Month: March 2009

Dinner’s main course was entertaining conversation and excellent company. But it was spiced with some surprising flavors.

Acadia specializes in Cajun food but it’s not the bustling party of Le Bistro Montage nor the comfortable diner of The Delta Cafe; Acadia reaches in the direction of the fancier upscale dining establishments along Rue Bourbon in New Orleans – but minus the white jackets and starched white tablecloths.

We’d started with the cheese plate. I’m not a gourmand nor a restaurant reviewer, so I can’t assign words to the various flavors on the plate, but they were all different. The one that drew my dining companion and my attention, though, was the dark red chopped fruit under the smoky-flavored cheese. I asked our waitress about it, and she didn’t know at first but returned with news that it was sun-dried tomato. It was good.

Then, my jambalaya had spicy andouille sausage, shrimp, and… duck? Really? Again, though, in spite of my mental reservations, it was delicious.

My friend, who wasn’t a vegetarian but who was trying to win a bet about not eating meat the longest, had ordered a gnocchi dish. Which included beets. Which she was not happy about. She found that she enjoyed the flavor the beets added to everything else in the dish, as long as she didn’t actually eat the beets. Her face when she tried one, however, told a hundred stories, several of them funny.

For dessert we decided to share some pecan pie. When it arrived it had a scoop of ice cream on top. Which our waitress announced was, in fact, bacon ice cream.

“Oh, no!” I said. “Your bet!”

“The ice cream is all yours,” she said, digging in to the pie.

I scooped off some ice cream and tried it. Bacon is one of my favorite foods, but… in ice cream? Turns out it was subtle and not overdone. The rich vanilla was enhanced by the smoky salty bacon. As is every single food that bacon touches. I was relieved.

And with the pecan pie… so delicious.

On her first day back from vacation, she powered up her computer and found… the administrator had logged on while she was gone.

She worked in IT, so she knew that the administrator account allowed full access to the system, and almost anything could have been done to her computer while the administrator had been logged on: programs installed (or uninstalled), system settings changed, wallpaper or monitor settings, mouse movements reversed left-to-right… Literally, anything at all.

Her mind raced. Did she dare log in with her own account and brave whatever prank had been played on her? Or was there a more sinister reason for someone needing full access?

“Who logged on to my computer?” she shouted out over the cube walls. Expressions of surprise and denial came back from the team. And especially from me and Ken. Which caught her attention.

She launched herself up and out of her cube and bolted over to where Ken and I sat. “What did you do?” she accused us.

Ken started laughing. “Nothing!” I was able to keep a straight face, though it was obvious I was trying. “Maybe we had just logged on…” I trailed off, invitingly, suggestively, and suspiciously.

“I knew it!” she cried. “What was it? What did you do?” She had obviously drawn the conclusion that we were lying. When we repeatedly stated that we had done nothing at all to her computer, she did not believe us. Finally, resigned, she went back to log in and find out what cruel trick awaited her.

Her desktop looked the same… She poured through the Control Panel, looking to see if any suspicious programs had been installed. Nothing. She checked the task list; it all seemed normal. Her mouse moved as she expected. The system didn’t seem especially slow. Her home page in Internet Explorer was what she expected.

But there had to be something. She was sure of it. We wouldn’t be laughing so hard if there wasn’t something, right?

She spent the whole day using her computer carefully, as if it were a bomb about to go off. She insisted Ken and I had done something, over our protests. At one point her PC crashed and had to be rebooted; she suspected it had to do with what we had done, but nothing obvious linked a normal crash with any kind of prank.

She invested a lot of energy into looking for something that was not there.

Because, in truth, all I had done was log in as administrator… and log back out again. Her paranoia had done all the rest. I was being honest when I had implied we had just logged on.

It was the best prank I had ever pulled.

Kevin picked me up from work, as a surprise, for no other reason than he happened to be going by my office near the time I was ending my work day. Oh, and he just wanted to see me.

He’d had some dental work done the previous day, by a dentist who can fairly be described as “brutally direct”, and his jaw still hurt. He had a bruise on his lower lip from the implement that the dentist had used to pull his mouth open.

Within minutes of getting into the passenger seat of his car, and before we had gone even two city blocks, I had said or done something that caused him to laugh, then clutch his cheek in pain and groan.

“I can’t laugh or smile,” he said.

Deadpan, I said “Oh, I see. You hadn’t had enough torture from this dentist. You just had to go and compound the pain by hanging out with your friend Brian. Because he’s so damned serious.“

Kevin bit his lip. Which triggered another expression of suppressed hurt.

Under discussion last night at my union meeting was a motion to reduce the monthly stipend for union officers, as a show of solidarity for the rest of the membership. And I was struck by how contentious this was, considering how progressive and supportive the membership had been recently. Were there really people arguing forcefully to keep $7 a month in their own pockets, when that money saved could be used to help another laid-off member down the road buy groceries or keep their health benefits? Was a few dollars going to make that much of a difference for them?

