If you are going to Mars you'll need to know a few things.
First off, take plenty of books, you'll need them. Using today's rockets and equipment it'll take you about 9 to 10 months to get there. Mars is 35 million miles away.
Oh, and you'll need a reading light. For two months of the trip you'll be hurling through inky black space. No Sun, no Earth, no Mars. Just total darkness.
There will not be a lot of trips to Mars in your lifetime. The opportunity comes around only every 26 months, providing the rocket is back from it's previous trip. You see, to benefit the most from the gravity of earth and your sling into space, you have to blast off at just the right time. And that's true also for your return trip. When you get to Mars you'll have to wait a few months before earth is at the position to accept you back. Otherwise you could return only to find empty space where the Earth once was. It takes perfect timing. So now you know where we got that expression: "waiting for the planets to align."
Of course, if you get sick, you'll need to take care of yourself or maybe one of the flight crew will be a doctor. If the worst should happen, they'll have to bury you at space. Kinda what they used to do on long sea voyages, dump the dead bodies overboard.
Most say that in order to get to Mars you'll require far too much fuel than could be blasted into space in one rocket. You'll need about 60 rockets worth of supplies. And even if that could happen, 60 rockets worth of stuff wouldn't fit on the existing space station. It'll be a while before they build one that can. So don't buy your ticket yet.
Still, some are getting ready for the flight that could come in about 20 years. They are setting up Mars simulation sites in Antarctica. To help determine what happens to a body in weightlessness, some of the volunteers spend 60-90 days in bed. Now that's the ultimate job, getting paid to lay around. Cool.
One of the more interesting findings is the psychological issues that come with long space exploration. People have a very hard time living in a soup can while hurling through space sitting in each other's laps for 10 months. You tend to get on each other's nerves. But scientists have discovered that those that cook together form closer bonds. Well, if that's true in space, it's got to be true here on earth. You know the saying: "Families who eat together..." What's that saying again?
NPR got me to thinking about all of this when I heard a report about Mars exploration. But, I dunno, it really doesn't excite me much. I've got way to much to do here. And if I went away, I'd have plenty of catching up I'd have to do. Just trying to catch up on all my email for the past two years would require 10 months. (Two years is the total round trip time to Mars. Getting there, walking around for a little window shopping, you know, picking up a few trinkets, and then the return trip home.)
Oh, and don't imagine you'll be conversing much with family and friends during the flight. By the time you get to Mars the transmission delay is 45 minutes.
Yeah, traveling to Mars is no walk in the park.
Count me out.
...dave
Most things I worry about never happen.
Showing posts with label favorite. Show all posts
Showing posts with label favorite. Show all posts
Friday, July 04, 2008
Thursday, August 16, 2007
Friends are like Wildflowers
While visiting friends in North Carolina I found a field of wildflowers. I've never seen so much variety in such a small area. I was amazed. I focused on a single flower and snapped a picture. I zoomed in and out experimenting with focus. I tried placing a different flower in the foreground with the others a backdrop of dancing color. But in the end every flower featured looked beautiful. There really wasn't a bad perspective, just a different one.
When I got back to the house and brought the pictures up on my computer I decided to keep all the photographs. Each perspective was beautiful to me.
It was then that it hit me: My friends are really as varied as the wildflowers in a field. All of them are unique and provide me with a fresh perspective on life. I enjoy being close each and every one of them. When I spend time with them I see their beauty. My other friendships are still present but in the background. Their colors and perspectives provide a great contrast to the friend I'm with at the time.
I have friends all over the country and even in different countries. I often want to pluck them from the field and take them home with me but I know they thrive best in their own environments.
And they will be there when I return.
...dave
A friend is a present you give yourself. - Robert Louis Stevenson
Maybe related links:
Coffee Friends
Saturday, July 14, 2007
Borders at 10:00 p.m.
Don't ask me why. I don't even know. I just know that at 10:00, in the middle of a thunder and lightning storm my wife said she wanted to go to the book store. She likes reading for free and of course the libraries are closed. She found out that Borders stays open until 11:00. That'll give her an hour.
So in the pouring rain and thunder claps we drive to the book store. It dumps fat drops that slap the windshield. The wipers fight them off courageously but in vain. More water cascades out of the sky like tumbling books from towering shelves. We hydroplane through rivers in the road. No one is out here. All the sane people are ensconced at home cowering under an angry heaven of thundering voices.
But we are fearless or foolish, same difference.
There are plenty of parking spaces. We slide into one and quickly dart inside.
I find a chair with impossibly narrow armrests. I type here on my iBook, my arms cramped, my elbows jammed in my sides. My coat is still on. I'm growing sleepy and dizzy. I'm hot. I yank my North Face waterproof jacket off. I throw it over the next chair. I lay back trying to fight the sleepiness.
The store is quiet. No music plays. I can hear nothing save a few pages shuffling in the next isle. I can just hear the store cashiers giggling in the distance. The air conditioner hums and whirrs above. I hear no thunder, I see no lightning. Has it stopped? Am I dreaming?
I don't know. I just want to get horizontal. I want to go to bed. This is one time I DON'T want to be at Borders. I close my eyes as I type these last few sentences. I'm not even looking at the screen or keyboard. I'm so sleepy. How did I get so tired?
I need sleep. Just a few minutes. I need to return home.
Where is she? How much longer? I can't hold on. I can't lay down here.
I stumble out of the book store into the rain, eyes half-closed. I find the keys and climb into the back seat. Alas, I lie here sleepily. Will anyone ever find me here? I feel as though I've become lost in a wilderness and there's a storm outside. I've crawled into a cave to sleep it off. I'll never be found again.
....dave
I reach for sleep and pull it like a blanket around me.
So in the pouring rain and thunder claps we drive to the book store. It dumps fat drops that slap the windshield. The wipers fight them off courageously but in vain. More water cascades out of the sky like tumbling books from towering shelves. We hydroplane through rivers in the road. No one is out here. All the sane people are ensconced at home cowering under an angry heaven of thundering voices.
But we are fearless or foolish, same difference.
There are plenty of parking spaces. We slide into one and quickly dart inside.
I find a chair with impossibly narrow armrests. I type here on my iBook, my arms cramped, my elbows jammed in my sides. My coat is still on. I'm growing sleepy and dizzy. I'm hot. I yank my North Face waterproof jacket off. I throw it over the next chair. I lay back trying to fight the sleepiness.
The store is quiet. No music plays. I can hear nothing save a few pages shuffling in the next isle. I can just hear the store cashiers giggling in the distance. The air conditioner hums and whirrs above. I hear no thunder, I see no lightning. Has it stopped? Am I dreaming?
I don't know. I just want to get horizontal. I want to go to bed. This is one time I DON'T want to be at Borders. I close my eyes as I type these last few sentences. I'm not even looking at the screen or keyboard. I'm so sleepy. How did I get so tired?
I need sleep. Just a few minutes. I need to return home.
Where is she? How much longer? I can't hold on. I can't lay down here.
I stumble out of the book store into the rain, eyes half-closed. I find the keys and climb into the back seat. Alas, I lie here sleepily. Will anyone ever find me here? I feel as though I've become lost in a wilderness and there's a storm outside. I've crawled into a cave to sleep it off. I'll never be found again.
....dave
I reach for sleep and pull it like a blanket around me.
Wednesday, June 06, 2007
A View From The Top
I sit now at the top floor of our Enterprise Buildings. I'm at the 19th floor now. I've moved from a lower floor and to a better cube. The cube is next to the glass wall of windows that overlook Atlanta. It's a heady move. I also have a bigger cube with wrap around work surface. Which would have been fine in and of itself. The work surface I mean. But the view is grand.I'm poised with my feet up on the window sill and glass coffee mug just a clutch away. This is the best part of the day. It's just 7:20. Few people have arrived. I've eaten my breakfast of eggs, potatoes, and a single strip of bacon. I have allocated another 20 minutes of writing before I start my day. It's a long day of meetings right through lunch and on into the afternoon. But for now, this is my time just before the craziness starts.
