness of the early morning sky hangs a sliver of moon. The sliver is illuminated. The sky is clear enough to see the entire outline of the moon by the light of the sliver, setting off circular silhouette. I pace to keep the chill from setting in; occasionally allowing a reflexive sniffle. A train roars past, clink-clinking into the northeastern horizon. Cars begin to trickle into the parking lot of the train station. With each gulp I take, the coffee in my NYSC travel mug is giving up its warmth.

The second of the eastbound trains has passed. I study the vanishing point for the headlights of the westbound commuter. The bend of the tracks, at first invisible, come alive with a white light at the appointed time. Three headlights appear as the engine makes the round. The loudspeaker blasts a prerecorded droning about an approaching train. An enormous diesel motor can be heard reducing its speed; some thoughtful engineer turns off two of the headlights and dims the third, main one. A bell clangs. The gentle giant glides past, nearly at an idle, brakes squeaking, air valves releasing pressure at intervals of short, loud blasts. Only two or three steps separate me from the oncoming train. It is gravity and a pair of steel rails that keep the beast tame.

A handful of commuters mills silently on the platform, eyes down. A queue forms. Stewards disembark, stand by the doors, and mumble greetings. On board the warm train, there are plenty of seats. Having taken the first available one, I remove the laptop computer from my bag to occupy myself. As I write this, my eyelids grow heavy. If I am nearly put to sleep by my own writing, what on earth will happen to you who read it?

the smell of skunk

I was forced, for the second time this week, onto the next later train. This may have had something to do with the fact that I forgot to set my alarm clock last night.

As mentioned previously, there is something a little different about this train. For example, it is on this train, for the first time in my life, I witnessed a grown man doing needlepoint. Smartly dressed in a New England preppy sort of way, bearing a fat gold wedding band, and look that says, “what are you looking at,” as if he were shoeing a horse and not threading colorful strings through a dainty piece of cloth.

And the smell. I have always liked the faint smell of a skunk. I grew up in New England, and the memory of cool summer nights is made complete by a whiff of that pungent aroma. But apparently there is a skunk stuck to this car because we’re getting more than a whiff. That could happen on the earlier train, too, I suppose. I wouldn’t know if it did, because I missed that one.

On the slightly more pleasant side, a woman’s long hair can hypnotize me (briefly) and lo, there is a lovely, tall brunette in front of me with waist-length chestnut hair in a simple pony tail. Against her black sweater, with blue jeans, she looks like pure New England class. She checked me out, too. Now what do I do?

A beautiful sunrise sky on a pleasant fall morning. I would take my jacket off but for the big, wet, spot on the front of my shirt. It happened this morning in a dark kitchen when the sink-sprayer wouldn’t shut off, unbeknownst to me. Within a 5 foot radius of where I stood, many things got a shower, while I worked to slide the hose back into its lair.

here's proof

that too much learning can make you an idiot.

Sorry, I didn't realize that yahoo links "expire." Orwell was really on to something, wasn't he? I mean, is it public record or isn't it?

Anyway, the story was about Ray Kurzweil, the brilliant MIT educated inventor (who happens to be only a so-so entreprenuer). Legend has it that he not only gave Stevie Wonder a machine that would read his mail to him, he also made him a pertty snazzy keyboard.

But Kurzweil's moved on to lend his genius to another frontier: his quest for, ready? Eternal life. No, he is serious. As if a)it's possible or b)anyone with any sense would want it, apart from some miracle that changes the nature of all those other people who might live forever. But, oh, that's something I never thought of... An expert panel (chaired, of course, by Kurzweil) could regulate who gets to live forever, screening with the latest techniques to determine who's worthy -- wait, wait, wait -- It's not going to happen.

The real issue is item "b)," the part about people with sense not wanting eternal life apart from an act of God.

See, to buy into Kurzweil's vision (and that of the likeminded), you must have disabused yourself of such pedestrian concepts as "sense." After all, we're talking high science here. Who are you to talk back to a scientist?

"You're great learning has made you mad!"

i think we're all bozo's on this train

This is going to be a fun ride. I missed my usual train and had to wait the full 23 minutes in the freezing cold for the next one (no coffee, no bakery goods). This later train seems to have a personality all its own; and it’s entirely too chatty for me this early in the morning. Seems to be lots of nervous energy. This must be the dufus train. Ha! And I’m on it! Perhaps the cold weather has brought out the ground hog in people or whatever…

And this car! Is this supposed to be the new and improved rolling stock that was ballyhooed by that reporter last week? That would be pitiful. I mean, it’s different, but it’s not really new and I’m jammed into this double seat by myself. I can’t imagine how tight it’s going to be when someone sits next to me. Hopefully it won’t be an event worth writing about. But I doubt that…

See? Another suit has decided to sit on my elbow. This one smells like a distillery (with a bakery in it) at 7 in the morning. At least he said "excuse me" as he descended into the seat. Even if his tone of voice suggested something more like, "Oh, well. Tough shit for you!"

it's cold.

