Author: fifteenkey (Page 54 of 96)

I have six minutes to get upstairs for Countdown communion with Keith Olbermann. I’m juggling balls in my head representing deliverables and diagnoses and have nothing at all to write about. Oh, sure, an obligatory snide recap about the futility of NFL pretenders being shredded by the merciless Patriots is just filler in the void. I want to know the drugs will help and dance lessons remain a possibility. Do turkeys get nervous? Times up.

A look at the sports headlines tells how sad a world it has become:

• Federal grand jury indicts Barry Bonds – I stand by my disputed contention that hitting it on the screws 762 times off major league pitchers is quite a feat, but cheatin’ Barry’s going down.
• ‘Pacman’ Jones plea deal set in Vegas – This guy gives a bad name to a classic video game.
• Jeter, New York State in tax dispute – They’d never go after their golden boy if this wasn’t legit.

The news isn’t all bad:

• Dolphins welcome Williams back to team – Ricky has been banned for smoking weed, but if you’ve ever seen his “60 minutes’ interview, you know he’s no dummy. Now pay your child support, asshole.
• Bibles allowed in China Olympic village – Religious tolerance in China is a good sign even though their smog is going to be the story.
• A-Rod, Yanks discuss $275 million deal – 10 more years of regular season glory for “Mr. May.”

In other news… I watched the entire Democratic debate last night. If Hillary Clinton is elected president, it will be a remarkable achievement. Last night she was asked about “the gender card,” her comments regarding the “old boys club,” and incredulously whether she preferred diamonds or pearls! I believe it’s more a case of her being “Hillary Clinton” than of being a woman, but she is being held to a much higher standard than any of her peers… and prevailing. I wonder if Dick Cheney is in his secluded location planning the coup with Blackwater for when she wins a year from now?

For 20 minutes Saturday night he sat alone in the 8th row, center orchestra of 42nd Street’s New Amsterdam Theater. The young ushers were so kind and accommodating. He was wheeled up to the front doors at 6:30pm, 90 minutes before curtain. The wheelchair slalom began at 4:00 and paused for a couple hours at that finest of New York dining experiences, the Olive Garden in Times Square. What must my boy have been thinking as he sat solitary in that beautiful belle of a theater? Around 7:30 the surrounding seats began to fill with young and old and at 8:04 the curtain depicting “17 Cherry Hill Lane” slowly rose to reveal… an understudy as Bert! Yeah, Gavin Lee, who created the theater role in London had the night off. It didn’t matter. Kyle beamed brighter than the stage lights and held on tight; not to the string of his kite, but to his new parrot head umbrella. The magic lasted some 2:45 and not long after his favorite Nanny floated over his head into the darkness, we rolled back out into the streets of Gotham for the trip back up to 52nd. One hot pretzel stop later, we wheeled into the Novotel lobby bar for a nightcap. “That was the best show ever,” he said softly, flipping through his color program. “Yes it was, my boy. Yes it was.”

The glow of the non-struck Broadway musical was still warm Monday morning until moments after the wonderful Dr. Klauber* joked, “Not everyone gets to enjoy Urodynamic testing on their birthday.”

* Dr. George T. Klauber and his assistant Judy made a most unpleasant experience as warm and caring as it could be for our boy and I am most grateful.

Three nurses and two parents restrained the terrified young man as one breached the vein with the slenderest of needles. As the dark red flow slowly found its way to five clear tubes, all efforts were diversionary. Talk of new nieces and old movies now Broadway musicals barely misted over the hot, stinging trauma. Earlier in the day at yet another hospital, a noninvasive bladder ultrasound produced the same tears from fears.

Watching my son suffer on this day and every fucking day is hardening my heart. As I stared blankly down a hospital hallway waiting for the ER staff to make Kyle’s nightmare come true, I was tempted to ask my born-again ex-wife where her God was on this one. It’s an unfair question and I kept my mouth shut. As she stroked his hair, I knew she was suffering pain far worse than that of a pinprick.