I glance up from my keyboard just past the notebook's screen and look north-eastward. I can see the orange circle raise from the horizon. The morning mist settles in the valleys like fluffy white cotton candy. It glistens in the morning sun.
The traffic below is a hum of bees streaming to work the city hives.
My coffee filters through the Sumatra grounds inside the brewing station. It's perched atop the small refrigerator that holds a small fortune of Peets coffee. (I'm a Peetnic. I get regular premium shipments of Peets coffee every other month. I stash them in my office fridge for fresh keeping.)
The phone is ringing. Time to start the day.
...dave
You can't leave footprints in the sands of time if you're sitting on your butt. And who wants to leave buttprints in the sands of time?
Thursday, May 10, 2007
Sleep
For me, one of life’s greatest pleasures is sleep. Which some would argue is not a pleasure at all since the sleeping person is not aware of their feelings. But I treasure the actual process of drifting off to sleep. The process of getting to sleep is like a warm embrace.
It feels like I'm climbing into a steamy hot tub, burbling and gurgling in anesthetized frothiness. I like the feel of submerging myself senseless into the steamy waters. This slipping into unconsciousness is the part I treasure.
I'm a ship that has pushed off from the dock. People and places shrink as if a zoom lens is widening. I let go of the tether. I drift and I become unaware of all. The faces become dots in the horizon and my ship sinks into the vast ocean of unconsciousness.
Tiredness starts with my head. It bobs in the wake of sleepiness. I lean back. I close my eyes. Unconsciousness approaches. And as it does, I'm only aware that I'm drifting, drifting into a quiet place. The voices of people around me echo in distant indistinct murmurs. I hear their sounds but not their words. Sleep has washed over me and I succumb.
…dave
I love sleep. My life has the tendency to fall apart when I'm awake. - Ernest Hemingway
It feels like I'm climbing into a steamy hot tub, burbling and gurgling in anesthetized frothiness. I like the feel of submerging myself senseless into the steamy waters. This slipping into unconsciousness is the part I treasure.
I'm a ship that has pushed off from the dock. People and places shrink as if a zoom lens is widening. I let go of the tether. I drift and I become unaware of all. The faces become dots in the horizon and my ship sinks into the vast ocean of unconsciousness.
Tiredness starts with my head. It bobs in the wake of sleepiness. I lean back. I close my eyes. Unconsciousness approaches. And as it does, I'm only aware that I'm drifting, drifting into a quiet place. The voices of people around me echo in distant indistinct murmurs. I hear their sounds but not their words. Sleep has washed over me and I succumb.
…dave
I love sleep. My life has the tendency to fall apart when I'm awake. - Ernest Hemingway
Saturday, December 30, 2006
The Demise of the Enterprise
Everything is shutting down. Like a patient in intensive care it's breathing, but just barely. Being on life support is just existence, not life. And that's exactly what is happening in the Enterprise. The life is gone. There is no zest, no excitement. It's just an existence on a respirator. The lights come one, people show up, they do work, they go home, and it all starts again the next day. Like zombies of the enterprise, they walk, they talk, they work, but they are lifeless.
The quality of working life is non-existent. There is no Office Supply area near the copier like there used to be. Just empty shelves and a few bent paper clips. There are a few discarded manila folders scared by torn paper labels. And some old binders with clear sleeve fronts still proclaiming the title of the old contents. But the sleeve insert is long gone, as well as the contents. The title remains because the toner residue stained the cover.
From the moment I enter the Enterprise it's apparent that this was once a great ship. But like all ships exposed to the elements, it needs care. The bridges connecting the parking decks with the main office buildings leak with rain water, water stains bleed through the ceiling paint. It's taken some time for the Enterprise to atrophy. It takes three miles to stop an oil tanker. This Oil Tanker's pilot has gone to sleep and the ship has run aground. And like any ship, it's beauty has become tarnished by inaction. And like the Titanic, it has been left to rot at the bottom of the quarterly Profit and Loss sheets. There is no vision or budget to improve itís function.
Contractors and off-shore workers are hired and "let go" as frequently as I change my underwear. Everyday someone different has joined the team . . . or left the team. Everyday someone different is on the phone in my conference calls. Who are these people? What function do they provide? Titles like: "Program Manager" and "Business Services Tech Lead" are used describe their function. Okay, but what do they actually DO? "It's undetermined. Further information will become available." they tell me.
Money, the hoarding of great sums of cash, is the cause of the Enterprise demise. Only quarterly reports and Wall Street expectations drive what the executives spend budgets on. While they all take home large pots of gold, rewards for keeping the enterprise lean, I buy my own office supplies for my 6x7 foot cube. While the executives all take home millions in salary and still more millions in bonuses, I remain at the same basic level as when I arrived five years ago.
The execs do business in their large panel offices and panoramic views. I step around the "Slippery when wet" signs that warn of the rain puddles from the leaking ceilings. The execs park their company issued BMW 745s in assigned spots near the door, but I walk up and down the parking levels after parking my Camry in whatever available spot I can find. All of them order free steak and lobster from their private chef and eat on the penthouse floor while I must buy my own roast beef sandwich in the company cafeteria on the ground floor.
Everything is shutting down. Even the mail carts on rails are "temporally out of order until further notice." Now I must take a trip to the basement to get my trade magazines. I use them to keep abreast of technology. Seems strange doesn't it? The technology that used to deliver the mail is inactive so I must walk to the basement to get my own magazines on technology.
It's just a matter of time before the patient dies. All the investors are standing around the bed looking down at the barely breathing skeletal frame, expecting death soon. No one wants to pull the plug. No one has the authority to end it now. so they wait. But the patient has really already died. The eyes are closed. There's no communication. The brain has expired. There comes a point when the respirator is no longer prolonging life, it's prolonging death. It just ain't going to get any better. Someone should be brave and pull the plug. Free the bed for someone that will respond to care.
...dave
Where there is no vision, the people perish. - Proverbs 29:18
The quality of working life is non-existent. There is no Office Supply area near the copier like there used to be. Just empty shelves and a few bent paper clips. There are a few discarded manila folders scared by torn paper labels. And some old binders with clear sleeve fronts still proclaiming the title of the old contents. But the sleeve insert is long gone, as well as the contents. The title remains because the toner residue stained the cover.
From the moment I enter the Enterprise it's apparent that this was once a great ship. But like all ships exposed to the elements, it needs care. The bridges connecting the parking decks with the main office buildings leak with rain water, water stains bleed through the ceiling paint. It's taken some time for the Enterprise to atrophy. It takes three miles to stop an oil tanker. This Oil Tanker's pilot has gone to sleep and the ship has run aground. And like any ship, it's beauty has become tarnished by inaction. And like the Titanic, it has been left to rot at the bottom of the quarterly Profit and Loss sheets. There is no vision or budget to improve itís function.
Contractors and off-shore workers are hired and "let go" as frequently as I change my underwear. Everyday someone different has joined the team . . . or left the team. Everyday someone different is on the phone in my conference calls. Who are these people? What function do they provide? Titles like: "Program Manager" and "Business Services Tech Lead" are used describe their function. Okay, but what do they actually DO? "It's undetermined. Further information will become available." they tell me.
Money, the hoarding of great sums of cash, is the cause of the Enterprise demise. Only quarterly reports and Wall Street expectations drive what the executives spend budgets on. While they all take home large pots of gold, rewards for keeping the enterprise lean, I buy my own office supplies for my 6x7 foot cube. While the executives all take home millions in salary and still more millions in bonuses, I remain at the same basic level as when I arrived five years ago.
The execs do business in their large panel offices and panoramic views. I step around the "Slippery when wet" signs that warn of the rain puddles from the leaking ceilings. The execs park their company issued BMW 745s in assigned spots near the door, but I walk up and down the parking levels after parking my Camry in whatever available spot I can find. All of them order free steak and lobster from their private chef and eat on the penthouse floor while I must buy my own roast beef sandwich in the company cafeteria on the ground floor.
