The other day, while I waited in front of my friend's home for her to arrive after the call from the alarm company, I watched a lot of activity, including the 2 black males out front casually strolling to the house next door, joining several other males just sort of hanging out there. I watched as one of those men, wearing a bright red T-shirt and a distinctive huge gold chain, kept walking toward the corner, all the while talking on the phone. I had a conversation with the next-door neighbor who came out and asked me what I was doing there. I saw a distinctive teal blue T-bird come to the house next door and pick up the same 2 men who had been standing out front of my friend's house when I arrived. I watched in my mirror as that car drove far to the east, a long, straight open road. I watched the garage door close next door after all the black males, save one, had left the premises; that one continued to sit in front of the garage door, listening intently for what comes next.
Math is not my forte, but I'm still pretty good at putting two and two together and getting in the ballpark with my answer.
However, when the female police officer finally showed up to take the burglary report, she not only chastised me for not calling 9-1-1, but she took no notes, dismissed my description of the 5 black males, the necklace, and the T-bird. My services no longer required, I absented myself from the scene.
Today, my friend returned home early to meet with the insurance agent to obtain authorization for the repairs. As she drove up to her home, she saw the distinctive T-bird, the black males in front of another neighbor's home, the black male wearing the distinctive heavy gold chain, and another black male trying to enter the home by kicking down the door.
Can you say deja vu all over again?
She did call the police, but since it didn't seem to be a distress call, they said they'd send a car out when one is available to survey the scene. What a great idea, huh? The fact that there is a little old lady boarded up in the house as she's mentally ill probably isn't a factor that would add to the distress criteria. My friend did take some photos, wrote descriptions of the males she observed in what seemed to her to be the commission of a crime, and made sure she got a clear picture of the license plate on the teal blue T-bird, after which -- she had to leave for an appointment in the high desert.
Her alarm is set, but it's going to be obvious that her car is not in front of the house as that's the only place she has to park it. If the alarm company calls me again, I'm directing them to dispatch the police and deal directly with the homeowner.
Friday, May 29, 2009
A Singular Sensation
Yesterday, the traffic was light and the route clear between here and the coast, so I cruised the freeways with ease and arrived in time to set up the new desktop TV I brought along to replace my friend's old clunky set. By the time she returned from having her hair done, the TV was ready to watch. Ta-da.
We scuttled off for lunch as the movie was starting at 1:30 pm, but Islander was a parking lot nightmare, which led to a sudden decision to try TGI Friday's, an excellent choice, as it turned out. Not only was lunch served in record time, but it was absolutely delicious: Jack Daniels' sauce appetizer plate and a chopped pecan crushed chicken salad -- with two plates. We were out the door, across the parking lot, and into the theater by 1:25, finding our favorite seats at the back and settling in for an endless parade of trailers.
The film, Every Little Step, was new to me, but it is so good! It begins with a reel-to-reel talk session with Broadway dancers that evolves into a stage play. Michael Bennett, a professional dancer who becomes a choreographer, as well as a director, begins the discussion that ultimately chronicles what it is like to be a dancer, as well as the human being behind the talent. After listening to the tapes, Bennett contacts a friend, Marvin Hamlisch, and says, "I think I have something," and that something becomes A Chorus Line. The film encompasses 15 years of continuous performances (1970s-1990s) and follows a new generation of dancers as they audition for the revival cast. Beginning with thousands of dancers and almost a year's worth of auditions and callbacks, the film captures the history of the play, as well as the casting of the Chorus Line revival.
At one point, five men sit behind the audition table as a parade of Paul possibles try out for the coveted role. Intercut are some of the original performances as the audition panel explain that they need the heart of the character, not a specific physical look. And then a curly-haired, robust male stands in front of them, in appearance the complete opposite of the original Paul, and talks about the day his father saw him in drag in a Broadway performance. By the time the actor finishes the scene, the five men watching him are in tears, openly sobbing as they know that this actor is Paul in a way no other actor could be. It is a powerful moment for the casting, and also for the people behind the scenes, that magic moment that transforms an ordinary performance into extraordinary.
A Chorus Line is one of my favorite stage plays because not only does the story stay fresh, but the music and the dance make it memorable. As a former high school director of drama, I watched for the moments that separated the call-backs from the better luck next time auditioners. The spark, the charisma, the talented performers who transcend the performance were there. I knew which dancer would be Cassi, as well as which one thought she was the only one who should play that part. The intangibles are almost more important than the tangibles, sort of like in teaching: anyone can complete the coursework and pay for the credential, but that doesn't make that person a teacher, the same way that wearing tap shoes doesn't make anyone a dancer.
Every Little Step is playing in the desert, and I'm going to enjoy it again this weekend. Yeah, I liked it.
We scuttled off for lunch as the movie was starting at 1:30 pm, but Islander was a parking lot nightmare, which led to a sudden decision to try TGI Friday's, an excellent choice, as it turned out. Not only was lunch served in record time, but it was absolutely delicious: Jack Daniels' sauce appetizer plate and a chopped pecan crushed chicken salad -- with two plates. We were out the door, across the parking lot, and into the theater by 1:25, finding our favorite seats at the back and settling in for an endless parade of trailers.
The film, Every Little Step, was new to me, but it is so good! It begins with a reel-to-reel talk session with Broadway dancers that evolves into a stage play. Michael Bennett, a professional dancer who becomes a choreographer, as well as a director, begins the discussion that ultimately chronicles what it is like to be a dancer, as well as the human being behind the talent. After listening to the tapes, Bennett contacts a friend, Marvin Hamlisch, and says, "I think I have something," and that something becomes A Chorus Line. The film encompasses 15 years of continuous performances (1970s-1990s) and follows a new generation of dancers as they audition for the revival cast. Beginning with thousands of dancers and almost a year's worth of auditions and callbacks, the film captures the history of the play, as well as the casting of the Chorus Line revival.
At one point, five men sit behind the audition table as a parade of Paul possibles try out for the coveted role. Intercut are some of the original performances as the audition panel explain that they need the heart of the character, not a specific physical look. And then a curly-haired, robust male stands in front of them, in appearance the complete opposite of the original Paul, and talks about the day his father saw him in drag in a Broadway performance. By the time the actor finishes the scene, the five men watching him are in tears, openly sobbing as they know that this actor is Paul in a way no other actor could be. It is a powerful moment for the casting, and also for the people behind the scenes, that magic moment that transforms an ordinary performance into extraordinary.
A Chorus Line is one of my favorite stage plays because not only does the story stay fresh, but the music and the dance make it memorable. As a former high school director of drama, I watched for the moments that separated the call-backs from the better luck next time auditioners. The spark, the charisma, the talented performers who transcend the performance were there. I knew which dancer would be Cassi, as well as which one thought she was the only one who should play that part. The intangibles are almost more important than the tangibles, sort of like in teaching: anyone can complete the coursework and pay for the credential, but that doesn't make that person a teacher, the same way that wearing tap shoes doesn't make anyone a dancer.
Every Little Step is playing in the desert, and I'm going to enjoy it again this weekend. Yeah, I liked it.
Thursday, May 28, 2009
The Wrong Call for the Right Reasons
Yesterday, the alarm company called: again, the alarm at my nearby friend's house had activated. Should the alarm company dispatch the police? I hesitated, reviewed the history of false alarms, noted that it was only 4:15 pm and my friend was an hour over-due at my house to pick up her dog, and made a judgment call: no, I'll go to her home and check it out because she should be there any minute.
For the first time since she moved into her home in 2002, I could NOT find her housekeys, but I decided to check it out anyway. When I arrived at her home, there were 2 black males in front of it, one of whom was talking on his phone. Next door, another handful of black males congregated in the garage area. No one was doing anything, but I got out of the car and walked around the front -- and then again tried to call my friend who never ever answers her damned cell phone nor tells me when she's going to be late picking up her dog. Some days, she goes directly home as she has migraines all the time, then calls me whenever she wakes up to apologize for leaving her dog until whenever when I expected her no later than 3:30. Perhaps she was inside her home and had triggered the motion sensor herself: not probable, but possible.
I almost called the police, just in case, but the last time flashed through my mind: the police arriving ahead of me, far too many police for an alarm response. When I identified myself and said that I had the key, they politely invited me to unlock the front door and go inside with them. That was when I was shown that the back door was wide open and the police had already been inside. There was blood on the back door, a trail of blood leading to the front door, blood on the front curtain and front door -- but no one seemed concerned. When I questioned the lack of give-a-shit by the police, they told me the rest of their story, which is when I told them it was time for them to leave. I secured the home, reset the alarm, and left them standing around in the front yard.
This time, I guess I should have let the police arrive to handle the call as the back French doors had been completely kicked in! I finally was able to get my friend on her cellphone after waiting in front of her home for about 15 minutes, but had to wait for her to arrive and unlock the front door before we knew this time was not another false alarm.
I'm sorry I didn't let the police handle the call, but based on my past experience that didn't seem the way to go. I didn't have her keys, although I've always had her keys, so I probably got more in the way than I did any good. Lesson learned, and no, I don't want a replacement set of keys.
