Author: fifteenkey (Page 17 of 95)

Comfortable, productive air travel these days is an empty middle seat and a person in front of you who doesn’t recline.  Fifteen rows deep on the aisle of this foil wrapped paper towel tube is where a Southwest draw of B13 put me, and the Gaslight Anthem Dave recently sent me is stirring.

I’m still processing last night’s high school reunion that wasn’t mine, and really resembled more the gathering of a fan club. I think the party favors may have been a one word thesaurus of “smart,” because variants of it were what I heard all night from the many I chatted with. The descriptive verbs weren’t all about intelligence. One woman shared with me how she was helped after the death of her husband to draw strength and embrace her new independence, even though it was involuntary and unwanted. Yeah, that one was about heart. I was moved and provided a deeper understanding, but not at all surprised. That one brief conversation was my reason for being there. Well, plus hanging with my pal Glenn.

Now, failing to fall back, I’m an hour shy of the sleep I might have enjoyed and destined for another few days in Vegas, this time for our annual Customer conference, this year at the MGM Grand where the advice I read about playing Blackjack there was, “Don’t sit down.” Screw it. I’m taking their money. As HAL9000 would robotically say, “I can feel it.”

“Give me the fever that just won’t quit.”

There are people who pass through our lives and we sometimes don’t know why until they’re a disappearing speck on the horizon, the kind you can barely see behind the atmospheric waves coming off the ground, but you keep watching until you’re sure they’re gone. That’s the point though. The impression of those people never leaves you, because they touched you with something enduring. A life’s lesson. Like mutual respect.

On Friday afternoon I received a quick email reminding me of a co-worker’s last day. I made a mental note to call him on the ride to the Cape. After getting his voicemail, I told Joyce how this man always opened any conversation with inquiries about Megan or Jessica or Maddy or Kyle. He knew their names. And while I know it was a core competency of his job to know those names and what motivated people, I’ve known few people with his ability to make those exchanges so real. I told her how that effort to know me and always ask about my family made me willing to “run through a wall” for him.

Oh, and I did. I spent a few weekends running through walls that began with a program request on a Friday afternoon and a rollout on Monday morning. My efforts were never taken for granted. They were always recognized. I’ve had the privilege of working for and with quite a few people like that at Kronos, including the guy in the corner office who often asks employees at every level, “Hey, how’s it going?” Then stays there to hear the answer and invest his time in conversation. Maybe that’s the secret to our success at Kronos. Mutual respect.

I got home tonight in the dark joke of dwindling daylight. I scraped useless flyers and political ads from my non-virtual mailbox. There was one small envelope worth opening. The blue, cursive note read:

Leo,

You’re a good man, an excellent father and grandfather.

We have done a lot of quality work together.

I will miss you.

Good luck!

I’ll miss you too. You let me know if you ever have a wall that needs running through.

A Facebook friend recently wrote, “Leo…you have been oddly silent on all things Political of late… you can’t be happy with our President…you must feel let down and misled…? No?”

Yes.  I do feel let down and misled. I’m dismayed at where my country is right now and I’m terrified at the future prospects of my children and grandchildren, but I’m not without hope.

I enthusiastically supported Barack Obama financially and rhetorically beginning way back in October of 2006, but the hope and change I voted for wilted against right wing buzz word lies like “death panels” to kill real healthcare reform and “another Washington bureaucracy” to neuter real controls on Wall Street thieves. So what’s changed? Well, the big Healthcare insurance companies are finding loopholes to slither through and the gluttons led by Goldman Saks will again reward themselves with bonus billions for their selfless contribution to economic growth and prosperity in the country during 2010.

The guy I voted for deserves a good piece of the blame. Most importantly, he tried to compromise with Republicans who were, and are, bent on destroying him, and don’t seem to care if the country goes down with him. That led to weak legislation when bold action was needed. In healthcare, he did not fight for a public option, which in my opinion would have created real competition for insurers to drive down costs. Of course it would be cynical for me to think this is because of all the campaign contributions Mr. Obama received from the industry as a Senator prior to his historic 2008 run. As for financial reform, that was pretty much dead when Wall Street insiders like Timothy Geithner and Larry Summers were named Obama’s key economic advisors.  Hey, with all the money pouring into all candidates coffers from Wall Street, a legislative solution to that particular national abscess is unlikely.