Everything is shutting down. Even the mail carts on rails are "temporally out of order until further notice." Now I must take a trip to the basement to get my trade magazines. I use them to keep abreast of technology. Seems strange doesn't it? The technology that used to deliver the mail is inactive so I must walk to the basement to get my own magazines on technology.
It's just a matter of time before the patient dies. All the investors are standing around the bed looking down at the barely breathing skeletal frame, expecting death soon. No one wants to pull the plug. No one has the authority to end it now. so they wait. But the patient has really already died. The eyes are closed. There's no communication. The brain has expired. There comes a point when the respirator is no longer prolonging life, it's prolonging death. It just ain't going to get any better. Someone should be brave and pull the plug. Free the bed for someone that will respond to care.
...dave
Where there is no vision, the people perish. - Proverbs 29:18
Friday, November 24, 2006
A case for laceless shoes
I don't know why anyone uses lace up shoes anymore. It makes no sense to me. I know laces are very popular, everyone is wearing them. But frankly I don't understand WHY people persist. There are better, superior ways to keep your shoes on. I mean, why would anyone lace up when they can hook and loop, slip on, or zip up? None of my shoes have laces in them. From personal experience I can tell you my shoes never fall off. So then, really, what are laces for? Besides, shoes would be cheeper if you didn't have to pay for laces or even eyelets.
When I wore shoes with laces, they were always untying themselves. And I was always retying them. What a pain. It's a battle. Of course, I couldn't just stop anywhere to retie the laces. I had to find some surface to steady my shoe on, like for example, someone's coffee table.
I think laces are like a cats. You have to tend to them throughout your day. You can't just ignore them. They'll come back to haunt you. They'll untie themselves if for no other reason than to get your attention. If you leave them untied and ignore their whipping stings, eventually you'll trip over them. They only exist to remind you that you can't live without them. Just like cats.
Laces are time bombs. Sooner or later they'll detonate. As I walk through the day I can feel the clock ticking at my feet. I gradually feel them loosen and become increasingly disloyal. If I don't disarm the bomb, they'll explode in a tangle, trip me, and throw me to the floor in a helpless heap. Laces are assassins. They are dangerous. Why hasn't OSHA acted? They ought to step in and outlaw shoe laces altogether.
Personally, I don't own a pair of lace-up shoes. They are not part of my wardrobe. I don't believe in them.
The biggest pain of all comes when my laced-up friends arrive for dinner. I have a No-Shoes Policy in my home. So they stop and untie their shoes at the door. They usually can't stay as long as my slip-on friends because they spend much of their time untying and tying their shoes when they come and go. I usually try to invite them 15 minutes early so that they have their shoes off and are ready to eat by the time the rest of my slip-on friends arrive.
I'm polite and all. I hold the door open for them while they lean on the door frame and unlace. I wait patiently, making small talk. They teeter on one foot and then the other. They try to look me in the eye and untie at the same time, which is dicey. I've had to reach out and grab their arm and steady a few of them. We live on the second floor. I couldn't bear to see them tumble down the porch shoeless. I may need to change my policy to a Laceless No Shoe Policy. I don't want to be responsible for any lost souls cascading down the stairs of my home.
Laces should be outlawed. Lots of benefits could come from that: big insurance savings, less hospital stays, less slip, trip and falls. Even better, more time could be spent chatting with friends in their homes rather than standing at the door laced up. All of the advantages with none of the liabilities.
Lace up shoes are history.
Slip-ons are the future.
...dave
If I tell a funny joke in the forest but nobody laughs, is it still funny?
Sunday, January 08, 2006
Stop Asking Me Stupid Questions
I'm so tired of people asking me stupid questions. Like, for example, at a craft shop:
"Would you like to join our membership website?"
"Ah, no thanks."
"You can get great discounts and we'll notify you of store specials!"
"No."
"Okay, is that all then?"
"Yes, it's all. If it weren't all I'd still be roaming this store mindlessly. But here I stand in this cashier's line, while you asked each and every person if they want to join your membership, and all I want to do is give you my money and pay for this stuff. Here I stand in front of you now, stop asking me stupid questions and take my money!"
"Will that be cash or charge?"
Arrrggggghhh!
Even at the pump I'm asked endless questions about my purchase. Just yesterday, after inserting my card into the pump, it asked: "Zip code?" Why in the world would the pump care where my house is? I'm in a car, obviously needing gas. Stop asking me stupid questions!
So I punched in my zip, but then it asked what type of gas I wanted. Some young people take this stuff for granted but in the old days you just drove up to the pump with the correct octane. You didn't have to think, once you got to the right pump. In fact, the guy at the station pumped your gas while you listened to your radio. But that's another issue.
Now they pump all the different types of gas through the same hose. My point is, now you have answer stupid questions these ignorant machines keep asking. Come on, can't the machines tell what kind of gas my car needs? I just gave it my credit card! I use it to pay my car insurance. That means I can only be driving one of two cars. Everyone knows a Porsche requires high octane. So stop asking me dumb questions!
Anyway I dispensed the gas and returned the nozzle. But then the real questions began:
"Would you like a discounted car wash?"
NO! (Where is the NO key?)
Every pump has a different keypad configuration. Sometimes the NO is located at the left, sometimes at the right. Where is the NO? I found the NO. I pushed it.
"Would you like to purchase something from our convenience mart?"
NO!
"Does this complete your purchase?"
NO, I mean YES. (Shoot, where is the YES button. I'm going to blow a gasket.)
"Do you want a printed receipt?"
NO! NO! NO! Stop these silly questions, please. I'll do anything. I'll pay more per gallon. Anything!
Stop it, stop it, stop it!
Stop this madness!
...dave
My advice to you is not to inquire why or whither, but just enjoy your ice cream while it's on your plate -- that's my philosophy. -Thornton Wilder from The Skin of Our Teeth, 1942
"Would you like to join our membership website?"
"Ah, no thanks."
"You can get great discounts and we'll notify you of store specials!"
"No."
"Okay, is that all then?"
"Yes, it's all. If it weren't all I'd still be roaming this store mindlessly. But here I stand in this cashier's line, while you asked each and every person if they want to join your membership, and all I want to do is give you my money and pay for this stuff. Here I stand in front of you now, stop asking me stupid questions and take my money!"
"Will that be cash or charge?"
Arrrggggghhh!
Even at the pump I'm asked endless questions about my purchase. Just yesterday, after inserting my card into the pump, it asked: "Zip code?" Why in the world would the pump care where my house is? I'm in a car, obviously needing gas. Stop asking me stupid questions!
So I punched in my zip, but then it asked what type of gas I wanted. Some young people take this stuff for granted but in the old days you just drove up to the pump with the correct octane. You didn't have to think, once you got to the right pump. In fact, the guy at the station pumped your gas while you listened to your radio. But that's another issue.
Now they pump all the different types of gas through the same hose. My point is, now you have answer stupid questions these ignorant machines keep asking. Come on, can't the machines tell what kind of gas my car needs? I just gave it my credit card! I use it to pay my car insurance. That means I can only be driving one of two cars. Everyone knows a Porsche requires high octane. So stop asking me dumb questions!
Anyway I dispensed the gas and returned the nozzle. But then the real questions began:
"Would you like a discounted car wash?"
NO! (Where is the NO key?)
Every pump has a different keypad configuration. Sometimes the NO is located at the left, sometimes at the right. Where is the NO? I found the NO. I pushed it.
"Would you like to purchase something from our convenience mart?"
NO!
"Does this complete your purchase?"
NO, I mean YES. (Shoot, where is the YES button. I'm going to blow a gasket.)
"Do you want a printed receipt?"
NO! NO! NO! Stop these silly questions, please. I'll do anything. I'll pay more per gallon. Anything!
Stop it, stop it, stop it!