For the first time since she moved into her home in 2002, I could NOT find her housekeys, but I decided to check it out anyway. When I arrived at her home, there were 2 black males in front of it, one of whom was talking on his phone. Next door, another handful of black males congregated in the garage area. No one was doing anything, but I got out of the car and walked around the front -- and then again tried to call my friend who never ever answers her damned cell phone nor tells me when she's going to be late picking up her dog. Some days, she goes directly home as she has migraines all the time, then calls me whenever she wakes up to apologize for leaving her dog until whenever when I expected her no later than 3:30. Perhaps she was inside her home and had triggered the motion sensor herself: not probable, but possible.
I almost called the police, just in case, but the last time flashed through my mind: the police arriving ahead of me, far too many police for an alarm response. When I identified myself and said that I had the key, they politely invited me to unlock the front door and go inside with them. That was when I was shown that the back door was wide open and the police had already been inside. There was blood on the back door, a trail of blood leading to the front door, blood on the front curtain and front door -- but no one seemed concerned. When I questioned the lack of give-a-shit by the police, they told me the rest of their story, which is when I told them it was time for them to leave. I secured the home, reset the alarm, and left them standing around in the front yard.
This time, I guess I should have let the police arrive to handle the call as the back French doors had been completely kicked in! I finally was able to get my friend on her cellphone after waiting in front of her home for about 15 minutes, but had to wait for her to arrive and unlock the front door before we knew this time was not another false alarm.
I'm sorry I didn't let the police handle the call, but based on my past experience that didn't seem the way to go. I didn't have her keys, although I've always had her keys, so I probably got more in the way than I did any good. Lesson learned, and no, I don't want a replacement set of keys.
Wednesday, May 27, 2009
Vocabulary Lesson
Back in the day, I was a vocabulary enthusiast who loved knowing a plethora of words to apply in exactly the right way at the right time. Not only could I play a decent game of Scrabble, but I was confident enough to complete crossword puzzles in ink. Somewhere along the line, however, teenspeak took over my life, eroding the Latin root words, the prefixes and suffixes that have served me well throughout my long career. I found myself failing to cringe when someone informed me that "it don't matter," and actually had to nod my head in agreement in some circumstances. My spelling, which used to be precise, degenerated to the use of spellcheck just to be sure, as after generations of misuse by students, the errors began to look correct to me. After all, as long as one is understood, what difference could it possibly make how one spells common vocabulary? Then, than, thin; there, their, they're: whatever.
Since classes finished last week, I find myself flitting from one meaningless task to another, unable to settle. I've been reading, but also watching movies made for TV: aren't they really TV shows? Movies, usually called films, are screened in a theatre. I've listened to a few talk shows and laughed hilariously at Bonnie Hunt's new doll collection: she's cosmetically altered some store products to create her unique doll collection, such as Beach Bonnie, who got her first sunburn while wearing a T-shirt and shorts, obvious when she dons her summer swimsuit for the first time. Parachute Bonnie's dress and hair are both lifted by the experience. There have been others, but the gist is obvious.
I've toyed with housework, but nothing serious. I've read recipes, focusing on the dessert pages, which are always more gastronomically enticing than the fresh summer salads that resemble a bowl of artfully arranged lawn clippings. I've completed some requisite household chores, but ignored others because it's just like ironing: iron the shirt today and someone pulls it out to wear tomorrow. In the desert, it's sand: dust the furniture in the morning and gale-force winds blow all afternoon. I've looked at the dozens of boxes in the garage, knowing that is a chore that MUST be completed before my demise, but if I knew how to turn it into a fun-filled organizational activity that involved lots of friends, food, wine and music, I'd probably actually do something, instead of just talking about the situation.
Sure, I have syllabi to prep for next semester -- but I'm teaching the same classes I taught this past semester, so have a fairly good idea how to update the current syllabi before mid-August. Yes, I can plan the summer vacation, but if I become too engaged in the vacation planning, I'll be exhausted before I leave in July: too much too soon blunts the edge of anticipation.
Journey back in time, to 9th grade, my second year of Latin with Miss Alice Torkelson. She was a little bit of a thing (diminutive), with red hair, an even coat of white make-up, a slash of deep red lipstick punctuated with the same red on the apples of her cheeks, and the attitude of a drill sergeant (authoritarian). It is she who taught us NEVER to say we are "bored," a common expression (pedestrian) not worthy of our lofty status as Latin students. When I'm in this transitional phase of being, I go through the list of synonyms appropriate for a Latin student and pick one to apply to my mood:
Lassitude: a state of exhaustion or torpor.
Torpor: a condition of mental or physical inactivity or insensibility.
Ennui: listlessness or dissatisfaction resulting from lack of interest.
Miss Alice Torkelson said to pick the best word to describe our mental state at any given moment, but I'm wondering if I can create a sentence that uses all of them, as I cycle through exhaustion, inaction, insensibility, and listlessness/ dissatisfaction?
Or, I could just simplify and say ... I'M BORED!
Since classes finished last week, I find myself flitting from one meaningless task to another, unable to settle. I've been reading, but also watching movies made for TV: aren't they really TV shows? Movies, usually called films, are screened in a theatre. I've listened to a few talk shows and laughed hilariously at Bonnie Hunt's new doll collection: she's cosmetically altered some store products to create her unique doll collection, such as Beach Bonnie, who got her first sunburn while wearing a T-shirt and shorts, obvious when she dons her summer swimsuit for the first time. Parachute Bonnie's dress and hair are both lifted by the experience. There have been others, but the gist is obvious.
I've toyed with housework, but nothing serious. I've read recipes, focusing on the dessert pages, which are always more gastronomically enticing than the fresh summer salads that resemble a bowl of artfully arranged lawn clippings. I've completed some requisite household chores, but ignored others because it's just like ironing: iron the shirt today and someone pulls it out to wear tomorrow. In the desert, it's sand: dust the furniture in the morning and gale-force winds blow all afternoon. I've looked at the dozens of boxes in the garage, knowing that is a chore that MUST be completed before my demise, but if I knew how to turn it into a fun-filled organizational activity that involved lots of friends, food, wine and music, I'd probably actually do something, instead of just talking about the situation.
Sure, I have syllabi to prep for next semester -- but I'm teaching the same classes I taught this past semester, so have a fairly good idea how to update the current syllabi before mid-August. Yes, I can plan the summer vacation, but if I become too engaged in the vacation planning, I'll be exhausted before I leave in July: too much too soon blunts the edge of anticipation.
Journey back in time, to 9th grade, my second year of Latin with Miss Alice Torkelson. She was a little bit of a thing (diminutive), with red hair, an even coat of white make-up, a slash of deep red lipstick punctuated with the same red on the apples of her cheeks, and the attitude of a drill sergeant (authoritarian). It is she who taught us NEVER to say we are "bored," a common expression (pedestrian) not worthy of our lofty status as Latin students. When I'm in this transitional phase of being, I go through the list of synonyms appropriate for a Latin student and pick one to apply to my mood:
Lassitude: a state of exhaustion or torpor.
Torpor: a condition of mental or physical inactivity or insensibility.
Ennui: listlessness or dissatisfaction resulting from lack of interest.
Miss Alice Torkelson said to pick the best word to describe our mental state at any given moment, but I'm wondering if I can create a sentence that uses all of them, as I cycle through exhaustion, inaction, insensibility, and listlessness/ dissatisfaction?
Or, I could just simplify and say ... I'M BORED!
Monday, May 25, 2009
Happy Birthday -- Again
Perhaps I don't need a reason to spend money on myself, but having one makes swiping the card more palatable. My friend recently asked me to go shopping with her to replace her desktop TV with a flat screen. I did some research into models 20" and smaller, narrowed the choices based on price, brand name, and standard features, then looked onlline for best prices: WalMart wins that contest hands down.
I drove to WalMart, which also carries the particular brand of coffee pods I prefer, as well as row after row of books, a win-win trip on a holiday weekend as I could also stay off the interstate. I found few people in the electronics department, much to my delight, and specifically picked the younger CSA, rather than the dinosaur supplementing his retirement check who, so far, has never been able to answer any of the questions I have asked in the past. I had printed the TV specs from the web, and although the internet site said that both were available in-store, that did not prove to be the case, but since I preferred the Vizio over the Sony, I had actually done my comparison shopping before I walked in and asked for the Vizio.
The Vizio VA 19L is an excellent buy at $207, especially since it comes with a one-year warranty, not offered by most of the competition. It was so easy to plug in and set up that it took longer to get it out of the box than it did to wait for the auto set-up feature. I played with the remote to set a couple of features, including the sound (less treble, simulated surround sound), the colors (warm palette), the appearance of the screen (custom, standard, movie, game/sports), and the feature that lessens the amount of sound burst during commercials (DNR). It has the 'back' feature, which means I can switch between 2 channels, which I'll admit I do often. And I registered on-line in about a New York minute.
