Fifteenkey

Another retread from F’book.

August 14, 2009

The point of a road trip, aside from the “buddy movie” bonding moments, is seeing cool stuff. Yesterday’s cool stuff was the Pacific Coast Highway Northbound from Pismo Beach to San Francisco. As a bonus, albeit destructive, was seeing the Santa Cruz forest fire and its huge, dark-beige cloud, now trailing in the Pacific, down below the Mexican border. Navigating the PCH along some of its narrow mountain passages was like riding a long, twisted “Slinky” up, down, and all around an M.C. Escher painting.

Contrasting that, and in hindsight also a bonus, was being selected as extras in a remake of “The Road Warrior,” aka “I-280 North,” where Kyle and I enjoyed a flat tire and got to change it in a narrow breakdown lane as crazed California drivers whizzed their array of deadly weapons past us at well above the speed limit. As the car teetered on the flimsy jack, I had dueling thoughts of it collapsing and of a Hummer adorned with a mohawked meth addict for a hood ornament smashing us from behind in a glorious, slow-motion roadside slaughter. Kyle encouraged me from behind the guardrail above a trash strewn steep hill by saying, “this really sucks” about every 30 seconds…

I was shaking and dirty when we arrived at the San Francisco Marriott, but quickly realized we had survived when the Valet informed me overnight parking was $50. Less than an hour from playing breakdown lane bingo, we were seated at San Francisco’s oldest restaurant, the Tadich Grill dining on grilled Pacific salmon and Chilean Sea Bass in a curry reduction. Oh, and we were drinking. Kyle knocked back tres 7-Up’s while the tire changer applied the soul salve of a Bombay Martini, up with olives.

Now where the hell can I get this tire fixed?

Back in the day, F’book had a feature called “Notes” where one could post a longer entry. This is one of those.

August 13, 2019

There are rare moments in life when you hold cards and simply can’t believe the cosmic tumblers have flipped such a great hand your way. Yesterday’s journey mostly up the bending heather-green hills of Southern California were lit by the glinting sunlight bouncing up off the Pacific and darkened by a ghost tour on the majestic Queen Mary.

The fact Kyle doesn’t draw a firm line between fantasy and reality (must be genetic) makes a “scary ride” like that on the QM all the better, and when water began crashing through the hull a la “Titanic” and my boy buried his face into the protection of my armpit, he was done with the ghosts and I was happy the ride was over. After refusing to participate in the “huck a lungee off the side like Jack taught Rose” part of the tour, the boy and I returned to the safety of shore and the Pacific Coast Highway.

The coast hugging path has spectacular moments of what seems to be mountains sloping right into the sea, and others passing through towns off the coast the Beach Boys never wrote about. There’s just nothing lyrical about crawling from red light to red light, past Walgreens, McDonalds and Carl Jr’s. After an hour of that, I bolted for highway 101N where other than passing an accident, the vastness of California agriculture could be observed at 75MPH.

At about 6:20PM, the GPS still had us an hour from the hotel near Pismo Beach and Kyle was hungry, so I exited at Highway 246 in Buellton, CA, drawn in by a sign that claimed it was the home of Split Pea Soup. As I scanned the ample commercial signage adorning this rural route, a mustard yellow sign stood out: “The Hitching Post.” No, it couldn’t be… As I turned into the entrance, the perspective changed and as I looked back to the restaurant on the left and the sign on the right, I swear I saw Paul Giamatti as “Miles,” stumbling out toward the orange setting sun. I was giddy. Could this really be “The Hitching Post” from one of my all-time favorite films, “Sideways?” It was, and the cards I held were the wine list and menu.

At about the same time I received a reminder email regarding an off-site meeting for work in Newport, RI on September 17th. I quickly looked up another email and confirmed what I suspected. The 17th is the date of an “NEC Reunion” for employees of our old facility in Boxborough, MA. That’s when the Led Zeppelin song popped into my head. “What is” was sitting at the “Hitching Post” having dinner with my son, “and what should never be” is the haunting of old ghosts.