Stop this madness!
...dave
My advice to you is not to inquire why or whither, but just enjoy your ice cream while it's on your plate -- that's my philosophy. -Thornton Wilder from The Skin of Our Teeth, 1942
Sunday, December 04, 2005
Grover's Visit
My brother-in-law is in town at some technical class. I don't fully understand it but it has something to do with computers and a calibration machine for your body. Don't ask me how it works, I couldn't tell you. All I know is it's helped thousands and Grover has purchased one to complement his electronic wave machine.
The story is, he'll measure your body's biometrics with the new machine and treat what ails you with the one he built. He's doing well by it. Was out of country and sold almost one hundred of these machines just last month.
But I think he's approaching it all wrong.
It has been said that laughter is the best medicine. Grover can make you laugh. I was laughing so hard I had to step out of the dining room to catch my breath. He ought to just tell stores. People would get better and he'd make millions
He re-told the story of his Jacuzzi experience. My stomach cramped as he told it last night and I was crying so hard I couldn't open my eyes.
The story goes that he was lounging in a Jacuzzi at some hotel in L.A. No one was around so he tilted his head back, put his arms up on the sides, and just listened to the quiet burbling water.
He glanced up at the rules, eyes half open, and read one of the guidelines: "Time in the pool not to exceed 20 minutes."
He laughed to himself, shrugged it off as simply a guideline and closed his eyes again.
Just as his eyelids shut out the light coming through the bubbles, he felt a tinge of uneasiness. It persisted. Then he became a little dizzy. He opened his eyes, adjusted himself and sat up on the edge of the pool, head down, feet dangling at the water's edge.
Like a fist in a knockout round his stomach wrenched and he swallowed hard. "I've got to get back to my room." he concluded. So he grabbed his towel and began trotting to the lobby and down the hall to the elevators.
When he reached the elevator and pressed the button, he pushed down another wrench with another hard swallow. Come on, he thought to himself, Where is that elevator?
As the numbers above the elevator showed above the doors, it was on it's way, but not fast enough.
Just then another wrench, and grabbing the only thing at his disposal to contain the contents, he held the towel corners to his mouth and emptied his dinner into it.
By then, the elevator had come, and it opened full of people. The people stared incredulously as Grover looked up from his dripping towel, now distended with the contents of his stomach. He wiped his mouth of the string of saliva and moved in. Not, however, before the elevator emptied it's contents of the disgusted riders.
There were additional heaves on the way up as the momentum of the ride compounded his challenged equilibrium, but not after stopping at several floors to receive the same reaction he got on the ground floor.
He reached his room and flung his loaded towel in the general vicinity of the bathroom. Aiming for the tub but missing his target like a blind man on a hunting expedition it missed it's mark, slapped the wall, and gave the bathroom interior a new coat of color
He lay, exhausted on the bed, awaiting the next violent wave.
His wife stepped in, minutes later, saw the tired body flung across the bed with it's arms and legs dangling over the edge. She asked the only thing a woman concerned for her husband would ask: "What in the world happened to the bathroom?"
Grover replied breathless: "Don't ask."
...dave
It's better to be rich and healthy then poor and sick. -Dave Barry
The story is, he'll measure your body's biometrics with the new machine and treat what ails you with the one he built. He's doing well by it. Was out of country and sold almost one hundred of these machines just last month.
But I think he's approaching it all wrong.
It has been said that laughter is the best medicine. Grover can make you laugh. I was laughing so hard I had to step out of the dining room to catch my breath. He ought to just tell stores. People would get better and he'd make millions
He re-told the story of his Jacuzzi experience. My stomach cramped as he told it last night and I was crying so hard I couldn't open my eyes.
The story goes that he was lounging in a Jacuzzi at some hotel in L.A. No one was around so he tilted his head back, put his arms up on the sides, and just listened to the quiet burbling water.
He glanced up at the rules, eyes half open, and read one of the guidelines: "Time in the pool not to exceed 20 minutes."
He laughed to himself, shrugged it off as simply a guideline and closed his eyes again.
Just as his eyelids shut out the light coming through the bubbles, he felt a tinge of uneasiness. It persisted. Then he became a little dizzy. He opened his eyes, adjusted himself and sat up on the edge of the pool, head down, feet dangling at the water's edge.
Like a fist in a knockout round his stomach wrenched and he swallowed hard. "I've got to get back to my room." he concluded. So he grabbed his towel and began trotting to the lobby and down the hall to the elevators.
When he reached the elevator and pressed the button, he pushed down another wrench with another hard swallow. Come on, he thought to himself, Where is that elevator?
As the numbers above the elevator showed above the doors, it was on it's way, but not fast enough.
Just then another wrench, and grabbing the only thing at his disposal to contain the contents, he held the towel corners to his mouth and emptied his dinner into it.
By then, the elevator had come, and it opened full of people. The people stared incredulously as Grover looked up from his dripping towel, now distended with the contents of his stomach. He wiped his mouth of the string of saliva and moved in. Not, however, before the elevator emptied it's contents of the disgusted riders.
There were additional heaves on the way up as the momentum of the ride compounded his challenged equilibrium, but not after stopping at several floors to receive the same reaction he got on the ground floor.
He reached his room and flung his loaded towel in the general vicinity of the bathroom. Aiming for the tub but missing his target like a blind man on a hunting expedition it missed it's mark, slapped the wall, and gave the bathroom interior a new coat of color
He lay, exhausted on the bed, awaiting the next violent wave.
His wife stepped in, minutes later, saw the tired body flung across the bed with it's arms and legs dangling over the edge. She asked the only thing a woman concerned for her husband would ask: "What in the world happened to the bathroom?"
Grover replied breathless: "Don't ask."
...dave
It's better to be rich and healthy then poor and sick. -Dave Barry
Thursday, December 01, 2005
Pictures
I've been procrastinating about getting my old slides scanned. Finally, I took them down and for 75 cents each got the first 20 scanned. They came out great.
Here are some of my favorites.
Little boy on NYC Brownstone stoop
Old men in a cow town.
Eric on the phone talking to grandma on the mainland.
Couple at Botanical Garden in Brooklyn, NY.
Flower box at a Brooklyn Brownstone.
I also got back my pictures from Raven Falls and re-posted.
Some other photos
My best two photos
...dave
"Every so often, I like to go to the window, look up, and smile for a satellite picture." -Stephen Wright
Here are some of my favorites.
Little boy on NYC Brownstone stoop
Old men in a cow town.
Eric on the phone talking to grandma on the mainland.
Couple at Botanical Garden in Brooklyn, NY.
Flower box at a Brooklyn Brownstone.
I also got back my pictures from Raven Falls and re-posted.
Some other photos
My best two photos
...dave
"Every so often, I like to go to the window, look up, and smile for a satellite picture." -Stephen Wright
Friday, November 04, 2005
Riding Home
I often talk about how great it is to feel the wind in your face with the top down but to understand it is to feel it.
I think that's why people love horseback riding. In a way, I'm riding 225 horses home from work. I get the same wind in my face. Maybe a little more wind since I'm riding more than just a single horse, but just as fun all the same.
My favorite part is coming up Bernt Hickory. It's beautiful. It runs through the park, and now the trees are all turning. It's absolutely the most beautiful thing you could ever experience.
The two lane rode twists and lingers up and through the mild hills of Kennesaw park. The trees lean toward me, tunnel-like. I smell flower and pine fragrances blow past me in whips of wind in the straight away and and gentle breezes in corners . Some hills roll up and down to my right and left in gentle pastures or in huge lawn carpets ending at massive stone homes nestled in the hills. The sun filters through the leaves, and fingers of light tickle my face as I race along the ribbon of road through sun dappled trees.
What could be more peaceful, what could be more beautiful than an open-top ride home after work on a cool autumn day?