Best of all: the screen is small enough to sit on my dresser, but big enough that I can actually read the words from my bed! The older I am, the more important size becomes to me.
So, happy birthday to me: I have a new flat screen TV and an invitation for a free dessert from Denny's to celebrate the joyous anniversary of my birth. Doesn't get much better than that, does it.
I drove to WalMart, which also carries the particular brand of coffee pods I prefer, as well as row after row of books, a win-win trip on a holiday weekend as I could also stay off the interstate. I found few people in the electronics department, much to my delight, and specifically picked the younger CSA, rather than the dinosaur supplementing his retirement check who, so far, has never been able to answer any of the questions I have asked in the past. I had printed the TV specs from the web, and although the internet site said that both were available in-store, that did not prove to be the case, but since I preferred the Vizio over the Sony, I had actually done my comparison shopping before I walked in and asked for the Vizio.
The Vizio VA 19L is an excellent buy at $207, especially since it comes with a one-year warranty, not offered by most of the competition. It was so easy to plug in and set up that it took longer to get it out of the box than it did to wait for the auto set-up feature. I played with the remote to set a couple of features, including the sound (less treble, simulated surround sound), the colors (warm palette), the appearance of the screen (custom, standard, movie, game/sports), and the feature that lessens the amount of sound burst during commercials (DNR). It has the 'back' feature, which means I can switch between 2 channels, which I'll admit I do often. And I registered on-line in about a New York minute.
Best of all: the screen is small enough to sit on my dresser, but big enough that I can actually read the words from my bed! The older I am, the more important size becomes to me.
So, happy birthday to me: I have a new flat screen TV and an invitation for a free dessert from Denny's to celebrate the joyous anniversary of my birth. Doesn't get much better than that, does it.
Sunday, May 24, 2009
Coincidence?
Today's plans included a trip up the big hill, to Idy, to visit with friends, eat lunch out, and just relax, so I rolled out of bed early and hit the shower. Well, I would have hit the shower, but when I turned on the faucet, there was no water. None. Not any. Tried the toilet (which, of course, I'd already used) and the sinks, then went outside to see if there was an obvious reason for no water.
I doubted that the collection of dog doo-doo had caused the water outage, but after calling the service line at 6 AM and being told that the person would forward the information, I decided to clean up the dog run; after all, I hadn't had a shower, so why not? When I got to the bedroom side of the house, however, I saw a river running into my yard from the house next door, undermining the fences between us.
Hmmmm, thinks I: could there possibly be any connection between that water and my lack thereof? Probably not, but I wrote a note and taped it to the neighbor's door so they are aware of the river and the fact that I don't want the water coming into my yard.
It's now after 1 pm and no one has come to see about the water. Yes, the water is sort of back on, gushing, then trickling, then gushing again, so I don't know if I have water or not. I flushed the toilet I used earlier this morning and it sounded as if a geyser were going on under the lid, so I shut the door and will go back in when the sound subsides.
I know it's the holiday weekend, so I doubt that there are planned water outages, but you never know. I've lived in the house for 9 years and have never experienced a water outage, so I'm concerned about this one. Is there a huge problem lurking on my property with which I'm going to have to deal, or did something else happen and now it's okay?
And, is it a coincidence that all that water came rushing onto my property from the house next door? They were once illegally tied in to my water system via their watering system, but I know for a fact that has been discontinued, so probably this is a coincidence, but I'm not going to be comfortable until I know for sure why I had no water service when I woke up today.
I doubted that the collection of dog doo-doo had caused the water outage, but after calling the service line at 6 AM and being told that the person would forward the information, I decided to clean up the dog run; after all, I hadn't had a shower, so why not? When I got to the bedroom side of the house, however, I saw a river running into my yard from the house next door, undermining the fences between us.
Hmmmm, thinks I: could there possibly be any connection between that water and my lack thereof? Probably not, but I wrote a note and taped it to the neighbor's door so they are aware of the river and the fact that I don't want the water coming into my yard.
It's now after 1 pm and no one has come to see about the water. Yes, the water is sort of back on, gushing, then trickling, then gushing again, so I don't know if I have water or not. I flushed the toilet I used earlier this morning and it sounded as if a geyser were going on under the lid, so I shut the door and will go back in when the sound subsides.
I know it's the holiday weekend, so I doubt that there are planned water outages, but you never know. I've lived in the house for 9 years and have never experienced a water outage, so I'm concerned about this one. Is there a huge problem lurking on my property with which I'm going to have to deal, or did something else happen and now it's okay?
And, is it a coincidence that all that water came rushing onto my property from the house next door? They were once illegally tied in to my water system via their watering system, but I know for a fact that has been discontinued, so probably this is a coincidence, but I'm not going to be comfortable until I know for sure why I had no water service when I woke up today.
Tuesday, May 19, 2009
A New Take on Pilot Error
I hate to fly anywhere, any time, based on the old "if God had wanted us to fly, He'd have given us wings" reasoning. It isn't natural to strap a motley bunch of people into a metal tube and send them hurtling across the skies going 300 miles an hour at 32,000 feet. Even though travelers are assured that flying is safer than driving, I'd rather do my crash and burn on the pavement than inside a missile heading nose first for ground zero. And forget about using the seat cushion as a flotation device: what idiot really thinks that instruction provides even a modicum of comfort to a passenger flying over creeks, ponds, and endless miles of waterless desert or snow-covered mountains?
My fear of flying is not alleviated with all the recent information being provided about how often bird strikes cause air emergencies, as well as crashes. As big as the problem appears to be, in my world someone should already have found a work-around for the threat of a flock of flying geese bringing down an airliner. I'm thinking a screen barrier between the bird and the jet engine could be a start ... .
However, after two planes in about a week did the abrupt nose-down into the ground a few months past, killing all aboard both planes, industry spokespersons are now claiming that these airline crashes are probably caused by pilots who aren't paid adequate salary because consumers are shopping for ways to save money on airline tickets and travel. Airline safety is now dependent on salary and benefits packages? If passengers, such as I, were willing to pay a few more dollars for the ticket, planes wouldn't crash?
I'm thinking, Are you f-ing kidding me? at this point in the reporting.
The burden for the deaths of victims in a plane crash may rest on the public's shoulders, those selfish individuals who refuse to pay an average of $8 more per ticket, according to one airline rep quoted in the press release (msn.com). Extending that premise, we have a list of potential consumer causes for airplane crashes:
-- Selfish passengers who bring one bag on a flight cost the airline revenue it generates from charging for additional bags, revenue that could be used to pay pilots a decent wage.
-- Purchasing food in the terminals, rather than paying for airline in-flight fare, is another costly mistake made by passengers, who are also coping with the loss of the free little bags of salty peanuts we all anticipated in the past eras of airline affluence.
-- And so few people paid $3 to rent the headphones for the "free" in-flight movie that many airlines have now done away with in-flight films! Think of the increased pilot salary potential afforded by 100 passengers each renting headphones at $3 a pop that is lost because some selfish consumers refused to ante up.
Yes, passengers may be the root cause of the airline accidents, if you believe what the media is printing, but what about other causes for plane crashes, causes not related to the failure of the passenger to pay premium prices for too many small seats too close together in an airplane that is likely to be departure-delayed and end in lost luggage? The best the airline industry can come up with is insufficient salary satisfaction?
It's far more likely that there is a design fault and/or a mechanical problem with the aircraft than a salary issue with the pilot: after all, (s)he dies when the plane plunges nose first into the ground at 300 miles per hour, regardless of how much salary the pilot earns. That's a fairly permanent way to settle a salary dispute, don't you think? Who benefits from that tactic? Not the pilot, I'm thinking. Is the public supposed to believe that the airline is gambling that the lawsuits from the victims, including the flight crew and passengers, as well as anyone at ground zero, probably offset any revenue losses that would be incurred by paying pilots a higher salary?
Think outside the blame box and stop citing unsatisfactory salary and/or selfish consumer syndrome when everyone aboard an aircraft perishes in the crash. Believe me, it's not the end to the flight anyone -- pilot, crew, and/or passengers -- anticipate when we are sitting on the tarmac feeling smug because we saved $8 and still got an aisle seat!
My fear of flying is not alleviated with all the recent information being provided about how often bird strikes cause air emergencies, as well as crashes. As big as the problem appears to be, in my world someone should already have found a work-around for the threat of a flock of flying geese bringing down an airliner. I'm thinking a screen barrier between the bird and the jet engine could be a start ... .
However, after two planes in about a week did the abrupt nose-down into the ground a few months past, killing all aboard both planes, industry spokespersons are now claiming that these airline crashes are probably caused by pilots who aren't paid adequate salary because consumers are shopping for ways to save money on airline tickets and travel. Airline safety is now dependent on salary and benefits packages? If passengers, such as I, were willing to pay a few more dollars for the ticket, planes wouldn't crash?
I'm thinking, Are you f-ing kidding me? at this point in the reporting.