I used to love the online political debate, but changing life priorities and lost faith that either party really represents “we the people” has put me on the sidelines. Bickering back and forth in a cyber psycho chamber about whether Glenn Beck is a lunatic is a waste of my time and influences no positive change. I guess the whole thing has left me bitter and clinging to my puns.

One thing I haven’t lost faith in is the entrepreneurial creativity and passion of many in this country. I work with people every day that embody my faith that we’ll evolve and we’ll re-invent and we’ll find a way.

Uncle Albert helped us understand time is relative, and I’m here to tell you 12 years is a freakin’ long time; yet I have a feeling the next twelve solar circles are going to test Professor Einstein’s theories on the speed of life.

Last week I was a world away, embracing all that is fake in Las Vegas. The only thing real there is the plight of the 15% unemployed and of homeowners who have seen abode values drop a median 58.4% since the market peak in 2006. On the Strip, the pain is numbed by the botox of a bogus Manhattan skyline, an Eiffel effigy, and of course enough double D’s to deem the place Silicone Valley.

In the appropriately named “Mirage,” a couple work pals and I smooth talked our way past a bouncer who looked like Warren Sapp at the Beatles-themed “Revolution” club, and proceeded to party like rock stars with the other 6 tourists who were there on a Monday night. Still, the place was cool with psychedelic animations projected on the walls and everything Beatles pouring out of a crystal clear sound system.

As I sipped a $15 Maker’s on the rocks courtesy of Joey D, I floated off on a musical cloud until snapped back into my seat with the words of a 24 year old Paul McCartney. I’m sure when he and John Lennon wrote the song, the subject seemed light years away. Well, it was 40 for them. Two nights later it became 12 for me.

“Will you still need me,
will you still feed me,
When I’m sixty-four?”

I imagine it wasn’t very aerodynamic, and it floated like a knuckle-ball captured by one of those new, super slo-mo cameras, rotating only about one full revolution before the squared, red and white wax-paper gallon of Hood milk suddenly sped up and exploded white wet all over the bright, green, yellow and black flowered wallpaper in the kitchen of my life in May, 1970. At the time, I didn’t realize my decent throwing arm was inherited from my mother, or that she possibly was a former mustachioed East-German shot-putter, but my young mother of barely 30 years fired that thing at my ducking dad. I had been awoken by the yelling and crept down the 3 left turns of the attic stairs from my room, somehow defying gravity enough to minimize the revealing squeaks of every cracked, grey deck-painted step. Just as I craned my head into the short hallway toward the kitchen, I witnessed the identified flying object.

My mother was crying and yelling “GET OUT,” among other things she’d probably deny today, but I don’t recall hearing anything out of my dad, nor do I know to this day what caused the conflict on that night. I just know that enduring image of a flying milk carton punctuated my family’s last night in our house together. The next day Mom drove my two younger brothers and me to Auntie Judy’s for the first day of the worst summer of my life. I imagine it wasn’t too great for Mom or Dad either.

Yeah, just hearing Mick belt out that lyric toward the end of the epic “Moonlight Mile,” gave me title to a story about getting there. Man, what a song. I’ll find it for you on the youtube.

My road of life’s beautiful faces and landscapes, steep, but brief, inclines, and long, wonderful drives is nearing 52. (Jeez, the guy next to me on the plane is working on a PowerPoint featuring a freakin’ fighter helicopter and shit blowing up. No, wait. One of mine just had a computer server blowing up AND sharks! Nevermind…) Anyway, before we were interrupted by my ADD, we were rag-top cruising down the ro-oo-oad with Sir Mick. Yesterday we held our now annual Maddy-Day party where friends and family come to celebrate the little blond’s party and sort of acknowledge it’s my birthday too by gifting us at a ratio of about 15 to 1. In fact, yesterday it was one, but the one was a cool Kindle from Megan! Maddy got a bunch of pink stuff including a Dora backpack, wonderful books, and a sweet farting dog! What’s best about it is that it farts in several different styles. Among other “air boofs,” there’s a short, quick, “oops, I didn’t mean for that one to slip out,” and a long, “lift one ass cheek and smile triumphantly” ripper.

