Author: fifteenkey (Page 15 of 95)

Tonight the family gathered round the glowing plasma for some teevee time. “The Empire Strikes Back” kept us entertained, although we were moreso by all jokes we were making about it. During one of the every ten minutes, twenty minute commercial break, a burger ad came on excitedly touting the value proposition of the “BK Stacker” family, consisting of anywhere from one to four 2 ounce beef patties, bacon, cheese and some dressing:

• 650 calories
• 43g fat
• 18g sat. fat
• 1g trans fat
• 145mg cholesterol
• 38g protein
• 29g carbs
• 7g sugar
• 1020mg sodium

I’ll give the BK Marketing folks some credit. They describe the “BK Triple” as a “mountainous monument of meat.” That’s poetry. Anyway, when meat mountain scaled the screen, the following conversation ensued:

Megan: “Oh, that’s gross!” Dad: “Megan, there are people grabbing their car keys right now.” (Laughter)

I always look for reasons to quote great lyrics, and today’s title is from the Drive By Truckers, “The Righteous Path.”

Since the holidays I’ve been pinching pennies a bit, saving for Paris in the Springtime. Exactly ten days ago I did a quick(en) review of my short-term finances and it looked like I had an extra $800 or so in checking that could be moved to “le fonds France.” After dark, I walked out along the short front walk to check the mailbox, its long slender pole-neck finally out of the snow sweater it had been wearing for a couple months. I pulled out a Victoria Secrets catalog, about 14 credit card solicitations for Megan and… ugh… my heating oil bill for $673.05. I’m not complaining. I can pay it and don’t need to re-fi my house to do it. I wonder how other families less fortunate than mine are coping with the rising costs of heating oil and gasoline.

There are far too many families that can’t pay and can’t save because offshoring and the Wall Street theft of 2008 have swelled unemployment and depressed wages. A Culpepper salary survey pegged US salary increases for 2009-11:

2009 1.66%
2010 2.38%
2011 2.91% (projected)

In stark contrast to Wall Street bonuses:

2009 $20.3B
2010 $20.8B (Average bonus $128,530)

Love him or hate him, Michael Moore isn’t afraid to state a point of view. Recently he was in Wisconsin to support the union workers there. He said:

“America is not broke. Contrary to what those in power would like you to believe so that you’ll give up your pension, cut your wages and settle for the life your great grandparents had. America is not broke. Not by a long shot. The country is awash in wealth and cash. It’s just that it is not in your hands.”

“It has been transferred in the greatest heist in American history from the workers and consumers to the banks and portfolios of the uber-rich. Right now this afternoon just 400 Americans have more wealth than half of all Americans combined… most of whom benefited in some way from the multi-trillion dollar taxpayer bailout of 2008 now have more cash, stock, and property than the assets of 155 million Americans combined.

“I’m trying to keep focused on the righteous path.” Amen.

Leaving my office I began to think about this post. A little button in my head was pushed. It is round with tapered and slightly shaded edges and a right facing triangle. Immediately precisely arranged zeroes and ones streamed out splices of a Bob Seger song. First words were “On the road again,” but then the song jumped across a couple deep, black grooves to “There I go… Turn the page.”

Odd. I know the song popped into my head because I was thinking of a post title, and it really doesn’t take much to push that button anyway. Anyway, this post isn’t about turning the page in the sense Seger sang about, but a page turner by Cormac McCarthy, “The Road.”

The book was recommended a few months ago by (Work)Joyce, so I downloaded bits of a sample to my Kindle and read it while climbing stairs yesterday. Joyce suggested I could relate to the story of father and son survivors touring the charred corpse of earth, courtesy of Mutually Assured Destruction. Kindle samples vary. Some are long and rich. Others barely get you to chapter 1. This stretch of “The Road” stomped stairclimbing me in less than 20 pages. Here are three that kicked me hard:

“He knew only that the child was his warrant. He said: If he is not the word of God God never spoke.”

Son: “What would you do if I died?”
Father: “If you died I would want to die too.”
Son: “So you could be with me?”
Father: “Yes. So I could be with you.”
Son “Okay.”

“You forget some things, don’t you?
Yes. You forget what you want to remember and you remember what you want to forget.”

It’s bleak but right now irresistible. Gotta go turn the page.

Before my face was kissed by the cold, fresh air, I could see through the tall cafeteria windows that a sunset was happening. It wasn’t a “10” on the awe scale, just some pleasant refraction sketching an outline around low, puffy clouds of gray-blue. Many of us are fortunate to see so many sunsets in our lives that few stick in our memories, and most of the time we remember more about the place and who we were with than the exact colors and style of nature’s curtain call.