And what about this train guy? I ride this train 9 times a week. Today, when he comes to collect the fares, I proudly show him the monthly pass I purchased, having just mined it from my right pocket and pried open the Velcro wallet where it is kept. What does he do? He looks at it and squints. “Is that October,” he asks?

Now think about it. If it wasn’t a current pass, that would mean that I’m trying to defraud him with the wrong one. He’s calling into question my character here. I’m like, dude, you lie to your freaking dog more than I’ve lied to everyone I’ve ever met put together over my entire life, and you’re implying that I’m scamming you for a $3.25 train fare? Puh-f’ing-leeeze, OK?

And, gee, when it's 45 degrees outside, there's nothing like having the air-conditioner on in the train.

The sophisticated intellectual school-teacher artsy-fartsy type who just sat down next to me, and then turned (toward me) to work out the scheduling of a girls-night-out with the woman behind me (I'm booked...Roger works...I know it's hard with the cat) has finally stopped talking into my right ear. She's furiously flipping through magazines with her mesh riding gloves on. Mmmm, yes, they must keep you very warm on these cold mornings...(rolls eyes). But didn't you leave the Volvo at the Park 'n' Ride, m'am? And have you thought about moderating your caffeine intake?

It is gorgeous out there this morning.

Sometimes (most times) you get a flight attendant who thinks she’s really funny and likes the sound of her own voice just a bit too much. Just when you’re really getting into a song, too….

How appropriate that I would enjoying the recording “Red Dirt Road” by Brooks and Dunn. Because for the last 45 minutes this flight has been like bouncing down an old dirt road in an old Chevy pickup…and we’re even over North Carolina. Sometimes everything just makes sense, you know? My hind-quarters are even sore.

women and mazes -- word association?

I also talk to myself -- or rather, I think out loud. Is that a problem?

Regarding this post, I have been informed that a labyrinth is nothing more than a maze. I was in one myself in Manhattan -- in a park -- just the other day, and you know what? They are pretty cool. You'd think that having spent 10 years in the landscape design/build business, I'd know what freakin' labyrinth is. Scary.

And how did I ever associate a labyrinth with a mad scientist? Isn't it amazing how far you can get in life being completely wrong about the definition of a word?

Like "esoteric." Yeah, bet all of you know what that means without looking it up. The good thing about my blog is that when I put my foot in my mouth, I'm sure to let everyone see it.

trains.planes.automobiles part ii

At Gate 4, I waited for my computer to boot up. And waited. And waited. Finally I was able to drag my eyes away from all these women, and enter my password, and it was booted up in a sec.

Had a great chat on the bus. Yes, that bus that I take because it’s right there and goes straight to the airport, but that I have a love/hate relationship with. You know the one I mean. It’s a very rough ride. And while on the bus, we all debate whether taking a cab would be quicker, or otherwise more cost effective. Unless we’re pressed for time, most of us probably wind up on the bus again, and even sometimes when we are pressed for time. And that would explain why it is always so full.

But it’s all good, and for this reason. I don’t think anyone would choose to live in NYC unless he was a people-person. And there are more people on the bus than in a car. For better or for worse.

Mt. St. Helens erupted. Right on time. Back in style like a wide tie.

p*ssing on a hydrant

It is a beautiful, clear, dry and cool morning. I have a relatively busy day ahead of me, including a flight south for the weekend. And there is a real asshole on this train.

Allow me to explain. Few things strike me as more pitiful than an older man who still has a chip on his shoulder. You know, one who’s actions indicate that his dick is so small that he’s still playing catch-up with every other man. He’s the guy who puffs out his chest around other males and talks really loud while giving guys who are better looking and/or more successful than he is the evil eye. When he encounters such a man on the train, he makes sure he takes up the entire isle and refuses to make room for the better looking guy (that’s me) when he tries to pass.

I suppose it’s sophisticated form of “my dick is bigger than yours” in which case he is, of freaking course, totally bluffing. As it was, I just walked right through him as if he didn’t exist. I suppose it's a measure of my own angst that I didn't gracefully and humbly defer to his overweening rudeness. But at least my angst, whatever its root, isn't about my masculinity.

Similar to the other day when a moose of a bodybuilder pulled the same stunt with me on Wall Street. He was dressed in such a way as to show off every steroid-filled ripple. In other words, he displayed a total lack of class. And as we passed on the sidewalk, he went out of his way to plow his shoulder into mine. The trouble for him is that I weight about 25 pounds more than I look like I do, so imagine his surprise when his little muscle-bound shoulder-check failed to slow my momentum or affect my course. I know his bones were jarred because mine were.

It’s like this. You might encounter hundreds of people at close proximity every day in the city. Mostly we find a way to coexist with dignity. Every once in a while some asshole with a Napoleon complex goes out of his way to piss on someone he thinks is littler than he is. But alas, bigness isn’t always visible, poor morons. God bless them, too.