Reminder: AI content is in royal blue. The rest is original slop.

I’ve written about futbol (soccer) twice in the past couple of decades, first in 2006, “Top Ten reasons Futbol (Soccer) rocks (and a few why it sucks),” followed by “The World’s Field is Flat” in 2010. Now retired, and the 2026 World Cup being contested in North America, I’m immersed in it. Mind you, I’m enjoying the games on television, and not in-person, even though several matches have been at “Boston Stadium.” (Note: Fédération Internationale de Football Association, or FIFA, one of the most corrupt organizations on the planet, forbids corporate branding like “Gillette Stadium” from being shown or mentioned during games. That’s not what makes them corrupt, though. Google Gemini was succinct with, “The FIFA corruption scandal, notably exposed by a massive 2015 U.S. Department of Justice investigation, unveiled a decades-long scheme of racketeering, wire fraud, and money laundering. Officials accepted over $150 million in bribes and kickbacks in exchange for lucrative media, marketing, and tournament hosting rights.”) Oh, and then there’s the “FIFA Peace Prize” awarded to the current squatter in the White House. I asked Gemini, “Why did FIFA really award a peace prize to trump?” It responded with, “…an opportunistic spectacle. Trump had heavily and openly campaigned for the Nobel Peace Prize but failed to win it, leading to the creation of this new FIFA honor as an apparent attempt to win his political favor ahead of the massive 2026 World Cup.” Now there’s talk of him presenting the cup to the winning nation. It would be fitting if it were Iran.

I didn’t mean for this to be a political post, but here we are. Anyway, one thing I love about these games is the patriotism and national pride shown by the visiting players and fans. From Brazil to Scotland and every other country, when their national anthem is played, every one of them fervently sing along. It’s beautiful. Speaking of Brazil and Scotland, the different talent levels between teams was on display last night in Miami. I give the Tartan Army props for their team support, but Scotland was completely outclassed by the Seleção Brasileira de Futebol. Just seven minutes in, Scottish defender Scott McKenna coughed up the ball right in front of the Scotland goal, and Brazil’s Vinícius Júnior deposited the errant ball in it. With over 83 minutes to go, the game was essentially over. It was clear the Scots lacked the talent of their opponents, and a funny meme quickly circulated indicating this was nothing new.

The US team has started strong and even won their second match without their best player, but prediction markets have them at 33-1 to win it all, behind 9 other nations, led by France, Spain, and defending champs, Argentina. Brazil is only the 6th favored team, but I think they could be a surprise winner. Brazil is the all-time leader with five World Cup titles, but none since 2002.

I do have a couple of questions about the tournament. First, How do international fans afford to attend world cup matches in support of their teams? I mentioned that my participation is limited to TV as ticket prices are ridiculous (see FIFA, above). Here’s a sampling for France v. Norway Friday at “Boston Stadium.” As for the foreign nationals, Gemini tells me, “International football fans afford to attend World Cup matches through meticulous, multi-year financial strategies, leveraging cost-splitting networks, and taking advantage of tournament-specific budgeting frameworks. For a major event like the ongoing tournament in North America, a single traveling fan typically budgets between $4,000 and $10,000 USD depending on their country of origin and duration of stay.” Man, that’s dedication.

Second question: How the hell do I stay awake for the US game tonight at 10:00???

I wanted to love the film adaptation of “Project Hail Mary,” and it seems many have, some even uh, hailing it as a potential “Best Picture” candidate. It was a Larry David-esque “meh” for me. Andy Weir’s book was gripping, and like his previous effort, “The Martian,” full of well-documented science that made the plot possi… check that. Plausible. The book depicts a threat to Earth as a mysterious substance consumes our sun (and most other stars), denying its life-giving light to all on our spinning rock. Sounds serious, right?