It’s only been 12 hours or so and the hues exact position in the Crayola 133 is fading. A quick lookup suggests last night’s horizon wasn’t colored with any of the “standard 12.” Yeah, sure, they were palette mixed from the 3 primary shades, but from rapidly dimming recall, I’m guessing it was Atomic Tangerine or Bittersweet. Yeah, that’s the one.

My childhood memories evoke the long, bright days of endless summer. I’m sure some of the shortening days of increasing cold and darkness are buried in there, but the days I hold onto were warm and filled with light. As I looked at the glow seeping out of the sky last night, I wondered how many more I’d see, where I’d see them and with who. It wasn’t a bleak, morbid assessment. On the way home I chatted with my dad. He’s 77, in decent health and with fully functioning cognition. I told him how lucky he was. I realized the same about myself. At this point in life, it still seems about two minutes brighter every day.

When my own children were young, I did my best to make sure they experienced some of the fun things in kid life like ice shows. We saw some good ones like “Little Mermaid on Ice” and “Wizard of Oz on Ice.” Still, I remember peering from our affordable seats down to the icy edge and wonder, “Who are those people? How can they afford those?”

I know it doesn’t really matter. Through the dry ice fog of years, I think I can still remember July 27, 1967 when my Uncle Mitchell’s girlfriend (hot Italian brunette… I definitely remember that) took me to see the Monkees at the Boston Garden. We were about mid-arena in the balcony, and all I really recall is a blue bathed stage with human forms and girls screaming. I think I recognized a few chords of “I’m a Believer,” but not much else musically. It doesn’t matter. That is a permanently etched and beautiful memory. Hell, Kyle still talks about “Wizard” on ice.

My life has changed so much since those years of wanting. Monday is my daughter Megan’s 22nd birthday. I’m mesmerized watching what she’s become as a mother, as a professional with a dogged work ethic, but mostly as a person. Of course I think she’s smart and funny and breathtakingly beautiful, but it’s her huge, helping heart that stops me in amazement. She’s happy. Every parent’s wish come true.

Today she told me she’d like to take her Madison to “Toy Story 3 on Ice” for her birthday. I guess she remembers those shows warmly. After looking at Craigslist and seeing nothing on Stubhub, it occurred to me there might still be tickets on Ticketshyster. I went with “Best Available” for Sunday at noon.

LOGE12, row A…

That’s in the center of the rink in the first row.

I’m very lucky to not have to wish anymore. I have everyone I want.

Some 30 years ago I survived a road trip from Boston to Fort Lauderdale with my dad’s mom, Lillian “Lil the thrill” Daley. One memory that lingers, perhaps because the event itself did, is sitting in an orange roofed restaurant having breakfast for 3 freakin’ hours! I was waiting tables at the time (no, not at that moment), so I empathized with the poor waitress who wouldn’t be able to serve another 3-4 parties that morning because Lil wanted to drink 12 cups of tea from the same teabag, write postcards and affix ten cent stamps. Before she pushed her sub five foot firecracker frame out of the booth, Nana dropped about sixty cents onto the table while almost simultaneously emptying the sugar boat of all the white and pink paper packets. Out the door, I pulled the “Oh, I forgot blah, blah, blah” and dropped some paper of my own on the table.

I don’t think I challenged the saccharine stealing. I may have dismissed it as depression era hoarding behavior, but I’ll never forget it.

Recently our office Keurig coffee makers were all replaced by Flavia brand brewers. Word on the street is that employees were helping themselves to the little cone shaped coffees for use in their home machines. Oh, and they also were copping condiments (now available in white, pink, blue and yellow like Monopoly money) and the quarts of half and half! Man… If we can’t police ourselves to not break bad for home coffee breaks, aren’t we headed to some ugly, caffeinated sugar high anarchy?

I’ve had little luck getting anyone in this apparently widespread criminal conglomerate “lo zucchero famiglia” to speak out. They cite some crap about a “cane code of silence.” I did get one person to speak, but only anonymously. This particular individual’s rationale is that they “don’t drink coffee at the office,” and therefore “only take my share” as if they did. I asked what they’d do if they caught someone they managed “taking their share.” “Well, how many did they take?” Hmmmm… Sounds like some serious rationalization going on to me.

So, where do you stand on sweetener swiping? Theft or workplace benefit to be enjoyed at a home coffee establishment of your choice?

Nearly a decade ago, I used to push myself on the stair climbers at the gym by seeing if I could make it to the top of the 110 story twin towers in 30 minutes. I usually did. On March 10, 2007, I stomped out the $60 per month membership and purchased a used, commercial grade Tectric ClimbMax 150. I still use it. Regularly. It’s never been a clothes rack.