I realize things could be far worse for Kyle and that his plight is dwarfed by the suffering of millions in this world from fate, greed, god, perversion, and selfishness. I’ve never heard a reasonable answer on why “God” allows it. Among all the the fucked up, backward thinking espoused by right-wing fundamentalists in this country is an opposition to stem-cell research that could help cure many diseases. Hmmm… A recent BBC article surmises America seems to be going through an Atheist “phase.” I hope it’s not a phase, but enlightenment to reality.

Historian Stephen Henry Roberts (1901-71) once said: “I contend that we are both atheists. I just believe in one fewer god than you do. When you understand why you dismiss all the other possible gods, you will understand why I dismiss yours.”

I’ll buy you the CD if you tell me what song this post title comes from. Hey, this is an honor system. No “Asking,” “Googling” or any other “ing” for the answer. You have to prove somehow you really know the song. And yeah, I’ll be the judge.

The view from one floor above 21 of the Venetian wasn’t spectacular, but its opulence was. Two levels. Three flat-screens. Down pillows. A corner couch. This four days in Vegas was the best conference I’ve ever attended, and I’m proud to say my company hosted it. Our customers were absolutely giddy. After a pretty low-key Sunday night poolside reception, Monday morning opened with a Blue Man Group bang that didn’t end until keynote Marcus Buckingham found the strength to sign his last book. Former Navy Commander Michael Abrashoff was the mid-conference speaker on Tuesday and he had some great ship to say about energizing a workforce; a direct hit for our HR-centric audience. Throwing an open-bar, live-band party at Tao was the social highlight of the conference, but as much fun as it was, alcohol really can bring out the worst in people. As one of the few people to “answer the bell” on Wednesday, sparse is the word that comes to mind to describe the attendance of employees and customers alike.

My personal highlight was toasting Madison with cigars with my pal Natira. There we were, chatting over martinis and a couple Davidoff’s when the Temptations walk out on stage… OK, they were a cover band, but a fun surprise and a motel memory.

Where do you stand on the refill? The refill typically occurs at breakfast and is considered a sign of an efficient server. Personally, I do not want the “secret sauce” of my coffee mixture (86.473% coffee / 13.256% half and half / .271% Splenda) altered by the illicit introduction of fresh, black coffee. The result is a warmer, but just not the same cup of mutated coffee. Do you want to drink mutated coffee? Of course not.

Refill recovery from this jolt is possible, but tricky, dangerous, and not for the jittery. The first repair involves carefully raising the half and half ratio back to 13.256%, but who’s kidding who? I’m not Enrico Fermi, nor am I working with a graduated cylinder, so the goal is short of elusive coffee fusion, and simply to approximate “my color.” Once in a while I’ll nail it, but most of the time I’m probably drinking a sub-par 12% cup. Now there’s adjusting the level of sweetness. My patented formula never involves a whole Splenda pack and the conservationist in me wants badly to perform this chemical gymnastics without sacrificing another poor Splenda. I wouldn’t want the “Save the Splenda” nuts after me. Since my formula requires exactly 92.6% of a little yellow envelope, the remaining 7.4% goes in the mix. Next there’s the single turn of a tea-spoon (Hey, is it still a teaspoon when you’re drinking coffee?) and the tentative taste test.

[This is a commercial break to tell you I’m listening to Wilco’s “Handshake Drugs” from their live “Kicking Television.” To borrow a quaint little phrase from Megan and whatever culture it is she lives in, “Wilco is the shit.” Come to think of it, I have yet to ask Madison what she thought of that Wilco show she attended with her mom and me in June.]

The taste of mutated coffee is, well, a decaffeinating experience, not the exhilarating rush of that first sip at home each morning. You know. Yes, you do. Some mornings you just nail it. It’s the moment your brain smiles at the notion you concocted just the right amount of pulverized beans, water, and complements of choice from the Periodic Table of Java Elements. That’s the start of a good day and no one is going to spoil it with an unauthorized refill.