The novel goes on to describe the global efforts to address the issue, culminating in Project Hail Mary, a mission to discover why one particular star seems immune to the cosmic blight. Once our human protagonist, Ryland Grace (well played by Ryan Gosling), enters the neighborhood of the vaccinated star, he discovers a neighbor. The book goes on to describe the eventual meeting of Grace and the stony alien across the space street, and does so with the trepidation one might expect when encountering a strange new lifeform. Then I recall a detailed description of the process Grace went through so the two could communicate. For me, it was an engrossing page turner of discovery.

Contrast to the film, Grace weightlessly navigates the tunnel between ships provided by his faceless neighbor, is briefly startled when he sees the moving pile of rocks, quickly does a little dance to display non-agression, then types a few keystrokes into a laptop so he and his new pal, “Rocky” can begin an R2D2 – C3PO schtick for the next two hours.

The film was visually beautiful, and Mr. Gossling’s hair was perfectly tousled in nearly every scene, but the pacing was too slow for one lacking the scientific content of the book, and too much of the effort seemed to be on making “Rocky” marketable as a toy. And it is. There’s also a cool LEGO set of the ship.

The highlight of “Project Hail Mary” for me happened on the dying Earth, the night before the launch, when mission head Eva Stratt (played by Sandra Hüller) sings a somber version of Harry Styles’ “Sign of the Times” during a going-away karaoke party for the crew. The scene was perfect, capturing the heaviness of the moment.

Just stop your crying, it’s a sign of the times
We gotta get away from here
We gotta get away from here
Just stop your crying, it’ll be alright
They told me that the end is near
We gotta get away from here

I guess I like my space epics with gravity. “Interstellar,” “Contact,” “2001: A Space Odyssey,” “Apollo 13,” “Arrival,” “The Martian,” and even “Gravity.” Speaking of George Clooney, “Solaris” was good, but the original 1972 Russian version is supposedly better. And while I’m fine with the comedy sprinkled into the original “Star Wars” trilogy, I didn’t finish “Galaxy Quest,” “Mars Attacks,” or “Spaceballs.” I don’t know. For me, space is serious. Now get that Millennium Falcon off of my lawn.

While watching the Oscars last night, I noted this was nominated for Best Animated Short Film. The show also piqued my interest in seeing some of the nominated films. To date, the only films I’ve seen that were nominated for anything are “Frankenstein” and “Zootopia 2.” I recommend both. Now on the list are “Sinners,” “Bugonia” (Emma Stone is a force.), “Hamnet,” and “One Battle After Another.”

The awards made me think it would be good for us to get off our phones for a couple of hours and into a movie theater with some popcorn. I’ll start on Friday with “Project Hail Mary.” The Andy Weir book was fantastic, and the previews look amazing.

Reminder: AI slop is in royal blue. The rest is original slop.

The saying “The mind is a wonderful servant but a terrible master” is an old proverb, likely Asian in origin, popularized in the West by authors like Robin Sharma, who used it in The Monk Who Sold His Ferrari, and David Foster Wallace, who referenced it in his works, highlighting the idea of using your mind as a tool for problem-solving (servant) rather than being controlled by anxious thoughts and ego (master).

Consider how much thought goes through your mind in 24 hours. I’m talking conscious thought, not all the subconscious processing that keeps our heart beating, our lungs absorbing, and our kidneys and livers filtering. You know, when do I start the pasta so that it’s ready when the chicken parm and zucchini are?

Or why is the Leominster coffee shop so packed that I have to drive across town to the one in Lunenburg?

Or does the difficulty of my first bike ride of the season portend some overall decline of aging or just an early-season shake-off the winter rust struggle?

Or how badly will Trump and his band of incompetents fuck up this situation in the Middle East?

Or how will this chaos impact my retirement investments?

Or is this a time to buy, hold, or sell?

Or how high will oil and gas prices go, and what will the impact be to our overall economy?

Or with DHS/TSA staffing limited due to yet another government shutdown, how long will the security lines be for our flight to Arizona?

Or what will the crowds be like in Sedona?

Or are there really bedbugs in that Grand Canyon hotel?

Or will we get any more snow this season?

Or why don’t they plow the Nashua River Rail Trail like they do the Twin Cities Rail Trail?

