Month: November 2008

For the 30 days following this blog’s five-year anniversary, I am reposting some favorite, popular, or unique posts. Feel free to contact me to suggest some of your favorites. If you’d like to comment, click through to the original post.

Sometimes childhood memories are so confusing.

And sometimes just asking questions leads to answers – like when my sister posted her (I think) one and only comment on my blog back in ’06.

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I remember, when I was very young, like 4 or 5 or 6, that my sister and I had gerbils as pets.

And I remember that they would get out of the cage sometimes and hide behind the piano.

And as I look back on those ancient memories, I find myself wondering:

Why?

Why did we have a piano?!

My parents didn’t play the piano, at least not that I ever remember.

I remember getting a guitar for a birthday or Christmas present and having a lesson, but I don’t remember having more than one.

I know my sister did go on to play flute and saxaphone in high school and a bit after.

But no piano.

We were not rich, my family, when I was growing up, and so, it seems odd that my parents would spend so much money on… a piano.

The piano in the apartment on Spencer Creek Road will forever remain a mystery to me.

For the 30 days following this blog’s five-year anniversary, I am reposting some favorite, popular, or unique posts. Feel free to contact me to suggest some of your favorites. If you’d like to comment, click through to the original post.

Here’s another post where I try to figure out why other people don’t act the way I expect them to. Who do they think they are?

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It never fails to amaze me when I get an unreasonable response to a resonable request. Of course, being who I am, when I point out such disparities to the responder, it never seems to have an effect; they often only become more unresonable.

Often, the response is one of two things (or a combination of the two): first, to turn around and attack me, denigrate me for even bringing it up or calling attention to it, or second, to parse the language – the classic “that depends on what the definition of ‘is’ is.”

Among a group of friends, someone correct me if I’m wrong, but I don’t think it’s out of line to ask for an accommodation once in a while. And even then, it’s OK if the others decline. I’m fine with that. But what I don’t get is when I am blasted for even asking, like my asking was somehow so outrageous that I’m a selfish bastard for even bringing it up. In the most recent example of this the person chose the tactic of turning a discussion about this single event into a blanket statement for all time, ever, world without end amen. How is that reasonable?

It’s not that difficult to compromise, people. Here’s an example. My sister and her husband obviously enjoy different types of movies. Having two kids, they don’t get out to see movies all that often. If they had to agree on a movie that would satisfy them both every single time, they would end up arguing for so long that they would never get to the theater. So they have a compromise in place: they alternate choosing the movies. If they’re unsatisfied with the others’ choice, they know that next time they’ll get to choose. It works over the long run, and it’s based on trust. It works. Everybody gets a turn, everybody’s happy.

A key point in a compromise is mutuality: both sides have to concede something. When dealing with a single, one-time only event, then everyone would need to give up some ground. (BTW, if everyone agrees in the first place, it’s not a compromise; it’s a consensus, which is a different kettle of fish.) But when dealing with an ongoing series of events, then the concessions need to be looked at over the course of the series; for example, my example of my sister and her husband.

But back to the outrageous response to a reasonable request. How best to deal with people like that? I for one am flummoxed. If I’m right in principle and right in the facts, then I’m not going to back down. Being backed by the correct position and the prevailing facts should (I would hope) be enough to sway folks’ opinions. It’s not, though, and I have a difficult time comprehending why. And the more I look into this, the more I find that those who can’t be swayed by ethics or principle (which is, after all, the basis of negotiating a compromise) are, in fact, unreasonable and prone to all-or-nothing thinking. The kind of people who start to pick apart individual words and misread them in an attempt to make their point. Or the kind of people who look for others to side with them, hoping that by weight of opinions they can enforce a “majority view”. Or the kind of people who simply attack the other to provide cover for their outrageous actions.

My friends, those who trust me, know that I am capable of admitting I’ve made a mistake. I go out of my way to support my opinions and to make certain that I’m seeing and dealing with the world as it really exists, not as I wish it to be. I am self-correcting. And because of that, I’m OK with my friends pointing out when I’m wrong. It’s actually important for me, because I know that I’m automatically biased in favor of my own point of view, and often others can see things differently enough to point out what I’m missing.

But even when I’m wrong, I think I deserve a level of respect. I am often wearing my Easy-Going Guy Togs and go along with the prevailing view. However, when I request a change in plans, I would hope that my previous history of allowance would gain me some favor, some karma, some goodwill. Is that wrong? Do I set myself up for people to take advantage of my easy-going nature when I don’t speak up except once in a while? Perhaps I should consider that.

Because that’s what I feel like when this happens. I’ll go along, and go along, and go along, then make a request and suddenly I’m a heartless bastard. Gee, nobody complained when I was silent about doing things I wasn’t so enthused about; why complain now?