Now, back to our commercial programming of some robust mid-tempo rock…

There’s something about it. Maybe it just conjures up the aural imagery of the GnR song (or its images of Stephanie Seymour), but regardless of why, my world is soaking in it today. It wasn’t an ideal day for errands, but there’s a plane to catch and a family that will thrive (and eat) while I’m gone, so I spread breadcrumbs at the bagel store, Macy’s, Home Depot, the grocery and the dry cleaners. Counting the aftermath of bringing all the booty into the house, my Saturday stops included 22 trips back and forth to the car. There’s no way my body dodges raindrops, so I caught a few. They were cold, but not stinging. The stinging stuff is still aging in oak casks for winter whipping. The droplets felt good on my face, but now they’re not so appealing between the weave of my pullover.

Many of today’s treks were fruitful, although the only fruit involved this day were a dozen or so fruit-fly infested apples past their prime that subbed as Tom Brady aerials from my deck out into the woods. I’d say my passing accuracy was far less than the 74.2% Mr. Brady takes into Indy tomorrow, and my “receivers” were barely swaying.

Oh, bargains. Macy’s was having a huge sale, plus I had a 15% off card. Pants… shirts… Red Sox “2007 World Champions” hat for Dad… Done. I entered Home Depot in search of a 4’ pressure treated 4×4 which would have cost me over $12 (they only sell 8 footers), but left instead with 3-5’ 2×6’s from the “scrap” stock for $3.03! Finally, on my last stop at the drycleaners I was informed I had pre-paid for my shirts. Nice.

Yeah, the material is wanting today.

If all goes well, I’ll be in the Sports Book at the Venetian with some work pals by kickoff for tomorrow’s Pats-Colts tilt. I expect another statement game by the Pats and the end of Indy’s short run as the best team in football.

WTF happened to October? The 50th of my favorite month of the year has passed and now it’s time to begin dressing in layers, getting through “the winter seasons cruel embrace*” and looking forward to Spring Training. November will be busy. I’ll be in Vegas for our annual customer conference and will venture to Gotham City for an encore viewing of “Mary Poppins” for Kyle’s 16th birthday… Thanksgiving at Mom’s…

October was a blur because so much happened:

• A child was born
• Two holes were cut and one was a whopper. One hole disappeared.
• A palatial estate in the form of a crib was an investment
• Over 20 PowerPoint presentations were prepared. 3 were given.
• Frequent-flyer miles were accumulated
• 49 candles blazed
• The Patriots won 4 more ballgames
• The Sox won 11 in the post-season
• Many doctors were consulted
• I lost a Lexus… at least on paper
• A birthday card from Kyle said, “You’re my best friend.”

* From William Topley’s “Drink Called Love”

During the Spring and Summer of the season, Yankee fans like to give us a wink and remind the Nation of past Fall failures. That act is now officially over and those days gone like the Yankees in the first round.

Go ahead, say it: “World Champion Boston Red Sox.” Again.

Last century kinda started like this too, but then the Red Sox blew it by sending a young pitcher to the Yankees for money. I hope they don’t make the same mistake this century with Alex Rodriguez.

Perusing the Denver Post’s coverage of World Series Game 3, I found this gem by loopy “MountainLippy:”

“hey, trim $100 million off your payroll and then give us a call…nice “bought” WS win. By the way, just how fat and how ugly are the people in Boston???? **** on a sausage, at the end of the day we’ll still have the Mountains, great weather, our health….and thankfully we won’t live in Boston.”

I mean, who complains about payroll? Doesn’t the recent ineptitude of the New York Yankees prove that payroll doesn’t win championships? When the Yanks won banners 24-27 in the late nineties, their payroll was south of $100M. Since then it’s swelled to $160M; they’ve won nothing and they are in shambles.

Yeah, some of us are fat and ugly, but the Italian sausages outside Fenway kick ass. Oh, and maybe if the Rockies were eating boogers, they could pitch, hit and not choke on Rocky Mountain Oysters like the one Matt Holliday spit when he was picked off in game 2.

Oh, and what’s with the towel waving in Cleveland and Denver? Can you imagine that silliness occurring in Boston or New York?