...dave
Everything in life is speaking in spite of it's apparent silence. -Hazrat Inayat Khan
Thursday, October 06, 2005
Gentle Rain
Gentle rain is very calming. It's overcast now and the downspouts empty their contents in a stream. The stream is steady now. There is no noise outside but the gentle rain. A distant dog barks. I hear him no more. I'm feeling sleepy.
I'm in this black wood framed chair. It rocks me gently, slightly. It could put me to sleep like a baby in his mother's arms. This iBook is warm in my lap. My palms rest on the eggshell colored support near the keyboard.
I can click on the browser and be anywhere in an instant, but I wont, I don't. I want to be right here. In the moment, spewing text from this machine and posting it out to the world. What contentment. An umbilical connection to my friends, regardless of their location. I can communicate easily, quickly, or even not at all. Umbilical connection. This is why the blog is so popular. It goes back to connections. Connections with friends. Friends that may be very far away, but still connections.
And so I type and not sleep like my body tells me I should. The rain falls gently. The shutters are drawn like eye lids over windows of the soul. The sounds of the keyboard are all I hear. And I rock ever so gently. Eyes closing now, then they force themselves open to finish this post. What's a post without the final signature and quote? It's no post at all. And so I close. Close this post for sleep. Sleep induced by gentle rain.
...dave
"'I love walking in the rain, 'cause then no-one knows im crying'" -Anonymous
I'm in this black wood framed chair. It rocks me gently, slightly. It could put me to sleep like a baby in his mother's arms. This iBook is warm in my lap. My palms rest on the eggshell colored support near the keyboard.
I can click on the browser and be anywhere in an instant, but I wont, I don't. I want to be right here. In the moment, spewing text from this machine and posting it out to the world. What contentment. An umbilical connection to my friends, regardless of their location. I can communicate easily, quickly, or even not at all. Umbilical connection. This is why the blog is so popular. It goes back to connections. Connections with friends. Friends that may be very far away, but still connections.
And so I type and not sleep like my body tells me I should. The rain falls gently. The shutters are drawn like eye lids over windows of the soul. The sounds of the keyboard are all I hear. And I rock ever so gently. Eyes closing now, then they force themselves open to finish this post. What's a post without the final signature and quote? It's no post at all. And so I close. Close this post for sleep. Sleep induced by gentle rain.
...dave
"'I love walking in the rain, 'cause then no-one knows im crying'" -Anonymous
Monday, October 03, 2005
How much do you charge?
One of the recurring themes of the south is prejudice. I always sit incredulous as someone tells me their story. A story of snobbery, jealously, and "good ol' boy networks." It makes me ill.
How many times have I heard the story of a black man out mowing his lawn when a white man pulls up to ask what he charges for yard work. Over and over this has actually occurred. It's never occurred to these folks that the black man OWNS the house.
My favorite, and true, story is of Ted. He was out mowing his lawn when an old white man and his wife drove up in a Cadillic. He leaned over his wife and called out to Ted: "Hey, boy, how much do you charge?"
Ted, a man with a sense of humor, walked over to the car, leaned into the car while dripping in sweat and said:
"I don't charge anything. The woman who lives here let's me sleep with her."
The man shot out of the subdivision like a cannon. Ted stood and smiled.
I laughed at his ingenuity.
...dave
Everyone is a prisoner of his own experience. No one can eliminate prejudices--just recognize them. -Edward R. Murrow
How many times have I heard the story of a black man out mowing his lawn when a white man pulls up to ask what he charges for yard work. Over and over this has actually occurred. It's never occurred to these folks that the black man OWNS the house.
My favorite, and true, story is of Ted. He was out mowing his lawn when an old white man and his wife drove up in a Cadillic. He leaned over his wife and called out to Ted: "Hey, boy, how much do you charge?"
Ted, a man with a sense of humor, walked over to the car, leaned into the car while dripping in sweat and said:
"I don't charge anything. The woman who lives here let's me sleep with her."
The man shot out of the subdivision like a cannon. Ted stood and smiled.
I laughed at his ingenuity.
...dave
Everyone is a prisoner of his own experience. No one can eliminate prejudices--just recognize them. -Edward R. Murrow
Tuesday, August 02, 2005
Coffee Friends
We were talking the other day about the types of friends we have. Some are coffee friends, others are dinner friends, and still others are day friends. Now you may be wondering: What kind of people are these? Believe me when I tell you, you have them too.
A Coffee friend is a friend that is good to visit with over a cup - but no longer. For whatever reason, you can't take much more than about 15 minutes with them.
A Dinner friend is different. Being with them is a little less stressful so you can last through a meal and it's no big deal. After that though, the ear membrane grows thin.
Now a Day friend is someone you can spend an entire 12 hours with. There is no problem being with them. Their laugh, their smile, their honest appraisal of themselves and of you, all make them appealing, even soothing, to be with.
Of course, Day friends rarely, if ever, get to spend an entire day with you. Why? Because they are in high demand. Everyone wants to be with them (whether they know about the coffee, dinner or day friends we speak of here).
So the key here is, be a Day friend. Oh, and please give me a call if you are. I'm always looking for more Day friends.
...dave
A friend is one who knows us, but loves us anyway. -- Fr. Jerome Cummings
A Coffee friend is a friend that is good to visit with over a cup - but no longer. For whatever reason, you can't take much more than about 15 minutes with them.
A Dinner friend is different. Being with them is a little less stressful so you can last through a meal and it's no big deal. After that though, the ear membrane grows thin.
Now a Day friend is someone you can spend an entire 12 hours with. There is no problem being with them. Their laugh, their smile, their honest appraisal of themselves and of you, all make them appealing, even soothing, to be with.
Of course, Day friends rarely, if ever, get to spend an entire day with you. Why? Because they are in high demand. Everyone wants to be with them (whether they know about the coffee, dinner or day friends we speak of here).
So the key here is, be a Day friend. Oh, and please give me a call if you are. I'm always looking for more Day friends.
...dave
A friend is one who knows us, but loves us anyway. -- Fr. Jerome Cummings
Sunday, April 17, 2005
Yard Work
I knew I wouldn't escape. I was blissfully relaxing (well, really feigning sleep) when my wife asked for some help in the yard. It was 10:00.
We had picked up a Mantis from some friends yesterday and she needed help "starting it." She said: "Do you want to help?" Yeah, sure. Asking me if I want to help with yard work is like asking a condemned man if he wants to build his own casket.
The Mantis, in case you haven't seen one, is a 1/2 horse-powered red tilling machine. It's got teeth or tines on wheels that rotate while you walk backwards and pull it along the earth. But when you start it up, it vibrates your arms off. We have lots of rocks embedded in hard Georgia clay. So you can imagine my joy when I saw my teeth rattle right out of my head. (As I write this, my hands are still tingling and I think I've lost feeling on my fingers. I'm convalescing now.)
We were out there for hours it seemed and I'd only gotten half done. Ruth kept saying: "Isn't yard work enjoyable?" Ah huh, I nodded. She MUST be joking, this woman has gone nuts. How could anyone enjoy getting dirt under their fingernails, pollen in their eyes, and gas fumes up their nose? I'm not seeing it.
Just starting the Mantis wore me out. Maybe you need to pray to get it started? (No, then it would be a Praying Mantis, ha!) I primed and choked and coxed and . . . oooppsss, I forgot to flip it to Start. Okay, it should start now. But it didn't. I think it was objecting to the fool at it's controls.
I stopped and walked the yard like a boxer getting ready to go back into the ring. I returned to this little Red Devil and went at it with all my might. Finally, it coughed to a rough idle. And then it quit. But I was determined now and after a few more pulls it finally started.
As I say, the yard is rough to till. The ground gave up large rocks like a dental patient giving up wisdom teeth. They came out after much trouble and left pockets in the earth behind.
Three hours later I was exhausted, done, and finished, but the yard wasn't. Ruth looked up when she didn't hear the Mantis groaning and called out: "Isn't yard work fun?" If she says that one more time I'll . . . "Yes, dear." How could I get mad when she gave me a big smile from under that large white gardening hat she wears? I went back to work.