Now where was I? Oh, on Saturday, Joyce and I burned some road during 3 great walks along pavement, beach sand and dirt. Somewhere across the morning hard-top I asked her to push me. No, not a literal shove, but more like the “behind every successful man is a woman” push. In 2010, that’s really kind of sexist, but it fits. Besides, she acknowledged needing to be pushed as well in spite of all her successes, so maybe it’s more like the U2 song. “We get to carry each other.” Oh, how I love irony and it showed up a few hours later when my girl gave me the gift of a writer’s workshop at Grub Street in Boston! I guess I didn’t have to request the push…

Last night as I searched for Kindle titles while next to me, Megan giggled while uploading about 400 of the day’s images to Facebook, I also remembered the one audible.com credit I had, so the search widened from written to spoken word. “On Writing” by Stephen King was highly recommended by nearly 400 audible listeners, but not being a King fan, I was a bit skeptical. I browsed the comments, and read Stephen King’s simple advice, “If you want to be a writer, read a lot and write a lot. There aren’t any shortcuts I’m aware of.” I thought about how one gift would help me read more and one would help me write more, and hopefully better. I clicked the download button.

Thanks girls, for your help carrying me down the road and making it stunning.

Seated at the small, square “Table 8,” dead center to the stage across the hardwood dance floor, my backdrop was a blur of seniors swinging across it while I chatted with the birthday boy, his friend Dickie Greene and Dick’s next generation lookalike, Doug. The boys were quizzing me on the kids, the job and the Joyce, so I obliged them by stringing out a story of a recent visit to Tiffany’s that didn’t end quite the way their interested faces expected. Somewhere in the chat session, I learned Dad doesn’t get out of the house much at all, and that the ratio of women to men at “the Villages” is 2 to 1. I did notice many groups of 2 or 3 women sitting the sidelines together, just waiting for someone from the thinning herd to ask them to dance.

As I trimmed an oriental chicken salad to the porcelain, I noticed a blond woman standing on the left side of the balcony above the stage. She immediately reminded me of Dad’s widow, Caroline, but without my glasses, she was a distant silhouette at best. Crunching lettuce and oriental noodles, I glanced just barely to my left and saw Dad’s focus move up to the balcony. Almost immediately and quickly, the blond woman moved to her right and back, out of sight.

“Dad, did you see that woman up on the balcony?”
“Yeah, but she disappeared.”
“Did she remind you of Caroline?”
“Ya.”

Dad’s eyes scanned floor and the outskirts most of the evening and he once commented about another blond, a tall one, “She’s well preserved.” After dinner and the show, which included a young kid and his band playing originals and covers by Hank Williams Sr. and Ernest Tubbs Jr., we sauntered… Well, actually, dad does sort of an old man shuffle that he mocked just a few years ago. Whatever. I’ve lost a step or two, um, too. We sat on a park bench and listened to another band playing up on the gazebo bandstand that’s the center of the town square.

“Dad, you really seem to enjoy yourself when we get out down here,” I suggested. “I could do without it,” was the terse reply. I re-tried the angle of how all the great “stories” of our lives that we tell usually involve people. “Dad, that’s why we’re here.” Leo Sr. responded that he has no desire to meet another woman. I understood, but it kills me to see him doing very little “living” in the late years of his life here. I tried once more, “Dad, as long as you’re alive… Live.” He looked at me for a few seconds and then simply said, “Ya.”

Wasn’t it Nadia Comeneche who scored the first Women’s Gymnastics perfect ten in the Olympic Games? I think it was and since I’m in a plane, I’m not looking it up. It doesn’t matter. Bo Derek starred in a movie “10,” which was about a woman who was a “10,” meaning she couldn’t be any more beautiful unless she was an 11. In bowling, if you knock down ten pins with your first ball of a frame, it’s called a strike, and strikes are good unless MLB players do it or if some other service provider you need does. Then strikes suck. A ten on a customer satisfaction survey is a great score and considers the surveyed a “net promoter,” or someone who’s going to tell everyone they know how wonderful you are.

The month of October is the tenth month of the year and my favorite. It’s a perfect, um, 10 as far as months go in New England. The air is usually crisp and clean. The sun is bright, though lower in the sky and for a dwindling duration each day. Maple trees blaze the colors of fire and local apple trees embody the term “low hanging fruit.” October provides “great sleeping weather,” and disincentive to emerge from warm covers. It’s a great month to have been born, but given my fortunate life, any month and day would have been cool, well, except Christmas. That would have sucked. My Dad celebrates his latest anniversary of October 13, 1933 this week (I’ll be there!), and almost 3 years ago, a beautiful little blond joined my family the day before my birthday. A few days later, the Sox won the World Series. Again.