The burden for the deaths of victims in a plane crash may rest on the public's shoulders, those selfish individuals who refuse to pay an average of $8 more per ticket, according to one airline rep quoted in the press release (msn.com). Extending that premise, we have a list of potential consumer causes for airplane crashes:
-- Selfish passengers who bring one bag on a flight cost the airline revenue it generates from charging for additional bags, revenue that could be used to pay pilots a decent wage.
-- Purchasing food in the terminals, rather than paying for airline in-flight fare, is another costly mistake made by passengers, who are also coping with the loss of the free little bags of salty peanuts we all anticipated in the past eras of airline affluence.
-- And so few people paid $3 to rent the headphones for the "free" in-flight movie that many airlines have now done away with in-flight films! Think of the increased pilot salary potential afforded by 100 passengers each renting headphones at $3 a pop that is lost because some selfish consumers refused to ante up.
Yes, passengers may be the root cause of the airline accidents, if you believe what the media is printing, but what about other causes for plane crashes, causes not related to the failure of the passenger to pay premium prices for too many small seats too close together in an airplane that is likely to be departure-delayed and end in lost luggage? The best the airline industry can come up with is insufficient salary satisfaction?
It's far more likely that there is a design fault and/or a mechanical problem with the aircraft than a salary issue with the pilot: after all, (s)he dies when the plane plunges nose first into the ground at 300 miles per hour, regardless of how much salary the pilot earns. That's a fairly permanent way to settle a salary dispute, don't you think? Who benefits from that tactic? Not the pilot, I'm thinking. Is the public supposed to believe that the airline is gambling that the lawsuits from the victims, including the flight crew and passengers, as well as anyone at ground zero, probably offset any revenue losses that would be incurred by paying pilots a higher salary?
Think outside the blame box and stop citing unsatisfactory salary and/or selfish consumer syndrome when everyone aboard an aircraft perishes in the crash. Believe me, it's not the end to the flight anyone -- pilot, crew, and/or passengers -- anticipate when we are sitting on the tarmac feeling smug because we saved $8 and still got an aisle seat!
Sunday, May 17, 2009
Flashes of Insight
No way would I watch Farrah's dying on TV: my mother and my father both died from cancer, as well as several close friends, so I don't need to see anyone else's experience and relive mine. Somewhere inside I keep asking why: yeah, she had a great hairstyle, but other than that, why?
The President does not need to rationalize and/or justify an invitation to speak at an event. He accepts, he shows up, he delivers whatever speech he deems appropriate. Anyone who does not want to hear the address either need not attend or can plug in an IPod and chill for however long he speaks. Anyone can accept a divergent opinion/position without agreeing with it. We all need to stop apologizing for what we believe in an effort to make other people feel better about their beliefs--or lack thereof!
If I'm ever back in Baltimore, I'm going to Duff's bakery and say hi. I watched back-to-back episodes today and was fascinated with the cakes his team turns out. OMG, including the Milennium Falcon, a Blackhawk helo, and the entire island and cast from LOST. Anyone can do a stacked wedding cake with frou-frou and flowers, but the helo blades turned and the lights worked! Will have to admit, however, that I absolutely did NOT get the whisk. It may have been tall, but that's all it was: tall.
I'm totally ready for the last 2 days of classes and my summer off doing whatever it is I want/don't want to do. This year's vacation is Washington, DC, including as many Smithsonians as the g'son and I can get to in about 8 days, a tour of The White House, and a boat trip down the Potomac to visit Mt. Vernon. That's what I'm talking about.
And here's a promise: I'm gonna see that thar ad for that thar Sonic Blizzard one more time, and Ima gonna get in my car and drive to CC to get myself one of them thar sugary treats. Man, does that thing look GOOD!
I've just about finished my current pile of books, so it's probably time to make another stop at a bookstore and see what's new on the shelves. Part of my benevolence program is treating myself to newly-published hardbacks that I then donate to local libraries. Anything I can do to promote people reading is a pleasure.
Hi ho, hi ho, it's off to do the laundry I go.
The President does not need to rationalize and/or justify an invitation to speak at an event. He accepts, he shows up, he delivers whatever speech he deems appropriate. Anyone who does not want to hear the address either need not attend or can plug in an IPod and chill for however long he speaks. Anyone can accept a divergent opinion/position without agreeing with it. We all need to stop apologizing for what we believe in an effort to make other people feel better about their beliefs--or lack thereof!
If I'm ever back in Baltimore, I'm going to Duff's bakery and say hi. I watched back-to-back episodes today and was fascinated with the cakes his team turns out. OMG, including the Milennium Falcon, a Blackhawk helo, and the entire island and cast from LOST. Anyone can do a stacked wedding cake with frou-frou and flowers, but the helo blades turned and the lights worked! Will have to admit, however, that I absolutely did NOT get the whisk. It may have been tall, but that's all it was: tall.
I'm totally ready for the last 2 days of classes and my summer off doing whatever it is I want/don't want to do. This year's vacation is Washington, DC, including as many Smithsonians as the g'son and I can get to in about 8 days, a tour of The White House, and a boat trip down the Potomac to visit Mt. Vernon. That's what I'm talking about.
And here's a promise: I'm gonna see that thar ad for that thar Sonic Blizzard one more time, and Ima gonna get in my car and drive to CC to get myself one of them thar sugary treats. Man, does that thing look GOOD!
I've just about finished my current pile of books, so it's probably time to make another stop at a bookstore and see what's new on the shelves. Part of my benevolence program is treating myself to newly-published hardbacks that I then donate to local libraries. Anything I can do to promote people reading is a pleasure.
Hi ho, hi ho, it's off to do the laundry I go.
Friday, May 15, 2009
Early Onset Dementia?
Recalling President Ronald Reagan's erratic behavior, before it was known that he was in the early stages of dementia, I'm seeing eerie similarities in Pernicious Pelosi: I don't recall that; I don't remember that; I wasn't in that meeting; I never got the memo; my staffers recall is faulty; they all lied; I am telling the truth.
She's #3 in line. Perhaps it's times to dig a little deeper into her mental fitness for office?
She's #3 in line. Perhaps it's times to dig a little deeper into her mental fitness for office?
Wednesday, May 13, 2009
Great First Lines
My mother used to tell me that "simple things amuse simple people," so I am today being completely simple and loving it. Recently, I've enjoyed some great "first line" moments that have sent me into gales of laughter (which may be, come to think of it, the first stages of senior dementia: hmmm), and I'm going to share them just because I can.
One of my best students speaks English as a second or third language. He's bright, intelligent, and well-educated, but he's still in the learning curve when it comes to applying the difference between denotation and connotation. Hence, the opening line to his position paper on the topic of same sex marriage: Homosexuals are nibbling at the anus of heterosexuals. Yes, we were able to clarify with other expressions the position he supports, but it was not nearly the attention-grabber as his original opening line.
Best manure for pork stalk is the subject line of an email I almost opened with a "say, what?" curiosity before I realized this is yet another way to avoid the spam detectors! A man's pork stalk evidently benefits from using the little blue pill as manure, but the total picture of applying that description to the event evokes that somewhat sick laugh saved for these occasions.
One of my favorite students always uses an allusion to the beginning of time in his essays, couched in several different iterations, but always present. This last week, I teased him a bit and one of the more stolid students, who is writing about dealing with modern-day piracy on the high seas, amended his opening statement to reflect that Since the beginning of time, there have always been pirates. We all got a kick out of his display of humor as he's usually so incredibly quiet that you don't know he's in the room.
Following up on that memorable Mello moment (an insider's joke), another student went home and sent me an email: Before the very dawn of creation, in the darkness of a thousand nights, as the wind rustled over the face of the deep, a sound could be heard... When I pushed the button she had added to the message, a YouTube rendering of the Pirate's Song began playing!
When I stopped by Sam's Club this morning to pick up a few items, the nice man greeted me at the door and asked, "Is there anything I can do for you?" Yeah, the list unfurled inside my head, along with the totally inappropriate toss-offs, but for once in my life, I merely smiled and responded, "No, thank you."
My final great first line comes from a call to my cell last night: Hello? Are you the person I was just talking to?
One of my best students speaks English as a second or third language. He's bright, intelligent, and well-educated, but he's still in the learning curve when it comes to applying the difference between denotation and connotation. Hence, the opening line to his position paper on the topic of same sex marriage: Homosexuals are nibbling at the anus of heterosexuals. Yes, we were able to clarify with other expressions the position he supports, but it was not nearly the attention-grabber as his original opening line.
Best manure for pork stalk is the subject line of an email I almost opened with a "say, what?" curiosity before I realized this is yet another way to avoid the spam detectors! A man's pork stalk evidently benefits from using the little blue pill as manure, but the total picture of applying that description to the event evokes that somewhat sick laugh saved for these occasions.
One of my favorite students always uses an allusion to the beginning of time in his essays, couched in several different iterations, but always present. This last week, I teased him a bit and one of the more stolid students, who is writing about dealing with modern-day piracy on the high seas, amended his opening statement to reflect that Since the beginning of time, there have always been pirates. We all got a kick out of his display of humor as he's usually so incredibly quiet that you don't know he's in the room.