Earlier this month, AFSCME Local 88 had proposed a one-year wage freeze for its membership, as a cost-cutting measure to save some union jobs. To the best of my knowledge, none of the other County unions have proposed a similar measure, so I am very proud of my union leadership for being ahead of the curve on this.

We not only proposed it, we voted on it and decided, together, overwhelmingly, that it was a good idea. It passed, and that means that the layoffs will be fewer (though not entirely eliminated), and the Board of County Commissioners has agreed to a number of concessions in light of our agreement. First, that the money saved (which is estimated to be around $6-7 million) will be used specifically for Local 88 jobs, that management will provide an accounting of both the money saved and the jobs saved (gotta love some accountability), and that, since in some areas of the county the management to represented ratios are so out of whack, any cuts will address the inequity (in other words, please layoff those managers who supervise only a handful of people before cutting line workers who actually get shit done).

Back to the motion under consideration. My local pays a small stipend to its leadership and stewards. In years past, it was enough to recoup the dues we paid, but it was only paid to active stewards; you had to attend the meetings, minimum. And most stewards did more than that; they served as information conduits, they answered questions about the contract, they dealt with grievances and challenged management on different issues, they volunteered and put in extra time not just to help the local and the membership but the community at large. For stewards, the stipend was reduced last year to $32 a month.

I am a steward, but I haven’t gotten the stipend in years. I am still active but it’s difficult for me to get to the meeting place. The money wasn’t ever that important to me. But because of the looming layoffs and financial crunch, last night I decided to attend. And I’m glad I did.

Because there was a level of hostility and resentment in the room during discussion of this motion that I clearly did not understand. The idea was to show the membership that, yes, we’ve asked them to tighten their belts, and now, so shall we. It seemed like a slam dunk to me.

Until one of my union brothers stood up and explained that he was one of the lowest-paid members, that he was the main source of income for his family, and that he did not like the idea that the more highly paid members were taking more money from his pocket for a symbolic gesture.

What was class envy doing here?

Local 88, like all the other AFSCME unions, has already put into place a proportional system of dues; it’s a percentage of your income. You make more, you pay more dues. There’s a cap, though, and upper limit to how much you can pay. And my union brother was arguing that caps are all well and good, but why isn’t there a floor, too.

I’m in the upper half of the pay scale, since I’m in IT. I don’t consider myself very highly paid, but if I had to support a family on my income things would be very tight. I’ve made decisions not to subject anyone else to my financial management skills (or mis-management skills) but I also understand that not everyone makes the same decisions I make. Life happens and you’ve got to deal with what comes up; a spouse, kids, medical bills, car accidents. Situations, if you’re speaking passively. A shitstorm, if you’re speaking like a person.

I wanted to get up and speak in favor of the motion. I wanted to explain that I’ve been a steward and I haven’t gotten any stipend, that I do it because I want to help my brothers and sisters and bring a little democracy to the workplace.

But I realized that even if I deliberately handed back my stipend, it wouldn’t help the lowest-paid members directly. I realized that I would be seen as… what? An elitist?

My union brother outlined all the dollars he would not see because he would not get a step increase next year, nor a cost of living adjustment. He was counting dollars he did not have and holding that against the rest of us. That did not feel, to me, like he particularly cared for helping out the rest of the union. It sounded like he was grabbing for every single dollar he could get.

I did not get a chance to speak before the question was called and it was put to a vote. By a counted show of hands, the vote was 2 to 1 against the motion, meaning we would not be reducing the stipend this year.

The disconnect between the recent vote to implement a pay freeze, and the contentious arguments last night over seven bucks a month shocked me. But then I remembered that the tally on the pay freeze vote was closer than I expected: 63% yes, and 37% no. More than a third of my brothers and sisters needed that money in their pocket and prioritized that over helping anyone else keep their jobs and their benefits during this horrible Great Recession. And now, at our general membership meeting, I was seeing that same attitude.

On this night, however, that attitude prevailed, to my shame.

I do not know what message that will send to the membership at large, but I want it clear that I voted to reduce the potential money in my pocket, and that I will be attending the meetings but not taking the stipend for the coming year out of principle.

My 17 year old nephew, like me, loves “Futurama”. We’ve both seen every episode multiple times and can quote from it extensively. Mostly quotes from Bender Bending Rodriguez, the smoking, drinking robot.

Since the final direct-to-DVD movie came out recently, after I watched it (and was saddened that a show I loved went out on such a sour note), I texted my nephew to find out if he’d seen it and what he thought.

He replied, “No not yet. I’m in St. Louis right now.”¹

…which came as a complete surprise to me. “What?? Cool?! Send pics if you can!”

He replied “OK can do. Also there are quite a lot of people with crosses on their forehead. What does it mean?”

“It’s a Catholic thing. Today is Ash Wednesday. They get blessed and a priest puts ashes on their forehead.” I knew, since my nephew is an atheist like me, that this would puzzle and amuse him. I sent a second text asking him why he was in St. Louis.

I was right. He sent back, “Raquetball nationals. Oh and religion is dumb.”