A few minutes later Eric called out from the back porch: "Do you guys know what time it is? It's 12:15!" Yikes, we're supposed to be somewhere at 1:00. Bless his heart. Give that kid more money for his allowance.
I should have thought of this idea before. I could have had him come out hours ago. What a fool I've been.
...dave
Gardening requires a lot of water - most of it in the from of perspiration. -Lou Erickson
We had picked up a Mantis from some friends yesterday and she needed help "starting it." She said: "Do you want to help?" Yeah, sure. Asking me if I want to help with yard work is like asking a condemned man if he wants to build his own casket.
The Mantis, in case you haven't seen one, is a 1/2 horse-powered red tilling machine. It's got teeth or tines on wheels that rotate while you walk backwards and pull it along the earth. But when you start it up, it vibrates your arms off. We have lots of rocks embedded in hard Georgia clay. So you can imagine my joy when I saw my teeth rattle right out of my head. (As I write this, my hands are still tingling and I think I've lost feeling on my fingers. I'm convalescing now.)
We were out there for hours it seemed and I'd only gotten half done. Ruth kept saying: "Isn't yard work enjoyable?" Ah huh, I nodded. She MUST be joking, this woman has gone nuts. How could anyone enjoy getting dirt under their fingernails, pollen in their eyes, and gas fumes up their nose? I'm not seeing it.
Just starting the Mantis wore me out. Maybe you need to pray to get it started? (No, then it would be a Praying Mantis, ha!) I primed and choked and coxed and . . . oooppsss, I forgot to flip it to Start. Okay, it should start now. But it didn't. I think it was objecting to the fool at it's controls.
I stopped and walked the yard like a boxer getting ready to go back into the ring. I returned to this little Red Devil and went at it with all my might. Finally, it coughed to a rough idle. And then it quit. But I was determined now and after a few more pulls it finally started.
As I say, the yard is rough to till. The ground gave up large rocks like a dental patient giving up wisdom teeth. They came out after much trouble and left pockets in the earth behind.
Three hours later I was exhausted, done, and finished, but the yard wasn't. Ruth looked up when she didn't hear the Mantis groaning and called out: "Isn't yard work fun?" If she says that one more time I'll . . . "Yes, dear." How could I get mad when she gave me a big smile from under that large white gardening hat she wears? I went back to work.
A few minutes later Eric called out from the back porch: "Do you guys know what time it is? It's 12:15!" Yikes, we're supposed to be somewhere at 1:00. Bless his heart. Give that kid more money for his allowance.
I should have thought of this idea before. I could have had him come out hours ago. What a fool I've been.
...dave
Gardening requires a lot of water - most of it in the from of perspiration. -Lou Erickson
Wednesday, April 06, 2005
Career Limiting Move (CLM)
CLM means Career Limiting Move. It's an expression we use for someone who has just brought themselves closer to the exit door. There are many examples I could give you. But they always center around some goofus that said the wrong thing in front of the wrong person and are doubtless marked for life. At least, life in their current job. But no CLM could have been greater than the one I heard about today. It takes the cake.
Several were invited up to some Exec's Board Room late in the day. These Execs work all manner of hours (that's why they have often been married several times) and I guess they expect everyone else to work the same. It's not uncommon to have one of them get their Admin (their secretary) to schedule you in one of their meetings, say at 7:00 in the morning, or at your 12:00 lunch hour, or even late into the evening. If you are really lucky, you'll get an invite for a Saturday morning or afternoon. You are really special if you get one of those.
Anyway, several of our group were invited into one of these late night meetings. It started at 6:00 p.m. Nice. One of the guys in the group had come into the office at 7:00 a.m. and had gone out running during lunch. (He'll often do that to relieve some stress.) So he has already worked an eleven hour day and has run three miles at lunch. He's tired. He should have never gone to the meeting. But here he is, in this roomful of people (about 20 or so) and the VP at the other end of the desk is pawing papers while shooting questions at the group. It reminds me of a kid fireing at little moving targets in a carnival.
This is so typical. A VP will schedule a meeting but will do other things while his drones are present. They'll bring their notebooks into the meeting and read their email or thumb-type on their Blackberrys. It's really a mark of importance, you know, when you have so much to do that you have to read your email while you conduct an important meeting during dinner.
Well, the guy I'm talking about has a bit of an edge to him. He gets a little thirsty and asks if anyone wants anything. Everyone looks down and shakes their head. So he waltzes in to the Executive's kitchen and helps himself to some cranberry juice in the fridge. But when he gets back the Exec says: "You know, the policy has been changed on access to the Executive's kitchen. You are not to help yourself anymore to the free drinks."
Now if it had been me, I'd have said: "Sure, no problem, didnn't know, I'll put it back."
But as I said this guy has an attitude. So he says to the VP: "You know me, do you think I care? If you are going to fire me over some cranberry juice, go ahead and do me the favor. I don't want to work for a company like that."
Dude! Is that a CLM or what?
He gluged his juice and stayed for the meeting.
...dave
We know that communication is a problem, but the company is not going to discuss it with the employees. -from a Fortune 500 company
Several were invited up to some Exec's Board Room late in the day. These Execs work all manner of hours (that's why they have often been married several times) and I guess they expect everyone else to work the same. It's not uncommon to have one of them get their Admin (their secretary) to schedule you in one of their meetings, say at 7:00 in the morning, or at your 12:00 lunch hour, or even late into the evening. If you are really lucky, you'll get an invite for a Saturday morning or afternoon. You are really special if you get one of those.
Anyway, several of our group were invited into one of these late night meetings. It started at 6:00 p.m. Nice. One of the guys in the group had come into the office at 7:00 a.m. and had gone out running during lunch. (He'll often do that to relieve some stress.) So he has already worked an eleven hour day and has run three miles at lunch. He's tired. He should have never gone to the meeting. But here he is, in this roomful of people (about 20 or so) and the VP at the other end of the desk is pawing papers while shooting questions at the group. It reminds me of a kid fireing at little moving targets in a carnival.
This is so typical. A VP will schedule a meeting but will do other things while his drones are present. They'll bring their notebooks into the meeting and read their email or thumb-type on their Blackberrys. It's really a mark of importance, you know, when you have so much to do that you have to read your email while you conduct an important meeting during dinner.
Well, the guy I'm talking about has a bit of an edge to him. He gets a little thirsty and asks if anyone wants anything. Everyone looks down and shakes their head. So he waltzes in to the Executive's kitchen and helps himself to some cranberry juice in the fridge. But when he gets back the Exec says: "You know, the policy has been changed on access to the Executive's kitchen. You are not to help yourself anymore to the free drinks."
Now if it had been me, I'd have said: "Sure, no problem, didnn't know, I'll put it back."
But as I said this guy has an attitude. So he says to the VP: "You know me, do you think I care? If you are going to fire me over some cranberry juice, go ahead and do me the favor. I don't want to work for a company like that."
Dude! Is that a CLM or what?
He gluged his juice and stayed for the meeting.
...dave
We know that communication is a problem, but the company is not going to discuss it with the employees. -from a Fortune 500 company
Sunday, January 30, 2005
Weirdos
While out to dinner with some friends the subject turned to weirdos we've met. You know, people that turn out to be so strange we begin to conclude there is something truly wrong. Sometimes you can tell right away that they are one fry short of a Happy Meal. At other times it takes a while to realize their chimney is clogged.
I met a guy who was dressed impeccably. He was friendly. He asked intelligent questions and responded like a normal person. All was going fine until he said (and remember I'd just met him not three minutes ago):
'I hate to trouble you with my problems but how can I find a job?'
Huh, had I missed the turn signal? Where are we going? It took me a minute or two before I said:
'How long have you been out of work?'
'Since 1992.'