Following up on that memorable Mello moment (an insider's joke), another student went home and sent me an email: Before the very dawn of creation, in the darkness of a thousand nights, as the wind rustled over the face of the deep, a sound could be heard... When I pushed the button she had added to the message, a YouTube rendering of the Pirate's Song began playing!
When I stopped by Sam's Club this morning to pick up a few items, the nice man greeted me at the door and asked, "Is there anything I can do for you?" Yeah, the list unfurled inside my head, along with the totally inappropriate toss-offs, but for once in my life, I merely smiled and responded, "No, thank you."
My final great first line comes from a call to my cell last night: Hello? Are you the person I was just talking to?
Tuesday, May 12, 2009
Sometimes, It's Not Just a House
Thanks for your kind words of understanding and support when I wrote to tell you that my family home survived yet another catastrophe. I know that you meant for me to find comfort in your assurance that my strong emotional attachment to my home is natural, but somehow, I'm not sure you understand my attachment to my home, so I'd like to share a bit of family history with you.
The property has been in my family since the early 1900s, first owned by my grandfather, who was a master woodworker in Santa Barbara and whose work survives in many of the historic buildings in the city. The property was part of the wandering my father did on the weekends as he was locked out of his step-mother's home every day at 7 am and not allowed to return until 7 pm, in time for dinner and bed. My father, who died in 1962, walked every inch of those canyons and hills as a child, finding remnants of the Indians who lived there long before we all showed up. My father built a home for his family, a wife and 5 children, on the piece of land he knew so well. During the building, a 6th child was born, a son named for my father's beloved father, who died shortly after helping my father with the early stages of the building.
My dad built our home from the ground up, and we moved into it in 1954. When we were children, my father took us for walks on the weekends, walks that took us well past the end of Tunnel Road and up to the caves, as well as to La Cumbre peak, from which the view was breathtaking. The Botanical Gardens, Mission Creek, the old tunnel at the end of Tunnel Road, Rattlesnake Canyon, the mountains: those were our playground. I have pictures of Mission Canyon when our home was one of a handful in the area, taken from the corner of Williams Way and Ben Lomand Drive, well before all the development. I remember playing in a wash that ran from above Montrose Place down to Cheltenham, and then all the way down the Canyon, where it emptied into Mission Creek. Of course, all traces of that natural waterway have been filled in and covered with homes. I remember riding on pieces of cardboard down the side of the hill from Ben Lomand Drive to Foothill, nothing there to stop us as we raced across the slick anise weeds. Because my mother didn't drive until we were in junior high school, we walked everywhere we went until we were old enough to ride bikes, cutting down the hillside to Mission Canyon Road and then to the natural history museum, to the public library, to the beach, or across the empty lots to Tunnel Road and into the other canyons and hillsides. I know Mission Canyon from the ground up, so to speak.
My brother walked back into the neighborhood last Wednesday, his birthday, when an elderly neighbor told my brother that he had left without his medications. My brother found the medication and a beloved dog, who was injured by the fire but survived, and made the waiting to see what happens to the neighborhood a little less stressful for one neighbor. Law enforcement challenged my brother's right to be there by telling him that he didn't have authorization, but my brother had something more important: the deed to his family home.
My brother was also there when another neighbor at the end of the block was brought back on Mother's Day to see the remnants of his home by his children, grown adults now, rather than the newborn infants for whom I once babysat. As my brother described the neighborhood after the fire, he identified the homes by their original residents, not the entrepeneurs who bought them to make money off an inflated real estate market. My dad helped build many of these homes in exchange for the neighbor's help with building his home. My brother knows not just the houses, but the people and their stories because he's been there -- all his life.
There have been many times since my family moved into the home that its existence has been threatened, but still it stands. Other neighbors have come and gone, but my family home remains my family home. The vacant lot on the Cheltenham side of the property, at Dorking Place, has never been developed, one of the few vacant properties left in the canyon and still owned by my family.
So yes, I do have a strong emotional attachment to my family home, an attachment that goes back close to a hundred years of family history and four full generations of family memories. There are some of us who see our homes as our history, an attachment that is stronger than comforting words convey.
The property has been in my family since the early 1900s, first owned by my grandfather, who was a master woodworker in Santa Barbara and whose work survives in many of the historic buildings in the city. The property was part of the wandering my father did on the weekends as he was locked out of his step-mother's home every day at 7 am and not allowed to return until 7 pm, in time for dinner and bed. My father, who died in 1962, walked every inch of those canyons and hills as a child, finding remnants of the Indians who lived there long before we all showed up. My father built a home for his family, a wife and 5 children, on the piece of land he knew so well. During the building, a 6th child was born, a son named for my father's beloved father, who died shortly after helping my father with the early stages of the building.
My dad built our home from the ground up, and we moved into it in 1954. When we were children, my father took us for walks on the weekends, walks that took us well past the end of Tunnel Road and up to the caves, as well as to La Cumbre peak, from which the view was breathtaking. The Botanical Gardens, Mission Creek, the old tunnel at the end of Tunnel Road, Rattlesnake Canyon, the mountains: those were our playground. I have pictures of Mission Canyon when our home was one of a handful in the area, taken from the corner of Williams Way and Ben Lomand Drive, well before all the development. I remember playing in a wash that ran from above Montrose Place down to Cheltenham, and then all the way down the Canyon, where it emptied into Mission Creek. Of course, all traces of that natural waterway have been filled in and covered with homes. I remember riding on pieces of cardboard down the side of the hill from Ben Lomand Drive to Foothill, nothing there to stop us as we raced across the slick anise weeds. Because my mother didn't drive until we were in junior high school, we walked everywhere we went until we were old enough to ride bikes, cutting down the hillside to Mission Canyon Road and then to the natural history museum, to the public library, to the beach, or across the empty lots to Tunnel Road and into the other canyons and hillsides. I know Mission Canyon from the ground up, so to speak.
My brother walked back into the neighborhood last Wednesday, his birthday, when an elderly neighbor told my brother that he had left without his medications. My brother found the medication and a beloved dog, who was injured by the fire but survived, and made the waiting to see what happens to the neighborhood a little less stressful for one neighbor. Law enforcement challenged my brother's right to be there by telling him that he didn't have authorization, but my brother had something more important: the deed to his family home.
My brother was also there when another neighbor at the end of the block was brought back on Mother's Day to see the remnants of his home by his children, grown adults now, rather than the newborn infants for whom I once babysat. As my brother described the neighborhood after the fire, he identified the homes by their original residents, not the entrepeneurs who bought them to make money off an inflated real estate market. My dad helped build many of these homes in exchange for the neighbor's help with building his home. My brother knows not just the houses, but the people and their stories because he's been there -- all his life.
There have been many times since my family moved into the home that its existence has been threatened, but still it stands. Other neighbors have come and gone, but my family home remains my family home. The vacant lot on the Cheltenham side of the property, at Dorking Place, has never been developed, one of the few vacant properties left in the canyon and still owned by my family.
So yes, I do have a strong emotional attachment to my family home, an attachment that goes back close to a hundred years of family history and four full generations of family memories. There are some of us who see our homes as our history, an attachment that is stronger than comforting words convey.
Monday, May 11, 2009
They're Home
My family has returned home; others either have no home or live in an area that is still not safe. No, the fire is NOT out. It appears that someone clearing brush higher up the canyon may be responsible for starting the fire: doing the right thing sometimes is the wrong thing to do.
The one-block street my family home occupies was hit and miss: some homes are completely destroyed, while others received some damage and many homes were not damaged at all. The street above the house (remember, it's on a hill) saw several homes completely destroyed and many damaged on the side of the hill that forms one side of the Palomino Estates area in the next Canyon over, heading west toward San Roque Canyon. The fire started in the mountains behind my family home, then came down into the canyons where the residents live, then back up into the hills, then back down into the neighborhoods. It was a wind-driven fire held in place by a high pressure weather condition.
Think of an accordian fan, with my home on the outward fold and Palomino Canyon the inward fold. Once the fire got into the inward folds, it stayed there, moving up and down the inward folds until the winds had enough force to toss embers across the outward folds toward new fuel. When a fire stays around long enough, it has time to do a lot of damage, no matter how large a defensible area there is around a home.
Mother Nature ended the immediate danger, not the firefighters. All mankind can do is try to save lives and structures: the fire depends on available fuel and weather conditions. This is the third major fire in about 3 years, so the available fuel is diminished, but the lack of water along the coastal desert plane, combined with the high pressure weather feature and the incredibly high winds, assures that this will not be the last fire in the area.
And it's still burning.
The one-block street my family home occupies was hit and miss: some homes are completely destroyed, while others received some damage and many homes were not damaged at all. The street above the house (remember, it's on a hill) saw several homes completely destroyed and many damaged on the side of the hill that forms one side of the Palomino Estates area in the next Canyon over, heading west toward San Roque Canyon. The fire started in the mountains behind my family home, then came down into the canyons where the residents live, then back up into the hills, then back down into the neighborhoods. It was a wind-driven fire held in place by a high pressure weather condition.