Or when is Eliza going to start talking? I know that kid has a lot to say.

Or will there be more layoffs at UKG, and will people I care about be impacted?

Or when is Congress going to fix Social Security? In 2026, the maximum earnings subject to Social Security taxes (the wage base limit) is $ 184,500, so once a person earns that amount, they stop paying into Social Security for the year. For example, it’s estimated that Elon Musk makes $600,000,000 (six-hundred million) a day, so at that rate, it would take Elon approximately 26.57 seconds to earn $184,500. At that point, not 30 seconds past midnight on New Year’s Day, Elon stops contributing to Social Security.

Or will this Weiman glass cooktop cleaner work? Do I need the scouring pad? (Yes and yes)

Or what’s the best deal for me to purchase yoga classes, and will I ever be able to do a Happy Baby pose?

Or is this Costco membership going to be worth it, and what’s their best olive oil?

Or do I have any regrets? That will be the subject of a future post.

Or how the hell would anyone find their way back to Earth from some other galaxy? It’s not like there’s GPS or gas stations to stop and ask.

A: Not easily.
Finding your way back to Earth from another galaxy is practically impossible with current technology, requiring millions of years to travel millions of light-years. Theoretical navigation would require mapping intergalactic, multi-directional gravity forces or using technologies like pulsars and black holes as landmarks, likely necessitating physics beyond our current understanding.

Please note: AI slop is in royal blue. The rest is original slop.

An “earworm,” or Involuntary Musical Imagery (INMI), is a song snippet that plays on a loop in your head, often triggered by stress, fatigue, or hearing a familiar tune.

For mine, I blame Alysa Liu. To cap off her win of the Women’s Singles Olympic Gold Medal in Figure Skating, the 20-year-old wowed the crowd in Milan, skating her long program to Donna Summer’s rendition of MacArthur Park. It’s been stuck in my head since, and the performance was on February 19th. I do hope you got to see Ms. Liu’s performance. She killed it, and in case you can’t read lips, that’s what the fuck she was talking about.

For the record, what’s on loop in my head is the Richard Harris version from 1968. That’s when the earworm was first embedded. It’s been lying in wait since. I host many dormant earworms from those days. My mom always had WRKO-AM playing Top 40 in the house, and it was the soundtrack to long summer days at Revere Beach in the late 60’s and early 70’s.

While cooking on a random night this week, the earworm took over my body, and I involuntarily belted out a bit of the chorus like a person with Tourette’s syndrome, then turned to my wife sitting at the island behind me and blurted, ‘Who left the cake out in the rain? Isn’t “someone” a little vague?’ She shook her head at my INMI-induced tic. “It’s just a metaphor.” She went back to her crocheting, but only after correcting my lyrical misinterpretation. “And it’s sweet green icing, not sweet cream icing.”

“Whatever. It’s cream to me.”

To stop them, try chewing gum, listening to the full song, or distraction.

When to Seek Help
While typically harmless, if the music is exceptionally persistent, distressing, and interferes with daily life, it could be associated with OCD or require consultation with a mental health professional.

I don’t (yet) need help from a mental health professional for this particular bout of earwormitis, but it was written by American songwriter, composer, and singer Jimmy Webb. <- Seriously, check him out. He composed many an earworm. In 1967, Webb wrote “MacArthur Park”; the inspiration for the song was his relationship and breakup with Susie Horton. The breakup was also the primary influence for his 1965 composition “By the Time I Get to Phoenix”.

Speaking of Phoenix, Beth and I will celebrate our first post-retirement vacation starting there, starting soon. My girl has never seen the Grand Canyon, been to Sedona, or experienced the sets of my many University of Arizona yarns. Like that time we drove from Tucson to Boulder, Colorado, to see the Stones… I mean, she’s listening while she crochets, right?