Yeah, our beloved Red Sox usually play baseball well into the tenth month, but not this year. The best most New England fans can hope for is the Yankees being eliminated from the playoffs, but there’s probably only about a one in ten chance of that happening. Still, I don’t mind. In fact I kinda like watching C.C. Sabathia pitch in his gray jammies and Derek Jeter overact. Anyone see “The Tenth Inning” by documentarian Ken Burns yet? It’s on my DVR with about 9 recorded “Daily Shows.”

10/10/10 won’t be coming around again in my lifetime so I’m making sure I enjoy it and mark it. This morning as Joyce surfed to show me a place she once stayed in Tuscany, nearby I exchanged hugs and kisses with Maddy, Kyle and Megan, who were headed to enjoy ten-ten-ten at the Topsfield Fair. The warmth and love in my home blankets us and provides a sense of security Maslow would smile about. After an errand involving a ’93 Volvo Wagon, I had one more set of embraces to exchange before heading home for a workout and late season lawn care before packing for this trip. On the short trip back home, I thought about the last year and the joy that has dominated it. The feeling it rushed through me went to 11.

No, this isn’t another girlfriend post, and yesterday someone told me no one in a relationship over 50 has a “girlfriend.” I see.

Anyway, this post is about some of the critical decisions I face on mornings at the local bagel shop. “Do you want the pumpkin spice?” That was the bagel accompaniment tossed my way this morning by Mary-Ellen. “No, I think I draw the line at fruit coffee,” except that’s not really true. I’ve been known to sample the Apple Strudel and Bananas Foster, so maybe I’m just anti-berry and anti-gourd coffee as the pumpkin and blueberry concoctions are definitely out. As we got talking, I mentioned what a great job it would be to sit around thinking up these coffee flavors and names (I’m thinking Marlboro flavor would rock for people who are trying to quit and always loved a nicotine rush with their first morning caffeine jolt.). Anyway she mentioned “Burning Desire” was a local favorite, apparently a java mix including almond and black cherry. I’d down that roast. One of my go to flavors is “Sinful Delight,” described thusly, “Take a trip to the islands with the tempting flavors of Jamaican Rum, buttery morsels of Macadamia Nut, and a splash sweet fragrant coconut.” Ahhhh, yeah. Plus, it’s sinful.

So where do you stand on flavored coffee? Do you draw the line at coffee itself, or do you indulge the product extensions of Juan Valdez? Oh, and a nice shot of Bailey’s in your Joe around the holidays? That counts.

It was just a Thursday night, a school night, so to speak. An old acquaintance, George described it like an article from Wine Spectator. He had certain cylinders that met the criteria for corkage on a Thursday night, but they weren’t of a vintage fit for a Friday or Saturday night, especially with your best girl. These “Thursday night wines” are OK, just not worth celebrating.

Surprising me with an arrival before the floated time of “around 8,” she looked beautiful in black Capri’s and grey sweater over a black lace trimmed camisole. Since her definition of “around 8,” typically falls on the dark side of the snowman, I hadn’t even begun watching water boil for the tortellini in lemon-butter-garlic-pepper sauce with green beans and Prosciutto, but that’s not important right now. I poured us some Saturday night Chardonnay and we got to chatting and laughing. She deferred a workday story until Megan got home, and then dumped it on us about how you have to deal with shit some days at work, and for her, this was literally one of those days. Apparently, someone dropped a small nugget in the ladies room at her office, and after the facilities guy feigned fainting to avoid stooping and scooping, my poor girl had to perform an unpleasant “other doodies as assigned.”

The crappy story didn’t hinder the girls gastronomics as they quietly disposed of the tortellini, Caprese salad and fresh Italian Sesame Seminola bread. Yeah, it was just a Thursday night, but we only have so many of them, so when you’re taking care of those you love, you go all out, don’t you, no matter what the day or lack of occasion, right? You don’t? I don’t know. Maybe it’s just me. Maybe I am just a “mushhead” who “loves unicorns and rainbows,” but when I see her, even on an unexceptional Thursday night, I am moved. After joking about the early arrival, I hugged her and said, “It’s still a big deal for me to see you.”