Think of an accordian fan, with my home on the outward fold and Palomino Canyon the inward fold. Once the fire got into the inward folds, it stayed there, moving up and down the inward folds until the winds had enough force to toss embers across the outward folds toward new fuel. When a fire stays around long enough, it has time to do a lot of damage, no matter how large a defensible area there is around a home.
Mother Nature ended the immediate danger, not the firefighters. All mankind can do is try to save lives and structures: the fire depends on available fuel and weather conditions. This is the third major fire in about 3 years, so the available fuel is diminished, but the lack of water along the coastal desert plane, combined with the high pressure weather feature and the incredibly high winds, assures that this will not be the last fire in the area.
And it's still burning.
Saturday, May 9, 2009
Beauty is The Politically Correct Public Presentation of the Pageant's Image
Well, Miss California, you answered honestly a politically-charged question from the personal agenda of a homosexual judge at a beauty contest, and that is not in keeping with the Pageant's Public Persona. Your personal honesty apparently conflicts with the "not just a beauty contest" Pageant image. We cannot refer to you as a beauty queen as you are so much more, but not that much more when it comes to Stepfording your way across the state. Your role, perhaps because your beauty prohibits your brain from functioning, is to do as you are told and to say what you are told to say.
Miss California stepped out of that Pageant programming, so she will pay a very public price for expressing her personal opinion on an issue that never should have been part of the Pageant process. Did not one Pageant representative vet the judge? Was not even one person aware of this Pageant judge's aggressive use of his personal agenda to further his internet media career? Were not the judge's questions submitted for review prior to being asked on TV? Cannot the Pageant understand that it is responsible for the massive negative media exposure created by its own failure to prepare for and protect its contestants from this kind of manipulation?
It's not the contestant's response that is at issue: it's that the question was not only asked, but validated by the Pageant's response to it.
In point of fact, the MAJORITY of Californians did NOT approve Prop 8, voting against same-sex marriage as a legal option for homosexual couples. The contestant's comment, that in her opinion marriage is a commitment between a man and a woman, is supported by the MAJORITY of the Californians who voted in the last election. The question, however, came from an individual who used his (homo)sexuality to promote his agenda in a very public manner designed to "out" the Pageant and/or contestant to whom the question was asked. While Miss California is being attacked for her "homophobic" remark about gay marriage, he is giggling about the public venue he exploited to bring the Pageant to its knees, basking in the limelight he turned on himself and his agenda by admitting that it was the response to his question that denied a contestant the crown. That's a lot of power handed to this individual by the Pageant: when one judge determines not just the outcome of the selection process, but the direction of the entire Pageant process, the Pageant may as well allow the viewers to phone in their votes.
No one dares to call his conduct into question: the price is too high for crossing that politically incorrect line. Miss California, however, is expendable because there are several runners-up eager to step into her stilettos.
By answering his question honestly, Miss California became a victim of the gay marriage coalition, as well as the Miss California Pageant that is now stripping her of her title. No matter how vocal and/or how vicious the attacks are against those who support heterosexual marriage, those who favor same-sex marriage remain in the minority. Using the Miss America Pageant as a tool for promoting a homosexual agenda is offensive to many, perhaps the majority of California voters, but no one dares to make that statement publicly!
Miss California stepped out of that Pageant programming, so she will pay a very public price for expressing her personal opinion on an issue that never should have been part of the Pageant process. Did not one Pageant representative vet the judge? Was not even one person aware of this Pageant judge's aggressive use of his personal agenda to further his internet media career? Were not the judge's questions submitted for review prior to being asked on TV? Cannot the Pageant understand that it is responsible for the massive negative media exposure created by its own failure to prepare for and protect its contestants from this kind of manipulation?
It's not the contestant's response that is at issue: it's that the question was not only asked, but validated by the Pageant's response to it.
In point of fact, the MAJORITY of Californians did NOT approve Prop 8, voting against same-sex marriage as a legal option for homosexual couples. The contestant's comment, that in her opinion marriage is a commitment between a man and a woman, is supported by the MAJORITY of the Californians who voted in the last election. The question, however, came from an individual who used his (homo)sexuality to promote his agenda in a very public manner designed to "out" the Pageant and/or contestant to whom the question was asked. While Miss California is being attacked for her "homophobic" remark about gay marriage, he is giggling about the public venue he exploited to bring the Pageant to its knees, basking in the limelight he turned on himself and his agenda by admitting that it was the response to his question that denied a contestant the crown. That's a lot of power handed to this individual by the Pageant: when one judge determines not just the outcome of the selection process, but the direction of the entire Pageant process, the Pageant may as well allow the viewers to phone in their votes.
No one dares to call his conduct into question: the price is too high for crossing that politically incorrect line. Miss California, however, is expendable because there are several runners-up eager to step into her stilettos.
By answering his question honestly, Miss California became a victim of the gay marriage coalition, as well as the Miss California Pageant that is now stripping her of her title. No matter how vocal and/or how vicious the attacks are against those who support heterosexual marriage, those who favor same-sex marriage remain in the minority. Using the Miss America Pageant as a tool for promoting a homosexual agenda is offensive to many, perhaps the majority of California voters, but no one dares to make that statement publicly!
Friday, May 8, 2009
Jesusita Fire, Page 2
Yesterday was my brother's birthday and he received a wonderful gift: the house is still standing. There are homes on the street that are burned to the ground, but the flames literally swirled around our family home. Lots of vegetation is either burned or singed, as well as rooves, patio coverings, and debris, but the fire moved out.
However, the story does not end here.
Last night, the winds kicked up again and the fire has doubled in size. Neighborhoods that it by-passed yesterday became fuel for the fire last night. It is heading west and taking everything in its path, following the course set by the Gap Fire, which burned all the way to Refugio Beach on the coast a couple years back. It's also back in the Canyon, having hooked up with the Tea Fire zone from last November that came through Montecito and Rattlesnake Canyon, the next canyon over from Mission Canyon, where my family home is. No one can predict which way the winds are going to take it next: back down the mountain and into the Canyon, back east toward Montecito, or straight toward downtown.
Because no one has provided any of the residents with information about their property, my brother walked in to see for himself if he still has a home, in spite of the law enforcement presence determined to keep him out. My brother's reasoning is simple: if you allow the media crews into my neighborhood to report on the fire while it is still active, I have the right to see for myself the condition of my home and my neighborhood when there is no active fire burning. If you allow residents to choose to stay in their homes -- and make live reports to the media in the midst of the firestorm surrounding them -- I have the right to walk into my neighborhood to see what's left. He's not putting himself or anyone else in jeopardy, as both the media crews and the homeowners who have chosen to remain in their homes are doing!
As my brother says, "We have a house for this hour, but we don't know about the next."
However, the story does not end here.
Last night, the winds kicked up again and the fire has doubled in size. Neighborhoods that it by-passed yesterday became fuel for the fire last night. It is heading west and taking everything in its path, following the course set by the Gap Fire, which burned all the way to Refugio Beach on the coast a couple years back. It's also back in the Canyon, having hooked up with the Tea Fire zone from last November that came through Montecito and Rattlesnake Canyon, the next canyon over from Mission Canyon, where my family home is. No one can predict which way the winds are going to take it next: back down the mountain and into the Canyon, back east toward Montecito, or straight toward downtown.
Because no one has provided any of the residents with information about their property, my brother walked in to see for himself if he still has a home, in spite of the law enforcement presence determined to keep him out. My brother's reasoning is simple: if you allow the media crews into my neighborhood to report on the fire while it is still active, I have the right to see for myself the condition of my home and my neighborhood when there is no active fire burning. If you allow residents to choose to stay in their homes -- and make live reports to the media in the midst of the firestorm surrounding them -- I have the right to walk into my neighborhood to see what's left. He's not putting himself or anyone else in jeopardy, as both the media crews and the homeowners who have chosen to remain in their homes are doing!
As my brother says, "We have a house for this hour, but we don't know about the next."
Wednesday, May 6, 2009
Jesusita Fire, Santa Barbara
The TV reporter on KCAL news just said the fire is at the corner of Cheltenham Road and Williams Way, which is the corner 3 houses from which is my family home. I talked to my brother, who lives in the home, and he said it's probably gone. He saw one of the neighbor's home in flames on the local news, so he's not hopeful that his home has been spared. What appeared to be a declining fire suddenly exploded into flames and began roaring through the Mission Canyon area of Santa Barbara completely out of control about 3:00 pm this afternoon.
Hard to watch the home your father built 60 years ago go up in flames, but, on the other hand, it's just a structure. The people and most of their things are safe, so the house can be rebuilt -- if that's what it is going to take. The house is insured, so it's a matter of pulling plans, cleaning up the debris, and starting fresh. One way or another, you deal with what life hands you the best way you can because that's what you have to do.