Damn, this is all about boundaries, isn’t it? The damn topic comes up too often. Is there a middle ground, where I can make it clear that a compromise is in force, so that later it seems less of a surprise when I ask for a change? Interpersonal communication is hard.

But, again, back to the outrageous responders: I recognize that I’m unable to change them, so for me, my typical response is to point out that they’re wrong and avoid them. I’ve got no particular compulsion to spend a lot of energy on them. Their mendacity is hugely draining. If there’s a better way to deal with them I will be happy to look for it but for the most part, I don’t need them and therefore don’t have any reason to give them more than I’m required by the social circumstances.

For the 30 days following this blog’s five-year anniversary, I am reposting some favorite, popular, or unique posts. Feel free to contact me to suggest some of your favorites. If you’d like to comment, click through to the original post.

Continuing my mining of July 2007 for re-postable posts, here’s a nice little tale of winning the lottery, nicely told, I think.

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I had a big stack of lottery tickets that may, or may not, be winners. I don’t check them right away after the drawing; I figure if they’re not for the big prize, it’s not urgent to find out if I won an extra few bucks. Also, I don’t always trust the cashiers when they check my tickets. What if it’s a winning ticket, they tell me “no, sorry” and then pocket the ticket?

Yeah, there’s a downside to skepticism. Trust is a rare and valuable thing in this crazy mixed-up hill of beans. Or, y’know, whatever.

Today I decided to check them myself. Some lottery retailers have self-check machines – a box with a slot and a barcode reader to scan the ticket and let you know if it’s a winner or not. One of these retailers is the Peterson’s Market on SW 4th and Washington, and since I was downtown this afternoon fondling the iPhone I can’t buy yet, as I passed the convenience store, sad and iPhone-less, I walked in, wad of lottery tickets in hand.

First ticket I scanned… didn’t. It wouldn’t scan no matter how I tried. I set it aside. Next one came up:

Congratulations! Please see retailer.

The rest of the tickets did not show up as winners.

I approached the cashier, a tall skinny guy with Buddy Holly glasses, and showed him the two tickets, one a mystery, the other a winner.

His eyebrows popped up above the black rims of his glasses when he scanned the winner.

“Was it a lot?” I asked.

“A hundred fifty-two,” he said.

“Nice! I can get that from you, right?” Officially, anything under $600 can be redeemed at a retailer, but practically speaking, I’m not sure a convenience store at 2:30 PM on a Sunday is going to have that much in cash.

“I think so…” he said. He showed me the other ticket. “This one’s four bucks.” He popped open the register and did not look happy at what he saw.

“Well, the Rialto” which was next door “would probably have it if you don’t. Unless you’ve already registered the transaction?”

There was a couple behind me, chubby guy with green hair and a slender Middle-Eastern girl in black, waiting, so the cashier helped them. They bought cigarettes. I was patient. I had money coming.

When the clerk got back to me, he started counting out bills. He held up a wad of greenbacks. “You don’t mind singles and fives, do you?”

I didn’t care. I shrugged. It was kinda taking too long already. “Nah.” I felt suddenly conspicuous as another, older couple walked in and stood behind me.

He laughed, under his breath. Upon seeing my curious look, he explained in a not-really way “that’s just my weird sense of humor.” He laid out the two tickets on the counter. “This one’s $4; this one’s $158. Total of $162.” Held up the big wad of cash. “We’ll count it out together.” He only had two twenties; then he started in on the fives.

“…one forty eight, one forty nine, one fifty, one fifty one, one fifty two.” He stopped counting, out of money.

“Uh… you still owe me ten bucks,” I said. “158 plus 4 is 162, not 152.”

“Oh! You’re right!” He looked genuinely surprised, not duplicitous. “I’m a terrible cashier.” He popped open the register again, frowning. He held up a roll of quarters. “Is change OK?”

I laughed. It really was funny to me, though the frustration and delays and scrounging I was making this guy do took some of the funny off. “That’s fine; I’ll take the quarters.”

The pile of money was too big to go in my wallet. I put it in the front pouch on my messenger back, carefully zipped it closed, and walked out, suddenly flush with cash.

Not enough for an iPhone… yet.

For the 30 days following this blog’s five-year anniversary, I am reposting some favorite, popular, or unique posts. Feel free to contact me to suggest some of your favorites. If you’d like to comment, click through to the original post.

July 2007 was apparently a fruitful month for me as far as blogging goes. I’ve found a lot of gems that I’d like to preserve… including the story of the beautiful blond girl on MAX.

As an untold addendum, that girl actually found my post and contacted me about it, sent me her MySpace page, and then promptly vanished, probably a bit embarrassed by the whole thing.

And I was a few years off in my estimation of her age. But all my friends know I’m bad at guessing age anyway.