Seven and a half years ago, I wrote, “Approaching the 13th hole,” using 18 holes to demarcate one’s life. Today’s calculation has me realizing I misinterpreted the math back then, and today find myself already off the tee on the 15th, probably looking for my ball in the woods after a slice. Yeah, it can be a frustrating game just thinking about it. “They” say golf is a mental game. Actually, A quote attributed to Jack Nicklaus is, “The game of golf is 90% mental and 10% physical,” but if you think about it, every aspect of life is a mental game. Human physical, cognitive, emotional, social, and spiritual attributes are orchestrated by the brain. Of course, not everyone agrees, but let’s just go with “life is a mental game” for now.

A little over three months ago, I was retired by my former employer. I’d intended to retire at the end of 2025, so getting a six-week paid vacation as part of a severance package gave me time to think about and plan for post-retirement old-guy stuff like Social Security, Medicare, and the supplemental coverages that add up quickly. That’s a convoluted and overly complex process, but it was easy compared to the one I’m still going through. As Pete Townshend asked:

Who are you? Who, who, who, who?

Yeah, one quarter in since “the event,” I’m still in transition, peering across a blank landscape from who I was then, in search of who I am now. I think I may have been more attached to my work/professional identity than I realized. Recently, as I find myself seeking affirmation from social media, I’m curbing those impulses, especially on LinkedIn, where there’s still a psychological pull to be “relevant” and part of the conversation.

So now that my professional identity of “Director in a tech company” has been stripped like Chuck Conners’ stripes in “Branded,” well, “who the fuck are you?” Well, Pete, I guess I’ll start with father, grandfather, husband, and all-around swell guy. OK, I’ll cut that last one. My ego is damaged, so be gentle. As I write, I’m getting some ideas, particularly about teaching my children and grandchildren. Toddler Eliza enjoys hanging with her grandfather, and the feeling is mutual. With her parents both business owners, that “Manny” identity may be increasing. Wait, there’s more. Chef. Cyclist. Writer and aspiring comedian.

Retirement is a mental game and a work in progress.

I love to cook and do most of the meal planning and prep for my family. Now that I’m officially retired, “going out to dinner whenever the hell we want to” has faced budgetary scrutiny. We could do it, but subconsciously, I’m holding back a bit while I get my arms around living on a fixed income. That phrase always makes me smile. Back when my dad was alive and busting balls on the golf course, he’d always go there when the post-18 bar bill arrived, “I’m on a fixed income!” As genetics would have it, that phrase is now a regular in my post-retirement lexicon. 

In the past couple of weeks, the cooking-at-home thing has run into a couple of obstacles. First, the right-front double burner of my electric range now produces heat only from the small inner burner. Second, the microwave above it suffered a sudden death over the weekend. I use it only to thaw frozen stuff, reheat leftovers, and most importantly, froth ⅓ of a cup of oat milk for each cup of coffee in the morning. Still, it is missed. Just today, I had to heat the oat milk in a saucepan and a leftover Super Bowl half a steak and cheese in a sautee pan. I appreciate the analog deceleration of life this provides, but I suspect slow cooking will get old fast.

As is my wont, I spent much of Super Sunday conducting thorough research and hands-on inspections of replacement appliances. Back in 2014, a kitchen reno brought a Whirlpool suite of appliances into my kitchen. My research found that the lifespan of major appliances is roughly 13-15 years, so we’re a tad early on the cooking units, but it doesn’t make financial sense to repair them. The fridge and dishwasher are still fully functional, so my initial research focused on Whirlpool to keep the family together, but the reviews these days aren’t great. In fact, customer opinions aren’t very good on any of the major brands. It’s a capitalism thing. Manufacturers have to improve profit margins every year, so that means cutting costs for humans and the raw materials used to build these things. So, Whirlpool… Didn’t make the cut. 

My strategy now is to settle on a new brand to replace the range and microwave, then deal with the other two when the time comes. Back to research. I’ll tell you, these AI tools rely quite a bit on Reddit threads, and what they show is overall dissatisfaction with appliance brands. Now, Bosch has always been a brand I associate with quality, so I explored it. They have a 100, 300, 500, and 800 series hierarchy, and the 800 had the best reviews and, naturally, the highest price point. The rest of the brands were largely bunched together – GE, LG, Maytag, Frigidaire, Samsung. One brand that piqued my interest and held up in reviews was GE Profile, one of several GE sub-brands. Now to get physical.