At the other end of the block, the Ben Lomand end, is a canyon, Palomino Canyon, filled with expensive huge homes that took the brunt of the fire when it suddenly flared this afternoon. The fire is at the whim of the winds, gusting to 75 mph, snaking around the neighborhood taking this house and not that one: it's simply fate which house goes and which house survives.
What everyone is praying for now is that the fire does not travel toward the Old Mission or down San Roque Road to State Street as that takes it through the city. There are many old homes and buildings in Santa Barbara, homes that will go up like kindling if the fire heads that way. The planes are grounded due to the winds, so the firefighters are hampered in efforts to fight the fire, but there are boots on the ground giving it their all and the choppers are still in the air making water drops.
I guess we'll all wait and see what comes with the dawn.
Hard to watch the home your father built 60 years ago go up in flames, but, on the other hand, it's just a structure. The people and most of their things are safe, so the house can be rebuilt -- if that's what it is going to take. The house is insured, so it's a matter of pulling plans, cleaning up the debris, and starting fresh. One way or another, you deal with what life hands you the best way you can because that's what you have to do.
At the other end of the block, the Ben Lomand end, is a canyon, Palomino Canyon, filled with expensive huge homes that took the brunt of the fire when it suddenly flared this afternoon. The fire is at the whim of the winds, gusting to 75 mph, snaking around the neighborhood taking this house and not that one: it's simply fate which house goes and which house survives.
What everyone is praying for now is that the fire does not travel toward the Old Mission or down San Roque Road to State Street as that takes it through the city. There are many old homes and buildings in Santa Barbara, homes that will go up like kindling if the fire heads that way. The planes are grounded due to the winds, so the firefighters are hampered in efforts to fight the fire, but there are boots on the ground giving it their all and the choppers are still in the air making water drops.
I guess we'll all wait and see what comes with the dawn.
Transparency and Fiscal Clarity
I received detailed information with my retirement check to explain why I am receiving more money each month -- as part of the new president's financial stimulus program.
I received detailed information with my paycheck to explain why I will be seeing less money each month -- to offset the potential increase in personal income tax I'll owe next April due to the additional monthly increases to my salary check as part of the new president's financial stimulus program.
Uh, say again? In theory, I'm going to receive more money each month as part of the economic stimulus program, but that on-paper increase actually requires that more taxes be withheld from my checks, based on the new increase in taxable income because increasing the amount of money I receive each month increases my tax liability next April which means that I'm actually going to have less income each month?
I do, indeed, feel stimulated by the obvious transparency of the president's plan and its fiscal impact on me, an impact that won't truly be appreciated until tax time next April.
I received detailed information with my paycheck to explain why I will be seeing less money each month -- to offset the potential increase in personal income tax I'll owe next April due to the additional monthly increases to my salary check as part of the new president's financial stimulus program.
Uh, say again? In theory, I'm going to receive more money each month as part of the economic stimulus program, but that on-paper increase actually requires that more taxes be withheld from my checks, based on the new increase in taxable income because increasing the amount of money I receive each month increases my tax liability next April which means that I'm actually going to have less income each month?
I do, indeed, feel stimulated by the obvious transparency of the president's plan and its fiscal impact on me, an impact that won't truly be appreciated until tax time next April.
The Art of Understatement
It's breezey in the desert, winds consistently between 40 and 55 miles per hour, shaking the foundations of my home and rattling my brain. Our local weather readers evidently are not allowed to exclaim, "Holy high winds, Batman!" because it might scare away the tourists. Likewise the warming trend: we're into the low triple digits, but we call it a warming trend. Actually, it's hot outside, and if you're visiting from one of the winter white lands, it's going to seem hotter than hell and burn the skin right off your bones, so come armed with a head covering and factor 50 sunscreen.
One local store ad suggests that customers "come on in and save some money," which, although a tempting offer, leads me to conclude that I'll stay home and save even more. Local communities are decrying the closure of several big box stores and wondering how to entice businesses back into them. That's what got you into this mess, offering huge financial incentives to the big box chains to build obscene megastores on opposing corners so you could jack the brands for tax revenue. Remember the smaller community stores, the ones that have been driven out of business by these big box bullies? Those were local folks who stayed the course through the best of times and the worst of times. Those local business owners now work part-time for minimum wage at the chain stores, while their former downtown businesses are gaping wounds to the greed.
In the desert, there's a new gladiator sport: hit and run traffic accidents. So far, the autos are winning. It's not bad enough that a driver speeding through a yellow light while talking on a cell phone hits a pedestrian, but they don't realize it? Cannot tell from the extensive front-end damage that the car hit something? Hear about the accident on the media and not connect the dots? Don't grasp the concept of "doing the right thing" just because it is the right thing to do?
We're down to the last couple of classes of the semester and the litany of failure rages, including all the many reasons for why a student has not completed an assignment, but little actual comprehension of what that means to the final grade. We're not a government program that factors in cost over-rides and misses deadlines because that's what pads the paycheck: when the grade is due, it is computed based on what has been completed, not good intentions and/or bad excuses. To use the vernacular, it is what it is: deal with it.
Several annoyances have somewhat abated, while others continue to irritate, including the radio antenna that does not function in the dead spots between home and my worksite. After 2 antennas were forcibly removed from my truck, I replaced the external antenna with an internal one -- and it does not work as well as the external antenna. However, a query call to the installer ended with the admonition that I was not to be "argumentative" with him as I tried to explain to him that returning to the shop so he could compare the reception I receive with other vehicles at that location would not change the fact that my antenna does not work in specific geographical locations between my home and work site. I laughed when he explained that the signal in the hi-desert fluctuates hourly, so I cannot count on any kind of steady performance from a car radio while driving therein. He didn't comprehend that until the new antenna was installed I had excellent reception anywhere I traveled in SoCal, including between my home and work site, so I thanked him for being obtuse and surly, and disconnected.
My family home is in Mission Canyon; my brother, his wife, and their children have again evacuated. There is nothing to be done but sit and wait to see which way the winds blow today: toward the structures or across the tops of the mountains covered with dense vegetation. We have dictionaries filled with words, but somehow we fall back on "stressful," a word that loses its meaning when a wildfire rages uncontrolled toward a canyon filled with homes above a sleepy little coastal town.
One local store ad suggests that customers "come on in and save some money," which, although a tempting offer, leads me to conclude that I'll stay home and save even more. Local communities are decrying the closure of several big box stores and wondering how to entice businesses back into them. That's what got you into this mess, offering huge financial incentives to the big box chains to build obscene megastores on opposing corners so you could jack the brands for tax revenue. Remember the smaller community stores, the ones that have been driven out of business by these big box bullies? Those were local folks who stayed the course through the best of times and the worst of times. Those local business owners now work part-time for minimum wage at the chain stores, while their former downtown businesses are gaping wounds to the greed.
In the desert, there's a new gladiator sport: hit and run traffic accidents. So far, the autos are winning. It's not bad enough that a driver speeding through a yellow light while talking on a cell phone hits a pedestrian, but they don't realize it? Cannot tell from the extensive front-end damage that the car hit something? Hear about the accident on the media and not connect the dots? Don't grasp the concept of "doing the right thing" just because it is the right thing to do?
We're down to the last couple of classes of the semester and the litany of failure rages, including all the many reasons for why a student has not completed an assignment, but little actual comprehension of what that means to the final grade. We're not a government program that factors in cost over-rides and misses deadlines because that's what pads the paycheck: when the grade is due, it is computed based on what has been completed, not good intentions and/or bad excuses. To use the vernacular, it is what it is: deal with it.
Several annoyances have somewhat abated, while others continue to irritate, including the radio antenna that does not function in the dead spots between home and my worksite. After 2 antennas were forcibly removed from my truck, I replaced the external antenna with an internal one -- and it does not work as well as the external antenna. However, a query call to the installer ended with the admonition that I was not to be "argumentative" with him as I tried to explain to him that returning to the shop so he could compare the reception I receive with other vehicles at that location would not change the fact that my antenna does not work in specific geographical locations between my home and work site. I laughed when he explained that the signal in the hi-desert fluctuates hourly, so I cannot count on any kind of steady performance from a car radio while driving therein. He didn't comprehend that until the new antenna was installed I had excellent reception anywhere I traveled in SoCal, including between my home and work site, so I thanked him for being obtuse and surly, and disconnected.
My family home is in Mission Canyon; my brother, his wife, and their children have again evacuated. There is nothing to be done but sit and wait to see which way the winds blow today: toward the structures or across the tops of the mountains covered with dense vegetation. We have dictionaries filled with words, but somehow we fall back on "stressful," a word that loses its meaning when a wildfire rages uncontrolled toward a canyon filled with homes above a sleepy little coastal town.
Sunday, May 3, 2009
Matthew McGorgeous
Nah, the movie isn't all that good, but Matt McGorgeous looks better than he ever has! Okay, except in the scenes with the 1980s wig! Whichever one of the Douglas actors plays Matt's womanizing uncle's ghost is a parody of a parody, but whatever. The story is trite, but cute, and it's one way to get out of the overwhelming winds that have pounded us for a couple of weeks, but if you're looking for a good movie, keep looking.