I’d had experience with the model from the late 90’s when we had a small gym in our NEC Littleton office. Ron and Steve always used the treadmills and I took the stairs. We were regulars until the day Ron stepped off his treadmill, let out a quick, pained groan like he had been shot, clutched his chest and crumpled to the floor. It was the first time his implanted defibrillator had fired to quell ventricular fibrillation. Ron was fine and is to this day, much to the benefit of many Seniors he helps with health care choices as a volunteer.

On delivery day in ‘07, I had the boys from Precision Fitness Equipment set it up in the corner of my home office with a perfect viewing angle to the HDTV in the living room. I didn’t really need the TV angle since my routine involved an iTunes “Workout” playlist and something to read propped up on a clear acrylic holder; a water bottle rested on the maple window sill just within reach, low to my right. I ascended, without actually ascending, 3 or 4 times a week until one day Megan entered to say, “Dad, Maddy needs her own room.” Like the Pittsburgh Pirates in any given summer, the ClimbMax was suddenly headed to the basement.

One half of my lower level is a half finished garage. It’s sheetrocked, but the half-assed contractor who did the job must have been trippin’ when he taped and mudded it because the seams look like Maddy did them with finger paints. I’ve never gotten around to fixing them and painting it. Anyway, that’s where the new set of stairs found home and since then I’ve stepped in sweltering heat with the garage door open and lately climbed in attire more suited for scaling that big mountain on the Nepal-China border.

I don’t know how many steps up I’ve taken in my effort to elude the ticking crocodile snapping from just below, but I’m still taking them and it always feels good.  I figure my consciousness or spirit, or soul may live forever, but the machine breaks down and I’m nowhere near ready for that. So I work out for reasons of vanity, but ultimately it’s because my heartstrings always tug when I hear George Bailey desperately tell Clarence in “It’s a Wonderful Life,” “I want to live, Clarence. I WANT TO LIVE.”  I do.

A 3 hole binder of printed articles has largely been replaced by my Kindle, but the personal trainers living in my iPod still propel me. The crashing guitars and drums provide two-step rhythm while Patterson, Mick, Jeff and Eddie yelp words of encouragement. When I’m really rolling, I sing along. Sometimes it’s to push the cardio benefit, but mostly it’s so I can belt out my favorite lines like…

Nobody told me it’d be easy
or for that matter be so hard
but it’s the living
and the learning
that makes the difference
and makes it all worthwhile

Yeah, sometimes I sing my ass off while climbing it off.  It must look and sound pretty ridiculous to see and hear me huffing and puffing on a stair climber while breathlessly singing absolutely out of tune. But not out of time.

I’ll have to video and post that sometime…

[Note: I just noticed this is my 800th post on my blog. At the end of this month, fifteenkey.com will be six. The math says I’ve averaged 11 posts a month for six years, but in the last two months I’ve averaged only two. I’m wondering why.]

Often when I’m looking at my phone, I’ll hear a smart-alecky “Are you updating your Facebook page?” Yes, sometimes I am. It’s still fun and at times, very funny. Mostly though, I think it provides me just enough Cheeze-It sized narcissistic moments to keep insecure me somewhat secure that I’m a worthwhile human being. Or something like that. It’s also a great daily distraction to keep my ADD appetite satiated.

Facebook is an incredibly powerful tool to keep people connected, albeit superficially. I mean how else would I know of some of my Facebook “friends” “like” Rush Limbaugh?  Sigh… Still, what I love most about the social network is the humor of many friends there and the ability to share life’s moments with immediacy. How else could I have shared this, this and this almost as they happened? The book of face does give us some ability to document our lives.

My quandary is that’s what my blog used to be for, and it demanded more than 140 characters per serving. I’m trying to figure out if Facebook is stunting my other writing and otherwise sapping very finite creativity one short post at a time.  A good friend of mine who blogs is also doing so very sparsely these days, though twin boys may also be matching contributors.

There are some other possibilities why I’m not expressing here like I used to. There’s the work blog demanding a weekly post and a good deal of other work-related writing I do between weekends. Then there are these theories from Ernie Hemingway:

“Writing, at its best, is a lonely life. Organizations for writers palliate the writer’s loneliness but I doubt if they improve his writing. He grows in public stature as he sheds his loneliness and often his work deteriorates.” – Excerpt from Nobel Prize acceptance speech

“I have to ease off making love when writing hard as the two things are run by the same motor.” – Letter to Charles Scribner, 1948

Seriously, given the choice in that second one, I’m surprised the man wrote any books at all…

I guess I need to fight through my happiness and keep writing… Just not on Facebook.

This week I read an article on the “slow photography” movement. The point is that as we pose, point and shoot ourselves, let’s not miss the experience we’re snapping to document. The “document” versus “art” aspects of photography was also explored. Most of us are mere documentarians with our DSLR’s, point and shoot’s and camera phones, but occasionally we luck out and capture real beauty. Well, at least our interpretation of it.