Locally, we have Best Buy, Lowe’s, and Home Depot, although I will never give the latter a dime if I can help it, mostly for political reasons, although a large corporation like Lowe’s probably splits their political contributions around to both major parties. We do have a local appliance chain, and I don’t know the owner’s political leanings, and I don’t want to. In any case, I prefer to support a local small business. On Sunday afternoon, I waded through a sea of appliances and got hands-on with some brands to see if I could “feel” a difference in quality. How do the doors open? How do they close? How do the knobs turn? Are there knobs at all? What is the build quality of fit and finish? How are the aesthetics? I want back and forth, literally walking from one unit to the next, opening, closing, feeling, looking. 

After pacing and thinking, I chose units from the Bosch 800 line and opted for the electric, smooth-top range over an induction model. I was introduced to induction cooking during a 2018 trip to Europe, when a non-iron pan just wouldn’t heat up. Yep, magnetize me. From what I now understand, a strong induction burner will boil water about 2x faster than a standard electric stovetop and is slightly more energy-efficient, but not worth the $1,300.00 premium in my opinion.

Delivery and installation will be in a week. Until then, I’ll be heating oat milk and leftovers the old-fashioned way.

Nearly five years ago, I wrote, “Will I cry when I retire?” On November 14, 2025, I was part of yet another “Reduction in Force” (RIF) by UKG, which kicked off the decision process. For the record, I did not cry on that day. I felt a tremendous sorrow, but it was for those who remained, and I fear it’s not going to improve, but that’s for another day. In the aftermath of the layoff, I was unsure whether I would simply retire or carry on in some capacity. I was uncertain about living without a steady paycheck, and concerned about how the loss of identity would impact my psyche and fragile male ego. For the balance of the year, I researched and made decisions on things like Social Security, healthcare, 401K’s, IRA’s, HSA’s, and other EIEIO’s. That effort was completed with facts, figures, and lots of forms. All good there. Well, I did discover that one cannot pay a “Medigap” premium with HSA funds. Oiy. I did pay for a consultant to help me with all of the financial stuff, and actually found “they” could help me with Estate Planning, migrating this blog from one hosting provider to a much cheaper one, moving from Microsoft Office to Google Workspace, stock analysis, recipes, a book outline, TV show binge recommendations, and even a “Brutal Self-Analysis & Healing Roadmap.” Yeah, Gemini Pro (AI) is worth the twenty bucks a month. 

With all of that “work” behind me, and doubt whether I’m capable of writing a book, I’m in a “now what?” period. I won’t be riding my bicycle anytime soon due to the frozen tundra, but I’m working out regularly indoors, and my daughter has me doing yoga on a weekly+ cadence, and I’ve been doing the “manny” thing a bit for my 15-month-old granddaughter. Groceries are still a big weekly highlight, plus extra time affords me space to experiment more with recipes. Last night was a new one, Pasta alla Zozzona, the “Cousin of Carbonara who Likes Red Sauce.” It was delicious, even without the guanciale. I think a pound of sausage in a recipe that called for half that was quite porky enough. Speaking of dining, my wife, son, and I have cut back (see budget, above) on restaurants to about once a week. It’s introduced a bit of novelty back into going out to eat, and we’re enjoying it. I’ve yet to receive a Social Security check, so I’m closely monitoring our budget for a few months. 

So, back to the “Will I cry when I retire” thing. No, I will not. I have decided I have no need, either financially or egotistically, to continue working for the man in any capacity. I’m done with that. Retired. There, I said it, and I’m not crying, though, as an aside, the recent passing of Catherine O’Hara has this whole household verklempt. We love our “Moira.” Actually, now I need to work out, then make dinner, then go to my daughter’s yoga class. I am going to get back here on the “Brutal Self-Analysis & Healing Roadmap.” That was enlightening.