I've got a weird one on my hands. There was no one around to pass him to. I'm stuck. I'm at a formal gathering. What do I do? Just then Ruth walked up. I introduced her to him and then was going to say that we really have to get going. But Ruth was fast, she said 'Nice to meet you.' and was gone. What happened? I'm still stuck. I guess I was in denial because I began trying to figure out how this guy could be out of work for so long. Later, Ruth and I were talking about it. I gave her a few of the details I'd learned.
She said: 'I knew as soon as I walked up that the lights were on but nobody was home.'
'How could you tell?'
'His glassy eyes.'
How could I have missed that?
But Ruth got her weirdo. She was standing in a line at the Post Office. Some guy in front of her turns around and stares. After several backward glances he said: 'Would you please put that necklace clasp in the back? It really bothers me.' Ruth quickly shifted the lobster claw clasp of her herringbone gold necklace to the back of her neck.
I told Ruth she should have said: 'Hey buddy, face the front and it won't bother you, you weirdo'
How weird is that? Can you imagine someone hung up on a necklace clasp showing? And he feels impelled to announce that he's lost his Oreo stuffing. I mean that's what happened right? Imagine what the other people standing in line were thinking. If I were one of them I'd be checking for his face on the Wanted posters on the wall.
On second thought I said: 'Nah, you'd better do as he says and watch your back when you go to your car.'
Someone else in our group told about her escalator experience. She was traveling with her husband who was standing behind her. A man next to her kept staring at her shoes. Finally he said: 'Those are very nice shoes, I mean very nice shoes.' (No wonder he's taking the escalator, his elevator doesn't go to the top floor, if you know what I mean.)
A third person in our party told us about a guy they once knew who collected woman's shoes. Not new shoes but used shoes. He liked the smell. His wife discovered it and blew the whistle. Creepy. This guy's cheese slid right off his cracker.
I guess some folks don't pick up all the channels, either that or their remote's missing a few buttons, if you get my drift.
Their body is by Fisher but their brains are by Mattel.
Weird.
...dave
Some people just have too much yardage between the goal posts.
I met a guy who was dressed impeccably. He was friendly. He asked intelligent questions and responded like a normal person. All was going fine until he said (and remember I'd just met him not three minutes ago):
'I hate to trouble you with my problems but how can I find a job?'
Huh, had I missed the turn signal? Where are we going? It took me a minute or two before I said:
'How long have you been out of work?'
'Since 1992.'
I've got a weird one on my hands. There was no one around to pass him to. I'm stuck. I'm at a formal gathering. What do I do? Just then Ruth walked up. I introduced her to him and then was going to say that we really have to get going. But Ruth was fast, she said 'Nice to meet you.' and was gone. What happened? I'm still stuck. I guess I was in denial because I began trying to figure out how this guy could be out of work for so long. Later, Ruth and I were talking about it. I gave her a few of the details I'd learned.
She said: 'I knew as soon as I walked up that the lights were on but nobody was home.'
'How could you tell?'
'His glassy eyes.'
How could I have missed that?
But Ruth got her weirdo. She was standing in a line at the Post Office. Some guy in front of her turns around and stares. After several backward glances he said: 'Would you please put that necklace clasp in the back? It really bothers me.' Ruth quickly shifted the lobster claw clasp of her herringbone gold necklace to the back of her neck.
I told Ruth she should have said: 'Hey buddy, face the front and it won't bother you, you weirdo'
How weird is that? Can you imagine someone hung up on a necklace clasp showing? And he feels impelled to announce that he's lost his Oreo stuffing. I mean that's what happened right? Imagine what the other people standing in line were thinking. If I were one of them I'd be checking for his face on the Wanted posters on the wall.
On second thought I said: 'Nah, you'd better do as he says and watch your back when you go to your car.'
Someone else in our group told about her escalator experience. She was traveling with her husband who was standing behind her. A man next to her kept staring at her shoes. Finally he said: 'Those are very nice shoes, I mean very nice shoes.' (No wonder he's taking the escalator, his elevator doesn't go to the top floor, if you know what I mean.)
A third person in our party told us about a guy they once knew who collected woman's shoes. Not new shoes but used shoes. He liked the smell. His wife discovered it and blew the whistle. Creepy. This guy's cheese slid right off his cracker.
I guess some folks don't pick up all the channels, either that or their remote's missing a few buttons, if you get my drift.
Their body is by Fisher but their brains are by Mattel.
Weird.
...dave
Some people just have too much yardage between the goal posts.
Tuesday, January 25, 2005
Impatient Driving
My wife says I've become impatient since I got my little roadster but it's really not true.
I have noticed that people seem to drive a lot slower when I'm around. They must see me in their rear view mirror and slow down just to spite me. As near as I can tell that's the reason. I figure that they'd rather be in a roadster then see one ahead of them. So they begin to crawl. I'm sure of it. Why else would anyone slow down to 41 in a 45 mile an hour zone?
It's not that I'm impatient, it's just that I want to be somewhere before next Tuesday. Yes, sometimes I want go the speed limit, it's true. There's no crime in that!
It seems that everyone else would rather look at the scenery, do their make-up, and use the friends and family connection on their phone. People do everything in their cars except drive these days. Roads are for driving, People! Sometimes folks just need to be reminded of these things. Sometimes it's my duty to do the reminding. Something kind like:
'Get out of the way buddy!'
And another thing, just in case anyone is confused, it's blinker first, and break second. I know it's hard for some folks to remember the sequence. Here's a clue, remember 'L' always comes before 'R' (as in bLinker and then bRake). Do I have to spell it out for them? Sheeeesh.
Folks may sense a little urgency in my engine whine as I pass them, but I am certainly not impatient.
To me, an impatient person is someone who always leans on the horn and I never do that, mostly never. Sometimes I do have to let them know I'm around because, just looking at the way they drive it's obvious they've fallen asleep. Horns tend to wake folks up. If though, I have to use the horn, I always use friendly honks. You know, short little blasts, nothing long and blaring. Because it's not what you say but HOW you say it that matters.
Also, impatient people usually talk to other drivers, and often AT them. I don't ever do that. Except, of course, if they are especially incompetent or need some admonition to get a clue. Like the other day, one guy decided to move into the turning lane as I approached IN the turning lane. I kindly told him that he was lacking sufficient intelligence ("Idiot!"). I said it nicely and under my breath to avoid offending and just in case he read lips. And of course, I gave a short friendly blast or two, to wake him up, because he'd obviously fallen asleep at the wheel. I mean why else would he be moving into a lane already occupied?
My point is, I am NOT impatient. I'm just a conscientious driver trying to do the posted speed, waking up drivers along the way, and reminding them of their need to get a clue.
I think my wife is mistaken.
...dave
I drive way too fast to worry about cholesterol. ~Author Unknown
I have noticed that people seem to drive a lot slower when I'm around. They must see me in their rear view mirror and slow down just to spite me. As near as I can tell that's the reason. I figure that they'd rather be in a roadster then see one ahead of them. So they begin to crawl. I'm sure of it. Why else would anyone slow down to 41 in a 45 mile an hour zone?
It's not that I'm impatient, it's just that I want to be somewhere before next Tuesday. Yes, sometimes I want go the speed limit, it's true. There's no crime in that!
It seems that everyone else would rather look at the scenery, do their make-up, and use the friends and family connection on their phone. People do everything in their cars except drive these days. Roads are for driving, People! Sometimes folks just need to be reminded of these things. Sometimes it's my duty to do the reminding. Something kind like:
'Get out of the way buddy!'
And another thing, just in case anyone is confused, it's blinker first, and break second. I know it's hard for some folks to remember the sequence. Here's a clue, remember 'L' always comes before 'R' (as in bLinker and then bRake). Do I have to spell it out for them? Sheeeesh.
Folks may sense a little urgency in my engine whine as I pass them, but I am certainly not impatient.
To me, an impatient person is someone who always leans on the horn and I never do that, mostly never. Sometimes I do have to let them know I'm around because, just looking at the way they drive it's obvious they've fallen asleep. Horns tend to wake folks up. If though, I have to use the horn, I always use friendly honks. You know, short little blasts, nothing long and blaring. Because it's not what you say but HOW you say it that matters.