Believe it or not, there are some hidden gems in the message of the movie, especially as befits love/marriage/commitment, and that does add to the theatre experience. However, at $7 a ticket for a senior citizen's afternoon matinee, I'd wait to rent the movie unless you are really craving movie popcorn and an over-priced fountain soda.
Believe it or not, there are some hidden gems in the message of the movie, especially as befits love/marriage/commitment, and that does add to the theatre experience. However, at $7 a ticket for a senior citizen's afternoon matinee, I'd wait to rent the movie unless you are really craving movie popcorn and an over-priced fountain soda.
Saturday, May 2, 2009
I'm TIRED Out!
There are few chores I enjoy less than shopping, but I was out of the house and off to find a new tire by 9 am. When I returned half past noon, I was tired out and pissed off because ...
No inner tube (I need 6"/the stores stock 8" and 12"); no never-goes-flat tire ($40, same cost as a new barrow, but not the right size); no new wheelbarrow (too expensive); so no moving the dirt from across the street to fill the Mia holes today. I did complain at both Lowe's and Home Depot that they sell the darned wheelbarrow, so they should stock replacement parts for them, but that's a one-way conversation at best. Shrug shoulders: say "the person who does the ordering isn't working today." Task remains on the to-do list.
However, I found a new hardcover novel; bought Mia food she'll eat, instead of dump across the kitchen floor; found a replacement weiner dog squeaky toy to replace Mia's duct-taped toy; and bought myself a huge bunch of fresh asparagus as a reward for actually going shopping. Steamed in EVOO with a sprinkle of sea salt. Yum-o.
Still deciding if I want to do the work to have the water feature -- or find something smaller that will make do. I'll think it over while I watch sinfully sexy Matthew Mc at the movies tomorrow! Oh, yeah: what a weekend warrior.
UPDATE: I found a "steel" tire 10" in diameter for a reasonable price, so that's what's on the wheelbarrow. Sure, it's too small, but it's better than nothing -- or dealing with tires that go flat with every load of dirt I try to haul. First thing tomorrow, the Mia holes are filled in.
No inner tube (I need 6"/the stores stock 8" and 12"); no never-goes-flat tire ($40, same cost as a new barrow, but not the right size); no new wheelbarrow (too expensive); so no moving the dirt from across the street to fill the Mia holes today. I did complain at both Lowe's and Home Depot that they sell the darned wheelbarrow, so they should stock replacement parts for them, but that's a one-way conversation at best. Shrug shoulders: say "the person who does the ordering isn't working today." Task remains on the to-do list.
However, I found a new hardcover novel; bought Mia food she'll eat, instead of dump across the kitchen floor; found a replacement weiner dog squeaky toy to replace Mia's duct-taped toy; and bought myself a huge bunch of fresh asparagus as a reward for actually going shopping. Steamed in EVOO with a sprinkle of sea salt. Yum-o.
Still deciding if I want to do the work to have the water feature -- or find something smaller that will make do. I'll think it over while I watch sinfully sexy Matthew Mc at the movies tomorrow! Oh, yeah: what a weekend warrior.
UPDATE: I found a "steel" tire 10" in diameter for a reasonable price, so that's what's on the wheelbarrow. Sure, it's too small, but it's better than nothing -- or dealing with tires that go flat with every load of dirt I try to haul. First thing tomorrow, the Mia holes are filled in.
Friday, May 1, 2009
Today, It's ALL About (Poor Little Ole) Me
I am out of sync and don't know why. This last week, I had a sudden asthma episode inadvertently triggered by a student who did not know that I am very reactive to certain medicinal tobacco products. That seems to have started the ball rolling downhill, resulting in a complete shut-down on Wednesday that required sleeping in the middle of the day, an indulgence that happens once or maybe twice a year. I've been dragging myself around since then.
This morning, I was totally psyched as I had help coming to get some of the jobs off the to-do list, including resetting all the pavers in one of the three patio squares. I pulled up all the pavers to save time when my helpers arrived, and then I dragged the wheelbarrow out of the dog run to find that the tire was -- again -- flat. This time, however, when I hooked up the pump and depressed the plunger to fill the inner tube with air, the whole thing exploded away from the tire. The valve stem blew off the inner tube, and the only thing that stopped it from hitting me in the face was its attachment to the manual pump.
When I came into the house to call around about a tube replacement, I got the message that my helpers weren't going to make it today. I have to get the jobs done before it's too hot to step outside, so it is all on my shoulders. Again. Always.
I went to every store in my area that could possibly have either a replacement inner tube or a replacement tire, preferably one that doesn't use an inner tube, and found nothing. I bought an inner tube that didn't fit the tire, which I found out after waiting over an hour for Big O tires to install the new tube. Out of sorts, I drove back to the store where I bought the inner tube and returned it, then drove back home and did the redo on the paver patio by myself.
Tomorrow, I'm heading out to either find an inner tube that fits the tire, a solid replacement tire, or a new wheelbarrow. I have to fill in Mia's holes before she digs completely under the existing fence. If I'm going to do the work myself, I have to have the right tools, and that means a functioning wheelbarrow, one way or another.
The worst part of the projects is that I have no energy at all: none. I can hardly hold my head erect on my shoulders and my arms feel like lead weights at the end of a piece of spaghetti. So, it's a pity party for one today, but tomorrow is another day. I can do this. I will do this. Whatever it takes.
This morning, I was totally psyched as I had help coming to get some of the jobs off the to-do list, including resetting all the pavers in one of the three patio squares. I pulled up all the pavers to save time when my helpers arrived, and then I dragged the wheelbarrow out of the dog run to find that the tire was -- again -- flat. This time, however, when I hooked up the pump and depressed the plunger to fill the inner tube with air, the whole thing exploded away from the tire. The valve stem blew off the inner tube, and the only thing that stopped it from hitting me in the face was its attachment to the manual pump.
When I came into the house to call around about a tube replacement, I got the message that my helpers weren't going to make it today. I have to get the jobs done before it's too hot to step outside, so it is all on my shoulders. Again. Always.
I went to every store in my area that could possibly have either a replacement inner tube or a replacement tire, preferably one that doesn't use an inner tube, and found nothing. I bought an inner tube that didn't fit the tire, which I found out after waiting over an hour for Big O tires to install the new tube. Out of sorts, I drove back to the store where I bought the inner tube and returned it, then drove back home and did the redo on the paver patio by myself.
Tomorrow, I'm heading out to either find an inner tube that fits the tire, a solid replacement tire, or a new wheelbarrow. I have to fill in Mia's holes before she digs completely under the existing fence. If I'm going to do the work myself, I have to have the right tools, and that means a functioning wheelbarrow, one way or another.
The worst part of the projects is that I have no energy at all: none. I can hardly hold my head erect on my shoulders and my arms feel like lead weights at the end of a piece of spaghetti. So, it's a pity party for one today, but tomorrow is another day. I can do this. I will do this. Whatever it takes.
For the Greater Good
The judge hearing the most recent Duroville case has ruled NOT to shut it down because the 4000 or so residents currently occupying the approximately 250 permanent mobile homes would have nowhere to go. He feels that the hardship to the residents of shutting the mobile home park down outweighs the benefits of taking action to remove the park and clean up the environmental issues caused by its existence.
Evidently there is no hardship to living without adequate running water and/or electricity, with raw sewage collecting in pits dug under the trailer toilets, no trash collection, unpaved streets, and packs of feral dogs roaming the area along with the many, many children who also live there. Perhaps the judge should have shared accommodations with the residents for a month before he made his final ruling: he probably thinks that an average of 15 residents per dwelling unit is just cozy, not crowded, sort of like an extreme camping experience right here in the Coachella Valley.
My first thought was "go home," since the majority of the residents are illegal Mexican citizens who have crossed into the country to work under the table. They take their cash back to Mexico every weekend as it is, so on the next trip home, they could stay with their families. Living in Mexico could not possibly be any worse than living in Duroville.
This issue has been tied up in courts for over a decade, and the decision is to keep the status quo! If that's not a sad commentary on the inability of our judicial system to make decisions when decisions need to be made, I don't know what it is.
Evidently there is no hardship to living without adequate running water and/or electricity, with raw sewage collecting in pits dug under the trailer toilets, no trash collection, unpaved streets, and packs of feral dogs roaming the area along with the many, many children who also live there. Perhaps the judge should have shared accommodations with the residents for a month before he made his final ruling: he probably thinks that an average of 15 residents per dwelling unit is just cozy, not crowded, sort of like an extreme camping experience right here in the Coachella Valley.
My first thought was "go home," since the majority of the residents are illegal Mexican citizens who have crossed into the country to work under the table. They take their cash back to Mexico every weekend as it is, so on the next trip home, they could stay with their families. Living in Mexico could not possibly be any worse than living in Duroville.
This issue has been tied up in courts for over a decade, and the decision is to keep the status quo! If that's not a sad commentary on the inability of our judicial system to make decisions when decisions need to be made, I don't know what it is.
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