*****
Crowded train home tonight. I stood next to a beautiful blonde girl, in her mid-20s. An inch or two taller than me, full-figured, brown eyes, full lips, cheeks and nose dusted with faint freckles. I was facing to the left of the train’s motion, and she held onto the pole, facing toward the train’s forward motion.

I was already in place when she boarded, and as she took her place next to me, I dared not move, and so, due to random chance, we ended up in close proximity, two strangers. Just by not averting my gaze (shielded by my sunglasses and the brim of my hat though they were) I could examine her face in profile, just inches away from mine.

Her hand seemed small for a girl so tall, and it wrapped the pole just above mine. I could see her fingernails, short, unpainted, with just a hint of dirt under them, the skin a bit rough. She worked with her hands. She did not pamper them. My own hands have seen their share of dirt and cuts and scrapes but today seemed far fairer than did hers.

She was dressed in functional black. I assumed she worked in the food or service industry.

There was an intimacy, at least for me. I kept my expression neutral but I felt familiar with her, a warmth. I had not been this close to another human being for far too long.

The nearness of this beautiful girl affected me deeply.

That’s just how starved for human contact I feel.

For the 30 days following this blog’s five-year anniversary, I am reposting some favorite, popular, or unique posts. Feel free to contact me to suggest some of your favorites. If you’d like to comment, click through to the original post.

From the Department of Corrections (and Rants) comes this gentle reminder of the true, correct spelling of a brand-new word.

I will re-post this and re-post this as many times as it takes for my preferred spelling to be recognized.

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Dear Miriam-Webster:

You may be among the leaders in dictionaries, however, I feel that you have allowed your metaphorical crown to become besmirched.

Yes, yes, you feel the hot breath of user-generated content and Web 2.0 on your editor’s collective necks, and so, out of fear, you rush to adopt words in a way that resembles the crazed actions of a parent trying to connect with their teenagers. “Hey,” you say, “look at us, adding these new words, words like RPG and smackdown and crunk to the dictionary! Aren’t we ‘fly’ for adding these words?”

Um… guys… those words are old words, words that have been around for decades. Look, don’t use words that were cool when you were kids to impress the kids, mmmKay? Doesn’t work.

But… the worst offense is when you add a word and you add it incorrectly.

It’s not ginormous. It’s gianormous.

Like giant + enormous. Gianormous. Get it?

Please feel free to correct this soon.

To be sure, there’s some dispute over my preferred spelling, but two out of three entries at Urban Dictionary (ah, there’s that user-generated content that’s got the old-school companies runnin’ scared) agree with me. I win.

Sincerely,

Brian

For the 30 days following this blog’s five-year anniversary, I am reposting some favorite, popular, or unique posts. Feel free to contact me to suggest some of your favorites. If you’d like to comment, click through to the original post.

Ah, iPhone Girl, how can I ever forget you?

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At Backspace surfing. Tall thin guy on a couch across from me is approached by a tall (hard to judge but she’s wearing flats and seems 6′ tall from where I sit) short-haired brunette, thin and muscular, in a skintight black T and jeans, with tats up and down her arms and peeking out from various bits of flesh here and there. They start talking about programming – the guy mentions something about Ruby Cocoa, which pegs him as a Mac OS X programmer.

The girl hadn’t heard of Ruby Cocoa but she was aware of the implications. She’s a programmer, too. Or at least hardcore geek. They’re apparently waiting for more people so they chat.

The guy gets a phone call and takes it on his generic non-smart non-PDA phone.

However, my already burning curiosity gets some kerosene tossed on it when the girl pulls out an iPhone. She plays with it for a bit while the boy is on his call.

I lean over the top of my laptop. “I’m trying not to covet your iPhone,” I say.

“Oh, no, that’s perfectly understandable,” she says, almost embarrassed.

“So if you feel waves of attention from over here, it’s me,” I say, along with waving my hands in her direction to indicate said waves.

She chuckles. “It’s the only thing I have going for me, lately.”

I hope that the look on my face reflects my complete astonishment at this ludicrous statement, but knowing how well I hide my feelings it probably didn’t. Let’s see: she’s brainy, geeky, tall, hot, and she loves amazing design and ease of use and sexy sexy technology, and yet still modest enough to apologize for it all. I don’t remember what I said, exactly, but I think I just nodded.

She talks about how it’s the most amazing thing she’s ever owned and that she’s completely OK with how much it costs. She must get asked that a lot, but doesn’t she see that I’m surfing on a MacBook Pro? Don’t worry, milady, I get it.

I mention that I’m waiting for my T-Mobile contract to expire so I can get one; she counters with the fact that she paid the early termination fee to T-Mobile to get the iPhone. I ask her how the EDGE service is in Portland and she says it’s great.

I go back to surfing while the boy finishes his phone call and plays with the iPhone.

They’re joined by another girl, also cute, but obviously lacking an iPhone. They leave for some other venue.

At least I said something. Maybe I’ll post this in Missed Connections…