Also, impatient people usually talk to other drivers, and often AT them. I don't ever do that. Except, of course, if they are especially incompetent or need some admonition to get a clue. Like the other day, one guy decided to move into the turning lane as I approached IN the turning lane. I kindly told him that he was lacking sufficient intelligence ("Idiot!"). I said it nicely and under my breath to avoid offending and just in case he read lips. And of course, I gave a short friendly blast or two, to wake him up, because he'd obviously fallen asleep at the wheel. I mean why else would he be moving into a lane already occupied?
My point is, I am NOT impatient. I'm just a conscientious driver trying to do the posted speed, waking up drivers along the way, and reminding them of their need to get a clue.
I think my wife is mistaken.
...dave
I drive way too fast to worry about cholesterol. ~Author Unknown
Monday, January 24, 2005
Going Digital
It's a hard choice to make but I'm convinced that my days of manual cameras are coming to a close. I've loved the Nikons I've had but I've come to the conclusion the digitals are getting close to the quality. Many of them now have better manual controls such as long exposure to fill in the background of a night shot.
I used the Cannon S1 digital with 10x zoom and was really impressed. For the type of photography I do now it seems the best. For posting to the blogs it's great. Of course, there will be better digitals, more pixels, more zoom and better quality.
Whenever I shot with my Nikon I get better pictures for sure. Nothing beats a Nikkor lens. They are awesome.
NYC Scape (FM2n w/35mm 1.4)
I had thought I could not get a digital Nikon body and use my existing manual lenses but they've changed the coupling. (I'm tempted to bring one of my lenses into a store and mount it to a digital just to see what I would loose.)
50th State Fair (F3 w/24mm Nikkor)
The reality is I just want to simplify the whole process. Traveling light I can take digitals, journal a trip, and post it on the Internet for friends and family to enjoy. (I know I'm stretching the term 'enjoy' here.)
There are sites that will bound your images into a book with captions for under $30. With a manual I'd have to carry the lenses and bodies around with me, take the pictures, scan them in and then produce the blog. Digitals are lighter and you cut out the scanning and development cost. It's the way to go for me.
Now I've just got to find a buyer for my old equipment. Hmmmm'eBay!
Other pictures
Some more pictures
...dave
Update: I wanted a more professional level machine and eventually bought the Nikon D300s.
Theoretically Related Posts
I used the Cannon S1 digital with 10x zoom and was really impressed. For the type of photography I do now it seems the best. For posting to the blogs it's great. Of course, there will be better digitals, more pixels, more zoom and better quality.
Whenever I shot with my Nikon I get better pictures for sure. Nothing beats a Nikkor lens. They are awesome.
NYC Scape (FM2n w/35mm 1.4)
I had thought I could not get a digital Nikon body and use my existing manual lenses but they've changed the coupling. (I'm tempted to bring one of my lenses into a store and mount it to a digital just to see what I would loose.)
50th State Fair (F3 w/24mm Nikkor)
The reality is I just want to simplify the whole process. Traveling light I can take digitals, journal a trip, and post it on the Internet for friends and family to enjoy. (I know I'm stretching the term 'enjoy' here.)
There are sites that will bound your images into a book with captions for under $30. With a manual I'd have to carry the lenses and bodies around with me, take the pictures, scan them in and then produce the blog. Digitals are lighter and you cut out the scanning and development cost. It's the way to go for me.
Now I've just got to find a buyer for my old equipment. Hmmmm'eBay!
Other pictures
Some more pictures
...dave
Update: I wanted a more professional level machine and eventually bought the Nikon D300s.
Theoretically Related Posts
Saturday, April 10, 1999
The Programming Team
John is a neatnic. From his polished shoes to his close haircut John emits a neat, clean unencumbered focus.
He wears penny loafers that have such a high shine they reflect the upper part of his socks under his slacks. His pants are pressed in razor creases. His dark leather belt gets the same high polish as his shoes. His long sleeve Ralf Loran shirts are always buttoned at the sleeves and collar.
His rimless glasses frame his dark, seldom blinking eyes. Occasionally he'll remove them to rub his eyes and latch them back on again around his ears.
Each paper he generates gets a date stamp in blue ink and is pinned to one of his cubicle walls. His code is as pure as his clothes. His member variables all line up in columns and each page of code takes only a single screen height and includes lots of white space.
His desk top has edge-aligned books, no item dare drift out of place. He's ex-military.
When we come in from lunch he whips out his comb and scrapes it across the top of his head but all of the short hairs are already standing at attention.
When he walks, it's always with purpose, because he knows where he's headed.
When our boss discusses design with him, John thrusts each hand into it's pocket, cocks his thumbs outside, and rocks back on his heals. He has dug in for a fight.
But Robert is another story.
While John's every word is calculated, phrased and delivered with exactness, Robert's never is. He repeats his sentences often but changes tempo or volume to make you think you're hearing something different, but you never do.
He'll say: "I think I'll GO home." and then 30 seconds later he'll repeat "I THINK I'll go home." Throughout the day he uses the same sentences over and over again. I sometimes think he's forgotten he said them.
He wears T-shirts three sizes too small, revealing his midriff. Once in a while he'll yank it down but that only stretches the poor cloth already struggling to cover his girth.
Sometimes he'll lean over John's desk for a screen stare and again we're reminded of the lack of material covering his body. The T-shirt now creeps up his back to reveal six inches of skin and his jean shorts are cut off at the knees thus revealing far to much in an office setting.
He wears a fanny pack strapped around his large waist with his PDA swinging from its clip.
He's got a hardy laugh because he's 6'5" and 200lbs. So his voice booms and bounces against the small office walls in a sort of repulsive, irritating way.
An unlikely pair for our C++ team.
...dave
Of all the things I've lost, I miss my mind the most!
He wears penny loafers that have such a high shine they reflect the upper part of his socks under his slacks. His pants are pressed in razor creases. His dark leather belt gets the same high polish as his shoes. His long sleeve Ralf Loran shirts are always buttoned at the sleeves and collar.
His rimless glasses frame his dark, seldom blinking eyes. Occasionally he'll remove them to rub his eyes and latch them back on again around his ears.
Each paper he generates gets a date stamp in blue ink and is pinned to one of his cubicle walls. His code is as pure as his clothes. His member variables all line up in columns and each page of code takes only a single screen height and includes lots of white space.
His desk top has edge-aligned books, no item dare drift out of place. He's ex-military.
When we come in from lunch he whips out his comb and scrapes it across the top of his head but all of the short hairs are already standing at attention.
When he walks, it's always with purpose, because he knows where he's headed.
When our boss discusses design with him, John thrusts each hand into it's pocket, cocks his thumbs outside, and rocks back on his heals. He has dug in for a fight.
But Robert is another story.
While John's every word is calculated, phrased and delivered with exactness, Robert's never is. He repeats his sentences often but changes tempo or volume to make you think you're hearing something different, but you never do.
He'll say: "I think I'll GO home." and then 30 seconds later he'll repeat "I THINK I'll go home." Throughout the day he uses the same sentences over and over again. I sometimes think he's forgotten he said them.
He wears T-shirts three sizes too small, revealing his midriff. Once in a while he'll yank it down but that only stretches the poor cloth already struggling to cover his girth.
Sometimes he'll lean over John's desk for a screen stare and again we're reminded of the lack of material covering his body. The T-shirt now creeps up his back to reveal six inches of skin and his jean shorts are cut off at the knees thus revealing far to much in an office setting.
He wears a fanny pack strapped around his large waist with his PDA swinging from its clip.
He's got a hardy laugh because he's 6'5" and 200lbs. So his voice booms and bounces against the small office walls in a sort of repulsive, irritating way.
An unlikely pair for our C++ team.
...dave
Of all the things I've lost, I miss my mind the most!
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