He pretty much calls them as he sees them… I wouldn’t put it quite so bluntly but I have to admit the symbolism of Ash Wednesday escapes me.

Tracy, Ken and I had just finished lunch at Taco del Mar, and were gathering the energy to head back to work for the last half of a sunny Friday.

I stood near the door, drink in hand, while Tracy went to the fountain to get a refill and Ken dumped our garbage into the tray. Shortly, he joined me and we made small talk. Near the door.

Three beautiful women walked up to the door, bags of to-go food and drinks in their hands. They shuffled items around to have and empty hand, pulled open the door, and then turned around to help the one behind them keep the door from swinging shut on them. As graceful as these women probably were, normally… it looked clumsy and awkward.

At no time did Ken or I pause in our conversation as we stood there, chatting back and forth, both of us watching mesmerized just one step away as these three women navigated the door with their hands full of food.

When Tracy returned, I snapped out of my trance long enough to play back what had just happened.

At no time… did Ken or I… pause… to help them.

At no time.

Kevin is not a runner, although he would like to be. The opening minutes of the race on Sunday were at a walking pace for both of us, due to the huge number of other people. But once we got past the starting line, we could move to a slow jog, still dodging all the other people but now spread out enough to give us room, he in runner’s shorts and Nike Shox, me in my kilt and Brooks Adrenalines.

But it still was a bit fast for him, and I’ve been training half-way decently; before even a quarter-mile, he needed to walk and I was ready to go.

“Go, go!” he said. “I’ll be OK.”

“I’ll be on the left-hand side as you cross the finish line,” I said, and then I moved forward and didn’t look back.

Literally.

Even when I heard giggly girl voices behind me a few minutes later.

Girl 1: I just want to find a hot guy, and follow him.

Girl 2: There’s one! In the kilt!

My immediate reaction was Oh, they’re mocking me. I am short, pudgy, balding, and I’ve got esteem issues to boot¹. But they didn’t sound like they were mocking me; they were giving me props for being brave enough to wear a kilt today. So I was able to talk my negative voice down from the mental ledge and take it as a compliment.

Especially as they continued:

Girl 1: Him? That’s hot!

Girl 2: (shouted) I love your kilt!

I didn’t turn around. I just smiled and held up my hand, making the circular OK sign, and waved.

I could still hear them talking, though.

Girl 1: That kilt’s really cute.

Girl 2: We should have worn kilts!

Girl 1: Next year, we should totally wear mini kilts!

I immediately pictured hot runner girls in tiny mini kilts and tied-off white t-shirts, running behind me.

I then pictured myself next year (in much better shape) running the Shamrock Run with an entourage of hot runner girls all dressed in matching mini-kilts. That might even be enough motivation for Kevin to keep up with me for the whole race… Or get my other friends to join me.

How do I make that happen next year?² I’ll even spring for the kilts…

¹ That’s a joke. At my own expense, but still meant for humor.

² No, I didn’t talk to them again after that, or try to find them after the race. I’m kinda single-focused like that.

After the off-and-on rain of Saturday, Sunday morning arrived dark, windy, and rainy. And cold.

I still got up, though, and got dressed in my finest (and only) kilt. Kevin and I were running in the Shamrock Run 5K. Kevin had run it with me last year, and wanted to do it again. Though he had called me Friday evening, worried about the weather forecast of rain for Sunday morning.

He got what he had worried about, all right. It was coming down in buckets while I waited for him to pick me up.

Joking about the bad weather helped cheer us up, and we drove downtown and found a parking spot. We kept mentioning that we wished it was the part of the day for eating the giant post-race celebratory breakfast, like we were reading each other’s minds.

Walking towards Waterfront Park and Front Ave., we passed a group of older men and women, dressed in green, with green beads and hats and some of the men in kilts, like me. They were taking shelter under an overhang. One of the ladies saw us, and me in my kilt, and called us over. “You look so cute in your kilt, I want to give you one of these,” she said, and held out her hand. Draped over her arm were two silver chains, each suspending a little green plastic shot glass. “And you get one, too,” she said, gesturing at Kevin, “because you’re his friend!”

“Oh, right on!” I said, “thank you!” Kevin and I put the chains around our necks.

I held mine up. “Y’know… it’d be nice to have a little somethin’-somethin’ in here to warm us up for the race…” I was joking, but the gentleman standing next to me smiled and said, “You’re right! What’ll you have?”

I said, “Some scotch would be nice” and he waved over a friend, who pulled out a clear flask with brown liquid from a backpack.

“It’s only a single-malt…” the man said as he put a little shot in our glasses. One for me, Kevin, the man in the kilt, and the man with the flask got some, too. We raised our glasses in a toast, and downed the unmarked liquor.

It was smooth. And damned if it didn’t actually warm me up! Suddenly, even though the rain and wind had not stopped, I felt a little warm glow radiate from my stomach outward. One of the group took me and the other kilt-wearing gentleman’s picture (I should have given my email address so he could send me a copy but did not), and Kevin and I left to go get in place for the race, which was starting in 10 minutes.

A shot of scotch, a run, and a beer chaser. What could be better?