Toward the end of our brief trip to Burlington, Vermont to escort her son back to UVM for semester two, Joyce and I enjoyed a little shop browsing and noshing in charming Woodstock. If you’ve never visited this 250 year old gem, named by National Geographic as, “One of America’s Most Picturesque Villages,” go.

Our 36 hour “some people get the holiday off and some don’t” getaway began Sunday morning when we jammed the car full of the student, his clean clothes, and an assortment of junk food. And Gatorade because he’s a D1 athlete… Anyway, after a quick late lunch burger, we headed for the unloading. If you’ve never visited a freshman’s post semester break dorm room, named by National Geographic as, “One of America’s Scariest Places,” don’t.

Speaking of scary, after a quick check-in at the lovely Holiday Inn (thanks a lot Shatner!), we found a couple bar stools adjacent to a hi-def display to watch a horror show. After the Jets thoroughly had their way with our Pats, even icy Bill Belichick was looking for some cuddle time, throwing a hug at Jets coach “Sexy Rexy” after the game. Dejected, we walked it off a bit on shimmering Church Street and settled into Leunig’s Bistro for a scrumptious nightcap of wine and cheese.

Monday morning my Acura groaned at the thought of ignition in the single digit freeze of Burlington, yet upon my “Oh, come on!” she started right up. Clearly, I have a way with her.

Then, after a quaint Arcadia Diner bellyful of “apple oatmeal” (made with apple juice – good!) and turkey sausage, we were off to the Catamount Outdoor Family Center for my introduction to cross-country, um, skiing. My Nordic holiday is best summarized in song. So, go ahead, conjure up your best Tony Bennett and let it rip:

I….. Left my joints. In – Nor – thern Ver – mont

“Isn’t it beautiful!?” Joyce exclaimed. Of course it was, but as I struggled, head down, up yet another hill on the “flat” 5K course, I wasn’t really noticing. We were under a Crayola sky blue sky, but apparently the sun was also on holiday because it was barely radiating six degrees of separation from zero. I’ll admit it was fun, but as a beginner any loss of focus resulted in me horizontal. As I followed her around the course like a panting greyhound vainly chasing “Swifty,” the mechanical rabbit, I thought, “she looks great in those…” BAM! “DOWN GOES FRAZIER!” It happened very quickly and actually my fall was broken by one of my ski poles. The one in a 90 degree angle. I looked up for sympathy and saw Swifty smoothly gliding around a corner and out of my view… I struggled to bend the pole back into the shape of a crooked walking stick.

Leaving Woodstock at dusk Monday, Joyce pointed out a bright moon above the mountain backdrop and foreground barren trees. “I haven’t taken a picture all weekend,” I responded while pulling over to imprint the image. I clicked off 3, but none captured it adequately. On the slow and smooth, hill and dale way home, we chatted and channel surfed. At one point I glanced over to see a peaceful and beautiful sleeping face reflecting dashboard light.

I don’t have the pictures, but I have the experience in my heart and mind forever.

I’m not sure when this one oozed into my ear, but it’s been sloshing around a while, so since I have nothing else to write about, now seems a good time to unscramble my thoughts on one messed up nursery rhyme.

Humpty Dumpty sat on a wall.
OK, big mistake Dude. You’re extremely obese, literally the shape of an egg. You’re an uneven oval and very unbalanced even when sober. You know you can’t sit still unless you’re in that big, cushy “huev-o-boy,” of yours, so what made you think you could sit on a freakin’ wall? Idiot.

Humpty Dumpty had a great fall.
I wasn’t there, but a “great” fall? I’m sure he didn’t find it good at all, and as falls go, I don’t really consider a plunge of likely less than ten feet great, and this one looked to be six, eight tops. Now falling out of a plane without a parachute and having a few minutes to think about it before being impaled on a steel-barbed wireless tower? That’s a great fall.

All the king’s horses and all the king’s men.
Yeah, let’s teach our kids that General Franco and monarchies are all benevolent and somehow still cool. And I’m sure it wasn’t all of them. Workplace absenteeism statistics alone would place some at home riding the horse for non-work purposes or playing with their new Kinect. Plus, who’s back at the castle protecting the monarch? This is nothing but Palace Propaganda.

Couldn’t put Humpty together again.
Um, what would motivate them to even try if horses actually could perform micro-surgery in the dirt with their filthy hooves? And how do you know where to put those cloudy little white bits? Even if they tried and to some degree succeeded, Humpty sadly would have devolved from an egg to a brutally scarred eggplant, and that’s only if the medieval medical staff managed to avert a massive, middle ages, black-death type infection culminating in an oozy explosion of egg-fart sudden death. It was the humane thing to do when they just kicked dirt over the shell filled, uncooked omelet.

So who the hell chose to mess up multiple generations by relaying the story?